Sour Puss Read online

  “She has most of it memorized because all those years in the post office she would have lost her mind without a mental project.” Aunt Tally cast her eyes over to Harry. “And you got out while the getting was good, young lady.”

  Big Mim’s springer spaniel walked into the room, discerned no food would fall on the floor as it had at the dinner table, and padded back out.

  Little Mim returned with a fresh martini for Aunt Tally, and Blair, her fiancé, bore a small crystal glass filled with olives in case Aunt Tally wanted to pick at them. He’d speared them with tiny silver swords.

  “We’re off track.” Alicia graciously brought them back to Ned’s dilemma. “Ned, you haven’t asked for my opinion, but given the company, I feel safe in expressing it. Buy a truck. Buy a three-quarter-ton Chevy, Ford, Dodge, doesn’t matter, whichever one appeals to you.”

  “Why not a half-ton?” Harry asked. “Easier to drive and a bit cheaper to run.” Harry’s gaze rarely strayed from the bottom line, a good habit acquired from decades of living close to the bone.

  “He’s on the Ag committee. A half-ton is so glamorized these days, it’s a city person’s flash vehicle.” Alicia displayed the sharp insights that had enabled her to survive the slings and arrows—or more often the knives in the back—prevalent in her former acting profession. “If he drives a three-quarter-ton, has a Reese hitch on the back, and is wired for a gooseneck, running lights, a running board, think about it, that’s a working farm truck. When he goes down to Lee County the farmer he visits sees another farmer. And in truth, now that Susan is in the nursery business and timber business, he may not exactly be a farmer but he’s married to one.”

  “How smart!” BoomBoom clasped her hands together.

  Aunt Tally squinted at the movie star. “You’re one hundred percent right, sweet pea.”

  “Do I have to trade in the 540i?” Ned’s voice was mournful.

  “No. Just don’t ride it to Richmond or thereabouts.” Fair, listening all this while, added his two cents. “And if you’ll forgive me for changing the subject, did you see in the Richmond paper where Virginia beat out California in a number of wine-tasting events? I think I got that right. Is everyone in the state going to make wine now?”

  Big Mim’s eyebrows shot upward. “Jim, did you know that?”

  “Darlin’ girl.” He added her pet name. “I did not. Ned, looks like you fell into the honeypot, or should I say the wine tub? You’re on the right committee at the right time.”

  “Make the most of it, Ned,” Aunt Tally commanded.

  “It takes so much money to start a vineyard,” BoomBoom noted. “Anywhere from twelve to eighteen thousand dollars per acre.”

  “Either you have a good harvest or you don’t. Russian roulette, sort of.” Little Mim finally interjected something, her mother’s gaze having lost its sting as Big Mim accepted that Aunt Tally would have her martini one way or the other.

  Ned remarked, “These new people can read all about grapes, they can realize they won’t get good yields until the fourth or fifth year, depending on the grape variety and the weather. But they aren’t country people. I don’t know that they’re tough enough. That’s why Rollie Barnes impresses me. For all his gargantuan ego, his aggressiveness, he had the sense to know he needed someone like Arch Saunders.”

  A murmur of agreement filled the room.

  “It’s the crazy thing about being a farmer, isn’t it?” Harry lamented. “You have a bumper crop and prices go down. You suffer through diminished harvests and prices shoot up. I know, I know, it’s supply and demand, but when Mother Nature is your business partner, nothing is certain.”

  “Except uncertainty.” Alicia smiled.

  They heard the front door open.

  “Anybody home?” A deep, resonant voice called out.

  Jim hurried to the front hall and within seconds the Reverend Herbert Jones entered the room, Lucy Fur under his arm like a loaf of bread. She didn’t much like it.

  “Lucy Fur.” Harry knew people’s pets better than she knew them, really.

  The extremely healthy kitty wiggled out of Herb’s arms to run to Harry, who picked her up with a grunt.

  “She hasn’t missed too many meals when she was visiting at my sister’s.” Herb laughed. “Sorry I missed the lunch, but I needed to pick up the cat from Marty.” He mentioned the local vet. “Shot renewal time.”

