Puss 'N Cahoots

good to me. What’s cooking?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Honey.”
    “Really.” She was a rotten liar; her voice or eyes gave her away.
    Fair couldn’t see her eyes, but he could hear well enough. So, being a highly intelligent man, he dropped it. Sooner or later she’d come ’round with what she wanted.
    And being a smart man, he also knew there would be no delight for a Virginian to ask her husband flat out for what she wanted or needed. No, this had to be a sport, like fishing. The woman picked her spot, sat down under the trees or perhaps on a nice little craft. She baited her hook depending on the size and type of fish, maybe a little crank bait, then she cast it lazily over the river to drift. For a Virginian and Southerner in general, sure, the result was important, but the means of obtaining it should be worthy of the result. The bobbing down the river proved as much fun as catching the fish. Engagement was everything to a Virginian, even if you were only with them for two minutes. Well, he was in it for life.
    “You got it.” He rotated his shoulders.
    “Good. I’ll keep rubbing because I don’t want to stop on the one side. Have to balance the muscles.”
    “You could have been a masseuse.”
    “I would have hated it. I don’t like touching people, but I like touching you.”
    “Whew.” He exhaled. “Had me worried there for a minute.”
    The phone rang.
    Fair reached over for it, since his arms were a lot longer than Harry’s. “Hello.”
    “Fair, how are you? It’s Paula Cline.”
    “Paula, good to hear your voice. Will you be at the show tonight?”
    “Overload.” She said by way of explanation.
    “I bet you want to speak to my bride.”
    “I do.”
    “Honey.” Fair twisted to hand Harry the phone and sighed because his upper back didn’t ache when he did.
    “Paula, I hope you haven’t been too virtuous.”
    “Oh, Harry, if only. I’m working so hard I don’t have time to get into trouble. It’s depressing.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Thanks. Of course, that’s nothing compared to what’s happened to Joan and Larry.
    “And Jorge. And then I caught the early-afternoon news and there you were with the cats and dog. You all are stars for finding Queen Esther.”
    Harry laughed. “It’s gone to Pewter’s head. She wants an agent.”
    “Hey, Lassie had one.” Paula laughed, too. “Renata looked divine; maybe she needs a new agent. She and Pewter could share one.”
    “Movie stars are supposed to look divine. What is she, thirty-two?”
    “She’s an eyelash away from forty. Girl’s thirty-eight. One of my girlfriends went to high school with her.”
    “Then she really looks divine.” Harry was impressed.
    “They have to. It’s their job. If you had the facials, manicures, and three-hundred-dollar haircuts, to say nothing of the color jobs, the massages, personal trainers, and clothes designed just for you, hell, you’d look better than Renata.”
    At this Harry burst out laughing, really laughing. “Liar.”
    “True. Hey, the reason I called, apart from complimenting you on the industry of Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, is to tell you I think I have the right horse for Alicia.”
    “Really.” Harry was intrigued.
    “He’s a spectacular gelding by Sir Cherokee and he’s here for a low bow. He’s been here six months, healed up, but Fair can make that judgment. If given time to heal, low bows usually don’t cause future problems. But you know how some people are, they won’t ride a horse with jewelry.” Paula used the term that meant a horse who carried scars on its legs, wind puffs or low bows, a bowed tendon, or a variety of other blemishes caused by use or silliness in the paddock.
    “Good mind?”
    “Wonderful. This fellow has the best disposition and he’s smart. Really smart. Sixteen one hands. Gorgeous head. Typical Thoroughbred bay, a little chrome on his legs”—by this she meant one white sock or more—“and a blaze.”
    A hand was four inches, the standard measurement for height of a horse.
    “How much does the owner or owners want?”
    “That’s just it. The economy has tanked, and you know what happens to racehorses that don’t win or are laid up. They want out from under the board bill.”
    Harry grimaced. “God only knows how many will wind up at the killers’ like Ferdinand.” She named a winner of the Kentucky Derby, shipped to Japan; he didn’t pan out as a stud so the owners sold him for meat.
    Because Ferdinand had won the