Furmidable Foes

by Rita Mae Brown

  On her knees, she stuck her fingers in the soil. Moist. Digging wouldn’t be too hard. Picking up the spade, she dug all the holes first. Then she placed each azalea in its new home, carefully covering the hole, smoothing out the top, pulling over a bit of the mulch from the other plants. They looked good. This labor took an hour. The sun moved farther west. Another hour to sunset. She knew tomorrow the parking lot would be jammed for the Sunday service and then the homecoming afterward.

  Both the Dorcas Guild and the St. Peter’s Guild would be there long before the service, to put out tables, chairs, everything needed for the big day. Baskets filled with game items would be at either end of each quad, although everyone knew the big game would be capture the flag, which never failed to arouse everyone. People even played in wheelchairs pushed by whoever could run the fastest.

  The azaleas, white and palest pink, set off those late-blooming peonies, themselves deep pink, purest white, or magenta. A few of the magenta bushes glowed so dark, they looked black in certain light. Harry felt her magenta peonies were spectacular.

  Carrying the tools back to the Volvo, she then unraveled the hoses—each quad had a hose coiled at the end. The higher quad’s water came from the side buildings of the church. The lower water ran from the old stables at the pastor’s house, which had been turned into a garage. She watered all her plants, newly planted, plus the rest.

  By the time she’d finished with that, another hour passed. She then dragged the hoses back to the buildings. She’d hauled them out yesterday, but somehow dragging them back, wrapping them around next to the faucet, wore her out. She knew she had to get hose holders with a handle to roll and unroll. But there wasn’t time before the big do.

  Looking around, seeing no one, she walked to the vehicle, carried a huge gin bottle in each hand, and made it to the farthest plantings. She opened the bottles, carefully pouring the liquid into the roots of the plants, but especially the peonies. By the time she had soused every peony and newly planted azalea, the sun nudged the horizon. Walking back for the last two bottles, she hastened to the grave of the unknown woman, where she juiced those plants.

  Her next problem, how to dispose of the gin bottles? She’d need to take them home, bag them up, and stuff them immediately into the garbage cans outside.

  She wanted no one to know her secret, including her beloved husband.

  Gin blossoms didn’t apply only to humans.

  13

  June 2, 2019

  Sunday

  The light spilling in from the two-story stained glass windows shone on the Very Reverend Herbert Jones as he read the Antiphons. The trinity vestments, a middling green almost like wet palm fronds, the embroidery exquisite, picked up the light. Impressive under any circumstances, the Rev, as he was known, seemed especially intense today, the day of homecoming.

  Every pew overflowed. People stood in the back. The ushers found chairs for the elderly as well as for pregnant women. The men, as was only proper, stood.

  Harry, upon entering the church with Fair, nearly burst into tears seeing who had come from as far as California to be together on this extraordinary day.

  The reverend’s deep, rich voice, his rhythmic hypnotic cadence, spoke the centuries-old words, “Unto Thee do we call. Thee do we praise. Thee do we worship: O Blessed Trinity.

  “Glory be to Thee, Co-Equal Trinity: One God before all worlds began, and now, and forevermore.

  “Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty: Which was, and is, and is to come.”

  The three Lutheran cats, under the altar, hidden by the cloth, stayed put. Usually they liked to go up to the balcony, edged in gilt, the white paint not original but the original color, setting off the gold. But this Sunday they wanted to be close to their human as they had felt all week his rising emotion, his care with his sermon, which would follow soon enough.

  “I will never understand the Trinity,” Cazenovia whispered.

  “Doesn’t matter. Humans believe in a human god. We believe in a cat. I know there’s something,” Elocution, the eldest, posited.

  Lucy Fur immediately rejoined, “Not a dog!”

  The other two nodded as the reverend moved along in the service.

  The organist, a longtime lady parishioner, hit the keys for hymn 561, written by Charles Wesley in 1712. “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, / Look upon a little child.” On they sang as the reverend had especially selected this hymn for the children.

  Once the service ended, the Very Reverend passed down the center aisle the gold crozier before him. Then he stopped as he always did at the doorway to shake every hand, speak to each person, and, if allowed, bend down and kiss the cheek of a tiny Lutheran.

  So many people waited, this took forty-five minutes. Some of those who came a long way kissed his hand, for this former Vietnam captain had saved many a life, not only in combat by thinking ahead but by his openness to others, his ability to listen to problems as well as doubts. If ever a man was born to serve, it was the Very Reverend Herbert Jones.

  The ladies of the Dorcas Guild waited for the onslaught, for many would like a refreshment. The big luncheon would be served after capture the flag. Who can run with a full stomach?

  The men of St. Peter’s Guild had laid down the lime lines for the dimensions of the field, about the same as a football field. They even put down ten-yard lines and the goal line was green on one end, bright gold on the other. The flag waited for all on the fifty-yard line.

  Not everyone played. Many of the ladies in their fancy shoes did not, although Susan threw off her shoes to run, to the squeals of the children.

  Fair and Ned acted as referees. Harry took those not playing on a tour of the grounds.

