Probable Claws Рита Мэй Браун

Rita Mae Brown and her feline co-author Sneaky Pie Brown return with a new tale in their bestselling Mrs. Murphy series, as mysteries past and present converge in Albemarle County, Virginia. Mary Minor "Harry" Haristeen and her friends and animal companions pursue the threads of a mystery dating back to Virginia's post-Revolutionary past, when their 18th-century predecessors struggled with the challenges of the fledgling country. In the present day, Harry's new friendship with Marvella Lawson, doyenne of the Richmond art world, leads her to rediscover her own creative passions--and reveals evidence of an all too contemporary crime.

Probable Claws is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

B ANTAM B OOKS and the H OUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Brown, Rita Mae, author. | Brown, Sneaky Pie, 1982– author. |

Gellatly, Michael, illustrator.

Title: Probable claws : a Mrs. Murphy mystery / Rita Mae Brown & Sneaky Pie

Brown ; illustrated by Michael Gellatly.

Description: First Edition. | New York : Bantam Books, [2018] |

Series: Mrs. Murphy ; 27

Identifiers: LCCN 2018005055 | ISBN 9780425287156 (hardback) |

ISBN 9780425287163 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Haristeen, Harry (Fictitious character)—Fiction. |

Women cat owners—Fiction. | Murphy, Mrs. (Fictitious character)—Fiction. |

Women detectives—Virginia—Fiction. | Cats—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION /

Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | HUMOR / Topic / Animals. |

FICTION / Suspense. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3552.R698 P76 2018 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018005055

Ebook ISBN 9780425287163

randomhousebooks.com

Book design by Diane Hobbing, adapted for ebook

Cover design: Victoria Allen

Cover illustrations and hand lettering: Sara Mulvanny

v5.2_r1

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

The Cast of Characters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Dedication

Books by Rita Mae Brown & Sneaky Pie Brown

About the Authors

THE CAST OF CHARACTERS

THE PRESENT

Mary Minor Haristeen, “Harry” —Hardworking, task-oriented, she runs the old family farm in Crozet, Virginia. A loyal friend to both human and animal, a quality not lost on those who care for her. If she has a weakness—perhaps best explained as a personality trait—it is that psychology has no interest for her. Harry doesn’t care why you do anything. She simply deals with the result.

Pharamond Haristeen, DVM, “Fair” —Tall, powerfully built, at forty-three he is one year older than his wife, Harry. His equine patients trust him as do most humans. He is more sensitive, more introspective than his wife.

Susan Tucker —Harry’s friend since cradle days, she loves Harry as only an old friend can. The two can disagree but will always come to each other’s aid. Susan’s deceased grandfather was a former governor of Virginia. Her husband, Ned, is a representative to the House of Delegates.

BoomBoom Craycroft —Another childhood friend who can find herself swept up into one of Harry’s messes. BoomBoom often asks the obvious question. Obvious to her.

Deputy Cynthia Cooper —She rents the old Jones homeplace, a farm next to Harry’s. As she was not raised in the country, Harry and Fair are a great help to her. She does her best to deflect Harry’s curiosity. If Susan and Fair can’t contain Harry, it’s a sure bet Coop can’t, despite her shiny law enforcement badge.

Reverend Herbert Jones —He’s known Harry all her life. She is a faithful congregant of St. Luke’s Lutheran Church. He learned to lead men as a young combat captain in Vietnam. On his return after the seminary, he did his best to lead women, too—to faith, charity, and peace. He is a good pastor to his flock.

Lisa Roudabush —Heads Nature First’s Charlottesville, Virginia, office. Nature First is a statewide environmental group growing in power. She’s in her mid-thirties, married to her work.

Raynell Archer —Assists Lisa. She worked her way to Nature First through other nonprofits.

Felipe Zaldivar —The second-in-command at Nature First. He’s intelligent, steady, devoted to Lisa and the cause.

Gary Gardner —A local architect with good sense, who is able to keep costs down and loves to work.

Marvella Rice Lawson —In her sixties, she will never be described as easygoing. She’s one of the powers-that-be at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. She and her late brother Pierre, each an art collector of vastly different tastes, amassed art worth a small fortune. When the highly intelligent Marvella walks into a room, she parts people like the Red Sea.

NOTE: Harry was an Art History major at Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts. Her father couldn’t believe she’d major in something so useless. Her retort was that this was her only chance in life to do so, as once she was out of college she would need to work. Both parents were killed when she was in college, before her father had the chance to appreciate the woman she became. Now, at forty-two, some lights are being turned on upstairs.

THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

Catherine Schuyler —At twenty-two, intelligent, level-headed, and impossibly beautiful, she is learning from her brilliant father about business. She already has a reputation as a leading horsewoman.

John Schuyler —A former major in the Revolutionary War, only a few years older than his smashing wife, he is powerfully built and works hard. As he is from Massachusetts he can miss some of the undercurrents of Virginia society.

Rachel West —Two years younger than her sister Catherine, she, too, is beautiful, but her beauty is softer, sweeter. She’s easy to please, ready to help, and possessed of deep moral conviction.

Charles West —Captured by John Schuyler at the Battle of Saratoga, the then nineteen-year-old marched all the way to The Barracks prisoner-of-war camp outside Charlottesville. The second son of a baron in England, he had the good sense to stay in America. Like John, he is dazzled by his wife and knows how lucky he is.

Karl Ix —A Hessian also captured. He and Charles became friends in the camp and continued working together after the war.

Maureen Selisse —The daughter of a Caribbean banker, she was a great catch for her ruthless late husband, Francisco. Keenly aware of her social position, she is also accustomed to getting her way. She hated that he carried on with a beautiful slave, making little attempt to hide it.

Ewing Garth —The father of Catherine and Rachel, a loving man, brilliant in business. He is a creature of his time, but one who can learn. He helped finance the war and hopes the new nation can hold together. A widower, he misses his wife, a true partner. The economic chaos of the Articles of Confederation affect his business as well as everyone else’s. He sees doom ahead for the new nation and no way out.

Jeffrey Holloway —Young, not well born but divinely handsome, he married the widowed Maureen Selisse to everyone’s shock.

Yancy Grant —Infuriated more than anyone by the above hasty marriage, he hates Jeffrey. Being challenged to a duel by Jeffrey wounded both men, yet a respect resulted from this.

THE SLAVES: BIG RAWLY

Sheba —Maureen Selisse’s lady-in-waiting. Really, she’s Maureen’s right hand and she enjoys the power. She’ll destroy anyone who stands in her way. She is believed to have run away after stealing jewelry. No one knows where she is.

DoRe Durkin —He works in the stable and limps from an old fall from a horse. He mourns his son Moses, after Moses’s flight up North in the wake of the death of Francisco Selisse, who brutalized Moses’s love, the beautiful Ailee.

William —Works with DoRe. Has riding talent but not as much as he thinks he has.

THE SLAVES: CLOVERFIELDS

Bettina —A cook of fabulous abilities. She’s the head woman of the slaves, thanks to her fame, her wisdom, and her wondrous warmth. She also has a beautiful voice. Bettina’s view: “I could be a queen in Africa, but I’m not in Africa. I’m here.” She made a vow to Isabelle, Ewing’s wife, as she died. Bettina vowed to take care of Catherine and Rachel. She has kept her pledge.

Serena —A young woman, learning from Bettina both in the kitchen and out. She has uncommon good sense and will, in the future, wield power among her people.

Jeddie Rice —At nineteen, he is a natural with horses. He loves them. He’s been riding, working, and studying bloodlines with Catherine since they were children. Like Serena, Jeddie has all the qualities of someone who will rise, difficult though the world they live in is.

Tulli —A little fellow at the stables who tries hard to learn.

Ralston —Nearly sixteen and thin, he, too, is at the stables. He works hard.

Father Gabe —Old, calm, and watchful, he accepts Christianity but practices the old religion. Many believe he can conjure spirits. No matter if he can or can’t, he is a healer.

Roger —Ewing’s house butler, the most powerful position a male slave can have. He has a sure touch with people, black or white.

Weymouth —Roger’s son, in his middle twenties. The hope is he will inherit his father’s position someday, but for now he’s fine with being second banana. He’s a good barber and in truth not very ambitious.

Barker O. —Powerful, quiet, he drives the majestic coach-in-four. He’s known throughout Virginia for his ability.

Bumbee —Fights with her husband. Finally she moves into the weaving cabin to get away from him and to comfort a lost soul.

Ruth —Mother to a two-year-old and a new baby. How she loves any baby, kitten, puppy, as well as the master’s grandchildren.

RICHMOND

Georgina —Early middle-age, quite attractive but putting on weight, she runs a tavern that also serves ladies. She knows everything about everybody, almost. No one uses last names in this world except for the male customers, men of means, in the small city.

Sam Udall —As a dedicated customer of Georgina’s, he appreciates her shrewdness. He realizes the financial world has changed since the colonists have won the war. He also understands that the old Tidewater grandees are slipping. A new man is emerging with new money if the financial chaos can be corrected.

Mignon —A runaway slave from Big Rawly, she serves in the kitchen. A tiny woman with big eyes, she eluded discovery.

Eudes —As the outstanding chef at Georgina’s, he brings the customers in for the food. He is quite an independent thinker; he’s a free black man who, like Georgina, doesn’t blab everything he knows.

Deborah —The most expensive of the delicious offerings at Georgina’s thanks to her beauty and her self-possession. She can drive a man crazy. She’s a runaway slave, as are many of the girls. The white girls also ran away. Spared slavery, they were not spared brutality, unwanted sexual congress, or poverty. All of which binds the girls to Georgina, who treats them decently—plus they make good money.

THE ANIMALS

Mrs. Murphy —Harry’s tiger cat who knows she has more brains than her human. She used to try to keep Harry out of trouble. She gave up, knowing all she can do is extricate her human once she’s in another mess.

Pewter —A fat gray cat who believes the world began when she entered it. What a diva. But the Queen of All She Surveys does come through in a pinch, although you’ll never hear the end of it.

Tee Tucker —Bred by Susan Tucker, this is one tough, resourceful corgi: She knows she has to protect Harry, work with the levelheaded Mrs. Murphy, and endure Pewter.

Owen —Tucker’s brother. They adore being with each other. For Tucker it’s a relief to sometimes be away from the cats.

