Sour Puss Page 8

  “Hell of a deal at his age to be responsible for a large operation. But I think he came back for you, too.”

  This startled Harry. “Why? Over is over.”

  “For some people; not for others,” Bo wisely replied. “You know, he didn’t know you were getting remarried. You’d think someone would have e-mailed him.”

  “Maybe.” Harry thought a long time. “But my experience is men don’t usually keep up with relationships. Arch’s only friend here, if you can call him that, is Toby. All his old buddies are in Blacksburg or down in Chatham where he was raised.”

  Bo checked his watch. “I lied. I’ve been here longer than fifteen minutes. Must be the company.” He climbed back into his SUV, perfect for showing clients country properties. “Keep me in mind, now, if you hear of anything.”

  “I will.”

  He closed the door, started the engine, rolled down the window. “Damnedest thing, that owl. Isn’t that the way, though? I mean, something just hits you, right out of the blue?”

  10

  Late that afternoon, Deputy Cooper, at her desk, received a call from Cory Sullivan, an acquaintance who worked for the sheriff’s department in Blacksburg. Many women in law enforcement share a special bond, as there are still men out there who belittle their involvement in the profession.

  “Cooperation.” Cory pronounced this as “Cooper-ation,” accent on Cooper.

  “Cory, what’s cooking?”

  “Three wrecks. No fatalities. One break-in at a convenience store, the perp on meth. One missing person, which is why I’m calling you.”

  “Another day in paradise.” Cooper picked up her yellow pencil.

  “Yep.”

  “Who’s missing?”

  “Professor Vincent Forland.”

  As Cooper wrote this down she clarified the information. “The viticulture expert?”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He was the speaker at a panel here a couple of days ago. Give me what you’ve got.”

  “His housekeeper called at two-thirty, alarmed that he hadn’t returned from Charlottesville. According to her, he is extremely punctual and he told Mrs. Burrows, that’s the housekeeper, that he would be home by noon.”

  “Two and a half hours. Kind of jumping the gun.”

  “Not according to her. She said she called Kluge Vineyards and they said he left at seven this morning.”

  “Guess he didn’t give them an itinerary?”

  “No. Just told Patricia Kluge that he would make a few calls along the way.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The guy was unnatural. Never had a speeding ticket or a parking ticket.”

  “That’s major.” Coop laughed.

  “Mrs. Burrows is very upset, so see what you can find out up there.”

  “Sure. Come up and visit sometime.”

  “Same here. I have tickets to Tech football next fall but, hey, don’t wait that long.”

  After Coop hung up she checked all the accident reports in the county since seven in the morning. She checked with the state police to see if there had been any accidents on I-64 or I-81, Professor Forland’s probable routes. There hadn’t been any that involved him.

  Then she called tow and wrecker services in case he’d had car trouble. He could be sitting at a gas station or at a car dealer’s service center. Maybe he was too upset or busy to inform Mrs. Burrows, but that wasn’t her concern. Her concern was tracking him down.

  On the fourth wrecker-service call she hit pay dirt. Big Jake’s Towing Service had towed a Scion bearing Professor Forland’s plates from the underground parking lot at Queen Charlotte Square. It had been parked in a reserved spot, and the owner of that parking space was one step ahead of a running fit on coming in to work to find her slot filled.

  Big Jake, aptly named, walked Cooper to the chain-link fenced-in area where cars were impounded until their owners forked over the cash to release them.

  Big Jake handed her the keys. “You sure got here fast.”

  “Just hit the flasher button.” She smiled at him. “Where did you find the keys?”

  “Behind the sun visor.”

  “Did you open the trunk?”

  “No.”

  She walked to the trunk. “Big Jake, I don’t know what’s in here, so fair warning.”

  He nodded, stepped to the side as she popped the lid. A banker’s box filled with notes, a flashlight, and an emergency kit seemed a pathetic amount of stuff.

  Putting on thin latex gloves, she opened the car door and checked every cubbyhole and compartment. The day turned from crisp to cold, the usual April inconsistency. She flipped down the sun visors.

  “You expecting trouble?”

