Nine Lives to Die

by Rita Mae Brown

  Fair quickly grabbed the other end. “What’s in here?”

  “Wait until you see it.” Brian and Fair edged the box onto the toy table, which was filling up.

  Brian pulled open the cardboard top, plucking out a shiny model of an F-150 truck.

  Ever excited by anything with wheels, including a toy, Harry hurried over to the box. “Wow! Who donated these?”

  The box was filled with toy trucks, all Ford models from various years. It was a history lesson in Ford products.

  “Peter and Charlene Vavilov,” Jessica answered.

  At the mention of Peter’s name, a hush fell over the room. Reverend Jones walked over, lifted up a perfect truck, 1954. He opened a door on the toy.

  “These are collector’s items.” He looked into the box again. “Beautiful, just beautiful. We haven’t had time to talk about the terrible news about Cynthia finding poor Peter last night. That makes this gift even more special.”

  The cats, now on the table, also peered into the box. Being less impressed, they leapt over to the table with sweaters, each snuggling into one. As the humans were mesmerized by the toy trucks, they didn’t notice.

  “Charlene had mentioned she and Peter had put this together last week,” Brian informed them. “Of course, she thought they’d deliver this together. This is so sad. I can’t quite believe it.”

  Susan, voice low, said, “How can we ever thank her?”

  “By handing out the toy trucks,” Brian simply replied. “That’s all I know to do.”

  Arden Higham walked over. “Somehow we’ve all got to focus on the task. After all, Peter was so happy last night.”

  Everyone seemed to talk at once. A few of the people had still not heard the horrible news of Pete’s death, since it had just happened.

  Leaving St. Luke’s, Fair, in his vet truck, headed east toward Garth Road.

  “Honey, I just need to check the de Jarnettes’ gelding. Won’t take a minute. We’re halfway to their farm.”

  “Okay. I keep thinking about Pete. How terrible for Charlene. Christmas will always be a reminder.”

  “Yes, it will. You never know, do you?”

  They drove on twisting roads, alongside fields glistening with fresh snow. Snow piled onto branches, the conifers bending under the weight, dark green peeping out against the white.

  Ten minutes later, they entered through a tall, open, tremendously expensive wrought-iron gate. They drove up to a large new barn, also expensive looking. Lots of money was spent on show. The barn was functional, though, a relief to Fair, who dreaded working in barns with chandeliers, brass polished everywhere, yet the horses’ stall floors were uneven. Things like that drove him crazy.

  Fair returned to Harry waiting in the truck ten minutes later. He slid behind the wheel. “Doing fine.”

  Before he could drive around the circle, Max de Jarnette appeared on the house’s porch, waving them over.

  “Fair. Hello, Harry.” After a brief acknowledgment of Pete’s accident, the buff middle-aged man asked, “Fair, would you donate a free vet check for the youth riding program?”

  “Sure. Max, go back inside. You’ll freeze to death out here.”

  “Yeah. Well, I apologize for not asking at the Silver Linings event. Too much going on. I’m glad it was a great event. I’m glad Pete drove off happy.”

  “He surely did. The night was the most successful fund-raiser ever.”

  At last headed home, Harry sighed. “How do we get roped into these things?”

  “I don’t mind donating a vet check.”

  “I know, but I mean all the fund-raisers and parties we have to attend between now and New Year’s.”

  “Honey, the only way I know to get out of them is death.” Right away, he realized he’d said the wrong thing at the wrong time.

  “Bite your tongue.”

  “You’re right.” He paused, hoping to lighten the mood. “How about a dread disease? Is that better?”

  Gray skies dimmed the glare from the snow, which now sported a crust on top. Foxes, raccoons, and possums could walk on it without sinking into deep powder and struggling. Occasionally a small animal would hit a drift, fall in, and scramble out, but for the most part travel was easy, with the occasional slip here and there.

  Having been holed up in their dens, or wherever they’d made a nest, everyone was hungry. The birds that hadn’t flown south had built their nests with care in protected tree hollows. No one built a den or nest facing northwest, although the clever foxes might put an escape route in that direction.