Shortro —A young Saddlebred ridden as a hunter.

Tomahawk —Harry’s old Thoroughbred hunter who hotly resents being thought old.

Pirate —An Irish wolfhound puppy who loves everyone but is confused by Pewter, who does not.

THE EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY ANIMALS

Piglet —A brave, smart corgi who went through the war and imprisonment with Captain Charles West. He loves living in Virginia with the other animals and people.

Serenissima —Francisco Selisse’s fabulous blooded mare whom he sent to Catherine to be bred to her stallion, Reynaldo.

Reynaldo —An up-and-comer with terrific conformation, but hot. Catherine and Jeddie can handle him.

Crown Prince —A younger half brother to Reynaldo. Both are out of Queen Esther, and fortunately, Crown Prince has her temperament.

King David —One of the driving horses. He’s heavier built than Reynaldo and Crown Prince. Solomon is King David’s brother. They are a flashy matched pair.

Castor and Pollux —Two Percherons who do heavy-duty work. They are such good boys.

Sweet Potato —A saucy pony teaching Tulli to ride.

Black Knight —Yancy Grant’s fast Thoroughbred.

December 23, 2016

Friday

“It’s a madhouse out there.” Harry leaned on the checkout counter at Over the Moon bookstore in Crozet.

“Can’t complain. Business has been good.” Anne de Vault, the owner, glanced up as more customers entered the store as if to prove her point.

The store, finally settled in its new location, boasted good floor display space as well as wall bookcases. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, Harry’s two cats, and Tucker, the corgi, inspected the books closest to the floor.

“No books on catnip,” Pewter, the gray cat, complained.

“Who would write about catnip?” the dog wondered.

“An herbalist,” Pewter replied. “Humans drink catnip tea. It’s a waste of good dried leaves but they do drink it. Catnip is meant to be chewed, inhaled, and then rolled in.” This was pronounced with authority.

Harry watched as customers picked up books, put some down, kept others. There was no accounting for taste.

“Even the post office parking lot is full. I was lucky. Just as I pulled in here a big SUV, big as in big as the state of Illinois, pulled out. Before I start browsing, did my order for Susan come in?”

“ Capability Brown. In,” Anne replied.

“Susan is getting as serious about gardening as she is about golf. Saw the book written by the Duchess of Rutland. Thought she’d like it.” Harry commented on one of her best friend’s deepening interest in gardening, and who better to write about it than an Englishwoman?

The English excelled at gardening. Rich, poor, in-between, they had the touch.

“The book is enormous. Lots of photographs, drawings.” Anne placed it on the counter.

“Give me a minute to cruise. I need to find some other gifts and nothing is better than a book.”

The door opened again.

Anne called out, “Lisa, your books are in.”

Lisa Roudabush, mid-thirties, medium height, was the director of the Albemarle County office of Nature First, a statewide environmental nonprofit. The headquarters was in Richmond but small offices were in every town with a university since the young were environmentally conscious.

Raynell Archer, Lisa’s assistant, began to turn the card cylinder looking for clever cards. They had walked into the store together, both lingering.

“Harry.” Lisa smiled. “Come to the office after you buy your books and I buy mine. Gary Gardner is almost finished and it’s a terrific design.”

Raynell, now looking at books displayed artfully on a table, added, “Harry, the walls run diagonally.”

“Do they?” Harry was curious.

“Well, I need to go to his office to pick a few last plans, approve more drawings, but we are nearly finished.” Lisa would be glad when the remodeling was over.

“He’s doing a workshed for me. It’s a gift from my husband. Isn’t Gary fun to work with?”

“He is.” Lisa looked out the large front windows, one of the best features of the store. “Are we ever going to see the sun again?”

“Spring,” Anne called from the counter. “And it’s supposed to start snowing again tomorrow and on Christmas. A white Christmas.”

“I tell myself winter can be beautiful but I never quite believe it.” Lisa walked to the counter where Anne had piled up her ordered books.

Lisa took the first one off the pile, a history of architecture in Richmond. Nature First, while primarily an environmental group, also regularly joined forces with other nonprofits to save historic buildings. The organization was also keen on the epochs before colonization, even before human life.

Lisa licked her forefinger to turn the page.

“My great-aunt used to do that.” Harry laughed.

“Are you telling me I’m an old lady? I’m younger than you,” Lisa fired back as she turned another page.

“Well, yes you are,” Harry replied, enjoying the exchange. “But I’ve only ever seen old people do that.”

Lisa motioned Harry over. “Look here. Pages always stick together. Licking my finger is easier than trying to slide my fingernail between pages or rubbing them together to pop them apart.” She demonstrated her thesis then said, “If I buy a book I have to leaf through it for a few pages, get a glimpse of it. Then I’ll read it later.”

Anne seconded this, adding, “Harry, your Mixed Role Productions calendars are here, too. You’re behind this year. Usually you order them in July.”

“July?” Raynell asked, having joined the others at the counter. “Why order a calendar in July?”

Harry replied, “They run August to August. And they’re eight and a quarter by five and a half inches so I can’t overlook them. See? Perfect size. If I order them in July they arrive in time for August.”

She removed shrink-wrap from the black-covered calendar with silver lettering that read 2017–2018, then demonstrated. “Big squares for each month, and then the days for the month are on lined pages, three days to a page. There’s a monthly financial record, too. A special occasions page is opposite the month at a glance. I got hooked. Here. Merry Christmas.”

“Harry, I can’t take your calendar,” Lisa demurred.

“I always order extras. You use it for a month and you’ll get hooked, too. And they aren’t expensive, which is the best part.”

Lisa took the light green–covered calendar offered her; they came in many colors. “Thank you.”

Harry examined Lisa’s books, read the titles on the spines. “Let’s see, Architecture in Richmond before 1800. Birding books and books on dinosaurs. Are you bringing them back? Nature First isn’t bringing them back, are you? Have you found some DNA?”

“Funny you should bring that up. I believe the day will come when that happens. Look at the uproar over that perfectly preserved mastodon,” Lisa replied.

“No need to dig. Those are in the Senate,” Harry kidded.

“If you only knew some of the people we have to work with in the House of Delegates. They don’t read. They deny what they don’t know. They love to exercise their little bit of power. You’d think they would at least read history and political theory. I always hope the level of intelligence is higher in Washington.”

“Oh, Lisa, I think the results speak for themselves.” Harry shrugged.

Raynell, close to Lisa’s age, piped up. “They deny climate change. They fail to realize how significant the architecture is in parts of Richmond. It’s maddening to work with such limited people. All they think about is their next election.”

“You’re right about that,” Lisa agreed as she closed the book about architecture. “There aren’t many really old buildings left since Richmond was burned in 1865. A few. They are so beautiful. The new stuff, not so much. But the scarcity means we must protect them, the detail alone on some of these structures is beautiful.”

“Marvella Lawson, the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts power, has promised to take me to look at some of the newer things, including those under construction,” Harry said.

“We fought the demolition of the Kushner Building,” Raynell said. “Didn’t do a bit of good. Big money. These tall buildings can interfere with nesting and the lights at night confuse migrating birds. Big money doesn’t care about anything but more profit.”

“Richmond doesn’t have a good development plan. Charlottesville is even worse.” Lisa sighed. “I’m beginning to think they hire the architect who will build the ugliest thing ever, like the giant pickle in London.”

“That is pretty awful,” Harry agreed. “I always think the English know better and now they are as bad as everyone else. Old London was so much prettier than New London.”

“Well, they’ve mucked up Philadelphia, too. That used to be such a unique environment. Now it looks like every other city.” Raynell’s voice carried a hint of venom.

“Are you from Philadelphia?” Harry asked.

“I went to Swarthmore.”

“Ah, good school.”

“Where did you go, Harry?” Raynell asked.

“Smith.”

That more or less settled the college discussion. It’s hard to beat one of the Seven Sisters. But Anne thought otherwise.

“Well, I went to Denison.” Anne beamed at Harry. “Not Ivy League but I am proud of my alma mater.”

“Back to Richmond.” Lisa tapped the architecture books. “It’s estimated that four hundred thousand people will move to the city in the next ten years. Where are we going to put them so they won’t destroy natural habitats?”

“How about on riverboats?” Harry remarked.

“Why would anyone live on a boat?” Pewter, tired of being in the store, grumbled.

“Maybe they like to fish.” Tucker was practical.

“Houseboats can be pretty,” Mrs. Murphy said. “Remember that old movie Harry and Fair watched? Houseboat. ”

“Hollywood.” Pewter sniffed. “Of course the boat looked good. They need to make more movies about cats.”

Slyly, Tucker responded, “I’m sure they’re planning that right now.”

Pewter bared her fangs. Harry saw it just in time. “Don’t you dare. I’ll never bring you in this store again.”

“Bother.” But Pewter did close her mouth.

Anne put a bow on the large paper bag. “Here. You can reuse it.” She handed it to Lisa.

“I can.”

“I don’t see any presents for me,” Pewter complained.

“You don’t read,” the corgi fired at her.

“You can’t read. At least I can.” The fat gray cat sniffed.

“Oh, patting at the pages of a book or the computer screen isn’t reading,” Tucker replied.

That fast, Pewter boxed the corgi’s upright ears. “Don’t you insult me, you illiterate cur.”

“Stop it. We’ll get thrown out of the store. I like it here,” Mrs. Murphy told them.

Both Harry and Lisa carried their treasures in large shopping bags. Harry followed Lisa and Raynell to the Nature First office down the hall from Over the Moon, as they were both located in a new commercial building.

“Hello, Felipe,” Lisa called to the number two man in the organization.

Looking up from his computer, he said, “What a haul. You must have bought out the store. You, too, Raynell, but you showed a little more restraint. Oh, hello, Harry, and your posse, too.” He smiled at the pets.

“I’m here!” A nine-week-old Irish wolfhound puppy, already substantial, raced out from Lisa’s office.

Pewter puffed up. “Don’t touch me!”

The puppy stopped cold.

“Just ignore her,” Tucker counseled the youngster. “Who are you?”

“Pirate. Lisa bought me and she is taking me to work but I have to be quiet and I have to ask to go to the bathroom.”

“Good idea,” commented Mrs. Murphy, who knew how big the Irish wolfhound would grow to be.

Harry set her bag on a corner table, knelt down. “Hello, puppy. Aren’t you beautiful.”

