“Pay her no mind, Tucker. Cats stick together.” Owen leaned next to Tucker, who hoped she’d find a way to get even with Pewter.
Susan and Harry walked into the elegant framing shop called Buchanan and Kiguel.
Shirley Franklin, the good-looking and artistic lady behind the counter, peered over the customers’ heads and called out, “How are you? Good to see you.”
“Surviving the helladays,” Harry quipped.
People laughed. Shirley was handing out wrapped custom-framed jobs. The finished work was lined up in special bins so it wouldn’t fall over.
“The obol.” Susan had noticed a pretty print of Aphrodite. “Pagan.”
“I know that, you twit,” Harry said softly.
“Maybe it means Brother Christopher was a fake.”
Harry’s expression changed as she turned to look Susan full in the face. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
“Or it’s all about money. His scandal was about money.” Susan’s curiosity now ran as high as Harry’s.
“Or both.”
Back at the sheriff’s headquarters, Cooper was glued to the computer screen, happy not to be on patrol today. The long night without much sleep had worn her down. A law-enforcement officer can’t afford to miss things or be physically slowed down. Too much can happen, and it always happens fast.
Rick had given a statement to the media that morning. The phones sounded like a beehive, one buzz after the other.
He walked over and leaned over her shoulder. “They’re coming out of the woodwork, these media wonders.”The side of his mouth curled up slightly. “Didn’t tell them about the obol.”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about that. Don’t even know where to look. I did tell Harry.”
“She know any more than Dr. Gibson?” Rick inquired.
“No, but she said she’d review her old college texts.”
“Least that keeps her out of our way.”
“You think this murder has anything to do with Christmas?”
“Who knows? I’d like a little hard evidence. Check the airlines into Charlottesville to see if any passengers came in from Phoenix, Arizona.”
“Will do.”
“Grasping at straws,” he acknowledged. “But sometimes a loose, wide net does catch some fish.”
7
The Queen of Crozet, elegant even in her barn clothes, watched as Fair took X-rays of her filly’s right cannon bone. Big Mim Sanburne adjusted her red cashmere scarf around her neck, wiggled her fingers in her cashmere- lined gloves. “Adolescence.”
Although small, Big Mim was so called because her daughter was Little Mim.
Paul de Silva, Big Mim’s trainer, looked on as Fair set up the plates and positioned the portable machine.
“She’s a naughty girl.” Fair stepped back, as did the other two, and he pressed the button on the long cord of the X-ray machine.
Fair wore lead-lined gloves. Any medical person, whether dental, vet, or human, needed to be prudent concerning X-ray equipment. No need to wind up glowing in the dark.
Paul crossed his arms over his chest. “Least we know she can jump.”
Big Mim found his light Spanish accent pleasing. The cadence, more singsong than English, enlivened his sentences. Then, too, he was a handsome young man, with jet-black hair, thin sideburns longer than most, and a tiny tuft of black hair under his lower lip. He was engaged to Mim’s architect, Tazio Chappars. Big Mim took credit for getting them together. There was just enough truth in this so no one argued with her.
No one argued with her anyway, except for her late mother’s sister, Aunt Tally, and her daughter, Little Mim. Little Mim’s disagreements proved less vocal than the soon-to-be centenarian.
“Okay, last one.” Fair positioned the machine again.
Mim looked outside the closed barn doors, which had big windows that allowed in a lot of light, as did the continuous skylight running on both sides of the roof seam. “Coming down now.”
“Sure is.” Fair clicked the photo. “We need the snow.”
“Not much last winter,” Paul agreed.
“There are so many people drawing off the water table now in Albemarle County that we’re all going to be in trouble in a decade or even less.” Big Mim and her husband, the mayor of Crozet, were particularly concerned about the environment.
“All over. The human animal will suck this planet dry.” Fair carefully put the plates in a special pouch. “Mim, I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’s popped a splint. I’ll know more after I examine the X-rays, of course, but chances are it needs to reattach. She’ll have a bit of jewelry there, so that’s the end of strip classes.”
Bone splints are not uncommon in horses. Usually the fragment does grow back to the main bone. Occasionally it doesn’t, which causes the animal pain and then the vet has to surgically remove it. Like any surgery, it runs up the bills, and the recovery time bores the bejesus out of the horse, especially one as young and full of herself as Maggie, her barn name.
“Oh, well.” Big Mim waved her hand. “I can live without strip classes. I leave those to Kenny Wheeler.”
A strip class is a conformation class wherein the animal is stripped of tack.The judge bases his ribbons on the makeup of the animal, not performance. It’s a beauty pageant. Kenny Wheeler, a famous horseman, won those classes all over the United States.
“He’s got some good ones.” Paul appreciated Mr. Wheeler’s acumen.
“He has more money than God.” Big Mim laughed.
“So do you,” Fair teased her.
Most people were afraid of Big Mim and would never tease her, but Fair, knowing her since childhood, could get away with it. The fact that he was incredibly handsome helped.
“Maybe St. Peter. Not God.” She laughed at herself, then told Paul, “How about putting her back in her stall? Let’s not turn her out until we get the full report.”
“Yes, madam.” He touched his lad’s cap and walked the bright filly back to her stall.
Fair carried the X-ray equipment and plates out to his truck. Like most vets, this was his mobile office. People had no idea how expensive it was for an equine vet to be properly equipped. The special truck cover alone cost $17,000.
Fair returned to Big Mim’s large office. “Sit down.” Big Mim motioned for Fair to sit by the fireplace.
The granary- oak floor shone. The sofa and chairs, covered in a dark tartan plaid, added color. A gorgeous painting, a hunt scene by Michael Lyne, hung over the fireplace. The walls, covered in framed photographs, bore testimony to Big Mim’s successes in the show ring and the hunt field. She also had a photograph of Mary Pat Reines jumping over a fence in perfect, perfect form. Ever since she was young, this photo had prodded her on. She’d look at it and vow to ride more elegantly. Mary Pat had been Alicia Palmer’s protector and lover when Alicia was in her twenties. Big Mim had never realized how a fierce rival pushes one to excellence until Mary Pat passed away. She missed her socially and truly missed her in the show ring. In some ways, the world had come full circle. Big Mim struck terror in the hearts of younger competitors because she was as elegant over fences as Mary Pat had been. And Alicia had come home from Hollywood once again to be part of the community.
“Fire feels good. Nothing quite like it, the hardwood odor, the flickering glow.” Fair gratefully sank into the deep chair.
“In the old days, a small wood- burning stove would often be put in the tackroom. Not the safest solution. I remember the barn rats—what my father called ‘the grooms’— huddled around the potbellied stove. There they’d be, wiping down the tack, breaking apart the bridles. In those days the bits were sewn into the bridles. Looks better than how it is today.” She paused a moment, then smiled. “The vice of the old, recalling the golden years that correspond to one’s youth.”
“Your golden years never stopped.” Fair complimented her, and in truth, Big Mim looked marvelous for a woman in her seventies.