Furmidable Foes

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Then the mice in the barn must be germ-free and flea-free.” Mrs. Murphy sat on the windowsill behind the double sink.

  Pewter ignored this, warming up for a rant against Tucker and Pirate. “Can you believe those suck-up dogs are going to be on the float. On the float. It’s an outrage. Just because Colonel Henry Shelton, USA retired, gave Mom the history of Irish wolfhounds here as well as in war. So maybe there was an Irish wolfhound in the early years at St. Luke’s. I don’t believe it. No.”

  “We know there was a corgi because Charles West made many drawings of him. Called Piglet.” Mrs. Murphy resisted the obvious jab at the fat cat.

  “Big deal.” Pewter turned up her black nose, whiskers back.

  “I wonder if any regiments have a cat insignia. The Twenty-Seventh, Irish wolfhound insignia. Got the nickname in 1918 for pursuing the Bolsheviks. Least that’s what Mom read.”

  “Who cares? If we were in the parade, it would be better. Cats made this country great. Wherever the humans settled, we did our jobs. And you know what else is disgusting? She shut the animal door. We’re stuck in the house. I am getting even. I’m going to go into the library and push books off those shelves. That will teach her.”

  “Pewter, that’s not a good idea.”

  Too late. Pewter dashed into the library, crawled behind the books on a midlevel shelf, then kicked that whole line of books onto the floor. Mrs. Murphy heard the slap, slap, slap of hardbound books hitting the wood. Some of Harry’s books had been printed in the mid-nineteenth century and two in the eighteenth, prized possessions of early ancestors.

  “You know what else I’m going to do? Bite the Roman candles.”

  “Pewter, calm yourself.”

  “This will be a July Fourth no one will forget.”

  * * *

  —

  Perhaps Pewter possessed the gift of prophecy, but at ten in the morning no one was in danger of forgetting. The parade would start at the post office, head east, and end at Starr Hill Brewery, a happy outcome for Starr Hill. The idea, to beat the heat, was a good one.

  The residents of a six-story home for older people stood or sat on their balconies, waving small flags. The post office parking lot, jammed with the front of the parade, was about ready to start.

  Sheriff Rick Shaw, in the third car, a squad car, watched the veterans in front, the very first marchers being the fife and drum corps.

  Pamela Bartlett, at the head of the Dorcas Guild, intended to march the length of the parade, about a mile. A gold sash with DORCAS GUILD in blue letters captured the eye. It ran from the woman’s left shoulder to her right hip where a large bow secured it. Behind the impressive St. Luke’s float the men of St. Peter’s Guild marched, sashes without the bow.

  Fair, thanks to his height, stood on the float as Charles West, both men blond. Charles had been shorter than Fair but tall for his time. A young parishioner, black cascading hair, doubled for Rachel West. They wore clothing of the period. Tucker sat at Fair’s feet. The Very Reverend Herbert Jones, at the front of the float, waved. He was dressed in his Trinity robes. Other men represented some of the more famous pastors, wives at their side. A church bell, small but perfect in tone, rang from the steeple. The church on the float had been built to one-fifth the size of the original church.

  On the sides of the float was painted the First Amendment guaranteeing the freedom of religion.

  The Dorcas Guild had printed up the Twenty-third Psalm. Janice on one side of the marchers, Mags on the other, handed out copies of the psalm to people.

  “All right, one, two, hup,” Pamela called out as the group in front of them, the Western Albemarle Band, moved out playing John Philip Sousa.

  Children waved as the men and women on the float waved. They hollered for Tucker as Pirate, resting next to the Very Reverend Jones, wondered what this was all about. Not that he minded, but it was loud, people happy.

  As St. Luke’s blessed animals on St. Francis Day, people loved that the dogs graced the float. Anyone in the crowd who attended St. Luke’s told those around them about Piglet, the corgi.

  St. Mary’s also blessed animals on St. Francis Day, as did the Episcopal church.

