"That's odd."
"We think so, too."
"Mickey's scared," Mrs. Murphy interjected.
"Honey, you've had enough." Harry thought the cat was talking about food.
"I wish just once you would listen to me," Murphy grumbled. "He's scared and there's something in Mim's barn."
"Something not nice," Tucker added.
Harry stroked the cat while Cynthia fed Tucker a bit of buttered bread. "She has the most intelligent face."
"Oh, puleese," the cat drawled.
"Do you think Mickey's in on the murders?"
"I don't think anything. I'm trying to gather facts. He's got an alibi for the first murder because so many people saw him at the time of the murder. He was loading horses from the smaller barns. But then everyone's got an alibi for that murder. As for the second murder—anyone could have done it. And when we review the principals' time frame at Montpelier, most anyone could have done in Nigel Danforth. We've even reconstructed Charles Valiant's moves about the time of the murder because he and Nigel had an argument at the races. Nothing hangs together."
"Did you go through mug shots to try and find Nigel?"
"We punched into the computer. Nothing. We've sent out his dental records. Nothing. I think the guy is clean." She shrugged. "Then again ..."
"Before the races Jim Sanburne and Larry Johnson told me to watch out because Charles and Mickey had gotten into it at the Maryland Cup last year," Harry said. "They thought there'd be trouble between the jockeys, but then they didn't know that Ad-die had fallen for Nigel. That's not where the trouble came from, though. Odd."
"Linda Forloines and Nigel. Yes, we've tried to piece that together. Frank Yancey interrogated Will and Linda separately. We're getting around to them. Rick's instincts are razor sharp. I wanted to drive right up Fifteen North and flush them out, but Rick said 'Wait.' He believes some other bird dog will flush their game."
"You think they're in on this? Actually, I detest Linda Forloines to such a degree that I'm not a good person to judge."
"Lots of people detest her," Cynthia said. "She's a petty crook and not above selling horses to the knackers while telling the owner she's found them a good home."
"She's so transparent that it's ludicrous—if you know horses." Harry piled more pasta on her plate.
"She's selling cocaine again. Rick thinks she'll lead us to the killer—or killers."
"You do think she's in on it." Harry's voice lowered although no one else was there.
"Linda was the one who indirectly accused Fair of doping horses."
"I'll kill the bitch!"
"No, you won't," Cynthia ordered her. "Frank Yancey saw right through her when she planted her 'suspicion.' When Colbert Mason at National got a little worried, we sat back to see what he would do. Mim's faxing off the lawyer's letter pushed Colbert to contact Linda and tell her she had to file a formal complaint. She backed off in a hurry."
"What a worthless excuse for a human being she is."
"True, but why did she do that, Harry?"
"Because she likes to stir the pot, fish in muddy waters, use any phrase you like."
"You can do better than that." Cynthia gathered up the dishes.
"She's throwing you off the scent."
"We've been watching her. She scurried straight to some of the people she's been supplying. Less to warn them than to shut their traps. At least that's what we think. We can't keep a tail on her around the clock, though. We don't have enough people in the department. We're hoping she'll lead us to the supplier."
"Did she sell coke to Coty Lamont?"
"Yes. She also sold it to Nigel Danforth. His blood was full of it, too. Jockeys are randomly tested, and we believe they were tipped off as to when they would be tested.
Harry whistled in amazement. "Poor Addie."
"Why?"
"Jeez, Cynthia, she was about to get mixed up with a user."
"My instincts tell me she's back on it again."
"I hate to think that."
"You can help me." Cynthia leaned forward. "The stiletto used in these murders is called a silver shadow. They retail for anywhere from ninety to one hundred ten dollars. I've checked every dealer from Washington to Richmond to Charlotte, North Carolina. They don't keep records of who buys knives. It's not like guns. Apparently a stiletto is not a big seller because it's not as useful as a Bowie knife. Only six have been sold in the various shops I called. Anyway I'm still checking on this, but it's slipping down on my things-to-do list because we're being overwhelmed after the second murder. The pressure from the press isn't helping. Rick's ready to trade in the squad car for a tank and roll over those press buzzards." She paused. "If you should see or hear anything about knives—tell me."
"Sure."
"One other thing." Harry's expression was quizzical as Cynthia continued. "If this is about drugs, the person committing these crimes might not be rational."
"Do you think murder can be rational?"
"Absolutely. All I'm saying is, keep your cards close to your chest." She winced. "I wish I hadn't said that."
"Me, too," the cat chimed in.
The foxes stayed in their burrows, the field mice curled up in their nests, and the blue jays, those big-mouthed thieves, didn't venture out. The rains abated finally, but temperatures plummeted, leaving the earth encased in solid ice.
Fortunately, since it was Sunday, there wasn't much traffic. While this cut down on the car accidents, it also made most people feel marooned in their own homes.
Mrs. Murphy hunted in the hayloft while Tucker slept in the heated tack room. Simon, the opossum, was fast asleep on his old horse blanket, which Harry had donated for his welfare. The owl also slept overhead in the cupola.
The tiger knew where the blacksnake slept, so she avoided her. By now the snake was five years old and a formidable presence even when hibernating.
Hunched on top of a hay bale, an aromatic mixture of orchard grass and alfalfa, Murphy listened to the mice twittering in the corner. They'd hollowed out a hay bale in the back corner of the loft and into it dragged threads, pieces of paper, even pencil stubs until the abode was properly decorated and toasty. Mrs. Murphy knew that periodically a mouse would emerge and scurry across the hayloft, down the side of a stall, then slide out between the stall bars. The object was usually the feed room or the tack room. They'd eaten a hole in Harry's faded hunter-green barn jacket. Mrs. Hogendobber patched it for her because Harry couldn't imagine barn chores without that jacket.
Harry fed Tomahawk, Gin Fizz, and Poptart half rations, which caused no end of complaining down below. If the horses couldn't be turned out for proper exercise, Harry cut back on the food. She feared colic like the plague. A horse intestine could get blocked or worse, twisted, and the animal would paw at its belly with its hind hooves, roll on the ground in its torment, and sometimes die rapidly. Usually colic could be effectively treated if detected early.
The three horses—two geldings and one mare—sassy in their robust health, couldn't imagine colic, so they bitched and moaned, clanged their feed buckets against the walls, and called to one another about what a horrible person Harry was to cheat on food.
Mrs. Murphy had half a mind to tell them to shut up and count themselves lucky when one of the mice sped from the nest. The cat leapt up and out into the air, a perfect trajectory for pouncing, but the canny mouse, seeing the shadow and now smelling the cat, zigzagged and made it to the side of the stall.
Mrs. Murphy couldn't go down the stall side, but she walked on the beam over it, dropping down into Poptart's stall just as the mouse cruised through the stall bars. Mrs. Murphy rocked back on her haunches, shot up to the stall bars, grabbed the top with her paws, then slipped back into the stall because her claws couldn't hold on to the iron.
"Dammit!" she cursed loudly.
"You'll never get those mice, Murphy." Poptart calmly chewed on her hay. "They wait for you to appear and then run like mad. She's eating grain in the feed room right now, laughing at you."