Pirate ambled right over, placed his head in Harry’s hand. “You are a nice person. And you’re walking with Lisa, you have to be a nice person. I start school after Christmas. I have a new collar and leash.”

“Lisa, he’s beautiful. When did you decide to have a dog?”

“I’ve been thinking about it. I live alone. I like dogs but I was always on the go. Now that I’m settled I thought this is the time. Well, come on, let me show you what Gary’s done.”

Raynell ducked into a small office near the front door.

The two walked through the changes Gary had made, which mostly involved moving or angling walls. Clever. His alterations brought in more light, taking full advantage of the many windows in the new building. Although an architect, he also guided Lisa and Felipe to interesting furniture, comfortable chairs in natural colors. Gorgeous photographs of Virginia’s wonders covered the walls: the falls in Richmond, the Chesapeake Bay, the Blue Ridge Mountains, the bridges of Norfolk and Virginia Beach that ran over to the long spit of land, the Eastern Shore. The combination of bridges and tunnels traversing the bay were an engineering wonder. Then again, Virginia was home to one of the Eight Engineering Wonders of the World, the four tunnels that Claudius Crozet dug out of the Blue Ridge Mountains for the new form of transportation, railroads. He had no dynamite. It was all done by hand. Two of the tunnels remained in service. The other two were being reclaimed and rehabilitated as part of a walking tour. Another large photograph of a bald eagle soaring over the James River, sun glistening off his wings, had pride of place when you walked into Lisa’s office.

“This is wonderful,” Harry exclaimed.

“We’re almost done. Gary wants to come make sure the cabinets fit in. You simply touch the front of them and they open.”

“No kidding.” Harry reached out, pressed the front and sure enough the cabinet opened noiselessly.

“They’re enameled. That was expensive but it looks fabulous,” Lisa enthused.

“Do you like puppies?” Pirate asked Mrs. Murphy.

“I do as long as you don’t slobber on me,” the tiger answered.

“Puppies are disgusting. They poop, they pee, they slobber, they throw up, they chew. Ugh!” Pewter bared her fangs.

“Ignore her,” Tucker again told the puppy.

“Do you live with her?” Pirate wondered.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You would be bored without me. Bored to tears. You have no new thoughts. You rely on me.” Pewter lifted a paw to lick it, languidly.

“What about the other kitty?” the large puppy inquired.

“We’re friends.” Tucker smiled as Mrs. Murphy came over to sit with the corgi while the humans babbled on.

Lisa was showing Harry her revitalized office. Sleek, the only knickknacks were little rubber dinosaurs and some detailed decoys.

The bookshelves, also enameled, reflected light. Behind a row of dinosaur and raptor books two long black legs poked out. Harry, ever curious, peeked behind the books, jumped back.

“Lifelike! What’s a rubber tarantula doing here?”

“I actually had Mildred, I call her Mildred, on the shelf, but Raynell hates spiders, so I sort of hid her.”

“I hate spiders, too,” Pewter pronounced.

Pirate asked, “Why?”

“Too many legs. If you walk into a web it takes time to clean it off. Those strands are sticky,” Pewter said.

“Oh.” The big-little puppy, wide-eyed, looked at the fat cat, who was always happy to be the authority.

Harry, now back at the entrance door, knelt to again pet the puppy. “Lisa, the best friends come on four feet.”

“I believe it.”

“Bye,” Tucker and Mrs. Murphy said to the puppy while Pewter strolled out in front of everyone.

“Come back. We can play!” Pirate wagged his tail.

“We’ll try. Wish we could drive.” Mrs. Murphy laughed.

“Merry Christmas, Lisa. Merry Christmas, Felipe and Raynell.”

“You, too,” they called back.

The four hurried to Harry’s Volvo station wagon as it began to sleet, now turning to snow. The precipitation wasn’t heavy but it was cold. Harry wanted to get home before the roads turned slick as an eel.

“Turn on the heater,” Pewter demanded.

“She will. You have a fur coat. She doesn’t,” Tucker reminded the fatty.

“Humans lack fur, claws, sharp teeth. They are so slow. I mean they can’t run. Hearing, pfft. But their eyes are good.” Pewter added something positive.

“Look at it this way, Pewter. She can use the can opener. We can’t,” Mrs. Murphy said.

“There is that,” Pewter agreed as the snow fell a bit more heavily.

December 27, 2016

Tuesday

An earlier dusting of snow reflected the small round lights of various colors, strung from shops. The shopkeepers were upbeat. Even the Salvation Army bell ringers were smiling. With New Year’s around the corner more sales could be expected. Bargain hunters walked briskly from shop to shop in the small Crozet downtown, more like a crossroads, really.

Bending over an old, lovely, much-used large drafting table, Harry noticed the flow of people outside the storefront windows of Gardner’s Design. The shop, marked by a compass over a T-square painted on its hanging sign, was next to the well-lit art shop, and provided good parking, which was always a problem as the old stores had been built close to the road. The no-longer-used railroad station, originally the draw for business, still stood by the tracks.

Gary Gardner, trim white mustache, in his early sixties, bent over the table. Large sheets of paper were held down by tiny sandbags and his T-square, which was affixed to the top of the drafting table.

“Harry, if you’d just give me the word, I would create La Petite Trianon for you. Imagine working in such divine surroundings? You might even decide to keep sheep.” He tapped her hand with a pencil.

“Gary, I’d need to wear a bonnet. That would never do. For one thing, the cats would destroy the ribbons.”

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, sitting on the floor, quickly defended themselves. “Never!”

Tucker saw her moment. “Ha. Then they’d chew the straw.”

“You’d herd the sheep. You’d create more havoc than we would.” Pewter curled her lip.

“My job is to herd,” the corgi responded with pride.

“Well, our job is to dispatch vermin. How do you know mice won’t make a nest in a big bonnet when it’s not on Harry’s head? Think what might happen when she’d tie the bonnet on her head?” Mrs. Murphy sounded perfectly serious.

“No Trianon?” Gary’s eyebrows shot upward. “Harry, you disappoint me, but only a little. Your workshed, as you can see, has two large rooms, plenty of space to use the long desk against the wall, lots of windows and skylights for natural light, and an across-the-wall pegboard. You can hang up everything.”

“That is useful.”

“And you’re sure you aren’t going to buy a band saw?”

“No. I don’t want to use gas- or electrical-powered tools. They’re too fast for me. Know what I mean? I’d rather do it the old way.”

“The eighteenth-century way.” He grinned at her.

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” She shrugged and then looked at his one wall, built-in bookcases that he had designed, identical squares, bursting with books. “Have you read all those books?”

“I have but I’ve had decades to do so.”

“What about those boxes on the bottom, the ones that look like fat old books? My father used to have those file boxes, as I recall,” she asked.

“Building codes for the counties where I’ve designed a house or a barn. I can fit two per square as you see. Breaks up the visual monotony. Every file box is a year. You’d be surprised how often those codes are changed. Of course now you can download them, but I do prefer the files.”

“Do you have the codes from when you worked for Rankin Construction?”

Rankin Construction was a large, third-generation company in Richmond. They had started before World War One and changed with the times. Now they built high-rises, stripped old tobacco warehouses, made pricey condominiums as well as office buildings.

“Yes, up until I left thirty years ago. I’m sure Rankin has kept everything.”

“Did you like working on those large projects? You never talk about them.”

“Well, I like architecture, old and new materials. I like efficiency and soundness. And Rankin is a good company but as it grew and grew, more and more layers of people meddled with my work. More and more building inspectors at every phase of the project. I learned to hate it so I packed up, moved here, and took my chances.”

“You certainly hit the top. Your homes are featured in all those glossy magazines.”

“Harry, I am just as happy creating the perfect work space for a good woman as I am putting together a two-million-dollar showplace. Why anyone wants to live in something like that is beyond me but hey, the commissions are good.”

“You have sure helped us a lot with those old school buildings, and we are keeping the name, too, ‘The Colored School.’ I think it’s important to be truthful.”

“Me, too. Working with Tazio Chappars is a joy,” he said, referring to a young architect who was making her way in the world to whom he was a mentor.

Dazzling Tazio, half Italian and half African American, took the best from both. She was also a person with a big heart. In a snowstorm years ago she had rescued a yellow Lab youngster abandoned and starving. Like most people she had no intention of owning a dog, and a big dog at that. But Tazio and Brinkley were a happy part of Crozet. If you saw one you saw the other.

Harry nodded. “She is talented, isn’t she?”

“Very. Talented and practical, my two favorite qualities. Okay.” He pointed back to his drawings, hand drawn. “The fireplace in the corner will heat the building up once the fire is going, but I suggest a small propane fireplace in the opposite corner diagonally kept on a low flame. Your pipes won’t freeze.”

“What pipes?”

“The pipes for your bathroom.”

“I don’t need a bathroom.”

“Harry, I know you can pinch a nickle until the Indian rides the buffalo, but you do need a bathroom and you will thank me for tucking one into this structure. The other thing is I’ve made the ceilings fourteen feet high. A fan will push warm air down. It’s not wasteful and the reason I’ve done that is over here; look, you have a quarter of the top space for storage. Just a small loft space. You can slide lumber up there or file boxes. It will be out of sight but protected.” He paused. “Skylights in a high roofline always look good. Even the loft has a skylight.”

“You can never get enough natural light.”

“Trust me on the storage space and on the bathroom.” His voice registered quiet command.

She sighed, sat on a high chair. “I’ll have to talk to Fair.”

“Your husband told me to give you the best shed in the county. And he said he wanted a cedar shake roof with clapboard siding. He swore he would keep it painted.”

“He did?”

“Indeed. You married a most agreeable man.” He beamed.

She beamed right back. “I did.”

“I don’t know why he puts up with you. He knows you don’t give us enough home-cooked food. And he’s a vet,” Pewter complained.

“An equine vet,” Tucker corrected her.

“So what. He knows how sensitive my system is.”

“Pewter” was all Mrs. Murphy could say because Pewter could and did eat anything.

Her girth testified to the effectiveness of her digestive system.

“I should have fresh food. Nothing mixed into commercial food. And you don’t know if that stuff came from China. Death!” Her eyes grew large.

Before the other two could vouch for the food not containing ingredients from China, a tap on the window drew their attention.

Gary motioned for Deputy Cynthia Cooper to step in.