  The African Methodist Episcopalian church also presented its history. The people on the float sang hymns from the ages.

  The Dorcas Guild walked in unison, Harry and Susan shoulder to shoulder. They had loved this parade since childhood.

  Behind St. Luke’s slowly cruised the fire truck from the Crozet Volunteer Fire Department, a dedicated group of people, as firemen and -women are.

  What moved the crowd, clearly everyone in Crozet whether a newcomer or an old family person, was the sight of the remaining World War II veterans. People cried. The men waved. But everyone that day knew that fewer and fewer of this generation remained. And the service people behind them understood the sacrifice.

  All across America people marched, flags flew. A birthday is a birthday.

  Harry and Susan couldn’t talk for the music. They kept in step and from time to time Harry would sneak a glance at her husband, Tucker, and Pirate. One husband, two dogs, representing those who had gone before.

  Crozet was bigger than a minute, five minutes maybe. Wasn’t much to the town hard by the Blue Ridge Mountains. A little place known as Wayland’s Corners back when St. Luke’s was built. Over time it became known as Crozet when Claudius Crozet, once a young engineering officer in Napoleon’s army, fled to the New World after Waterloo. He hung on, and his abilities finally brought him to Wayland’s where, without dynamite, not yet invented, he and his men burrowed four great tunnels through those Blue Ridge Mountains for the railroad.

  Harry’s new sneakers held up as she thought about this place. It wasn’t quaint, it wasn’t really even pretty. The land was, the mountains inspirational, but Crozet—well, you could blow through it and not really notice it.

  But it was home. The people she loved lived here. Listening to John Philip Sousa, Harry wondered how many people loved where they lived and the people who lived with them or next to them. She hoped most Americans felt that deep taproot.

  Pamela’s memories, longer than Harry’s, included ghosts, those people who once marched along, who now were in another sphere. Pamela had no doubt about an afterlife. Didn’t mean she wanted to find out anytime soon. A day like today was too sweet to want to leave the earth.

  Finally St. Luke’s reached Starr Hill Brewery. Those finishing the parade moved toward the vet clinic. The floats lined up there. When the last group, the Charlottesville High School band, finished up, the parade was over. Most people repaired to the brewery, including the band kids who dutifully drank sodas.

  Tucker and Pirate, sitting in the shade, were beset by children. A few adults asked would Pirate hurt their cherub? Most of the kids were already hanging on the giant dog.

  Fair, joining Harry, patted the big boy’s head while Tucker laughed with everyone.

  “You look impressive in those clothes. The hat does the trick.”

  He doffed his tricorn to her, putting it back on his head. “Keeps the sun out of my face. Actually feels good. I expect the cowboy hat came from the tricorn.”

  “Could be. Well, sweetheart, you go have a beer with Ned and the boys. I’ll stay here with the dogs. Then we can catch a ride back to the truck.”

  “Sure?”

  “I’m sure. I’ll stay out here and pass and repass.” She used the old Southern expression for talking to everyone, which she did.

  Mags came by. “Handed out every leaflet.”

  “Really started to get hot at the end.” Janice walked up. “Well, partner, we should patronize another brewery. It’s only right.”

  Harry looked down at Mag’s turquoise and onyx bracelet. She reached for Mag’s wrist.

  “This is so beautiful.” Then she noticed the little bit missing
from one of the onyx squares.

  Mags, seeing this, said, “Kevin was ready to shoot me. Well, I did bid a lot for it and yes, I’ve already damaged it, but it can be fixed. Come on, Janice. I’m dry. Harry, come on.”

  Harry couldn’t speak. Swallowing, she rasped out, “Need to stay with the dogs. Fair’s in there. I’m fine.”

  As the two women walked inside, a flood of conflicting emotions filled her. For once in Harry’s life, she kept her mouth shut.

  In full sheriff’s uniform, Sheriff Shaw came up. “Some parade.”

  “Yes,” Harry replied.

