Cat on the Scent (5 page)

7

The longer days helped Harry finish her chores when she returned home from work. She pulled Johnny Pop, her 1958 John Deere tractor—as good as the day it was built—into the shed.

When she cut the choke the exhaust always popped—one loud crack—which made her laugh. She cleaned stalls, throwing the muck into the manure spreader. Since it was raining she'd have to wait until the ground dried before spreading anything on it.

Harry always put her equipment back in the shed. Her dad had told her that was the only way to do it. Stuff would last for decades if well built and well cared for.

She missed her father and mother. They were lively, hard-working people. As she grew up she realized what good people they really were. They'd had a German shepherd, King, when she was in her teens. King lived to an advanced age and when her mother died, King followed. Harry told herself that one day she'd get another German shepherd but she hadn't gotten around to it, maybe because a shepherd would remind her of her mother and make the loss even more apparent.

Tucker had been given to her as a six-week-old puppy by Susan, one of the best corgi breeders in Virginia. Harry didn't like small dogs but she learned to love the bouncing, tough corgi. Then she decided if she brought in a shepherd puppy it would upset Tucker—another reason to procrastinate.

Actually, the shepherd would upset the cats more. Tucker, outnumbered, might have been happy for another canine on the place.

She dashed back to the barn, rain sliding down the collar of her ancient Barbour. “I've got to rewax this thing.” Water was seeping through the back of the coat.

The phone rang in the tack room. “Hello.”

“Harry, Ridley Kent here. I've agreed to help Archie canvass landowners. I'm looking at a topo map and a flat map. You've got a creek in your western boundary.”

“Yep.”

“Strong creek?”

“In spring, but even in summer it never dries out completely. The water comes down from Little Yellow Mountain.”

“What about springs?”

“There's one at the eastern corner.”

“North or south?”

“Northeastern.”

“Have you ever had your well run dry in a drought?”

“No. Neither did Mom and Dad, and they moved to this farm in the forties.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” She hung up the phone.

“Mother, there's an underground spring in the depression in the cornfield,”
Tucker told her.
“I can hear it.”

Harry rubbed the dog's soft fur. “I don't have any treaties on me.”

The horses, munching hay in their stalls, lifted their heads when Mrs. Murphy jumped on the stall divider from the hayloft. Pewter, on the tack trunk, her favorite spot, watched her nimble friend. She could jump like that if she wanted to but she never wanted to; it jarred her bones.

“Simon's found a quarter,”
Murphy announced.

“Don't tell,”
a tiny voice complained.

“I don't want your quarter,”
Tucker called up as the possum's beady little eyes peered over the hayloft ledge.

Harry looked up at him. “Evening, Simon.”

He blinked, then scurried back to his nest. Simon wouldn't show himself at first but over time he'd learned to trust Harry. That didn't mean he was going to talk to her. You had to be careful about humans.

The rain pounded down.

Harry checked the barometer in the tack room. The needle swung over to stormy. She walked up and down the aisle. She'd filled each water bucket, put out hay, put new salt cubes in the bottoms of their feed buckets. But Harry liked to double-check everything. Then she unplugged the coffeemaker in the tack room, folding up the cord and slipping it in the top drawer of the tall, narrow chest of drawers. She kept bits in those drawers as well as hoof-picks, small flat things. She'd learned her lesson when the mice ruined her first coffeepot by chewing through the cord. They had electrocuted themselves but they could have started a fire in the barn. Since then she ran light cords through a narrow PVC tube that she attached to the wall. This was the only exposed cord.

Harry also kept fire extinguishers at both ends of the barn plus one in the hayloft. Right now she was in less danger of fire than of being blown off the surface of the earth.

She paused at the open doorway. “You know, I'd better close the barn doors.” She walked to the other end and pulled the doors closed. Then she returned to the end of the barn facing the house. “Kids, you with me?”

Three little heads looked up at her.
“Yep.”

She pulled the barn doors at that end closed, with a sliver of room for her to squeeze out. Then she ran like mad for the screened porch door. The two cats and the dog jetted ahead of her.

“I hate to get wet,”
Pewter yowled.

“Slowpoke.”
Mrs. Murphy pulled open the door.

“You guys are smart.” Harry admired her brood.

The animals shook on the screened porch. Harry removed her coat and shook it, too. “I swear—when it dries I will rewax it.”

She lifted a thick-piled towel off a peg, kneeling down to dry off the animals.

Apart from the rain drumming on the tin roof it was a quiet night. She made herself a fried-egg-and-pickle sandwich, fed the animals, then sat down to read
The Life of Cézanne
but couldn't keep her eyes open. Low-pressure systems made her sleepy.

