“Let’s run over to the graveyard and see if they follow,” Tucker sensibly proposed.
“You know Harry—she’s going to be thorough.” The cat walked out the barn door and Tucker followed.
The two women, accompanied by the animals, walked the limits of the possum’s turf. By the time they swept by the cemetery, both considered that it was possible, just possible, that the earring came from there.
Susan stopped by the iron fence. “How do we know the earring doesn’t belong to Blair? It could have been his girlfriend’s. There could be a woman now that we don’t know about.”
“I’ll ask him.”
“That might not be wise.”
Harry considered that. “Well, I don’t agree but I’ll do it your way.” She paused. “What’s your way?”
“To casually ask our women friends if anyone has lost an earring, and what does it look like?”
“Well, Jesus, Susan, if a woman is the killer or is in on this, that’s going to get—”
Susan held up her hands. “You’re right. You’re right. Next plan. We get into the jewelry boxes of our friends.”
“Easier said than done.”
“But it can be done.”
* * *
41
Frost coated the windowpanes, creating a crystalline kaleidoscope. The lamplight reflected off the silver swirls. Outside it was black as pitch.
Little Marilyn and Fitz-Gilbert, snug in Porthault sheets and a goose-down comforter, studied their Christmas lists.
Little Marilyn checked off Carol Jones’s name.
Fitz looked over her list. “What did you get Carol?”
“This wonderful book of photographs which create a biography of a Montana woman. What a life, and it’s pure serendipity that the old photos were saved.”
Fitz pointed to a name on her list. “Scratch that.”
Little Marilyn, Xeroxing last year’s Christmas list as a guide, had forgotten to remove Ben Seifert’s name. She grimaced.
They returned to their lists and after a bit she interrupted Fitz. “Ben had access to our records.”
“Uh-huh.” Fitz wasn’t exactly paying attention.
“Did you check our investments?”
“Yes.” Fitz remained uninterested.
She jabbed him with her elbow.
“Ow.” He turned toward her. “What?”
“And? Our investments?!”
“First of all, Ben Seifert was a banker, not a stockbroker. There’s little he could have done to our investments. Cabby double-checked our accounts just to make sure. Everything’s okay.”
“You never liked Ben, did you?”
“Did you?” Fitz’s eyebrow rose.
“No.”
“Then why are you asking me what you already know?”
“Well, it’s curious how you get feelings about people. You didn’t like him. I didn’t like him. Yet we were nice to him.”
“We’re nice to everybody.” Fitz thought that was true, although he knew his wife could sometimes be a pale imitation of her imperious mother.
They went back to work on their lists. Little Marilyn interrupted again. “What if it was Ben who ransacked your office?”
Surrendering to the interruption, Fitz put down his list. “Where on earth do you get these ideas?”
“I don’t know. Just popped into my head. But then what would you have that he wanted? Unless he was siphoning off our accounts, but both you and Cabby say all is well.”
“All is well. I don’t know who violated my office. Rick Shaw doesn’t have a clue and since the computer and Xerox machine were unmolested, he’s treating it as an unrelated vandalism. Kid stuff, most likely.”
“Like whoever is knocking over mailboxes with baseball bats in Earlysville?”
“When did that happen?” Fitz’s eyes widened in curiosity.
“Don’t you read the ‘Crime Report’ in the Sunday paper?” He shook his head, so Little Marilyn continued. “For the last six or seven months someone’s been driving around in the late afternoon, smashing up mailboxes with baseball bats.”
“You don’t miss much, do you, honey?” Fitz put his arm around her.
She smiled back. “Once things settle down around here . . .”
“You mean, once they downshift from chaos to a dull roar?”
“Yes . . . let’s go to the Homestead. I need a break from all this. And I need a break from Mother.”
“Amen.”
