Whisker of Evil

by Rita Mae Brown

  Wisely, Harry had left her cohorts at home.

  Since the post office is a federal building, the doors cannot be locked against citizens. When the TV van with the antennae on top drove up, all three women groaned.

  A reporter, hair perfectly cut and wearing tan pants, a navy blazer, a blue shirt, and red, white, and blue tie, sailed through the door. Cords trailed behind him, kind of like a Portuguese man-of-war jellyfish.

  “I am here in the Crozet Post Office, a small, tidy building in this nondescript town.” He walked over to the counter as the cameraman walked in front of him, then swung behind for the reaction shot of Harry, Miranda, and Amy. The reaction shot suggested someone was flatulent.

  The reporter’s cue cards were held up by an assistant behind the long-suffering cameraman. Now he lifted one with Harry’s name on it.

  “The postmistress is Mary Minor Haristeen.” He then looked to see which one was Harry.

  “I’m no longer the postmistress. That office belongs to Mrs. Amy Wade,” Harry said levelly.

  “Ah, which of you is Mrs. Wade?”

  “I am.” The dark-haired, pretty young woman with the merry freckles smiled.

  “In a small town the post office is one of the nerve centers. What’s the feeling here in Crozet about this unprecedented epidemic of rabies?”

  “Two cases don’t constitute an epidemic,” Harry tartly replied.

  “And those two young men knew each other. They were in business together,” Miranda chimed in.

  “We don’t think that’s an epidemic. We think it’s rotten bad luck.” Amy finally wedged a sentence in.

  “Are you aware that stray dogs have been shot throughout Crozet this morning? People are taking this seriously,” the reporter intoned, voice low for emphasis.

  “Idiots!” Harry exclaimed.

  “Why do you say that, uh, Mrs. Haristeen?”

  “The incidence of rabies among cats and dogs is practically negligible thanks to vaccination. And if you’d done your homework, you would know the strain of rabies that killed Barry and Sugar was that of the silver-haired bat.”

  He ignored that, saying in a louder voice, “How do you know Carmen Gamble isn’t dead of rabies? Perhaps her body is in the woods.”

  Before Harry could erupt—and she was close to it—the door opened and Fair and Tavener pushed through the cables, assistants, and hangers-on valiantly trying to get their faces on camera.

  “Didn’t I just see you two?” The reporter blinked.

  “You did. We couldn’t even get through St. James’s front gate. There were more reporters and cameras than at White House conferences.” Tavener, face ruddy with anger, barked, “Pack up and go back from whence you came. All you’re doing is creating panic, injuring innocent animals, and getting in the way. This is my post office. I have a postbox, and I’d like to get to it.” Tavener brushed by an assistant.

  “Me, too,” Fair echoed Tavener.

  The cameraman tilted the camera upward to capture Fair, tall and imposing.

  The reporter bore down on Harry. “You resigned your position because of your animals, didn’t you, Mrs. Haristeen?”

  “No, not exactly.” Harry leaned over the counter.

  “But it is a fact that you brought two cats and a dog to work even after the rabies cases were diagnosed.”

  “They have their shots and so do I.” She bared her teeth as though fangs, which made Miranda laugh.

  “Harry, you know that’s what will be on the news,” Miranda said.

  “I don’t give a damn.” Harry defiantly grinned.

  “Shots or no shots, don’t you think the sight of those animals might frighten people? It’s against the law to bring pets to a federal building unless they’re seeing-eye dogs.” The reporter at least knew that much.

  “This is Crozet.” Amy Wade shrugged.

  “But under the circumstances such behavior seems if not irresponsible then insensitive.” The reporter—delighted for the footage, something a little different than the other stations covering the news—kept at Harry. He looked up suddenly, aware that a very tall, powerfully built blond man was staring down at him.

  “Leave her alone,” Fair flatly said.

  The reporter stood his ground. “And who are you?”

  “Dr. Pharamond Haristeen.”

  “I see.” The reporter smiled weakly.

