“Hey, hey, I can’t leave work.”
“I’ll take care of everything, dear.” Miranda slammed shut the door as Susan cranked the motor.
* * *
30
The Allied National Bank overlooked Benjamin Seifert’s tardiness. No one called Cabell Hall to report Ben’s absence. If Ben had found out about such a call the perpetrator wouldn’t have kept his job for long. Often on the run and not the most organized man in the office, Benjamin might have made morning appointments without notifying the secretary. Ben, a bright light at Allied, could look forward to taking over the huge new branch being built on Route 29N in Charlottesville, so no one wanted to get on his bad side. The more astute workers realized that his ambitions extended beyond the new branch at 29N.
When he didn’t phone in after lunch the little group thought it odd. By three, Marion Molnar was worried enough to call his home. No answer. Benjamin, divorced, often stayed out into the wee hours. No hangover lasted this long.
By five, everyone expressed concern. They dialed Rick Shaw, who said he’d check around. Just about the time Marion called, so did Yancey Mills, owner of the little gas station. He recognized Benjamin’s car. He’d figured something was wrong with it and that Benjamin would call in. But it was near to closing time and he hadn’t heard anything and there was no answer at Ben’s house.
Rick sent Cynthia Cooper over to the gas station. She checked out the car. Seemed fine. Neither she nor Rick pressed the panic button but they routinely called around. Cynthia called Ben’s parents. By now she was getting a bit alarmed. If they found no trace of him by morning they’d start looking for him. What if Ben had refused a loan, or the bank had foreclosed, and someone had it in for him? It seemed far-fetched, but then nothing was normal anymore.
* * *
31
It was her face reflecting back from the mirror, but Harry needed time to get used to it. The new haircut revealed those high cheekbones, full lips, and strong jaw so reminiscent of her mother’s family, the Hepworths. The clear brown Minor eyes looked back at her too. Like everyone else in Crozet, Harry combined the traits of her parents, a genetic testimony to the roulette of human breeding. The luck held in her case. For others, some of them friends, this wasn’t true. Multiple sclerosis haunted generation after generation of one Crozet family; others never escaped the snares of cancer; still others inherited a marked tendency to drink or drugs. The older she got the luckier she felt.
As she focused on the mirror she recalled her mother seated before this very mirror, paint pots out, lipsticks marshaled like stubby soldiers, powder puffs lurking like peach-colored land mines. Much as Grace Hepworth Minor had harassed, wheedled, and bribed her sole child, Harry steadfastly refused the lure of feminine artifice. She was too young then to articulate her steely rejection of the commercialization of womanness. All she knew was that she didn’t want to do it, and no one could make her. As years sped by, this instinctual rejection was examined. Harry realized that she thought she was clean and neat in appearance, healthy, and outgoing. If a man needed that fake stuff, in her opinion he wasn’t much of a man. She was determined to be loved for herself and not because she’d paid out good money to fit the current definition of femininity. Then again, Harry never felt the need to prove that she was feminine. She felt feminine and that was enough for her. It ought to be enough for him. In the case of Fair it turned out to be enough for a while.
In this respect BoomBoom and Harry represented the two poles of female philosophy. Maybe it was why they never could get along. BoomBoom averaged one thousand dollars each month on her upkeep. She was waxed, dyed, massaged. She was awash in nutrients which took into account her special hormonal needs. At least that’s what the bottles said. She dieted constantly. She thought nothing of flying to New York to shop. Then the bills truly rolled in. One pair of crocodile shoes from Gucci was $1,200. Sleek, up-to-date, and careful to cover any flaws, real or imagined, BoomBoom represented a triumph of American cosmetics, fashion, and elective surgery. Her self-centeredness, fed by this culture, blossomed into solipsism of the highest degree. BoomBoom marketed herself as an ornament. In time she became one. Many men chased after that ornament.
When Harry inspected the new Harry, courtesy of the strong-arm tactics of Miranda and Susan, she was relieved to see a lot of the old Harry. Okay, blusher highlighted those cheeks, lipstick warmed her mouth, but nothing too extreme. No nasty eyeshadow covered her lids. The mascara only accentuated her already long black lashes. She looked like herself, only maybe more so. She was trying to make sense of it, trying to like the simple suede skirt and silk shirt that Susan had forced her to buy upon pain of death. Spending is worse than pain, she thought; it lasts longer.