  “Let me fix you a plate, Herb.” Big Mim kept a good table.

  “I would never refuse your hospitality.” He winked.

  Everyone trooped back to the bright enclosed patio, which served as the luncheon site. They liked being with Herb and succumbed to the temptation of a second dessert.

  Alicia, BoomBoom, and Harry summoned the strength to resist by sipping hot Constant Comment tea.

  As Herb sliced his small partridge stuffed with wild rice, the fresh vegetables artfully arranged on his plate by the cook, the conversation flowed.

  Lucy Fur, standing on her hind legs on the floor, raised a paw, placing it on Herb’s thigh. He cut a small piece of partridge for her, put it on a bread plate, and bent over. No one said a word, since everyone there would have done the same thing. The springer spaniel rejoined them upon hearing the plate scrape the floor.

  These were animal people. The differences among them were differences of income, age, gender, and the mysteries of personality. But when it came to animals, they were as one. Every single one of them, even Tazio, new to animal ownership, cherished a deep respect for all life.

  “Baseball season’s fresh as a new born babe.” Jim loved the Philadelphia Phillies. “Blair and I are going up to see this new Washington team.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to see them play, too,” Fair, another baseball fan, commented.

  “Orioles, now and forever.” Harry placed her hand over her heart.

  “Not going to be their year. In fact, it isn’t going to be their year for years.” Blair, no Orioles fan, enjoyed tweaking his former neighbor.

  “Ha. You just wait,” Harry defiantly replied.

  “Well, I think the Kansas City Royals will surprise everyone,” Tracy declared.

  “Yeah, by being at the bottom of the barrel.” Herb paused between bites.

  “Those are fighting words, Rev.” Tracy lifted his forefinger.

  “Dodgers.” Alicia had season tickets for years and used to go to the games with Cary Grant. She didn’t say that, as it would have been bragging. She liked Grant enormously and one reason was he had learned baseball, no easy task for an Englishman. He also took pains to explain cricket to her, and she found she quite liked it.

  “They may be a factor,” Jim said judiciously.

  Once Herb, himself, reached dessert, the conversation turned to the panel discussion and terrorism in general, which they discussed for some length.

  “Just think if someone contaminates the reservoirs that supply New York City. They could strike down, potentially, twenty-two million people between nine A.M. and five P.M.,” BoomBoom added to the lively topic.

  “Those are obvious targets,” Alicia commented. “They’ll strike us where we aren’t looking.”

  “Exactly,” Big Mim agreed. “Imagine if chemical-warfare specialists find a way to release a fungus that could make us sick? Not something that would kill immediately but something that would make people sick. It would incapacitate the sick, tie down the people caring for them, and damage the economy, too.”

  Harry added her two cents. “That’s what was so fascinating about the panel: how common the types of fungus are that infect wheat, corn, grapes even. All of these could be used.”

  “Terrorists would use grapes?” Tazio’s eyes widened.

  Jim answered Tazio. “No, but let’s say wheat becomes tainted. It passes on to humans. That’s a one–two punch. But let’s suppose our enemies are far more subtle than that. Let’s say they infect hay, grass, crops. Cattle eat them. The meat becomes dangerous, and Americans consume huge quantities of beef. Meanwh
ile, thousands and thousands of cattle are eating poisoned grasses before the sickness can be traced to the source.” Jim took a deep breath. “Now you have humans, cattle, medical people, and crops being destroyed or rendered useless for a time. You get the idea.”

  “I do. Become a vegetarian.” Susan broke the mood of worry.

  “Right. Drink wine, not water.” Blair held up a glass.

  9

  After the luncheon, back at the farm, Harry walked through the quarter acre she’d planted with Petit Manseng, a grape used in Jurançon, perhaps the most famous of the white wines of southwestern France. She’d planted the rootstock herself in November, which would allow root growth over the winter. She planted each bare root eight feet from another. Her rows were also eight feet apart. She really wouldn’t know until the growth spurt in high spring whether she had correctly spaced the vines.

  She kept to the golden mean of spacing for grapes and hoped she was doing right by the Petit Manseng.

