A deep rumble alerted Simon. “See you, Murphy.” He hurried back down the aisle, up the ladder, and across the loft to his nest. Murphy, curious, stuck her head out of the barn door. A shiny new Ford Explorer, metallic hunter-green with an accent stripe and, better yet, a snow blade on the front, pulled into the driveway. A neat path had been cleared.
Blair Bainbridge opened his window. “Hey, Harry, out of the way. I’ll do that.”
Before she could reply, he quickly plowed a walkway to the barn.
He cut the motor and stepped out. “Nifty, huh?”
“It’s beautiful.” Harry rubbed her hand over the hood, which was ornamented with a galloping horse. Very expensive.
“It’s beautiful and it’s your chariot for the day with me as your driver. I know you don’t have four-wheel drive and I bet you’ve got presents to deliver, so go get them and let’s do it.”
Harry, Mrs. Murphy, and Tucker spent the rest of the morning dropping off presents for Susan Tucker and her family, Mrs. Hogendobber, Reverend Jones and Carol, Market and Pewter, and finally Cynthia Cooper. Harry was gratified to discover they all had gifts for her too. Every year the friends exchanged gifts and every year Harry was surprised that they remembered her.
Christmas agreed with Blair. He enjoyed the music, the decorations, the anticipation on children’s faces. By tacit agreement Cabell would not be discussed until after Christmas. So as Blair accompanied Harry, the cat, and the dog into various houses, people marveled at the white Christmas, and at the holiday bow tied on Tucker’s collar, compliments of Susan. Eggnog would be offered, whiskey sours, tea, and coffee. Cookies would be passed around in the shapes of trees and bells and angels, covered with red or green sparkles. This Christmas there were as many fruitcakes as Claxton, Georgia, could produce, plus the homemade variety drowning in rum. Cold turkey for sandwiches, cornbread, cranberry sauce, sweet potato pie, and mince pie would be safely stowed in Tupperware containers and given to Harry, since her culinary deficiencies were well known to her friends.
After dropping off Cynthia’s present, they would drive through the snow to the SPCA, for Harry always left gifts there. The sheriff’s office was gorged with presents but not for Rick or Cynthia. These were “suspicious” gifts. Cynthia was grateful for her nonsuspicious one.
Blair remarked, “You’re a lucky woman, Harry.”
“Why?”
“Because you have true friends. And not just because the back of the car is crammed with gifts.” He slowed. “Is this the turn?”
“Yes. The hill’s not much of a grade but in this weather nothing is easy.”
They motored up the hill and took a right down the little lane leading to the SPCA. Fair’s truck was parked there.
“Still want to go in?”
“Sure.” She ignored the implication. “The doors are probably locked anyway.”
Together they unloaded cases of cat and dog food. As they carted their burden to the door, Fair opened it and they stepped inside.
“Merry Christmas.” He gave Harry a kiss on the cheek.
“Merry Christmas.” She returned it.
“Where is everybody?” Blair inquired.
“Oh, they go home early on Christmas Eve. I stopped by to check a dog hit by a car. He didn’t make it.” Harry knew that Fair never could get used to losing an animal. Although he was an equine vet, he, like other veterinarians, donated his services to the SPCA. Every Christmas during their marriage, Harry brought food, so Fair naturally took those days to work at the shelter.
“Sorry.” Harry meant it.
“Come here and look.” He led them over to a carton. Inside were two little kittens. One was gray with a white bib and white paws and the other was a dark calico. The poor creatures were crying piteously. “Some jerk left them here. They were pretty cold and hungry by the time I arrived. I think they’ll make it, though. I checked them over and gave them their shots, first series. No mites, which is a miracle, and no fleas. Too cold for that. Scared to death, of course.”
“Will you fill out the paperwork?” Harry asked Fair.
“Sure.”
She reached into the carton and picked up a kitten in each hand. Then she put them into Blair’s arms. “Blair, this is the only love that money can buy. I can’t think of anything I’d rather give you for Christmas.”
The gray kitten had already closed her eyes and was purring. The calico, not yet won over, examined Blair’s face.
“Say yes.” Fair had his pen poised over the SPCA adoption forms. If he was surprised by Harry’s gesture, he wasn’t saying so.
“Yes.” He smiled. “Now what am I going to call these companions?”
“Christmas names?” Fair suggested.
“Well, I guess I could call the gray one Noel, and the calico Jingle Bells. I’m not very good at naming things.”
“That’s perfect.” Harry beamed.
On the way home Harry held the carton on her lap. The kittens fell asleep. Mrs. Murphy poked her head over the side and made an ungenerous comment. She soon went to sleep herself. The cat had eaten turkey at every stop. She must have gobbled up half a bird all totaled.
Tucker took advantage of Mrs. Murphy’s food-induced slumber to give Blair the full benefit of her many opinions. “A dog is more useful, Blair. You really ought to get a dog that can protect you and keep rats out of the barn too. After all, we’re loyal and good-natured and easy to keep. You can housebreak a corgi puppy in a week or two,” she lied.
