“Murder sometimes only makes sense to the killer.”
“I agree. But what if this was a mistake? You know, they got the wrong person.”
“It’s possible. Let me go back a minute. You can die from topically absorbing the alkaloid, but it’s not that common and no one having stuff rubbed on them would ignore the rash, the discomfort.”
“Is exposure always fatal?” Harry leaned forward, a sliver of chicken on her fork.
“No. For thousands of years humans have understood the properties of various plants, herbs. In controlled doses hallucinations can occur, so let’s say someone is passing her- or himself off as a prophet or a witch. Slip a tiny bit of the stuff in tea or have your client smoke it.”
“So our killer went out, found or had planted angel’s trumpet, jimsonweed, what have you, and chopped it up or pureed it?”
Carlton shook his head. “These herbs can be dried and stored. When you go into an herbalist’s place, think of the plants hanging upside down. Again, Harry, humans have known about this stuff for thousands of years. Rarely is it fatal unless it is intended to be fatal.”
“All the symptoms, flushed skin, trouble breathing, dilated pupils—I checked, read everything I could—well, seizure and then cardiac arrest. Right?”
He nodded. “Harry, whoever wanted Jeannie Cordle dead knew what they were doing.”
She sat silently for a moment, eyes drawn back to a fellow at the driving range with a most peculiar swing. “I still can’t believe anyone wanted that woman dead.”
“Well, someone, somewhere, was supposed to die.”
Smiling sheepishly, Harry said, “Apart from the fact that I wanted to see you, I really asked you here for my book. I kind of wandered off into stuff. Do it all the time. Drives Susan crazy. My husband tunes me out, I suspect, but at any rate he is used to it.”
“I’m not tuning you out.” Carlton smiled.
“Okay. The Dorcas Guild—you met some of us at St. Luke’s—we are going to research everything we can for a written history of the church, the people, everything we can think of. I think I backed into being the editor in chief.”
“I see.”
“St. Luke’s has preserved its records and many of the old families, early congregants, still live in the area. So we’ll be asking to read family documents, Bibles, lots of stuff. I was wondering if you might be willing to look over what we pull together for the plantings, the garden designs. We could pay you.” She hastily added, “We intend to do so.”
He held up his hand. “Harry, I am not taking money from St. Luke’s for doing what I love to do. Of course, I will read whatever you put in front of me. In fact, if any of the early design papers remain, I would love to see them. Having spent time in England, as you know, I am fascinated by the horticultural knowledge our ancestors brought with them as well as the adjustments they had to make.”
Harry soaked that up, then connected.
“Imagining the adjustment coming from a vastly different latitude? I think of that when I think of those early slaves. Losing a war or being captured by your enemy tribe and sold to some Portuguese who then sells you to the English slavers. Nothing would be familiar. Maybe not even a rose.”
He nodded in agreement. “I am continually humbled by how people survived.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “But I think some of those early slaves had a gift for growing things, a curiosity about plants. As animals we differ more than, say, giraffes. We are so weak, we need groups, and in those groups we all need different abilities for all to survive. Someone who can grow things, identify species, use herbs to heal, that’s a really valuable person. I truly think some people arrived here with those abilities, just like some people are natural healers.”
Harry thought long and hard about this. “Yes. It’s odd how we don’t want to think of ourselves as animals who must adapt like any animal must to survive. We think we are above other species. I don’t. I think we had to work together, create tools and stuff because we are weak and slow compared to other species. Your idea about inborn abilities makes so much sense.” She paused. “I’m not certain I have any, really. I bump along.”
“You don’t give yourself credit,” he generously replied.
“Ah.” She shrugged.
“You got me to open up. You have curiosity and you can get people to work together. I’d say those are inborn talents.”
“Well,” she thought, “good for me.” Then she laughed and he laughed with her.
Driving back to Crozet, Harry sang to herself the whole way. Her singing lowered to a hum as she reviewed what Carlton had told her about those dangerous plants and herbs. She just couldn’t believe anyone would want to kill Jeannie Cordle.
Reaching home, she bounded out of her Volvo station wagon, miles starting to show, and skipped into the house.
“Must have had a good time,” Tucker remarked.
“She didn’t bring us any treats,” Pewter grumbled.
Pirate stood up, putting his head under Harry’s hand, his tail wagging.
“Suck up,” Pewter complained.
“Go eat crunchies,” Mrs. Murphy advised.
“I have a delicate system. I need steak tartar, not something manufactured by a large company. Who knows what’s in that stuff?”
“Susan.” Harry reached her friend on the phone. “Carlton said he would do it. He doesn’t want a penny. I had the best time with him.”
“Good for you. He will be a big help.” Susan liked hearing good news.
“We talked about a lot of stuff. He’s so thoughtful. Kind of intellectual. I’m not.” She paused.
That pause gave Susan her chance. “Have you only just figured that out?”
“You can sit on a tack,” Harry fired back, then laughed, and Susan laughed with her.
“I have news.” Susan baited her.
“Tell.”
“Maybe.”
“Susan, I hate it when you do this.”
