“Right.”
“Okay. Furthermore, if you send money to Uganda it will wind up in some corrupt official’s pocket. You don’t even have to send it to Uganda; think of the millions that disappeared earmarked for the victims of Katrina. Give to charity you can monitor with your own two eyes.”
“You got that right.” She nodded.
“Every time money changes hands, some sticks. The more people between your dollar and the recipient, the less reaches the recipient. Charity begins at home.”
Joan laughed, a big smile crossing her radiant face. “I’m sooo glad I bought this car.”
“And in British racing green. Back when auto racing began, those great races over countryside and through cities, each country had its color. Pretty cool, really. The Germans were silver or white or both. France was blue. Italy was red. But British racing green is the coolest.”
“Still have your 1978 Ford F-150?”
“My baby.” Harry giggled. “Hey, you know I planted those Petit Manseng grapes, don’t you?” Harry had hopped to another subject, but Joan was used to it.
“You sent me pictures when you laid out the rows.”
“Well, I won’t get anything—I mean a good yield—until the third year, but the vines are up and leafy. This is the only time, really, that Fair and I could get away. Did I tell you I snuck out early this morning?”
“Harry, how much coffee have you had?” Joan shook her head in amusement.
“Am I speedy?”
“You and the car.”
“Sorry. Too much caffeine, but I have a good reason. Well, sort of a good reason.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Couldn’t sleep. I snuck out, took Fair’s truck, and drove over to the fairgrounds. Thought I’d sneak in and see if the watchman was really awake. He was. Jorge. So we checked stalls together, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker ran off, returned, and then I drove back to Best Western. I prudently tore up the note I left Fair, and he’s none the wiser.”
“He’s protective.”
“On the one hand, I like it. On the other hand, I don’t.”
“Harry, you don’t always have good sense about danger.”
“Getting out of bed is dangerous.” Harry didn’t take offense at Joan’s observation, because it was the truth, but she slid away from total agreement.
“You can’t resist a mystery, dangerous or not, so I hope you’ll find my pin.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Well—yes.”
“Guess I should start calling pawnshops.” She paused. “Know what else I forgot to tell you? I’m looking for a young Thoroughbred—the old staying lines, good heavy cannon bone—for Alicia Palmer. She’ll pay me to train it as a foxhunter for her. If you see anything out there, let me know.” Harry specifically mentioned the old staying lines, the ones that produced great stamina, and a heavy cannon bone, the bone above the hoof in a horse’s foreleg. A heavy bone usually indicated a horse wouldn’t be subject to hairline fractures or splints. A steeplechase horse, a three-day eventer, and a foxhunter had to jump. The force per square inch on the foreleg was considerable. A heavy, thick cannon bone was a form of insurance.
“Raced or unraced?”
“Doesn’t matter. If it’s off the track I usually have to give the animal more time for the drugs to flush out of its system, especially if the animal’s been on steroids.”
“So much for drug testing.”
“Same with human athletes. The more elite athlete can hire a better chemist. We can’t stop it, so legalize the stuff. Remember the 2006 Olympics? A crashing bore. They’d weeded out too many people. The public wants the best, and you only get the best with drugs. Simple.”
“People can’t face the truth.”
“Right, so they turn everyone into a liar. I’m not saying drugs that really tear up the body should be legalized, and one shouldn’t start these programs—you know, like EPO, where you up the red-blood-cell count with redundant blood—without monitoring by a doctor. And that’s another reason to make them legal. Kids in high school start buying this stuff on the black market, and they don’t know where they really are in terms of their body’s development or chemistry. Doctors can’t treat or monitor these substances if people don’t come to them, and as long as performance-enhancing drugs are illegal, they won’t.”
“Harry, we live with such appalling contradictions, I just don’t believe people can face the truth—about anything.”
“If we made a list of contradictions and you drove in a straight line, we’d reach Nashville before we ran out of subjects.”
“Think it was always this way? I mean, do you think it was like this in the sixteenth century?” Joan wondered.
“Yes and no. First off, there were fewer people. Think about it. England had about two and a half million people. There wasn’t as much pressure on the environment, and from a political standpoint, there were fewer people to manage or coerce. But were there contradictions? Sure. How about the king being the anointed of God, yet he’s a complete idiot? He empties the treasury, destroys the country with ill-advised wars, contracts syphilis from fooling around, and beheads those who can truly challenge his authority. Seems like a big contradiction to me. Or cardinals who amass wealth and earthly powers. Another contradiction. ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s,’ et cetera.”
“Apart from the lack of good medical care, I envy those people in a way. No TV. No badgering by advertisers. No credit cards.”
“The devil invented the credit card.” Harry laughed.
Now Joan changed the subject. “You haven’t said anything about turning forty.”
“Have four more days. Why rush time? It’s only August third.”
“Harry.” Joan’s voice dropped, her register of disbelief audible.
“Well, what do you want me to say? Big deal. It’s a number.”
“Everyone makes it a big deal; it’s a turning point.”
“I’m ignoring the whole thing.”
“Harry, I don’t believe you.”
“Believe me. I’m not getting sucked into the to-do.”
“All right,” Joan said without conviction.
Harry changed the subject. “When I was at the barn this morning about two o’clock, it was black as pitch. New moon was on the twenty-seventh, so you know how dark it can be. Well, anyway, I was walking the aisle with Jorge and I heard this big motor, then it cut off. But I didn’t hear horses unload. Now, I doubt I would have heard them walk off, but usually someone will whinny.”
“Sometimes people bring in horses at night. Less stressful.” Joan thought a minute. “Did you hear anything at all?”
“No. I heard the truck come in, a big diesel engine. Heard it cut off. Then maybe ten minutes later, the motor fired up again and the truck drove out, but I didn’t see it. You think maybe someone brought in feed or a load of hay?”
“No.”
“You’re right. They’d still be unloading when I drove out, I expect.”
“The hay trucks come early in the morning, but not that early.” She paused a long time. “Did Jorge say anything?”
“‘Feed’ was all he said.”
“But he heard it?”
“Sure. The night was quiet, plus those engines boom.”
Joan turned left, roared east, and within fifteen minutes cruised down Shelbyville’s Main Street, now one way, which irritated her.
“I know you like mystery.” She slowed at the intersection of Sixth Street and Main. “One of Kentucky’s most famous murders occurred right there.” She pointed. “Used to be the site of the Armstrong Hotel.
“General Henry H. Denhardt, famous in his lifetime in Kentucky, was shot three times by the three Garr brothers. Two hit him in the back, one got him in the back of the head. This was September twentieth, 1937.” She pulled over to the curb but left her motor idling. “He crumpled in the doorway of the hotel. Kind of a slimy end for a World War One officer.”
“Revenge killing?” Harry, being a Virginian, knew the South well.