"No, thank you."
Handsome, tightly built, and light on his feet, the young trainer walked Violet Hill back to the old stable. She would be wiped down, then turned out.
Mim, like Harry, believed horses needed to be out.
"I can't decide." Big Mim crossed her arms over her crisp white cotton shirt.
"If you send her out," Harry meant on the steeplechase circuit, "she may do very well. She has a large heart girth, large nostrils, and a big throat latch. I like that. Makes it easy to get air into those big lungs. But it's a risk to the mind."
"Yes."
"She may like 'chasing, you never know."
"Yes."
"But, as you know more than I, it can change a horse's personality forever. Some can retire to hunt. Others can't do it."
"She could always be a broodmare. There's not that much wolf blood out there." Big Mim named her sire, an Argentine import.
"You'd look fabulous in the hunt field on a blood bay."
A light flickered in Big Mim's eyes. "I've never had one, you know. Not in all these years."
"Blood bays are unusual. A true blood bay."
A long, happy sigh escaped Mim's lips. "I'll hunt her. She's been bold over the small fences here. She loves being outside; plus,we get along. Wonderful smooth gaits. That's good on these old bones."
"You've ridden her, then?" Harry thought to herself how deep the bond ran between a true horseman and the horse.
"With Paul on Toodles. Dear old Mr. Toodles is so calm. I think he talks to her."
"Lucky?"
"Not much. She certainly notices everything, but then, Thoroughbreds do. Saddle-breds, too. They're so intelligent. I can't believe people think otherwise." Mim stopped a moment. "She didn't even shy when a big, red-shouldered hawk flew low over here. Scared me. She stopped, then walked in. I am just besotted with this horse."
"I would be, too," Harry honestly replied.
"I'm so glad you dropped by. I've been wanting you to see her again. Fair's quite taken with her."
"I know. That's one of the reasons I came by. He's talked about Violet Hill so much that I had to see her. I haven't really seen her much since she was a yearling. As you know, Fair is one of her—and your—biggest fans." Harry followed Big Mim as she walked to the old stable. This pleased Mim, because she knew Harry was being genuine.
Wrought-iron benches bearing Mim's colors, red and gold, in a center medallion beckoned.
Mim sat on the long cushion, with Harry next to her.
"Well?"
Harry laughed. After all, Big Mim knew her when she was in her mother's womb. She launched right in. "Toby Pittman was killed with his own gun."
"Yes." Mim knew from Rick as well as her husband about the disposition of the body.
"Fair never heard the shots. He should have heard them."
"True, but he could have arrived just after Hy killed Toby." Mim's logic was strong. "And when the coroner examined the body he found signs of struggle. Marks on Toby's wrist. A smashed finger, as though he'd been held on the ground and his hand pummeled against the earth. He had a broken cheekbone, as well."
"How come Fair missed that? He's observant."
"Toby had on a long-sleeved shirt. And according to Rick his face wasn't caved in. It might have looked like a red mark where he was hit. One other thing: three shots were fired."
"Ah." Harry crossed her feet at the ankles. "Maybe he did get a shot off at Hy."
"They haven't found the bullet. Not on the farm or in Hy's truck. It would help if that third bullet were found."
"Do you think Hy killed Toby?"
"Yes."
The third bullet preyed on Harry's mind. She wanted to find it.
When she did, finally, it nearly killed her.
As the humans talked, Mrs. Murphy, enticed by the chirping, also came out on the lawn.
"/was here first" Pewter had a territorial moment.
"/ canwatch the birds as well as you can."
Up on the bird feeder, the purple finches, who had been joined by goldfinches, eyed the cats inching forward.
"Want to fly away?"the brightest purple finch asked the others.
"They can't get us,"answered a goldfinch.
"/know. But we could poop on them." The bright purple finch cracked a fennel seed.
"Yay!"the others answered, lifting off the perches as if in fear of the felines, only to circle, then fly over, releasing their contents.
"No fair"Pewter skedaddled back under the eaves.
The two dogs laughed, which did not improve Mrs. Murphy's humor as she took a direct hit.
Driving home, the three animals listened to the radio. Mrs. Murphy, grumbling, cleaned furiously.
"Square in the center of the back. That's hard to reach,"Tucker commiserated.
"Finches are supposed to be mean."Pewter got off lightly with a sprinkle on her paw. She'd already cleaned it.
"Birds are birds," adisgusted Mrs. Murphy said, then further complained, "/wish she'd turn off that country music. I hate that stuff."
"She's singing along, and even she doesn't much like it. Must be in a mood. Fat chance."Pewter so rarely heard popular music that she wasn't yet irritated by it.
"Guess you two still don't want to know where I went."
Exasperated, Mrs. Murphy narrowed her pupils."We're dying to hear."
"You're sarcastic. I'm not talking to you when you're like that."
"I really want to know."Tucker had no stomach for a cat fight.
With great satisfaction, Pewter said,"Stealth bombers."
25
"That wasn't here before." Pewter indicated some sticky strips, old-time fly catchers, twirling from a few lower branches.
"Maybe you didn't notice."Tucker knew she shouldn't have said that the minute it popped out of her mouth.
"/saw everything!" Pewter's pupils became slits for a second."I'm not human. They can't see the nose on their faces."
Mrs. Murphy inhaled the odor of the abandoned Alverta peach grove that Harry was reviving. The tang of the tree bark, the lingering scent of tiny dots where blossoms had been, where the delicious fruit could ripen, all informed her. This small orchard, bursting with life, was inviting. Few folks remained who grew Alverta peaches. Harry understood the need for crop diversity. Agribusiness, however, was becoming monocrop farming, a dangerous development genetically.
"You're silent as the tomb,"Pewter sassed.
"I seethe stealth bombers."Mrs. Murphy noted the glassy-winged insects that looked like the famed combat jet.
"Some died on the sticky strips."Tucker marveled at how many little corpses there were.
"Along with every kind of fly in the county."Pewter loathed flies. They tried to deposit tiny white eggs in her tuna.
Mrs. Murphy asked the gray cat,"Footprints yesterday?"
"I don't think so."In truth, Pewter hadn't noticed.
"There are today."Tucker put her gifted nose down on the large treads left by work boots.
"Tire tracks?"Mrs. Murphy asked Pewter.
"No."
"Anyone could park behind the equipment sheds and walk up here. We wouldn't know. It's too far away."Mrs. Murphy sat staring up at the insects on the sticky strips, listening to the variety of insects flying."What a strange bug."
A scarlet tanager chirped as he sat on a branch farther down the orchard row.
"Anything with six legs is strange."Pewter wasn't making the connection.
Tucker walked into the orchard, followed by Mrs. Murphy.
The orchard faced south, to soak up the warmth and light. A northern exposure would be too fierce at this latitude. A rise behind the small orchard protected the peaches from the north winds.
Peaches could grow in central Virginia, but the farmer had to protect the tree much more than apple trees.
Tucker reached the disturbed earth. Mrs. Murphy sat on the edge of the packed dirt.