Rest In Pieces

by Rita Mae Brown

  “You’re it.” Mrs. Murphy jumped over Tucker, who leapt up and chased her.

  “Stay on the ground. It’s not fair if you go to the second story.” Tucker made up the rules as she ran.

  “Says who?” Mrs. Murphy arced upward, landing on the counter.

  Mrs. Hogendobber barely noticed the two animals, a sign that she had become accustomed to their antics.

  “One more day of this, Harry. There’s a bit of aftermath, as you well know, but the worst will be over tomorrow and then we can take off Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.”

  Harry, sorting out mail as fast as she could, replied, “Miranda, I barely recover from one Christmas before the next one is on the way.”

  Reverend Jones, Little Marilyn, and Fitz-Gilbert pushed through the door in a group, Market on their heels. Everyone plucked the offending postcards out of their boxes.

  Mrs. Hogendobber headed off their protests. “We got them too. The sheriff knows all about it, and face it, we had to deliver them. We’d violate a federal law if we withheld your mail.”

  “Maybe we wouldn’t mind so much if he were literate,” Fitz joked.

  “Christmas is almost upon us. Let’s concentrate on the meaning of that,” Herb counseled.

  Pewter scratched at the front door. While the humans talked, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker told Pewter about Simon and the earring.

  As if on cue, Little Marilyn reached into her pocket and pulled out the undamaged Tiffany earring. “See.”

  Harry placed the damaged earring next to the shiny gold one. “A pair. Well, so much for a Tiffany earring. It was the only way I was going to get one.”

  “Put not thy faith in worldly goods.” The Reverend smiled. “Those are pretty worldly goods, though.”

  Fitz poked at the bent-up earring. “Honey, where did you lose this? They were your Valentine’s present last year.”

  “Now, Fitz, I didn’t want to upset you. I was hoping I’d find it and then you’d—”

  “Never know.” He shook his head. “Marilyn, you’d lose your head if it weren’t fastened to your shoulders.” After he said this he wished he could have retracted it, considering the Halloween horror. His wife didn’t seem to notice.

  “I don’t know where I lost it.”

  “When’s the last time you remember wearing them?” Miranda asked the logical question.

  “The day before the hard rains—oh, October, I guess. I wore my magenta cashmere sweater, played tennis over at the club, changed there, and when I got back into the car I couldn’t find one earring when I got home.”

  “Maybe it popped off when you pulled your sweater over your head. Mine do that sometimes,” Harry mentioned.

  “Well, I did take my sweater off in the car and I had a load of dry cleaning on the front seat. If the earring flew off, it might have landed in the clothing and I wouldn’t have heard that tinkle, like when metal hits the ground.”

  “Which car were you in, honey?” Fitz asked.

  “The Range Rover. Well, it doesn’t matter. I thank you for finding this, Harry. I wonder if Tiffany’s can repair it. Did you really find it in a possum’s nest?”

  “I did.” Harry nodded.

  “What are you doing ransacking possums’ nests?” Fitz pinched Harry’s elbow.

  “I have this little guy who lives with me.”

  “You found my earring on your property?” Little Marilyn was astonished. “I was nowhere near your property.”

  “I found it but who knows where the possum found it? Maybe he’s a member of Farmington Country Club.”

  This made everyone laugh, and after more chatter they left and the next wave of people came in, also upset when they pulled the “Don’t stick your nose where it don’t belong” postcards out of their boxes.

  The animals observed the human reactions. Pewter washed behind her ears and asked Mrs. Murphy again, “You believe that earring is connected to the first murder?”

  “I don’t know. I only know it’s very peculiar. I keep hoping someone will find the teeth. That would be a big help. If the earring was dropped, what about the teeth?”

  “Since those would identify the first victim, you can bet the killer got rid of the teeth,” Tucker said.

  “Once the snow melts, let’s go back to the graveyard. Can’t hurt to look.”

  “I want to come.” Pewter pouted.

  “You’d be a big help,” Mrs. Murphy flattered her, “but I don’t see how we can get Mother to bring you out. You can do one thing, though.”