  Monday, December 9, was cloudy and cold. It would have been frigid if skies were clear.

  Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and a grumbling Pewter headed out from the barn. In the pastures, Tucker, being heavier than the cats, used deer trails. The three animals moved west toward the swift-running creek between Harry’s farm and that of Reverend Herbert Jones. As St. Luke’s offered beautiful living accommodations, Reverend Jones rented his old home place to Cynthia Cooper. Like so many Virginia farms, the clapboard house and small barn had been built to stand for centuries and did. The Jones place cornerstone, laid in 1811, had withstood two wars on Virginia territory, blizzards, sleet storms, hurricanes, a few small tornadoes, and, as always, the searing summer sun.

  The three friends perched on a fallen tree trunk next to the creek. Although the trunk was snow-covered, it was a comfortable spot. One flat end on the ground was easy for the corgi.

  Upstream, the edges of the ice-encased beaver dam glittered. The sides of the creek were also ragged with ice, testament to the frigid temperatures.

  A little puff of breath rose up as Mrs. Murphy spoke. “Beavers carry so much fat. I bet they never really feel the cold.”

  “Just like Pewter,” Tucker ungraciously replied.

  Fat though she was, Pewter’s reflexes were lightning fast. She whacked Tucker so hard the dog fell off the log and began sliding into the creek. The ice along the banks cracked, but the dog, with a mighty pull, managed to haul herself up.

  Fangs bared, she threatened, “I could grab you by the neck.”

  “Ha.” The gray butterball nonchalantly closed her eyes for a moment.

  Watching a coyote, Mrs. Murphy suddenly shot off the log, heading east.

  “What’s gotten into her?” Pewter’s eyes widened. Never one to miss any event if possible, the gray cat tore out after her friend, bits of snow flying off her claws.

  The corgi followed, somewhat slowed down when she veered off to a deer path.

  Now smelling the heavy scent of the coyote, Tucker barked loudly.

  The unconcerned marauder loped off, carrying in his jaws the bones of an intact human arm from the elbow down. A bracelet hung at the wrist.

  Pewter caught up with the tiger cat. “Are you crazy, running after a coyote?”

  “He has a prize. He’s not interested in me.” Mrs. Murphy searched the snow, saw the shiny object that had caught her attention, and walked over. “I saw the arm, saw something slide off.”

  Pewter reached out to pat a gold bracelet: a simple band of hammered gold with a small buckle.

  Tucker plowed through the snow. “Murph, don’t you ever do that again!” Seeing the bracelet, she put her nose on it. “Nothing.”

  “Considering it slid off bones, I doubt there’d be any scent.” The tiger cat inspected the lovely gold object. “Nothing else on it.”

  “What would be on it?” Pewter was now intrigued, which held off any complaints about the cold.

  “Oh, you know now how humans write all over stuff. ‘Love Forever’ or initials, silly stuff like that. This is gold and it’s heavy. Expensive.”

  “Maybe that’s why it fell off the bone. Heavy,” Tucker opined. “It was my barking that did it.”

  The two cats humored her. “Of course.”

  The motion probably jostled the lovely gold bracelet off.

  “Let’s leave it here.” Pewter’s stomach growled.

  “No.” Mrs. Murphy con
sidered its value. “We’ll hide it in the tack room. Someday it might prove useful.”

  “Give it to Mom.” Tucker knew Harry would like it. Their human admired simple, well-designed things.

  “Not yet,” said Mrs. Murphy. “Let’s hide it, then figure out how to give it to her for Christmas. She’ll be shocked.” Ever practical, Mrs. Murphy had already hit upon a use for the late-nineteenth-century bracelet.

  “That’s a good idea,” the dog agreed. “She likes jewelry. This looks like something good.”

  “Then you two can take turns carrying it,” grumbled Pewter. “I’m not putting metal in my mouth in this cold.” She made for the barn, a half mile distant.

  Tucker and Mrs. Murphy did just that, taking turns. Finally reaching the tack room, they considered hiding places.

  “Can’t put it behind the tack trunk—the mice will steal it.” Pewter offered good advice, from her vantage point on the desk, for the mice would carry off anything they could.

