Sour Puss Page 11

  “Hell of a lot of money.”

  “Growing the perfect grape is not for the fainthearted.” Arch laid it on the line.

  Rollie leaned over his desk, his weight on his knuckles. “For your information, I’ve got a set of balls. Do you think I’m going to fold my hands because of some stupid spores?”

  “No.” Arch measured his words. “Nature is a brutal business partner sometimes. That’s why I think spreading the risk is the way to go. The more land you have under the umbrella, the better off you are.”

  “Mmm, I’ll buy land if it’s necessary, but I’d rather buy up someone else’s yield. Let them do the work.”

  “Kind of like a portfolio, gotta balance it out.” Arch nodded. “The Ridomil should do it, but I’ve got to apply it about every twenty-one days depending on rainfall.”

  Rollie dropped back into his seat, the leather squeaking. He was about to dismiss Arch and get back to his work when a nasty idea popped into his overheated brain. “Could someone do this to us?”

  “Infect our vines?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would someone want to do that?”

  “Competition. Drive me down or out.”

  “I don’t think anyone would do that, because of the danger of the spores spreading to their own vineyards. They can be carried on the wind during their release times.”

  “Could be someone who isn’t making wine but who hates my guts.”

  “That would be one dead person. He’d have to be pretty stupid once the rest of the growers found out.”

  “But is it possible to infect other people’s vines or crops?”

  Arch rubbed his chin. “Yes. Don’t think downy mildew would be the way to go, but if someone was really determined, yes, I expect they could damage grapes or any other crop, really.

  “If an employee were disgruntled, he could spray water without mixing in Ridomil. That would be one way to do it. You’d think your vines were protected but they’d be vulnerable.”

  “A crooked person could sell infected stock,” Rollie said.

  Arch shifted his weight from one foot to another. “There’s all kinds of ways to screw somebody.”

  Rollie twirled his thumbs around each other. “Professor Forland didn’t say he saw anything.”

  “There wasn’t enough leaf when he was here. There’s always something ready to get your grapes. Birds, deer, foxes, too. At least the foxes just eat the lower ones. The birds and deer can clean you out.”

  “Can’t we cover the clusters when they develop?”

  “No.” Arch shook his head. “You have to go to the canopy and you have to keep spraying. Shoot the deer or put up deer fences. There’s no other way.”

  “All right.” Rollie waved his hand, dismissing Arch abruptly as his phone rang.

  Arch stepped outside into the high golden sunlight of early afternoon. It could have been worse. Maybe Rollie was learning to trust him a little. It made up in small measure for the sadness, anger, envy he felt when Harry drove away. She made him angry because she didn’t want to talk about anything to do with their affair. Typical Harry, just stuff the emotions. And she made him sad because he knew he’d never find another woman like Harry.

  17

  Low blue-steel clouds roiled over the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The dampness slithered into the bones as the temperature began to slide.

  Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker started their jaunt innocently enough. Harry was inspecting her new grapevines, since the word about downy mildew had passed quickly from grower to grower. Everything looked fine, the buds getting fuzzy and bright green. She then walked among the different types of sunflowers beginning their first great growth spurt. From there she checked her hay, then a back pasture with rich, rich alfalfa. Harry knew she could make good money on the alfalfa. She hopped the creek to walk the fields at the old Jones home place. Those pastures were enriched by the cattle Blair had kept. She put in orchard grass, alfalfa mix. She whistled while she worked. Young, healthy life was everywhere. She was on her way to the peach orchard, hoping all was well there.

  Much as the animals loved Harry, they did not share her passion for grass crops. Orchards proved more interesting. They looked forward to the sunflowers maturing because of the bees and the birds. Pewter had staked her corner of the Italian sunflower patch. She felt certain she could lure her nemesis, the blue jay, there. That was a long way off, but Pewter planned ahead. Meanwhile, the bird dive-bombed her with impunity.

  Bored with Harry’s bucolic rapture, they returned to the creek, walking upstream toward the edge of the Bland Wade tract. Potlicker Creek coursed through the tract, its clear sweet waters deep in parts.