* * *
42
Weeks passed, and the frenzy of Christmas preparations clouded over the recent bizarre events until they were virtually obscured by holiday cheer. Virginia plunged into winter, skies alternating between steel-gray and brilliant blue. The mountains, moody with the weather, changed colors hourly. The spots of color remaining were the bright-red holly berries and the orange pyracantha berries. Fields lapsed into brown; the less well-cared-for fields waved with bright broomstraw. The ground thawed and froze, thawed and froze, so fox hunting was never a sure thing. Harry called before each scheduled meet.
The post office, awash in tons of mail, provided Harry with a slant on Christmas different from other people’s. Surely the Devil invented the Christmas card. Volume, staggering this year, caused her to call in Mrs. Hogendobber for the entire month of December, and she wangled good pay for her friend too.
So far, Susan had rummaged through BoomBoom’s jewelry, an easy task, since BoomBoom loved showing off her goodies. Harry picked over Miranda’s earrings, not such an easy task, since Miranda kept asking “Why?” and Harry lied by saying that it had to do with Christmas. The result was that she had to buy Miranda a pair of earrings to put under her Christmas tree. Biff McGuire and Pat Harlan found the perfect pair for Mrs. H., large ovals of beaten gold. They were a bit more than Harry could comfortably afford, but what the hell—Miranda had been a port in a storm at the post office. She also splurged and bought Susan a pair of big gold balls. That exhausted her budget except for presents for Mrs. Murphy and Tucker.
Fair and BoomBoom were holding and eroding. She asked Blair to accompany her to a Piedmont Environmental Council meeting under the guise of acquainting him with the area’s progressive people. This she did but she also performed at her best and Blair began to revise somewhat his opinion of BoomBoom, enough, at least, to invite her to a gala fund-raiser in New York City.
Harry and Miranda were up to their knees in Christmas cards when Fair Haristeen pushed open the front door.
“Hi,” Harry called to him. “Fair, we’re behind. I know you’ve got more mail than is in your box but I don’t know when I’ll find it. As you can see, we’re hard pressed.”
“Didn’t come in for that. Morning, Mrs. Hogendobber.”
“Morning, Fair.”
“Guess you know that BoomBoom left this morning for New York. Her Christmas shopping spree.”
“Yes.” Harry didn’t know how much Fair knew, so she kept mum.
“Guess you know, too, that Blair Bainbridge is taking her to the Knickerbocker Christmas Ball at the Waldorf. I hear princes and dukes will be there.”
So he did know. “Sounds very glamorous.”
“Eurotrash,” Mrs. Hogendobber pronounced.
“Miranda, you’ve been reading the tabloids again while you’re in line at the supermarket.”
Mrs. Hogendobber tossed another empty mail bag into the bin, just missing Mrs. Murphy. “What if I have? I have also become an expert on the marriage of Charles and Diana. In case anyone wants to know.” She smiled.
“What I want to know”—Fair spoke to Mrs. Hogendobber—“is what is going on with Blair and BoomBoom.”
“Now, how would I know that?”
“You know BoomBoom.”
“Fair, forgive the pun but this isn’t fair,” Harry interjected.
“I bet you’re just laughing up your sleeve, Harry. I’ve got egg all over my face.”
“You think I’m that vindictive?”
“In a
word, yes.” He spun on his heel and stormed out.
Miranda came up next to Harry. “Overlook it. It will pass. And he does have egg on his face.”
“Lots of yolk, I’d say.” Harry started to giggle.
“Don’t gloat, Mary Minor Haristeen. The Lord doesn’t smile on gloaters. And as I recall, you like Blair Bainbridge.”
That sobered Harry up in a jiffy. “Sure, I like him, but I’m not mooning about over him.”
“Ha!” Tucker snorted.
“You do like him though.” Miranda stuck to her guns.
“Okay, okay, so I like him. Why is it that a single person is an affront to everyone in Crozet? Just because I like my neighbor doesn’t mean I want to go out with him, doesn’t mean I want to go to bed with him, and doesn’t mean I want to marry him. Everyone’s got the cart before the horse. I actually like living alone. I don’t have to pick up Fair’s clothes, I don’t have to wash and iron them, and I don’t have to worry about what to make for supper. I don’t have to pick up the phone at seven and hear that he’s got a foaling mare in trouble and he won’t be home. And I suspect some of those mares were BoomBoom Craycroft. My nightmare. I am not taking care of another man.”