  “How about this pile of clean saddle pads?” Tucker walked over to the white square sheepskin pads.

  “What if she pulls out a pad?” Mrs. Murphy could hear the mice scurrying behind the tack trunk. The tiger cat inclined her head toward the trunk.

  Pewter jumped up, sweeping her right paw down behind it.

  A mouse ducked in and a chorus of mice sang out, “Fatty, fatty.”

  “I’ll kill you. I’ll crush your skull!” Ever sensitive to what she deemed fat-phobia, Pewter spat.

  An old velvet-covered riding hard-hat helmet lay on its side on the floor, along with worn paddock boots and other items that Harry intended to repair or clean.

  Mrs. Murphy carried the bracelet over, pulled the helmet lining out a bit with one long claw, dropped the bracelet inside, and released her claw. The bracelet had disappeared.

  “That will do for now. You two remember where this is. We can fetch it Christmas Eve.”

  “What if she uses that helmet?” Tucker asked.

  “The covering is all ripped to shreds,” replied the tiger cat. “She uses that helmet hanging on the peg. She’s been talking about getting this recovered for a year.” Mrs. Murphy was confident she’d found the right hiding place.

  Tucker smiled. “This will be the best Christmas present.”

  “What a surprise,” Pewter added.

  Tyler Higham shoveled food into his mouth at the breakfast table while his father watched, nostrils flared with disgust at his teenage son’s eating habits.

  “Slow down,” Lou reprimanded Tyler as he folded the newspaper, quite forgetting what he himself was like at fourteen.

  “Dad, I’ll be late for school.”

  “I drive you to St. Anne’s five days a week. You haven’t been late yet.”

  Tyler did slow down but scraped his utensils loudly on the plate to irritate his father.

  Lou picked up the paper again as his wife said from across the table, “Lou.”

  He paid no attention, so Arden raised her voice. “Lou.”

  Startled slightly, he set aside the paper before glancing at her. He jabbed at another waffle on the serving plate.

  “Will you pick up the dry cleaning?” Arden asked.

  “Yes, of course.” Lou poured maple syrup on the waffles.

  Tyler resumed speed-eating. Arden laid her hand on his forearm. He frowned but did slow down.

  “This isn’t a barnyard,” she said and sighed.

  Pushing away from the table, Tyler stomped out of the room.

  “I can’t win,” she said resignedly.

  “Give him sixteen years.” Lou checked the large kitchen clock. “By the time he’s thirty maybe he’ll act like a man instead of a spoiled brat.”

  “If we live that long.” Arden put down her fork.

  Lou rose. “I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse. I’ll tell you when I get there.”

  He walked into the hall, picked up the large artwork folder by the front door, and yelled, “Tyler.”

  Tyler thudded down the stairs, slamming the door as he left the house. It’s doubtful he ever thought about it. He didn’t think he was uncooperative, uncommunicative. He thought his parents were unreasonable and petty tyrants.

  Arden heard the whine of the electric garage door as it opened, the whine and thud as it closed. She exhaled loudly. Like many mothers, she found herself in the middle between her husband and her son. Both drove her nuts.

  After clearing the table, she loaded the dishwasher. Then she walked into the living room to pick up her iPad to check what still needed to be done for the St. Cyril’s deliveries. The trees and the living room were all decorated in blue and silver, Lou’s demand. It did look seasonal, but it didn’t feel very Christmassy.

  Father and son rode in silence in Lou’s Acura MDX. Lou kept his eyes on the road. Tyler stared out the passenger window.

  Lou finally said, “Homework done?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah,” came the unconvincing monosyllabic reply.

  Silence followed, then Lou broke in. “If you want to talk about Pete’s death, I can listen. I know he gave you a lot of attention on the soccer team. He was a good coach.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Life can be unfair, Son. If you’d take sports a little more seriously, things would go easier for you. You just bull through practices, head down.”

  “Coming from you, Dad, that’s pretty funny, telling me life can be unfair.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re always at me. That’s unfair.”

  “I just want you to be the best.” Lou inhaled. “I’m here if you need me.”