Blair patted her head. Tucker chattered some more until she, too, fell asleep.
Harry could recall less stressful Christmases than this one. Christmases filled with youth and promise, parties and laughter, but she could not remember giving a gift that made her so blissfully happy.
* * *
53
Highly potent catnip sent Mrs. Murphy into orbit. Special dog chewies pleased Tucker. She also received a new collar with corgis embroidered on it. Simon liked his little quilt, which Harry had placed outside his nest. It was a small dog blanket she had bought at the pet store. The horses enjoyed their carrots, apples, and molasses treats. Gin Fizz received a new turn-out blanket and Tomahawk got a new back-saver saddle pad.
After chores Harry opened her presents. Susan gave her a gift certificate to Dominion Saddlery. If Harry added some money to it she might be able to afford a new pair of much needed boots. When she opened Mrs. Hogendobber’s present she knew she would be able to afford them, because Mrs. H. had also given her a certificate. Susan and Miranda had obviously put their heads together on this one and Harry felt a surge of affection wash over her. Herbie and Carol Jones gave her a gorgeous pair of formal deerskin gloves, also for hunting. Harry kept rubbing them between her fingers; the buttery texture felt cool and soft. Market had wrapped up a knuckle bone for Tucker, more turkey for Mrs. Murphy, and a tin of shortbread cookies for Harry. Cynthia Cooper’s present was a surprise, a facial at an upscale salon in Barracks Road Shopping Center.
No sooner had she opened her packages than the phone rang. Miranda, another early riser, loved her earrings. She also promised Harry she’d bring all the food gifts she’d received to work so that whoever came to the post office could help themselves, thereby removing the temptation from Mrs. Hogendobber’s lips. Hanging up the phone, Harry realized that she and Miranda would wipe out the food before anyone walked through the door.
As the day progressed the sun appeared. The icicles sparkled and the surface of the snow at times shone like a rainbow, the little crystals reflecting red, yellow, blue, and purple highlights. The Blue Ridge Mountains loomed baby-blue. Wind devils picked up snow in the meadows and swirled it around.
More friends called, including Blair Bainbridge, who said he’d never had so much fun in his life as he did watching the kittens. He said he’d take her to work tomorrow and promised to give her a Christmas present before tomorrow night. He enjoyed being mysterious about it.
Then Susan called. She also loved her ear
rings. Harry spent too much money on her, but that’s what friends were for. The noise in the background tried Susan’s patience. She gave up and said she’d see Harry tomorrow. She, Ned, and the kids were going outside to make syrup candy in the snow.
Harry thought that was a great idea, and armed with a tin of Vermont maple syrup, she plunged into the snow, now mid-thigh in depth. Mrs. Murphy shot down the path to the barn, covered from yesterday’s snow but at least not over her head.
“Simon,” the cat called out, “syrup in the snow.”
The possum slid down the ladder. He hurried outside the barn and then stopped.
“Come on, Simon. It’s okay,” Tucker encouraged him.
Emboldened by the smell and halfway trusting Harry, the gray creature followed in Mrs. Murphy’s footsteps. He sat near Harry and when she poured out the syrup he gleefully leapt toward it with such intensity that Harry took a step backward.
Watching him greedily eat the frozen syrup reminded Harry that life ought to be a feast of the senses. Living with the mountains and the meadows, the forest and the streams, Harry knew she could never leave this place, because the country nourished her senses. City people drew their energy from one another. Country people drew their energy, like Antaeus, from the earth herself. Small wonder that the two types of humans could not understand each other. This deep need for solitude, hard physical labor, and the cycle of the seasons removed Harry from the opportunity for material success. She’d never grace the cover of Vogue or People. She’d never be famous. Apart from her friends no one would even know she existed. Life would be a struggle to make ends meet and the older she got the harsher the struggle. She knew that. She accepted it. Standing in the snow, surrounded by the angelic tranquillity, guarded by the old mountains of the New World, watching Simon eat his syrup, cat and dog next to her, she was grateful that she knew where she belonged. Let others make a shout in the world and draw attention to themselves. She regarded them as conscripts of civilization. Her life was a silent rebuke to the grabbing and the getting, the buying and the selling, the greediness and lust for power that she felt infected her nation. Americans died in sordid martyrdom to money. Indeed, they were dying for it in Crozet.
She poured out more syrup into the snow, watching it form lacy shapes, and wished she had heated chocolate squares and mixed the two together. She reached down and scooped up a graceful tendril of hard syrup. It tasted delicious. She poured more for Simon and thought that Jesus was wise in being born in a stable.
* * *
54
“We need a pitchfork.” Harry, using her broom, jabbed at the mail on the floor. “I don’t remember there being this much late mail last year.”
“That’s how the mind protects itself—it forgets what’s unpleasant.” Mrs. Hogendobber was wearing her new earrings, which were very becoming. The radio crackled; Miranda walked over, tuned it, and turned up the volume. “Did you hear that?”
“No.” Harry pushed the mail-order catalogues across the floor with her broom. Tucker chased the broom.
