Рита Браун - Whisker Of Evil

“It will,” Tavener said with confidence.

“All the money in the state of Maryland and they build that bland thing in Timonium.” She would have thrown up her hands but the mittens were plugged in to an outlet restricting her movement.

“Well, we can tease our Maryland friends all we want about Timonium, but they’ve got the Maryland Hunt Cup, the Preakness, and some damned good horses.”

“Chalk it up to being a border state during the War Between the States.” BoomBoom smiled. “That’s when Virginia lost our equine hegemony.”

The thoroughbreds, often called blooded horses, led by grooms and women, had walked through two mountain ranges and forded deep, swift rivers to another border state, Kentucky. Given the economic devastation as well as the appalling loss of human and equine life after the war ended, those animals that had managed to avoid consumption never returned. Many were hidden so they wouldn’t go to the war.

One could barely even find a mule or donkey after 1865 in Virginia, much less a man between the ages of twelve and seventy who had all his limbs and mind intact.

“We’ve done precious little to get it back.” Tavener, a stalwart on every thoroughbred and racing commission in the state, had fought the good fight for over two decades. When Virginia finally voted to allow racing, they put the track outside of Williamsburg, not the best place at that time. However, the buildings were lovely and the turf track was one of the best in the country. Perhaps in time the population would grow south of Richmond to support the track. It sure was a long haul for horsemen, though, most of whom were in central or northern Virginia.

“Now, you’ve spearheaded every group, you really led us to racing. And, Tavener, you can’t blame yourself for the location of Colonial Downs. No, it isn’t convenient to the largest population in our state, which clogs up every artery in northern Virginia.” She smacked her lips. “Occupied Virginia.” They laughed and she continued, as Carmen soaked BoomBoom’s feet in soothing oil. “But you’ve done your share.”

“If we don’t get more Off Track Betting sites, BoomBoom, you can kiss it all good-bye. And I am just tired of fighting these entrenched interests who think gambling will lead us to the devil. The equine industry pumps one billion dollars into our state economy, and if we can expand racing and Off Track Betting, I guarantee another billion in two years’ time. I mean it, I’d bet my life on it.”

“Now, don’t you think foxhunting brings money into the state?”

“I do.” His eyes opened wide. “I do, but wagering, BoomBoom, hundreds of thousands of dollars of handle on race days—all to the public good.” He used “handle,” which meant the money flowing through the betting windows.

“Dr. Heyward, sit still.” Henry rapped him on the shoulder with the scissors.

“Sorry. I get hot about this.”

“And other things.” BoomBoom blew him a kiss just to torment him.

“Whooee.” Carmen fanned herself, adding to the merriment. “Dr. Heyward, Barry always said you ran a tight ship. He said he was going to give you a run for your money someday.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Tavener smiled broadly.

“Said he was going to get good stallions, and he already had those mares. He and Sugar—” She stopped. “They had big dreams. He read everything. He said he studied what Mary Pat did, too. He asked questions about her and looked for notes and stuff.” She smiled. “But he said you were really, really smart.”

“I’m flattered. It’s hard to believe they’re gone.” He snapped his fingers. “You never know.”

A silence followed this, then Carmen said, “Barry wanted to know everything. He used to watch you. He said he learned a lot from Fair about reproduction, but he said you knew the blood, knew it in your sleep.”

“You watch a lot of horses, you study a lot of pedigrees.”

“A little luck never hurts.” BoomBoom smiled. “And you had the good fortune to see Mary Pat’s organization when you started out.”

“Impeccable. Tell you another one I studied: Peggy Augustus. Her mother was good, and Peggy—what an eye, I tell you.” He folded his hands under his smock. “Paul Mellon. Any chance I had to drive up there to Upperville, I took it. Another great breeder and a great man. Learn from the best.”

The door opened as Little Mim came in, and Pewter scooted right between her legs.

“What the—”

“Pewter, what do you have?” BoomBoom called out.

“Mine. All mine!” The gray cat dropped a fried chicken wing, then picked it up, hurrying to the supply closet, door open.

Just then Harry pushed through the door, her face red. “Pewter.”

“She’s not here,” Pewter called from the closet.

Carmen pointed to the closet, as did the others.

“Your lunch?” Tavener laughed jovially.

“Worse. Herbie’s.”

“It’s half a block from the post office to here. That’s a long haul for such a tubby pussycat.” Tavener thought this was pretty funny.

“The Rev is back in the post office blessing her this very minute.” Harry strode to the closet. “I see you in there.” She stooped down, scooped up the cat, who would not release the chicken wing from her jaws. “God will get you for this, Pewter.”

The cat refused to open her mouth.

As Harry left, Tavener laughed and laughed. “Would you like to hear Herb right now? The air is blue. Then he’ll remember himself and apologize profusely.”

“It’s amazing how strong a little animal can be when it’s defending itself or wants something.” BoomBoom loved all animals.

“That’s what upsets me about Barry.” Carmen looked up at BoomBoom. “His throat was ripped out. Why didn’t he fight? I think there’s something out there.”

“Now, Carmen, don’t let your imagination get the better of you,” Tavener said soothingly.

27

T he old wood from the shed, neatly stacked, bore testimony to Harry’s hard work and essential frugality. She wasn’t cheap but she saved anything that might be useful, and the boards could repair breaks in the fence line.

Blair’s new fence posts, in bundles, rested next to the old wood.

She’d worked each night of the week to dismantle the old shed. The supporting posts she pulled out with her tractor, then filled in the holes with pounded rock dust.

At five-thirty Saturday morning, June 19, she fed the new mares, as well as Tomahawk, Poptart, and Gin Fizz. Her tea steamed from the small slit in her carrying cup as she put it down on the desk in the tack room. The mice, sound asleep behind the tack trunk, didn’t stir.

Harry’s favorite time, early morning, was shared by Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. Pewter liked breakfast, but she wasn’t by nature an early riser. Today she awoke, ate, then curled up on the kitchen chair, her tail covering her nose.

“Mrs. Murphy! What a good girl you are.” Harry held up a dead mouse.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Murphy had caught a field mouse and put it on the tack-room desk.

Harry didn’t know where the mouse came from, but she believed her barn was being expertly patrolled.

Harry placed the mouse on the floor. She’d take it outside and bury it as soon as she checked her barn list. Each evening, her last chore in the barn was making tomorrow’s list. A big notepad with different colors of paper sat on the left-hand back corner. Each day she pulled off a different color; today’s was neon yellow. That way she wouldn’t confuse her chores. It irritated her to carry one day’s chores to the next day. She felt she had failed or, worse, had been idle.