“Okay. The bones we uncovered, well, dug up, really, at Old Rawly appear to be related to the bones buried under the red oak. Ned pushed the medical examiner’s office and they were interested, so they hurried things along.”
“What can that mean?” Harry paused. “Our unknown woman was a slave?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. She could have been exceedingly beautiful and had freedoms not shared by women not so blessed by nature. Think of the gorgeous women in New Orleans, all living in houses kept by white men, men married to white women. A beautiful woman is a trophy in any century.”
“New Orleans wasn’t ours until 1803.”
“Harry, that doesn’t mean women weren’t kept no matter whose flag they were flying.”
“True.” Harry inhaled. “Instead of making things clear, this is more confusing.”
“Gran is going through all the Bibles, all the records, grain purchases, you name it. Given this information, she is even more driven to read everything. I guess some of this will show up in our St. Luke’s history.”
“The Selisses were Catholics.”
“I know that, but Jeffrey Holloway was not. After Maureen died and he married Marcia West, he attended St. Luke’s. They are buried there.”
Harry paused. “They are. Seems we have a lot of interesting dead people. Susan, the head of UVA’s theater department won’t have answers about bones, but rather clothing and fashion from other centuries.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s get them to look at the necklace. That might help us with one set of bones.”
35
July 2, 2019
Tuesday
“It’s cooler down here,” Harry noted as they walked along Ivy Creek.
“Before paved roads, the people at Big Rawly and those at Cloverfields could simply walk across the dirt road if they wished. Well, anyone could
, really.”
“Do you think of your ancestors? You know, that 23andMe stuff or Ancestry.com?”
Susan shrugged as she ducked under a low-hanging cedar limb. “Cedars breed chiggers, I swear it.”
“True.” Harry ducked as well.
“Ancestors. Well, the paternal half we know because Big Rawly is still in their—I should say our—name. But it’s funny, much as I love history, I have never cared that much about my own. You know, Gran has started on the first family Bible. She’s excited about the St. Luke’s history. I kind of am, too.”
“Me, too. Maybe if Mom and Dad had lived longer, I would have asked questions about our own ancestors. Sometimes Dad would talk about the potato famine in Ireland when his people first came over. Mom swore her line was descended from a Frenchman who jumped ship during the Revolutionary War. One way or another, we’re here.”
“And our people chose it,” Susan added.
“I don’t know. I think thousands were driven to it, but that’s better than being carried against your will. But when you lose a war, I expect you get brutalized one way or the other.” Harry’s voice fell.
“Going on, as we speak, somewhere in the world.” Susan pointed out the obvious.
“Think wars will end?”
“Never.” Susan said this with finality. “Look, there are the caves.”
They walked a bit faster, the running water of the creek soothing.
Harry stepped into a large opening. “You could hide in here. Goes back a ways.”
“This one, too.” Susan walked into a smaller one, the dampness immediately apparent despite the July heat. “Used to be an old still down here somewhere, back in the mid-nineteenth century. Grandpa said the still was used to divert people from their cover, being a hiding place for runaways.”
“When we really start digging into St. Luke’s history, these caves will be important. Better take good photographs.”
Susan agreed. “When we get to it. I wish I had known the Wests. In middle age they helped start the Underground Railroad. By that time William Wilberforce had made a big impact in Parliament in England. Charles always had good information from his brother, I expect. I can’t quite imagine it.”
“You’d think Rachel’s sister would have picked up on it. But we don’t know so much about the Schuylers, as they were Anglicans. I guess those Bibles are around somewhere.”
Susan replied, “The University of Virginia has them in their Virginiana collection. Ned’s already on it. I think he’s more excited about the history than we are.”
Walking on, they found the narrow path up to the easternmost pastures of Ingleside, once part of the former Cloverfields into the mid-nineteenth century. Stopping, they surveyed the land.
Susan looked over the higher pastures. “What a beautiful spot. Our ancestors sure had an eye, didn’t they?”
“It’s a perfect place until the wind blows hard from the northwest in winter.” Harry stood up, the soil falling to the ground. “We at least have central heating.”
“A triumph.” Susan grinned. “You know, when Mom and Dad would go up to the Adirondacks for the summers, it was so gorgeous. I can’t imagine the winters. Really, all those states bordering Canada, the winters are too extreme for me.”
“Shorter growing season, too.” Harry felt the sun on her head.
Susan looked up when Harry did. “High noon.”
“Yep.”
“Let’s go back. We need to be at the schoolhouses by one-thirty. We’ll just about make it.”
The two dear friends arrived at the schools right on time. Half of the Dorcas Guild was there, along with people from St. Mary’s, the Catholic church; Mount Olivet, the Presbyterian church; the Methodist church; and a goodly smattering of Baptists. For whatever reason, the church groups, once they became aware of the potential destruction of the three buildings, had all banded together. Tazio took charge. The bringing of electricity up to grade meant the walls all needed to be repainted and repaired first.
So every wall had its crew.
Janice called out as she was carefully doing the bare-bones trim, “Is the potbellied stove staying?”
Tazio, opposite wall, replied, “Yes. The question is: Can we actually use it?”
Mags quickly added, “I thought the point was we cycle the kids through here in each of the different buildings from all the schools in the county for two weeks apiece. You know, living history.”
