Probable Claws

“Not bad. One puncture wound but other than that mostly paperwork and inquiries from new horse owners about keeping the weight on during winter.”

“That should be easy. Feed them more.” Cooper buttered her bread.

“Pretty much. Go light on pellets. Use senior food for the older guys. It’s more expensive but properly fed those old horses will hold their weight. And a good blanket never hurts. An easy day.”

Returning to her most pressing problem, Cooper said, “I called Dawn Hulme, Gary’s ex-wife. Wanted to reach her before anyone else did. If you can do that you often get an unprepared response.”

“And?” Harry’s eyebrows rose.

“Shock. No phony sorrow. She said they rarely spoke over the years. I asked could she tell me why they divorced. She said she started proceedings. He never listened to a word she said and she was sick of it. He didn’t beat her, run with other women. He was married to his work; but then, many men are. She repeated again that he never listened to anything she said, asked about her day, what she felt. Nothing. She asked him to go to counseling. He refused and her next call was to a divorce lawyer. And she admitted it was acrimonious.”

Fair, spoon midair, remarked, “I listen.”

“You do. Really, I’m the one who could be accused of not listening, of being a little dense,” Harry confessed.

“A little!” Pewter yelled up from her food dish, painted with her name on the side.

“Now, Pewts,” Mrs. Murphy said.

“She never listens to one thing I say. There’s a box of rocks upstairs.” Pewter indicated Harry’s brain, which did make the other two animals laugh.

“Don’t you find it odd that we were standing on the sidewalk and the motorcyclist cruised up?” Harry wondered.

“No. Opportunity equals preparation. I think Gary would have been killed no matter what; and when the motorcyclist saw us there it presented a better opportunity than if he had to park, go into Gary’s office, or wait for a client to leave. He might have left a few pieces of thread from his scarf or a tread from his boots, I don’t know; but this way, slow down, drive over, pull the trigger. Nothing is left for forensics to pick up. Whoever did this can think quickly. At least that’s my idea now.”

“I would have never thought of that,” Harry admitted.

“You don’t need to.” Cooper smiled.

“And it could have been a woman?” Fair inquired.

“The tinted visor of the helmet covered the whole face. Motorcycle clothing tends to be leather and given the wind, especially now that it’s cold, I think anyone would wear a heavy leather jacket, leather pants, and boots. You wouldn’t know gender from the clothing.”

“Coop, I never heard one word about him running around after Dawn. That divorce must have throttled any thoughts of another relationship.”

“Women do kill and, Harry, how do we know that wasn’t a professional killer?”

“That’s outrageous,” Harry blurted out.

“So it seems, but I have to consider everything no matter how seemingly absurd. One thing I do know and that is that murder makes sense. The killer has a good reason to him or her. The only time I would waffle on that is impulse killing—you know, two guys are loaded at a bar, one thinks he’s been mocked, a fight ensues, etc. That’s impulse killing and the truth is that stuff happens mostly among the uneducated, the young. Of course, publicly I can’t say that but generally an impulse killer is not too intelligent. Someone who kills in cold blood is.”

“Ah,” Harry murmured.

“Ah and don’t try to solve this. Your curiosity does not serve you well.” Cooper was firm. “Are you in danger? No, probably not. This killing was planned and worked out totally in the killer’s favor. You start poking around, things might turn ugly.”

“Hear, hear.” Fair seconded Cooper.

“She doesn’t listen to me. She won’t listen to them,” Pewter prophesied.

4

November 1, 1786

Wednesday

Still a bit warm, some leaves waved slightly on the trees as Ewing Garth with his two beautiful daughters walked west from the imposing brick house in which he lived. The girls, as he called them, each married to a good man, lived in identical clapboard houses one quarter of a mile from the main residence. Catherine was twenty-two, the elder by two years. Her house’s back side faced west, the Blue Ridge Mountains. She could watch sunsets from the back porch. Rachel’s home, opposite her sister’s by perhaps another quarter mile, also faced the mountains. Rachel could repose on her front porch with her blond husband, watch the birds, watch the colors of the mountains change. For Catherine and Rachel this enticing vista made even the hard days worthwhile.

Ewing, a touch portly, stepped out briskly. He stopped at the edge of the harvested cornfield.

“Good year.” He beamed.

“We have plenty stored along with oats, barley, and sweet, sweet hay,” Catherine chimed in, happy, for she took charge of the extensive stables.

“Father, when are you coming with Charles and myself to see the progress at St. Luke’s? You will be astonished at how much he has accomplished since the Taylors’ funeral.”

The Taylors, husband and wife, were buried October 15. Respected, liked, their mutual passing from lung disease brought everyone together. To these two people belonged the honor of being the first to sleep in the lovely cemetery roughly a hundred yards behind the church structure. Set off with stone walls, it seemed to promise peace.

The entire church, constructed of fieldstone, was topped with a slate roof. Quads behind the church reflected the central quad between the two wings, which resembled each other. A covered arched walkway on both sides connected the two buildings at the ends with the church. Even with the protection of the stone arches, if the wind blew the weather would hit you. The church itself sat smack in the middle, large lawns behind and in front of it. The exterior was complete. Now the fastidious interior work occupied Charles West, Rachel’s husband.