  Tavener stepped up next to the reporter. “And I’m Dr. Tavener Heyward. We’re both veterinarians. Since your camera is running, let me state unequivocably that there is no danger to citizens of Albemarle County or the state of Virginia from cats and dogs. Furthermore, there is slim danger from the silver-haired bat—scientific name, Lasionycteris noctivagans. Both Dr. Haristeen and myself have thoroughly inspected the barns at St. James. The health department has crawled through the attics of the main house and all the dependencies. There is no evidence of rabies there.”

  “How can you tell?” The reporter asked a reasonable question.

  “No carcasses,” Tavener replied.

  “If there is rabies in the bat population, you’ll find a disproportionate amount of dead bats. And we didn’t. We found a few deceased bats, we took tissue samples. No rabies. This is a strange and upsetting case—the deaths of Barry Monteith and Sugar Thierry—but there is no proof that rabies is sweeping through the bat population, or through other reservoirs of the virus, such as raccoons or skunks.”

  “Then how did these two men die from rabies?” The reporter leaned forward, mike thrusting close to Tavener. “And there is a young woman missing who was close to the men. It may all be related!”

  “We don’t know.” Tavener sounded professional and at ease before the camera. “My guess—and it is only a guess—is that one or both of the men, while traveling to other barns and to other states, may have been bitten by a bat at one of those locations. The bite is almost always painless and the mark quite tiny. It’s possible they never knew.”

  “I’d certainly know if a bat bit me.” The reporter sounded disbelieving and a trifle boastful.

  “Not if you were asleep.” Fair put him in his place.

  “What about Carmen Gamble?” the reporter prodded.

  “We’re hoping she’ll show up. Carmen is—well, mercurial.”

  “She often traveled with Barry Monteith. They were dating,” Harry piped up.

  “Isn’t it true that if there were a rabies epidemic in Crozet, the town would lose tourist money? Like the seaside town in Jaws?” The reporter sounded aggressive and smart.

  His audience would just eat this up.

  “No. The money doesn’t stop here. It goes straight to Charlottesville.” Tavener walked back to the table to sort his mail.

  Fair leaned against the counter. “Crozet is just Crozet. Nothing pretty about us but beautiful country and great people.”

  “Great people? The animal-control officer is shot dead. Two other men are dead. Doesn’t sound like too many great people to me. Jerome Stoltfus, former county animal-control officer, may have held the key to the rabies epidemic!” The reporter really didn’t know when to stop, trusting his editor to put together the footage he was churning out. “And weren’t the remains of Mary Pat Reines, a leading citizen and wealthy woman who disappeared in 1974, just uncovered? Great people? Crozet is becoming the murder capital of Virginia!”

  “Do you know any place on earth where there hasn’t been a murder?” Miranda was irritated but covering it.

  “That’s not the point,” the reporter snapped, not really angry but putting on a show for the camera.

  “We’ll see.” Tavener tucked his mail under his arm. “Boy, why don’t you run along?”

  “Uh, before I go . . .” The reporter checked his name cards, handed him by the assistant. “Haristeen. Are you two related?”

  “Married,” Miranda called out.

  “Were,” Harry corrected her.

  “Will be again!” Fair grinned from ear to ear, brimming with bravado, but, t
hen again, faint heart ne’er won fair lady.

  As Tavener ushered, pushed, propelled the gaggle of unwanted media people out, shutting the door behind them, Harry punched Fair in the arm. “Who says?”

  “I says,” Fair, uncharacteristically, bragged.

  “The woman has to give her consent. Otherwise there’s an ugly word for it.” Harry replied in a light tone.

  “Foolish. The word is foolish.” Fair smiled. “Miranda, Tavener, Amy, you heard it here first. I want this woman to be my wedded wife, again. And I’ll keep asking her until she says yes.”

  “God.” Harry covered her eyes.

  “Give the man points for perseverance.” Tavener laughed.

  “And good looks.” Amy winked.

  “And love.” Miranda adored the big vet.

  “Harry, take your time.” Fair squeezed her hand.

  “Oh, hell, she’s had three years of you pursuing her. The first year after the divorce you were worthless. The last three you’ve been assiduously courting her.” Tavener slapped his mail on the counter for emphasis. “Say yes and be done with it, Harry.”

  “You two made a great team when you were married,” Amy Wade said encouragingly.