“Now, now, marriage is a fifty-fifty proposition.”
“Oh, balls, Miranda. You show me any marriage in this town and I’ll show you the wives doing seventy-five percent of the work, both physical and emotional. Hell, half of the men around here don’t even mow their lawns. Their wives do it.”
The grain of truth in this outburst caused Miranda to think it over. Once she took a position it was quite difficult for her to reverse it—modify it perhaps, but not reverse. “Well, dear, don’t you think that the men are exhausted from their work?”
“Who’s rich enough to keep a wife that doesn’t work? The women are exhausted too. I’d come home and the housework would land in my lap. He wouldn’t do it, and I think I worked pretty damn hard myself.”
Little Marilyn came in. “Are you two having a fight?”
“No!” Harry yelled at her.
“Christmas.” Miranda smiled as if to explain the tension.
“Take Valium. That’s what Mother does. Her shopping list contains close to three hundred names. You can imagine what a tizz she’s in. Can’t say that I enjoy this either. But you know we have a position to maintain, and we can’t let down the little people.”
That toasted Harry, pushed her right over the edge. “Well, Marilyn, allow me to relieve you and your mother of one little person!” Harry walked out the back door and slammed it hard.
“She never has liked me, even when we were children.” Little Marilyn pouted.
Miranda, inviolate in her social position, spoke directly. “Marilyn, you don’t make it easy.”
“And what do you mean by that?”
“You’ve got your nose so far up in the air that if it rains, you’ll drown. Stop imitating your mother and be yourself. Yes, be yourself. It’s the one thing you can do better than anyone else. You’ll be a lot happier and so will everyone around you.”
This bracing breeze of honesty so stunned the younger woman that she blinked but didn’t move. Mrs. Murphy, hanging out of the mail bin, observed the stricken Little Marilyn.
“Tucker, go on around the counter. Little Marilyn’s either going to faint or pitch a hissy.”
Tucker eagerly snuck around the door, her claws clicking on the wooden floorboards.
Little Marilyn caught her breath. “Mrs. Hogendobber, you have no right to speak to me like that.”
“I have every right. I’m one of the few people who sees beneath your veneer and I’m one of the few people who actually likes you despite all.”
“If this is your idea of friendship I find it most peculiar.” The color returned to Little Marilyn’s narrow face.
“Child, go home and think about it. Who tells you the truth? Who would you call at three in the morning if you were feeling low? Your mother? I think not. Are you doing anything with your life that makes you truly happy? How many bracelets and necklaces and cars can you buy? Do they make you happy? You know, Marilyn, life is like an aircraft carrier. If there’s a mistake in navigation, it takes one mile just to turn the ship around.”
“I am not an aircraft carrier.” Little Marilyn recovered enough to turn and leave.
Miranda slapped letters on the counter. “It’s going to be that kind of day.” She said this to the cat and dog, then realized who she was talking to and shook her head. “What am I doing?”
“Having an intelligent conversation,” Mrs. Murphy purred.
Harry sheepishly opened the back door. “Sorry.”
“I know.” Miranda opened another sack of mail.
“I hate Christmas.”
“Oh, don’t let work get to you.”
“It isn’t just that. I can’t wipe the murders out of my mind and I suppose I am more upset than I realized about Blair taking BoomBoom to that stupid ball. But why would he ask me? I can’t afford to travel to New York and I don’t have anything to wear. I’m not an impressive specimen on a man’s arm. Still . . .” Her voice trailed off. “And I can’t believe Fair can be taken in by that woman.” She paused. “And I miss Mom and Dad the most at Christmas.”
Tucker sat beside Harry’s feet and Mrs. Murphy walked over to her too.
