Cat on the Scent

            He wiped down the counter, said hello to his former cat, Pewter, and threw scraps to the animals. “H. Vane-Tempest called to tell me there’s a reenactors’ meeting at his house tomorrow to discuss safety measures. I like that.” He shook his head cynically.

            “Are you going?” Harry asked.

            “Well, I bought all that stuff for the Oak Ridge affair, I suppose I ought to get my money’s worth.”

            “You could sell it,” Pewter, ever the realist, suggested.

            He fed her another small beef scrap. “She’s a good mouser.”

            “Can’t catch a bird, though, to save her life.” Murphy stood on her hind paws to catch a tossed morsel.

            Tucker, too, grabbed a piece of meat from the air. She was very quick.

            “Did he ask Archie to the meeting?” Harry inquired.

            “I don’t know.”

            The post-office crew hurried over to the frame building as Rob Collier tossed in the canvas sacks from the main office on Seminole Trail, also called Route 29.

            “Time to work.” Harry started sorting.

            The phone rang and Harry picked it up.

            Cynthia Cooper was on the line. “Harry, can you come with me this lunch hour?”

            “Sure. What are we doing?”

            “Tell you when I see you.”

            She hung up. “Miranda, will you mind Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker for lunch? Cynthia asked me to go with her but she won’t say why. Official business, I guess.”

            At twelve Cynthia picked up Harry in the squad car. Harry asked Miranda to cover for her for two hours.

            Within fifteen minutes they were at the airport, at the private hangar.

            “Are you afraid of small planes?” Cynthia asked.

            “No.”

            “Glad to hear it.” Cynthia bent over to fit through the small door, then reached out to pull Harry in. “This is Bob Green. He’s a pilot for FedEx. In his off time he still loves to fly.”

            “Hi.” The square-jawed pilot nodded a greeting.

            They taxied down the runway, lifted off, and were airborne in minutes. Harry, on the passenger side, looked down on the patchwork quilts of green, beige, and forest. Creeks and rivers glittered. The tops of the buildings at Fashion Square Mall were flat.

            “Boy, hope we never get five feet of snow. Bet those roofs wouldn’t take the stress load.”

            “Bet they can.” Bob smiled. “Or there will be lawsuits up the wazoo.”

            Cynthia, hand on the back of Harry’s seat, leaned forward between Bob and Harry to hand her Tommy Van Allen’s map. “You grew up here. We’re flying you over these parcels. Tell me what you know.”

            Bob flew over the first parcel, a high meadow adjacent to Sugar Hollow.

            “Well, that used to belong to Francie Haynes, an old lady who raised Herefords, the horned kind.”

            “Haynes. The black Haynes?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Anything special about the land?”

            “Not that I know of.”

            As they flew over each parcel, Harry recounted the history as she knew it.

            “Bob, can we go up just a little bit, another thousand feet or so, and make a big circle?” Harry requested.

            “No problem.”

            “Coop, look down. Can you see how the land folds together? Can you see the old reservoir at Sugar Hollow?”

            “Yes.”

            “Okay, we’re flying over the watershed. See how everything drains, essentially, in one direction? That’s where the state and some in the county want to put the new reservoir, between Free Union and Earlysville.”

            “I can see it.”

            “Let’s go lower over Sugar Hollow.”

            Bob pushed in the steering wheel and they gently descended.

            “Really obvious here.” Cynthia strained to look over Harry’s head, out the passenger window. “And I can see Francie Haynes’s land.”

            “Now, wouldn’t it make more sense to use Sugar Hollow?” Harry said.

            “From up here, yes.”

            “Hey, you two, it’s just us and the birds up here,” said Bob. “The landowners are bigger and richer at the other place. This is poor people. Used to be poor people, I mean. Other folks are moving in now.”

            “And let’s not forget the contractors.” Cynthia shielded her eyes as they turned toward the sun. “You know when the state writes the specs for these massive projects they write them so only a few firms can truly compete. What a crock of shit it all is. Sorry, Bob, I don’t know you well enough to swear.”

            “Fine by me.”

            “So, there’s nothing special about these parcels of land?”

            “Some are in the watershed and some aren’t. But no, there’s nothing that I know of that marks these off. Why?” Harry asked.

            “Can’t tell you that part.”

            “Since we’re up here, can we fly over Tally Urquhart’s?”

            “Good idea.” Cynthia raised her voice because the propeller noise drowned out normal conversation. “The back side of Little Yellow Mountain. I guess Mint Springs is a better coordinate.”

            “Okay.”

            Within a few moments they were cruising over the verdant acres, the miles of crisp white fencing that constituted the Urquhart place. The old hay barn and stone buildings came into view.

            “Bob, see that barn down there? How hard would it be to land there? I’m not asking you to land,” she hastened to add as he descended, “but how hard would it be?” Cynthia asked.

            “Not much of a strip. A little like threading the needle between the two hills. Take a good pilot.”

            “How about in rain and fog?” Harry asked.