  Naturally, as this was the first year, she didn’t expect much. With help from Patricia and Bill and Felicia Rogan, she had settled on Petit Manseng because the small white grape stayed on the vine longer than most other types. This bumped up the sugar content even as it pushed down the acidity. Jurançon, at the foot of the Pyrenees, bears similarity to western Albemarle County. That helped Harry decide. But on one-quarter acre, once the vines were established, she should produce one ton of grapes, which translated into fifty cases or six hundred bottles. One barrel of oak is the equivalent of twenty-five cases.

  Watching her pennies, Harry cultivated one-quarter acre at a cost of five thousand dollars and prayed all would be well, because, for her, that was a big outlay of cash.

  She begged old oaken barrels from Patricia Kluge. One of the surest ways to produce inferior-tasting wine was too much oak. Although not a winemaker, she was a country girl and a quick study.

  She loved agriculture. She liked growing grapes, but the expenses preyed on her natural financial caution. Reviving the Alverta peach orchard kept her on solid ground. And she kept her mother’s pippin apple orchard flourishing. Fortunately, apples and grapes flourish with the same soil, water, sun conditions.

  Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter followed her as she bent down to check the shoots emerging from the trunks. A few warm weeks, when the air reeked with heavenly fragrances from apple trees, viburnas, different varieties of scented bushes, and these babies—she thought of them as babies—would surprise everyone with their vigorous growth.

  She stood up, casting her eyes over the farm. In the paddocks the foals—true babies—dozed, and her heart melted each time she looked at the horses.

  The hay peeped up, spring green, a tender color promising life, nutrition.

  Her two acres of various sunflower types also glowed spring green, except for the Italian sunflowers, which she’d just planted. The sun warmed the afternoon to the mid-fifties. Her ancient three-ply cashmere crewneck sweater with darning spots served her well. Harry could never throw anything out that might be useful even one more day.

  Once a year, Susan, Miranda, and BoomBoom would descend upon her to throw out tattered things. Her sock drawer alone took a half hour. She’d try to hang on to a threadbare sock by declaring it could be used to hold catnip.

  The cats didn’t care how they received their catnip, so long as it was forthcoming.

  A car turned onto the farm road.

  Tucker barked, “Intruder!”

  A curly-haired, extroverted Bo Newell showed up. “Harry. I’ll only be a minute.” He checked his watch. “It’s two-thirty, so I’ll be out of here by two forty-five.” Then he laughed.

  “Do you think he has Miss Prissy in the car?” Pewter hated Bo’s ancient cat, who was fond of travel and arguments.

  “She tore up the leather upholstery in Nancy’s Thunderbird. She’s grounded.” Mrs. Murphy related this story with undisguised glee, for Miss Prissy had ruined Mrs. Newell’s new sports car.

  “Why doesn’t she just die, she’s so damned old?”

  “Tucker, why doesn’t Aunt Tally die? They’re too mean.” Pewter giggled.

  “What’s cooking?” Harry asked the muscular Realtor.

  “I’ve got clients from Belgium. They want me to find a farm with soil suitable for grapes. I tell you, I can’t sell land that grows grapes fast enough. The word is finally out on Virginia wine. Obviously, a lot of time the best pieces are between friends. I’m trying to keep one step ahead of Rollie Barnes.” He rubbed his hands together. “You haven’t heard of anyone getting ready to sell, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “What about Aunt Tally? She’s sitting on nine hundred acres at Rose Hill. The windows are gone in some of those outbuildings. Course, they’re stone; they’ll outlast all of us, as will Aunt Tally.”

  “They look blind, those buildings.” Harry leaned over the hood of his car. “She’s not going to part with an acre. You know, Urquharts buy land, they never sell it. Now that Little Mim and Blair are going to live there after they’re married, she won’t surrender an inch.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t, either.” He exhaled through his nostrils. “This couple has big bucks, too.”

  “I’ll sniff around.”

  “You’ve got a good nose.” Bo’s light eyes complemented his handsome features. “What do you think about Arch taking over Spring Hill Vineyards?”

  “Well,” she considered this question, one Fair had scrupulously not asked. “If Rollie lets him alone, he’ll make it one of the best vineyards in the state, for starters. Arch is an ambitious man.”