She opened the door, closed it. “Getting colder out there.” Then to Harry she said, “Saw your wagon.”

“My stickers are updated.” Harry smiled at her neighbor.

“Yes they are. Passing by. Another hour and I’ll be off work. Gary, how are you doing? Is she being a good client?”

“Harry is always thoughtful and”—he paused—“cost conscious.”

Cooper laughed. “What a nice way to say cheap.”

“I am not cheap. I’m careful. Money doesn’t grow on trees.”

“I’m teasing you,” Cooper replied. “You are tight with a buck, true, but you are generous with your time, food, your hospitality. You’re always ready to pitch in and help.”

Not expecting a compliment, Harry took a little time then said, “Thank you.”

“She’s right. You put your shoulder to the wheel,” Gary agreed.

Gary, tiny sandbags in hand, lifted off the first sheet of large drawing paper, placing it under the others.

Harry’s gaze wandered back to the square bookshelves covering one wall, so pleasing to the eye. He placed his treasures throughout his shelves. Snow globes had been stuck into many squares, smooth rocks from wherever he had gone rafting, one huge empty hornet’s nest took up an entire square, a giant tooth reposed in another square, and tiny rubber dinosaurs peeped out from many places.

One globe always tickled Harry, a flamingo in a snow globe looking startled when you turned over the globe and snow fell on the pink bird.

Across the room hung an artillery officer’s sword from the war of 1861–1865. The gilt still gleamed, the red sash with large tassels looked impressive. One could imagine them swinging when the officer walked in full dress regalia. A photograph of the fellow hung alongside the sword. This was Gary’s great-great-grandfather, a slender young man with a serious mustache. How young he looked—but then, all wars are fought by the young.

“You and your snow globes.” She smiled.

“Given the weather, we’re in a snow globe,” he replied.

“Got that right.” Cooper nodded.

Harry returned to the drawings. “Forgot to ask you what else you’re working on. Saw some of the redo for Nature First.”

“Ah. I quite like how that is turning out. What did you think of the enameled bookshelves and cabinets?”

“Gorgeous.”

He grinned. “I think so, too. It’s been a fun project.”

“Where did you get the idea for the slanting walls?”

“Flipping through some of the books on the shelves. Something will jump out at me and I start to fool with the idea.”

“So you saw Pirate, her puppy?”

“He’s hard to miss. I’m glad she has him. Nature First goes up against some deeply vested interests. A big dog will be a deterrent if some large corporation hires a goon.”

“Nature First does take them on,” Cooper agreed.

“You think someone would harm her?” Harry was aghast.

“I certainly hope not but I wouldn’t put it past one of these huge companies to try and scare her,” Cooper replied. “Implied violence can be as effective as genuine violence.”

“Harry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Gary put his hand on her shoulder. “We happen to be living through an incredibly corrupt time. Seems like every institution, including the churches, are corrupt. Ah well, perhaps we should envy Pirate and your four-legged fellow sidekicks. They have more sense than we do.”

The door swung open. Tazio shut the cold air out behind her. Wearing leggings, high boots, a turtleneck peeping out from under her sheepskin coat, she looked great. Brinkley had a tiny wreath on his leather collar.

“Am I too late for the party?”

As the humans greeted one another so did the animals.

Gary motioned for Tazio and Cooper to sit in a chair. “Just in time. I was showing Harry my sketches for her shed. I want to recreate La Petite Trianon but she won’t have it.”

Deadpan, Taz came back, “The Taj Mahal?”

“Too foreign. Mount Vernon would fit in.” Cooper joined the play.

Harry, stroking her jaw as though in deep thought, said, “What about a yurt?”

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.

December 27, 2016

Tuesday 6:00 PM

Shock or not the farm chores needed to be done. Home by three-thirty, Harry brought in the horses, put two scoops of grain in their feed buckets hanging in the corner of the stall, tossed in three flakes of hay.

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.

“Tucker slobbers.” Mrs. Murphy giggled.

“It’s the needles!” Pewter’s eyes now widened.

“Yeah,” her buddy agreed.

“But back to people killing one another all the time. Gary must have done something wrong.” Pewter inhaled the scent of cleaned leather.

“Mom told Cooper as they waited for the ambulance that years ago, like fifteen, he went through a horrible divorce. It brings out the worst in people.”

“Fifteen years is a long time to wait.” Pewter thought this unlikely as a cause.

“Revenge is a dish best eaten cold,” Mrs. Murphy pronounced.

“I think if someone bloodies your nose you bloody them right back.” Pewter appeared fierce.

“Humans, if they do that, get caught. Impulse killing. Waiting makes sense for them. All those laws perverting nature pretty much.” The tiger believed humans got it all backward.

“Maybe fifteen years isn’t a long time to wait…but divorce, that’s…I don’t know.”

“Irrational.” Mrs. Murphy affirmed Pewter’s unspoken thoughts.

The tack room door opened, cold air entering with Harry and Tucker.

The corgi joined Mrs. Murphy on the saddle pad. “When the sun sets the mercury goes down with it. Going to be nasty cold tonight.”

“Is,” Mrs. Murphy agreed.

Harry checked her feed order, scribbled on a pad by the old landline phone, sank into her chair. She’d called her husband, who would be home from work shortly. She looked forward to Cooper joining them. Fair, sensitive to her distress, could always lift her spirits. As an equine vet his hours could be variable. One good thing about the winter was there were fewer injury calls than during the warm months, with the exception of ice. Horses, like people, could go down on ice.

“Dad,” Tucker barked.

The cats, too, heard the rumble of the big diesel-engine truck crunching down the driveway. Soon it stopped, the door slammed, the groan of the huge barn doors came next, then the clunk of their being shut.

The tack room door opened.

“Honey.” He walked over and kissed her, pulled up a chair.

“I am so glad to see you.”

“Heard a report on the local news driving home. The usual ‘too early to know anything’ stuff.”

“Out of the blue, Fair, just out of the blue.” She swiveled her chair to face his.

He slid the chair forward so his knees touched hers. “Thank God you weren’t standing next to Gary.”

“I was close enough to smell the gunpowder.” She shivered. “He grabbed his chest, a little blood trickled through his fingers, not much at all, he groaned, and sank. There was a split second that it seemed the gun was pointed at me. It was almost like a dream. It just didn’t seem real.”

“Cooper,” Tucker barked.

Hearing the motor, Harry looked up. “I told Coop to come by for soup. Let me go in and warm it up. Won’t take a minute. You fix her a drink.”

They rose, animals first, closed the door behind them and hailed their friend walking up the brick walkway to the back closed-in porch. In the warm weather the wooden sides were removed and it became a screened porch that kept out the bugs.

Once inside, Fair made Cooper a hot toddy and fed the animals while Harry warmed the soup.

Sipping her drink, Cooper smiled. “Warms you better than a down jacket.”

“True.” He toasted her.

“Won’t be a minute.” Harry pulled fresh bread and butter out of the keeper on the counter.

“Well,” Cooper started. “Simple .38 caliber, a handgun many people own. Unregistered, of course.” She held up her hand. “I am not anti-science but I think there can be many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip.’ This will be a long, hard slog.”

“Why?” Fair asked.

“No criminal record. An ugly divorce years back. No complaints against his design company at the Better Business Bureau. A member of Keswick Golf Club. Well liked. I called his old Richmond employer, Rankin Construction. He left on good terms. Had always wanted his own small design company, working with construction companies instead of working for a construction company.”

“Is that awful yellow crime scene tape up?” Harry asked.

“It is. Front and back. Photographs of where he fell. The inside of his office. All done. The team, wearing latex gloves, checked drawers, cataloged mail. For now everything is in place as he left it. The forensics will be back tomorrow.” She lifted her hands, palms up. “Nothing out of the ordinary, so far. But I always hope for a clue, for a pattern to emerge,” Coop replied.

“I suppose you’ll need to examine his projects. Talk to customers and clients.” Harry tested the soup, turned down the burner.

“Yes. The most obvious problem would be if Gary ever overcharged or took a kickback from a client or construction company. That’s all I can think of right now.”

“He wouldn’t.” Harry’s voice was firm. “Gary would never do anything like that.”

“I hope you’re right, but if there’s one thing law enforcement has taught me it’s that you never really know. Look at how Bernie Madoff fooled people.”

“Coop,” Harry said as she ladled out the fragrant soup. “Gary didn’t live high on the hog like the Ponzi scheme guy. Other than golf and his annual vacations out of the country to see the architecture elsewhere, like the time he went to the Alhambra. Stuff like that. Madoff was an entirely different kind of person. Madoff had to drum up business constantly, whereas Gary really didn’t.” She put the bowls on the table while Fair cut the bread.

“Harry, this is so good.” Cooper swallowed a spoonful.

“Easy to make but time-consuming. It’s my grandmother’s recipe. I do it exactly as she did. No shortcuts.”

“Wonderful.” Cooper sighed. “Wonderful to be off duty, too. It’s been a day. Started with a false burglary alarm at Ivy Farms. Slid downhill from there. What about yours?” She looked at Fair.

“Not bad. One puncture wound but other than that mostly paperwork and inquiries from new horse owners about keeping the weight on during winter.”

“That should be easy. Feed them more.” Cooper buttered her bread.

“Pretty much. Go light on pellets. Use senior food for the older guys. It’s more expensive but properly fed those old horses will hold their weight. And a good blanket never hurts. An easy day.”

Returning to her most pressing problem, Cooper said, “I called Dawn Hulme, Gary’s ex-wife. Wanted to reach her before anyone else did. If you can do that you often get an unprepared response.”

“And?” Harry’s eyebrows rose.

“Shock. No phony sorrow. She said they rarely spoke over the years. I asked could she tell me why they divorced. She said she started proceedings. He never listened to a word she said and she was sick of it. He didn’t beat her, run with other women. He was married to his work; but then, many men are. She repeated again that he never listened to anything she said, asked about her day, what she felt. Nothing. She asked him to go to counseling. He refused and her next call was to a divorce lawyer. And she admitted it was acrimonious.”

Fair, spoon midair, remarked, “I listen.”

“You do. Really, I’m the one who could be accused of not listening, of being a little dense,” Harry confessed.

“A little!” Pewter yelled up from her food dish, painted with her name on the side.

“Now, Pewts,” Mrs. Murphy said.