  A doe leapt out. They chased it, their egos in excess of their abilities. Tired, the three sat down for a breather under a towering sycamore, little May apples covering the ground.

  “Think a cat has ever killed a deer?” Pewter asked.

  “I guess it’s possible,” Mrs. Murphy said.

  “Never.” Tucker panted still.

  “And why not, dwarf dog?” Pewter sassed.

  “Deer are too big and too fast.”

  “I can run as fast as a deer.” Mrs. Murphy lifted the fur on her spine.

  “For a short time, but the deer can go for miles and miles. You’re built to run really fast, then cut at a one-hundred-eighty-degree angle. You can do backflips over your pursuer, if you want. Deer can’t do that.” Tucker thought it best to flatter.

  “Ever notice how we hunt the same as foxes? Crouch, stay still, then pounce,” Pewter mused.

  “It’s because we hunt the same game.” Mrs. Murphy respected foxes even though she was known to quarrel loudly with a few.

  Tucker lifted her talented nose. “Storm coming.”

  Pewter inhaled deeply. “Fast.”

  “Let’s go home.” Mrs. Murphy started trotting south, down the foothills.

  The others fell in with her. As they broke cover, they beheld the ominous clouds cresting the mountains.

  “Damn!” Pewter hated thunderstorms, and the not-so-distant rumble gave her the shivers.

  They flew over the wildflower meadow, dipped into the woods on the other side. They were perhaps two miles from home, but the storm was closing fast. The wind hit twenty knots out of the blue. Bam, trees began to sway.

  No one spoke as they ran hard. They sped past the old black-birch stand—white birches couldn’t grow this far south—then darted through a pocket meadow.

  Mrs. Murphy skidded to a halt. “Hold up!”

  “Like hell.” Pewter kept running, turned her head, saw that Tucker had stopped, her nose down in the high weeds and grass.

  “Pewter, look for a den or something. We won’t make it home in time,” Tucker instructed the cat, whose pupils enlarged.

  Pewter didn’t protest. She wanted shelter. She dashed to the edge of the pocket meadow, circumventing it in hopes of finding any old den. “Nothing,” she shouted.

  “We’d better run, Tucker. There’s a den in the big rock outcropping a quarter mile further on. It’s our only chance,” Mrs. Murphy called over the wind.

  “Come on!” Pewter was really scared.

  The three ran just as huge raindrops smashed into freshly opened buds. Higher up, spring came later. There was no shelter from emerging leaves. Raindrops hit the ground like wet minié balls.

  They reached the boulders, now black and slick, jutting outward. They dashed inside the small cave.

  “No!” Pewter puffed up like a blowfish.

  Mrs. Murphy and Tucker stopped in their tracks, the rain firing like a fusillade outside. Too amazed to speak, they bumped into each other as they put on the brakes.

  Sitting on her haunches was a four-hundred-pound brown bear nursing two cubs, much as a human would nurse a baby. Her poor eyesight could make out the three small intruders. Her nose told her it was two cats and a dog.

  Pewter trembled. What was worse, the storm or the bear?

  The cubs,
born in January, had been the size of rats. Their amazing growth filled them out to the point where they looked like teddy bears. They blinked, trying to make out the little visitors.

  Mrs. Murphy bravely stood her ground. She realized the nursing mother couldn’t spring to reach her, and bears shambled anyway. Only at a trot or a run could they move along. The cat determined she had time to talk, and if conversation proved discomfiting, she’d brave the lightning.

  “Excuse us. We got caught in the storm.” A searing flash of lightning underscored her words.

  “I can see that.” The gravelly voice betrayed no anger.

  “Bears eat little mammals,” Pewter unhelpfully blurted out as she backed away.

  “I’d much rather eat berries and honey. Say, you don’t know where there are bees’ nests, do you? Close by. Can’t range too far with the children, although they’re growing like weeds.”

  “If you go down to where Potlicker Creek feeds into Harry’s Creek—that’s what I call it—right on that corner is a dead oak, really big, and the woodpeckers have been at it. Huge nest of bees.”

  “Goody.” She smiled, revealing fearsome teeth.

  “Wild bees are so aggressive. Don’t they hurt you?” Mrs. Murphy thought it best to keep her engaged in subjects interesting to her.

