Nine Lives to Die
Page 9
Flo, however, scanned the packed parking lot, hoping to find an ally. “There you are!” She pointed straight at the two friends.
“Now what?” Susan whispered.
“We go over and pretend we haven’t heard a thing.” With a big smile, Harry walked over. “Esther, Merry Christmas. Miss Rice, Merry Christmas.”
Susan followed suit.
“You didn’t really remember me when you came to my house, but I remembered you. Sometimes I’d see you at the horse shows when I worked for Mrs. Valencia. I was nice to you. You didn’t remember me.” Flo indicated Harry.
“We were young.” Harry tried to smile.
“I look different now. I’m older, and she”—Flo pointed at her sister—“treats me bad. She keeps me away from people.”
On the thin edge of fury, Esther said through clenched teeth, “Flo, that is enough!”
Susan stepped between Flo and Esther. She engaged Flo while Harry moved Esther a slight distance from her very loud sister.
“Esther, can we help you?” Harry asked.
Esther’s face crumpled in relief. “I don’t know what to do. We were getting along pretty good. Flo wanted to do Christmas and—” She couldn’t finish her sentence.
“Miss Mercier, why don’t Susan and I try to get her in your car? I mean Mrs. Toth.”
Esther’s eyes misted over. “I’m afraid she’ll jump out when I start driving.”
“Let’s try.” Harry was thinking of alternatives if Esther’s prediction came true.
She decided if worse came to worst she and Susan could drive Flo home.
Having greatly calmed Flo while exhausting herself, Susan was grateful as the other women approached her.
“Miss Rice.” Harry used her brightest voice. “It will be dark soon, traffic is fearsome, we thought we’d go home, too. Just way too many people. Maybe you should convince Miss, I mean, Esther to go, too.”
A beady look crossed Flo’s face. “Oh, she won’t be happy until she spends tons of money.”
“I promise I won’t spend a thing.” Esther managed a smile. “Harry’s right, it’s going to be a mess. If we leave now, we’ll get home at a reasonable hour. If we wait, we’ll sit in traffic.”
“I don’t know.” Then a determined look came over Flo. “Don’t talk to me anymore about Cletus Thompson.”
Esther led the way across the parking lot to her car. “I won’t. We’ll talk about whatever you wish.” She slid behind the wheel.
Harry opened the passenger door while Susan, quietly taking Flo’s elbow, guided her in. Before the difficult woman ducked her head in, Flo whispered loudly, “She keeps me from everyone. Don’t believe a word she says.”
That same evening—still cold, with low clouds—Fair reached home an hour after sundown, early for him. Often when he’d cross the threshold, the man was so tired he’d gratefully sit down at the kitchen table. Harry usually knew when he would be arriving home. He was good about calling ahead, so oftentimes upon his arrival supper was on the table.
Harry never minded preparing meals alone, whether it was for her husband, the horses, the cats, or the dog. While not the superb cook that Miranda was, she excelled at the basics. In wintertime, one needed basics. As they ate, both discussed their days.
“Did you see the weather report?” Fair cut into a pork chop.
“Cold. Temperature won’t break freezing maybe even until after Christmas. That’s unusual.”
“For us.” He smiled. “Imagine living in Minnesota.”
“I don’t know how those northern states do it. The electric and heat bills alone would bankrupt you.” Harry paid the monthly bills, and winter’s bills skyrocketed.
“I guess they plan for it.” He thought for a moment. “How can you plan for Mother Nature’s revenge? Even with sophisticated weather predictions, they’re often wrong and, boy, what a mess.”
She switched the subject. “I can’t get that episode in the parking lot out of my mind. It wasn’t violent, nothing too grotesque was said, but how do you reason with someone who is unreasonable? Flo Rice was like a wizened child.”
Fair folded his hands in his lap, leaned back a little. “You can’t reason with the unreasonable. You try to manage them. With a horse, if I can get close enough I stick him with a tranquilizer. Can’t really do that with a person unless you’re in a hospital or some kind of home. Maybe not even then.”