Miranda understood. She, too, lived with her losses. “I’m sorry, Harry. Because you’re young I sometimes think that everything’s wonderful. But I know what it’s like to hear the carols and wish those old familiar voices were singing with us. Nothing is ever quite the same again.” She went over and patted Harry on the back, for Mrs. Hogendobber wasn’t a physically demonstrative woman. “God never closes one door that he doesn’t open another. You try and remember that.”
* * *
43
Resplendent sashes swept across the men’s chests; medals dangled over hearts. Those in military dress caused the women to breathe harder. Such handsome men, such beautiful women laden with jewelry, the aggregate sum of which was more than the gross national product of Bolivia.
BoomBoom’s head spun. Blair, in white tie and tails, squired her around the dance floor, one of the best in America. What was Crozet compared to this? BoomBoom felt she had arrived. If she couldn’t turn Blair’s head, and he was attentive but not physically attracted to her—she could tell—she knew she’d snare someone else before the night surrendered to dawn.
A coral dress accentuated her dark coloring, the lowcut bodice calling attention to her glories. When she and Blair returned to their table after dancing, a college friend of his joined them. After the introductions, Orlando Heguay pulled up a chair.
“How’s life in the boonies?”
“Interesting.”
Orlando smiled at BoomBoom. “If this lovely lady is proof, I should say so.”
BoomBoom smiled back. Her teeth glistened; she’d had them cleaned the day before. “You flatter me.”
“Quite the contrary. My vocabulary fails me.”
Blair smiled indulgently. “Come visit for New Year’s. I might even have furniture by then.”
“Blair, that’s a deal.”
“Orlando, refresh my memory. Were you at Exeter or Andover?”
“Andover. Carlos was Exeter. Mother and Dad thought we should go to separate schools, since we were so competitive. And now we’re in business together. I suppose they were right.”
“And what is your business, Mr. Heguay?”
“Oh, please call me Orlando.” He smiled again. He was a fine-looking man. “Carlos and I own The Atlantic Company. We provide architects and interior designers to various clients, many of whom reside in South America as well as North America. I was the original architect and Carlos was the original interior designer, but now we have a team of fifteen employees.”
“You sound as though you love it,” BoomBoom cooed.
“I do.”
Blair, amused by BoomBoom’s obvious interest—an interest re
flected by Orlando—asked, “Didn’t you go to school with Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton?”
“Year behind me. Poor guy.”
“What do you mean?”
“His parents were killed in a small plane crash one summer. Then he and a buddy were in a car wreck. Messed them up pretty badly. I heard he’d had kind of a breakdown. People were surprised when he made it to Princeton in the fall, ’cause there’d been so much talk about him his senior year. People thought he was definitely on the skids.”
“He lives in Crozet, too . . . seems to be perfectly fine.”
“How about that. Remember Izzy Diamond?”
“I remember that he wanted to make Pen and Scroll so badly at Yale that I thought he’d die if he didn’t. Didn’t make it either.”
“Just got arrested for an investment scam.”
“Izzy Diamond?”
“Yes.” Orlando’s eyebrows darted upward, then he gazed at BoomBoom. “How rude of us to reminisce about college. Mademoiselle, may I have this dance?” He turned to Blair. “You’re going to have to find yourself another girl.”
Blair smiled and waved them off. He felt grateful to BoomBoom for easing his social passage into Central Virginia. In an odd way he liked her, although her need to be the center of attention bored him the more he was around her. Asking her to the Knickerbocker Ball was more of a payback than anything else. He couldn’t have been happier that Orlando found her tremendously attractive. Many of the men there cast admiring glances at BoomBoom. Blair was off women for a while, although he found himself thinking of Harry at the oddest times. He wondered what she’d do at a ball. Not that she’d be awkward but he couldn’t imagine her in a ball gown. Her natural element was boots, jeans, and a shirt. Given Harry’s small rear end, her natural element illuminated her physical charms. She was so practical, so down to earth. Suddenly Blair wished she were with him. Wouldn’t she find some funny things to say about this crowd?
* * *
44
“Who’ll start at fifteen thousand? Do I hear fifteen thousand? Now you can’t buy this new for under thirty-five. Who’ll bid fifteen thousand?”
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