  “They can’t sting me. And I know how to protect my nose and eyes. Did you know that wild-bee honey is much stronger than that of domesticated bees? Now, I like both, I can tell you, but the wild-bee honey packs a powerful sweet punch.”

  “How’s fishing been?” The intrepid tiger cat remembered how much black bears like to fish.

  “Good. Crawfish haven’t been bad, either. Sometimes they taste like nuts. I just love them. I love to eat.”

  “Me, too.” Pewter relaxed a little, but she kept one ear cocked, hoping the storm was diminishing.

  “I can see that.” The bear laughed.

  “See or smell anything unusual lately?” Tucker asked, to keep the ball rolling.

  “Smelled a human at the peach orchard couple of nights ago. They have such a rancid odor, poor things. So easy to track and bring down. Not that I want to kill and eat humans, mind you; even if I did, think of the chemicals. They eat all that processed food. They’re a real health hazard.” She wrapped her arm around one of the twins, who’d stopped suckling, falling asleep on her breast. “I don’t mind humans. If they leave me alone, I leave them alone. The world is big enough for all.”

  The rain kept coming down, but the lightning and thunder moved down the ridge.

  “Do you have twins every year?” Tucker inquired.

  She laughed. “No, I only have a litter every other year. I couldn’t bear it,” she giggled at her own pun, “more often. Being a mother is an awful lot of work.”

  The rain softened.

  “Did you see what the human was doing the other night at the peach orchard?” Tucker asked.

  “Burying another human,” the bear simply said. It was no concern of hers. The three domestic animals looked at one another but said nothing.

  “Well, we’ll be on our way. Thank you for giving us shelter,” Mrs. Murphy politely said.

  “Yes, thank you.” Pewter and Tucker both remembered their manners.

  “My pleasure. I love my babies, but they prattle on. I enjoyed our conversation.”

  The three scampered out, running the whole way to the stable. Although soaked, once they scurried into the center aisle they were exhilarated.

  “We’ve got to go to the peach orchard,” Mrs. Murphy said.

  “Not in this rain,” Pewter replied.

  “She’s right, Murphy,” Tucker agreed.

  Harry tromped in from the opposite side, water coursing off her trusty old Barbour coat. “Where have you been? I looked all over for you all. I was scared to death.”

  Tucker ran up, sat down, and looked adoringly at Harry. “Mom, we need to go to the peach orchard, if it ever stops raining.”

  “You all look like drowned rats.” Harry took off her coat, hanging it on a tack hook to drip. She picked up a thick barn towel and wiped down Tucker. She tossed it in the plastic wash bin, fetched another, and cleaned both cats with it.

  As she was rubbing down Mrs. Murphy, Simon leaned over the hayloft. “What a mess.”

  “Thanks,” Pewter grumbled as she sat on her rear end, stretched out a hind leg straight, flaring her claws. “I’ll never get the mud out.”

  18

  The next day sparkled as though the thunderstorm’s dark gray clouds, like giant S.O.S pads, had scrubbed everything clean. Fields glistened, the late dogwoods bloomed even as the regular dogwoods lost their blossoms. Lilacs opened. Fresh air filled lungs, invigorating everyone.

  Up at 4:30 A.M., Harry knocked out her chores by noon, hopped in her 1978 Ford pickup, and cruised over to Alicia’s to see how her foal crop was doing.

  When she drove along the long, winding driveway where the massive trees lent their authority to the place, she noticed the yearlings racing about in the front pasture. Last year’s group of Thoroughbreds showed such promise. Harry was eager to see how the foals of two and three months were doing. She’d been so busy she hadn’t much time to visit around, although she did manage to see Burly. How funny to see the long-eared little mule nursing on Keepsake, an elegant Thoroughbred. If Keepsake was embarrassed by her offspring she chose not to show it.

  Alicia’s colors, green and gold, were painted in a band around the middle of the white gateposts to the stable. Once at the graceful white clapboard stable, the colors, in a small band, encircled the posts, which supported the eight-foot overhang. The stable, built at the turn of the twentieth century, evidenced all the charm of pre-World War I America.

