As Fair and Sugar walked out of the long white shed row barn into the early-morning sunshine, Fair admired the pignut hickories lining the gravel drive.
“How’s Binky?” Fair mentioned another one of Sugar’s mares, an old acquaintance.
“Out in the back pastures. She’s enjoying her retirement.”
“Binky’s got to be twenty-five if she’s a day.” Fair smiled, remembering the light chestnut mare from her flaming youth. She could be a handful.
“Every bit.” Sugar rubbed his temples. “Pollen count must be up again. Been fighting this headache for two days now.”
“This May was a record breaker. My truck was yellow. Couldn’t see out the windshield for the pine pollen.”
“Yeah.” Sugar stopped at Fair’s truck as the tall veterinarian put the ultrasound equipment in the special aluminum tool beds made for veterinarians. “Haven’t seen Paul for a couple of weeks. How’s he doing?”
“Pretty good. He gets along with Big Mim.”
“That’s half the battle, but at least she knows what she’s talking about when it comes to horses. More than you can say for most of these rich folks.”
“You’re talking about the comeheres.” Fair used the slang “come here” pronounced as one word, which meant someone who moved into the area.
“You’re right. She was born to it.”
“Nan Young’s a good hand with a horse. She’d work part time if the money’s right.” Fair thought this was a good time to mention help.
“I’ll talk to her.” Sugar rubbed his head again. “All that paperwork Barry did with the Jockey Club—the insurance stuff and stallion shares—I never paid a bit of mind to that. My job was out here. Course, he did a lot of that, too.”
“You two were a good team.”
Sugar, in his late twenties, sported a winning grin. Although not classically handsome—he had a crooked nose—he had an appealing way about him. Lean, hardworking, he loved the thoroughbred business. “Got in a couple of lay-up mares yesterday, which will help the cash flow.”
Lay-up mares or lay-up horses are placed at smaller farms with good care, usually by large farms or by private city owners who have an injured horse off the track or a broodmare and they can’t or won’t pay the expensive day rates charged by trainers, boarding tracks, and large racing operations. With careful management, a lay-up facility could provide a useful service to horse people and make a little bit of money.
“Might be able to find a few more for you.” Fair liked Sugar.
“Fair, will you do me a favor?” Sugar’s dark-blue eyes looked away, then back at Fair.
“If I can.”
“After Barry was killed I made out a will. Kind of gave me the creeps, you know.”
“I do.” Fair smiled, since no one liked to consider one’s own mortality, especially when in one’s twenties.
“If anything happens to me, you get my horses, you and Harry. You’ve both been good to us. I know you’ll do the right thing by my girls. I know you would never sell a horse to the knacker, and I got to thinking about old Binky. Knacker would just haul her out for meat price.” His eyes misted over. “That’s not right. Not right to do that to an animal that did right by you.”
“I agree.” Fair clapped his big hand on Sugar’s shoulder. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, but if it should, I’ll make sure all your horses are happy.”
Sugar smiled. “I know Harry won’t sell any of them.”
“You got that right.” Fair laughed, for his ex-wife couldn’t bear to part with any animal once she got to know him or her. “Have you talked to Harry?”
“No,” he sheepishly replied. “Well, I don’t know that anything will happen, and she’d get all upset. Easier to tell you.”
Fair tried to think as Harry would. “Sugar, are you worried that you might be in danger? Barry’s death was bizarre, and with each passing day it seems more, well, bizarre.”
Sugar’s voice rose. “What did he know? I can’t think of anything. Barry worked hard. What could he have known? I go over it and over it. He just pissed someone off. Over a girl. That’s what I think. So they rip out his throat and dump him. That’s what I think.”
“Kind of what I think, too. When there was no saliva found on the body, that was the tip-off. But I thought he was between romances and not between the sheets.”
“Me, too, but he could have taken up with a married woman. He knew how to talk to women.” Sugar said this with admiration.
“I’m starting to think it isn’t about talking to women, it’s about listening to them.”
