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thing.”
Tucker enjoyed her moment of glory as exhaust belched from the new tailpipe Harry had installed last summer.
    Harry backed out, shifting the gears into four-wheel drive.
    As Harry carefully drove along the Skyline Drive to the turnoff for Route 250 East, Tucker excitedly told the cats about the Virgin Mary crying blood.
    “But that’s a statue,”
Pewter sensibly replied.
    “Was it truly blood?”
Mrs. Murphy wondered.
    “I don’t rightly know. It was the color of blood, the consistency, but I couldn’t smell it. She’s high and it’s too cold. By the time the blood reached her heart it washed away.”
    “Blood carries a powerful scent, almost metallic.”
Mrs. Murphy knew the odor well.
    “By the time we returned with Brother Prescott and Brother Thomas, she was weeping pale pink. The tears were slowing down. Probably something to do with the temperature.”
    “Did Mom say prayers?”
Pewter, curious as to human religious impulses, asked.
    “She was thoughtful and still before we saw the tears. I smelled Susan, so I ran down to her. Mom followed. The statue cried when Susan and Mom walked back up to it. Susan’s upset.”
    “Why?”
both cats said in unison.
    Mrs. Murphy quickly yelled,
“Jigs for tuna!”
    Pewter, long whiskers swept forward, grumbled,
“You win.”
    In the South, if two people say the same thing at the same time, the first person to say, “Jigs for ———” gets whatever they ask for—in this case, tuna. Pewter, ever solicitous of her stomach, would have to share a morsel of flaky tuna.
    “Susan is afraid her marriage is getting stale.”
Tucker gave her opinion of the conversation.
“Maybe tempted by young women in Richmond.”
    “Ooo,”
Pewter crooned.
    “Oh, boy, there will be hell to pay if he doesn’t resist temptation.”
Mrs. Murphy considered monogamy one of those peculiar human concepts. They tried, but it was against their nature. Some could do it but most couldn’t, and she thought the idea nothing but misery.
    “Glad Mom put snow tires on this truck last week,”
Pewter noted appreciatively.
    “Yeah.”
Mrs. Murphy, hind paws on the seat, leaned forward so her front paws rested on the dash.
“Coming down thick now. We’re lucky the temperature dropped so it’s not raining anymore. That’s the worst.”
    “Spring is so far away.”
Tucker hoped ice wasn’t underneath the new-fallen snow.
    Harry didn’t punch in BoomBoom’s number until she was safely down Afton Mountain. “Boom, Harry.”
    “Where are you?”
    “Foot of Afton Mountain.”
    “Getting rough out there,” the statuesque blonde said.
    “Could I stop by for a minute, unless you’re in the midst of cooking?”
    “Come on. Alicia’s here. We’re going to the club later for Thanksgiving dinner. We’ve plenty of time.”
    “Fifteen minutes,” Harry succinctly replied. They’d grown up together so could employ shorthand without offending.
    Alicia Palmer, in her mid-fifties, had been a huge star in film. She retired in her middle forties, having married well on a few occasions; divorcing well, too. But the great love of Alicia’s life had been Mary Pat Reines, a kind, generous, and fabulously wealthy woman who’d died when Alicia was in her mid-twenties. Alicia had inherited Mary Pat’s estate. Over the years she’d visit the place once or twice a year, but she finally came home from Santa Barbara to settle in last year. She wondered why it took her so long to return to Virginia, only realizing once she came home that she had never laid Mary Pat’s ghost to rest. Once this emotional milestone was crossed, Alicia’s heart lightened.
    BoomBoom, an avid golfer and rider, found Alicia a warm and understanding friend. As both women were stunning beauties, they had spent their lives fending off men or, in BoomBoom’s case, toying with them. Alicia didn’t do that. She had tried to love her two husbands. The strain proved more than she could bear as she never felt deeply close