“She never listens to one thing I say. There’s a box of rocks upstairs.” Pewter indicated Harry’s brain, which did make the other two animals laugh.

“Don’t you find it odd that we were standing on the sidewalk and the motorcyclist cruised up?” Harry wondered.

“No. Opportunity equals preparation. I think Gary would have been killed no matter what; and when the motorcyclist saw us there it presented a better opportunity than if he had to park, go into Gary’s office, or wait for a client to leave. He might have left a few pieces of thread from his scarf or a tread from his boots, I don’t know; but this way, slow down, drive over, pull the trigger. Nothing is left for forensics to pick up. Whoever did this can think quickly. At least that’s my idea now.”

“I would have never thought of that,” Harry admitted.

“You don’t need to.” Cooper smiled.

“And it could have been a woman?” Fair inquired.

“The tinted visor of the helmet covered the whole face. Motorcycle clothing tends to be leather and given the wind, especially now that it’s cold, I think anyone would wear a heavy leather jacket, leather pants, and boots. You wouldn’t know gender from the clothing.”

“Coop, I never heard one word about him running around after Dawn. That divorce must have throttled any thoughts of another relationship.”

“Women do kill and, Harry, how do we know that wasn’t a professional killer?”

“That’s outrageous,” Harry blurted out.

“So it seems, but I have to consider everything no matter how seemingly absurd. One thing I do know and that is that murder makes sense. The killer has a good reason to him or her. The only time I would waffle on that is impulse killing—you know, two guys are loaded at a bar, one thinks he’s been mocked, a fight ensues, etc. That’s impulse killing and the truth is that stuff happens mostly among the uneducated, the young. Of course, publicly I can’t say that but generally an impulse killer is not too intelligent. Someone who kills in cold blood is.”

“Ah,” Harry murmured.

“Ah and don’t try to solve this. Your curiosity does not serve you well.” Cooper was firm. “Are you in danger? No, probably not. This killing was planned and worked out totally in the killer’s favor. You start poking around, things might turn ugly.”

“Hear, hear.” Fair seconded Cooper.

“She doesn’t listen to me. She won’t listen to them,” Pewter prophesied.

November 1, 1786

Wednesday

Still a bit warm, some leaves waved slightly on the trees as Ewing Garth with his two beautiful daughters walked west from the imposing brick house in which he lived. The girls, as he called them, each married to a good man, lived in identical clapboard houses one quarter of a mile from the main residence. Catherine was twenty-two, the elder by two years. Her house’s back side faced west, the Blue Ridge Mountains. She could watch sunsets from the back porch. Rachel’s home, opposite her sister’s by perhaps another quarter mile, also faced the mountains. Rachel could repose on her front porch with her blond husband, watch the birds, watch the colors of the mountains change. For Catherine and Rachel this enticing vista made even the hard days worthwhile.

Ewing, a touch portly, stepped out briskly. He stopped at the edge of the harvested cornfield.

“Good year.” He beamed.

“We have plenty stored along with oats, barley, and sweet, sweet hay,” Catherine chimed in, happy, for she took charge of the extensive stables.

“Father, when are you coming with Charles and myself to see the progress at St. Luke’s? You will be astonished at how much he has accomplished since the Taylors’ funeral.”

The Taylors, husband and wife, were buried October 15. Respected, liked, their mutual passing from lung disease brought everyone together. To these two people belonged the honor of being the first to sleep in the lovely cemetery roughly a hundred yards behind the church structure. Set off with stone walls, it seemed to promise peace.

The entire church, constructed of fieldstone, was topped with a slate roof. Quads behind the church reflected the central quad between the two wings, which resembled each other. A covered arched walkway on both sides connected the two buildings at the ends with the church. Even with the protection of the stone arches, if the wind blew the weather would hit you. The church itself sat smack in the middle, large lawns behind and in front of it. The exterior was complete. Now the fastidious interior work occupied Charles West, Rachel’s husband.

“I will visit, I promise.” His eyes swept down to a timber tract beyond the cornfield.

“You’re still shocked that I’ve become a Lutheran,” Rachel teased him.

“No, no, my dear. Your sister and I will uphold the Episcopal faith.” He grinned.

Catherine slyly inserted, “Uphold not necessarily believe.”

Ewing chuckled. “What would your sainted mother say?”

The two sisters looked at each other and laughed.

“I’ve seen regiments of woolly bears.” Catherine cited the furry caterpillars seeking safe harbor to spin their cocoons.

“Yes, quite a few. Will be a hard winter. They portend such things.” Ewing began to walk again. “I’ve heard that Roger Davis has been asked by Mr. Madison, James not William, to assist him with his voluminous correspondence and writing. Mr. Davis can speak Latin as fluently as Greek.”

“And he never lets us forget it.” Catherine grimaced for they were the same age but taught by different tutors.

“Too much Cicero.” Rachel smiled. “I quite liked the poetry though.”

“You’re good with languages.” Catherine complimented her younger sister. “I’m good with numbers.”

“Ah yes,” Ewing said. “I received a letter today from Baron Necker, my friend in Paris. It’s interesting the people a young man meets on his grand tour. My father was wise to send me. Here it is thirty years later and the baron and I still write, he’s somewhat younger, full of ideas. He told me the royal treasury is almost bankrupt, the French deficit is over a hundred million livres, and repayment of their debt is two hundred fifty million in arrears. Payment to the Army and Navy is now erratic, as it is for government ministers. You have a head for numbers, my dear, but clearly Louis XVI does not.” He looked at his elder daughter.

“The numbers are so big it’s hard to fathom.” Rachel shook her head.

“We have domestic and foreign debt enough. Virginia is faltering at paying down her war debts. Indeed our leaders during the war appear not to have been able to add or subtract.” Ewing relished the long slanting rays of the sun on his face. “I think we will discharge our debt but what about the other states? Then what?”

“Well, it can’t be as bad as France.” Rachel took some comfort in that, plus she wasn’t too interested in politics.

“The king must call an assembly. There’s no other way.” Ewing sighed, for an assembly would bring problems of its own.

Any time a group of men gathered to decide upon weighty issues, little good rarely came of it, in his opinion.

“All France has to do is declare a war on Austria or Spain, march in, and steal whatever that nation has lying about. That’s the way they do things over there.” Catherine shrugged.

“Now, where did you hear that?” Ewing turned to her.

“From you, Father. You’ve always said they are a lot of squabbling children with an idiot at their head.”

“Did I really say such a thing?”

“You implied it. You are much too gracious to be as blunt as I.” Catherine reached for his hand and squeezed it.

“Well, no one in their right mind will lend France money.” He stopped at the edge of the timber tract. “And if we don’t set our own house in order, no nation will lend us anything either. No credit. You can’t move forward without credit.”

“Father, you have vats of credit.” Catherine, who worked with her father, admired his business acumen.

“But I am not a nation. I can see to our increase but I can’t manage the affairs of thirteen states, each of them so different from the other.”

“We’d be better off if you did.” Catherine praised him.

“Now you sound like your mother. She was always puffing me up.” He grinned.

“Speaking of puffing up. Have you heard that Maureen Selisse Holloway”—Rachel used both her married names for Maureen’s first husband had been murdered—“is rumored to be trying to buy a title for Jeffrey?”

Jeffrey was the second husband, divinely handsome, perhaps fifteen to twenty years younger than his fabulously wealthy wife. She wasn’t telling.

“What?” Catherine’s jaw dropped.

“Yes. DoRe told Bettina.” Rachel mentioned the head of Maureen’s stable, a middle-aged widower who was courting their head cook and head slave woman, herself a widow. All crossed their fingers that this would work out and each feared, but kept silent, that Maureen would find a way to hold back DoRe.

“We don’t have titles here,” Ewing forcefully said.

“She’s painted her coat of arms from her birthplace in the Caribbean on her coach. She’ll buy him a title then pretend it’s of no consequence, but we will be expected to address them as Count Pooh-bah,” Catherine predicted.

“Foolishness.” Ewing turned for home.

“But amusing to watch.” Catherine slipped her arm through his as did Rachel on his other side.

“Father, if DoRe asks Bettina to marry him, you will have to buy him. It’s only right.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And you will have the two best coachmen in Virginia. Won’t that give Yancy Grant hives.”

Catherine mentioned their head coachman, Barker O., as well as another horse breeder.

“Maureen will make it difficult.” Rachel knew how petty and vicious Maureen could be.

“Oooh,” Ewing drawled, “if the baronetcy or dukedom is dear enough she’ll sell and sell quickly.”

“How do you feel?” Rachel asked her sister, changing the subject.

“Fine. I’m only in my third month. This is it. No more. Two children is enough.”

“Three,” Rachel announced. “Three and I also have three.”

Rachel had two girls.

“No, I am not having three children.”

“You have John and I have Charles.” Rachel laughed out loud as she mentioned their husbands.

“You girls go to the same school. Your mother used to say that about me. She’d call me her ‘old boy.’ ”

“It is true, Father? Men don’t grow up.” Rachel pinched him as she said that.

“I feel old enough. My bones creak,” he complained.

“Pfiffle. You can wear out men half your age. You’re trying to work on our sympathies,” Catherine remarked.

They all laughed as arm in arm they strolled back, the air chilling now that the sun had set. Three people bound by blood, by the times, by deep love. How fortunate that they could not see the future, but then no one can.

December 29, 2016

Thursday

“You have a sharp eye,” Cooper noted.

“I don’t know about that but I try to notice things.” Harry stood in the small foyer of Gary Gardner’s office. She’d been asked to meet Cooper there as she knew his office work habits well.

“He worked alone. Small operation. He was the creative one. He really didn’t need other people, especially with what computers can do now.”

“That’s what he always said. That’s why he moved here. The company became too big in Richmond, too many layers of people piddling in his work. He was happy here.”

“The way of the world these days. Nothing gets done quickly, that’s for sure. Everyone wastes time covering their ass.” Cooper noticed the framed photographs on the walls. “So I’ve been talking to former clients. No one has had a bad word to say about him.” Cooper turned to face Harry. “How often would you say you’ve been in his office?”

