Whiskers in the Dark

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Susan will get wet,” Pirate said.

  “She’s in the Institute. She can find an umbrella if she decides to come back here before the dinner,” Tucker told him. “Susan can run between raindrops.”

  “She can?” Pirate questioned.

  “She’s pulling your leg.” Mrs. Murphy smiled.

  Feet propped up on a heavy log turned on its end, Harry dozed off. Her animals did, too, as the rain beat down. The aroma from the fire filled the room.

  A half hour passed. The door flew open. Susan, umbrella overhead, turned around, shook the umbrella outside the open cabin door, then shut it. Harry, awakened, knocked over her makeshift footstool.

  “Get the work done?”

  Susan, wearing a Barbour raincoat, slipped out of it, hanging the dripping garment up on a peg. “We did. Glad I brought my raincoat.” Noticing the drying garments, she said, “You didn’t.”

  “I did.” Harry pointed to her Filson tin jacket. “I didn’t wear it. When we left the cabin, I really didn’t think it would rain. Wrong again.”

  Susan dropped into the rocking chair next to Harry after carefully removing the drying clothing, folding them over the coat pegs. “I’m bushed.”

  “Me, too. Fell asleep, obviously. I hardly ever do that.”

  “Get the barn ready?”

  “Oh, sure. Takes time, but it’s all easy enough. I don’t know who they buy their shavings from, but they’re good shavings. Personally I prefer peanut hulls, but they are so expensive. So I use shavings like everyone else.”

  “M-m-m.” Susan inhaled the fragrance. “It’s not cold, cold but it’s raw. Know what I mean?”

  “What time do we need to be back at the Institute?”

  “Hour. Dinner. The Ogdens are coming.” Susan named a couple who had served for decades in the foreign service, and Geoff had also been president of Middleburg Hunt Club.

  “Good. I don’t know them well, but the times I’ve been in their company have been interesting.” Harry smiled. “By the way, this bath towel is warm. I usually don’t wrap myself in a bath towel. Always have my robe, which I forgot. Actually, I forgot a lot of stuff.”

  Susan turned to her, the light flickering on her face. “You’re too young for a senior moment. Is it sheer stupidity?”

  “Aren’t you hateful?” Harry pointed a finger at her.

  “No. Actually, I’m tired, too. It’s been a week, you know. Ned was in Richmond the entire week and he’s there now. Then there’s the planning for the homecoming. Great idea, don’t get me wrong. Now I’m stuck with Mags Nielsen and Pamela Bartlett. Everything is an issue.”

  “There are just people like that and my feeling is there are more and more or maybe I’m just noticing.”

  “No, Harry, I think it’s true. Everything is a potential problem, a potential lawsuit or, given the homecoming and food, how about ptomaine poisoning? You would not believe the bullshit.”

  “Actually, I would. Not so much for me since I farm, although I receive pages and pages of questions annually from the U.S. Agricultural Department as well as Virginia’s. Given that no one in the cabinet or in Congress farms, the questionnaires are really about their careers, not my farming.” She smiled. “I’m a cynic.”

  “We all are now. I imagine Fair handles his share of paperwork, sidesteps lawyers, has to account for controlled substances.”

  “Fortunately, horses don’t have lawyers but their owners do. He fills out insurance forms, no kidding, and they get longer and longer. And now there is health insurance for horses. I’m not kidding.”

  “I suppose if you have a horse worth two million dollars, that’s not such a far stretch,” Susan reasoned.

  “No, but a foxhunter? A pleasure horse? Not one of my horses is insured.”

  “Of course not. You’re married to the vet.” Susan let out peals of laughter and Harry joined her.

  An hour later, dry, a bit of makeup, squeezing under Susan’s umbrella, they sloshed to the Institute. The work party, comprised of ten hard workers, sat at the table, glad to be finished, hopeful for the upcoming event. Some drank wine, others beer, and, for the purists, bourbon and scotch. Even Mary, hardly a drinker, would not have downed vodka. Bourbon still reigned in the South.

