“I did, sorta.”
“Well, Harry, what about the women, uh, while you were married? Those were your enemies, not me.”
“Did I ever say I was emotionally mature?” Harry crossed her arms over her chest as Tucker followed the conversation closely.
“No.”
“So.”
“So what?”
“So, I could see you. I couldn’t see those affairettes he was having while we were married. I got mad at you for all of them, I guess. I never said I was right to get mad at you but I did.”
“You’re still mad at me.”
“No, I’m not.” Harry half lied.
“You certainly never go out of your way to be nice to me.”
“I’m cordial.”
“Harry, we’re both born and raised in Virginia. You know exactly what I mean.” And BoomBoom was right. One could be correct but cool. Virginians practiced cutting one another with precise elegance.
“Yeah, well, since we were both raised in Virginia, we know how to avoid subjects like this, BoomBoom. I have no desire to explore my emotions with you or anybody.”
“Exactly!”
Harry squinted at the triumphant face. “Don’t start with me.”
“We’ve got to grow beyond our conditioning. We’ve got to cast aside or break through our repression. You can’t hold your emotions in, they’ll eat away at you until you become ill or dry up like some people I could mention.”
“I’m very healthy.”
“You’re also not twenty anymore. You’ve been holding these emotions in for too long.”
“Now, look.” Harry’s voice oozed reasonableness. “What you call repressed, I call disciplined. I am not teetering on the brink of self-annihilation. I don’t drink. I don’t take drugs. I don’t even smoke. I like my life. I’d like a little more money maybe, but I like my life.”
“You’re in denial.”
“Denial is a river in Egypt.”
“Harry,” her voice lowered, “that joke’s got gray hairs. You don’t fool me with your quips. I want you to come with me to Lifeline. It’s changed my life, absolutely. Six months ago I would never have been able to approach you, I would have held on to my own anger, but now I want to reach out. I want us to be friends. Lifeline teaches you to take responsibility for yourself. For your own emotions. It’s a structured process, and I know you like structure. You can learn these things, learn new ways to be with people in a group that will encourage you. You’ll feel safe. Trust me, Harry, it will make you happy.”
Trusting BoomBoom was the last thing Harry would ever do. “I’m not the type.”
“I’ll even pay for it.”
“What?”
“I mean it. I’ll pay for it. I feel so bad that you’re still mad at me. I want us to be friends. Please consider my offer.”
“I—” Harry, caught off guard, stuttered, “I, I—Jesus, BoomBoom.”
“Think about it. I know you’ll find a thousand reasons not to do this, but why don’t you take out a pad of paper and list the pros and cons? You might find more reasons to engage in Lifeline than you know.”
“Uh—I’ll think about it.”
“One other little thing.”
“Oh, God.”
“Think about the fact that you’re still in love with Fair.”
“I am not! I love him but I’m not in love with him.”
“Lifeline.” BoomBoom smiled seraphically, moving off.
Harry breathed deeply, conscious of her heart pounding. Jim Sanburne’s midnight-blue Land Rover hove into view. She collected herself.
“News?” Larry inquired.
“Clean as a whistle,” Harry said.
“Are you all right?” the doctor asked, observing her flushed face and rapid breathing.
“I’m fine. How long till the next race?”
“Half hour. Just about,” Jim answered her.
“I need a co—cola.”
“You need something,” Larry joked. “You’re breathing like a freight train. Why don’t you come to my office Monday? How long’s it been since you had a checkup?”
“Larry, I’m fine. I had a little tête-à-tête with BoomBoom.”
“Say no more.” He smiled and as the two men drove off, Jim said, “Did she say tit a tat?”
“No.” Larry laughed loudly. “Jim, you’re just a redneck with money.”
Jim grunted. “Sounded like body parts to me, good buddy.”
2
“Mom, I’m hungry.”
“Tucker, stop yapping, you’re getting on my nerves.”
“You’ve had a ham biscuit and I haven’t had anything since breakfast.” The aroma from the food tents drove Tucker to distraction.