“A lot. He came here in the mid-eighties. I was a kid when he moved here, but he and Mother got on so I’d accompany her to his office. He designed homes or additions for friends; as I got older I’d see him socially. He did a beautiful job for Nelson and Sandra Yarbrough, also Sara Goodwin. People saw his work. He helped Tazio Chappars and our group with the old school buildings we’re returning to their original state but with modern plumbing, etc. They researched old photographs, building materials of the time, really the late-nineteenth century. He made it fun and since neither one could design anything new, they didn’t butt heads. I doubt that they would have anyway.”

Tazio Chappars, in her late thirties now, moved to the area after graduate school. Her family and college friends, Midwesterners, warned her that Virginia, a Southern state, would not be welcoming. They were wrong. Then again Tazio, warm, good-natured, could win over most people.

Cooper returned to the expensively framed colored photographs. “I’m not an architectural historian but I do read. Mostly everyone around here wants the Georgian or Federal look, he seemed more influenced by the French.”

Harry smiled. “Gary swore there were enough people in the area to design à la Palladio. He went his own way. He teased me and said I needed to expand my history mostly in the direction of the French.”

Cooper smiled back. “So is anything different in here?”

“The office?” Harry moved into the large room with his big computer, the drafting table in the middle of the room, also large, a regular desk, and the square bookshelves all along one wall.

“My plans are still on the table.” She looked up and around, walked over to the bookshelves. “Coop.”

The tall deputy came alongside her friend. “What?”

“These shelves were packed. Some books are missing.”

“Could he have taken them home?”

“No, because when we met, I was here at the drafting table. The shelves were full.”

“Can you remember any of them?”

“Beautiful picture books. They’re still here.” She pointed to large coffee table books of French architecture, a few on great American houses. “His Vitruvius’s De Architectura is still here.”

Cooper pulled one off the shelf, as there were ten volumes. “It’s in Latin.”

“Gary said it was easy to read because it’s so technical. Little has changed. He went to an expensive prep school, St. Paul’s, I think. The boys had to take Latin. Said it was the best thing he ever did.”

“You took a language, didn’t you?”

“French. Four years in high school, four at Smith, and I’m still lousy at it. Occasionally he’d say something in French just to tweak me. Gary was a highly educated man.”

“Think. What’s missing?”

Harry slowly walked along the shelves, stopping at the gaps in the lined-up books. “Did you look in his computer?”

“Our tech wiz did. The only thing he mentioned was that Gary kept records of his recent work but nothing concerning Richmond.”

“I would guess Rankin Construction Company has records of his designs there. And as far as I know no one here ever complained about his work in Richmond.”

“No.”

Harry stopped at a gap on a lower shelf. “Mmm.”

“What.”

“He kept boxes, you know those boxes like extra-large fat books. He kept building codes in them. They’re gone.”

“Building codes. I’ll have his house double-checked but I don’t remember them.”

“You know the big orange kind, looks like hard cardboard, old books. I can’t imagine anyone stealing them because you can get all that stuff online.” Harry was puzzled.

“Did you ever look in them?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know what was in them.”

“You’re right. But I do remember what was printed on the spines: codes and the years they were updated or changed from before he moved here. The recent changes he got off the computer. Every county has their own codes. Confusing, to me anyway.”

“Anything else?”

“No,” Harry replied as she returned to her design on the drafting table. “But you all secured this office. The files are missing. Did the department take them?”

“No.” Cooper frowned. “The files were taken after the scene was supposedly secured. I’m not familiar with this office, but you are. I just felt something was off. I will, however, have his house double-checked for them,” she vowed.

“Let me ask you a question. How many Ducatis are registered in Albermarle County?”

“Very few. Six and one is from the late 1950s.” She paused. “We’ve spoken to each of the owners. No one was riding yesterday. We’ll send Dabney out”—she named a young fellow officer—“to double-check the models, but since we don’t really know the model of the bike on which the killer rode all we can do is gather stats and wait.” Cooper glanced outside as a light snowfall was starting. “How’d you know what the bike was?”

“Motorhead. And I read all the car and bike magazines. That was a brand-new Ducati XDiavel. Cost about fifteen thousand dollars. No license plate.”

“That bothers me.” Cooper frowned. “You’d think some traffic cop would have noticed.”

“You would, but then again maybe the killer didn’t ride far. Maybe that bike is in a garage or maybe he towed the bike here in a closed trailer from who knows where, unloaded, did the deed, loaded it back up again. It’s not too far-fetched.”

Cooper had known Harry enough years to appreciate her logic if not her curiosity. “I guess not if you’re determined to kill someone. If only it were his ex-wife,” she ruefully admitted.

“Cooper!”

“It would make this a lot easier.”

Harry changed the subject. “I don’t know why it gets me, but it gets me that my plans are on the drafting table. Like he just stepped out.”

“He did.” Cooper sighed. “He did.”

December 30, 2016

Friday

“She’ll ruin her eyes,” Pewter predicted.

“She doesn’t use her computer that much,” Tucker countered the gray cat. “It’s Fair who will ruin his eyes, with that big screen in his office here and the same kind at work. He checks his patients, he checks medications and X-rays. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a Seeing Eye dog.” Tucker flicked a large left ear.

Bother her ears were large, but her hearing proved excellent.

“You could do it.” Mrs. Murphy sat on Harry’s desk in the tack room so she, too, could view the screen.

“Too low to the ground. He’d trip over me,” Tucker sensibly replied.

“What is she doing?” Pewter could hear click, click, click.

“Jump up and see for yourself,” Mrs. Murphy suggested.

Grumbling, Pewter did rouse herself from the tack trunk, stretch, then leap onto the desktop. As it was an old teacher’s desk from the 1950s, sturdy solid wood, her weight barely registered. The desk had been Harry’s father’s. He didn’t believe in wasting money when used furniture could do the job. Finding a teacher’s desk was easy. He paid fifteen dollars, sanded it smooth, then stained it.

A small bright red propane stove with a glass front kept the tack room warm. Last year, after exhausting research, Harry had bought one, a Swedish model, for no matter what she tried, the room temperature barely got above sixty degrees. The space heaters sucked up electricity like mad, plus they really couldn’t evenly warm the room. The flames at this moment flickered at half-mast. Full blast really threw out the heat. When she went home at night, she’d only leave on the pilot light, but come morning she’d turn up the flame and the room would be perfect in about fifteen minutes. Harry wondered how she’d lived all those years in that miserable cold room. And she knew Gary was a hundred percent right to design space for one in her dream shed. She had just wanted to fuss with him a little bit.

The door to the center aisle, closed, had a large glass window in it. Because Crozet was near the mountains, the sun set earlier than the Farmer’s Almanac listed for central Virginia. She was so wrapped up in her computer she didn’t notice that the sun had set, twilight was deepening at 5:45 PM.

The horses, blankets on, began to doze in their stalls. The doors at both ends were shut as were the hayloft doors up top. Every now and then a big barn door would rattle when the wind hit it. She heard it but paid little attention.

“That’s it.”

Pewter peered at the screen. “Is.”

“Is.” Mrs. Murphy echoed her friend then looked down at a curious Tucker. “The motorcycle. She’s got a picture of it.”

“A beast. This thing is a beast.” Harry whistled. “1262cc. And they make faster bikes but this is their cruiser. Some cruiser.”

“Does look scary. Well, it was scary,” Mrs. Murphy spoke.

“Big Harley?” Tucker, living with a motorhead, had absorbed some of her human’s nomenclature.

“No. It’s a Ducati XDiavel. That’s what the caption says,” Pewter remarked.

“Pewter, you can’t read.” Tucker doubted her report.

“She’s whispering stuff,” Pewter called back. “Stuff like this is for the American market. It’s not the pure Italian bike. She thinks that’s important. She’s scrolled that information three times.”

“She’s falling in love. You know how she is with anything with an engine in it!” Mrs. Murphy laughed.

Harry tapped her fingers on the desktop, rattling against the wood. “Whoever shot Gary knew bikes and could ride them. No license plate. Who the hell is this? Who would think of such a thing?”

“Someone with a lot to lose,” Tucker murmured.

“Or gain,” Mrs. Murphy responded.

Hitting the off button, Harry slumped in her chair. “There can’t be too many of these in all of Virginia. Cooper can get the state DMV records.”

Pewter, shrewd in her own way, brushed against the screen. “But maybe it’s an out-of-state bike. If someone was smart enough to pull this off, I bet they’d be smart enough to know how scarce a XDiavel is.”

Tucker, thinking hard, nodded. “You’ve got a point there.”

“Does his ex-wife ride bikes?” Pewter wondered.

Mrs. Murphy swept her whiskers forward. “The ex–Mrs. Gardner is a big BMW girl. She is a woman who takes her makeup seriously.”

“Why would he marry a woman like that?” Tucker was puzzled.

“He was a lot younger. And she is pretty even now with all that paint on her face.” Mrs. Murphy was fair about it. “I’m not sure men think clearly about these things when they’re young.”

Pewter quoted Harry’s work partner from the old Crozet post office. The wonderful Mrs. Miranda Hogendobber was now in her late seventies although she wasn’t advertising. “Miranda always said, ‘Marry in haste. Repent in leisure.’ ”

They giggled as Harry rose, flicked off the lights, turned the stove down to the pilot light, pulled on her beat-up Carhartt Detroit work coat with the wool flannel lining, rummaged for her gloves. “Let’s go, kids.”

As she opened the tack room door to the center aisle the cold hit her. It wasn’t that bad in the barn, probably mid-forties. Being in a warm place, then stepping outside, the cold was so noticeable, it took time to adjust.

Simon, the possum, peeked over the side of the hayloft. His nest, hollowed out of a hay bale, backed to the west which helped blunt the cold, even though the barn was closed up. Remnants of old blankets and towels kept him warm, plus he could fluff up the hay and snuggle in his blanket surrounded by sweet-smelling hay.

“I’m going to eat fallen grain. Too nasty to go out.”

“See you tomorrow,” Mrs. Murphy called up to her odd-looking friend.

“Try to get her to bring some cookies, will you? Anything with molasses in it.”

“We’ll try,” Tucker promised.

Harry slid open the barn doors, squeezed through as did the animals. “Great day!”

She’d been so focused on her bike research she hadn’t gotten up to look around. Three inches of snow had fallen thick and fast, blown sideways by a stiff wind.

The four ran to the porch door but the animals allowed Harry to go first. She’d make a trail for them that would be easy for them to walk in.