  “I’ve got all you girls together. Bring me your lipstick, the…I don’t know the color. I know you don’t have it with you. Your purse is somewhere else, but get it to me no later than tomorrow. If you’re coming to the fireworks tonight, bring it then. When you told me to check Jeannie’s purse, we checked everything. Susan told me about the lipstick exchange at AHIP. I need your lipsticks.”

  “Is there something about you I don’t know?” Harry smiled. “Is this the new you?”

  “No. We checked Jeannie’s lipstick, and found it was loaded with deadly nightshade. Best I check everyone’s. Is Susan’s in there?”

  She nodded.

  “Have you used it?”

  “I have. So has Susan.”

  “Probably nothing to worry about, but I have to check.”

  “Of course.”

  Harry dropped on the half barrel filled with bright pansies, that most serviceable flower.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?” Tucker stood on his hind legs to lick Harry’s hand.

  Pirate, standing now, reached over to lick Harry’s face. “I can help.”

  “You two are the best dogs. I feel kind of faint.” She dropped her head a minute, then lifted it up, taking a deep breath. “I don’t want to know what I think I know about two of my dearest friends. I’m not sure what to do. I think I know what to do and yet, and yet, I can’t believe it.”

  39

  February 6, 1788

  Wednesday

  “Extraordinary.” Ewing removed his glasses to stare into the fire on this bitterly cold day.

  Catherine, glancing up from papers filled with columns of numbers, returned to the columns of potential seed orders and costs.

  “My dear, we are living in extraordinary times. The Baron writes that on November 19 the King banished his brother, the Duc d’Orleans, to his estate north of Paris.”

  “What happened?” She noted her father’s perplexed look.

  “No Princes of the blood have ever questioned the King in any type of government meeting, for lack of a better term. They have so many qualifications in France, it’s confusing. But the technicality addressed by the Duc was: Was this gathering a bed of justice or a royal sitting? The King replied a royal sitting. The Baron couldn’t believe what had transpired and he writes that Princes have often crossed their brother throughout France’s turbulent history, but when they did so, they had a sword in hand. The King walked out after holding to his views, moved by the solutions of those gathered to speak. The royal family doesn’t speak. He and he alone speaks for France. Not a hint of flexibility. Catherine, this can’t continue. Seventeen eighty-eight is not the France of Francis I or even Louis XIII.”

  “There goes trade.” Catherine, practical, cared little for what she considered high-flown promises about the future and people’s places therein.

  “Yes, but the Baron remarks that most people, educated people, considered the King’s older brother, Monsieur, to be the source of unrest, a future rival. No, it’s Philippe, younger. He’s playing to the people, of course. He can do that as easily from his estate as he can in Paris. This will affect us and it won’t be just trade.”

  “Why? What’s it to us if a rich nation clings to absolute monarchy?”

  “Because that time had passed. Even King George recognized that and he didn’t need our war to see it. You know, it’s a funny thing, the further away I get from our break with Britain, the easier it is for me to understand why King George and Lord North feared our separation. We were one of many colonies, outposts.”

  “The others seem quiet enough,” Catherine noted.

  “For now. Once people believe they should control their own political destiny, anything is possible. Even here. What if we fall afoul of one another? Look at the enmity between Jefferson and Hamilton.”

  “But surely, Father, they won’t resort to arms.”

  He leaned back in his chair, the letter on exquisite parchment, thin, in his left hand. “No, but that doesn’t mean we are incapable of it. The Baron makes me think not just about France but about us.”

  “We should be grateful there’s an ocean between us as well as the English Channel.”

  He sighed. “Indeed. Well, this confirms what we’ve kept in the corners of our mind. We’ll not see any money from France. No more tobacco shipments. And I could guess no shipments of other things we grow here.” He shifted in his seat. “Of course, the French can produce some of these things, but not tobacco.”

