"Set a time frame."
"Huh?"
"You could come back and say you'll go with me next year."
"In a week."
Boom Boom, thrilled, stepped closer, looming over Harry from her much greater height. "Nothing happens in isolation. All emotions are connected like links in a chain. Marylou Valiant couldn't cope without her husband. She began to drink too much. Squander money. That set off Arthur, who loved her. He chased off that greedy movie star and what happens? She falls in love with Mickey Townsend."
"So?"
"Process. No one directly confronts and releases their emotions. Arthur becomes embittered. He wins over Chark. Mickey wins over Addie. The men fight over Marylou through her children.
Harry, silent for a long time, said, "This is Act Two."
"Yes—until everyone involved stops hanging on to hardened, dead patterns. But people's egos get hung up in their anger and their pain. So they pass it along."
"What goes around comes around," Harry said, thinking out loud.
"Not exactly. This is about breaking patterns."
"I understand. I think." She rubbed her temples. "Didn't mean to be, uh, reductive."
"You will go with me?"
"I said I would."
"Shake on it."
Harry extended her hand. She ran back to the post office, pushed the door open. "Miranda, how could you?"
Miranda, glasses down on her neck, said to Herb Jones, "Ignore her."
Harry strode up to the counter, Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker watching her every move. "You told Boom Boom you'd relieve me for an hour so I could go to Lifeline. How could you?"
"I did no such thing. I told her if you wanted to go you could. It's a slow day."
"Damn. I should have known." Harry propped her elbow on the smooth, worn counter. "Well, I am going." She held up her hand for stop. "Not today. Next week."
"Harry, I'm proud of you." The reverend beamed.
"Why?"
"You're showing the first signs of forgiveness."
I am?
"You are." He slapped her on the back, reaching over the counter. "You girls enjoy the races."
As he left, Harry repeated to Miranda her entire conversation with Boom Boom Craycroft.
"She wasn't talking about the murders—she was just talking." Miranda pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose.
"Yeah, but it made me wonder if Nigel and Coty's murders aren't part of a process—something started before drugs ... or during drugs. Fixing races. Betting. That was everyone's first thought, remember?"
"Yes. It proved unfounded."
"Well, Mrs. H., they weren't just killed because someone didn't like them. They were links in a chain."
"She surprises me." Pewter lay down crossing her paws in front of her. "Humans can reason."
Since no one claimed Nigel Danforth's body, he was buried in a potter's grave at the expense of the taxpayers of Ablemarle County.
His belongings were in his tack trunk back in the overcrowded locker room at the station.
Cynthia Cooper called Mickey Townsend to pick them up. The department had tagged and photographed each item.
He followed her back to the locker room.
"I was going to turn this over to Adelia since he had no next of kin. But the more I thought about it, the more I decided against it. It could upset her too much, and the big race is this weekend. You were his employer. You'll have to stand in for next of kin."
"May I open it?"
"Sure."
He knelt down, lifting the brass hasp on the small wooden trunk. A riding helmet rested on top of folded lightweight racing breeches. He placed it on the ground with the breeches beside it. Two old heavy wool sweaters and a short winter down jacket were next. Assorted bats and whips rested on the bottom along with a shaving kit.
"Feel that." Mickey handed her a whip, pointed to the leather square at the end.
"It's heavy. What's in there?"
"A quarter. It's illegal but nothing says he can't use it during workouts. A crack with that smarts, I promise."
"Not much to show for a life, is it?" she said.
"He had some beautiful handmade clothes from London. Turnbull Asser shirts. That kind of thing. He made money somewhere."
"Yeah. I remember when we went through the cottage. Still, not much other than a few good clothes. The only reason we kept the tack trunk so long is he was sitting on it. We dusted it inside and out."
Mickey slid his hands into the pockets of the down jacket. He checked the inside pocket. Empty.
It wasn't until he got home and hung the jacket on a tack hook, wondering to whom he should give the clothing—maybe some poor, lean kid struggling to make it in the steeplechasing world—that he noticed a folded-over zipper where the collar met the yoke of the down jacket. Nigel had worn the jacket so much that the collar squinched down, covering the zipper. The tack hook straightened out the collar. A hood would be inside, another aid against foul weather.
Out of curiosity, Mickey unzipped it, unfurling the hood. A dull clink drew his eyes to the soft loam of the barn aisle.
He bent over, picking up a St. Christopher's medal. He started to shake so hard he steadied himself against the stall.
Beautifully wrought, the gold medal was the size of a half-dollar. Over the detailed relief of St. Christopher carrying the Christ child was layer after layer of exquisite blue enamel. The engraving in perfect small script on the gold non-enameled back read: He's my stand-in. Love, Charley.
Mickey burst into tears, clutching the medal to his chest. "St. Christopher, you failed her."
That medal had hung around Marylou Valiant's neck on a twisted thick gold chain.
Once he regained control of himself, Mickey stood up. He started for the phone in the tack room to call Deputy Cooper. His instinct told him it would have been easy to miss the hood in the collar. If he hadn't hung up the coat, he would have missed it himself.
He sat down behind the old school desk and picked up the receiver.
He thought to himself, What if they did see it and photograph it? Maybe they're trying to bait me. I'm a suspect. He put the receiver back in the cradle. No, no they missed it. He held the beautiful medal in both palms. Marylou, this medal will lead me to your killer, and I swear by all that's holy I'll take him out. If Nigel killed you, then may he fry in Hell for eternity.
He stood up abruptly and slipped the St. Christopher's medal in his pocket.
"She's got Susan to take care of us and the horses," Tucker moaned. "She's packing her bags. What are we going to do?"
"I can hide under the seat of the Ford and then jump into the racing van." Mrs. Murphy lay on her side. She'd worried about this so much she was tired.
"But I can't fit under the seat," Tucker wailed. "And you need me. Mother needs me, she just doesn't know it."
"I'm thinking."
Tucker dropped her head between her white paws so that her face was in front of Mrs. Murphy's. "There will be more murders! Everyone will die!"
"Don't get carried away. Anyway, be quiet for a minute. I'm still thinking." Five long minutes passed. "I have an idea."
"What?" Tucker jumped up.
Mrs. Murphy also sat up. She didn't like to have Tucker hanging over her. "Go into her bedroom and beg, plead, cry. Make her take you."
"What about you?" Tucker's soft brown eyes filled with worry.
"She won't take me. We both know that. I can travel as well as you, but Mother has it in her head that cats don't like to travel."
"It's because you—"
"I only did that once!" Mrs. Murphy flared. "I wish you'd forget it."
"Mother doesn't. I'm trying to think like she does," Tucker hedged.
"The day we think like a human we're in trouble. We outthink them, that's the key. She won't take me. If she'll take you, one of us will be there at least. She needs a keeper, you know. If she blunders into something she could make a real mess. I'm a lot more worried about Mim, actually."