When Maureen returned from one trip, both Sheba and her most extraordinary necklace and earrings, among many, were missing.
Maureen told Martin and Shank, should they find the jewelry or the slave, they would be as rich as Midas.
Much as they desired this, both men thought if the jewels, intact or broken up to sell, had not turned up by now, they never would. They would concentrate on the runaways, real cash.
5
May 25, 2019
Saturday
A large work party swarmed at St. Luke’s starting at eight in the morning. Harry supervised the planting of azaleas and more azaleas. As the hyacinths bloomed out, she put in hundreds of iris, the huge-headed purple ones, in the right square between the church and the right buildings, interspersed with the lilies. The great thing was that all she had to do once they bloomed was tie them over. On the left square she’d bought hundreds of white iris. If the effect didn’t turn out as she wished, she’d reseed with bluegrass once fall arrived. The iris, not yet blooming, should open to full effect for the homecoming.
A few new English boxwoods provided a backdrop for the peonies, which were already wide open. She hoped they would not be past their prime come the festival. That depended on temperatures.
Mags and Janice volunteered to plant the white azaleas behind the unknown woman’s grave. Mags, often generous, also donated more plants and shrubs.
The men of the church mowed, trimmed, and re-bedded those gardens needing it. Younger members of the church worked alongside the adults, measuring out yardage on the second quad in preparation for games, capture the flag being a special favorite. Inside the Dorcas Guild building, Jeannie Cordle commanded a cleanup, while her husband took charge of St. Peter’s building.
Men climbed on the roof, cleaning out drain spouts. Garden beds were edged. The grass spilling over onto the parking lot was weed whacked. The flurry of activity impressed the Very Reverend Herbert Jones as well as everyone working.
Elocution, Lucy Fur, and Cazenovia, the reverend’s Very Lutheran cats, played with Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, chasing one another under the Italian lilacs, blooming late this year, which was perfect for the upcoming event. The fragrance of lilac could lift a drooping spirit, enhancing lively spirits even more.
Harry, plugging in another white iris—she had some leftovers—commented to Susan, “Soon time for lunch, you think?”
Susan checked her beat-up old Omega. Each time she looked at her watch, she was reminded of how she couldn’t afford one now. Prices escalated for everything, even sweet corn.
“Another half hour.” Noticing Harry’s sigh she added, “We can set up now. What’s a bit early?”
“I am famished. Loading up the two trucks took so much time, I didn’t make breakfast and neither did Fair. Hey, look at that.”
Pewter, a triumph over gravity, shot straight up in the air to bat at a lilac bloom on which alighted a yellow swallowtail butterfly.
“If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t believe it.” Susan laughed.
Her dog, Owen, played with Harry’s two dogs. The grade school children ran after them. The dogs would stop, turn, and return the favor, barking. Pirate’s voice, already deep, scared one of the little ones. The giant puppy stopped, felt terrible, and licked the boy whose older brother also comforted him. The older brother picked up the little guy, putting him briefly on Pirate’s back. The Irish wolfhound, so gentle, allowed it even though it’s not a great idea to place any child on a huge dog’s back because of the strain on the back.
Pirate lowered his large head and the child hugged him when his brother lifted him off, Pirate’s tail now flipping back and forth.
“Good doggie. Good doggie.”
Harry and Susan observed this. Then Susan said, “Same age developmentally, don’t you think?”
“Dogs are ahead.” Harry smiled. “Actually, they’re ahead of us emotionally for sure. I’ll go tell Pamela to put out the food.”
“Okay.”
Pamela Bartlett was always in charge of social arrangements for the club. She had been president of the Dorcas Guild since 1972. No one ever challenged her for reelection because every woman knew Pamela was the best. Truthfully, Pamela loved it, especially since her husband had passed away in 2005.
After talking with Pamela, Harry walked to her 1978 Ford truck and slowly backed it toward the rear of the church.
“She’s leaving me.” Tucker bolted for the truck.
Pewter turned from the lilac frolic to observe the dog. “She’s so needy. Oh, there goes Pirate. Dogs”—a pause—“have no idea what they’re doing.”
“No one has any idea what they’re doing.” Mrs. Murphy uttered an unwelcome truth, especially for humans.
Harry crawled into the back of the old truck and set up speakers. She dropped over the side, reached into the cab of the truck—no extended cabs or extra doors, a real true truck—and pulled out a fully charged CD player. Lowering the tailgate, she slid it on the bed, pulled down the two speakers, placed César Franck’s wonderful composition in D Major for the organ, and let it blast.
“Lunch,” Pamela called out while using a large metal spoon to smack the back of a metal pot.
All that commotion got everyone’s attention. Toting their tools with them, the thirty-some people gratefully gathered at the long tables set together, chairs already in place.
The men had put all that out before starting their chores in the morning. Pamela used old-fashioned checkered tablecloths like the ones Harry used at home. Little pots of flowers sat on each table, plates, napkins, utensils at one end.
Within minutes a line extended nearly to the first quad. No young person hurried to be first in line. This was Virginia. The children stood with their parents, and the ladies, widowed, served themselves first, with the exception of Pamela. Reverend Jones walked up and down the line chatting with everyone.
