Рита Браун - Murder She Meowed

Straight ahead through more pillared gates loomed Montpelier itself, a peach-colored house shining like a chunk of soft sunrise that had fallen from the heavens to lodge in the foothills of the Southwest Range of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Harry thought to herself that Montpelier, built while Americalabored under the punitive taxes of King George III, was a kind of sunrise, a peep over the horizon of a new political force, a nation made up of people from everywhere united by a vision of democracy. That the vision had darkened or become distorted didn't lessen the glory of its birth, and Harry, not an especially political person, believed passionately that Americans had to hold on to the concepts of their forefathers and foremothers.

One such concept was enjoying a cracking good time. James and Dolley Madison adored a good horse race and agreed that the supreme horseman of their time had been George Washington. Even before James was born in 1752, the colonists wagered on, argued over, and loved fine horses. Virginians, mindful of their history, continued the pastime.

Tee Tucker, Harry's corgi, sat in her lap staring out the window. She, too, loved horses, but she was especially thrilled today because her best friend and fiercest competitor, Mrs. Murphy, a tiger cat of formidable intelligence, was forced to stay home. Mrs. Murphy had screeched "dirty pool" at the top of her kitty lungs, but it had done no good because Harry had told her the crowd would upset her and she'd either run into the truck and pout or, worse, make the rounds of everyone's tailgates. Murphy had no control when it came to fresh roasted chicken, and there'd be plenty of that today. Truth be told, Tucker had no self-control either when it came to savoring meat dishes, but she couldn't jump up into the food the way the cat could.

Oh, the savage pleasure of pressing her wet, cold nose to the window as the truck pulled out of the farm's driveway and watching Mrs. Murphy standing on her hind legs at the kitchen window. Tucker was certain that when they returned early in the evening Murphy would have shredded the fringes on the old couch, torn the curtains, and chewed the phone cord, for starters. Then the cat would be in even more trouble while Tucker, the usual scapegoat, would polish her halo. If she had a tail, she'd wag it, she was so happy. Instead she wiggled.

"Tucker, sit still, we're almost there," Harry chided her.

"There's Mim." Mrs. Hogendobber waved to Marilyn Sanburne, whose combination of money and bossiness made her the queen of Crozet. "Boiled wool, I see. She's going Bavarian.

"I like the pheasant feather in her cap myself." Harry smiled and waved too.

"How many horses does she have running today?"

"Three. She's having a good year with Bazooka, her big gelding. The other two are green and coming along." Harry used the term that described a young animal gaining experience. "It's wonderful that she's giving the Valiants a chance to train her horses. Having good stock makes all the difference, but then Mim would know."

Harry pulled into her parking space. She fished her gloves out of her pocket. At ten in the morning the temperature was forty-five degrees. By 12:30 and the first race, it might nudge into the high fifties, a perfect temperature for early November.

"Don't forget your badge." Mrs. Hogendobber, a good deal older than Harry, was inclined to mother her.

"I won't." Harry pinned on her badge, a green ribbon with official stamped in gold down the length of it. "I've even got one for Tucker." She tied a ribbon on the dog's leather collar.

The Hepworths, Harry's mother's family, had attended the first running of the Montpelier Hunt Races in 1928 when it was run over a cross-country course. It was always the "Hepworth space" until a few years ago when it became simply number 175.

Harry and Tucker hopped out of the car, ducked under the white rail, sprinted across the soft, perfect turf, and joined the other officials in the paddock area graced by large oak trees, their leaves still splashes of orange and yellow. In the center sat a small green building and a tent where jockeys changed into their silks and picked up their saddle pad numbers. Large striped tents were set up alongside the paddock in a restricted area for patrons of the event. Harry could smell the ham cooking in one tent and hoped she'd have time to scoot in for fresh ham biscuits and a cup of hot tea. Although it was sunny, a light wind chilled her face.

"Harry!" Fair Haristeen, her ex-husband and the race veterinarian, was striding over to her, looking like Thor himself.

"Hi, honey. I'm ready for anything."

Before the blond giant could answer, Chark Valiant and his sister, Adelia, walked over.

Chark, so-called because he was the sixth Charles Valiant, hugged Harry. "It's good to see you, Harry. Great day for 'chasing."

"Sure is."

"Oh, look at Tucker." Addie knelt down to pet her. "I'd trust your judgment anytime."

"A corgi official or an Official Corgi?" Chark asked, his tone arch.

"The best corgi," the little dog answered, smiling.

"You ready?" Harry peered at Addie, soon to be twenty-one, who'd followed her older brother into the steeplechasing world. He was the trainer, she was the jockey, a gifted and gutsy one.

"This is our Montpelier." She beamed, her youthful face already creased by sun and wind.

"Mim's the nervous one." Chark laughed because Mim Sanburne, who owned more horses than she could count, paced more than the horses did before the races.

"We passed her on the way in. Looked like she was heading up to the big house." Harry was referring to Montpelier.

"I don't know how she keeps up with her dozens of committees. I thought Monticello was her favorite cause." Fair rubbed his hands through his hair, then put his lad's cap back on.

"It is, but she promised to help give elected officials a tour, and the Montpelier staff is on overload.'' Harry did not need to explain that in this election year, anyone running for public office, even dogcatcher, would die before they'd miss the races and miss having a photo of themselves at the Madison house run in the local newspaper.

"Well, I'm heading back to the stable." Chark touched Harry on the shoulder. "Find me when the races are over. I hope we'll have something to celebrate."

"Sure."

Fair, called away by Colbert Mason, director of the National Hunt and Steeplechase Association, winked and left Harry and Addie.

"Adelia!" Arthur Tetrick called, then noticed Harry, and a big smile crossed his angular, distinguished face.

Striding over to chat with "the girls," as he called them, Arthur nodded and waved to people. A lawyer of solid reputation, he was not only acting race director for Montpelier but was often an official at other steeplechases. As executor of Marylou Valiant's will, he was also her two children's guardian—their father being dead—until Adelia turned twenty-one later that month and came into her considerable inheritance. Chark, though older than his sister, would not receive his money, either, until Addie's birthday. His mother had felt that men, being slower to mature, should have their inheritance delayed. She couldn't have been more wrong concerning her own offspring, for Chark was prudent if not parsimonious, whereas Addie's philosophy was the financial equivalent of the Biblical "consider the lilies of the field." But Marylou, who had disappeared five years earlier and was presumed dead, had missed crucial years in the development of her children. She couldn't have known that her theory was backward in their case.

"Don't you look the part." Addie kidded her guardian, taking in his fine English tweed vest and jacket.