  “What?” Pewter’s eyes enlarged, as did her chest. She was puffing up like a broody hen.

  “Pay attention to each human who comes to the store. Let me know if anyone seems stressed.”

  “Half of Crozet,” Pewter grumbled but then she brightened. “I’ll do my best.”

  Tucker cocked her head and stared at her friend. “What’s wrong, Murphy?”

  “What’s wrong is the postcard. It’s kind of smartass. I mean, if it is from the killer, which we don’t know, but if it is, it’s also a warning. It means, to me, that maybe this person thinks someone just might get too close.”

  * * *

  50

  Using the Sheaffer pen that had once been his father’s, Cabell wrote his wife a note. The black ink scrawled boldly across the pale-blue paper.

  My Dearest Florence,

  Please forgive me. I’ve got to get away to sort out my thoughts. I’ve closed my personal checking account. Yours remains intact, as does our joint account and the investments. There’s plenty of money, so don’t worry.

  I’ll leave the car at the bank parking lot behind the downtown mall. Please don’t call Rick Shaw. And don’t worry about me.

  Love,

  Cabell

  Taxi did just that. The letter was propped up against the coffee machine. She read it and reread it. In all the years she had known her husband, he had never done anything as drastic as this.

  She dialed Miranda Hogendobber. She’d been friends with Miranda since kindergarten. It was seven-thirty in the morning.

  “Miranda.”

  Mrs. H. heard the strain in her friend’s voice immediately. “Florence, what’s the matter?”

  “Cabell has left me.”

  “What!”

  “I said that wrong. Here. Let me read you the letter.” As she finished, Florence sobbed, “He must be suffering some kind of breakdown.”

  “Well, you’ve got to call the sheriff.”

  “He forbids me to do that.” Florence cried harder.

  “He’s wrong. If you don’t call him I will.”

  By the time Rick and Cynthia arrived at the beautiful Hall residence, Miranda had been there for a half hour. Sitting next to her friend, she supplied support during the questioning.

  Rick, who liked Taxi Hall, smoked half a pack of cigarettes while he gently asked questions. Cynthia prudently refrained from smoking, or the room would have been filled with blue fog.

  “You said he’s been preoccupied, withdrawn.”

  Taxi nodded, and Rick continued. “Was there any one subject that would set him off?”

  “He was terribly upset about Ben Seifert. He calmed down once the books were audited but I know it still bothered him. Ben was his protégé.”

  “Was there resentment at the bank over Ben’s being groomed to succeed your husband?”

  She folded her arms across her chest and thought about this. “There’s always grumbling but not enough for murder.”

  “Did your husband ever specifically name anyone?”

  “He mentioned that Marion Molnar couldn’t stand Ben but she managed to work with him. Really, the politics of the bank are pretty benign.”

  Rick took a deep breath. “Have you any reason to suspect that your husband is seeing another woman?”

  “Is that necessary?” Miranda bellowed.

  “Under the circumstances, yes, it is.” Rick softened his voice.

  “I protest. I protest most vigorously. Can’
t you see she’s worried sick?”

  Taxi patted Miranda’s hand. “It’s all right, Miranda. Everything must be considered. To the best of my knowledge Cabell is not involved with another woman. If you knew Cabby like I do, you’d know he’d much rather play golf than make love.”

  Rick smiled weakly. “Thank you, Mrs. Hall. We will put out an all-points alert. We’ll fax photos of Cabby to other police and sheriff’s departments. And the first time he uses a credit card we’ll know. Try to relax and know that we are doing everything we can.”

  Outside the door Rick dropped a cigarette, which sizzled in the snow.

  Cooper observed the snow melting around the hot tip. “Well, looks like we know who killed Ben Seifert. Why else would he run?”

  “Goddammit, we’re going to find out.” He stepped on the extinguished cigarette. “Coop, nothing makes sense. Nothing!”

  * * *

  51

  Harry wondered where Mrs. Hogendobber was, for she was scrupulously punctual. Being a half hour late was quite out of line. The mail bags clogged the post office and Harry was falling behind. If it had been any time other than Christmas, Harry would have left her post and gone to Miranda’s house. As it was, she called around. No one had seen Mrs. Hogendobber.