Harry checked her watch. Twenty minutes. She dashed into a tent, grabbed fried chicken, a small container of coleslaw, another one of beans, one cold Coke, and a big cup of hot tea with a plastic cover on it.
As Harry threaded her way through the crowd, she passed the jockeys’ tent. A commotion stopped her. The flap of the tent opened to reveal colorful silks on hangers dangling from a rope strung across the tent. Ace bandages, caps, and socks were tossed on low benches.
Nigel, close-cropped black hair gleaming in the sun, charged out. Chark Valiant charged out after him.
“Leave him alone,” Addie called after her brother. She opened the tent flap, sticking her head through. She hadn’t finished changing and couldn’t come all the way out.
“Shut up, Adelia.” Chark pushed her head back behind the flaps, then twirled on the young man. “You flaming phony—you don’t fool me. If my sister weren’t a Valiant, you wouldn’t give her the time of day.”
Addie popped her head back out of the tent as a florid Mickey Townsend bore down on the scene from one direction.
Arthur Tetrick leaned out of the top of the two-story finish-line tower. “Mickey, don’t—” He shut up, realizing he’d cause a bigger scene.
The jockey kept walking away from Chark, who grabbed him by the right shoulder, spinning him around.
“Stop it.” Nigel’s voice was clipped and furious.
“You stay away from my sister.”
“She’s old enough to make her own decisions.”
Chark shook his finger in Nigel’s face. “You want her money, you lying sack of shit.”
“Bugger off,” Nigel growled.
Chark hauled off to hit him but Mickey Townsend grabbed Chark from behind, pulling him back. “Settle this later.”
Chark twisted his head to see Mickey as Nigel returned to Addie, who’d stuck her head out of the tent again. He slipped into the tent with her as three other jockeys slipped out.
“Takes one gold digger to know another.” Chark struggled.
Mickey, square-built and powerful, continued dragging him away. “Shove it.”
Arthur, who had hurried down from the tower, approached the two men. “Mickey, I’ll take over from here.”
“Suit yourself.” Mickey unleashed his iron grip on the young man.
“Thank you for defusing an embarrassing situation.” Arthur grabbed Chark’s elbow.
“Yeah, sure.” Mickey inclined his handsome, crew-cut head, then ambled back to the paddock.
“Charles, this will not do,” Arthur sternly admonished him.
“I’ll kill that creep.”
Arthur rolled his eyes heavenward. “The more resistance you offer, the more irresistible he becomes. Besides, Adelia’s a baby. She’s not going to date men you find attractive.”
“I don’t find men attractive,” Chark sassed back.
“A slip of the tongue. You know what I mean.” Arthur draped his arm over Chark’s shoulder. “Calm down. Ignore this absurd romance. If you do, it will die of its own accord.” The horses were now in the paddock. “Tell you what, after the races I have to fax in the paperwork to National from the big house. Take everyone maybe an hour. How about if I meet you at the Keswick Club for a drink? We can talk this over then. Okay? Then we’ll loo
k in on Mim’s party or she’ll banish us to Siberia.”
“Okay,” Chark replied, trying to settle his churning emotions. “But I just don’t get it.”
Arthur chuckled. “That’s what makes the world go ’round. They don’t think like we do—”
Chark interrupted. “They don’t think.”
“Be that as it may, men and women see the world quite differently. I’ve got to climb back up to my perch. Keswick Club at eight.”
“Yeah.” Chark smiled at the man who had become his surrogate father, then headed to the paddock where Addie, already up on a rangy bay called Chattanooga Choo, ignored his approach.
Nigel, in orange silks with three royal blue hoops, rode a striking chestnut beside her as they walked the horses around.
Chark sighed deeply, deciding not to give his sister instructions for the third race. She usually ignored them anyway.
Harry jogged back to her position, nodding to friends as she weaved her way through the dense throng. As they spied the official’s badge, they waved her on, a few calling that they’d drop by to see her. She wondered what it was about romantic energy or sexual energy that made everybody crazy, producing a scene like the one she had just witnessed.
She returned to the east gate jump, sat down, and opened her tea. A plume of steam spiraled upward.
