Rest In Pieces

by Rita Mae Brown

Fair hung back at the food table. He noticed the gathering on the floor and brought desserts for everyone, including his ex-wife. Fitz-Gilbert and Little Marilyn joined Mim. Mrs. Hogendobber wouldn’t sit on the floor in her skirt so she grabbed the other wing chair, a soothing mint-green.

  “Miranda.” Big Marilyn speared some omelette. “Your views.”

  “Shall we judge society by its malcontents?”

  “And what do you mean by that?” Big Marilyn demanded before Mrs. Hogendobber could take another breath.

  “I mean Crozet will be in the papers again. Our shortcomings will be trumpeted hither and yon. We’ll be judged by these murders instead of by our good citizens.”

  “That’s not what I was asking.” Mim zeroed in. “Who do you think killed Ben Seifert?”

  “We don’t know that he was murdered yet.” Fitz-Gilbert spoke up.

  “Well, you don’t think he walked up to that tunnel and killed himself, do you? He’d be the last person to commit suicide.”

  “What do you think, Mim?” Susan knew her guest was bursting to give her views.

  “I think when money passes hands it sometimes sticks to fingers. We all know that Ben Seifert and the work ethic were unacquainted with one another. Yet he lived extremely well. Didn’t he?” Heads nodded in agreement. “The only person who would have wanted to kill him is his ex-wife and she’s not that stupid. No, he fiddled in someone’s trust. He was the type.”

  “Mother, that’s a harsh judgment.”

  “I see no need to pussyfoot.”

  “He handled many of our trusts, or at least Allied did, so he knew who had what.” Fitz gobbled a brownie. “But Cabell would have had his hide if he thought for an instant that Ben was dishonest.”

  “Maybe someone’s trust was running out.” Carol Jones thought out loud. “And maybe that person expected a favor from Ben. What if he didn’t deliver?”

  “Or someone caught him with his hand in the till.” The Reverend Jones added his thoughts.

  “I don’t think this has anything to do with Ben and sticky fingers.” Harry crossed her legs underneath her. “Ben’s death is tied to that unidentified body.”

  “Oh, Harry, that’s a stretch.” Fitz reached for his Bloody Mary.

  “It’s a feeling. I can’t explain it.” Harry’s quiet conviction was unsettling.

  “You stick to your feelings. I’ll stick to facts,” Fitz-Gilbert jabbed.

  Fair spoke up, defending Harry. “I used to think that way, too, but life with Harry taught me to listen to, well, feelings.”

  “Well, what do your deeper voices tell you now?” Mim said “deeper” with an impertinent edge.

  “That we don’t know much at all,” Harry said firmly. “That now one of us has been killed and we can’t feel so safe in our sleep anymore because we haven’t one clue, one single idea as to motive. Is this a nut who comes out at the full moon? Is it someone with a grudge finally settling the score? Is this a cover-up for something else? Something we can’t begin to imagine? My deeper voice tells me to keep eyes in the back of my head.”

  That shut up the room for a moment.

  “You’re right.” Herbie placed his plate on the coffee table. “And I am not unconvinced that there may be some satanic element to this. I’ve not spoken of it before because it’s so disturbing. But certain cults do practice ritual killings and how they dispatch their victims is part of the ritual. We have one corpse dismembered, and, well, we don’t know how Ben died.”

  “Do we know how the other fellow died?” Little Marilyn asked.

  “Blow to the head,” Ned Tucker informed them. “Larry Johnson performed the autopsy and I ran into him after that. I don’t believe, Herbie, that satanic cults usually bash in heads.”

  “No, most don’t.”

  “So, we’re back to square one.” Fitz got up for another dessert. “We’re not in danger. I bet you when the authorities examine Ben’s books they’ll find discrepancies, or another set of books.”

  “Even if this is over misallocation of funds, that doesn’t tell us who killed him or who killed that other man,” Susan stated.

  “These murders do have something to do with Satan.” Mrs. Hogendobber’s clear alto voice rang out. “The Devil has sunk his deep claws into someone, and forgive the old expression, but there will be hell to pay.”