Harry stomped her boots on the porch, then wiped her feet on the rug and opened the kitchen door, grateful for the warmth. Even dashing that short distance, her cheeks were red, cold. The dog and cats shook their paws.

Hanging her coat on a peg by the door, she walked into the living room, knelt down, started crumpling paper. Then she built a good log pile, starting with a square of logs, the center open. She put the paper in that center, crisscrossed logs on top of the square, remained on her knees, jammed fatback under the newspapers. She stood up, brushed off her pants’ knees, plucked up a box of long matches, struck one, knelt down and touched the flame to the papers.

“You know, it’s work building a good fire,” Tucker noted.

“Well, she won’t turn up the thermostat. The wind will drop the indoor temperature. This way we’ll stay nice and cozy.” Pewter loved her creature comforts.

“Did the weatherman predict a storm?” Mrs. Murphy didn’t remember that.

“ No,” Tucker replied.

“Well, we’ve got one,” Pewter announced.

A big diesel motor rumbled, drew louder, then cut off. The outside porch door opened and closed, the kitchen door opened. Fair stepped into the kitchen, breathed deeply.

Harry walked over to kiss her husband. “Glad there weren’t any traffic problems.”

“There will be.” He removed his coat. “I think I got out just in time.”

She made him a hot cup of ginger tea, sat across from him at the kitchen table, the same table her parents had used.

“Are you hungry?”

“A little.” He put his hands around the cup.

“I’ll warm up the potpie.”

“Food like that makes winter, mmm, almost desirable.” He smiled. “How was your day?”

She filled him in then finally got to the Ducati XDiavel.

“Remember my old Norton?” He sipped, felt a little jolt when the ginger hit.

“Sure do.” She then cited all the stats on the powerful Ducati motorcycle.

“Well, tell Cooper. ’ Course, she may have already researched that herself.”

“Fair, this murder was well thought out and I so adored that man. Seeing him crumple like that, losing such a talented, kind person, I feel awful and really angry.”

“That’s natural. He was a wonderful man and he adored you as well. However, you are not a law enforcement officer.” Fair stopped his lecture right there.

“Don’t worry.”

“Ha!” all three animals said at once.

“What torments me is what did he do to anyone? Nothing that we know about. You’d think something would have leaked out over the years. He wasn’t rich, comfortable but not rich. He was well known in his field but he wasn’t, what, a star? He would get good designing jobs but he never rubbed in his success. Anyway, there’s enough work and money in this county to go around. I can’t think he had an outraged competitor. No debts that any of us heard about and no political stuff. He’d vote but politics bored him. I certainly never heard him in an argument. Usually, he’d shrug his shoulders. He was a social drinker. Never once heard him talk about drugs and, well, he wasn’t the type. He was a good man.”

“Yes, he was.” Fair took a deep breath. “Maybe it’s middle-age. Maybe it was always around me but I didn’t notice before. But, honey, what I see are good people getting screwed every day.”

“Screwed, yes. Murdered, no.”

November 7, 1786

Tuesday

Yancy Grant inhaled the odors of delicious food. Much as he loathed the long three-day journey from Albemarle County to Richmond, ninety miles east, once he arrived at Georgina’s, a marvelous tavern with a few rooms available for special guests, a wave of contentment would wash over him. The beautiful girls, some served food, some did not, were also available. Occasionally Yancy would hire the services of one, but since his kneecap was shattered in a recent duel, pleasures became more difficult and his temper could fray with the constant pain.

Seated across from him, Sam Udall, a financier who could supply certain functions of a bank as well as more discreet monetary exchanges, also inhaled. “Lifts the spirits.” He held up his glass of expensive French wine to his companion.

Yancy replied in kind, although he needed to be careful since too much alcohol made him impulsive and violent. That was the reason his kneecap was shattered. He foolishly accepted the challenge to a duel from a man, Jeffrey Holloway, he considered his social inferior and therefore not a good shot. Middling men rarely achieved the refinements of horsemanship, shooting, or musical accompaniment, if so gifted, that a man of parts took for granted. Yancy considered himself a man of parts. He was. He risked his fortune to back the rebels as did Ewing Garth. Had the former colonists lost that war, they would have been hanged. But like so many men who raised regiments, paid for food, temporary housing, and firearms, the state of Virginia had barely begun to repay those large outlays of cash. Other states were even worse off, although that was hard for the Virginians to believe. When you need money and aren’t getting it, it doesn’t matter if someone in North Carolina, a state whose only marketable products were pitch, tar, and turpentine, is worse off.

The two men pleasantly chatted. Yancy would be owing Sam a tidy sum of loaned cash come April.

Georgina, the proprietress, glided over to them. “Yancy Grant, you live too far away. How wonderful to see you and looking so well. As for you, Sam, how could I thrive here without your wisdom?”

“Ah, Georgina, you flatter me.” Sam nodded slightly.

Sam and Georgina did talk business. Both impressed the other as each responded to public events without a leaning toward the philosophy of Mr. Jefferson or Mr. Adams. The difference between a strong centralized government and a looser one was not of too much concern. Profits motivated them. The concern was the unpaid debt, credit difficulties, the signs of financial insecurity in France, plus an abiding fear of England.

Europe craved products from the new United States. Except for England, other countries wanted to deepen relationships with the former colonies, free of the economically restrictive hand of England. Merchants in England wanted favorable terms with the new country. Parliament teetered one way then the next, although the anger against Lord North, prime minister and architect of the war, diverted some attention from commerce.

Georgina left them to chatter in peace. A new girl, Sarah, delivered their food.

Yancy cut open his chicken pie, a plume of steam rising upward. “You know, Sam, much as I enjoy those sauces and fripperies the French can concoct, I do so love chicken pie. My mother used to make it.”

“Solid food for the cold.” Sam savored a lamb chop standing straight up, stuffed with a thin glaze of mint jelly. Eudes, the cook and a free man of color, dazzled the clients with his specialties. An ordinary cook would have basted the lamb chop, then put a glob of green mint jelly by its side. Not Eudes. He stuffed the thick chop, stood it upright on a fine china plate, a small helping of tiny potatoes next to it, sprinkled with parsley and sitting in a light butter sauce.

Both men enjoyed the food, the wine.

Occasionally Deborah would serve in the afternoon but usually she did not. So great was her beauty she was reserved for the nights only and then to sing next to the fellow playing the pianoforte. But if a powerful client, new, arrived in the afternoon, usually brought by a regular customer, Deborah would appear. She made men crazy. She made Georgina money. She made herself money, too.

The beauty walked by the two men, smiled, kept walking toward Georgina’s office.

“Aphrodite.” Sam grinned.

“A Venus to be sure, but I always think of the goddess as a Greek, when the Greeks were blonds, you know?”

Sam, an educated man, laughed. “When the Romans conquered Athens they took all the beautiful ones back to Rome to teach their children perfect Greek.”

Yancy, educated at William and Mary, had some basis in Latin, in Greek. One was not considered educated without the ability to understand Latin. Greek was desirable but Latin was essential. “Odd, is it not? That if you are upper class you don’t speak the native tongue, that’s vulgar.” He used the Latin word for common people, which transformed in English to mean still common but with a stray whiff of dirty, stupid, not worthy of consideration.

“Well, it is. Fortunately, we are not so afflicted. The Russians speak French.” He paused. “But then everyone speaks French to an extent. It truly is the language of diplomacy.”

“What then, Sir, is the language of finance?”

“Ah, English. Without a doubt. The French have had rich episodes in their history, but for business it’s hard to beat a practical, intelligent Englishman. Which we once were,” Sam slyly said.

“I have my doubts about us,” Yancy glumly replied, then, not wanting to be dour, added, “If we can resolve these current monetary difficulties, I think we will be fine.”

“Difficulties?” Sam’s eyebrows raised. “Our government has no monetary policy.”

“Hamilton is trying.”

“One man. And one man who seems to divide others. Some like him. Others loathe him. We need men of acumen to step up and support him as his ideas are the correct ones. Men like Gouverneur Morris.” He named a wealthy man from New York.

“If we could just get together the men of means from Boston, from Charleston, Philadelphia, even New York, which is growing.” Yancy, hotheaded though he might be, was a solid businessman.

Sam leaned forward. “Yes, and do you know what I really think? We’d better clean up these war debts both internally as well as foreign. We must have a unified Army and Navy. Militias won’t do.”

“But we won the war.” Yancy was surprised.

“My good Sir, our resources are beyond a European’s imagining. But once they truly understand, they will be back.”

This hit Yancy. “Oh, I hope not.”

“Think of it, Yancy. The great rivers we have depositing all that rich soil as they flow to the sea. The impossibly long seacoast and now the Ohio territory is opening, and that is vast, vast. More riches. In Europe a day or two in a coach and you are in another country. Here you can travel for weeks in a coach and you are still in the United States. And who are our neighbors?”

“Spain to the south and England to the north. Both could attack us through their colony.” Yancy’s mind was spinning now. “And Canada is large, difficult climate but still more resources than any other foreign country.”

“They could but England must ferry their Army across the Atlantic and then live off the land. That will be quite difficult because we will fight them as the Indians fight. They have no inkling of that, nothing. Look how they fought our glorious war for independence.”

“They nearly won.” Yancy felt that time acutely.

“Until we pulled together. And we have Washington.” Sam spoke the name with reverence.

“Sam, you always give me much to think about.”

“We live in a tumultuous time.” He paused, finishing the last of the magical lamb chop. “By the way, I was surprised that you paid a thousand dollars against your loan.”

“Hemp. My hemp crop proved lucrative.” Yancy knew he was interested in that.

“Ah. Have you been down to the river yet? New warehouses for hemp, for tobacco, much in demand. I heard Ewing Garth is betting on apples and installed an orchard. New. Not really yielding much yet. Too young. He is uncommonly shrewd.”

“He spreads the risk. Tobacco land in North Carolina as well as south of the James. Some hemp and so much hay. He has large tracts of established fields. He does not reveal his holdings, but it is rumored in Virginia that he owns eighty-eight thousand acres.”

“An impressive man.” Sam’s eyes followed Deborah as she carried a package back through the tavern.

“Very. His elder daughter is also impressive. She inherited her father’s brain.” He paused. “Beautiful girl. Her younger sister, Rachel, is also beautiful but it’s a softer beauty. She is much like her own mother, excels at gardening, setting a good table, putting people at ease, and I’ve heard she’s been helping her husband set up St. Luke’s Church. Funny, isn’t it, how we can be so different from our brothers and sisters while retaining qualities in common?”