Both Janice and Mags told the others, seeing them for the first time since the robbery, that there were no suspects and they had no leads. Mags teased that Harry had kept them all working so feverishly, this was the first opportunity to speak of it.
Harry asked, “I guess you will find out how good your insurance company is. All that beer has to be worth a couple of thousand dollars.”
Janice replied to a nosy question, “Not quite that much, Harry. Remember the stores and restaurants buy our various brews at a discount.”
Mags jumped in. “What makes it exhausting is you have to alter your schedule for the adjuster’s schedule. Then they come out, ask all kinds of questions. They’d grill our drivers, grill us. The entire process is predicated on finding a way out of their responsibility and casting the blame on the client.”
Janice added, “Then the trucks will be inspected, for this was one of our trucks. It’s all a con.”
Mags shrugged. “We said, ‘The hell with it!’ ” She then covered her mouth with her hand. “Shouldn’t swear on church grounds.”
Susan, listening carefully, suggested, “Forget getting insurance through your computer. Go to a local agent.”
Mags replied, “What good will that do? They’ll place your account with one of the giant national companies.”
“The difference is you know where your local agent lives.” Susan grinned.
This got a laugh from the surrounding people, some of whom worked for local agencies.
After fifteen minutes, they bustled along. Everyone was seated and eating after Reverend Jones said grace.
Pewter wedged next to Harry’s leg and grumbled, “Why do they do that?”
Cazenovia asked, “Do what?”
“Prayers.”
Elocution, on Harry’s other side along with the two dogs, answered. “Bless the food. You know, give thanks.”
Pewter reached up to pat Harry’s thigh. “Wouldn’t it make more sen
se to give thanks after you’d eaten? Then you’d know if the food was good.”
Mrs. Murphy, not adverse to a treat, replied, “They do what they want. Or what they think they should do.”
“Too time consuming.” Pewter got a piece of fried chicken, so then Harry had to give everyone chicken.
“Harry!” Susan chided her. “Now I have to give Owen food. Why’d you start?”
Janice looked down at Pewter. “That cat hasn’t missed too many meals.”
“She’ll pay for that.” Pewter eagerly took another piece of chicken. “Revenge is sweet.”
Lucy Fur, daintily accepting some turkey from Reverend Jones, quoted the Bible. “Revenge is mine, saith the Lord.”
“You know, Lucy, you spend too much time with the Rev when he writes his sermons.” Pewter dismissed the quote.
As the four-legged contingent ate and blabbed, so did the two-legged.
Pamela finally sat down where Fair had saved a place for her—she was one of his favorite people.
Someone uttered the buzzword “polarization,” which fired up the group. Opinions flew like flies.
Ned, Susan’s husband, elected to the House of Delegates, couldn’t help it. He leaned toward the pastor. “Oh, Reverend Jones, I think millions of people all over the world are desperately scanning the horizon seeking someone on whom they can blame their problems.”
That started it all over again. Soon the entire group lobbed one idea, one opinion after the other, but it was respectful as well as educational.
“I don’t see any Hispanic people here.” Mags challenged them.
“Mags, Spanish-speaking people are usually Catholic.” Harry stated the obvious.
Reverend Jones, a little smile on his face, said, “We can hope they see the light and embrace the Lutheran faith.”
At that moment, Father Vargas appeared.
“Speak of the Devil.” The Reverend Jones roared with laughter, got out of his seat, and walked over to the young priest who had taken over at St. Mary’s after the elderly father finally retired.
Everyone laughed and the young, tall, thin priest threw up his hands in wonderment.
Reverend Jones motioned for Fair to squeeze a seat in for the good father. Then the pastor loaded a plate for Father Vargas as Pamela rose to fetch him something cool to drink, something perhaps with a hint of spirits. No one was looking really.
“You need fat on your bones. Come on.” Reverend Jones filled the fellow in on the discussion.
Everyone talked at once until finally Harry ordered them: “Let the poor man eat. We can all bless one another afterward.”
More laughter since “bless” has a variety of meanings in this part of the world.
“The grounds are beautiful.” Father Vargas complimented the group once his plate was empty.
“You know, Father Vargas, we’re trying to stay as faithful to 1787 as possible, but occasionally we stray in the name of beauty,” Susan said.
“Seventeen eighty-seven.” He thought a moment. “That’s the year the Constitutional Convention was convened in Philadelphia.”
More talk as Janice rose to select a dessert. Walking to the food tables, the heel to her gardening shoes, as she described them, broke. “Darn. I’ll never find another pair.”
Harry, behind her on the same mission, consoled her. “There’s no problem that a new lipstick can’t cure.”
Janice laughed. “If only that were true, I’d buy cartons.”
“It is. Imagine if you had a lipstick the color of the magenta peonies?”
“You know, you might have a point there.” She pointed to the cobbler, dropping some on Harry’s plate.
Walking back to the tables, Janice asked, “Did women wear lipstick in 1787?”
“Pamela will know.”