Sugar thought about this. “Might be right. I sure do listen to Carmen. That girl can talk. We’re sort of going out.”
“I’ve got new respect for Barry.” Fair paused, then winked. “And you.”
“Why?”
“Barry didn’t talk to you about his conquests. He wasn’t a braggart, even to his best friend. And you’ve been very circumspect about Carmen.”
“A couple of times Barry said Carmen plucked his last nerve, but that was different. Barry was raised right.”
To be raised right as a man in the South, regardless of class or color, meant you did not discuss women in disparaging terms and you never whined about a woman if she did wrong by you; you kept your mouth shut. Men suffered in silence.
Like most ideal behavior, many men tried to live up to the standard but fell short.
“Speaking of being raised right, these mares represent an investment of money and hard work. Your mother would have been proud.”
Sugar beamed. “Thanks.”
Sugar’s father left his mother when Sugar was four, and the ne’er-do-well subsequently died in a bar in Baltimore, literally falling off the barstool dead drunk. His mother passed away three years ago of lung cancer.
“Well, I’d better push off. Got a couple of mares to check over at BoomBoom’s.”
“She do late breedings, too?”
“No. She’s only got two mares left, the hunters. As luck would have it, the pretty refined bay, Keepsake, jumped the fence and checked around until she found someone she liked.”
Sugar laughed. “Hope it wasn’t a donkey.”
“That’s just it. We don’t know. The closest intact horse”—meaning stallion—“lives down Whitehall Road at Phyllis Jones’s place. Let’s hope that’s where that hussy visited. Called Phyllis. Her fences are just fine, but the mare might have jumped in and jumped out.”
“No wonder Boom hunts that mare.”
Fair nodded in agreement. “For BoomBoom’s sake let’s hope it was one of Phyllis’s stallions—because those are nice, nice horses—and not the donkey over at Short Shot Farm.”
“I didn’t know they had a donkey.”
“Just bought it for their little girl.”
Sugar started to laugh. “I want to see this one. If BoomBoom winds up with a mule, she’ll pitch a fit and fall in it.”
If a donkey breeds a horse, the offspring is a mule. Mules can’t breed as they are sterile.
“Hey, Boom will fool you. If it’s a mule, she’ll keep it.”
“No way.”
“Five bucks says I’m right if it’s a mule.”
“Can’t predispose her toward keeping the critter. Promise.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” Fair laughed as he repeated the childhood oath.
“Five bucks.” Sugar shook Fair’s hand.
As Fair climbed into the truck he called back, “Try one of those generic antihistamines. There are a couple that won’t make you drowsy. Knock that headache right out.”
“Okay.”
19
Can’t people just elope?” Harry grumbled as she sorted the unusually large number of envelopes Saturday morning.
Isabelle “Izzy” Stoltfus, a ripe twenty-three, worked the post office on Saturdays, but this Saturday, June 12, her first cousin was getting married over in Stuart’s Draft, so Harry filled in.
Izzy’s distant
cousin, Jerome, was the animal-control officer. The two of them possessed literal temperaments. If something was written down, surely it was revealed wisdom. If it wasn’t written down, they were paralyzed by indecision.
Fortunately, post-office procedures had changed little since the postal relays of ancient Rome. You delivered the mail, simple as that. What had changed was the speed with which it could be handed to you.
Once the mail sack was dropped at the Crozet Post Office, sorting the mail took time. Harry had to place each person’s letters, magazines, and junk mail into their box. Packages too large for the box were set on industrial shelving, numbered by postbox rows. So the top shelf, since this was a small town, was one through fifty; the second shelf was fifty-one through one hundred, and so on.
“Why is she moaning about elopements? The wedding invitations went out and came in two months ago,” Pewter logically said.
“She’s not complaining about the volume of mail. She’s complaining because Izzy’s not here. She’s ready to cut hay, and you know how she gets about that first cutting.” Tucker loved the first haying, the sweet smell of the newly mown hay flat on the ground in rows that often curved as gracefully as the line on a Manet canvas.
