Murder Takes to the Hills by Jessica Thomas Page B

asked, “Has everybody you know been recommending that we should take a nice, long vacation…and soon?”
    “Just about.” She laughed slightly. “Are we in that bad a shape? Do we need one of those old rest cures my grandma used to talk about? I think rest cure was a nice way of spending a couple of weeks in a pseudomental hospital. You figure that would help? Brisk walks before breakfast, calisthenics before luncheon, inspirational reading and a glass of warm milk and one small cookie at bedtime?”
    “We’re probably not there yet, but it’s close. Seriously, I do think we need a break.” I steepled my fingers in front of my mouth for a second. “Nova Scotia sounds fabulous. But we’d really have to watch our pennies.”
    “New York?”
    “Hell, we could buy Nova Scotia for a week in New York.”
    “Well,” she continued. “Personally I feel a little Vermonted -out for a while.”
    I nodded agreement. “Same with Maine. It’s kind of like camping out in the backyard.”
    “Yes.” She sounded discouraged and then brightened.   “Then let me float this past you. Close your eyes and listen.”
    I did as I was told.
    “Visualize tall mountains, but not the harsh Rocky-mountain type. Softer, gentler ones with moss to lie on beside a small stream, with tall pines and oaks standing guard. In the distance the mountains seem to blur a little, as if a light, fragrant smoke drifts between them. Then you realize the fragrance is closer, and the whole mountainside has a pink cast from blossoming mountain laurel and rhododendron. Far up the stream you may luck out and see a mama bear teaching her cubs to fish.   And lower down is a beaver dam. When you get anywhere near they slap their tails like a rifle shot and all disappear. Below the dam in the white water, otters play—that seems to be all they do, all day long. And in a nearby meadow polka dotted with yellow blooms, fox kits play-fight with mama serving as referee.”
    I felt myself drifting as she continued.
    “At the foot of the mountain is a sizeable lake where boats are limited to sails or small electric trolling motors, slow and barely audible. The lake is loaded with various bass and bluegill. The inn there will even clean and cook your own catch for your dinner. And at the top of the mountain   is a small icy tarn, loaded with crappie that are the most tender, sweetest fish you ever tasted, and water so clear that when you look into it, you aren’t sure whether the clouds are above you or beneath. I’m sure you’ll want to make the hike up to it.” She gave me a sweet, totally sarcastic smile.
    “And,” she added, “you hear the clop of horseshoes and look up to see riders on tall mounts with kind eyes and long, delicate legs, moving at a rapid, even pace they can continue for hours with no strain on them or you. Most comfortable ride in the world.   Give ’em an apple and they’re yours for life. They’re Tennessee Walking Horses.”
    “My God,” I breathed. “Cindy, are you suggesting suicide because you’ve made reservations for us in heaven?”
    “Not quite.” I heard her pouring more coffee and opened my eyes, rubbing them and peering between my fingers like a child who has had a dream too good to be true.
    She spoke briskly now. “Remember my cousin Ken and his wife Frances?”
    “Yeah, I met them at your parents’ house once. He was something in politics and she was something in horses. Nice people, I thought.”
    “You thought right. He’s in the Tennessee Legislature—probably governor in the next election. And between you and me, I think the two of them are practicing a fancy waltz for the Presidential Inaugural Ball down the road a piece.”
    “Wow!” I sat up straight. “He asked me for a signed print of the picture of Fargo on the beach, leaping for a seagull. I sent it to him. You think he might hang it in the Oval Office?”