“You know, honey, that’s the one thing that scares me the most, my mind unraveling.”
He smiled at the woman he’d known all his life. “Harry, no one in your family has ever suffered from dementia or Alzheimer’s. You aren’t going to be the first. You might drive me to it, but you’ll be fine.”
“You’ll pay for that.” She reached across the table as though to stab him with her fork.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m bigger.”
“You have to sleep sometime.”
This made them both laugh, then Fair said, “Something you reported made me wonder, though. Esther asking why her sister put her name on the needy list at St. Cyril’s. And you heard Flo say she’s being kept away from people? Maybe that’s why she snuck her name on the list.”
“She didn’t say it exactly like that, but it was the sense of it. Flo doesn’t go to St. Cyril’s anymore. She says she left the church when they removed Latin from the service. That was one of the things she banged on about when Susan and I dropped off food and clothing.”
“That is odd. Who knows what wires are getting crossed in her brain.”
“I thought of that, too, Fair, and then I thought of a bit of history I was reading about the wife of Nixon’s attorney general. Martha Mitchell told the truth and media painted her as a crazy alcoholic.”
“It’s done every day, especially now. But it doesn’t seem to me there’s anything Flo knows of import. No reason to keep her from people. If Esther took her out to see Christmas decorations, she’s obviously not hiding her or keeping her hidden away.”
“And Flo has a car, but there was something about that fuss in the parking lot that’s bothering me and I don’t know what.”
“Honey, seeing anyone lose their clarity is unsettling.”
“You’re right, as usual.”
“Oh, she can tell a fib!” Pewter called out from the floor.
“Not a fib. Managing your husband,” Tucker sensibly replied.
“Rather manage him than her.” Mrs. Murphy batted a small yellow ball with rattles inside to Pewter.
“Ha.” Pewter whacked it across the kitchen.
The humans watched the cats chase the ball and each other.
“I often envy them.” Harry admired the cats’ delight.
“Me, too,” said Fair.
“Still no news on Lou?” she asked.
“No. He truly is missing.”
“I’d like to pay my respects to Arden, see if there’s anything I can do, but I think I’d get in the way.”
“Best to wait until we know something.”
Harry shivered for a second, then said, “Someone walked over my grave.”
“Let’s not talk about graves.”
Later, when their humans watched a movie, the cats retrieved the pork paper, the chop bones. Harry hadn’t put them in the garbage yet. She’d put them in a Ziploc bag, dropping it in the sink. She figured she’d remove the enticing-smelling things later, and she was tired of cleaning up knocked-over garbage cans.
The animals took the food to the appointed place, slipped into the barn. It was not really warm but warm enough, and they waited.
Odin trotted across the back pastures about an hour later, happy for the pickings.
Mrs. Murphy, Pewter next to her, called down to the coyote from the hayloft, “How you doing?”
“Fine.”
“If I go up the old farm trail in the walnut forest, how far before I reach the bones?” Mrs. Murphy asked.
Devouring another piece of corn bread, Odin swallowed again, then spoke, “If you
go about halfway up, there’s another narrow trail, a deer trail that cuts across the old truck road. Go left on the deer trail, uh, quarter mile at most. You’ll see the tree uprooted. You can’t miss it.” He waited, then smiled. “I can take you there.”
“Odin, I appreciate that, but you’d eat me in a minute.” Mrs. Murphy stared down.
“And ruin my nightly treats?” He grinned, revealing sharp fangs.
“Maybe, maybe not.” The tiger cat grinned back at him. “But I’m not taking a chance.”
As the coyote left, Tucker, listening at the back barn doors, trotted inside to the hayloft ladder.
Pewter backed down first, followed by Mrs. Murphy.
“Does Odin think you’re stupid?” Tucker growled.
“No, but can’t blame a guy for trying,” the tiger cat replied. “If we could get a break in the weather, some snow melt or tamp down, we could head up there in the daytime. Can’t go at night.”