Mrs. Murphy listened to the rain.
“As soon as it dries we're going over to the old barn.”

8

An open one-pound can of gunpowder sat on the butcher-block kitchen table. Paper cartridges, laid out in rows like tiny trapezoidal tents, covered one edge of the table. Ridley Kent bent his handsome head over the litter. Determined to outauthenticate everyone, he was rolling his own cartridges. It wasn't as easy to roll sixty grains of 2F black powder as he had anticipated.

Rolling with both hands, he then fumbled with the tie-off. Outside the rain beat down the kitchen window. It was a filthy night.

“Damn it to hell!” he exploded when the paper opened, spilling gunpowder over the table. Now he'd have to count out grains again.

It occurred to him to line up sixty grains behind every piece of paper. That served the purpose, too, of calming him down so he wouldn't botch his next tie-off job.

Archie Ingram came through the door, sending the carefully cut paper sailing around the room.

“I could kill you, Archie.”

Archie hung his raincoat on the doorknob to drip. He surveyed the white papers, then knelt down, picking them up. “Get a grip.”

“Do you know how long I've been sitting here with these cursed things?”

“Half the day?”

“Two hours. It took one hour just to cut the paper.”

“Right weight. You've done your homework. After all, you could have cheated and bought ready-mades.”

“Not me. Plenty of others do.”

“Here, let me show you how to do this.” Archie sat down, took a flat knife, and scraped the sixty grains into the paper, rolling it so a tiny piece, the longest piece, stuck over the final edge. He tied off the end. “Where'd you get the dowel?”

“Made it.” Ridley referred to the wooden dowel, about half an inch with a head cut like a bullet head or minnie ball. Rolling the paper on this wooden dowel made the task more congenial but Ridley's fingers, none too steady at any time of day, still couldn't tie off the cartridge.

“And I suppose you'll go as an officer?”

“Since I'm one of the few who can afford the gear, yes,” came Ridley's testy reply.

“Don't even think about giving an order. You give enough in real life.”

“What did officers do?” Ridley questioned, half laughing.

“Die by the truckload.”

“I've no intention of doing that. Anyway, the Union men fire over our heads and we fire over theirs. Aren't the rules never to point a firearm directly at your opponent, and not to ram a real ball down your rifle?”

“Yes. But don't give orders. You're new to this and even though you're a—”

“Colonel.”

“How perfect,” Archie slyly said. “You don't give orders. You walk by the side of your men, on the front corner.”

“I'll ride.”

“Ridley, you can't ride a hair of a horse. Walk or be an artillery officer.”

“All I have to do is walk along. I think I can manage that.”

“Listen, bonehead, Fair Haristeen's worried about riding and he can
ride
. None of the horses are accustomed to gunfire. You'll walk.”

“But I've got yellow trim on my uniform and a golden sash for my sword,” Ridley protested.

“Light blue. Infantry. Don't make an ass of yourself. Take this back to Mrs. Woo and have her sew on blue facings. Her shop is that little building behind Rio Road Shopping Center. Just do what I tell you. I know what I'm talking about and I don't want to see you make a fool of yourself.”

Ridley wanted to say, “You're making a fool out of your own self. Why worry about me?”

Archie droned on. “We're going to shut up H. Vane. The man thinks he can run the world. Pompous limey! He's upset because we're filling the rank with men who aren't true reenactors. I said we had to do it. The public will be in attendance and we need this battle to warm up for the Wilderness reenactment.”

“Still bodies in that Wilderness.” Ridley shuddered.

“There's so many bodies in the ground in Virginia, you can't plow without hitting one, especially around Richmond.”

“Maybe that's why our crops grow so well.”

Archie narrowed his greenish eyes. “You're not taking this seriously.”

“Seriously enough to spend good money.”

“Hell, Ridley, if you aren't throwing your money away on women . . .”

“You've got room to talk?” A thick auburn eyebrow jutted upward.

Crimson washed over Archie's face. He blushed easily. “A gentleman doesn't discuss those matters.”

“Who said we were gentlemen?” Ridley laughed.

“We were raised gentlemen even if we can't always be gentlemen.” A guilty conscience haunted the county commissioner.

“Archie, one of these days you're going to get caught, and if your wife doesn't kill you somebody else will.” A half-smile gave Ridley a rakish air. “You're a Casanova in disguise.”

“What's the disguise?” Archie liked the description more than he cared to admit.

“Pug ugly.” Ridley laughed.

Archie breathed in, thought a second, then laughed himself. He rolled another cartridge. “Charles Bronson wasn't classically handsome.”

