“Mary Pat?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Big Mim told me. I mean in her own way. They were friends. Mim wasn’t direct about it exactly, but I put two and two together.”
“Mary Pat gay? Must have driven men wild. She was gorgeous,” Harry exclaimed.
“So were the women around her. I guess Mary Pat had an eye for a good woman just as she did for a horse.”
“To each her own.”
“That ring looks good on you.”
“I wonder if she was killed because she was gay.” Harry reached for her teacup.
“You don’t know that she was killed. She could have suffered a heart attack and never been found.”
“Right. She and Ziggy Flame had simultaneous heart attacks.” Harry mentioned the great stallion who disappeared along with Mary Pat.
“Ziggy—he was never found, either,” Susan mused.
“Mim said something. You know how smart she is. She said if I found the ring in the creek bed, then Mary Pat is somewhere upstream.”
“Possibly.” Susan cleared the table, walked over, and put her hand on Harry’s shoulder. “When do you want to start looking?”
Harry touched Susan’s hand. “Susan, you know me too well.”
“Cradle friends.”
“How about tomorrow after I get off work? And I’ll ask Fair so he doesn’t fuss.”
“Tomorrow. Meet you here at five-thirty?”
“I’ll burn the wind getting home.” Harry got up to wash the dishes. “Oh, today a tourist all hot to get to Monticello somehow took a wrong turn and wound up at the post office. So Miranda gave her directions. And you know what this lady says as she leaves?”
“No.”
“She says, ‘Crozet’s so ugly even Lot’s wife wouldn’t have looked back.’ ”
9
. . . Running through the barn as though chased by the avenging Furies themselves.” Tavener Heyward slapped his thighs, laughing until the tears rolled down his cheeks.
Fair Haristeen laughed with him. “Paul will never live that down.”
“I asked him what possessed him to do such a thing, and he said when he heard Big Mim coming toward the barn he got so flustered, because she has No Smoking signs posted about every two feet, that he stuck his cigarette in his back pocket. Never thought about putting it out. That’s one derriere that will sit lightly in the saddle for the next week,” Tavener, his hazel eyes merry, said.
Paul de Silva, Big Mim’s new trainer, was a young, wiry, small-sized man with dreamy eyes and curly black hair. He spoke with a light Spanish accent, which added to his allure. He worked with Big Mim’s hunters, those for the show ring and those for actual hunting, often the same horses. Big Mim believed in bringing along horses the old way: foxhunting them first, then introducing them to the show ring or steeplechasing. Paul appreciated the wisdom of this approach. He had a terrible crush on Tazio Chappars, an architect. He was trying to find the right approach to her, since he feared she wouldn’t look at a horseman twice. Horsemen’s prospects aren’t as shining as those of architects, although miracles do happen.
The two vets met in front of the post office and, the morning being especially lush and fragrant, they stood outside and chatted for a while. At nine-thirty they’d both been up for five hours.
“Saw a lovely little fellow over at Albemarle Stud this morning,” Fair reported. “Another one of Fred Astaire’s babies out of an old Cool Virginian mare. As correct as they come.”
Cool Virginian was a stallion, now deceased, who had enjoyed a solid career as a stud.
“Who bred him?”
“Dr. Mary O’Brien. I’m going to see if she’ll sell him to me. I’d like to buy him for Harry. You know how good Harry is with a young horse. Five years from now he will be the best-looking horse in the hunt field. Just a balanced little guy.”
“Ah, love.” Tavener winked, for he meant both the love of a woman and the love of a horse.
“Makes the world go ’round.” Fair, who at six feet five towered over Tavener, wrapped his arm around the older vet’s shoulder. “We wouldn’t be here without it.”
“Well, my lad, you wouldn’t have a business without it.” Tavener laughed. “Neither would I, neither would I. But I tell you, equine matings are better planned than human ones.”
“Frightening, isn’t it?” Fair dropped his arm to open the door to the post office.
“Hello, gentlemen.” Miranda leaned over the wide counter.
Harry, who was at the back table, put down the magazines she was collecting. “Two good-for-nothing, good-looking men. I don’t know, Miranda. I think we’d better call Rick Shaw and ask for protection.”
“Heartless. Harry, you always were heartless.” Tavener shook his head. “And what have you been up to this fine morning?”
“Sorting your bills.”
He winced. “And have you noticed they always come faster than the money? It’s one of those irrefutable laws of finance, just as Newton’s laws are of physics. Ah, yes, what comes up must come down. The financial version of Newton’s Law is, what comes in must go out.”
“If we secede from the Union again and fight a limited war, we’ll get war reparations and all be rich.” Fair’s deep voice filled the room.
Tucker had already barreled through the animal door in the divider between the public area and the work area. Tucker loved Fair.
The two cats, recumbent in a mail cart, loved Fair, too, but not enough to disturb their repose.
“Certainly didn’t hurt Germany or Japan.” Tavener nodded his head in agreement. “The United States gives away more money than any nation in history, and you know what? Those nations take our money and despise us. We really ought to keep some of it right here in Virginia. You’ve got a good idea there, Haristeen.”
“Isn’t life wonderful? Isn’t life grand?” Tucker wiggled, then stood up on her hind legs, resting her front paws on Fair’s shins.
“Miss Happy Camper,” Pewter sarcastically said, and rolled to her other side, which meant she rolled into Mrs. Murphy since the canvas in the mail cart had no firm bottom.
“Miss Fatty Screwloose.” Mrs. Murphy opened one jaundiced eye.
“I am not fat. I am round. It’s the way I’m built.”
“Doesn’t explain the ‘Screwloose.’ ” Mrs. Murphy gave a little laugh that sounded like a cackle.
“I’m leaving you, Hateful.” Pewter lurched out of the mail cart, which further discomfited the tiger.
The cart rolled a little bit, the form of Mrs. Murphy clearly delineated on the bottom.
“Hello, Pewter.” Fair leaned over the counter.
“Hello, Fair.” The cat minded her manners. “I am going on record: Mrs. Murphy is conceited and mean. She’s mean because she doesn’t eat enough. She thinks she’s sleek and beautiful. She looks weedy and”—a spiteful pause—“wormy.”
That fast, Mrs. Murphy shot out of the mail cart. She erupted like a feline Old Faithful geyser, straight up and spewing, as she headed right for Pewter, who flattened herself to withstand the onslaught.
“You’ll pay for that!” Mrs. Murphy pounced on Pewter, who rolled over so her powerful hind legs could bang into Mrs. Murphy’s beige tummy.
They rolled, hissed, spat, and then Pewter broke free to give everyone the thrill of seeing her circle the interior of the post office three times at top speed before blasting out the back animal door, where she crossed the alley and headed into Miranda Hogendobber’s beloved garden.
Mrs. Murphy was right on her tail.
“The energy.” Miranda shook her head in wonderment.
“Life.” Tavener smiled. “We’d do well to learn from them. To live in the moment.”