  “I have never seen such peonies,” Belinda Yost, down from New York City, exclaimed, to Harry’s delight.

  “Fortunately, we had a late spring. Made everything perfect for homecoming and the Rev’s birthday.”

  Diana Flynn, with whom Harry had studied her catechism, now living in Traverse City, Michigan, whispered, “He still doesn’t know, does he?”

  “No. Wait until you see the birthday cake.” Harry, blissfully happy to see old friends and blissfully happy that her idea of a homecoming birthday surprise proved successful, grinned.

  Twenty women walked slowly with Harry, each of them a passionate gardener.

  Brie Gidney, now Los Angeles–based, a producer no less, paused in front of a row of thick, extraordinary azaleas. “There’s no way I could grow these in California. I’d have to use up half the reservoir.”

  “Is hardscaping catching on?” Diana asked, referring to landscaping with rocks and cacti, to preserve the ever-dwindling water supply.

  “Yes, but it doesn’t look the same. What irritates me, forgive me for complaining, is that we get smacked for watering our garden, but the golf courses are emerald, every one.”

  “Look at the quads, speaking of emerald.” Belinda paused. “Once you adjust to the winters, the shorter growing seasons, you can create a wonderful garden in New York. Tom and I have pots in the city but our weekend home all the way up in Skaneateles, well, I can do a lot. Lots of blueberries.” She laughed.

  They walked along, happy in one another’s company as the kids screamed and the adults urged one another on. Many a father grabbed the flag, passing it on to a child, which made the game that much more fun. Ned and Fair, perspiring, ran their butts off on the sidelines, too, for the game rocked back and forth between the two teams.

  Pamela Bartlett, age notwithstanding, kept up the pace with the gardening crew. Her silver hair gleamed. She, too, among old friends who came home, felt how extraordinary the day was.

  Mags Nielsen watched from the tables, for when the time was up, her task was to ring the big dinner bell that Big Mim had lent from her farm.

  Mags’s sidekick, Janice, shod in three-hundred-dollar s
neakers, was playing capture the flag. Janice could run, which surprised homecomers, but anyone who played tennis against her knew that, so the St. Peter’s men assigned someone to defend the swift woman.

  Reaching the grave under the red oak, Harry paused so the ladies could read the simple marker.

  “She was buried properly with a service on April 24, 2018. The Rev insisted we do this.” Harry stepped aside so all could crowd around. “The Dorcas Guild felt simple flowers and shrubs should grace her resting place. We have no idea who she was. Not one lead.”

  Belinda peered up at the red oak. “A majestic guardian.”

  Brie, thinking as only a producer can, remarked, “What a sentry. She was on the Taylors’ caskets? I remember when we were walked back there as children to read the old tombstones and remember those who went before, what they did for us. The Taylors were the first people buried in that cemetery, right?”

  Pamela’s cultivated voice immediately commanded attention. “Yes. We think they died of tuberculosis within hours of each other. Can’t be sure, but the description in the church records gives us a pretty good indication. People recognized cancer, heart attack, tuberculosis, even diabetes. They used different names. But why this woman was placed on top of the Taylors, no casket, wearing what had to be a beautiful mustard silk gown and those huge pearls and diamonds, it’s beyond our comprehension.”

  Janice added, “And she was African American. The medical examiner’s office, the best, by the way, determined that.”

  “Patricia Cornwall knew what she was doing when she wrote about Virginia’s medical examiner,” Brie said.

  “Unbelievable,” Diana exclaimed.

  “Virginia had a strong population of free African Americans as well as thousands of slaves once we really got into the eighteenth century. Is it possible she was an early entrepreneur like Maggie Walker?” Belinda cited the woman who started the Penny Bank not long after 1865.

  “Maybe she was an ambassador’s wife? She could have been French, you know, someone from the Caribbean of impossible beauty.” Brie was writing the movie script already.

  “I think she was a mistress, kept by someone with wagonloads of money.” Janice spoke with authority.

  “Then why did she wind up on the Taylors’ casket?” Belinda shrewdly asked.

  “Maybe the wife found out. You never know.” Diana already felt a tingle thinking about a long-ago mistress and an outraged wife.

  She wasn’t far from the truth, but the details were wrong.

  “Will we ever see the necklace and the earrings?” Brie wondered.

  Harry, nodding to Pamela and Janice, moved aside so they could come forward.

  Pamela took charge with Janice as her second. “The Dorcas Guild, after a year’s worth of thought and discussion, has decided to preserve the jewelry as part of St. Luke’s history.”

  Beaming, Janice added, “There were some who did not want to sell the jewels, thinking a relative could be found. Impossible, of course. It will be in our vault.”

  “We all strongly believed the exquisite workmanship should be on display, at least once a year. Now mind you, over the years this could change. Who knows what we will find, or uncover?” Pamela folded her hands together.

  “It really is extraordinary,” Janice added.

  “A great story in the right hands.” Brie’s mind spun.

  “Ladies.” Harry smiled, holding out her hand to direct them back up over the quads to all that food.

  Janice walked with her and Harry stopped at the magenta peonies. Fishing in her pocket, she pulled out a lipstick. “Match. Found it.”