And Pamela did. “Not as we know it, but they crushed berries. People have been improving themselves since the earth was cooling.”
“Think magenta.” Harry cooed.
Janice, thinking that, said, “Don’t you wonder about the bones we buried? Planting those azaleas makes me think even more about her. She must have been uncommonly beautiful. The remnants of the silk were smashing even after being underground. I can’t imagine them in full color with those jewels and perhaps berries rubbed on her lips.”
“Magenta.” Harry teased her.
“Actually I was thinking about the necklace that few of us have ever seen but you and Reverend Jones.”
A pause followed this. Then Reverend Jones said, “It’s extraordinary.” He waited a moment. “I’ve been remiss. I haven’t attended to the necklace and earrings.”
“It’s not like you have nothing to do.” Harry tried to steer the conversation a bit away from the necklace.
“Well, I still say we should sell it and put the money in the church’s treasury.” Mags might have kept her mouth shut.
Reverend Jones, voice deep and mellow, amplified her position. “Yes, parishioners think that. Most believe the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts would be interested. Others think we might find a blood relative of that poor woman, which seems unlikely as we do not know who she was. All in all, it is an extraordinary situation. Until we have more information, we should protect it.”
6
May 26, 2019
Sunday
“Aren’t those pink and white dogwoods lining the driveway of the old hunt club smashing? I wish Farmington Hunt Club was still there. Although all things change, I guess.” Harry looked out the window as they drove on Garth Road east.
“Yes, they’re gorgeous. I think the work being done on the schoolhouses outside Crozet is impressive.” Fair, driving the Volvo station wagon, mentioned the old schools being rehabilitated.
“What a long haul that was to put the county commissioner’s feet to the fire.” Harry turned around as Pewter wanted to come up from the backseat. “No, if you come up, then the others will want to come up.”
“The dogs can stay in the back. I need to help drive.” With that, Pewter started to step onto the center console.
“I said, ‘No.’ ”
“Spoilsport. You don’t have to sit with these lowlife dogs.”
Mrs. Murphy upbraided Pewter. “Everything’s been fine until now.”
Tucker, curling her lip, snarled, “Shut up.”
Poor Pirate drooped his ears, being the youngest and very sensitive.
Pewter narrowed her eyes, hissed, then returned to the center console. Harry smacked her front paws, which forced no retreat but did stop her forward motion.
“Tazio Chappars testifying at an open county meeting along with the people she organized did the trick.” Harry mentioned a young, talented, mixed-race architect who had also presented plans and the cost. She had been impressively organized.
The schools, called the Colored Schools, a grammar school to eighth grade, and the identical, if slightly larger, building for ninth through twelfth, plus a third for equipment, deteriorated when it closed down in the seventies. The word “colored” had been started in 1911 to lump together children of tribal heritage, mostly Monacans and some Appomatti, with children of African blood. This sleight of hand by Walter Plecker, head of the Virginia census from 1912 until 1946, was one of the worst things ever done in Virginia in the early twentieth century.
The buildings—frame with wonderful floor-to-ceiling windows, narrow oak plank floors, and a potbellied stove in the middle of the room—served generations of children. Served they were, for they had good teachers, not one of them white, also by design. Those were bad times, but those children learned. Their teachers devoted their lives to the young.
Tazio, pushed into this by a lady who had passed now, gathered Harry, Susan, all their friends, and the husbands, too. History teaches us that if we are willing to actually embrace the truth and not the ide
ology du jour, things are more easily accomplished.
So finally the county released funds and Tazio, with her team, was breathing life into the buildings and our past, which would be visited by students throughout the county. Each class would have a day or two to learn firsthand about former times.
“Think we’ll ever know the truth about anything? Like Caesar’s death? Who was in on it? We know some, but don’t you think there were silent participants? Or what about the rebuilding of Paris under Napoleon II? Will we ever know what they found in those medieval streets and where the people really went?”
“Whoever is in power writes history. Somebody always has an ax to grind. Probably why I didn’t much like history in high school. A bunch of battles and dates,” Fair responded.
“M-m-m. Honey, you forgot to turn at the Beau Pre sign.”
“See, you fascinated me.” He reached over to squeeze her hand.
“Oh, bull. But don’t let that stop you.” She smiled at him. He drove down the quite steep hill to Ivy Creek, even steeper back in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The road on which they drove, named after the Garths on the north side, housed the Holloways on the south. Both estates impressed, although Cloverfields, more restrained, heading toward high Georgian, paled before the splendor of Big Rawly, tons of money spent on it by Francisco Selisse. As his wife had studied in Paris at a convent school for well-born young girls, she being filthy rich from the Caribbean, the house looked like a marvelous French château. Reputed to be brutal, Maureen Selisse, later Holloway, reflected high aesthetic values.
He turned right at the bottom of the hill, turned around, no traffic this Sunday, nosed out on Garth Road, and turned left again at the small Beau Pre sign. The area somewhat reflected the French influence and Big Rawly commanded the rise it had commanded since the 1760s. A high view is a good view.
Furmidable Foes Page 4