  * * *

  35

  Long shadows spilled over the graves of Grace and Cliff Minor. The sun was setting, a golden oracle sending tongues of flame up from the Blue Ridge Mountains. The scarlet streaks climbed heavenward and then changed to gold, golden pink, lavender, deep purple, and finally deep Prussian-blue, Night’s first kiss.

  Harry wrapped her scarf around her neck as she watched the sun’s last shout on this day. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker sat at her feet. The aching melancholy of the sunset ripped through her with needles of sorrow. She mourned the loss of the sun; she wanted to bathe in rivers of light. Each twilight she would suspend her chores for a moment, to trust that the sun would return tomorrow like a new birth. And this evening that same hope tugged but with a sharper pull. The future is ever blind. The sun would rise but would she?

  No one believes she will die; neither her mother nor her father did. Like a game of tag, Death is “it,” and around he chases, touching people who fall to earth. Surely she would get up at dawn; another day would unfold like an opening rose. But hadn’t Ben Seifert believed that also? Losing a parent, wrenching and profound, felt very different to Harry than losing a peer. Benjamin Seifert graduated from Crozet High School one year ahead of Harry. This time Death had tagged someone close to her—at least close in age.

  A terrible loneliness gnawed at Harry. Those tombstones covered the two people who gave her life. She remembered their teachings, she remembered their voices, and she remembered their laughter. Who would remember them when she was gone, and who would hold the memory of her life? Century after century the human race lurched two steps forward and one step back, but always there were good people, funny people, strong people, and their memories washed away with the ages. Kings and queens received a mention in the chronicles, but what about the horse trainers, the farmers, the seamstresses? What about the postmistresses and stagecoach drivers? Who would hold the memory of their lives?

  The loneliness filled her. If she could have, she would have embraced every life and cherished it. As it was, she was struggling on with her own.

  Harry began to fear the coming years. Formerly, time was her ally. Now she wasn’t so sure. If death could snatch you in an instant, then life had better be lived to the fullest. The worst thing would be to go down in the grave without having lived.

  The bite of the night’s air made her fingertips tingle and her toes hurt. She whistled to Tucker and Mrs. Murphy and started back for the house.

  Harry was not by nature an introspective person. She liked to work. She liked to see the results of her work. Deeper thoughts and philosophic worries were for other people. But after today’s jolt Harry turned inward, if only for a brief moment, and was suffused with life’s sadness and harmony.

  * * *

  36

  A terrible rumpus outside awoke Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. Mrs. Murphy ran to the window.

  “It’s Simon and the raccoons.”

  Tucker barked to wake up Harry, because now that it was cold Harry made sure to shut the back door tight, and they couldn’t get out to the screened-in porch. That door was easy to open, so if Harry would just open the back door they could get outside.

  “Go away, Tucker,” Harry groaned.

  “Wake up, Mom. Come on.”

  “Goddammit.” Harry’s feet hit the cold floor. She thought the dog was barking at an animal or had to go to the bathroom. She tramped downstairs and opened the back door and both creatures zoomed out. “Go on out and freeze your asses. I’m not letting you back in.”

  The cat and dog didn’t have time to reply. They streaked toward Simon, backed up against the barn by two masked rac
coons.

  “Beat it!” Tucker barked.

  Mrs. Murphy, fur puffed up to the max, ears flat back, spit and howled, “I’ll rip your eyes out!”

  The raccoons decided they didn’t want to fight, so they waddled off.

  “Thanks,” Simon puffed, his flanks heaving.

  “What was all that about?” Mrs. Murphy asked.

  “Marshmallows. Blair put out marshmallows and I love them. Unfortunately, so do those creeps. They chased me all the way back here.” A trickle of blood oozed from Simon’s pink nose. His left ear was also bleeding.

  “You got the worst of the fight. Why don’t we go up to the loft?” Mrs. Murphy suggested.

  “I’m still hungry. Did Harry put out leftovers?”

  “No. She had a bad day,” Tucker answered. “The humans found another body today.”

  “In pieces?” Simon was curious.

  “No, except that the vultures got at it.” Mrs. Murphy quivered as the wind kicked up. It felt like zero degrees.

