The Tail of the Tip-Off

by Rita Mae Brown

“Oh, Susan, you know what I mean. Like you don’t want to be one of those mothers who cling, I don’t want to be one of those women who start blathering about the clock ticking. If I have a child, I do, and if I don’t, I don’t. Not to change the subject, but do you have any idea who might have wanted to see H. H. Donaldson dead?”

  “Sneak.”

  “What?”

  “You just can’t stand to talk about anything personal, can you?”

  “I just did.” Harry’s voice rose. “I told you exactly what I thought about having children but what I didn’t tell you is I think you are a wonderful mother and I wouldn’t be half as good a mother as you are.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Susan, who hated H.H.?”

  “I told Rick what I thought.”

  “Kind of. But we don’t burden the sheriff with idle gossip or unsubstantiated ideas. However, we can happily burden each other with them. So?” Harry wasn’t exactly deluding herself but she wasn’t accurate, either. She did discuss half-baked ideas with the sheriff.

  Susan shrugged. “I can’t think of anyone. Can you?”

  “If we retraced his movements over the last few days maybe we’d figure it out.”

  “I am not spending my Saturday retracing H. H. Donaldson’s—Damn, I missed the turn.”

  “Go up one light and turn left and come around.”

  “They didn’t put in a very good turn lane, did they?” Susan griped.

  “Not if you aren’t looking for it. I try to avoid coming up 29 so I missed it, too.”

  Susan finally drove into the shopping center, a very attractive one built as a U, with a supermarket anchoring one end of the U and a big discount store anchoring the other. Smaller specialty shops were in between these large stores.

  Businesses were in operation although the discount store was not quite completed. A large sign was in place with a banner underneath counting the days until it would open. Eleven days.

  Harry tapped the window of the tailgate. “I won’t be very long.”

  “Okay.” The cats settled down for a snooze. Tucker watched Harry’s every move.

  “I didn’t realize how big this was.” Susan swept her eyes over the New Gate shopping center, painted muted shades of gray with splashes of red. “H.H. probably could have moved up to a bigger structure like the new stadium.”

  “This is pretty straightforward stuff. I’d like to think he could but Matthew’s been around a long time. Even as a grunt Matthew worked on commercial or state projects like the Clam. He says the trick is not just finding the right subcontractors or whatever, he says it’s the bidding. That’s where you make it or break it. I’m learning a lot working with him on the Parish Guild.”

  “I learned a lot on the guild, period. What I learned is that ‘consensus’ is a magic word. Sounds so good. So hard to get. And why does everyone have to agree anyway?”

  “Well, at least we’ve solved the recarpeting crisis.”

  “Hallelujah.”

  “Save that for church.” Harry peered in the window of the discount store. “Huge.”

  “Gargantuan. You don’t notice it from the parking lot but it goes straight back.”

  “I guess they’ll stack up a lot of toilet paper.” Harry laughed. “I know I can save money shopping at these behemoths, but I can’t stand it. I get disoriented. And there’s so much to buy I wind up straying off my list. ‘Oh, that looks good.’ The next thing I know I’m standing in line and the bill is four hundred ninety-nine dollars.”

  “Not five hundred?”

  “Haven’t you ever noticed that in the discount stores everything always comes to ninety-nine?”

  Susan laughed. “I guess. Well, what are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know. Wanted to see what H.H. was building. Hey, that’s Rob.” She saw Rob Collier who delivered mail to the post office on weekdays. She waved.

  He saw her, walked over to the front door and unlocked it. “Harry. Hello, Susan. Come on in.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Working on Saturdays and Sundays. They’re paying time and a half. I figured I’d better make hay while the sun shines.” He slipped a screwdriver back into his tool belt. “Well, what do you think?”

  “It’s so well lit.”

  “Just putting on the finishing touches. I’m building shelves. This place will open its doors right on schedule despite everything. Poor guy. Keeling over of a heart attack like that. He’s two years younger than I am. Makes you think.” Rob shook his head.

  “Yes, it does,” Susan said.

  “Rob, was H.H. a good contractor?”

  Rob nodded. “No cutting corners. Do it right the first time. No bull. He talked to everyone straight. Kept his cool, too. That creep—if you weren’t ladies I’d say something worse—Fred Forrest would come by every single day or he’d send his assistant. Fred’s got a hair across his ass.” Rob again shook his head, lowered his voice. “In fact she’s here now.”

  “What would they fuss over?”

  “Oh, Harry, you wouldn’t believe it. That SOB would whip out his ruler, unfold it, and check stupid stuff like the gap between the doorjamb and the door. Anything. Fred lives to find fault and he couldn’t find much. That’s why H.H. would push everyone, ‘Do it right the first time.’ ”

  Raised voices in the background drew their attention.