  “Are you worried, Dad?”

  “About you? You’re no longer a little boy, after all.”

  “No, about you. You’re getting old.”

  “Worried about me?” Lou’s voice rose. A flash of anger reddened his face. He pulled into the line of cars at St. Anne’s student drop-off point. Tyler didn’t wait for Lou to creep up the line. He just opened the door, got out, and slammed it. Lou pulled out of line and headed to work at his advertising agency.

  Meanwhile, Arden, laden with a food basket, walked up the shoveled stone path to Charlene Vavilov’s front door.

  Cars, SUVs, and one fifty-thousand-dollar truck lined the street in Ednam Forest subdivision. The Vavilovs’ house was overflowing with people, testimony to the great affection felt by all for Charlene. And, of course, to the respect for Pete, who worked hard for many causes. Flowers filled the rooms; the long dining room table was covered with food.

  Jessica Hexham directed people. Since Pete’s death, a lady from St. Cyril’s was there from breakfast to the end of the day, to assist, offer comfort, be a friend. Jessica had organized the shifts. One woman was in charge of the door, another the telephone, another the kitchen, and three were in charge of cleanup.

  Charlene stood in the living room, talking to everyone. Her two sons flanked her. It was obvious that mother and sons drew comfort from one another.

  Harry, Susan, BoomBoom and Alicia, Miranda Hogendobber, the Sanburnes, the social powers in Crozet, all helped, too. Jessica also organized the St. Luke’s ladies. Everything that could be done was done.

  Harry and Susan carried out dishes and carried back clean ones laden with more food. BoomBoom ran the dishwasher and Alicia wiped down the glasses so they sparkled. Miranda cleaned coffee cups.

  Arden stuck her head into the kitchen. “Need a hand?”

  “We’re running out of cups. People are guzzling the coffee and tea, I guess because it’s cold outside.”

  “I’ll run home and bring twelve more. Won’t take me a minute. I’m close by.”

  Susan gratefully looked up as she had the refrigerator open. “Arden, that would be a godsend.”

  The old friends in the kitchen took a short breather.

  “Any word from the pathologist?” BoomBoom asked.

  “Not yet,” Susan answered. “Ned said
everyone in hospitals are on overload because so many people die during the holidays.”

  “Really?” Miranda knelt down, looking under the sink for more dishwasher detergent. “Found it.”

  “Let me put that on a list,” said Alicia. “Detergent lasts a day at the rate this is going.” She scribbled on a pad affixed to the wall next to a large blackboard.

  “That and suicides,” said Susan. “Christmas pushes people right over the edge.”

  “Not Pete,” Alicia piped up.

  “No. Heart attack or stroke, I would think,” BoomBoom said to her.

  “Christmas would be a great time to get away with murder,” Harry idly mentioned. “Just thinking. It would, you know.” Harry shut up as Karen Turner, a St. Cyril’s stalwart, tottered in carrying an enormous vase bursting with white lilies and red roses.

  “Water.”

  Alicia took the heavy vase from the small woman. “You or the flowers.”

  Karen smiled. “Flowers! More just delivered. An interesting arrangement.”

  Jessica popped in. “Need reinforcements?” She noted the flowers and smiled. “What do you think, girls?”

  “Gorgeous,” came the unanimous response.

  Jessica beamed, then hurried back out. She stuck her head in for one second. “Motrin?”

  “I’ve got some.” Alicia plucked her purse off a kitchen chair. “Be right out.”

  “Jessica sent those flowers, bet you.” Harry was piling hot tiny cinnamon rolls onto a tray. “She has that incredible way of putting disparate things together.”

  As the friends talked and worked, Susan silently calculated how they would make up for lost time regarding St. Luke’s food drive deliveries. So many people from both churches were here doing what they could.

  What no one knew other than Charlene, law enforcement, and the funeral home was that two fingers were missing from Pete’s hand. Sheriff Shaw had asked Charlene to keep the news to herself for now, not even to tell her sons.

  For Charlene, all of this hoopla was surreal. Any minute, Pete would walk back through the door. But instead, Father O’Connor walked through the front door, and that’s when it really hit her.