Sour Puss by Rita Mae Brown, Michael Gellatly Page A

Flynn.” Rollie mentioned a nationally famous equine vet who lived in Albemarle County.
    “Sir, you won’t find anyone better. You can also call Reynolds Coles or Anne Bonda or Greg Schmidt. They’re all excellent vets. Dan, as you probably know, is so famous he’s in demand all over. I’m surprised one of those Saudi princes hasn’t offered Dan and Ginger,” he mentioned Dan’s wife, a small-animal vet, “a million to practice in Dubai.”
    That Fair hadn’t been insulted surprised Rollie, who imagined every exchange with another man as a contest of wills, wits, and, of course, money.
    Chauntal, often embarrassed by Rollie, tried not to show it. Born poor in Mississippi, she was raised by people with beautiful manners, people who respected other people. Her mother, father, and sister didn’t rejoice in Rollie’s wealth. They thought him rude and unfeeling. They prayed their beautiful girl would have a good life. That her husband would respect her. Not that they showed anything to Rollie but pleasantness. He tried to buy them things, which they refused.
    Rollie understood only money. He was a poor man for all his wealth.
    “You tell me what you want to do, Mr. Barnes, and if you want to go ahead with surgery, I’ll step aside for another vet or assist, if you choose. As I said, any of those folks are excellent. You can’t find better.”
    “I’ll have my secretary call you after Dr. Flynn has a look.”
    “Fine.” Fair reached over and patted the colt.
    The little fellow had a lovely eye.
    “Heard BoomBoom’s got a mule.” Rollie smirked.
    “Mules are good animals.”
    “Is she really going to train it? That’s what Paul said.” Chauntal was surprised.
    “When did you see Paul?” Rollie grilled her, because Paul de Silva was handsome and sexy.
    “When I went down to Tazio’s to see how she was coming with the plans for your wine-press building.”
    This pleased him. “Ah, yes, they’re an item.” He turned to Fair. “She’s easy to work with, and since she’s at the beginning of her career, I’m getting good value for my money.”
    Fair thought the world of the young architect. “You made a wise choice.”
    This puffed up Rollie. His sandy hair, thinned a bit on top, retained its color. A bit weedy, he at least didn’t sport a big potbelly like Hy Maudant. When he first made money, Rollie hired consultants to teach him how to dress, consultants to teach him what fork and knife to use. He’d mastered these intricacies.
    As they walked outside the brick stable painted a soft peach with white trim, dark-green shutters on the windows of the office, the breeze ruffled Fair’s thick hair.
    Chauntal skipped along, slipping her arm through Rollie’s. “Honey, show him your latest.”
    Rollie pointed down to the south side of the farm. “Merlot.”
    Arch could be seen walking along the straight rows of vines.
    “Heard you planted them last November.”
    “Twenty acres of Merlot. Fifteen in Pinot Gris. And that’s just the beginning.”
    “Arch will know just what to do,” Fair noted.
    “Veritas Vineyards wanted him, but I offered a partnership and that closed the deal. He’s thirty-four, his best years ahead.” Rollie smirked.
    Fair bit his tongue, then replied, “Arch has a lot of hands-on knowledge and ambition. Those years in the Napa Valley gave him a lot of experience.”
    “Chauntal and I intend to make the best red wine in the state of Virginia. Great design on the label, too. ’Course, we’re still in the creative stage.” He pulled drawings out of his pocket. They were pretty.
    Fair thought of Hy Maudant’s white square label, with a gold fleur-de-lis underneath the simple logo “White Vineyards.” He murmured about the colors.
    “Dr. Haristeen, can we get you anything to drink, a sandwich perhaps? You’ve had a long morning, I’m sure.”
    “No, thank you, Mrs. Barnes. My next call is at St. James.”
    “Alicia Palmer.” Rollie’s eyes widened. “I’ve seen