Harry called back, “Some kid might burn himself on the stove.”
“Oh, come on,” Janice answered. “Do we really think kids are that stupid?”
A long silence followed this and then Susan said, “Best not to examine this too closely.”
“It’s not the kids. It’s the county board of supervisors.” Tazio dipped her brush in a bucket. “If anyone gets burned, they fear they will be sued.”
“Hell, Tazio, if the kids are in a brand-new school and trip down the stairs, they’ll be sued. And it can go all the way to the state board of education. Everyone is scanning the horizon to find someone upon which to blame their troubles.” Harry shrugged.
“Don’t you think it’s always been this way?” Pamela Bartlett asked as she measured windows.
“Probably, but now we have the media to tell us twenty-four hours a day how grim and dangerous every single day can be.” Mags laughed.
“Rats.” Tazio stepped down the ladder. “Need a hex screwdriver.”
“For painting?” Harry asked.
“No. I noticed a…well, no matter.” She went to her large bag, started rummaging.
Harry laughed at her. “What do you have in there?”
Tazio pulled out a small kit filled with screwdrivers, one adjustable wrench, followed by a tube of something, a toothbrush and toothpaste, powder.
Harry couldn’t stand it. She had to climb down her own ladder and peer into the cavernous canvas purse/bag/carryall. “That’s one hell of a ditty bag.”
“Here.” Tazio, laughing at the description, handed her a tube, Bougie Bee emblazoned on it. “Rub some on your arm. Try it.”
Harry unscrewed the top, screwed up the bottom to make the hardened creme stand up, and did as she was told.
“Rub it in.”
Again Harry did as she was told. “What is this stuff? Makes my skin feel soft and I’m out in the sun all the time.”
“I use it on my face but it’s for your skin wherever you want,” Tazio replied.
“Where did you get this? I’ve never seen it.”
“A friend of mine gave it to me. She’s from Kentucky. I expect if I look for it on the Internet I’ll find it, but I’ll probably wait until I run out. Then again, I could just call her.”
Harry looked into the bag. “Tazio, you could start a beauty parlor with all the stuff you have in here.”
“I need to sit down and divide this up into a tool kit and a real handbag. I forget. I go home, take a shower, and go to bed.”
Harry lifted out a compact as Tazio pointed for her to do so. “This is lovely.” Opening it, she sniffed the packed powder, the usual take-the-shine-off-your-nose stuff.
“Susan!” Harry looked at the compact and then again picked up the Bougie Bee cylinder.
“What?” Susan looked down at Harry.
“Jeannie’s purse. What if whatever killed her was in her purse?”
Now they all stopped.
Janice placed the paintbrush across the can.
“What do you mean?” Mags carefully stepped down.
“We know the poison, we know the family. What if it was in her purse. A candy that had been altered or something like Bougie Bee, very absorbent.” Harry quickly fished her phone out of her back pocket and dialed the county sheriff’s department. “Is Sheriff Shaw there?”
“No, Harry.” They al
l knew her, thanks to her getting into scrapes. “Call him on his cell.”
“Harry, you can’t do that. You don’t know anything,” Janice counseled.
“He’s used to me,” she replied, and he was.
Punching in the numbers, she waited.
“Hello.” Sheriff Shaw answered as he was driving down to White Hall.
She told him of her idea and wondered if he might see if Frank still had her purse.
The sheriff actually listened, agreed, and hung up.
“There,” Harry triumphantly declared. “He did not cuss me out. He thought it was worth trying.” As they climbed back up on their ladders, Janice shaking her head, Susan saying nothing, Harry loudly said, “I know you all think I’m crazy, but you never know.”
4:00 P.M.
Harry, Susan, Pamela, Janice, Mags, and Reverend Jones met Professor Cynthia Lindstrom at St. Luke’s. They went down to the large basement where Reverend Jones unlocked the safe, twirling the large wheels like a pilot’s wheel. With the door open, the reverend placed a large block against the door kept for this purpose. One never wanted that huge door to close.
Switching on the lights, Reverend Jones said to Professor Lindstrom, “This is climate controlled. You can see the filled shelves. Those boxes contain records starting with construction. University of Virginia, William and Mary, would like these records. To us they are invaluable. There is not a year that passes that I don’t consult them for something.”
Professor Lindstrom, mid-fifties, stared at this historical treasure. “What about the Lutheran Church, the national council?”
“Yes. Everyone wants our records, but they belong here.” He smiled, a warm smile.
Walking to a shelf, Reverend Jones carefully lifted down a wooden box, one and a half by one and a half feet.
“The jewelry?” Professor Lindstrom was anxious to see it.
“Let’s go upstairs. You need to see it in natural light.” Reverend Jones smiled.
They tromped back upstairs as Pamela explained to the curious professor, “We are all from the Dorcas Guild, the women’s organization. We have reburied the skeleton, bones, of course, and one of our number, Harry Haristeen, was the person who called our attention to the tipped tombstone of the Taylors. Also, there were cutting marks, like a big stiletto had been driven into the soil.”
Furmidable Foes Page 20