  “Ha.” Harry reached into a small silk purse that hung across her body. “Mine’s better.”

  They both held their lipsticks up to the open bloom.

  “H-m-m.” Harry squinted.

  Janice twisted her lipstick until the tube was almost all the way up in its black plastic case. “Better.”

  “I’ll get you for this.”

  The yellow team had won the game. Those who played were thirsty as well as hungry, but the eldest parishioners went first in the line.

  Once all were seated at the tables, the talk ratcheted up. Elocution, Lucy Fur, Cazenovia, under the tables, snagged a piece of ruby red dropped roast beef. “The best.”

  The cats loved the celebration as much as the people.

  Once the hot food was devoured, the conversation paused as Fair and Ned rolled out the huge multitiered birthday cake up to the Very Reverend Jones, who blinked. Was there ever a cake that big, and then three more? Herb’s had a big birthday script in blue across his cake.

  Everyone stood and sang “Happy Birthday.”

  The reverend couldn’t help it. He cried.

  “Cut the cake,” a six-year-old called out, to be instantly shushed by his embarrassed mother.

  The reverend, cake knife in hand, figured this was not the time for a speech. He looked over these people whom he had baptized, married, helped to bury their mothers and fathers and even a few children. Those to whom he had taught catechism.

  His sonorous voice rang out. “Thank you. I am eighty years old and I have no idea how I got here. I quote William Butler Yeats, ‘Think where man’s glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.’ ”

  After the luncheon, the men of the St. Peter’s Guild invited everyone down to the grave of the unknown woman, where two Brinks guards stood, armed for effect. One held a polished wooden box.

  Once all were there, the story of the woman was again told. One man opened the box and held up the pearl necklace while the woman guard held out the earrings.

  Fair said, “We thought those of you who have come home would like to see this.”

  The gorgeous jewelry took away people’s breath.

  The guards smiled as Fair then said, “Reverend Jones, Happy Birthday again.”

  “This gift is for you alone.” Ned stepped forward, handing the overcome reverend a set of car keys, then pointed to a new Tahoe sitting in his driveway. “Your old jalopy was on its last legs. The congregation has all purchased this for you.”

  * * *

  —

  That night, home at last, Harry and Fair cuddled in bed.

  “What a perfect day.” Harry put her head on his shoulder.

  “Any day with you is perfect, baby doll.”

  “You.” Harry laughed at him.

  “Gross.” Pewter sniffed on the end of the bed.

  Brie, staying with Susan Tucker, sat in the living room with her hosts as they, too, reviewed the day. “If someone stole that necklace, now that would be a movie.”

  “Brie.” Susan’s voice rose.

  “Hollywood.” Ned laughed.

  “But what a film. A gorgeous woman, mistress to a powerful man, dispatched by the wife.” Brie nearly licked her chops.

  “How would you update it for today?” Susan wondered.

  “Oh, someone descended from either the wife or the victim. Murder sells, you know.”

  Indeed.

  14

  December 1, 1787

  Saturday

  Occasionally bounty hunters got lucky and found their runaway slaves quickly. Martin and Shank, hired by Maureen Selisse Holloway, slogged along Virginia’s coast. They had contacts there in the shipyards. No one had seen Ralston, William, or Sulli. Plus, no captain would have carried them anywhere without a fee. So after ten days of slow going, they reached the Potomac River as they headed west. The ferrymen, always ready for a tip, hadn’t seen three young people matching the descriptions of the runaway slaves. If any had, they would have eagerly mentioned it. They didn’t lie because they knew Martin and Shank, and the two knew them. Shank, in particular, would get even. Martin’s vengeful streak proved more sophisticated, whereas Shank was physical. He’d lay you
flat on the spot.

  Along the way they bought a nice draft mare, Penny; a beat-up wagon; and a harness.

  Patient—a necessary quality in that line of work—the two finally reached the Point of Rocks Ferry. The ferryman, Arch Newbold, recognized them as he reached the Virginia shore, discharging only two passengers.

  “Arch, it’s Martin and Shank.” Martin greeted him.

  “You look the same as you did last time I saw you.” He flicked his hand under his full beard. “Not me.”

  “If I lived on this cold river, I’d cover my face, too,” Shank joked.

  “It comes off in the spring. Winter started early this year. Not many travelers.” Arch frowned.

  “Do you recall seeing three young slaves? A pretty woman and two fellows, one tall and thin, the other medium-sized. No telling when or if they reached the river, but this would have been before winter set in. We don’t know how they’re traveling.”

  Tying up the ferry, no passengers on the dock, he motioned for the two to follow him to his shack. Sturdy, a small fireplace, a couple of chairs, it beat staying out in the cold.

  The two sat in the chairs by the fire as Arch beckoned. He threw in another log.

  “Feeding the fire. Helps.”

  “Does, Arch.” Martin nodded, offering Arch a sip of liquor. Along with the horse and cart, the two bounty hunters bought crocks of liquor as well as thimbles, odds and ends.

  Smiling, Arch swallowed, his eyes watered; he handed the crock back to Martin as he coughed. “What the hell do you have in there?”