  Fair leaned down and kissed Harry. “You’re outnumbered.”

  Harry, embarrassed but secretly thrilled, murmured, “Let me think about it. I won’t take three more years.”

  “Heart. Not head.” Miranda smiled.

  Tavener walked to the front door, where the sight of the reporter bagging people on their way to the post office infuriated him. “I have half a mind to tell that jerk I’ll show him where Mary Pat was found.”

  “Why?” Fair asked.

  “Because I’ll haul him up to those high meadows, to the corner of the stone wall, turn around, and leave him there. Let him find his way down in the dark.” He slapped the mail against his leg, opened the door, and called over his shoulder, “Harry, he’s a great vet and a good man. Say yes.”

  50

  The uproar over rabies and Carmen’s disappearance continued through the rest of Tuesday and Wednesday. By Thursday, July 1, Rick Shaw, Jim Sanburne, and Tavener Heyward made public appeals for people to calm down.

  Not only were people shooting animals, they were shooting one another. This, as much as a desire to restore public confidence, prompted the televised appeal.

  Shootings occurred in Brown’s Cove, Boonesville, and Sugar Hollow, places where impulsive action independent of law enforcement was not unknown; but they were also happening in tony locations like Ednam Forest and Farmington Country Club.

  One person would fire at another’s dog and pretty soon it would erupt into the gunfight at the OK Corral. Rick and Cooper were exhausted. So were the veterinarians in town, who had to patch up the animals while Bill Langston and Hayden McIntire patched up the people.

  The lawyers would reap the benefits of this disorder. Of course, if it kept up, the undertakers would experience a blip in profits, as well.

  Everyone with a grain of sense kept their pets out of the public eye. But dogs especially can foil human intentions. Digging under fences or climbing over them caused many a problem.

  Both Rick and Cooper were praying the upcoming Fourth of July weekend would find people focusing on their parties. Hopefully this scare would die down.

  Big Mim spent Tuesday and Wednesday with Alicia since St. James was under siege. When the reporters packed up and left the front gate, Mim thought it safe to leave.

  Harry and Miranda finished up Tuesday working with Amy Wade. Wednesday, both women stayed in their respective homes.

  Thursday afternoon, Cooper drove out to Harry’s farm. She’d put in so much overtime that Rick gave her the afternoon off. She brought wonderful sandwiches from Bodo’s, a bagel place in town. No sooner had Harry set the picnic table outside than Fair came down the drive with sandwiches from the service station at the intersection of Route 250 and Miller School Road.

  “Jackpot.” Pewter licked her lips.

  “How do you know she won’t put some in the fridge?” Tucker hoped Pewter was right, though.

  “Look adorable. Show lots of tummy.” Mrs. Murphy opened her mouth slightly, inhaling the delicious aroma of sliced turkey, ham, and roast beef.

  “Good idea.” Pewter ran across the lawn to the picnic table.

  Harry and Cooper brought out drinks and condiments from the kitchen while Fair placed three plates and utensils on the oilcloth tablecloth.

  The three humans sat down to eat. Harry cut the sandwiches in quarters. That way everyone could have a little bit of everything.

  “I’m starved.” Harry bit into a turkey sandwich in which she had placed crisp pickles.

  “How can you eat pickles like that? You didn’t even slice them lengthwise.” Cooper, working on roast beef sliced paper-thin, marveled.

  “I’ve known Harry to open a jar of sweet gherkins and demolish the contents in less than fifteen minutes.”

  Harry, mouth full, shook her head. “No.” She swallowed, then said, “Takes twenty minutes.”

  “I am so hungry I feel faint.” Pewter hit the pathetic note.

  “Me, too.” Tucker tried looking terribly sad.

  “Well, I’m here for whatever you’ll give me,” Mrs. Murphy flatly stated.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Harry tore off a bit of turkey and fed it to Pewter. She was rewarded with purrs so loud they sounded like a feline diesel engine.

  Fair and Cooper followed suit, so Mrs. Murphy and Tucker were happily engaged, too.