“It really is a mess of mail.” Pewter sauntered over to the pile on the sorting desk, the rest in the cart.
Mrs. Murphy, already on the white, blue, pink, yellow, and even cerise envelopes, said, “Party time. Flag Day parties. Fourth of July parties coming up. Bastille Day parties.”
This being Virginia, there were parties for every single human endeavor or lack of same. There were fishing parties, hunt club trail-clearing parties, the usual round of birthdays, retirement parties, let’s-celebrate-death-to-chiggers parties (chiggers being a nasty little bug), and the ubiquitous informal parties. Now, these informal parties could be tricky. A lady didn’t put on white gloves and party manners, but she couldn’t show up in flip-flops, a tube top, and cutoff jeans. Despite protests to the contrary, there really were no informal parties. Dress might be relaxed, but folks pulled themselves together. Virginians take their public appearances seriously. This seriousness about personal display allows them to be wonderfully charming, funny, and entertaining at all the parties. When a person knows they are correctly turned out, even if the clothes aren’t their favorites, they relax.
Every one of those invitations that Harry flicked into the back of the mailboxes specified the dress code. Not one of them said, “Come as you are.” No one wanted to see you as you are. Much too scary. They wanted to see you at your best.
Harry, born and bred in these parts, from families that arrived here in the early seventeenth century, received almost every invitation possible. She loved parties, but the dress tortured her. Her limited funds were spent on her farm.
No one could hold a candle to Big Mim or BoomBoom in the turnout department, but Harry looked okay. Big Mim could and did pop over to Milan and Paris. She ran ahead of the fashion curve. BoomBoom preferred shopping in New York, knowing just where to find all the bargains south of Houston Street. Nor was she averse to tromping through Bergdorf Goodman.
When Harry began to look a little tatty, Susan Tucker would drag her to Tyson’s Corner—not Milan, Paris, or New York, but Nordstrom’s was at Tyson’s Corner and that was a plus. The real reason Harry allowed herself to be yanked up to Occupied Virginia—as Crozians thought of northern Virginia—was so she could then drive over to Middleburg and visit her Smith College friends, a few of whom had settled there. It should be noted, those Smithies had also married quite well.
Alone, Harry had finally popped the last letter in the box when she noticed Big Mim’s sleek Bentley Turbo R glide past the post office. Seated next to Mim was the unmistakable profile of one of the most beautiful women of her or any generation, Alicia Palmer.
Harry heard the deep motor purr as the Bentley rolled around the back of the post office. Big Mim was just as happy coming in the back door as the front. She rapped on the back door.
Federal regulations specified that this back door should be locked, but life in a small town and in a small post office challenges such restrictions. Harry usually kept the back door unlocked because Miranda came in that way. Rob Collier, if the day’s drop was large, would pull in the back alley instead of the front. If she counted all the times she would need to open the back door, it just made more sense to keep it unlocked. Since the front-door parking lot was small and often full, friends just naturally came ’round the back way.
“Harry, dear,” Big Mim cooed as she stepped through the door. “Alicia’s home for a good long stay.”
Alicia extended her hand to Harry. “It’s been a long time between visits. You look as fresh and fit as ever.”
Big Mim grumbled, “A summa cum laude from Smith sorting mail. Alicia, encourage her to better herself.”
“Don’t pay the least bit of attention to her, Harry. She always was a dictator.” Alicia squeezed Harry’s hand.
At this Mim laughed. Most people were scared to death of the powerful woman. When someone teased her as Alicia did, it actually delighted her.
“You look gorgeous, Miss Palmer. We wish you’d move back to St. James permanently.”
“Must have had the world’s best face-lift,” Pewter cynically commented.
“She really is stunning,” Mrs. Murphy said. “Who cares how she does it?”
“I think Mom looks stunning.” The corgi stoutly stuck up for Harry.
“Oh, Tucker, that is so sweet, but Mom has all the fashion sense of a praying mantis.” Pewter hopped on the divider counter to be closer to the humans.