  “I’ve always wondered why birds like the eyes. First thing they’ll go for: the eyes and the head.” Simon rubbed his ear, which had begun to sting.

  “Let’s go inside. Come on. It’s vile out here.”

  They wiggled under the big barn doors. Simon paused to pick up bits of grain that Tomahawk and Gin Fizz had dropped. As the horses were sloppy eaters, Simon could enjoy the gleanings.

  “That ought to hold me until tomorrow.” The gray possum sat down and wrapped his pink tail around him. “If you come upstairs it’s warm in the hay.”

  “I can’t climb the ladder,” Tucker whimpered.

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.” Simon rubbed his nose.

  “Let’s go into the tack room. That old, heavy horse blanket is in there, the one Gin Fizz ripped up. The lining is fleecy and we could curl up in that.”

  “It’s hanging over the saddle rack,” Tucker called.

  “So? I’ll push it down.” Mrs. Murphy was already hooking her claws under the door bottom. The door, old and warped, wavered a little and she wedged her paw behind it while Tucker stuck her nose down to see if she could help. In a minute the door squeaked open.

  The cat leapt onto the saddle rack, dug her claws in the blanket, and leaned over with it. She came down with the blanket. The three snuggled next to one another in the fleece.

  When Harry hurried into the barn the next morning she felt guilty for leaving her pets outside. She knew she’d find them in the barn but she was quite surprised to find them curled up with a possum in the tack room. Simon was surprised, too, so surprised that he pretended to be dead.

  Tucker licked Harry’s gloved hands while Mrs. Murphy rubbed against her legs.

  “This little guy’s been in the ring.” Harry noticed Simon’s torn ear and scratched nose.

  “Simon, wake up. We know you’re not dead.” Mrs. Murphy patted his rump.

  Harry reached for a tube of ointment and while Simon squeezed his eyes more tightly shut she rubbed salve on his wounds. He couldn’t stand it. He opened one eye.

  Mrs. Murphy patted his rump again. “See, she’s not so bad. She’s a good human.”

  Simon, who didn’t trust humans, kept silent, but Tucker piped up, “Look grateful, Simon, and maybe she’ll give you some food. Let her pick you up. She’ll love that.”

  Harry petted Simon’s funny little head. “You’ll be all right, fella. You stay here if you want and I’ll do my chores.”

  She left the animals and climbed into the hayloft.

  Simon panicked for a moment. “She won’t steal my treasures, will she? I think I’d better see.” Simon walked out of the tack room and grabbed the lowest ladder rung. He moved quickly. Mrs. Murphy followed. Tucker stayed where she was and looked up. She could hear the hay moving around as Harry prepared to toss it through the holes in the loft floor over the stalls.

  Harry turned around to see Simon and Mrs. Murphy hurrying toward the back. She put down her bale and followed them.

  “You two certainly are chummy.”

  The T-shirt made Harry laugh. Simon’s nest was much improved since Mrs. Murphy had last visited.

  “Shut up, down there,” the owl called out.

  “Shut up, yourself, flatface,” Mrs. Murphy snarled.

  Harry knelt down as Simon darted into his half-cave. He’d brought up some excess yarn Harry had used to braid Tomahawk for opening hunt. He also had shredded the sweet feed bag and brought it up in strips. Simon’s nest was now very cozy and the T-shirt had been lovingly placed over his homemade insulation. One ballpoint pen, two pennies, and the tassled end of an old longe line were artfully arranged in one corner.

  “This is quite a house.” Harry admired the possum’s work.

  A shiny glint caught Mrs. Murphy’s sharp eye. “What’s that?”

  “Found it over at Foxden.”

  “I didn’t think possums were pack rats.” Harry smiled at the display.

  “I operate on the principle that it is better to have something and not need it than need it and not have it. I am not a pack rat,” Simon stated with dignity.

  “Where at Foxden did you find this?” Mrs. Murphy reached out and grabbed the shiny object. As she drew it toward her she saw that it was a misshapen earring.

  “I like pretty things.” Simon watched with apprehension as Harry took the earring from her cat. “I found it on the old logging road in the woods—out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Gold.” Harry placed the earring in her palm. It seemed to her that she had seen this earring before. It was clearly expensive. She couldn’t make out the goldstamp, as it appeared the earring had been run over or stepped on. She was able to make out the T-I-F of TIFFANY. She turned the earring over and over.