  “Before I forget, Bettina told me that the two slaves who ran off, in love, supposedly, have been captured and returned. Maureen appears to enjoy punishing them. The girl must tend to the simpleminded and the fellow, William, you remember the jockey who broke Jeddie’s collarbone?”

  “I do.”

  “Had his hamstring slit by his captor.”

  “Well, that is rough justice.” Ewing shook his head. “I’m surprised Maureen hasn’t formulated worse punishments.”

  “Give her time.”

  He grunted.

  “Speaking of Maureen, she has contacts in France. I expect she’s made arrangements to protect herself.”

  “Oh, when I first approached her concerning DoRe’s proposal to Bettina, we did discuss the situation. She’s moved her funds out of Paris, to London and, of course, the Italian bankers. The Italians have been handling money, the loans, investments, longer than the rest of us. Not that I trust them,” he quietly said.

  “I do hope she’ll finally come to terms concerning DoRe.”

  Ewing sighed again, placing the papers on the corner of his polished desk. “Never, never have I dealt with anyone so difficult and truthfully, my dear, so greedy. Francisco was a hard man but essentially fair. Not so, Maureen.”

  “I sometimes wonder was she born like that, with that streak of cruelty that runs through her?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know she will torture those two recaptured slaves in ingenious ways.”

  Catherine folded her hands on the desk. She sat across from him, for the desk was wide. Through her father, Catherine, a quick study, learned the ways of the world. She understood a man’s world and was prudent enough to keep it to herself. Given her mental abilities, her father taught her well and enjoyed the partnership.

  * * *

  —

  As those two discussed what may or may not come to pass, Ralston, better, settled into hard work. He wanted to prove himself to Mr. Finney in the hopes of advancement but also in the hopes that people would bring horses to him as they did to Catherine Garth Schuyler. If he served Mr. Finney well, it might be possible for him to work horses at Royal Oak with the owner’s permission.

  Ralston foresaw but one future, work, saving money, buying Sulli’s freedom.

  Sulli believed she had no future. The need these poor souls had for her began to give her a purpose. While this was not a life the young woman would ever have selected, it was one with meaning. Olivia provided an example. The older woman would quote those Bible passages she memorized and she would tell Sulli she was part of God’s plan.

  While Sulli could not foresee God’s plan, she felt small gratitude for being far away from the big house, away from Maureen’s gaze, as well as the gaze of most of the other people on Big Rawly
, especially Elizabetta. Nor did she want to see William.

  William felt exhaustion and pain. He was too tired for rage, plus rage cost him the use of one leg. He wanted to live, but he didn’t know why.

  Whether at Cloverfields or Big Rawly, no one could imagine what the future would give or take from them. The one thing that was certain is that no one could imagine that future.

  40

  July 4, 2019

  Evening

  Seeing the books scattered on the floor was a relief for Harry. They took her mind off the onyx chip and the lipstick bombshell. As Fair drove them back from downtown Crozet, she told him everything, including finding the brass Mandela coin.

  She ran through every possibility she could imagine until finally at home, sitting at the kitchen table, she asked, “What do you think?”

  “I think you should talk to Sheriff Shaw.”

  “But if I do, then doesn’t Mags, if she is guilty, have time to hide more evidence?”

  “Here’s the issue: guilty of what? murder? murder by lipstick?”

  “Well, crazy as it sounds, yes. And don’t forget where I found the onyx chip, at the still, and don’t forget the body parts discovered not far from the still.”

  “I found them,” Pewter interjected.

  “Cat, if I were you, I’d shut up.” Harry closed one eye, looking mean.

  “She understood.” Pewter’s jaw dropped, revealing white fangs.

  “Maybe.” Mrs. Murphy leaned on the kitchen chair leg. “Then again, you were loud.”

  “Pfft,” the gray cat responded, a flick of her impressive tail.

  “You think the motivation is money?” Fair pressed. “It’s possible that Jeannie crossed her in some fashion.”

  “Fair, can you think for one minute what that sweet woman could have done to get herself killed?”