“Mother!” Tucker’s voice rose.
“Beggar.” Harry tore off a piece of hot chicken which Tucker gobbled. “Fat beggar.”
“I’m not a beggar, but I can’t reach the tables and you can. And I’m not fat. Fat is Pewter.” Tucker aptly described the gray cat who worked at Market Shiflett’s convenience store next to the post office in Crozet. Pewter couldn’t come to the races either, doubling Tucker’s supreme satisfaction.
The announcer called out post time. Harry started eating as fast as Tucker. She hadn’t realized how famished she was, but she’d been up since five that morning with only a few bites to sustain her.
Each morning Harry fed her three horses, then turned them out into the pasture. She left marshmallows for the possum who lived in the hayloft. Then she’d feed her pets . . . but sometimes she forgot to feed herself. Mrs. Murphy, apart from a good breakfast, had a huge bowl of crunchies in mixed flavors. Usually Harry left open the animal door that she had installed in her back kitchen door. The screen door off the screened-in porch, which ran the length of the kitchen, was easy for Mrs. Murphy and Tucker to push open. But this morning she had closed up the animal door, deciding she’d keep Mrs. Murphy in the house since the cat had been known to follow the car. By the time she left to fetch Mira, she’d put in three hours of hard work on the farm.
The trumpet call to the third race made Harry eat even faster. She rinsed the food down with tea and Coke.
“Got any left?”
“Tucker, get your nose out of that cup.”
“Just curious.”
Harry brushed herself off, picked up her debris, and stood at her position.
She heard a crack, then a double shot fired. False start. Those wore on the nerves of riders and horses. The announcer called out the renewed lineup. “Horses in position. They’re off!” The third race, the Noel Laing Stakes, two and a half miles over brush, was the second biggest race of the day, with a purse of $30,000—60 percent to the winner.
The crowd yelped in anticipation. The horses charged out of sight and Harry heard the rumble of hooves, the ground shaking like Jell-O. The leader, a bright bay, was way ahead of the others. Every one cleared her fence, although one horse faltered. The jockey pulled up, his green silks with a blue cross already pasted with sweat to his body.
Harry knew this race was two and a half miles long. The horses would be around again in a few minutes. She ran out to the jockey, Coty Lamont.
“You okay?”
“He’s come up lame. I’ll walk up on the inside rail.” Coty dismounted, careful to hold on to the reins as Harry held the horse by the bridle. “Vet’s up there.”
“Blown tendon, I’m afraid, Coty.” Harry hoped she was wrong, because tendon injuries took a long time to heal and the risk of reinjury on a bowed tendon was high.
“Yeah.” Coty touched his crop to his cap by way of thanks. He slowly walked the gelding across the course and up the inside rail as Harry raced back to her post.
Seconds later the field came around for another lap. All jumped clean.
As Harry waited for the announcer’s report on the victor, she saw Will and Linda Forloines walking down the grassy slope toward her. They had in tow a man all but wrapped in Barbour.
Linda called out, “Hello, Harry.”
“Hi.” Harry waved to both of them. No reason to be impolite, much as she disliked the couple. She knew instantly the fellow in country drag had to be their soon-to-be-fleeced Yankee employer. She also knew that Will and Linda were making a point of showing him they knew everyone in the steeplechase world. Linda, more cunning than Will, wouldn’t stop to talk to many people since she knew they would not warmly welcome her. The New Jersey gentleman wouldn’t realize she was not on friendly terms since everyone would be polite. They turned and walked in the other direction as the Land Rover drove toward Harry. Linda ducked her head at the sight of Jim Sanburne.
Jim and Larry pulled up again. This time Mim, in the backseat, hopped out. She hadn’t seen Will and Linda. The men drove on.
“I want to watch the fourth race from here. I can’t bear listening to BoomBoom tell me about spiced cream cheese on endive for another second! It’s either endives or Lifeline.” She twirled her wool cape behind her.
“This fence is too far away for most people to walk.” Harry glanced down the rail. “Uh, but not too far for Greg Satterwaite. I see he’s working the outside rail. I guess he’ll be going to the outside barns next. God forbid he should miss anyone.”