  A young African-American woman, late twenties, wearing a hard hat, armed with a clipboard, strode out the door, Peter Gianakos in hot pursuit. He was soon back in the building.

  He focused on Rob before focusing on the two women. “Bitch.” He then saw, really saw, Harry and Susan. “I’m sorry, ladies. I’m a little hot under the collar.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Mychelle Burns has decided that our handicapped access to the men’s bathroom is one degree off in grade. First of all, it’s not. Secondly, to shave a degree off costs time and money. Do you know what a handicapped access costs us? That one you see out there on the sidewalk is eight thousand dollars.” Peter let his arms flop against his sides.

  “Why so much?” Susan was curious.

  “It could be even more if it were a switchback but this one we could put in right off the curb. It cost so much because you have to taper the sides. You can’t have ninety-degree sides. Let me tell you, concrete work ain’t cheap. And the guardrails are heavy pipe. The stuff could hold back an elephant.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “No one does, ma’am. Not until they have to build something the public will use. It’s bad enough just building a house.”

  “What are you going to do?” Harry felt bad for Peter.

  “The first thing I’m going to do is count to ten. Next, I’m bringing in the laser measurer and I am ninety-nine percent sure that grade will be perfect. Code perfect. Then I will call Fred Forrest and ask him to come out and use the laser measurer.” His voice was acidic. “If the high-and-mighty Fred doesn’t want to come by, I guess I’ll let Mychelle use it. Christ, she’s a chip off the old block. And since neither one of them can even hammer a nail, I will hold my tongue although even an idiot can use a laser measurer.”

  “Peter,” a man called from the back.

  “Sorry to dump on you. Harry, Susan, it’s good to see you.”

  “Give my regards to your wife,” Susan said as he left.

  Harry waited a beat then whispered to Rob, “Maybe Mychelle wants a payoff?”

  Rob frowned. “Well, I’m here on the weekends and at night. I don’t think that’s going on. I could be wrong. I think Fred’s drunk on power. She’s a carbon copy.”

  As Susan and Harry cruised back down 29, Susan said, “Harry, I wouldn’t have thought of under-the-table payoffs.”

  “I know. You’re such a straight arrow.”

  “So was H.H.”

  “I think he was.” Harry noticed that the snow piled on the side of the road was already grungy. “And I do think Fred is drunk on power. Ro
b’s got him pegged. You see that kind of personality in a lot of professions but especially in government jobs. I should know, I have one.”

  “Maybe you should bring a whip to the post office.”

  “They’d get an entirely different idea.” Harry laughed.

  “Pervert.” Susan laughed, too.

  * * *

  10

  Unless inherited, wealth rarely falls into anyone’s lap. People who make lots of money work harder, work longer hours, and almost always love what they do.

  Matthew Crickenberger was no exception. His office in downtown Charlottesville was a series of three old town houses built in the 1820s. He’d bought them, renovating the insides while keeping the exteriors untouched.

  The middle house boasted a lovely walnut door with a graceful fan over the top, the glass panes handblown. Inside, a small lobby where coats and umbrellas could be hung opened onto a larger reception area with a receptionist in the center. All along the right wall behind glass was a temperature-controlled miniature South American rain forest, imitation Colombian artifacts placed among the plants. One, a carved stone, peeped out of a rippling pool.

  Matthew, utilizing Anne Donaldson’s botanical skills, had paid over one hundred thousand dollars to create this. Apart from being a shrewd political move, hiring Anne, the wife of his rival, was also economical. Why bring in an expert from Miami University or elsewhere when Anne could do the job?

  Brightly colored birds chattered in the thick canopy of plants, a rich green. Little salamanders and all manner of amazing insects lazed about.

  At one time, Matthew purchased a pair of monkeys but they made an infernal racket and were donated to the Washington Zoo.

  Hopping in and out of the elongated pond were bright little frogs, some yellow, some green with bands. They feasted on the tiny beetles and ants crawling about.

  The rain forest wall never failed to dazzle a first-time visitor. Even those with constant access to Matthew admired the flora and fauna.

  Not only was this Matthew’s pet project, it was his hobby. He adored researching rain forest habitat and gave generously to those environmental groups trying to save these vital ecological areas.

  He had visited Colombia once a year until it became too dangerous. He had sailed on the Amazon, too, but he liked the Colombian rain forests best.

  People wondered if he went there to buy cocaine but Matthew appeared to have no interest in drugs. He drank at parties but wasn’t much of a drinker.

  His brother, Lloyd, had fought with Special Forces in Vietnam. He’d tell his big brother, Matthew, about the magic of the rain forest. Lloyd died at thirty-two of a stroke, way too young.

  Matthew always said his hobby kept him close to Lloyd.

  From the receptionist’s desk one hallway headed into the left building, one into the right.

  Matthew’s office was at the end of the left hall, a hall lined with prints of macaws, toucans, and other aviary exotica.

