“In some ways I envy you. You proved yourself,” Big Mim said.
“So have you.”
Mim twirled her earring. “Oh, I like to meddle. I like to run the show. Turns out I’m good at it, but I never had to go out into the world. You did. I admire that.”
“Thank you, but don’t you think, somehow, some way, we all wind up just where we are supposed to be, doing what we’re supposed to be doing?”
Mim smiled. “If we have any brains at all, yes.”
“Discipline,” Alicia said. “That’s the key to everything.”
“Apparently few people have it. I think of it as a WASP virtue.”
Alicia’s eyes widened. “I don’t. You either have it or you don’t. Being raised a WASP isn’t going to help you. Think of all the lazy sods we know who are white Anglo-Saxon Protestants.”
“It’s funny, Alicia, but the older I get the more I wonder if I know anything, and then there’s Aunt Tally, who truly believes she could run the world.”
“She could.”
They both laughed.
“I’m so glad you’ve come back, for a long stay, I hope.” Big Mim meant that.
“Mary Pat’s school ring.” Alicia inhaled. “She’s calling me back. I came back to rest, to enjoy St. James. It’s all so wonderful and restorative, but now she’s calling me back.”
“Harry went back to Potlicker Creek. Later. She had Susan Tucker with her—you remember her, Gregory was her maiden name—and Fair Haristeen. They combed the woods and the creek bed, but after all these years they found nothing. Harry fancies herself an amateur sleuth.”
“I don’t think there’s anything left of Mary Pat except the love she gave to all of us.”
“I always thought someone killed her, took the horse, and shipped him off to Ireland or South America or wherever. If they’d both been killed you think we’d find one or the other. But no trace of Mary Pat or Ziggy was ever found.”
“And I’d just left for L.A. for my first screen test the day before she disappeared. It didn’t look good, did it?”
“No.”
“I came back immediately, of course. The papers couldn’t accuse me of being her lover, thanks to the libel laws. And the police couldn’t accuse me of murder. No proof. But a pall hung over me. Hell. Sheer hell. As soon as I could put everything in order I left again. I was glad to go. And the gods were with me. I had a great career.” She paused. “I never could come up with a motive as to why someone would kill Mary Pat.”
“There is one. There always is.”
Alicia sighed. “Done is done. It seems Crozet has other problems right now.”
22
Sugar Thierry’s suffering ended at 4:36 P.M., Monday, June 14. Harry and Miranda received a phone call at the post office from Bill Langston.
Miranda placed the phone in its cradle. “Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.” She quoted Revelation, Chapter 2, Verse 10.
Harry looked at her. “Sugar?”
“Yes.”
“Poor Sugar. I don’t know if it’s a sin to pray for someone’s death, but surely it isn’t a sin to pray that he’s not in pain.”
Miranda’s warm features relaxed. “The Good Lord hears your prayers and knows your spirit. Harry, I think everyone in Crozet has prayed for that young man.”
Blair Bainbridge walked through the door. “Hello, ladies.”
“Blair, Sugar just died,” Harry sorrowfully told her neighbor.
“Good God.” Blair walked to the counter, leaning his elbows on it. “Never really had a chance, did he?”
“I need your help.” Harry walked to the counter directly across from the gorgeous man. “Sugar’s mares will be coming to my farm. May I borrow your tractor and the posthole digger? I can keep them in the upper paddock for a week maybe, but I’ll need to fence in those back acres. I wanted to do it, anyway—just put it off because of time and money.”
“You can have those fence posts I never used. I’ll drop them by your old shed and I’ll leave the tractor there, too.”
“I don’t want to put you out. And you’re too generous.”
“You’ve done plenty for me, Harry; let me do something for you—and Sugar.”
Harry opened her mouth to protest, but Miranda said, “Harry, he’s right. You can be too self-sufficient, dear.”
“Thank you, Miranda,” Pewter, stretched on the halfway shelf behind the postboxes, agreed.
“Humans are funny about favors.” Tucker thought Blair was fine, but some people would hold the favor to your face ever after bestowing it upon you.
“Humans are funny, period,” Pewter, resident cynic, said.
Mrs. Murphy, who had been behind the post office prowling through Miranda’s garden, burst through the animal door. “Cop!”
A loud knock on the back door was followed by an even louder knock.
“Just a moment,” Miranda called.
“Jerome Stoltfus. Animal control!”
Miranda opened the door, and Jerome, all one hundred twenty pounds of him, stepped through. “Where’s that cat?”
“She’s not here,” Mrs. Murphy called from under the mail cart.
“I want to see her papers,” Jerome, who had a large, drooping mustache, demanded.
“What papers?” Harry endured Jerome rather than liked him. This seemed to be the town consensus.
“Rabies vaccination.” He folded his arms across his scrawny chest. “And I want them for the fat cat and that tailless dog, too.”
“Who are you calling fat?” said she who was.
“First of all, Jerome, as you can see, Tucker is wearing her rabies tag. If you’ll bend down and examine it you’ll note it’s correctly dated.”
Jerome knelt down as Tucker glanced sideways at him. Being a good girl, she did not curl her lip, but she wanted to because she didn’t like strangers reaching for her. She thought it was rude, and the corgi could never understand why so few humans bothered to learn canine manners.
“Okay.” He stood back up. “But what about those two cats? Animals are here in a public place. Shouldn’t be here, Harry. Shouldn’t be here. Could be passing diseases. Allergies.”
“I’ve had my animals here since I first took this job, Jerome. It’s a little late to complain.” Harry’s face reddened.
Blair’s pleasant voice carried authority. “You know Harry takes excellent care of her pets.”
“I want the paperwork,” Jerome spat.
While he was laying down the law, Miranda called Martin Shulman, D.V.M. When he came on the line she quietly explained what was afoot, then handed the phone to Jerome.
“Yes.” Jerome sounded very important.
“Mr. Stoltfus,” Martin Shulman cleverly addressed Jerome by his last name, “I have the records for both Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, and they had their booster shots last February. Where would you like me to fax these so you need not trouble yourself to come to the clinic?”
“Well, uh, the county office.” Jerome gave the number. “Thanks.” He hung up the phone, glared at the two cats as Mrs. Murphy joined Pewter on the ledge. “Spoiled rotten cats.”
“Dimwit,” Pewter sassed.
“Wienie,” Mrs. Murphy added her two cents.
Jerome, hand on the back doorknob, turned and said, “I’m going to protest to Pug Harper about these animals. It’s not sanitary. And Blair Bainbridge, I’ll be at your farm to check your paperwork in”—he checked his digital watch—“twenty minutes, and that means the cattle, too. Harry, I want to see the paperwork on your horses.”
“I’ll have Fair fax it to you.” Harry had written down Jerome’s office number when he gave it to Dr. Shulman.
“You do that.” Jerome opened the door, then pointed to the animal door and said, “Got to close that up. Dangerous. Rabid animals or terrorists could use this to gain entry.” With that jump of logic he left.