Рита Браун - Sour Puss

"What did Arch say?"

"Fair wouldn't tell me, but I called Aunt Tally on her cell this morning. She'd heard from Bo, who was standing by the coffee table when all this started, that Arch said," Harry paused, color rising to her cheeks, "I was the best in bed that he ever had. Fair didn't deserve me."

"He said that?" BoomBoom's eyebrows leapt upward.

Harry shrugged. "Guess so."

A long moment passed as they neared the barn. "Well, are you? The best in bed?"

"Boom, I don't know."

"The things I find out about you."

"And, of course, you're a saint."

"I didn't say that," the tall blonde responded.

Harry burst out laughing.

BoomBoom laughed, too. "You know, it's not sex with men that bores me. It's their anxiety about it. I find that exhausting and tedious."

"Yeah, but they can't always control the lever, you know. Stands up at the wrong time, sits down at the wrong time. Even if a man finally gets the girl of his dreams, his member isn't a hundred percent reliable."

"Big damned deal." BoomBoom evidenced no sympathy.

"Hey, imagine if your breasts stood up and flopped down sometimes at will, sometimes against your will."

BoomBoom stared down at her magnificent appendages. "Dear God, what an awful thought."

"Anxiety. I rest my case." Harry grinned triumphantly.

BoomBoom laughed. "Given all that's going on, I'm glad we can laugh." She breathed deeply. "Talk to Bill Moses any more about your sharpshooters?"

"I did. He said it's bizarre. They can't survive a Virginia winter. And, I quote, 'Should they infect your vines, the damage will be minimal because they'll be dead first frost.' I asked about the vascular damage—I hope I'm using the right word, but you know, the little plant veins that carry the nutrients around. Bill declared they can't do enough damage in the short summer they might live."

"I sure hope he's right. And he reminded me that not all sharpshooters are infected."

"We didn't see any today in your grapes."

"Wind blows everything away. I'm worried a little. And I'm worried about my Alverta peaches, too."

"Everyone else is focused on grapes," BoomBoom replied. "Hey, if I make the mistake of using the word oenology when I should say viticulture, the old hands lift an eyebrow."

Harry smiled weakly.

"Tell me. I should know, but I don't," BoomBoom asked.

"Viticulture is growing grapes. Oenology is making wine. Such a big damned deal." Harry threw up her hands.

"Intruder!"Tucker alerted.

The women reached the barn at the same time as Arch. He turned off the big Dodge diesel engine and climbed out.

"Harry, BoomBoom, hi." He stood with his feet apart, his old cowboy boots creased across the top. "Harry, I apologize. I apologized to Fair at work. I was completely out of line. I'm not making excuses but," he shook his head, a look of bewilderment on his face, "I thought I was over you, I guess. But when I saw you after four years, well, I guess I still have some big feelings, and I took them out on Fair. I'm really sorry."

"It can be difficult." Harry tacitly accepted his apology.

He breathed out of his nostrils. "I've got to get back. Rollie keeps me on a short chain." He smiled ruefully. "He's heard about the sharpshooter, so now we've inspected every leaf... which we should."

BoomBoom asked, "Do you think it can do a lot of damage here?"

"I don't know. I hope not. The last thing we want is trouble in the industry just when we're getting somewhere. What worries me is if it's mutated or is moving up because of warming trends." He stepped up into the high cab, shut the door, leaned out the window. "I'll make this up to you, Harry. Oh, you found the sharpshooters in your peaches, right?" She nodded "yes" and he asked, "They doing all right?"

"I think so."

"Good." He waved and drove off.

As he drove back down the drive, Harry watched the exhaust curl out of the tailpipe. "That took a bit of courage coming here."

BoomBoom sat down when they walked inside the tack room. "I thought Toby was cracking up. Now I wonder about Arch. Not that he shouldn't apologize."

"Shaky. Edgy. Everyone's off balance."

Tucker dropped like a stone on the old horse blanket on the floor for her use. "He'safraid. I smell it on him."

Harry interpreted the dog's talk as a request for a treat, so she gave Tucker a twisted rawhide chew, then sank into the director's chair opposite BoomBoom. "Another reason I know things aren't good is Coop's not around. She's working overtime and she's not saying much. I check in every day."

"Did she talk to Herb?"

Harry brightened. "She did. Forgot to tell you. He said fine. She'll move in as soon as she can get a day off. There's so much busy work to do—switch over the power, the Phones, all that diddlyshit."

"One of these days we won't need wires. We'll own one phone number and everything will be keyed to that," BoomBoom predicted.

"Think so?"

"I do." She suddenly broke into song. "I've got your number."

"You're as nuts as the rest of them." Harry laughed a true deep, dump-the-stress laugh.

"I'm not insane, honey, just unsane. I greatly recommend it during trying times."

32

"Right temple, neatly done. No note." Rick filled in Cooper when she reached Tinsley Crossroads three miles from White Vineyards.

She approached the truck. Hy sat upright behind the wheel, his head tilted all the way back, his Adam's apple prominent, the .22 pistol still in his right hand. The powder burns on his right temple left a smell of singed flesh and hair, but the entrance was relatively clean. The exit proved messier, with tiny bits of brain and pulverized bone on the seat. A few specks stuck to the passenger window, but the sight wasn't gross. Coop had seen some really grotesque corpses.

She walked around the truck. The bed contained a small box of twine and a small box of flypaper. A paperback book about insects had a page turned down. She flicked to the page using the blade of her penknife. It was a photograph of the sharpshooter. Then she knelt down, flipped over on her back, and crawled under the truck. When she slid out, the crushed stone from the road dotted her damp back. The roadbed remained moist from Sunday's hard storm.

"How long before the print boys get here?" She returned to Rick.

"Fifteen minutes. I called them a half hour ago. Traffic's bad right now." He brushed off her back.

"He hadn't driven in deep mud, but there's mud on the skid plate." She then asked, "Was the motor turned off?"

"Yes. Everything seems quite deliberate." Rick lit up, handing the fag to Coop so she could enjoy the first drag.

"Thanks." She inhaled, then handed the cigarette back to her boss. "Who found him?"

"Bo Newell. He was driving those Belgian people around. Guess they won't be buying here. I sent them on. I'll get back with Bo later."

"Body temperature?"

"He's around ninety-five degrees rightnow, give or take." Rick had put on latex gloves, checking for a pulse, the instant he arrived on the scene.

"Most folks will take this as proof he was guilty." Rick watched a blue plume of smoke rise slightly then flatten out, which meant pressure moving down, probably rain later.

"I try not to laugh when I hear the gossip. Ever notice how desperately people want to believe, want to have an answer, but don't want to work for it?"

"That's why we're on the county payroll. We have to work for it. In the meantime they can make up whatever they want to make up. They aren't held accountable."

"Think he was accountable?" Coop inclined her head toward Hy for a second.

"Suicide? He took care of it that way?" Rick crossed his arms over his chest. "It's logical."

"Are you going to treat this as a suicide?" Coop asked, her inflection rising.