"In a situation with two royal flushes, you'd both have cardiac arrest and it wouldn't matter. The odds are impossible."
"But you know the significance of the suits," Rick pressed.
"Yes, I do."
"Isn't there another way to look at the suits, a non-poker way?" Cynthia asked.
He leaned back in his chair. "Sure."
"Can you tell me what that is?"
"You've done your homework. You tell me." He stared at her.
"All right." She smiled at him. "Clubs represent humans at their basest. Spades is a step up. Instead of clobbering one another, they work the earth. Diamonds is a higher level than that, obviously, but the highest type of human would fall into the heart category."
"Well put." Mickey smiled back at the young officer. He couldn't help himself. She was nice-looking.
"A club and a spade have been used," Rick drawled.
"So next comes a diamond. Somebody rich." Mickey folded his arms across his chest. "Won't be me. I'm not rich."
Totem, a Thoroughbred hotter than Hades, ditched most people who climbed on his back. The only reason he wasn't turned into Alpo was that he could run like blazes. Dr. D'Angelo had bought him on sight from Mickey Townsend at Montpelier. Linda Forloines, furious that she wasn't in on the deal and hence got no commission, plotted how to get rid of the animal.
She promised Dr. D'Angelo that she would faithfully work Totem. She'd then take a bar of soap and lather him up fifteen minutes before D'Angelo walked into the stable. This way the horse looked as though he'd been exercised. Then Linda would make up a story about how he had behaved, full of little details to cement her lies. As soon as D'Angelo left she'd hose the horse off and turn him out in the paddock.
Will, grabbing the halter with a lead chain over the nose, helped his wife walk the horse to the paddock.
"I'll get this horse out of here in two months' time," she bragged.
"How?"
"Ask Bob Drake to ride him when D'Angelo's here."
"Bob Drake can't ride this horse." Will's eyes widened.
"Exactly." She grunted as the large animal bumped into her. She hit his rib cage with her fist, hoping he'd not bump into her again.
They both breathed a sigh of relief when Totem walked into his paddock and the gate closed behind him.
"Linda, Bob could get hurt—bad."
She shrugged, "He's a big boy. He doesn't have to ride the horse."
Will pondered that. "Well, he gets planted. Then what?"
"Then I tell D'Angelo he could get sued with a horse like this. I'd better take it off his hands."
Will smiled, "The commission ought to be pretty good."
"Just remember"—she winked at him—"we're going to own our own stable—real soon. We can make money in this business. Real money."
"What if D'Angelo won't sell?"
"He will." She rubbed her hands together. "I've got him all figured out. Listen, honey, I've got to make a pick up tonight. I'll be back real late."
He frowned. "I wish you'd let me go with you."
"I'm safe. It's better if only one of us knows who the supplier is. Since I knew him first, it doesn't make sense to drag you into it. And he'd never allow it."
Will shielded his head as a gust of wind blew straw and hay bits everywhere. "It's dangerous."
"Nah."
"Two of our best customers are dead."
"Has nothing to do with us."
"God, I hope not." Will's features drained of animation.
Linda didn't want Will to know the supplier for two reasons. In a tight spot he might spill the beans, ruining everything. And he'd know the exact amount of coke being sold to her. That would never do because she didn't want him to know how much she kept back for herself. She cut it lightly once before bringing it back home. Then she and Will cut it together, using a white powdered laxative.
Will could be the brawn of the outfit. She was the brains. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
Later that night, at ten-thirty, when Linda pulled out of the driveway in the truck, Will hurried outside and jumped into Dr. D'Angelo's old farm truck. He followed her, lights off, until she turned south on Route 15. He allowed a few cars to buffer the zone between himself and his wife. Then he clicked on the lights and followed her to her rendezvous.
Silver strands of rain poured over the windshield. Harry could barely see as she drove to work. The windshield wipers sloshed back and forth, allowing momentary glimpses of a road she luckily knew well.
Mrs. Murphy, paws on the dash, alert, helped Harry drive. Tucker wasn't quite able to rest her hind paws on the bench seat and reach for the dash.
"Big puddle up ahead," the cat warned.
Harry slowed, wondering why her tiger was so chatty.
"Mom, a stranded car dead ahead." Mrs. Murphy's claws dug into the dash.
Mickey Townsend's beautiful silver BMW rested by the side of the road, the right wheels in a drainage ditch that had swollen from a trickle to a torrent.
Harry stopped, putting on her turn signal because the old truck's flasher fuse had a tendency to blow. Of course, that wasn't as annoying as having the gear shift stick whenever she tried to put it in third gear. The passenger window looked as though Niagara were pouring over it. She couldn't see a thing.
"Damn." She pulled ahead of the beached vehicle, careful not to suffer the same fate. "Guys, stay here."
"Don't go out in that," Mrs. Murphy told her. "You'll catch your death of cold."
"Stop complaining, Murphy. You stay right here. I mean it."
She clapped her dad's old cowboy hat on her head, which channeled the water away from her face and off the back and front of the hat. She'd never found anything better for keeping the rain out of her eyes. She also wore her Barbour coat, a dark green dotted with mud, and her duck boots. They would keep her dry.
She slipped out, quickly closed the door, and prayed no one would skid around the curve as it appeared Mickey Townsend must have done. She put her hand over her eyes and peered into the driver's seat. Nothing. She walked around to the other side, just to be sure he wasn't bending over outside his car, trying to figure out how to extricate himself from this mess. He wasn't there.
She lifted herself back up into the truck, clicked off the turn signal, and rolled on down the road. By the time she walked through the back door, carrying both Mrs. Murphy and Tucker under her Barbour, Mrs. Hogendobber had sorted out one bag of mail.
"Miranda, I'm sorry I'm late. I couldn't go over twenty-five miles an hour, the visibility was so awful."
"Don't worry about it," Mrs. Hogendobber airily replied. "The water is ready for tea and I whipped up oatmeal muffins last night and another batch of glazed doughnuts. I can't bake enough doughnuts for Market. He sells out by ten o'clock."
"Oh, thanks." Harry gratefully pulled off her raincoat as Mrs. Murphy and Tucker shook off the few drops of water that had fallen on them. Harry hung up her coat on the coat rack by the back door and poured herself a cup of tea. "I'd die without tea."
"I doubt that, but you'd sure be grouchy in the morning." Miranda helped herself to a second cup.
"Oh, I better call Rick." Harry carried the steaming cup with her to the phone.
"Now what's wrong?"
"Mickey Townsend's BMW is stranded at Harper's Curve." She punched the numbers.
"I hope he's all right. Things are so—queer just now."
Harry nodded. "Sheriff Shaw, please, it's Mary Minor Haristeen." She waited a minute. "Hi, Sheriff. Mickey Townsend's BMW has two wheels dropped in a ditch at Harper's Curve. I got out to check it and it's empty."
"Thanks, Harry. I'll send someone over once things quiet down. It's one fender bender after another on a day like this." He paused a moment. "Did you say Mickey Townsend's car?"
"Uh-huh."
His voice sounded strained. "Thanks. I'll get right on it. That curve can be evil."
The phone clicked and Harry put the receiver back in the cradle.