All three at once responded, “Never. That’s not Virginia.”
“Who cares what it looks like?” Pewter fussed. “She’d better have ceramic bowls with our names on them and a small refrigerator full of prime rib.”
Tucker said, “I’m sure she’ll do it just for you.”
“Taz, Gary, come on out. I made a big pot of chicken corn soup, my grandmother’s recipe. Best thing for a cold day. Coop will be there. We can chew the fat.”
“Literally.” Tucker giggled as she stared adoringly at her human.
“Her secret is white corn, fresh parsley. I watch. She hard-boils eggs, makes the rice, she is serious about chicken corn soup. I quite like it.” Mrs. Murphy twitched her whiskers.
“Thank you. I’d love to but I have a date with Paul, which really means we’ll be with Big Mim, breeding papers all over the house.” Tazio named Big Mim Sanborne, a wealthy woman, leader of society such as it was.
Big Mim would be breeding a few of her Thoroughbred mares in the early spring. She was breeding late but she didn’t intend to race the foals. She wanted her stable manager, Paul, to turn them into foxhunters. With the exception of steeplechasing, a demanding sport for horse and jockey, Mim’s flat racing days were over. It had all gotten too complicated, too expensive, and the variation of drug conditions from state to state drove her wild. She finally said, “The hell with it.”
But by breeding in early spring the foals would arrive after the severe heat of a Virginia summer. Horses have an eleven-month gestation period.
“What about you, Gary?”
“I, too, must pass with regret. I told Hank Severson I’d meet him at his house to look at some flooring he took up from old granaries. Tell you what, he has a booming business. First he gets the job of dismantling old buildings then he resells the timber, hardware. He has a wonderful eye.”
“Does.” Harry had admired a floor Gary put in years ago at a friend’s house, granary oak, how it glowed.
“Hey, Gary, see if he has any old cherry,” Taz requested.
“Sure enough. If he doesn’t have any, he’ll find it.”
They chatted, poured over the drawings again, all of them; then the little gathering broke up. They headed for the door, the animals tight behind Harry.
Opening it, a frigid wind, sharp, sliced them all in the face.
“It has gotten colder.” Taz pulled up her heavy turtleneck, as Brinkley stood next to her.
“December.” Gary shrugged.
He’d run out to see the ladies off, had not pulled on a coat.
“Gary, you’ll freeze to death,” Cooper remarked.
A motorcycle turned the corner, slowed, making its way to the small group of people.
Brinkley barked. “I hate the sound of motorcycles.”
“Another appointment?” Harry inquired.
“No.” Gary, puzzled, shivered a moment.
The motorcycle, a large one, stopped. The driver, all in black leather, a tinted visor attached to the helmet, unzipped a pocket, pulled out a Glock handgun, pointed it at Gary, fired, paused a moment, the barrel of the gun visible to the three women, revved the engine, and sped off.
Gary, hand clutched to his heart, sagged. Cooper immediately put her hands under his armpits to steady him.
Harry ran out to see if she could read a license plate. She recognized the bike as a Ducati.
Taz moved over to help Cooper. “Let’s get him in the warmth.”
A gurgle told them it was too late.
Cooper tried to revive him. People came out of their stores. The three women managed to get him into his shop. His neighbor, Orrie Carson, rushed out, knelt down to see if he, too, could help.
“He’s dead,” Mrs. Murphy quietly announced.
3
December 27, 2016
Tuesday 6:00 PM
Darkness came early. She liked to bring the horses in while light. She just made it. Large round bales dotted the various paddocks and pastures so the horses could eat when they felt like it. The large bales like shredded wheat looked coated in sugar due to the snow. Harry grew good hay, which her horses greatly appreciated. She’d place the bales together in some fields to break the wind. When eaten she’d bring in more. Some days the horses would all be next to the hay.
The top barn doors, closed against the cold, the bottom ones, too, kept the temperature pleasant for the horses. Their ideal temperature is much lower than for humans. About fifty degrees Fahrenheit with their blankets on, fresh water in the two buckets per stall, life was good.
Pewter listened as Mrs. Murphy replayed the shooting. Tucker walked from stall to stall with Harry, who was always glad of the canine company.
“Quick,” Pewter said.
“Couldn’t see the killer’s face, came right up to the edge of the sidewalk and boom.” Mrs. Murphy sat on a saddle pad in the heated tack room.
“People kill one another like we kill mice.”
Hearing Pewter, the mice came in behind the tack trunk, a small hole in the wall allowing them easy access. Their living quarters were stuffed with chewed up old towels, rag bits, and grain scattered about. They shouted, “Better not!”
“As long as you keep the deal, you’re safe,” the tiger cat reassured them.
“If anyone dies we should ask them to push out the body so we can bring it to Harry,” Pewter suggested.
“Not now. She’s too shook up,” Mrs. Murphy responded.
“I mean when an old mouse dies. They seem to live forever those guys.” Pewter sniffed.
“All the animals on this farm enjoy good health.” Mrs. Murphy nodded.
“Hateful, hateful trips to the vet. Gives me angina. I just feel the palpitations.” Pewter rolled her eyes.