  “I don’t know. I sure hope not.” She hunkered down to check under the seats. From under the driver’s seat she pulled out Professor Forland’s thick, square, black-rimmed glasses. She then replaced them exactly where they had been. “Who comes in and out of here?”

  “Me, Fatty Hazlette, Kerry, the other driver.”

  “Anyone touch this car?”

  “No, just me. I was the one who towed it in.”

  “Thanks.” She pulled her cell out of her jacket pocket and called Rick. “Boss, I think we’ve got a major problem.”

  11

  A fence board popped off due to a combination of age and too much attention from a naughty mare. Harry, using the claw of her large hammer, pried off each end, carried the two pieces to the dump pile behind her large equipment shed. The sun was setting and she hurried to finish the job.

  The pile, used for wood bits, would be picked over. Odd bits of wood can often be useful, and Harry, true to form, wasted precious little. At the end of the fall, the ground still soft, she’d scoop out what remained using the big bucket of the front-end loader. This would be burned in a pit and then covered over. For fun, she’d stick in a couple of potatoes, carrots, and onions wrapped in tinfoil. Later she’d use the rake, pull them out, and eat them for supper.

  The pile today consisted of three or four wood pieces and a little wagon with the wheels off, placed to one side. Early spring meant the debris pile was sparse.

  Conscious of fire, the pile was thirty feet away from the equipment shed on lower ground. One couldn’t see it unless one walked behind the shed and looked down. Harry was as tidy as Fair, a good thing because it’s the little things about another person that drive you up the wall.

  A flatbed load of cured fence boards rested on pallets on the far left side of the big shed. She hoisted a board on her shoulder and returned to the paddock. She nailed it in place, enjoying the helpfulness of the mares and foals. She’d paint it in the early evening when the horses were back in the barn. Otherwise she’d have zebra-striped foals.

  Dozing in the hayloft, Mrs. Murphy raised her head. A car was turning off the state road, a half mile away. She heard the tires crunch on the bluestone.

  Tucker, standing dutifully beside Harry, pricked up her ears.

  “Cooper.” She recognized the tire tread.

  Pewter, asleep on the tack trunk, dreaming of today’s adventure, heard nothing. Little dust motes floated upward in the air each time she exhaled. Martha sat and watched, a tiny bit of peppermint she’d found on the floor in her paws. The foals liked peppermints. Harry had dropped one, stepped on it, and figured she’d clean it up when she came back in.

  By the time Harry’s ears, good for a human, picked up the sound, Coop was a quarter mile from the barn, sound zinging clear on the clear day.

  She tapped the last nail in place. She’d put on a little dab of wood putty later. She sunk in the tiny nail heads and didn’t want the depression to show. She wouldn’t use nails with large flat heads, because the playing horses might scratch their faces. Like all young mammals, foals couldn’t always distinguish between playing and playing that might be dangerous.

  “Hey, girl.” Coop closed the door to the squad car.

  “Back at you.” Harry slipped the ha
mmer into her belt. “I’ve got deviled eggs. I’ve never known you to pass up food.”

  Coop laughed. “Word is out.”

  “At least your stomach isn’t. You stay in good shape.” Harry complimented her as they pushed open the screen door.

  “Volleyball and running.”

  Mrs. Murphy, on her feet now, stuck her head out the opened loft doors. Harry would close them come nightfall, leaving them open enough for air to circulate, but as the nights warmed, she’d eventually leave them wide open.

  Tight barns sickened horses.

  Simon, a broken Pelham chain in his paws, lay fast asleep.

  Mrs. Murphy marveled at his penchant for anything shiny. He already had one broken Pelham chain, but he thought this one even better.

  She shook off the last of the hay, looked straight down. Too far. She trotted back to the ladder, shimmying down, then dashed into the kitchen just as Harry put out the deviled eggs, butter, sandwich meats, cheese, lettuce, and sliced tomatoes, along with a big jar of Hellmann’s mayonnaise.

  A loaf of whole-grain bread rested on the thick cutting board, a bread knife alongside.

  “Miranda?”