Too late now. The check had been written, the merchandise carried home. No more time to fret over it anyway because Blair was knocking at the front door.
She opened it.
He studied Harry. “You’re the only woman I know who looks as good in jeans as in a skirt. Come on.”
Mrs. Murphy and Tucker stood on the back of the sofa and watched the humans motor down the driveway.
“What do you think?” Tucker asked the cat.
“She looks hot.” Mrs. Murphy batted Tucker. “Aren’t you glad we don’t have to wear clothes? Wouldn’t you look adorable in a little gingham dress?”
“And you’d have to wear four bras.” Tucker nudged Mrs. Murphy in the ribs, nearly knocking her off the sofa.
That appealed to Mrs. Murphy’s demented sense of humor. She rocketed off the back of the sofa, calling for the dog to chase her. She dashed straight for the wall, enticing Tucker to think that she was trapped, and then hit the wall with all fours, banking off it, sailing right over Tucker’s head while the dog skidded into the wall with a hard bump. Mrs. Murphy performed this maneuver with a demonic sense of purpose. Enraged, Tucker’s feet spun so fast under her that she shook like a speeded-up movie. Around and around they ripped and tore until finally, as Tucker charged under an end table and Mrs. Murphy pranced on top of it, the lamp on the table teetered and tottered, only to wobble on its base and smash onto the floor. The crash scared them and they flew into the kitchen. After a few moments of quiet they ventured out.
“Uh-oh,” Tucker said.
“Well, she needed a new lamp anyway. This one had gray hairs.”
“She’ll blame me for it.” Tucker already felt persecuted.
“As soon as we hear the truck, we’ll hide under the bed. That way she can rant and rave and get it out of her system. She’ll be over it by tomorrow morning.”
“Good idea.”
* * *
32
“The meringue tarts.” Little Marilyn triumphantly nodded to Tiffany to serve the dessert.
Little Marilyn practiced nouvelle cuisine. Big Marilyn followed suit, which was the first time mother had imitated daughter. Jim Sanburne complained that nouvelle cuisine was a way to feed people less. Bird food, he called it. Fortunately, Big Marilyn and Jim weren’t invited to the small dinner tonight. Cabell Hall was, though. Fitz continually flattered the important banker, his justification being that three years ago Cabell had introduced him to Marilyn. Little Marilyn’s septic personality had been somewhat sweetened by the absence of her maternal unit, so she, too, showered attention on Cabell and Taxi.
“Tell Blair how you were nicknamed Taxi.” Little Marilyn beamed at the older woman.
“Oh, that. He doesn’t want to hear that.” Taxi smiled.
“Yes, I do.” Blair encouraged her as Cabby watched with affection his wife of nearly three decades.
“Cabell is called Cabby. Fine and good but when the children were little I hauled them to school. I picked them up from school. I carried them to the doctor, the dentist, Little League, dance lessons, piano lessons, and tennis lessons. One day I came home dog tired and ready to bite. My husband, just home from his own hard day, wanted to know how I could be so worn out from doing my duties as a housewife. I explain
ed in vivid terms what I’d been doing all day and he said I should start a local taxi service, as I already ran one for my own children. The name stuck. It’s sexier than Florence.”
“Honey, you’d be sexy if your name were Amanda,” Cabby praised her.
“What’s wrong with the name Amanda?” Brenda Sanburne asked.
“Miss Amanda Westover was the feared history teacher at my prep school,” her husband told her. “She taught Cabell, me—she may have even taught Grandfather. Mean.” Stafford Sanburne and Cabell Hall were both Choate graduates.
“Not as mean as my predecessor at the bank.” Cabell winked.
“Artie Schubert.” Little Marilyn tried to recall a face. “Wasn’t it Artie Schubert?”
