Furmidable Foes

by Rita Mae Brown

  “You did the right thing,” Bettina repeated. “And soon I pray to the Good Lord you will be here.”

  He squeezed her hand.

  37

  July 3, 2019

  Wednesday

  “Did you find a pair of shoes you can walk in without crippling yourself?” Susan asked Harry as they ate lunch at Bottoms Up.

  If you can support the businesses of people you know, you should. Both friends did this on a regular basis, whether it was the feed store, the grocery store, or any other store. If you knew the owner, that’s where you shopped. No big-box stores for them if they could help it.

  “Bought a pair of Stan Smith sneakers. Bright white. Fit like a glove.” Harry picked up a french fry, dipping it in mayonnaise. “I won’t shame St. Luke’s for the Fourth of July parade.”

  “You and mayo.”

  “We all have our little ticks.” Harry popped the dripping slender french fry into her mouth. “So what are you walking in?”

  “Like you. Tennis shoes. Had to wash them.”

  “At least you didn’t have to spend money.”

  “Harry, you can afford new sneakers. Anyway, you can’t walk through the town for the Fourth of July parade in your work boots.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Harry’s lip turned up slightly.

  “Well, someone has to dress you. God knows you can’t do it yourself. Speaking of Stan Smith sneakers, it’s interesting what’s coming back into fashion. Sneakers more or less got so technical. You looked as if you were ready for a moonwalk.”

  “What’s old is new again,” Harry mentioned as two young women walked in wearing tie-dye T-shirts. “Glad we were born after tie-dye.”

  “Not anymore.” Susan laughed. “The colors are pretty. Pamela says the sash is ready for us, by the way. So we all wear our blue T-shirts and white skirts. Another purchase—I’m surprised you didn’t have the vapors.”

  A wry grin started on Harry’s pleasing face. “You know why?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Because we’ll be cooler marching in a skirt than pants. And think of our people on the float, eighteenth-century clothes. They’ll be sweating bullets.”

  “Bet they will. This has been a big time for us. Herb’s birthday, our homecoming, and now the float. I still can’t believe St. Peter’s Guild built a small replica of St. Luke’s. To the T.”

  “What I like is how on both sides of the float, the text of the First Amendment is written. Freedom of religion and here we are, still freedom of religion.”

  Susan nodded, then looked up as Janice strode over, trailed by Mags.

  “How is everything?”

  “Wonderful, as always,” Susan replied as Harry agreed.

  Mags smiled. “Always good to see friends in here.”

  “We’re being served by one of your boys. You have good people.”

  Janice smiled. “I do. Mags and I pride ourselves on our hiring. We’ve got four of the young men in the back now loading up trucks. Our beer will be well represented throughout this county and Virginia tomorrow. The Fourth of July is heaven for a brewer.”

  “Never thought of that.” Harry hadn’t either.

  “Most businesses have a season. I mean if you’re selling to the public. I don’t know as lawyers have a season.” Janice sat next to Harry on the bench while Mags slid in next to Susan. “Actually beer does well in the summer, as you might suppose, falls off a bit in the winter, but what is making a comeback is hard liquor and cocktails.”

  “The perfect martini.” Susan watched as the tie-dyed girls were seated. “Think it will take that generation a little time to discover a whiskey sour?”

  Janice looked around. “You know it does. Being in the business, my analysis is that once people enter the workforce and climb a bit—say, get into their early thirties—their business socials are more sophisticated. Mixed drinks are sophisticated. A lady isn’t going to drink out of a bottle of beer; the smart men aren’t either. They may stop for a beer after work, but when it’s business you need a halo of worldliness, a veneer of sophistication. At least, I think so.”

  “Never forget country waters,” Harry added. “I hear people are paying a bundle for the stuff across the Mason-Dixon Line.”

  “Always have,” Mags remarked. “And the truth is, some of that stuff is remarkable. A great distiller is a great distiller no matter what he, well mostly he, is making. It’s both a science and an art.”