The corgi defiantly curled back her upper lip. “You say! Well, she has a wonderful face and the best body. Not an ounce of fat on her, and if she wanted to wear expensive clothes she’d look better than anyone else.” Tucker then sat next to Harry’s leg, refusing to even cast a glance at the fat gray cat.
“. . . the most extraordinary thing.” Big Mim finished her sentence on Harry finding Mary Pat’s class ring. She reached for Harry’s hand.
Harry held up her hand for Alicia, then thought it better to slip off the ring so the retired movie star could study it.
Alicia placed the gold ring in her palm. “She was so proud of her high school.” She peered inside at the inscription, M.P.R., 1945.
“Would you like the ring, Miss Palmer?” Harry spontaneously offered it.
Alicia looked into Harry’s eyes, her own violet eyes filling with tears. “You’re very kind.” She took a deep breath. “You keep it, Harry. Mary Pat bestowed upon me wealth worth a raj’s ransom—that and a wealth of wisdom. I learned so much from that woman.” She gently handed the ring back to Harry. “She died much too young.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wished her dead?” Harry inquired.
“No. I was the prime suspect. Obviously, I didn’t kill her. I never would have killed her. God, what an awful, awful time.” Alicia noticed Pewter and Mrs. Murphy on the counter. “Still working at the post office, I see.”
“Yes, couldn’t do it without them. Tucker, too,” Harry answered.
Alicia looked down at two bright eyes looking back up. “If dogs can fetch the paper, why not deliver the mail?” She laughed.
“Harry, dear, come over tonight. I’m giving an impromptu dinner party for Alicia. I browbeat her into it.”
“Now, Mim, you didn’t have to browbeat.”
“Harry, it’s a hen party.” Big Mim smiled. “Wear something cool.” The elegant small woman then said to Alicia in a stage whisper, “If Harry presses her jeans and white T-shirt, that’s formal.”
Harry laughed at her as well as at herself. “Oh, I’ll tart myself up.”
The two left by the back door just as Sugar Thierry lurched through the front door. He walked to his mailbox but kept inserting his key into the box to the left of his. “Harry, Harry, this damned key won’t work.”
Harry leaned over the counter and noticed sweat running down
Sugar’s face. “One box to the right.”
He slipped his key in, turned it, and the heavy brass door with the glass front flipped open. “Right.” He pulled out his mail, dropping some of it, then he bent over, picked it up. He walked to the long table in the middle of the entry area to sort his mail. He’d study an envelope, throw it in the trash, then retrieve it.
“He’s not right,” Mrs. Murphy observed.
“Maybe he’s hung over,” Pewter opined.
“We’d smell it,” Tucker sagely noted. “I smell his scent, though. It’s heavy because he’s sweating.”
Then Sugar gave up on sorting his mail, glanced up at Harry, and realized she was staring at him. He burst into sobs. “Harry, Harry, I can’t stop thinking about Barry. There’s evil in this world. Terrible evil.” He choked back another wrenching sob. “Nureyev, Nijinsky, Fred Astaire.” He rattled off the names of three thoroughbred sires.
“Sugar, are you all right?” asked Harry, who knew perfectly well he wasn’t. “Let me get you a Coke, or how about tea?”
His eyes, glazed, widened. “No, I’m fine. I’m fine.” He bolted out the front door.
Harry hurried to the phone, dialing Dr. Hayden McIntire in the office.
The receptionist, Frances, picked up the phone. “Oh, hi, Harry.” Harry had a distinctive alto voice. Once heard it was not forgotten. “What’s up?”
“Is Doc there?”
“If you mean Hayden, no. He’s out on the golf course with David Wheeler, Cindy Chandler, and BoomBoom. He’s got Cindy as his partner. He just might keep that money in his pocket.” Frances laughed. “What do you need?”
“It’s not me. It’s Sugar Thierry. I think he’s sick. Bad sick.”
“Oh, Bill’s here. Let me page him.”
A few moments passed and Bill picked up the phone. “Hello, Harry. Frances said you were concerned about Sugar Thierry.”
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