  “Her latest. She says it’s seven-grain. Have you ever kneaded bread?”

  “No.” Coop sliced two pieces for Harry, two for herself.

  “Makes your hands and forearms strong. Think about laundrywomen throughout the centuries. My God, their forearms had to be bigger than bodybuilders’.”

  “When you think about it, we live soft lives.”

  “Pretty much.” Harry, lean as a slab, knew that despite her farm labors she enjoyed electricity, central heating, the best dental care in the world, and all manner of vaccinations to prevent disease.

  “Turkey,” Tucker informed Mrs. Murphy, who smelled it the second she slipped through the cat door into the kitchen.

  “If we’re good, you know one of them will give us some.” Mrs. Murphy sat by Harry’s right side, Tucker on Harry’s left.

  “I’m here on business.” Cooper reached for the mayonnaise jar.

  “What did I do now? Or maybe it’s these two beggars here.” Harry glanced down at the attentive animals. “Where’s Lardass?”

  “Out cold in the tack room,” Mrs. Murphy informed her.

  “When she finds out there was turkey, she’ll turn into a big grump.” Tucker giggled.

  Ice cubes clinked in the tall glasses. Harry put them on the table, then two Cokes. She finally sat down.

  “Thanks.” Coop poured her Coke, the fizz rising. “Professor Forland didn’t stop by here today, did he?”

  “No, why?”

  “His car was towed from the underground Queen Charlotte parking today, but no sign of Professor Forland.”

  “Odd.”

  “He’d parked in a reserved space. I should say the car was parked in a reserved space. Big Jake towed it, and so far no call from the professor about his car. And his housekeeper called. He told her he’d be home, and she said he is very punctual.”

  “Maybe he had a heart attack or something.”

  “Called all the hospitals, rescue squads, state police. Nada.”

  She noticed how pretty the paprika looked on the deviled egg yolk. “Well, something’s wrong.”

  “Did he ever stop by during his visit?”

  “He came to look at my Petit Manseng.” She pronounced the French perfectly.

  A wry smile played over Cooper’s lips. “God, you’ll soon be as fussy as the rest of them.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “These are good.”

  “Hey, Miranda left a cheesecake with a chocolate bottom crust and raspberry sauce on top, French raspberries. She said the market had had a run on strawberries and raspberries shipped in from Florida and Georgia.”

  “Spring comes a lot earlier there.”

  Harry rose, returning with the cheesecake. Then she got up again.

  “Now what are you doing?”

  “Coke and cheesecake don’t go. I’m making tea.”

  “Okay.” Cooper happily assented. “So what happened when Professor Forland looked at your vines?”

  “Nothing. He said they were healthy and he wished me luck.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Ever notice he looked like a worm?”

  Cooper thought. “He did, didn’t he?”

  12

  After a long Thursday morning, Fair stopped at the small coffee shop in Crozet. The days, incredibly busy, had flown by. It seemed like he’d checked fencing with Harry on Saturday and suddenly it was Thursday. Before he had his cup to his lips for a needed jolt of caffeine, Rollie Barnes pushed through the door. Seeing Fair at the counter, he sat next to him.

  “Hello, Rollie, how are you today?”

  “Cold. I thought Virginia was the South,” Rollie grumbled.

  “It is, but you’re hard by the Blue Ridge Mountains.”

  “Kyle, I need a double shot,” Rollie called to the owner, and then swiveled on his stool toward Fair. “Low pressure.”

  “Yeah, I know I shouldn’t drink this much coffee. I’ll get the jitters later, but I’ve been up since three-thirty this morning and I’m about beat.” Fair wasn’t complaining so much as stating fact.

  “Something going on?”

  “Too many people are turning horses into rich pastures. In spring if folks don’t watch their horses they can founder. And I’m delivering foals that aren’t Thoroughbreds. Late ones.”

  “Guess you heard Professor Forland is missing.”

  “Harry told me when I came home last night.”

  “Thanks.” Rollie eagerly grasped the large mug when Kyle slid it to him.

  “Doesn’t make much sense. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man to go on a bender.”