  His office, door always open, boasted a beautiful ebony Louis XVI desk. The walls were painted a lobster bisque, the woodwork a creamy eggshell. Against one wall stood an antique drafting table. Tazio Chappars leaned over the blueprints with him.

  “—here.” He pressed his index finger on a second-story window. “If we switch these to revolving windows we can entice fresh air into the structure.”

  “And additional cost.”

  “I’ll get my guys to research that.” He smiled. At least she didn’t blast his suggestion. His experience with architects was that most were prima donnas.

  She checked the large man’s wristwatch she wore. “Oh, dear.”

  He checked his. “Here. Before I forget.” He walked to his desk chair, picked up a small carpet sample and returned, handing it to her. “Tell Herb to give this to Charlotte. She can start thinking about fabrics to re-cover her office chair.”

  “The cost. The Parish Guild will have another long meeting.” Tazio grimaced.

  “No they won’t. What’s the most it can cost? Five yards. She’s not going to pick embroidered satin.” He inhaled. “A hundred dollars a yard if she goes wild. The most it will cost is five hundred dollars.” He held up his hand to quell the protest. “I’ll pay for it. I’ll bet you she goes down to the Second Yard and finds a nice something for twenty dollars a yard. She deserves it.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m thinking about time.”

  “Pardon?” She noticed his countenance.

  “Time. As in my life.”

  “H.H.?”

  “Well, yeah. If it happened to H.H. it can happen to any of us. He took great care of himself and poof.” He snapped his fingers. “Gone before forty.”

  “Pretty shocking.” She was thirty-five herself.

  “H.H. and I got along just fine, for competitors. He was a good builder. A little outspoken. A little hotheaded but a good builder.”

  A wave of sadness swept over Tazio’s attractive face. “Such a waste. To die so young.”

  “Shame it couldn’t have been Fred Forrest.” The corner of his lip curled upward.

  She hesitated. She loathed Fred but she didn’t want to show it. “You know what I think about Fred?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “He works too hard at being unlikable.”

  Matthew blinked, his blue eyes focusing on her. “Perceptive.”

  “He doesn’t want us to know who he really is.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “You’ve known him for a long time.”

  “Over forty years. We both started out in construction. In fact, he and I worked on the Barracks Road shopping center the summer we were in junior high school. That ought to tell you how long ago.” He smiled, citing a shopping center first built in 1957. “And one day the building inspector at the time, Buelleton Landess—there’s a name for you—cussed out Fred. Up one side and down the other. And you know, Fred said, ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’ So he did, when he graduated from Lane High School. And he missed the biggest building boom Albemarle County ever had. Could have made a fortune. Fool.”

  “Hindsight.”

  “No balls, forgive the expression.” Matthew smiled again.

  “Well, I’d better head out.”

  “Nice to see you.”

  “Same here.” She slipped her arm into her navy leather coat lined with sheep’s wool, dyed to match. “I’ll give Charlotte the carpet sample.”

  Matthew walked her to the door, wishing he were a younger man.

  As Tazio drove away she thought that Matthew was easy to work with—which was a good thing. They’d be working closely together in the future on the new university sports complex.

  And she also noted that it didn’t seem to have occurred to Matthew that Fred Forrest didn’t want people to know him. His nastiness was calculated. But then her observations on life taught her that people of color had to look more closely at white people than white people looked at themselves. Simple survival, really.

  * * *

  11

  Preparing a sermon vexed Herb even though he’d been doing it all of his adult life. He’d jot down a few notes throughout the week and then each Saturday morning he’d settle into his office at the rectory to pull those notes together. Sometimes he’d work in his study at home but he often found his mind would wander. He’d pull a book off the shelf and hours would pass. He’d learn a great deal about Francis I of France or trout fishing but he hadn’t written a word of his sermon.

  As it was the second Sunday after Epiphany, he wanted to expand on the theme of discovery, of finding that which you have been seeking.

  Cazenovia, her fluffy tail languidly swaying, sat on the desk. She closed her eyes and was soon swaying slightly in rhythm with her tail. Was the tail wagging the cat or the cat the tail?

  Elocution slept in front of the fireplace, framed by an old mantel with delicate scrollwork carved on it.

  Each morning the cats would cross the small quad from the hous
e to the rectory. Bound by a brick wall three feet high, the complex exuded a peacefulness and a purpose of peace.

  Not having to pay a mortgage proved a blessing for Herb. He’d saved from his modest salary and was considering buying a cottage as a retreat for himself. Herb was drawn to the Charleston, South Carolina, area, and he thought when the time came, he’d find something there. Escaping the worst of winter’s depredations appealed to him, especially this Saturday afternoon, for the sky was a snarling gray, the temperature dropping back from its high in the mid-forties. He rose from his desk to look out the window toward the northwest. The clouds, much darker in that direction, promised another storm.