  “People ever ask for it here, under the table?” Harry blurted.

  “Sometimes. We can’t sell it, of course. Would I like to sell it here? You bet I would,” Mags stated.

  “Janice, do you think alcohol will always be so strictly controlled?” Susan knew Ned’s take on this.

  “The amount of money we all pour into Virginia’s coffers, without a doubt. My prayer is it won’t get worse. Well, I believe we are about to legalize marijuana. First it will start as medical mumbo-jumbo, but then no holds barred. Those tax dollars will roll in like the tide.”

  “The real question is where does the money go after it rolls in?” Harry then paused. “I sound cynical. I didn’t used to be but, except for Ned, I don’t trust anyone in public office. Just don’t.”

  Mags smiled. “What about paying them off?”

  “Maybe that’s the real question. Well, hey, what do I know? I grow hay, sunflowers, and a terrific vegetable garden. I don’t make enough to pay off anyone, plus apart from people in the Department of Agriculture, who comes after farmers?”

  Janice observed a hand motion from her manager. “I do. Back to work. See you all tomorrow.”

  As Mags also moved out from the booth, Harry said, “Speaking of illegal hooch, I am going back up to that still one more time. This will be my second time.”

  “You’ve already been up there,” Mags noted. “Let the sheriff’s department go back.”

  “I know the mountain, they don’t.”

  Harry paid up, her turn, and she and Susan walked out into the brilliant sunshine. Harry’s old Ford, a vehicle Susan had ridden in for much of her life, as it had belonged to Harry’s father, was parked way in the back, for Bottoms Up was packed.

  Passing the rear of the building, a large steel container of hops was attached to the side like oats containers often were at the side of barns. In the shape of large cones, they could hold any grain, horse pellets, too. This allowed a stable to save money by buying in bulk. It also dispensed with all of those fifty-pound bags. You can carry one or perhaps two over a shoulder, but oh, how easy to just turn the stop, out ran the goods, turn it off. While Bottoms Up grew their own hops, they still had to dry them and store them. In the case of a light harvest, hops had to be purchased. The large container illustrated their growing needs.

  “Four trucks lined up. I expect they will be coming and going all day.”

  Susan noted, “That’s why the girls put in a big circular road back here that comes out above the car road. Otherwise the traffic jam would have residents in an uproar, justly so.”

  “Looks like they thought of everything.” Harry motioned for Susan to follow her, so they walked to the loading dock. “Given the different kinds of beers they brew, they have stripes on the cartons to read them—easier to load and unload. See, the white stripe for Weiss beer, wheat beer?”

  A loaded truck drove off, two young men dropped down the back of another truck, and two more readied to do the same for a third.

  “Lots of room.” Susan studied the clean interior as boxes were walked in from the loading dock. The door flipped onto the loading dock, which saved time lifting and carrying. A person could pick up a carton and walk it right into the truck.

  “Don’t most of these trucks have a bit of room so the driver can hang his stuff?” Harry wondered.

  “Yeah. Those big trucks, the long-hauler
s, have all kinds of room. I don’t think I could drive one of those with the gears at different levels.”

  “Be fun to try.” Harry grinned. “Well, girl, let’s check back at St. Luke’s before finishing up our chores. I’m sure yours involves ironing.”

  Susan shrugged. “You know what? Ten minutes outside on a July day and that skirt will hang perfectly. I’m not ironing anything.”

  Driving to Susan’s brick house, after a quick stop at St. Luke’s, the two talked about tomorrow, summer projects, the heat.

  “Those trucks aren’t huge. If they were carrying contraband, they wouldn’t attract as much attention as some of my bigger trucks. I mean like cigarettes or our famous country waters. Never thought much about that stuff before, I mean, before finding the still.”

  Susan answered. “Think of the fortunes being made from illegal activities. Not just millions but by the drug kingpins, billions.”

  “You think there’s billions in moonshine?”

