"Mim?" Tucker's tongue flicked out for a minute, a pink exclamation point.
"Marylou Valiant is buried in her barn. Coty Lamont and someone called Sargent put the body there five years ago. Right? Well, Mim may be safe and sound but the fact remains that a murdered woman, a dear friend of hers, is buried on her property. What if she finds out?"
Tucker, knowing her friend well, picked up her train of thought. "It's a small circle, these 'chaser people. Mim's important in that world."
"One thing is for sure."
"What?"
"The murderer carries a deck of cards."
"So does half of America." Murphy brushed against Tucker's chest, tickling the dog's sensitive nose with her tail.
"Here's what really bothers me. Once a murder is committed, the last thing a murderer would want to do is dig up the corpse. It's the corpse that incriminates them."
"Maybe they forgot to take off her jewelry or there was money buried with her."
"Possible, if the murderer or murderers were rattled. Yes, it's possible but Coty had enough time to collect his wits. He would have stripped her of anything valuable. I'd bet on that. Then, too, we don't know for sure if Coty or the other guy killed her."
"Don't forget Mickey Townsend."
"I haven't." Murphy paced, her tail flicking with each step. "Mickey must know where Marylou is, though. Otherwise, why did he stop Coty from digging that night?" She paced some more. "But it doesn't feel right, Tucker. Mickey was in love with Marylou."
"Maybe at the last minute she thought Arthur was the better choice. Maybe she told him and he lost it and killed her—lover's passion," Tucker said soberly.
"I don't know, but you've got to go to Camden, Tucker. Mickey will be there. They'll all be there—and that's what scares me."
"I'll do my best."
"Go into that bedroom and put on a show."
Tucker trotted into Harry's bedroom. She'd placed her duffle bag on the floor. Her clothes lay on the bed and she was folding them.
Tucker crawled into the duffle bag. "Mom, you've got to take me."
"Tucker—" Harry smiled. "Get out of there."
Mrs. Murphy bounded on the bed. "Take her, Harry."
"Murphy—" Harry shooed her off a blouse. The cat sat on another one. "Now this is too much."
"Tucker needs to go with you."
"Yes, it's very important," the dog whined.
"Throw back your head and howl. That's impressive," the cat ordered.
Tucker threw back her pretty head, emitting a spine-tingling howl. "I wanna go!"
Harry knelt down and hugged the little dog. "Ah, Tucker, it's only for the weekend."
Tucker repeated her dramatic recitation. "I wanna go! Don't leave me here!"
"Oh, now, come on." Harry comforted the dog.
"Oo-oo-oo!"
"That's good." Mrs. Murphy moved to another blouse. If she couldn't go she could at least deposit as much cat hair as possible on Harry's clothes.
"Well—" Harry weakened.
"Oh, please, I'm the best little dog in the world. I won't make you walk me to go to the bathroom. I won't even eat. I'll be real cheap—"
"That's pushing it, Tucker," Mrs. Murphy grumbled.
"She's eating it up."
"Oh, Tucker, I feel so guilty about leaving you here."
"Oo-oo-oo!"
Harry picked up the phone by the bed and punched in Mim's number. "Hello, Mim. I have the unhappiest dog in front of me, curled up in my duffle bag. May I bring Tucker?" She listened to the affirmative reply. "Thank you. Thank you, too, for Tucker." Then she called Sally Dohner, who agreed to fill in for her at the post office.
"Way to go!" Mrs. Murphy congratulated her friend.
"Oh, boy!" Tucker jumped out of the duffle bag and ran around in small circles until she made herself dizzy and fell down.
"Now how did you know you were going?" Harry laughed at the dog. "Sometimes I think you two understand English." She petted Mrs. Murphy, who nestled down in a sweater. "I'm sorry, Murphy, but you know how you are on a long trip. You take care of Susan—she's going to spend the weekend here. She said she'd love a break from being a wife and mother." Harry sat on the bed. "Bet she brings the whole family with her anyway. Well, you know everyone."
"Yes. I'll be a good kitty. Just tell her I want lots of cooked chicken."
"She even promised to fry pork chops for you."
"Ooh, I love pork chops." Mrs. Murphy purred, then called out to Tucker: "Tucker, you've got to remember everything you see, smell, or hear."
"Got ya."
Camden , South Carolina , settled in 1758 and called Pine Tree Hill at that time, sits in a thermal belt, making it perfect for horsemen. While the air freezes, the sand does not, so in wintertime Thoroughbred breeders, trainers, chasers, hunters, and show horse people flock to the good footing and warmer temperatures. While not as balmy as Florida, Camden isn't as crowded either, nor as expensive.
Mrs. Marion duPont Scott had wintered in Camden, falling in love with the town. The relaxed people, blessed with that languid humor peculiar to South Carolina, so delighted her that she decided to use her personal wealth to create the Colonial Cup, a Deep South counterpoint to great and grand Montpelier. She developed a steeplechase course that allowed spectators in the grandstand to see most of the jumps, a novelty.
Over the years the races grew. The crowds poured in. The parties created many a wild scandal. The pockets of the citizens of Camden bulged.
The only bad thing that could be said about this most charming of upcountry towns in South Carolina is that it was the site of a Revolutionary War disaster on April 16, 1780, when General Horatio Gates, with 3,600 men, lost to Lord Cornwallis's 2,000 British troops. After that the British decided to enjoy thoroughly the comforts of Camden and the attentions of the female population, famed for their exquisite manners as well as their good looks.
Harry, thrilled to be a guest at the Colonial Cup, walked around Camden with her mouth hanging open. She and Miranda had decided to tour the town before heading over to the track. The races wouldn't commence until the following day, and they were like schoolgirls at recess. Harry dutifully asked Mim, then Charles, then Adelia, and even Fair if they needed her assistance. As soon as everyone said "No," she shot out of the stable, Tucker at her heels.
"I could get used to this." Harry smiled as she regarded a sweeping porch that wrapped around a stately white frame house. Baskets of flowers hung from the ceiling of the porch, for the temperature remained around 65°F.
"How I remember Mamaw sitting on her swing, passing and repassing, discussing at length the reason why she lined her walkway with hydrangeas and why her roses won prizes. Oh, I wish Didee were coming." Miranda used the childhood name for her sister. "That husband of hers is too much work.
"What husband isn't?"
"My George was an angel."
Harry fought back the urge to reply that he was now. Instead she said, "He had no choice."
Mrs. Hogendobber stopped. The crepe on the bottom of her sensible walking shoes screeched, which made Tucker bark. That made the West Highland white on the wraparound porch bark. "Do I detect sarcasm?"
"Hush, Tucker."
"I'm on duty here," Tucker stoutly barked right back. "If that white moppet wants to run his mouth and insult us, I am not remaining silent."
"Will you shut up!"
"My husband listened better than your dog."
"Let's move on before every dog in the neighborhood feels compelled to reply. Tucker, I don't know why I brought you. You've been a real pain in the patoutee. You sniffed everything where we slept. You rushed up and down the barn aisles. You ran out in the paddocks. You dashed into every parked van. Are you on canine amphetamines?"
"I'm searching for information. You're too dumb to know that. I'm not rushing around like a chicken with its head cut off. I have a plan."