"Don't be surprised if Frank asks you all the same questions that I have. I've talked to him, of course."
Barry, although not a native Virginian, had lived in Orange County since the early '70s. He knew Sheriff Yancey well. "Frank's a good man. Not a smart man, but a good man. I'm glad you're on this now."
Rick couldn't cast aspersions on a fellow law enforcement officer. "Frank might be smarter than you know. You see, Barry, it's not what he knows, it's who he knows. I'm going over to roast"—he savored the word—"Mickey Townsend tomorrow. Maybe he'll turn something up for me. You get on with him?"
"Yeah."
Rick started back toward the squad car. "Oh, one other thing. Anyone play cards in this group, the steeplechase people? I don't mean a friendly hand here and there, but impassioned card players?"
"Hell, Mickey Townsend would kill for an inside straight."
Dr. Stephen D'Angelo, a pulmonary surgeon, rode toward the stables. He was immaculately dressed in butcher boots, tan breeches, a white shirt, and tweed hacking jacket.
Linda Forloines rode alongside him. "She's a point and shoot."
"Where did you say this horse hunted?"
"Middleburg, Piedmont, and Oak Ridge."
He patted his horse's neck. "How much?"
"Well, they're asking twenty thousand dollars. But let's go over there. If you ride her and like her, I bet I can get that price down."
"Okay. Make an appointment for Thursday afternoon." He stopped outside the stable door, dismounted, and handed the reins to Linda, who had dismounted first.
Time being precious to him, he scheduled his rides at precisely the same time each day. Then he drove to the hospital, changing there.
He had sworn when he moved down from New Jersey that he'd retire, but word of a good doctor gets around. Before he knew it he was again in practice with two mornings' operating time at the hospital.
Like most extremely busy people in high-pressure jobs, he had to trust those around him. Linda kept the stable clean and the horses worked. He couldn't have known that behind his back she made fun of everything about him.
She mocked his riding ability, calling it "death defying." She moaned about his truck and trailer; she wanted a much more expensive one. She lauded her contributions to his farm to all and sundry even as she bit the hand that fed her.
As soon as the horses were untacked and wiped down, she planned to call her friend in Middleburg who was selling the horse Dr. D'Angelo was interested in for someone else. The horse was worth $7,500. If Dr. D'Angelo liked the mare, Linda would "plead" with her friend to plead with her client to drop the price. They'd counter at $15,000. The owner of the horse would indeed get $7,500. Linda and her friend would split and pocket the additional $7,500 without telling anyone. The original owner wouldn't know because they'd cash the check and pay her in cash. It was done every day in the horse business by people less than honest . . . often selling horses less than sound.
The phone rang as Linda tossed a Rambo blanket over one of the horses.
The wall phone hung on the outside wall.
She picked it up. "Hello."
"Linda," the deep male voice said, "Coty Lamont was found dead in the back of his pickup truck. A knife through the heart."
She gasped. "What?"
"You're losing business." He laughed. Then his voice turned cold. "I know Sheriff Yancey questioned you."
Before he could continue she said, "Hey, I'm not stupid. I didn't say a word."
A long pause followed. "Keep it that way. Liabilities don't live long in this business. Midnight. Tomorrow."
"Yeah. Sure." She hung up the phone, surprised to find her hand shaking.
The pale November light spilled over her like champagne, making the deep blacks of Mrs. Murphy's stripes glisten. Her tail upright, her whiskers slightly forward, she loped across the fields to Mim's house. Alongside her and not at all happy about it wobbled Pewter—not an outdoor girl. Tee Tucker easily kept up the pace.
Mim's estate nestled not fifteen minutes from the post office if one cut across yards and fields.
"Oh, can't we walk a bit?"
"We're almost there." Murphy pressed on.
"I know we're almost there. I'm tired," complained the gray cat.
"Hold it!" Tucker commanded.
The two cats stopped, Pewter breathing hard. A rustle in the broom sage alerted them to another presence. The cats dropped to their bellies, ears forward. Tucker stood her ground.
"Who goes there?" Tucker demanded.
"As fine a cat as ever walked the globe," came the saucy reply.
"Ugh." Pewter squinted. She had never been able to stand Paddy, Mrs. Murphy's ex-husband.
Murphy stuck her head up, "Whatever you're doing on this side of Crozet, I don't want to know."
"And you shan't, my love." He kissed her on the cheek. "Pewter, you look slimmer."
"Liar."
"What a pretty thing to say to a gentleman paying you a compliment."
"What gentleman?"
"Pewter, be civil." Murphy hated playing peacemaker. She had better things to do with her time. "Come on, you two. If we're going to get back by quitting time, we've got to move on."
"Where are you going?"
"Mim's stable. Come along and I'll give you the skinny." Mrs. Murphy used an expression that she had heard Mrs. Hogendobber occasionally use when the good lady felt racy.
"Let's trot. I am not running." Pewter pouted.
"All right. All right," Tucker agreed to put her in a better mood. "Remember, it's because of you that we're on this mission."
"It's not because of me, it's because Coty Lamont turned up dead in the back of a pickup truck, shot in the back and with a knife through his heart. All I did was report the news of it this morning."
"How is it that Harry didn't know first—or the sanctified Mrs. Hogendobber?" Paddy smelled a heavy scent of deer lingering in the frost.
"Cynthia told Harry second. She stopped for coffee and one of Mrs. Hogendobber's bakery concoctions. French toast today and a kind of folded-over something with powdered sugar. Next she dropped in at the post office—."
Tucker interjected, "Said they'd read about it in the papers later, so she'd give them the real facts."
"And then I let you talk me into coming out here. Why I will never know." Pewter loudly decried her sore paw pads.
"Because Coty Lamont slipped into Mim's barn on the night or early morning when he was killed, that's why, and no one knows it but Rodger Dodger, Pusskin, the horses, and us."
Tucker patiently explained again to Pewter. This was like teaching a puppy to hide a bone. Repetition.
Tucker knew that Pewter figured things out just fine, but in bitching and moaning she could be the center of attention. Then, too, her paw pads, unused to hard running, really were tender.
"Another human knows, all right." Mrs. Murphy spied the cupolas on the stable up ahead. "Coty's killer."
"You don't know that," Paddy said and was informed as to the events that had transpired before Coty was found, the events at Mim's stable. Stubbornly, he said, "That means Mickey Townsend, since Rodger said he snuck in and found him."
"Sure looks that way, but I've learned not to jump to conclusions, only at mice," Murphy slyly offered.
"Don't sound superior, Murphy. I hate it when you do." Pewter puffed as they entered the big open doors trimmed in dark green on white.
Addie and Chark Valiant were arguing in the tack room situated in middle of the stable.
"You've got to get serious about the money."
"Bullshit," Addie defiantly replied.
Chark's voice rose. "You'll piss it all away, Addie—"