  “She’s going to give it back to me, isn’t she?” Simon nervously asked. “I mean, she isn’t a thief, is she?”

  “No, she’s not a thief, but if you found it over at Foxden she ought to take it. It might be a clue.”

  “Who cares? Humans kill one another all the time. You catch one, and somebody else starts killing.”

  “It’s not as bad as that.”

  The owl called out again, “Keep it down!”

  Harry loved the sound of an owl hooting but she detected the crabby note. She placed the earring back in Simon’s nest. “Well, kiddo, it looks like you’re part of the family. I’ll set out the scraps.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Simon, visibly relieved, stuck his nose out of his nest and regarded Harry with his bright eyes. Then he spoke to Mrs. Murphy. “I’m glad she’s not going to kill me.”

  “Harry doesn’t kill animals.”

  “She goes fox hunting,” came the stout reply.

  As Harry returned to dropping the hay down to the horses, the cat and the possum discussed this.

  “Simon, they only kill the old foxes or the sick ones. Healthy ones are too smart to get caught.”

  “What about that fox last year that ran into Posy Dent’s garage? He was young.”

  “And that exception proves the rule. He was dumb.” Mrs. Murphy laughed. “I feel about foxes the way you feel about raccoons. Well, Harry’s going back down, so I’ll follow her. Now that she knows where you live she’ll probably want to talk to you. She’s like that, so try and be nice to her. She’s a good egg. She put stuff on your scratches.”

  Simon thought about it. “I’ll try.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Murphy scampered down the ladder.

  As she and Tucker trotted back to the house for breakfast the cat told the dog about the earring. The more they talked, the more questions they raised. Neither animal was sure the earring was important to the case but if Simon found it in a suspicious place, its value couldn’t be overlooked. All this time they’d assumed the killer was a man but it could be a woman. The body was cut up and stashed in different places. The parts weren’t heavy by themselves. As to dragging Ben Seifert into the tunnel, that would be hard, but maybe the two deat
hs weren’t connected.

  Mrs. Murphy stopped. “Tucker, maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree. Maybe the killer is a man but he’s killing for a woman.”

  “Getting rid of competitors?”

  “Could be. Or maybe she’s directing him—maybe she’s the brains behind the brawn. I wish we could get Mom to see how important that earring is, but she doesn’t know where it came from and we can’t tell her.”

  “Murphy, what if we took it from Simon and put it where he found it?”

  “Even if he’d part with it, how are we going to get her over there?”

  Inside now, they waited for their breakfasts.

  Tucker thought of something: “What if a man is killing for a woman, killing to keep her? What if he knows something she doesn’t?”

  Mrs. Murphy leaned her head on Tucker’s shoulder for a moment. “I hope we can find out, because I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  * * *

  37

  Not only had Larry Johnson taken the precaution of sending tissue samples to Richmond, he wisely kept the head of the unidentified corpse rather than turning it over to the sheriff. After contacting a forensics expert, the elderly doctor sent the head to a reconstruction team in Washington, D.C. Since Crozet did not have a potter’s field, a burial ground for the indigent, the Reverend Jones secured a burial plot in a commercial cemetery on Route 29 in Charlottesville. When he asked his congregation for contributions they were forthcoming, and to his pleasant surprise, the Sanburnes, the Hamiltons, and Blair Bainbridge made up the balance. So the unknown man was put to rest under a nameless but numbered brass marker.

  Larry never dreamed he would have a second corpse on his hands. Ben’s family arranged for interment in the Seifert vault, but Cabell Hall handled all the funeral details, which was a tremendous help to the distraught couple. Larry’s examination determined that Ben had been strangled with a rope and that death had occurred approximately three days before discovery. The temperature fluctuated so much between day and night, he felt he could not pinpoint the exact time of death based on the condition of the corpse. Also, the animal damage added to the difficulty. Larry insisted on sparing Ben’s mother and father the ordeal of identifying the corpse. He knew Ben; that was identification enough. For once, Rick Shaw agreed with him and relented.