“Yes.” Sam considered his sister, much like him in her focus on the practical, on getting ahead. “It’s the older sister I wish to talk about. She breeds good horses, does she not?”

“Yes. She has the eye and she memorizes bloodlines.”

“And will she race this spring, do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“Talk to her. Convince her there’s money to be made.” Sam paused. “A great deal of money. I can arrange a betting network.” He held up his hand. “But no one will know that you and I are behind it. A percent will flow to us regardless of who wins. See to it, Yancy.”

“There will be money for the winner?”

“Of course. Think of England, the races there. Those who bet on the winning horses will reap a handsome sum. The betting agents, their tickets stuck on their bet boards, should make some money. But we will make the most. We take a percent from each agent, we sell tickets to the race, too. We run the race in pairs per horse and we charge an entry fee. In other words, we can’t lose if the right horses are running.”

“Where?” Yancy simply asked.

“The Levels by the James.” Sam smiled.

That would be the only level thing about this proposed contest.

December 31, 2016

Saturday

The rich twilight blue seemed to make the falling snow even whiter. The silence, broken only by the horses munching in their stalls, promised purity, a time to think, a time to cleanse. Harry strolled down the center aisle checking on everyone. Shortro, a young gray, lifted his head from the feed bucket, looked at her with soft brown eyes, then returned to the delicious food.

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker kept Harry company. Pewter remained in the warm tack room. Why be cold?

The possum, curled up in his luxurious hay bale, snored slightly. The great horned owl, nesting in the cupola, also closed her eyes. Tonight was a night to stay indoors.

Harry turned the stove down to the pilot light, checked her notes on the desk, and slipped out of the tack room, closing the door behind her, Pewter in tow.

The little family used the small side door at the corner of the stable. Harry knew pushing open the huge double doors with the snow on the ground now would be difficult. As it was, enough snow had fallen in the two hours she was in the barn that she needed to put her shoulder on the door to push it open. The new snow piled up on the old snow.

“I’ll be digging that out tomorrow morning.”

Once inside the house, the kitchen felt wonderful. She refreshed the fire she’d built in the living room, checked the propane heater in the bedroom, quite a large room. Thank heaven they’d installed the fireplace last summer. A regular fireplace commanded the center of the room. During a night like this one would prove to be, Fair would build a fire there but neither one needed to feed the fire anymore. That propane fireplace in the corner kept them warm.

The old clapboard farmhouse, elegant in its simplicity, had a fireplace in most of the rooms. The walls, stuffed with horsehair, proved the old way of insulating worked. But the windows, handblown, couldn’t keep out the cold. Harry thought it would be sacrilege to remove them. The cold air seeped under those windows no matter what. As to the attic, when they were first married, Fair insulated that space. All in all, considering that the house was built in 1834, it testified to the wisdom of her ancestors.

The twilight deepened to Prussian blue, the snow looked like a curtain. In the distance to her right she saw diffuse headlights, heard the truck. Fair pulled into an old shed that served as a makeshift garage. No point digging out his truck. He walked from there to the house, stopping to look skyward.

Then he reached the porch, stepped inside, stomped his boots, took off his cowboy hat, shook it, opened the door. “Honey, I’m home.”

“We know,” Pewter replied.

Tucker bounded up for a pet, Harry for a kiss.

“How bad are the roads?”

“Snowplows are out,” he answered. “It’s coming down so hard they won’t be able to keep up with it. Coop’s working tonight, isn’t she?”

“She is. I worry about her on New Year’s Eve no matter what. This makes it worse.”

“Sensible people will stay home.”

She smiled. “Fair, it’s New Year’s Eve. Will anyone young be sensible?”

“I sure hope so.” He draped his arm around her shoulders. “I don’t mind staying in. Susan and Ned always have their New Year’s Eve party at Big Rawly with her grandmother and mother, but surely they’ll cancel. It’s off Garth Road, a ways back, and no one is going to plow the private road.”

As if reading his thoughts, the phone rang.

“Susan.”

“Oh, Harry, I’m canceling. But you know in all the years my family has held their New Year’s Eve party I think they’ve only canceled maybe three times. ’ Course when granddad was alive he’d go outside and do whatever needed to be done or he’d call someone. I’m sorry.”

“Well, it will be a quiet way to start 2017. We’ll make up for it somewhere down the road.”

“I think so, too. Ned and I texted everyone except for Mom and Grandmother. Called them and I’m calling you. Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?”

“Not yet. Have to think about that. You?”

“Yes. I’m not going to watch the news in 2017. Just makes me crazy.”

“Hey, that’s a good resolution.” Harry smiled. “Maybe I’ll borrow yours.”

“Well, Happy New Year, Sweetie.”

“Back at you.” Harry hung up the old wall phone, told Fair Susan’s resolution.

“She’s got a point there. How about if we sit in front of the fire? I’ll make you a light hot toddy. For the season.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll have chicken and catnip. For the season,” Pewter meowed.

Fair, seeing an upturned gray face staring intently into his own, opened the cupboard dedicated to pet treats, distributed bacon bits.

“It’s not chicken and catnip but it’s not bad.” Pewter stuffed her mouth.

“Good way to celebrate.” Mrs. Murphy also grabbed bacon bits.

Tucker chewed on a large bacon strip, too big for the kitties. Conversation could wait.

Harry stoked the fire, threw on another log, settled into the old sofa as Fair joined her with the promised hot toddy.

“You, too?”

He nodded. “Cold night. Hot drink.”

Shoulder to shoulder, watching the flames jump, listening to the crackle and pop, they put their stockinged feet on the old coffee table.

“This old house has welcomed one hundred and eighty-three New Year’s,” Harry mused. “Some were hopeful and I’m sure some were not. I can’t imagine what they felt in 1859.”

“Mmm, all that tension. It exploded soon enough.” Fair knew his history. “Do you think countries go in cycles?”

“I do. Seneca and a lot of the Romans thought so. The Stoics. I’m not as clear on my philosophy as I should be, but they wrote a life cycle for nations, for people. There’s nothing new. New technology, but nothing new about people or cultures. They rise and they fall.”

“Sobering.”

“I guess. It’s the way of the world. Every now and then I’ll go back through the family Bibles, the birth dates, the death dates, the notes. I am proud of my people. They worked hard. Some thought backward, I guess, others were forward-thinking, but they did their duty; they knew life promised you nothing.”

“Not a current attitude.” He sipped his drink.

“Fair, we had a frontier. We could always go west until we hit the Pacific. I think attitudes began to change. We started to look inward. Industrialism began to affect everyone and everything. Cities grew large then huge.”

“Now that you mention it, you’re right. Once we hit the West Coast there was no longer an escape valve.”

“You know, honey, we’re just too big. Too many people. We’re starting to get in one another’s way.”

“How about China or India? Talk about getting in one another’s way.” He jumped slightly when a log popped loudly. “Sounded like a gunshot.”

“Did.” She laughed then changed to a more somber mien. “Hearing that gunshot, a pop like the log…I’ve grown up with rifles and guns, I know the sound, but to hear a pop then see Gary crumple. I can’t get it out of my head.”

“I wish I could tell you something helpful. I hope in time the memory will fade. Sometimes I think all the violence in the media, news, films, TV stuff, I feel like we’ve been narcotized to violence. It makes me wonder why violence is entertainment, you know?”

“I do, Sweetie. We’ve had friends die in car accidents, some to cancer far too young. Central Virginia is not a particularly crime-ridden area but stuff happens here. This was a friend, someone I admired and liked. It haunts me,” she said.

They sat in silence for a while.

“Coming down harder.” Fair glanced out the window.

“It’s so dark.”

“The light reflects out a bit. This storm is bigger than the weatherman predicted.” He sighed. “Life in and by the mountains. We have our own weather system.”

He drew her closer to him. “Can’t get cold if I’m close to you.”

She smiled. “Flatterer. Have you made any New Year’s resolutions?”

“No. I should but I never keep them.” He smiled sheepishly. “One year I vowed to go regularly to the gym.”

“I never could figure that one out. You’re in great shape.”

“My work keeps me pretty fit, so does farming, but there’s muscles you don’t use, and I never stretch. I figured the gym would keep me limber. Oh, then there was the year I promised to read Remembrance of Things Past. That lasted two chapters. Better to forget the whole thing.”

She put her head on his shoulder. “My resolution is to live every moment. No plans for the future. Live in the here and now. Be grateful for you, this farm, my friends, my four-footed friends. Be grateful for my health.” She snapped her fingers. “Could be gone like that.”

Harry, five years out from breast cancer, felt she was cured, but she no longer took health for granted.

“Good resolution. I’ll try it, too.”

Harry rose, stirred the fire, walked to the window. “I can barely see the ornamental cherry tree by this window. Must be coming down two or three inches an hour.”

“I’m sure The Weather Channel will know.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No. I’ll be hungry in the morning,” he replied.

“I hope we have power in the morning. All it takes is one car to skid off the road, take out a pole.”

“Maybe that will happen on the other side of the county, not our side.”

“Yeah, sure.” She grinned, continuing to look out the window. “Hope all the foxes, deer, bear, birdies are tucked up.”

“You know they are. They’re smarter about the weather than we are. Come on and sit back down. I miss you already.”

She snuggled next to him. The cats each claimed a lap, Tucker flopped in front of the fireplace.

—

Cooper, snug in a large county SUV, parked in the lot where Routes 250 and 240 separate, one going straight into Crozet and the other veering slightly south of that. Fortunately, there wasn’t much traffic. After a few hours of this, her shift about to end, she turned for home, driving west on Route 250. Sheriff Shaw told her not to worry about getting the car back to the station. Just take it home, come back out in the morning.

Heading down 250 she passed the small shopping center with Harris Teeter and the BB&T bank, kept going. As she kept heading west, she noticed across from Legacy Market and the BP station, a car halfway down the road. She called in the site. It would need to be towed off the road. She put on her flashers, got out, pulling on her jacket, took out her flashlight. No one in the Toyota Yaris, brand new, too.

Eager to get back in the county SUV, she called out, “Anyone here?”

The wind drowned out her voice. The snow fell so thick, so fast.