  “So is Rollie.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know if he has the sense to leave people alone to do what they do best. Some people can’t stop meddling.”

  “Big Mim.” He half-smiled. “Although, in her defense, she improves most situations.”

  “And she gives out cookies.” Tucker appreciated Big Mim’s generosity toward dogs.

  “No tuna.” Pewter sniffed.

  Before she could complain more, the blue jay, who had been perched on the stable cupola, opened wide his beautiful wings, lifted off his pretty perch, and dove straight for Pewter. He zoomed within an inch of Pewter’s wide-domed skull.

  “Fat ass!” he screamed, his squawk raucous.

  “Jesus Christ.” Bo jumped.

  Harry jumped too. “Blue jay on steroids. He torments the cats.”

  “Cats? What about me?” Bo looked skyward.

  Pewter ran under the shadow of the bird, who was gaining altitude. Mrs. Murphy ran, too.

  “I will kill you!” Pewter raged.

  The saucy fellow turned a graceful arc, then zoomed toward the two felines, who crouched. Sensibly, he did not go as low as his initial surprise attack. The cats leapt in the air, Mrs. Murphy higher than Pewter.

  “Worthless. Worthless as tits on a boar.” He then reclaimed his perch on the cupola, where he sang loudly to the world. “I am the mightiest bird in the kingdom, in the universe. I fear no one.”

  Harry and Bo stared up at him, his chest puffed out, his beak open. He ranted and sang. A low “hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo” should have alerted him, but his pride and volume blocked out Flatface’s pronounced irritation.

  Awakened by his song, which was harsh to her musical ears, Flatface ruffled her feathers. She slept in the cupola. Harry had fixed it so Flatface could nest up there. She could fly through the loft barn doors, which Harry usually left open at least a crack, even in winter. Also, one side of the cupola was opened enough for her to get in and out. Silence, big talons, a frightening beak, and remarkable intelligence are the weapons of all owls but are heightened in the great horned owl.

  Flatface, furious, flew out from the cupola. The blue jay didn’t hear her until she closed over him, grasping him in her talons.

  “Drop him on me,” Pewter shrieked with excitement.

  “Holy shit.” Bo was mesmerized.

  “Flatface lives in the cupola. I think he plucked
her last nerve.” Harry breathlessly watched the drama.

  Flatface, slowing, opened her wings wide and opened her talons, dropping the blue jay about six feet over Pewter’s head. Mrs. Murphy danced on her hind legs.

  The blue jay, feathers scattering, plummeted toward the two awaiting cats. He managed to open his wings and pull out of the free fall just as Pewter snatched at him.

  Her reward was some exquisite tail feathers.

  The blue jay hurried away as Flatface flew back into the barn. “That will shut his trap,” she said as she nestled in her cupola.

  Simon, who watched from the hayloft doors, called up, “You showed him.”

  The blacksnake, Matilda, emerged from her nest in the back hay bales—she had laid eggs in a depression next to her nest. She cast a glittering eye at Flatface, then another at Simon before returning to her place. She was old and accordingly large, as fat around as a big man’s wrist. Being a reptile, she lacked sociability. She did not, however, lack fangs, and although nonpoisonous, a deep bite from her jaws could send a human into shock. Thanks to Matilda and Flatface, not one mouse twaddled about in the hayloft. The cats might have a deal with the tack-room mice, but as far as Matilda and Flatface were concerned, one mouse equaled one hors d’oeuvre.

  Matilda did say, “Good work.”

  Flatface turned her head almost upside down and winked.

  Outside, the humans, cats, and dog were still talking about the blue jay’s comeuppance.

  “Near-death experience.” Harry was on the side of her cats.

  “I know some people who need a near-life experience.” Bo chuckled. “Like Toby Pittman. One weird dude.”

  “Maybe he wears his weirdness on the outside. The rest of us wear it on the inside.”

  “I hope that means you’re kinky.”

  “Bo, you think about one thing.” Harry laughed at him.

  “Know anything else that’s as much fun?”

  “Mmm. I’ll give that deep thought.” She waited a moment. “What do you think about Arch coming here from California?”