  Geoff and Jan, sitting in the middle of the table, surrounded by old hunting friends, pepped up the conversation, as always. Geoff’s career in the State Department hit many high notes from being counsel general in Istanbul to specialized work on economics to personnel to being director of maritime affairs. Jan also covered many bases, truly enjoying it when she and Geoff were posted to the same countries. It seemed they knew everybody; they had known Jason well and later Clare.

  Harry, fascinated, listened to Geoff having five Turkish bodyguards as he was the PLO’s number one target in Turkey. Like many people, she took our State Department for granted, not considering how lives could be at risk. Given the murder of Ambassador John Christopher Stevens in Benghazi, Libya, during Obama’s presidency, the dangers were apparent. What wasn’t apparent and what she was listening to was what happens when the secretary of state and then the president do not correctly evaluate information from abroad. The first step was that U.S. diplomatic efforts were weakened or undermined by enemies. The worst outcome was death.

  Fortunately, few people in the foreign service are killed, but one receives postings and must go. A posting to Russia proves quite different from one to France. Both are vital.

  Harry realized how naive she was.

  Jan, wonderful to look at, was telling the group how the public and private sectors can cooperate. The leadership starts with the president.

  “For instance, and I bet no one knows this except for Geoff and me, it was President Nixon who brought together the private and public sectors. He considered it important and part of our education. I wasn’t in service then, obviously, but I stepped into it as a young woman. A person like the president of Westinghouse might be sitting next to a senator from Utah. I always thought of it as cross-fertilization. Nixon would have meetings and he used state dinners to good effect. The big prize was a private lunch with him.”

  “Good things.” Mary Reed smiled. “Don’t you think plenty of good things are still happening? The media focuses on the bad?”

  “Fundamentally this is a Puritan society.” Susan, the history major, threw this out. “Bad news sells. Cromwell proved that.”

  Everyone started talking at once.

  Harry leaned toward Arlene, an old friend of the Ogdens. “Arlene, how did you meet the Ogdens?”

  “They were back in Washington when I was at the Agency. The secretary of state’s office is on the seventh floor of the Harry S. Truman Building and I’d see Geoff in the elevators because sometimes I was called out there. We got to talking after many trips and I found out he foxhunted; he found out I beagled. Then he, Jan, and I hunted together. I’d follow the foxhounds by car. They’d join in on the beagling and basseting, and that’s how we all met Mary Reed. A former Vietnam combat helicopter pilot, Al Toews, was Master and huntsman of Ashland Bassets then, a big, tall—and I mean tall—fellow. What fun we had.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Al died of a heart attack on December twenty-first. I remember because it’s the winter solstice. Unexpected. Everyone came through, as you would expect. The hunting world is tight. Mary then took over. The club supported her, but what a shock.”

  “I can imagine. It’s odd, isn’t it, how big and strong men are, but they go first. For the most part they do.”

  Arlene nodded. “My mother used to say God gave women something extra.”

  Harry laughed. Hours passed before anyone noticed.

  Finally, Rachel couldn’t help herself as she asked Mary, “Nothing about Jason?”

  “It is disturbing.”

  “Murder is.�
�� Geoff Ogden flatly spoke. “As the senior officer here,” he said with a smile, “I’d advise you all to have security.” He tapped the table with his forefinger. “You never really know, and both covered some sensitive areas.”

  “Will you be here for the Hounds for Heroes?” Mary inquired.

  “We’ll certainly try,” Geoff replied.

  Harry sidestepped the Jason issue to ask Geoff, “Did you ever lose anyone in service?”

  A silence followed this. “I’m not sure.”

  All eyes turned to Jan and him.

  Jeff Walker, Amy’s husband, a man who had spent time in Nepal, had a grasp of, if not foreign service, at least what can happen when one is immersed in another culture and another language. “That’s enigmatic.”

  Geoff Ogden paused, his distinctive voice low but clear. “When I was in Istanbul I had an M.C., a minister counselor, Paula Devlin. A career officer, obviously. She’d spent four years in Helsinki, two in Cape Town, said it was beautiful, and another two in Vienna before being posted to Istanbul. Her specialty was economic development and the Turks needed that. She spoke good Turkish and worked well with her Turkish counterpart.”

