“Do you have any idea who might have wished her dead?” Harry inquired.
“No. I was the prime suspect. Obviously, I didn’t kill her. I never would have killed her. God, what an awful, awful time.” Alicia noticed Pewter and Mrs. Murphy on the counter. “Still working at the post office, I see.”
“Yes, couldn’t do it without them. Tucker, too,” Harry answered.
Alicia looked down at two bright eyes looking back up. “If dogs can fetch the paper, why not deliver the mail?” She laughed.
“Harry, dear, come over tonight. I’m giving an impromptu dinner party for Alicia. I browbeat her into it.”
“Now, Mim, you didn’t have to browbeat.”
“Harry, it’s a hen party.” Big Mim smiled. “Wear something cool.” The elegant small woman then said to Alicia in a stage whisper, “If Harry presses her jeans and white T-shirt, that’s formal.”
Harry laughed at her as well as at herself. “Oh, I’ll tart myself up.”
The two left by the back door just as Sugar Thierry lurched through the front door. He walked to his mailbox but kept inserting his key into the box to the left of his. “Harry, Harry, this damned key won’t work.”
Harry leaned over the counter and noticed sweat running down Sugar’s face. “One box to the right.”
He slipped his key in, turned it, and the heavy brass door with the glass front flipped open. “Right.” He pulled out his mail, dropping some of it, then he bent over, picked it up. He walked to the long table in the middle of the entry area to sort his mail. He’d study an envelope, throw it in the trash, then retrieve it.
“He’s not right,” Mrs. Murphy observed.
“Maybe he’s hung over,” Pewter opined.
“We’d smell it,” Tucker sagely noted. “I smell his scent, though. It’s heavy because he’s sweating.”
Then Sugar gave up on sorting his mail, glanced up at Harry, and realized she was staring at him. He burst into sobs. “Harry, Harry, I can’t stop thinking about Barry. There’s evil in this world. Terrible evil.” He choked back another wrenching sob. “Nureyev, Nijinsky, Fred Astaire.” He rattled off the names of three thoroughbred sires.
“Sugar, are you all right?” asked Harry, who knew perfectly well he wasn’t. “Let me get you a Coke, or how about tea?”
His eyes, glazed, widened. “No, I’m fine. I’m fine.” He bolted out the front door.
Harry hurried to the phone, dialing Dr. Hayden McIntire in the office.
The receptionist, Frances, picked up the phone. “Oh, hi, Harry.” Harry had a distinctive alto voice. Once heard it was not forgotten. “What’s up?”
“Is Doc there?”
“If you mean Hayden, no. He’s out on the golf course with David Wheeler, Cindy Chandler, and BoomBoom. He’s got Cindy as his partner. He just might keep that money in his pocket.” Frances laughed. “What do you need?”
“It’s not me. It’s Sugar Thierry. I think he’s sick. Bad sick.”
“Oh, Bill’s here. Let me page him.”
A few moments passed and Bill picked up the phone. “Hello, Harry. Frances said you were concerned about Sugar Thierry.”
“Yes. He was Barry Monteith’s business partner.” She clearly identified Sugar because Bill was new to the community. He hadn’t been in Crozet a year yet.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“He’s sweating; he must have a terrible fever. And he’s, well, I don’t know how to say this—he’s acting loopy, looney. He’s not a drinker.”
“Where is he?”
Harry looked out the front door. Sugar was trying to open the door to his truck. He slid down to his knees. “Bill, he’s out front. He’s really sick. He can’t get in his truck.”
Bill, his office just a short distance away, said, “I’ll be right there.”
20
Are you sure?” Fair sternly questioned Harry.
She sat next to him in his truck, with Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker cuddled around her as they rolled down Route 250 heading west.
The post office closed at noon on Saturdays.
“I told you.” A note of irritation crept into her voice, a note reserved for husbands and ex-husbands. “Sugar acted weird. He fell down at his truck. I called Bill. I ran out to help Sugar, but he was kind of rolling around. He scared me. I mean, he didn’t intend that but he was just—sick. So I didn’t touch him.”
“Did he spit on you?”
“No.” She stared out the window as they passed the middle school and Western Albemarle High School. “Bill Langston knows what he’s doing. I was impressed with how he handled the situation. He arrived at the same time as the rescue squad. Everyone wore gloves. AIDS has changed everything, hasn’t it?”
“Harry, nature is cooking up diseases we can’t even imagine. A new virus from the heart of Africa can reach here in twenty-four hours thanks to air travel, and we live within two hours of a huge international airport, Dulles.”
“Hadn’t thought of that.”
“Few people do.” He checked his speedometer and slowed to fifty-five.
“Where are we going?”
“Mary O’Brien. She came in to the clinic just for you.”
“Why?” Harry liked the good doctor but wondered why Fair was whisking her over to Staunton.
“You’re getting the rabies vaccine.”
Harry turned toward him. “Fair, those are awful. My tests came back negative.”
“You need them.”
“They shoot the needle in your stomach!”
“Not anymore. I’m not saying this is the most pleasant experience you’ll ever have, but you’re outside, you’re around wild animals, and I just have a bad feeling about recent events. You need the prophylactic shots. Better safe than sorry. That’s it.” He was firm.
“Can’t we wait?” Harry’s heart was sinking.
“No.” His deep voice was firm. “I don’t think you’ve been exposed to rabies. You can only contract the disease through saliva. You’d need to be bitten, although you could also contract it through corneal transplants. Well, I’m getting off track. But you’re going to get the vaccine the same way I’ve been protected or Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter are protected.”
“The series is very expensive.”
“About two thousand dollars.”
“Fair!”
He kept his eyes on the road. “What’s your life worth?”
“Uh—a lot,” she sighed. “To me.”
“And to me. I’m willing to bet Sugar’s got rabies.” He sighed. “When I was out at the farm he thought he was allergic to pollen—so much of it now. I should have been thinking that perhaps whatever bit Barry bit him.” He paused for a second. “But I’m really confused about Barry’s situation. Still, I should have been more alert.”
“What!”
“Every vet sees this film about rabies. Can’t get through school without viewing it, and there’s old footage of a man dying from rabies. It tends to stay in your mind, that old grainy footage.”
“I didn’t touch Sugar, and all I did was hold Barry’s hand.”
“I know that. I know you’re fine. Bill Langston said you’re fine, but you’re getting the vaccine, Harry. Just shut up.”
Harry rubbed her temples. She’d endure the series of shots. She wasn’t that big of a chicken. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.”
“Barry and Sugar,” she half-whispered. “Could it be that one of the horses is rabid?”
“Harry, I gave every animal on that farm shots. I’ve got all my records. Sugar must have records for the lay-up horses. I’m going to have to go through everything in his files. I don’t know if he’s mentally clear enough to give me permission. I hope so. But I’ll do it anyway.”