“Don’t tell me,” Mim exclaimed. “Has the good senator seen me?”
“Not yet. He’s busy pumping hands and smiling big.” Harry pulled a huge fake smile as demonstration.
Mim scurried behind one of the big trees. A telltale whiff of smoke would give her away should anyone be looking. Harry ignored Mim’s cheating; she knew Mim wasn’t supposed to smoke. Still, she wasn’t going to tell Mim what to do or what not to do.
“Hi, there. How are you?” Satterwaite held out his hand, already swollen.
Harry suppressed an evil urge to squeeze it. “Morning, Senator.”
“I surely hope I may count on your vote. This is a tough election for me.”
“You can,” Harry replied with little enthusiasm. She hated politics.
A jet of smoke shot upward from behind the tree.
“Thank you, thank you for your support.” He smiled, capped teeth gleaming, then moved on to his next victim.
A few moments later Mim sneaked out from behind the tree. “Whew! Saved. When a politician knows you have money they’ll talk until they’re blue in the face. Save us from our government!”
“We’re supposed to be a democracy. Save us from ourselves.” Harry laughed, then noticed the cigarette still in Mim’s fingers; it was burning down to a stub.
Mim stomped it into the ground. “Don’t tell Jim.”
“I won’t.” But she was surprised to see Mim gambling with her health after her bout with breast cancer.
Harry checked her program. “You’ve got Royal Danzig in this race. Congratulations on the first division of the Montpelier Cup, by the way. Ransom Mine took this fence with so much daylight he was flying.”
“If he stays sound, he’ll be one of the great ones, like Victorian Hill.” Mim mentioned a wonderful horse, a star in the early ’90s.
“Who was the greatest ’chaser you ever saw?”
Mim replied without hesitation. “Battleship, by Man-O’-War out of Quarantine, bred in 1927. To see that horse in Mrs. Scott’s pale blue silks with the pink-and-silver cross was something I’ll never forget. I was tiny then, but it made such an impression. This place was hopping be
cause Mrs. Scott was in her prime. To have seen Battleship, that was heaven.”
“What about Marylou Valiant’s Zinger?” Harry remembered the leggy chestnut colt.
“If he hadn’t injured his stifle, yes, I think he could have been very fine indeed.” She looked up at the sky. “I hope she’s up there watching today. People will say I hired Adelia and Charles out of affection. Granted that may have played some small part, but the truth is they’re good . . . and getting better. And the difference in the stable since that dreadful couple is gone!” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You know it was a drip-drip like Chinese water torture after Marylou disappeared. The day I admitted to myself she must be dead was one of the darkest days of my life. And I promised to do what I could for her children.”
“You more than kept your promise.”
“The hard work was done. Marylou and Charley did that. When Chark went to Cornell and Addie to Foxcroft, I saw them at holidays and special school functions. What was hard was knowing when to be firm.” She laughed at herself. “Now with Marilyn I never had trouble with that, but . . . well, their loss had been so profound. I sometimes wonder if I should have been tougher, especially with Addie.”
Before Harry could say anything, they both heard the shot. Mim moved back. Harry trained her eyes on the roll of the land where she would first see the field.
Again that eerie rumble, and then the horses, packed tightly together, surged into view. Mim’s purple silks were in the middle of the pack, a good place for this point in a race of just over two miles. Goggles over her eyes, Addie concentrated on the jump. Harry listened to the grunts and shouts of the jockeys as they cleared the brush, the whap-whap and whoosh as the hind hooves touched the greenery. And then they were gone, raging on, slipping into the dip of the land, and charging uphill again for the next fence.
Mim strained to hear the announcer call out positions. As they cleared Harry’s jump, one horse in the rear of the pack took off too early and crashed through the jump, stumbling on the other side but recovering.
Harry watched the horse, which wasn’t injured but was tiring badly. “Dammit, why doesn’t he pull up?”
“Because it’s Linda Forloines. She’ll drive a horse to death.”
Murder, She Meowed Page 3