  “You never know about people. Everyone’s got secrets.” Rollie sounded learned.

  Fair uttered the words that were music to Rollie’s ears. “You’re right.”

  Kyle, who’d been listening to theories about the professor’s disappearance all week in the news, said, “Wouldn’t believe the stuff I’ve heard.” He paused. “He’s captured by Al Qaeda. He is Al Qaeda. He’s run off with Dinny Ostermann’s wife. It goes on.”

  “People can talk.” Rollie pointed his finger at the door to the coffee shop. “Who knows what goes on out there?”

  Fair tapped his head. “Who knows what goes on in here?”

  “Nutcase?” Kyle’s brow furrowed.

  “The professor?” Rollie propped his elbow on the counter.

  Kyle leaned over the counter. “Or whoever snatched him.”

  Always one to look on the bright side, Fair added, “Oh, he might show up. Embarrassed maybe.”

  The door swung open at regular intervals. The lunch crowd started at eleven and didn’t taper off until two in the afternoon. Kyle appreciated a large lunch clientele.

  Fair slid his money across the counter. Rollie pushed it back. “I owe you a cup of coffee. You were right about the colt.”

  “How’s the little fella doing?” Fair smiled broadly. He loved babies.

  “Pretty good. ’Course, my wife spends more time with him than with me. She’s so soft-hearted.”

  “That’s why she married you.” Fair honored him by teasing him.

  Rollie thought about that a minute. “Might be right. You know, I wonder sometimes what the world would be like without women. Apart from being dull.”

  “We’d kill each other,” Fair simply stated.

  “Is this a woman-as-civilizing-force discussion?” Kyle cracked as he motioned for his waitstaff to pick up the pace.

  “They are.” Rollie placed a crisp ten-dollar bill on the polished counter.

  Kyle, having had his troubles with women, grumbled, “What the hell do they want? Maybe they do make the world kinder, I don’t know, but I can’t figure out what they want.”

  “Whatever they tell you,” Fair, accustomed to Harry being forthright, advised.

  “They say
one thing one day and another thing the next.” Kyle put his hand on his hip. “It drives me crazy.”

  “Everyone, man or woman, wants to feel special,” Fair said. “You have to figure out what that person really needs and then figure out what they want. The two aren’t always the same, you know.”

  Rollie stared at Fair, taking his measure as if for the first time. “Guess you do.”

  “My experience in keeping a woman happy—and mind you, I didn’t the first time around; I learned this the hard way, by losing the best woman I could ever hope for—but give her what she wants. Simple.”

  “The Taj Mahal.” Kyle grimaced.

  “Oh, Kyle. You know what I mean.” Fair leaned down, since he was now standing, and lowered his voice. “Give her what she wants in bed. Take your time. Count from one hundred backward if you have to, but take your time. Bring her flowers just because. Take out the trash. Wash and wax her car. Do stuff. Tell her she looks pretty.”

  “You do all that?” Rollie seemed amazed.

  “Sure I do. Harry’s a country girl. What makes her happy? A new pair of work boots that won’t hurt her feet. And some flowers with the boots are okay, too. Maybe another woman would like the money for a new dress or something, but with Harry, practicality comes first.”

  “When did you know you’d won her back?” Rollie was now quite interested.

  “Started two years ago when I bought the dually. Helped her buy it, really, and Art Bushey, who owned the Ford dealership then, helped me. But I knew I was across home plate when I bought her that colt by Fred Astaire. He was a yearling when I bought him, correct and good mind. She melted. After that it was a matter of time.”

  “Two years,” Kyle matter-of-factly stated.

  Rollie blurted out, “You hung on for two more years?”

  “I kept asking her to marry me. I knew she’d say yes eventually. No one will ever love her like I do, and I learned my lesson. She knows that.”

  “I don’t know if I have that stamina,” Kyle declared.

  “Then you don’t love her enough,” Fair bluntly replied, which was surprising coming from him.

  “He might have a point.” Rollie supported Fair. “I haven’t met a man yet who doesn’t have to jump through hoops of fire. Once you do it, you’re okay. But I mean, they’ll put you through fire.”