  The food revived Cooper. She really had been tired. “Oh, that’s good. I’ll try some ham now.” Harry handed her the plate with the sandwiches piled on it. “Thank you.” She grabbed the mustard jar, slathering the tangy condiment on the rye bread. “I’ve been on the force for thirteen years, since college graduation, and, guys, I have never, ever been through what I’ve been through the last two days. People are totally irrational about their animals.”

  “Tell me.” Fair reached into a bowl of Utz potato chips.

  “I’m not,” Harry fibbed.

  Everyone, animals included, laughed at her.

  “I thought people were blind about their children. They’re worse about their pets!” Cooper took some potato chips, as well. “Rick has smoked more from Tuesday morning to this afternoon than the whole month of June put together. Chain smoking.”

  “All it does is divert us from what’s important,” Fair added.

  “That thought has occurred to me.” Cooper put her sandwich quarter on the plate for a moment; she’d been gesticulating with it in her hand. The animals were ready for something to fall out of it. “Well, here’s news, too. Haven’t had time to tell you. I’ve been too busy eating. Actually, all of us were hungry.” She noted the refilled plates. “The news is that Marshall Kressenberg isn’t coming to the service Saturday. He’s in Ireland. His secretary said he left on a horse-buying trip. I don’t believe it, but we’ll get him. Don’t worry.”

  “He did it?” Fair thought a pickle would be delicious. Harry glared at him when he picked up the jar. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave plenty for you.”

  “Good.” Harry fed Mrs. Murphy a piece of roast beef. This was her third sandwich quarter and Mrs. Murphy’s second.

  Cooper said without hesitation, “Oh, yeah. We have to prove it, but he’s our man.”

  “Well, it occurred to me that Ziggy Dark Star’s tattoo could tell the tale. We didn’t discuss that,” Harry said.

  “Fair did,” Cooper replied.

  “You did?” Harry’s voice rose at the end of the question.

  “I did.”

  “Was there a Ziggy Dark Star?” Harry was puzzled.

  “No. I expect Ulysses Malone, the owner of Old Wampum Farm, was paid off. He bought Ziggy Flame’s mother in the dispersal sale in 1974. And he bought the foal born in 1967, the result of Mary Pat’s breeding back Ziggy Flame’s mother to Tom Fool. But before he could register that colt, it ran through
a board fence in a thunderstorm and killed itself. Now, there would be no reason to register the death with the Jockey Club, since the colt hadn’t been registered yet in the first place. He hushed it up because he didn’t want people to think he didn’t take proper care of his horses. He also fired his farm manager.”

  “Marshall would know the letter sequence. He altered the tattoo.” Cooper was still hungry.

  “Wait. Let me get this straight. Ulysses Malone and Marshall Kressenberg create an imaginary horse, send in the paperwork and the blood work to the Jockey Club, and are issued a tattoo number starting with a W for 1967?” Harry couldn’t believe the simplicity yet daring of the plan.

  “They sent in Ziggy Flame’s blood,” Fair said.

  “But what about Ziggy’s tattoo?” Harry, irritated that she hadn’t thought of this, questioned.

  “First off, how many people do you know who have a mare to breed who are going to walk up to a stallion and hold his upper lip?” Fair replied. “And V is easy to turn to W. Who would suspect anything?”

  “You’ve got a point there.” Harry nodded. “I’ve been around horses all my life and I’m real, real careful around stallions.”

  “We do know that Ulysses Malone died a wealthy man. He’d made the money through breeding. His business took off in the late 1970s,” Cooper said. “I expect he was given a share in Ziggy Flame rather than being paid a lump sum. Safer, plus there was the potential for long-term profits, which, luckily for him, materialized.” Cooper had learned a lot about the breeding industry because of this case. “When Mary Pat’s broodmares were dispersed, he bought the mare who was Flame’s dam. He had the reputation of getting bargains at dispersal sales. She produced a few more foals, too, before she died at age twenty-three.”

  “My horses have tattoos. Why didn’t I think of this earlier?” Harry, distressed at her oversight, complained.

  “Lot going on,” Cooper laconically responded.

  “Too much upheaval.” Pewter batted a piece of rye bread. Bread was okay, but meat was better.

  Harry turned to Fair. “You didn’t say anything to me?”