  When the back door opened relief flooded through Harry. Those emotional waters instantly dried up when Mrs. Hogendobber told her the news.

  Within fifteen minutes of Miranda’s arrival—half an hour before the doors opened to the public—Rick Shaw knocked on the back door.

  He walked through the mail bags and up to the counter, glanced at the composite picture of the reconstructed head. “Lot of good that’s done. Not a peep! Not a clue! Nada!” He slammed his hand on the counter, causing Mrs. Murphy to jump and Tucker to bark.

  “Hush, Tucker,” Harry advised the dog.

  Rick opened his notebook. “Mrs. Hogendobber, I wanted to ask you a few questions. No need to cause Mrs. Hall further upset.”

  “I’m glad to help.”

  Rick looked at Harry. “You might as well stay. She’ll tell you everything anyway, the minute I leave.” He poised his pencil. “Have you noticed anything unusual in Cabell Hall’s behavior?”

  “No. I think he’s exhausted, but he hasn’t been irritable or anything.”

  “Have you noticed a strain in the marriage?”

  “See here, Rick, you know perfectly well that Florence and Cabby have a wonderful marriage. Now this line of questioning has got to stop.”

  Rick flipped shut his notebook, irritation, frustration, and exhaustion dragging down his features. He looked old this morning. “Dammit, Miranda, I’m doing all I can!” He caught himself. “I’m sorry. I’m tired. I haven’t even bought one Christmas present for my wife or my kids.”

  “Come on, sit down.” Harry directed the worn-out man to a little table in the back. “We’ve got Miranda’s coffee and some Hotcakes muffins.”

  He hesitated, then pulled up a chair. Mrs. Hogendobber poured him coffee with cream and two sugars. A few sips restored him somewhat. “I don’t want to be rude but I have to examine all the angles. You know that.”

  “Yeah, we do.”

  Rick said, “Well, you tell me how one partner in a marriage knows what the other’s doing if she’s asleep.”

  Miranda downed a cup of coffee herself. “You don’t. My George could have driven to Richmond and back, I’m such a sound sleeper, but well, you know things about your mate and about other people. Cabell was faithful to Taxi. His disappearance has nothing to do with an affair. And how do we know he wrote that letter voluntarily?”

  “We don’t,” Rick agreed. A long silence followed.

  “I have a confession to make.” Harry swallowed and told Rick about the misshapen earring.

  “Harry, I could wring your neck! I’m out of here.”

  “Where are you going?” Harry innocently asked.

  “Where do you think I’m going, nitwit? To Little Marilyn’s. I hope I get there before she mails off that earring to New York. If you ever pull a stunt like this again I’ll have your hide—your hide! Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” came the meek voice.

  Rick charged out of the post office.

  “Oh, boy, I’m in the shit can,” Harry half-whispered.

  Rick opened the door and yelled at both of them, “Almost forgot. Don’t open any strange Christmas presents.” He slammed the door again.

  “Just what does that mean?” Mrs. Hogendobber kicked a bag of mail. She regretted that the instant she did it, because there was so much mail in the bag.

  “Guess he’s afraid presents will be booby-trapped or something.”

  “Don’t worry. We can sniff them first,” Tucker advised.

  Harry interpreted the soft bark to mean that Tucker wanted to go outside. She opened the back door but the dog sat down and wouldn’t budge.

  “What gets into her?” Harry wondered.

  “She’s trained you,” Mrs. Hogendobber replied.

  “You guys are dumb,” Tucker grumbled.

  “There goes our expedition,” Mrs. Murphy said to her friend. “Look.”

  Tucker saw the storm clouds rolling in from the mountains.

  Harry pulled a mail bag over to the back of the boxes. She started to sort and then paused. “It’s hard to concentrate.”

  “I know but let’s do our best.” Miranda glanced at the old wooden wall clock. “Folks will be here in about fifteen minutes. Maybe someone will have an idea about all this . . . crazy stuff.”