  “I don’t know. Look at all the money that was made during Prohibition. Kennedy’s father is reputed to be one of those people bringing in liquor across the Canadian line. Guess Al Capone did all right.” Susan lifted her purse on her lap as Harry stopped in the driveway.

  “Films, TV shows have all these people getting caught. The newspapers print it up but what I wonder is who and how many get away with it? Like those trucks. If they stopped at weigh stations, they would have to hide the stuff and somehow disguise the weight. Right?”

  “You’d think so. I don’t know how you could disguise the weight of filled bottles.”

  “What if”—Harry’s mind was turning—“what if before you arrived at a weigh station, and they all know where those places are, you pulled over, unloaded the stuff. Someone in on the game could put that in a small truck or a couple of car trunks and would meet you down the road. Takes some care but it could be done. You know, if a truck had a compartment or something—”

  “Or people could take cartons up north in their cars. No stopping. Course, you couldn’t carry a lot, but still, free money, sort of.” Susan considered this.

  “The other way”—Harry leaned back on the old bench seat—“would be to get to the coast, either the Chesapeake Bay or the Atlantic, load the stuff on a boat. The boat sails to Philadelphia, New York, Boston. When you think of all the rivers we have in Virginia and the bay, that incredible bay, it’d be easy. You know in colonial times New Jersey was a hotbed of smugglers. Maybe it still is.”

  “I had no idea.” Susan’s hand rested on the door handle. “Oh, I almost forgot, Ned said the medical examiner couldn’t tell much from the rib cage and the partial skull found by the still. If they’d had the teeth, they would have had a better chance. He was young. They are treating this as a suspicious death. While they have no pelvis, they are pretty sure this was a male. Women rarely are near stills.”

  “You’d think somebody would miss him?”

  “What if that somebody is in Alabama?” Susan opened the door. “Okay, tomorrow. Put Band-Aids on your heels just in case.”

  “Okay.” Harry waited until Susan opened the door to her house, then backed out, headed for home.

  The animals, using their animal door, except for Pirate, too big, were flopped in the front yard. Pewter sprawled on the bench with the cushions.

  “You’re home!” Tucker joyfully rose up.

  Mrs. Murphy also trotted up to greet Harry.

  “Let me out,” Pirate pleaded from inside the house.

  “Quiet, please.” Pewter lifted her head.

  Harry pushed open the screen door, which squeaked, opening the door to the kitchen.

  “I missed you. I want to go where you go.” The long tail smashed against the screened-in porch where Pirate now stood.

  Petting the big beautiful head, Harry informed the fellow, “You’re still a bit of a puppy. No staying outside until I’m one hundred percent sure.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” Tucker promised.

  Walking inside the kitchen, Harry tossed her bag on the square, small table. She checked her messages. No reminders about tomorrow’s time to rendezvous at St. Luke’s since she had talked to everyone in the morning. Fair was still at St. Luke’s, putting the finishing touches on the scaled-down model of the church, which would be the centerpiece on the float.

  “I need to burn off that lunch. Why do I let her talk me into eating so much?” Harry grumbled. “Come on.”

  Outside, Harry walked to her trusty truck, opening the door. Pewter and Mrs. Murphy jumped in. She dropped down the tailgate. Pirate leapt up easily. Harry bent over to lift up Tucker.

  “Umph.” She groaned.

  “Fatty!” Pewter triumphantly yelled from the truck cab.

  Tucker flattened her ears, bared her teeth, as Harry shut the tailgate.

  Once in the truck, key turned, that wonderful old V-8 engine rumbled and grumbled.

  Harry sat for a moment to listen to what she regarded as a true internal combustion engine. Then she popped it in gear, shift on the floor, backed out, and headed for the road.

  Pirate sensibly sat down. “She’s never put me in the back like this.”

  “Means we aren’t going far. Mom doesn’t like us in the back.”

  “Then why are we here?” the gray-coated big dog asked.