  “What happened?” Rachel wondered.

  “That’s just it. I don’t know.” He looked to Mary.

  “She hunted with Ashland Bassets after she retired. She and Al were great pals.”

  “And?” Everyone looked at Mary.

  Mary thought a moment, then spoke. “Al swore she was CIA. As a combat officer he had a nose for things. Like he could tell even before he was told if another person had seen combat. I don’t know, it was a sixth sense. And he seemed to have it about the CIA. Paula disappeared. Vanished. Not a trace.”

  Jan added, “Apart from being a good Master and huntsman, Al did possess a sixth sense.”

  “What did you think?” Arlene asked Geoff, adding, “I knew her from hunting. We discovered we both worked for the government. We didn’t usually discuss work. She asked me once about being wounded but we clicked. She was a lovely friend. We also talked with Clare about her shipboard days in the Gulf of Finland. She was a Russian expert and would listen to Russian chatter. For three women, and it was tougher then, we had good careers.”

  “In any embassy or consulate there are CIA people. There have to be. And there are some telltale signs. They have money. Never run out. Maybe not lots of money, depending on their job, but money. If they are operating inside our borders, they usually have a business front. There are times when they can be opaque. If you’re smart, you don’t ask too much, women or men. For one thing, most government employees can’t tell you the truth.” Geoff looked outside the window into the darkness. “Still raining. Well, the ground should be good for the fundraiser.”

  “Hope so.” Amy stood up as the others followed.

  Rachel then asked, “No one ever found Paula?”

  Jan said, “She didn’t come home. Her neighbors in Hume noticed. No sign of her. Just poof.”

  Geoff added, “Her little dog didn’t come home either.” He held the chair for his wife. “Everyone got their umbrella?”

  * * *

  —

  Back at the cabin, Harry and Susan took off their clothing. Harry snuggled into her comforter, Susan into her sleeping bag.

  “Make room for me,” Pewter demanded.

  Harry patted a place for Pewter and one for Mrs. Murphy. The dogs stretched out in front of the fire, which Harry had fed.

  Ruffy slept with them.

  22

  October 1, 1787

  Monday

  Summer’s last kiss brushed Catherine’s and Bettina’s cheeks as they sat outside in the late afternoon, the garden and Isabelle’s tomb drenched in gold.

  Charles West designed and had a bench built so his wife and sister-in-law and whomever could quietly view the mountains and Isabelle’s lovely monument. Apart from Charles’s excellent education, the Baron had sent his sons on a Continental tour, considered vital for a young man of means. And so it was for Charles, who absorbed everything, most particularly loving Italy. Dutifully, he went into the Army, but he was an artist. No wonder he loved this new nation, for he could be what he was born to be.

  Feet outstretched, eyes half closed, the two women felt the warmth. A clip-clop popped their eyes open. Tulli, with JohnJohn in front of him, rode Sweet Potato up to the women.

  “Momma, Momma, I can ride.”

  Catherine, trying not to resent her repose being disturbed, smiled. “And so you do.” She then smiled at Tulli. “I think we need another matching pony so the two of you can be a team.”

  “Yes, Miss Catherine.” Tulli bobbed his head in agreement, knowing JohnJohn wouldn’t be riding on his own for maybe another year.

  Catherine’s son, two, was big like his father. He was well coordinated like his mother, so age three, riding on his own with Tulli next to him, might be possible. At any rate, it fed the child’s ambition.

  Bettina, hands folded over her ample bosom, shook her head. “You two are growing too fast. Why, Tulli, I think you’ve grown an inch since yesterday.”

  As Tulli, age eleven, was slight, or what horsemen called “weedy,” a thin, small fellow, this sounded wonderful. “I have. I can feel it.” He sat up straighter and Sweet Potato turned his head to look.

  Ah, yes, humans, but then Sweet Potato had long ago learned to humor them.