  As the day wore on, people trooped in and out of the post office but no one had any new ideas, any suspects. It took until noon for the news of Cabell’s vanishing act to make the rounds. A few people thought he was the killer but others guessed he was having a nervous breakdown. Even the falling snow and the prospect of a white Christmas, a rarity in Central Virginia, couldn’t lift spirits. The worm of fear gnawed at people’s nerve endings.

  * * *

  52

  Christmas Eve morning dawned silver gray. The snow danced down, covering bushes, buildings, and cars, which were already blurred into soft, fantastic shapes. The radio stations interrupted their broadcasts for weather bulletins and then returned to “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” A fantastic sense of quiet enshrouded everything.

  When Harry turned out Tomahawk and Gin Fizz, the horses stood for a long time, staring at the snowfall. Then old Gin kicked up her heels and romped through the snow like a filly.

  Chores followed. Harry picked up Tucker while Mrs. Murphy reclined around her neck. She waded through the snow. A snow shovel leaned against the back porch door. Harry put the animals, protesting, into the house and then turned to the odious task of shoveling. If she waited until the snow stopped she’d heave twice as much snow. Better to shovel at intervals than to tackle it later, because the weather report promised another two feet. The path to the barn seemed a mile long. In actuality it was about one hundred yards.

  “Let me out. Let me out,” Tucker yapped.

  Mrs. Murphy sat in the kitchen window. “Come on, Mom, we can take the cold.”

  Harry relented and they scampered out onto the path she had cleared. When they tried to go beyond that, the results were comical. Mrs. Murphy would sink in way over her depth and then leap up and forward with a little cap of snow on her striped head. Tucker charged ahead like a snowplow. She soon tired of that and decided to stay behind Harry. The snow, shoveled and packed, crunched under her pads.

  Mrs. Murphy, shooting upward, called out, “Wiener, wiener! Tucker is a wiener!”

  “You think you’re so hot,” Tucker grumbled.

  Now the tiger cat turned somersaults, throwing up clots of snow. She’d bat at the little balls, then chase them. Leaping upward, she tossed them up between her paws. Her energy fatigued Tucker while making Harry laugh.

  “Yahoo!” Mrs. Murphy called out, the sheer joy of the moment intoxicating.

  “Miss Puss, you ought to be in the ci
rcus.” Harry threw a little snowball up in the air for her to catch.

  “Yeah, the freak show,” Tucker growled. She hated to be outdone.

  * * *

  * * *

  Simon appeared, peeping under the barn door. “You all are noisy today.”

  Harry, bent over her shovel, did not yet notice the bright eyes and the pink nose sticking out from under the door. As it was, she was only halfway to her goal, and the snow was getting heavier and heavier.

  “No work today.” Mrs. Murphy landed head-deep in the snow after another gravity-defying leap.

  “Think Harry will make Christmas cookies or pour syrup in the snow?” Simon wondered. “Mrs. MacGregor was the best about the syrup, you know.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Tucker yelled from behind Harry, “but she got you a Christmas present. Bet she brings it out tomorrow morning, along with the presents for the horses.”

  “Those horses are so stupid. Think they’ll even notice?” Simon criticized the grazing animals. He nourished similar prejudices against cattle and sheep. “What’d she get me?”

  “Can’t tell. That’s cheating.” Mrs. Murphy decided to sit in the snow for a moment to catch her breath.

  “Where are you, Murph?” Tucker always became anxious if she couldn’t see her best friend and constant tormentor.

  “Hiding.”

  “She’s off to your left, Tucker, and I bet she’s going to bust through the snow and scare you,” Simon warned.

  Too late, because Mrs. Murphy did just that and both Tucker and Harry jumped.

  “Gotcha!” The cat swirled and shot out of the path again.

  “That girl’s getting mental,” Tucker told Harry, who wasn’t listening.

  Harry finally noticed Simon. “Merry Christmas Eve, little fellow.”

  Simon ducked away, then stuck his head out again. “Uh, Merry Christmas, Harry.” He then said to Mrs. Murphy, who made it to the barn door, “It unnerves me talking to humans. But it makes her so happy.”