“We can see in the dark.” Pewter puffed out her chest.
“Yeah, well, Odin doesn’t do too bad in the dark either.” Mrs. Murphy knew dogs had pretty good night vision—not as good as cats, but still.
“Even if Odin’s not there, other hunters might be. A female bear lives up there.” Pewter recalled the large animal since they’d had unpleasant words one summer.
“The bear won’t hurt us.” Tucker knew the habits of bears. “I mean, not unless we provoke her, but if there’s one coyote, you know there are more, and I’m not overfond of bobcats either.”
“Three sets of eyes, ears, and noses are better than one,” the tiger cat proclaimed.
“So you say,” the corgi said noncommittally.
The next morning, Wednesday, Jessica arrived with Jan McGee at eight A.M. at St. Cyril’s. Other cars, SUVs, and trucks already dotted the parking lot, as the ladies’ auxiliary started early on the gifts for the needy.
Seeing Harry park in the lot, Jessica and Jan waited for her. “A lot of work to do.” Jessica smiled. “I’ve come in to do the books, lots to organize. I’ll have to come back Friday, too. And at the end of the month. End of the year,” she said. “It’s going to take all of us to get these things delivered by Christmas. A good sign, I think, but a lot of work.”
Harry opened the door for the two women.
“A good sign.” Jessica waved as they passed the room where the ladies worked. “We could all use a little good news. Visited Arden and Tyler yesterday.” She lowered her voice. “A lot of stress, obviously. Tyler wants to comfort her but”—she held up her hands—“he doesn’t know how with his dad missing. A lot of anger, worry. You can imagine.”
Jan quietly said, “The trick is to keep Arden from imagining too much.”
“You’re right.” Jessica nodded.
“My old church in Grundy burned to the ground. People’s theories as to why ranged from faulty wiring, a disgruntled congregant, to Muslim revenge on Christians. Too much imagination.” Always levelheaded, Jan knew many others who were not.
“Well, Jan, you know the gang in the meeting room,” said Jessica. “Maybe you can help steer the conversation away from drama.”
“Jan can do anything.” Harry complimented the woman who had driven the hour from Manakin-Sabot to once again help.
Harry and Jan walked into the big room as Jessica continued down the hall. Despite all, she was determined to keep up with the books.
Opening the door into the tiny room, not all that warm itself, Jessica took off her coat but kept her scarf on. Once Father O’Connor came in, he’d open the door to his office, always warm, and that warmth would flow in.
Jessica sat down at the old heavy desk, pulled out the account book, studied it for a moment, then reached for a sharp pencil without looking.
The pencil felt quite cold as she bent over the books. Then she noticed before she touched the page that it wasn’t a pencil. It was a human index finger.
Jessica let out a shriek.
The ladies heard it and ran to the room—Harry, the fastest, in the lead. Susan, who had recently arrived, was in the group, too.
Jessica, standing up, pointed to the finger.
Harry walked over, did not pick it up. The other women joined her. To their credit, no one fainted or threw up, but all of them were greatly distressed.
Susan took charge. “I’ll call the sheriff. Ladies, I think we should all leave this room. Jessica, you come with us.”
“I’ll stay here.” Harry’s voice was firm. “Someone needs to guard the evidence.”
“You think someone will come back for it—I mean, both of them?” Jessica now saw there was yet another finger in the large mug containing pencils and ballpoint pens.
“We are taking no chances,” said Harry. “You all stay in the big room. The sheriff’s department will want to question us.”
“Why, we didn’t do it!” Anita Buckly, the president of the auxiliary, nearly shouted.
“Of course not.” Harry tried to calm everyone, as people took shocks differently. “But someone might have seen something that seems inconsequential but isn’t.”
“This is a sick joke.” Jessica’s hand flew to her throat.
“It well may be, but we can’t disturb anything and the sheriff or a deputy will want things as free of fingerprints as possible.” Harry spoke like an expert on criminal investigations, which maybe she was.