  “There’s Max.” Tucker, on her hind legs, joyfully noted the appearance of Alicia’s beloved and impressive Gordon setter.

  Max, unlike Irish setters or English setters, actively guarded his human. He happily hunted, too, but at a more conservative pace than his ribald Irish cousin or his stately English cousin.

  Mrs. Murphy and Pewter liked Max well enough, but they were more interested in bolting out of the truck to chase the barn swallows swooping in and out of the stable.

  Harry noticed both Toby Pittman’s and Arch Saunders’s trucks parked in the lovely large square at the front of the stable.

  “Wonder what’s up,” she said out loud.

  “Yeah, none of those guys want Thoroughbreds. Arch can’t ride.” Mrs. Murphy eagerly waited for Harry to turn off her motor.

  The moment the motor was cut, Harry opened her door. Before she swung her leg out, the cats bounced on her lap then to the cobblestones. They flashed into the stable before even Max knew they were there.

  “Ignore them.” Tucker waited to be lifted out.

  “I do,” Max replied as he walked forward to greet Tucker.

  Harry, who had called Alicia beforehand, checked around outside, then entered the barn. She walked to the office, where paneled walls were covered with gold-framed photos of Mary Pat Reines: in the hunt field; over fences at Keswick’s Horse Show, Deep Run’s Show, Devon; photos of her horses winning conformation shows, her steeplechasers in the winner’s circle. There was one photo of a twenty-two-year-old Alicia in informal attire at a foxhunt.

  Arch Saunders and Toby Pittman sat on the newly covered sofa while Alicia sat opposite them in a club chair, a scarred coffee table between them.

  “Alicia, I can come back.” Harry realized this was an impromptu gathering, because Alicia said she’d be alone. When Harry had called, Alicia raved about a colt she had by Distinctive Pro, a New York sire, and a filly by More Than Ready, standing at Vinery Stud in Kentucky.

  “Come on in.”

  The men stood as Harry entered, then sat when she sat in the other club chair.

  Toby returned to his subject. “He means to destroy me. All of us.”

  Arch grimaced but kept his mouth shut.

  “Have you spoken to Sheriff Shaw?” Alici
a calmly inquired.

  “He won’t listen to me. That’s why I came to you. Everybody listens to you and to Big Mim. But Mim’s mad at me. You talk to the sheriff. Get him to investigate.”

  “Why is Mim mad at you?” Alicia asked.

  Toby distractedly tapped his knee with his forefinger. “I told her she was making a big mistake in not turning some of her land into vineyards. And I said with her wealth she could be a big player early.”

  “And?” Alicia knew there had to be more to the story.

  “I told her that Patricia and Bill were so powerful they’ll be like Nelson Bunker when he tried to corner the silver market. She said Patricia and Bill weren’t like that. If they were they wouldn’t have driven Professor Forland to visit other vintners.”

  “That’s true, Toby.” Alicia wondered why Toby couldn’t exercise the minimum of diplomacy.

  “Things were going along okay until then. I gave her my theory about Professor Forland’s disappearance. She said I should be careful about making false accusations and I called her a rich bitch.”

  “Harry, Toby thinks that Hy plans to ruin his vines. He said Hy sent Concho to spy on his place.”

  “Hy knows a lot. He’s smart enough to cover his tracks. He’ll have the best vineyard in Virginia by ruining the rest of us!”

  “Arch, you haven’t said anything.” Alicia smiled at him.

  “Hy is very knowledgeable.” Arch remained noncommittal.

  Harry wondered what Arch was doing here with Toby.

  “Guys, forgive me, I don’t know so much about growing grapes. If Hy wanted to harm your vines, how would he do it?”

  “Simple!” Toby’s eyes blazed. “He’d sneak into the rows, dig up a vine, and plant an infected one. Could be infected with anything. God knows, there’re enough diseases to go around. But all he has to do is introduce diseased stock. You know, Arch has some downy mildew.”

  “Hy dug up vines with black rot.” Arch tried to introduce this as a counterweight to Toby.

  It was, but Toby, too upset to appreciate it, launched off the sofa and stood up. “Ha! He put that there himself to throw us off!”