“Bet he doesn’t come back for a while.” Mrs. Murphy, fur fluffed, laughed.
“I hate that bird.” Pewter stomped to the hayloft ladder, turned around, and backed down, rung by rung. She joined Tucker and Mrs. Murphy outside. “How’s it going?”
“Framing goes fast. Even got the roof joists up. Now, Mom had to buy those, you know. It’s easier to buy them than make them. By tomorrow night, weather permitting, they’ll have the siding up, T-111. Mom will put batten boards on the T-111 to make it look better. Then all that’s left to do will be the sheathing on the roof. Roofer can’t get here until the middle of the week. They’re all pounding and talking.” Tucker liked being around humans when they were happy. “Every time Tazio drops something, Brinkley brings it to her. He’s smart, that Lab, besides being big and strong.”
The three friends sauntered over. Brinkley, head in a big water bucket there just for him, enjoyed the cool water. He lifted his head up, licking his lips. “Isn’t this something?”
“Yes. Mom’s going to paint it that dark green, Charleston green. She says the dark green holds up better than black paint. She doesn’t like black sheds.” Tucker had covered herself in paint last time Harry painted the eaves of the barn.
“When will they break for lunch?” Pewter focused on the important stuff.
“Soon.” Brinkley wagged his tail.
Blair called out from his perch to the others, “Hey, let’s eat. We’ve been hard at it.”
“Guess he heard you,” Brinkley told Pewter.
“I’m sure.” Pewter dashed to the cooler, which Susan was opening.
“Do you all want to eat in the kitchen?” Harry asked.
“It’s so beautiful today. Let’s eat right here. Our own picnic.” Susan spread a tablecloth on the ground and, with help from Tazio, placed the food on it.
Outdoor work made them all very happy, Pewter especially. Soon the humans were eating and sharing tidbits with the cats and dogs.
“Coop, what’s your schedule this week?” Susan asked.
“Mornings. I actually have the evenings to myself. I wish the county would hire more law-enforcement officers, though. We’re all working overtime. The money’s good, but I have no life. I can’t believe I actually have off every evening this week. I can buy groceries. I can get my hair cut. I can mow the lawn.” She grinned.
“I’ll mow your lawn,” Blair offered.
Cooper, who found Blair very attractive, smiled. “That’s the best offer I’ve had in years.”
“Not only will I mow it, I’ll edge your walkways and whatever. Bought a new edger yesterday.” He smiled.
No one said what they were thinking, which was, “How would Little Mim take this?”
Paul, next to Tazio, reached for mustard. “Harry, the mares look good.”
“They’ve settled in. Hey, did anyone look at the Weather Channel?”
“Storms tonight,” Susan succinctly answered.
“That one in the beginning of the week kind of brushed us. Thought it would be much worse. The weathermen overdo.” Tazio ate a crunchy sweet gherkin.
“There will be a raindrop in Richmond. It will be two miles wide!” Susan mocked.
Harry made a mental note to ask Blair about his property when they were finished today. She didn’t want anyone else to overhear, not because she felt they would be indiscreet but because she’d promised Herb to be delicate in the matter.
They caught up on gossip, traded opinions about their favorite baseball teams.
Tazio, on her third pickle, asked, “Coop, any progress about Barry?”
Harry reached for the pickle jar.
“No. I keep hoping we’ll get a break. We did do one thing, though, for which I thank Fair. He tested each of the mares to make sure they were what Barry and Sugar said they were—you know, had the correct bloodlines. And when the babies come next year, he’ll test them.”
“He didn’t tell me.” Harry was surprised.
“And?” Paul’s dark eyebrows raised up.
“He called me this morning on my way over,” Cooper replied. “Said they were legit.”
“But wouldn’t someone find out? I mean soon enough?” Blair, not a horseman, was puzzled.
“Yes. But if the paperwork were faked and, say, Person A bought a mare, he might not know he was duped until the foal was born. The owner would go to register the foal, thinking she was a granddaughter of Secretariat, and find out otherwise. Then they’d take saliva to check the DNA from the mare and discover she wasn’t what the seller said she was.”
“But the owner would come right back on Barry and Sugar,” Harry declared.
“If they were still in town,” Coop laconically replied.
“Barry wouldn’t do that. Sugar neither. I can’t believe they would.” Paul defended them. “I’m new to Crozet, but I think they were straight up.”
“They were,” Harry simply responded.
“I have to track down any and every possibility.”
“Do you think Barry’s murder has something to do with his business, then?” Harry shrewdly asked.
“Well”—Cooper paused and held her breath, while everyone stared at her—“it might prove a fruitful avenue. He wasn’t alcoholic, no drugs—maybe a joint occasionally, I heard, but a pretty clean guy. No gambling debts. His debt was on the property he rented. He’d paid for the mares outright, he and Sugar. He paid for his truck outright. He hadn’t paid for the stud fees, but as I understand it those aren’t due until the foal stands and nurses.” Coop looked at Harry.
“Right.”
“So what’s left?” Tazio held up her hands, a pickle in the left one.
“Business or romance?” Coop reached for another piece of fried chicken.
“Carmen. She’s got a temper but not that bad.” Susan laughed.
“We’ll find out. It takes time.” Coop had faith in herself and in Sheriff Rick Shaw.
“I think it’s connected to Mary Pat.” Harry opened a can of Coke.
Everyone looked at Harry, waiting for more. She smiled and shrugged.
She decided not to say more, but she thought, Mary Pat disappeared with Ziggy Flame in 1974. Thirty years later a young man, infected with rabies, is killed. He was just starting out in the breeding business, but Barry definitely had the gift. Did he find out what happened to Ziggy Flame? Did something occur to him as he pored over bloodlines, walked St. James Farm, visited the sales? And if he found out what happened to Ziggy, surely Mary Pat’s killer would be in Ziggy Flame’s shadow.
28
Silvery mist enveloped the sleeping countryside. A faint gray light on the eastern horizon announced dawn, dragging in its wake a new day, bright as a freshly minted copper penny. Church bells would not call the faithful to service for hours on this Sunday morning.
Alicia Palmer learned to awaken before dawn when she lived with Mary Pat, who was a happy early riser. This chore became a habit, one that served her well in her glory days in Hollywood, where she’d be ensconced in the makeup chair at five-thirty in the morning.
Fence lines hugged rolling terrain and rambling roses spilled over road banks as Alicia walked down the long curving drive toward the graceful brick pillars, whose twelve-foot wrought-iron gates stood open.
If Alicia reversed her walk, the drive, lined with majestic pin oaks, would fork, one half twisting toward the outbuildings and barns. The other half of the Y, the left prong, swung to the main house.
Alicia stopped at the juncture of the Y, the house and barns enshrouded in mist. Although beautiful, a ghostly aura permeated St. James: it was never the same without Mary Pat.