“You were too young to remember.” Taxi patted Little Marilyn’s bejeweled hand. “He made getting a loan a most unpleasant process, or so I heard. Cabby and I were still in Manhattan at the time and he was approached by a board member of Allied National to take over the bank. Well, Richmond seemed like the end of the earth—”
Cabby interrupted: “It wasn’t that bad.”
“What happened was that we fell in love with central Virginia, so we bought a house here and Cabby commuted to work every day.”
“Still do. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Tuesdays and Thursdays I’m at the branch in the downtown mall in Charlottesville. Do you know that in the last ten years or so our growth rate has exceeded that of every other bank in the state of Virginia—by percentage, of course. We’re still a small bank when compared to Central Fidelity, or Crestar, or Nations Bank.”
“Darling, this is a dinner party, not a stockholders’ meeting.” Taxi laughed. “Is it obvious how much my husband loves his job?”
As the guests agreed with Taxi and speculated on how people find the work that suits them, Fitz-Gilbert asked Blair, “Will you be attending opening hunt?”
Blair turned to Harry. “Will I be attending opening hunt?”
Stafford leaned toward Blair. “If she won’t take you, I will. You see, Harry will probably be riding tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you help me get ready in the morning and then you can meet everyone there?” Harry’s voice registered nothing but innocence.
This drew peals of laughter from the others, even Brenda Sanburne, who knew enough to realize that getting ready for a fox hunt can be a nerve-racking experience.
“Nice try, Harry.” Fitz-Gilbert toasted in her direction.
“Now my curiosity’s got the better of me. What time do I have to be at your barn?”
Harry twirled her fork. “Seven-thirty.”
“That’s not so bad,” Blair rejoined.
“If you drink enough tonight it will be,” Stafford promised.
“Don’t even mention it.” Fitz-Gilbert put his hand to his forehead.
“I’ll say. You’ve been getting snookered lately. This morning when I woke up, what a sorry face I saw.” Little Marilyn pursed her lips.
“Did you know, Blair, that Virginia is home to more fox-hunting clubs than any other state in the Union? Nineteen in all—two in Albemarle County,” Cabell informed him. “Keswick on the east side and Farmington on the west side.”
“No, I didn’t know that. I guess there are a lot of foxes. What’s the difference between the two clubs here? Why don’t they have just one large club?”
Harry answered, a wicked smile on her face, “Well, you see, Blair, Keswick Hunt Club is old, old, old Virginia money living in old, old, old Virginia homes. Farmington Hunt Club is old, old, old Virginia money that’s subdivided.”
This caused a whoop and a shout. Stafford nearly choked on his dessert.
Once recovered from this barb, the small group discussed New York, the demise of the theater, a topic creating lively debate, since Blair didn’t think theater was pooping out and Brenda did. Blair told some funny modeling stories which were enlivened by his talent for mimicry. Everyone decided the stock market was dismal so they’d wait out the bad times.
After dessert, the women moved over to the window seat in the living room. Brenda liked Harry. Many white people were likable but you couldn’t really trust them. Even though she knew her but slightly, Brenda felt she could trust Harry. In her odd way, the postmistress was color blind. What you saw with Harry was what you got and Brenda truly appreciated that. Whenever a white person said, “I’m not prejudiced myself . . . ,” you knew you were in trouble.
The men retired to the library for brandy and Cuban cigars. Fitz-Gilbert prided himself on the contraband and wouldn’t divulge his source. Once you smoked a Montecristo, well, there was no looking back.
“One day you’ll spill the beans.” Stafford passed the cigar under his nose, thrilling to the beguiling scent of the tobacco.
Cabell laughed. “When hell freezes over. Fitz can keep a secret.”
“The only reason you guys are nice to me is because of my cigars.”
“That and the fact that you were first oar for Andover.” Stafford puffed away.
“You look more like a wrestler than a first oar.” Blair, too, surrendered to the languor the cigar produced.
“I was skinny as a rail when I was a kid.” Fitz patted his small potbelly. “Not anymore.”
“Ever know Binky Colfax when you were at Andover? My class at Yale.”
“Binky Colfax. Valedictorian.” Fitz-Gilbert flipped through his yearbook and handed it to Blair.