  “Not enough room in the old truck. Fair’s truck has extra seats but he uses it every day for work,” Tucker answered.

  “Couldn’t Mom buy a new one?”

  “Pirate, she’d faint. We’d have to lick her face to revive her. The price of a new truck with extra seats is through the roof.”

  “Oh. I don’t understand money.” He dropped his handsome head.

  “Nobody does. Humans make it up as they go along. Really.”

  Turning left on a tertiary road, Dog Leg Road, Harry headed up the mountain. The road became gravel, but Harry kept her foot steady on the gas and the truck made it to the top of the ridge. Harry turned left again, stopping near the switchback path that would lead down the mountain, land she owned on the south side. Susan’s land was on the north. A quarter of a mile down the path was a clearing where one could park a vehicle. There was no way to drive down from up here.

  Some hunters knew of this location, as did the sheriff’s department. GPS proved less useful than old county maps, which were detailed. The department kept decades of such maps.

  Cutting off the motor, Harry stepped out and let the dogs down. The cats had already disembarked.

  Eyes down, Harry walked slowly to the top of the footpath, pushing the grasses aside with her feet.

  A coin, brass, the size of a half dollar, revealed itself in the grasses right at the edge of the big timber.

  Harry knelt down. The animals surrounded her.

  “Keep your noses out, kids.”

  “Who wants a coin?” Pewter sassed.

  Pulling on thin summer work gloves, Harry picked it up, turned it over. Nelson Mandela’s face was on one side. The reverse was a representation of the South African flag. Mr. Mandela’s birth date and date of death encircled his face, as Harry had turned it back over again. She slipped it into her pocket.

  Then they all walked down to the still, untouched since Harry’s last visit. Harry stood in the open doorway, stepped inside for a moment, wondering what the glass containers, the tubes, cost. Seemed like the equipment wasn’t pricey. Anyone with knowledge could start and run a still.

  The others also sat down outside, except Mrs. Murphy who, inside, pushed something around in the dirt.

  “What do you have there, Murphy?” Harry knelt down, running her hand over the dirt. “Huh?”

  Mrs. Murphy patted the small piece of onyx.

  It had chipped off something.

  Harry walked outside, the piece in her palm, so she could better
examine it in what sun filtered through the trees.

  Holding the piece, she dropped it into her jeans pocket.

  Once back on the farm she called the sheriff. A squad car, having been parked close by in Crozet, by the library, drove out and took the brass memento coin.

  Harry did not offer the cut chipped onyx square. She should have, but she wasn’t ready to believe what it could mean.

  38

  July 4, 2019

  Thursday

  What a day to celebrate. Sunshine flooded the tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains, turning them scarlet, then gold. Below, a slight breeze beckoned, combined with decent humidity; maybe this wouldn’t be a Fourth of July that turned into a steam bath. One could always hope.

  As the numerous marchers for Crozet’s myriad organizations drove toward their rendezvous destinations, people remembered former Fourth of July days. Those World War II veterans, long years, long memories, wore their uniforms. Each year that number dwindled but a few determined to walk, at least part of the way. Others rolled along pushed by Boy Scouts, which confused a few people. Many men and women who had served wore their old uniforms, whether from Desert Storm or the endless conflict in Afghanistan. Those still serving and home dazzled in their Army black, Navy whites, full-dress Marines, Air Force blue, and Coast Guard blue. Flags fluttered everywhere. The world for one day was red, white, and blue. All three Albemarle high schools sent their bands. A fife and drum corps in Revolutionary blue and buff, snare drums, fife, and tricorn hats would lead the parade. Naturally civic worthies rode in open cars. Other groups built floats. The grade schoolers built a Snoopy; they all knew Snoopy.

  Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, languishing in the kitchen, discussed their fate.

  “I belong on the float. Cats hunted mice at St. Luke’s. Thanks to us, their grain supply stayed safe, and think of the diseases we spared them. Mice are terrible disease carriers.” Pewter vilified mice although she had yet to catch one.