“Charles Bronson's ass would make your Sunday face,” Ridley teased, for Arch was good-looking.

“Ridley, you really know how to hurt a guy.” Archie's gloom lifted a bit.

Ridley could make anyone laugh. His infectious spirit, too often fueled by booze, made him a boon companion. Women adored him. The compliment was returned.

Ridley got up, returning with a three-banded Enfield rifle. Four hundred and eighty dollars. Was I robbed?”

“No, that's the going price.”

He polished the brass on the musket.

“If you're behind a line of infantry, you hold your rifle so that the first and second bands of your weapon are over the ear of one of your men.” He pointed to the part of the barrel. “That way no one will get a singed ear.”

They worked quietly, then Ridley, voice low, said, “Arch, if you don't mend some fences you're going to lose your commission seat. Mim's in a rage.”

Archie flared his nostrils. “She is?”

“What did you expect? You acted like a jerk at the commission meeting.” He smiled to soften his words. “You didn't seem like yourself.”

Archie shrugged. “I'm sick of being the bad guy in the county-commission meetings.”

“You're only the bad guy to the developers. Plenty of people think you're doing a fine job. No one understands why you're so emotional about the reservoir, though. I'm on your side, Arch, that's why I'm telling you what others won't tell you. You need to mend fences,” he repeated.

“H. Vane is behind this.”

“He may be behind it but I'm telling you Mim's in front of it.” Ridley put his cartridges in stacks of ten. “And why did you deny Vane-Tempest's request for a zoning variance last winter? Establishing a quarry on the north side of his land is a good idea. No one will see it and it will create jobs.”

“He needed better plans.”

“Come on, Arch, his plan included a responsible solution to reclaim the pits. It was environmentally progressive.” Ridley lowered his voice. “Are you on the take?” Archie's jaw fell slack. Ridley pressed. “That's what some people are saying. I'll never tell but I'd sure like to know because you're acting like you're a nickel short of a dime these days. People think hard-line environmental groups are slipping you money. Crazy. But they're talking like that.”

Archie got up, heading for the door. Ridley ran after him. “Arch! Come on, Arch. I'm trying to help.”

“Help? You accuse me of betraying the public's confidence!”

“I don't want you to lose what you've worked so hard to get. Come on, sit down.”

Archie rejoined him. “I am not on the take.”

“Okay.” Ridley paused. “Hey, did you hear that Tommy Van Allen is missing?”

“He's not missing. He's probably in Santa Fe or Buenos Aires, for God's sake. That is the most self-indulgent man I've ever met.”

“Rick Shaw called me. They're treating it as a missing-persons case. His plane is missing, too.”

“I'm glad we never pitched in and bought that twin engine. I don't know how I could have fallen for that.”

“It was fun . . . our flying club, but I don't get the power charge from flying that you guys do.”

“At least you could afford it.” Archie absentmindedly polished the brass bands on the rifle.

“Tommy and I already knew how to fly, of course, courtesy of the U.S. Air Force. And H. Vane learned in the RAF. Maybe being up in the air again reminded me too much of my service days or maybe I really am up in the air. It was too close for comfort.”

“Blair sure learned quickly. I thought a pretty guy like that would chicken out. I'd rather he had dropped out instead of you.”

“I can't warm to that guy.” Ridley offered Archie a beer. He passed. “He's not cold-blooded but he's not hot-blooded either. Like last fall, when he had that affairette with Sarah Vane-Tempest—”

Arch interrupted, “He did not.”

“The hell he didn't. They were discreet about it, that's all.”

“I can't believe she'd go to bed with Blair Bainbridge,” Archie said with disgust.

“Didn't last long. Maybe he got bored with her or she got bored with him. Then, too, I wouldn't want H. Vane breathing down my neck.”

“What's H. Vane expect, marrying a woman half his age?”

Ridley walked to the fridge. “Drink a beer, buddy, you look peaked.”

“Huh? Okay.” Archie took the cold beer, peeling back the pop-top. “I know I've been irritable. Too much work, Ridley. Just too much. My wife complains that she never sees me and since she only complains when she does see me, I don't want to go home.” He drank a long, slow swallow. “Being a county commissioner can sometimes, well, let me put it this way—if there's a buffoon, an asshole, or a certifiable psycho, not only will I meet them campaigning they'll show up in my office. And this reservoir stuff brings them all out of the woodwork.”

“Forget about it for a night. I'll make popcorn. We can tell lies about the women we've conquered.”

“Sounds good to me.” Archie drained the beer can, got up, and fetched another.