“God, it’s a good thing Binky was an academic.” Blair laughed. “You know, he’s in the administration now. An undersecretary in the State Department. When you remember what a wuss the guy was, it makes me fear for our government. I mean, think of it, all those guys we knew at Yale and Harvard and Princeton and . . .”
“Stanford,” Stafford chipped in.
“Do I have to?” Blair asked.
“Uh-huh.” Stafford nodded.
“. . . Stanford. Well, the nerds went into government or research. In ten years’ time those guys will be the bureaucracy serving the guys that will be elected.” Blair shook his head.
“Do you think every generation goes through this? You pick up the paper one day or you watch the six o’clock news and there’s one of the wieners.” Fitz-Gilbert laughed.
“My father—he was Yale ’49—said it used to scare him to death. Then he got used to it,” Blair said.
Cabby chimed in: “Everyone muddles through. Think how I feel. The guys in my class at Dartmouth are starting to retire. Retire? I remember when all we thought about was getting . . .”
He stopped, as his hostess had stuck her head into the library, hand curled around the door frame. “Are you fellows finished yet? I mean, we’ve solved the problems of the world in the last forty-five minutes.”
“Lonesome, honey?” Fitz called to her.
“Oh, an eensie-weensie bit.”
“We’ll be out in a minute.”
“You know, Fitz, I think we must know a lot of people in common since so many of your schoolmates came to Yale. Someday we’ll have to compare notes,” Blair said.
“Yes, I’d like that.” Fitz, distracted by Little Marilyn, wasn’t paying much attention.
“Yale and Princeton. Yeck.” Stafford made a thumbs-down sign.
“And you went to Stanford?” Blair quizzed him.
“Yes. Finance.”
“Ah.” Blair nodded. No wonder Stafford was making so much money as an investment banker, and no wonder Cabell shone smiles upon him. No doubt these two would talk business over the weekend.
“You were smart not to become a lawyer.” Fitz twirled his cigar, the beautiful, understated band announcing MONTECRISTO. “A lawyer is a hired gun, even if it’s tax law. I’ll never know how I passed the bar, I was so bored.”
“There are worse jobs.” Cabell squinted his eyes from the smoke. “You could be a proctologist.”
The men laughed.
The phone rang. Tiffany called out from the kitchen, “Mr. Hamilton.”
“Excuse me.�
�
As Fitz picked up the phone, Stafford, Cabell, and Blair joined the ladies in the living room. In a few minutes Fitz-Gilbert joined them too.
“Has anyone seen or heard from Benjamin Seifert?”
“No. Why?” Little Marilyn asked.
“He didn’t go to work today. That was Cynthia Cooper. She’s spent the evening calling his business associates and family. Now she’s calling friends and acquaintances. I told them you were here, Cabby. They’d like to talk to you.”
Cabell left the room to pick up the phone.
“He’s out of the office as much as he’s in it,” Harry volunteered, now that Ben’s boss was out of earshot.
“I told him just last week to watch his step, but you know Ben.” Fitz pulled up a chair. “He’ll show up and I bet the story will be a doozie.”
Harry opened her mouth but closed it. She wanted to say “What if this has something to do with the vagrant’s murder?” What if Ben was the killer and skipped town? Realizing Little Marilyn’s sensitivity to the topic, she said nothing.
Harry had forgotten all about Ben Seifert when Blair dropped her at her door. He promised he’d be there at seven-thirty in the morning. She opened the door and turned on the lights. Only one came on. She walked over to the debris on the floor, the lamp cord yanked out of the wall.
“Tucker! Mrs. Murphy!”
The two animals giggled under the bed but they stayed put. Harry walked into the bedroom, knelt down and looked under the bed, and beheld two luminous pairs of eyes staring back at her.
“I know you two did this.”
“Prove it,” was all Mrs. Murphy would say, her tail swaying back and forth.
“I had a wonderful time tonight and I’m not going to let you spoil it.”
It was good that Harry had that attitude. Events would spoil things soon enough.
* * *
33
The earth glittered silvery and beige under its cloak of frost. The sun, pale and low in the sky, turned the ground fog into champagne mist. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker curled up in a horse blanket in the tack room and watched Harry groom Tomahawk.
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