Johnny Pop, as Doug Minor dubbed his machine, still popped and chugged. Last year Harry bought a new set of rear tires. The originals had finally succumbed. Given this proven reliability, Harry wanted another John Deere, the Rolls-Royce of tractors. Not that she planned to retire Johnny Pop, but a tractor in the seventy-five-horsepower range with a front end loader and special weights for the rear wheels could accomplish many of the larger, more difficult tasks on her farm that were beyond Johnny Pops modest horsepower. The base price of what she needed ran about $29,000 sans attachments. Her heart sank each time she remembered the cost, quite impossible on a postmistress's wage.
Mrs. Murphy and Tucker waited in the cab of her truck, another item that needed replacing. The Superman blue had faded, the clutch had been repaired twice, and she'd worn through four sets of tires. However, the Ford rolled along. Most people would buy a new truck before a tractor, but Harry, being a farmer first, knew the tractor was far more important.
She strolled around the machines, not a speck of mud on them. Some had enclosed cabs with AC, which seemed sinful to her, although if you ran over a nest of digger bees, that enclosed cab would be a godsend. She liked to dream, climb up to touch the steering wheel, run her fingers along the engine block. That's why dusk appealed to her. It wasn't so much that she didn't want to talk to the salesmen. She'd known them for years, and they knew she hadn't a penny. She hated to waste their time since she wasn't a serious customer.
She opened the door of her truck; a tiny creak followed. She leaned onto the seat but didn't climb in right away.
"Well, kids, what do you think? Pretty fabulous?"
"They look the same as last time. "Tucker was hungry.
"Beautiful, Mom, just beautiful. "Mrs. Murphy would occasionally ride in Harry's lap when she drove Johnny Pop. "I vote for the enclosed cab myself and you can put a woven basket with a towel in it for me. I believe in creature comforts."
"Ah, well, let's go home." She climbed into the truck, cranked the motor, and pulled onto the highway, heading west.
In fifteen minutes she was at the outskirts of Crozet. She passed the old Del Monte food packaging plant and decided to pull into the supermarket.
"/ want to go home. "Tucker whined.
"If you want to eat, then I've got to get you food." Harry hopped out of the car.
Tucker inquisitively looked at the cat. "Do you think she understood what I said?"
"Nah. "Mrs. Murphy shook her head. "Coincidence. °
"I bet I could jump out the window."
"I bet I could, too, but I'm not running around this parking lot, not the way people drive. "She put her paws on the window frame and surveyed the lot. "Everyone must need dog food."
Tucker joined her. "Mim."
"Bet it's her cook. That's the farm car. Mim wouldn't do anything as lowly as shop for her own food."
"Probably right. Well, there's the silver Saab, so we know Susan is here…"
"Aysha's green BMW. Oh, hey, there's Mrs. Hogendobber's Falcon."
"And look who's pulling in—Fair. Um-um. "Tucker's eyes twinkled.
Hurrying down the aisle with a basket on her arm, Harry first bumped into Susan.
"If you're not buying much, you could have gone to Shiflett's Market and saved yourself the checkout line."
"He closed early tonight. Dentist."
"Not another root canal?" Harry counted items in Susan's cart. "Are you having a party or something? I mean, a party without me?"
"No, nosy." Susan pushed Harry on the shoulder. "Danny and Brookie want to have a cookout. I said I'd buy the food if they did the work."
"Danny Tucker behind the barbecue?"
"Well, you see, he's got this new girlfriend who wants to be a chef, so he thinks if he shows an interest in food beyond eating it, he'll impress her. He's talked his sister into helping him."
"Talked or bribed?"
"Bribed." Susan's big smile was infectious. "He's promised to drive her and a friend to the Virginia Horse Center over in Lexington and then he'll look at Washington and Lee University, without Mom, of course."
Mrs. Hogendobber careened around the aisle, her cart on two wheels. "Gangway, girls, I'll miss choir practice."
The two women parted as Miranda roared through tossing items into her cart with considerable skill.
"Great hand-eye," Susan noted.
Nearly colliding with Mrs. Hogendobber, since she entered the aisle from the opposite end, was Aysha Cramer, with her mother, Ottoline. "Oh, Mrs. Hogendobber, I'm sorry."
"Beep! Beep!" Mrs. Hogendobber experdy maneuvered around her and was off.
Ottoline, wearing an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse that revealed her creamy skin and bosoms, plucked the list out of Aysha's cart. "If you're going to waste time talking, I'll work on this list."
Aysha shrugged as her mother continued on and turned the corner. She rolled her cart over to Harry and Susan. "We know she's not DWI."
Mrs. Hogendobber didn't drink.
"Choir practice," Susan said.
"I hope I have as much energy as she does at her age," Aysha said admiringly. "And just what is her age?"
"Mentally or physically?" Susan rocked her cart back and forth.
"Mother says she's got to be in her sixties, because she was in high school when mother was in eighth grade," Aysha volunteered.
Of course, Ottoline the raving bitch never said anything nice about anyone unless it reflected upon her own perceived glory, so Aysha's recounting was a bogus edition of Mrs. Gill's true thoughts.
As if on cue, Ottoline sashayed down the aisle in the opposite direction from which she had left. She dumped items in the cart, nodded curtly to Harry and Susan, only to continue down the aisle, calling over her shoulder, "Aysha, I'm pressed for time."
"Yes, Mumsy." Then she lowered her voice. "Had a fight with the decorator today. She's in a bad mood."
"I thought she'd just redecorated," Susan said.
"Two years ago. Time flies. She's into a neutral palette this time."
"Better than a cleft palate," Harry joked.
"Not funny," Aysha sniffed.
"Oh, come on, Aysha." Harry couldn't stand it when Aysha or anyone behaved like a humorless Puritan.
Apart from the occasional lapse into correctness, Harry thought Aysha had turned out okay except for her unfortunate belief that she was an aristocrat. It was a piteous illusion, since the Gills had migrated to Albemarle County immediately following World War I. To make matters worse, they had migrated from Connecticut. Despite her Yankee roots, Aysha flounced around like a Southern belle. Her new husband, not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree when it came to women, bought it. He called her "lovegirl." God only knows what she called him. Newlyweds were pretty disgusting no matter who they were.
Susan asked, "Aysha, you've heard about this Threadneedle virus. Tomorrow's the big day. You worried?"
"Oh, heavens no." She laughed, her voice lilting upward before she lowered it. "But my Norman, he's been to meetings about it. The bank is really taking this seriously."
"No kidding." Harry grabbed a few more cans of dog food.
"You can imagine if accounts were mixed up, although Norman says he believes the real target is Federated Investments in Richmond and this whole thing is a cover to get everyone in an uproar while they, or whoever, strikes FI."
"Why FI?" Susan asked the logical question.
"They've been having such hard times. New chairman, shake-ups, and hundreds of people have been let go. Who better but an FI employee to devise a scheme with computers as the weapon? Norman says that by August 2 FI will be in a bigger tangle than a fishing line."