Fortunately, Rick Shaw and Cynthia Cooper arrived within twenty minutes. Father O’Connor, now in his office, met them. Harry had informed the young priest of the events. Father O’Connor had called Father O’Brien and the old priest said he’d drive over to the church, but Father O’Connor told him to wait for the sheriff. Rick said he’d visit the priest later in his retirement home.
The two law enforcement officials inspected the fingers without touching them.
“They were kept on ice,” Harry speculated.
“Or stuck in snow.” Cooper looked around the room.
“No one was here other than Jessica,” Father O’Connor burbled.
“Actually, Father, a lot of people have been through here,” said the sheriff. “The ladies are wrapping gifts. Anyone could have slipped in and out, there’s so much activity. Someone walking down the hall might not attract attention.”
“Or someone came early.” Cooper looked over at the shaken priest. “Your rooms are separate from this building, right?”
“The small house in the rear.”
“Father, you can go,” said Rick. “We’ll call you if we need you.” He was intent on doing as much as he could before more people trooped into St. Cyril’s.
“My office is right here.” Father O’Connor stepped through the door to the next room. “If you’ll allow it, I’d like to go talk to the ladies. Perhaps I can help Jessica, the others.”
“Fine,” was all Rick said, as he was already scribbling furious notes. “Coop, we need forensics and maybe a forensic accountant.”
“Before I make that call, let’s make sure we take pictures.” She pulled out her cellphone and began snapping shots of the desk, the position of the chair, the room as it was when the fingers were found.
Meanwhile, Rick studied everything.
“Would you like me to go?” Harry inquired.
“H-m-m. Yes. You didn’t touch anything?” Rick flatly asked.
“No, like I told you, I sent the others into the big room, then stayed here to make sure no one disturbed the scene, including me. I walked into the office from that door”—she pointed to the hallway door—“over to the desk when I heard Jessica scream. The ladies hurried here. We stood at the front of the desk. Once they left, I didn’t move.”
“Coop, call someone to come pick up these fingers. We need to get someone to look over these books.” He glanced at Cooper. “There has to be significance to them being in a pencil jar in the bookkeeper’s office.”
“Kind of white, almost like freezer burn.” Harry described the condition of the fingers to her husband.
Paul Diaz—the wealthy woman’s stable manager, a good-looking man in his mid-thirties—held a mare for Fair.
“Gives new meaning to chicken fingers.” Fair patted the broodmare Dinah on her hindquarters.
Paul laughed as Harry tried not to. “Fair!” she protested.
“Honey, it’s all just too weird. Might as well laugh at it.” He turned to the raven-haired Paul and waved at the horse. “She’s fine. Is Big Mim thinking about breeding her in January?”
He nodded, adding, “She’s not looking to race the foal. She’s more interested in a chaser.”
“Dinah sure has the bloodlines for steeplechasing.” Harry knew the animal. “But you still want to put her under lights and all that to get her ready for January?”
“Or early February. It’s to a Thoroughbred’s advantage to be born as close to January as possible in the new year. December won’t do you a bit of good.” Fair stated a fact well known to racing people.
“Guess not.” Harry sat on a tack trunk.
All Thoroughbred birthdays are registered at the Jockey Club as January 1, regardless of the month in which the animal was foaled. A Thoroughbred born in July would still be registered as being born January 1. So that fellow or filly would have to run against more mature horses foaled early in the year. The problem was that mares generally come into season with springtime, like most other mammals. The season had to be hormonally induced. This was time-consuming, expensive, but it had to be done.
The other wrinkle for Thoroughbreds is that the rules stated the stallion must cover the mare. No artificial insemination is allowed. This means vanning mares to the state in which the stallion stands. For Virginians, that usually meant Kentucky, although West Virginia and Pennsylvania, thanks to legislatures that wanted the equine dollar, now stood some good stallions. Poor Maryland, once a powerhouse, had blown it. People flew out of that beautiful state, taking their horses with them. Politics destroyed a huge industry. Other states took notice.