  “I want you to turn around and trot halfway to the barn. And I’m watching. You do it correctly, Tulli.”

  “Yes, Miss Catherine.” He carefully turned Sweet Potato toward the barn, visible in the distance, a lure for the pony.

  A little cluck and squeeze and off the two boys went, JohnJohn screaming with delight.

  Catherine looked at Bettina. “I will never be the woman my mother was. Both you and Mother loved mothering. Strict. But still.”

  Bettina reached for Catherine’s hand, squeezing it. “There will never be anyone like your mother. I loved her. We all loved her. She understood life.”

  “She did. But Bettina, you liked being a mother.”

  “Most times. I never thought to outlive my children. Well, the little one, so frail. We all lose the little ones. My momma used to say, ‘If I can get you to seven, I can get you to seventy.’ ”

  “Mother said that. Heard it from you.” Catherine watched clouds slowly slide overhead, long stratus clouds in an achingly blue sky. “I don’t really remember your mother.”

  “You were tiny when she died. Just dropped. Boom.” Bettina inhaled. “The older I get, the more I want to go like my mother.”

  “Bettina, don’t say that. You need to live forever.”

  “When Rosalinda died, oh how my girl suffered. She wasn’t even twenty.”

  “I remember.” Catherine nodded. “The coughing. Weakened her so and then she could barely breathe. Oh, why are we talking about dying!”

  “It’s the light on your mother’s marker, the lamb with the cross. Gives me peace. But you’re right. You were talking about motherhood.”

  “I am not cut out to be a mother. I love my son, I do, but I force myself to listen to his prattle, to his hundreds of little requests and questions. I swear, if someone isn’t watching over him, he’d probably walk off to Mr. Jefferson’s and ask him questions.” She laughed.

  “Give him two more years. By four the worst of that is over. Tell you what, not enough babies at Cloverfields.”

  “Does seem to be a lull,” Catherine remarked.

  “Goes in cycles. I hope.” Bettina rose and pulled over a low bench, placing it in front of them.

  Sitting back down, she rested her feet on the bench, as did Catherine.

  “Hurt?”

  “M-m-m.”

  “You’re standing all day.”

  “And I’m fat.”

  “
You’re not fat. You’re upholstered.” Catherine teased her. “Men like what you have.”

  “As long as DoRe does.” She sighed. “Things settled at the stable?”

  “Better. Ralston was creating one problem after another. It seemed to me to happen suddenly.”

  “M-m-m.”

  “Bettina, what do you know that I don’t?” Catherine asked the cook, the head woman slave.

  “Oh, a little of this, a little of that.” Bettina patted her own arm. “That boy broke bad when his parts started working. Well, and his people are no-count.”

  “I think he’s been stealing from us for a while. I’d leave a few coins in my little leather box in the tack room, or a bracelet would fall off and I’d drop it in. Then last month, I noticed those things would be gone. I’d ask Jeddie. He knew nothing. I’m not so sure he didn’t know.”

  “If he did, what could he do? Ralston hated him.”

  “Meaning he’d get even?” Catherine took a deep breath. “And how would it look if Jeddie ran to the Missus. I love Jeddie, but”—she took another deep breath—“it’s complicated, isn’t it?”

  A long, long silence followed this, then Bettina finally said, “You have to follow your heart. Thieving isn’t like hurting someone. If Ralston would have lifted a hand to you, Jeddie would have tried to kill him.”

  “I understand.” And she did.

  “I thank you for talking your father out of trying to get Ralston back. Offering rewards. No good would come of it.”

  “Rachel and I both talked to him. Rachel is better at it than I am because she’s so much like Mother. I’m too logical. Father was incensed that Ralston ran away. He didn’t know about Ralston pulling down Serena’s dress, or the fighting with Jeddie or the stealing. That made him angrier, but we told him he has so many large issues on his mind, these were things we thought we could take care of, give him some peace. And we made the point that Ralston’s disaffection might spread. The thieving wouldn’t stop. Once a thief, always a thief.”