"Timmie?" Murphy asked.

"Timothy, actually," she corrected him with a flat look that betrayed a certain amused challenge.

Timothy was about five three, clad in short corduroy, long leather boots, and about four sets of earrings. Looking, even with sedate brunette hair, decidedly unlocal. Looking even less like a horse person.

"Interesting name," Murphy offered. Especially on that aggressively feminine face.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Dr. Raymond apologized. "I didn't even introduce you two. Dan Murphy, this is Timmie—"

"No, no," the big woman behind her urged. "Let Timmie."

Everybody grinned all around, already knowing the joke. Ms. Timothy didn't seem nearly as delighted.

"He doesn't care—" she attempted to say.

"Leary!" the woman jumped in, damn near six and a half feet of enthusiasm. "Her name's Timothy Leary!"

"Timothy Leary-Parker," the victim amended, even as everybody else laughed.

"You weren't—"

"Good God, no. My father wouldn't have known Timothy Leary if he'd bitten him in the butt. I was named for a Cardinals catcher."

Said with a certain perverse pride. It almost got the first smile of the day out of Murphy. "Timmie McCarver," he said with a nod. "Of course. And your daughter?"

She smiled with real pleasure. "Escaped the same fate. This is Meghan," she announced with an affectionate buss to the top of the girl's head.

The girl gave him a gap-toothed grin. "Hey."

Murphy nodded. "Hey."

That seemed to stretch Meghan's patience too far. "Mom," she asked, tilting her head way back. "Can I stand by the fence? Please?"

Timmie gave her another quick hug and pushed her off, watching her all the way.

"And this is Dr. Barbara Adkins," Raymond continued, indicating Timmie's large friend. Mousy hair, mousy skin, thick features, sumo grip. Murphy bet the drunks didn't bother her much. He shook hands and came away sore.

"And Cindy Dunn," Raymond continued. Cindy Dunn was the escapee from the Western Trekkiwear store who had reacted so strongly to the shooting. She certainly brightened up with the introduction, her hair damn near quivering as she shook hands.

"Say something nice about the hospital," Raymond asked the women. "Dan here is with the St. Louis Post-Dispatch."

Ah, the price of anonymity. "The Independent," Murphy corrected, and survived the reassessment in the doctor's eyes.

"Memorial has a great emergency department," Dr. Barbara Adkins offered, not noticing the pause. "Even better now that Timmie has returned from the wilderness bearing new medical miracles. You should have seen the guy we turfed up to the big house this morning with Timmie's fingers in his chest. It was like playing in the major leagues. And now she's taken on the coroner. I can't wait."

"Problems?" Murphy asked out of habit.

Timmie Leary gave a snort that sounded like a horse with a cold. "Nothing a new coroner won't fix. Last I heard, even assholes don't die from the flu. I'm on a mission to make sure it doesn't get by him again."

"You sure that's wise?" Raymond asked her, brow creased perfectly. "Tucker isn't the kind of man who enjoys being questioned. And he usually does the job all right."

"Wise has never been a behavioral directive of mine," she assured him, twirling her still-full champagne glass in a small hand. "On the other hand, I'm real fond of 'correct,' and there wasn't anything correct about releasing Billy Mayfield today."

"Billy Mayfield?" Raymond asked. "Ellen's husband?"

There ensued a brief discussion on fellow nurses, alcoholic husbands, and inexplicable deaths that Murphy mostly didn't care to follow.

"One of the reasons I was hired was to question the status quo," Timmie finished it all by saying. "Well, I think this time questions aren't enough. I say, when in doubt, act."

"That kind of attitude will get you fired," Cindy Dunn warned with more mirth than caution.

Dr. Atkins looked far less amused. "That kind of attitude damn near got you shot."

Timmie waved an unconcerned hand. "Don't be silly. I've had more guns waved at me than Clint Eastwood. No harm done."

"But this isn't L.A.," Cindy retorted. "And you have more to worry about here, you know? Like your family?"

Said with no tact and heavy meaning. For a little woman, Timmie Leary had quite a glare on her. She leveled one on the blonde and shut her right up. "Thank you, Cindy. We'll talk later."

Cindy pouted. "It is why you came," was all she said.

Standing there at the edge of the group, Murphy felt like a Peeping Tom. Kind of like old times, except he didn't enjoy it anymore. Especially the look on Timmie's face, which made him think she'd just been squeezed into opening up private doors in a public place.

Must be the lack of alcohol. Or cocaine. Or tricyclics. As the man had said, what a lousy time to give up caffeine. Watching for uncomfortable reactions just wasn't fun anymore, especially when he had nothing left to use them on.

Obviously just as uncomfortable with the taut silence, Raymond cleared his throat. "Come to think of it," he said, "Timmie could probably give you a great story, Dan. Her father is one of Puckett's great characters. Isn't he, Timmie?"

Maybe Murphy was the only one who noticed that she tightened up even further. "He is."

"I still find myself singing one of his songs when I'm working," Raymond continued blithely. "What a voice. Do you sing too, Timmie?"

"No, I sure don't."

Murphy watched the conversation switch gears like a Volkswagen with a bad clutch and wondered. But heck, he was still wondering who'd try and shoot up a horse show. It was a cinch nobody was interested in talking about it, and that usually meant there was a story here. If anybody had the energy to find one.

"Your father's a musician?" Murphy asked instead.

"No," Timmie said. "An Irishman."

"'I will arise and go now,'" Barbara Adkins inexplicably intoned with a soft smile.

'"And go to Innisfree,'" everybody but Timmie answered like a litany, and then smiled.

"It's 'The Lake Isle of Innisfree,'" the big doctor explained. "From Yeats. Timmie's dad taught me."

"It's his favorite poem," Raymond enthused with a huge smile. "Just ask him. He'll recite it at the drop of a hat."

Barbara laughed. "Heck, he'd throw down the hat, just to get the chance."

And everybody stood there sipping champagne and watching another horse canter around the ring and contemplating Irish poets. Except for Timmie Leary. She clutched her full glass like a weapon and frowned. And Murphy. Unaccountably, he found himself thinking about the fact that the most interesting statements this afternoon had remained unspoken.

* * *

Later that evening, after all the horses had been put back in their trailers and the beautiful people had climbed into their gleaming imports, Murphy sat in his living room that overlooked a weed-populated driveway and tried hard to drum up enthusiasm about what he was writing. He made it to "Saturday afternoon saw a gathering of..." before he faltered at the challenge of exactly what to call that crowd today. Sycophants? Leeches?

He hadn't minded the medical crew. Funny how after they'd been pointed out, he'd been able to spot them in the crowd, like clover in the corn. A little more solid, a little less dressed, a lot less self-involved than anyone else. Certainly more real than their shiny star, who had ended up walking away with the trophy in one hand and a profit of eighty thousand in the other.