"Infect our vines?"
"Yes."
"Why would someone want to do that?"
"Competition. Drive me down or out."
"I don't think anyone would do that, because of the danger of the spores spreading to their own vineyards. They can be carried on the wind during their release times."
"Could be someone who isn't making wine but who hates my guts."
"That would be one dead person. He'd have to be pretty stupid once the rest of the growers found out."
"But is it possible to infect other people's vines or crops?"
Arch rubbed his chin. "Yes. Don't think downy mildew would be the way to go, but if someone was really determined, yes, I expect they could damage grapes or any other crop, really."
"If an employee were disgruntled,he could spray water without mixing in Ridomil. That would be one way to do it. You'd think your vines were protected but they'd be vulnerable."
"A crooked person could sell infected stock," Rollie said.
Arch shifted his weight from one foot to another. "There's all kinds of ways to screw somebody."
Rollie twirled his thumbs around each other. "Professor Forland didn't say he saw anything."
"There wasn't enough leaf when he was here. There's always something ready to get your grapes. Birds, deer, foxes, too. At least the foxes just eat the lower ones. The birds and deer can clean you out."
"Can't we cover the clusters when they develop?"
"No." Arch shook his head. "You have to go to the canopy and you have to keep spraying. Shoot the deer or put up deer fences. There's no other way."
"All right." Rollie waved his hand, dismissing Arch abruptly as his phone rang.
Arch stepped outside into the high golden sunlight of early afternoon. It could have been worse. Maybe Rollie was learning to trust him a little. It made up in small measure for the sadness, anger, envy he felt when Harry drove away. She made him angry because she didn't want to talk about anything to do with their affair. Typical Harry, just stuff the emotions. And she made him sad because he knew he'd never find another woman like Harry.
17
Low blue-steel clouds roiled over the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The dampness slithered into the bones as the temperature began to slide.
Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker started their jaunt innocently enough. Harry was inspecting her new grapevines, since the word about downy mildew had passed quickly from grower to grower. Everything looked fine, the buds getting fuzzy and bright green. She then walked among the different types of sunflowers beginning their first great growth spurt. From there she checked her hay, then a back pasture with rich, rich alfalfa. Harry knew she could make good money on the alfalfa. She hopped the creek to walk the fields at the old Jones home place. Those pastures were enriched by the cattle Blair had kept. She put in orchard grass, alfalfa mix. She whistled while she worked. Young, healthy life was everywhere. She was on her way to the peach orchard, hoping all was well there.
Much as the animals loved Harry, they did not share her passion for grass crops. Orchards proved more interesting. They looked forward to the sunflowers maturing because of the bees and the birds. Pewter had staked her corner of the Italian sunflower patch. She felt certain she could lure her nemesis, the blue jay, there. That was a long way off, but Pewter planned ahead. Meanwhile, the bird dive-bombed her with impunity.
Bored with Harry's bucolic rapture, they returned to the creek, walking upstream toward the edge of the Bland Wade tract. Potlicker Creek coursed through the tract, its clear sweet waters deep in parts.
A doe leapt out. They chased it, their egos in excess of their abilities. Tired, the three sat down for a breather under a towering sycamore, little May apples covering the ground.
"Think a cat has ever killed a deer?"Pewter asked.
"/guess it's possible," Mrs. Murphy said.
"Never."Tucker panted still.
"And why not, dwarf dog?"Pewter sassed.
"Deer are too big and too fast."
"I can run as fast as a deer."Mrs. Murphy lifted the fur on her spine.
"For a short time, but the deer can go for miles and miles. You're built to run really fast, then cut at a one-hundred-eighty-degree angle. You can do backflips over your pursuer, if you want. Deer can't do that."Tucker thought it best to flatter.
"Ever notice how we hunt the same as foxes? Crouch, stay still, then pounce,"Pewter mused.
"It's because we hunt the same game."Mrs. Murphy respected foxes even though she was known to quarrel loudly with a few.
Tucker lifted her talented nose."Storm coming."
Pewter inhaled deeply."Fast."
"Let's go home."Mrs. Murphy started trotting south, down the foothills.
The others fell in with her. As they broke cover, they beheld the ominous clouds cresting the mountains.
"Damn!"Pewter hated thunderstorms, and the not-so-distant rumble gave her the shivers.
They flew over the wildflower meadow, dipped into the woods on the other side. They were perhaps two miles from home, but the storm was closing fast. The wind hit twenty knots out of the blue. Bam, trees began to sway.
No one spoke as they ran hard. They sped past the old black-birch stand—white birches couldn't grow this far south—then darted through a pocket meadow.
Mrs. Murphy skidded to a halt."Hold up!"
"Like hell."Pewter kept running, turned her head, saw that Tucker had stopped, her nose down in the high weeds and grass.
"Pewter, look for a den or something. We won't make it home in time,"Tucker instructed the cat, whose pupils enlarged.
Pewter didn't protest. She wanted shelter. She dashed to the edge of the pocket meadow, circumventing it in hopes of finding any old den."Nothing," she shouted.
"We'd better run, Tucker. There's a den in the big rock outcropping a quarter mile further on. It's our only chance,"Mrs. Murphy called over the wind.
"Come on!"Pewter was really scared.
The three ran just as huge raindrops smashed into freshly opened buds. Higher up, spring came later. There was no shelter from emerging leaves. Raindrops hit the ground like wet minie balls.
They reached the boulders, now black and slick, jutting outward. They dashed inside the small cave.
"No!"Pewter puffed up like a blowfish.
Mrs. Murphy and Tucker stopped in their tracks, the rain firing like a fusillade outside. Too amazed to speak, they bumped into each other as they put on the brakes.
Sitting on her haunches was a four-hundred-pound brown bear nursing two cubs, much as a human would nurse a baby. Her poor eyesight could make out the three small intruders. Her nose told her it was two cats and a dog.
Pewter trembled. What was worse, the storm or the bear?
The cubs, born in January, had been the size of rats. Their amazing growth filled them out to the point where they looked like teddy bears. They blinked, trying to make out the little visitors.
Mrs. Murphy bravely stood her ground. She realized the nursing mother couldn't spring to reach her, and bears shambled anyway. Only at a trot or a run could they move along. The cat determined she had time to talk, and if conversation proved discomfiting, she'd brave the lightning.
"Excuse us. We got caught in the storm."A searing flash of lightning underscored her words.
"/can see that" The gravelly voice betrayed no anger.
"Bears eat little mammals,"Pewter unhelpfully blurted out as she backed away.
"I'd much rather eat berries and honey. Say, you don't know where there are bees' nests, do you? Close by. Can't range too far with the children, although they're growing like weeds."
"If you go down to where Potlicker Creek feeds into Harry's Creek—that's what I call it—right on that corner is a dead oak, really big, and the woodpeckers have been at it. Huge nest of bees."