“Another storm to hit tomorrow. My lands, three snowstorms within—what’s it been—ten days? I don’t ever recall that. Well now, maybe I do. During the war we had a horrendous winter—’44, I think, or was it ’45?” She sighed. “Too many memories. My brain needs to find more room.”
Mim, swathed in chinchilla, swept through the front door. A gust of wind blew in snow around her feet. “How was it?” She referred to Christmas.
“Wonderful. The service at the church, well, those children in the choir outshone themselves.” Miranda glowed.
“And you, out there all alone?” Mim stamped the snow from her feet as she addressed Harry.
“Good. It was a good Christmas. My best friends gave me certificates to Dominion Saddlery.”
“Oh.” Mim’s eyebrows shot upward. “Nice friends.”
Mrs. Hogendobber tilted her head, earrings catching the light. “How about these goodies? Harry gave them to me.”
“Very nice.” Mim appraised them. “Well, Jim gave me a week at the Greenbrier. Guess I’ll take it in February, the longest month of the year,” she joked. “My daughter framed an old photo of my mother, and she gave me season’s tickets to the Virginia Theater. Fitz gave me an auto emergency kit and a Fuzzbuster.” She smiled. “A Fuzzbuster, can you imagine? He said I need it.” Her face changed. “And someone gave me a dead rat.”
“No.” Mrs. Hogendobber stopped sorting mail.
“Yes. I am just plain sick of all this. I sat up last night by myself in Mother’s old sewing room, the room I made my reading room. I’ve gone over everything so many times I’m dizzy. A man is killed. We don’t know him or anything about him other than that he was a vagrant or a vagabond. Correct?”
“Correct.”
Mim continued: “Then Benjamin Seifert is strangled and dumped in Crozet’s first tunnel. I even thought about the supposed treasure in the tunnels, but that’s too far-fetched.” She was referring to the legend that Claudius Crozet had buried in the tunnels the wealth he received from his Russian captor. The young engineer, an officer in Napoleon’s army, was seized during the horrendous retreat from Moscow and taken to the estate of a fabulously wealthy aristocrat. So useful was the personable engineer, building many devices for the Russian, that when prisoners were finally freed, he bestowed upon Crozet jewels, gold, and rubies. Or so they said.
Harry spoke. “And now Cabell has . . .” She clicked her fingers in the air to indicate disappearance.
Mim waved a dismissive hand. “Two members of the same bank. Suspicious. Maybe even obvious. What isn’t so obvious is why am I a target? First the”—she grimaced—“torso in the boathouse. Followed by the head in the pumpkin when my husband was judging. And then the rat. Why me? I can’t think of any reason why, other than petty spite and envy, but people aren’t killed for that.”
Harry weighed her words. “Did Ben or Cabell have access to your accounts?”
“Certainly not, even though Cabell is a dear friend. No check goes out without my signature. And of course I studied my accounts. As a precaution I’m having my accountant audit my own books. And then”—she threw up her hands—“that earring. Well, Sheriff Shaw acted as though my daughter was a criminal. Forgive me, Harry, but a possum with an earring doesn’t add up to evidence.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Harry concurred.
“So . . . why me?”
“Maybe you should review your will.” Miranda was blunt.
This knocked Mim back. But she didn’t lash out. She thought about it. “You don’t mince words, do you?”
“Mim, if you think this is somehow directed at you, then you may be in danger,” Mrs. Hogendobber counseled. “What would someone want of you? Money. Do you own land impeding a developer? Are you in the way of anything that converts to profit? Do you have business ventures we don’t know about? Is your daughter your sole beneficiary?”
“When Marilyn married I settled a small sum upon her as a dowry and to help them with their house. She will, of course, inherit our house and the land when Jim and I die and I’ve created a trust that jumps a generation, so most of the money will go to her children should she have them. If not, then it will go to her and she’ll have to pay oodles of taxes. My daughter isn’t going to kill me for money, and she wouldn’t bother with a banker.” Mim was forthright.
“What about Fitz?” Harry blurted out.
“Fitz-Gilbert has more money than God. You don’t think we let Marilyn marry him without a thorough investigation of his resources.”
“No.” Harry’s reply was tinged with regret. She’d have hated for her parents to do that to the man she loved.
“A shirttail cousin?” Miranda posited.
“You know my relatives as well as I do. I have one surviving aunt in Seattle.”
“Have you talked to the sheriff and Coop about this?” Harry asked.
“Yes, and my husband too. He’s hiring a bodyguard to protect me. If one
can ever get through the snow. And another storm is coming.” Mim, not a woman easily frightened, was worried. She headed for the door.
“Mim, your mail.” Miranda reached into her box and held it out to her.
“Oh.” Mim took the mail in one Bottéga Veneta–gloved hand and left.
A bit later Fitz arrived. He and Little Marilyn had indulged in an orgy of spending. He listed the vast number of gifts with glee and no sense of shame. “But the best is, we’re going to the Homestead for a few days starting tonight.”
“I thought Mim was going to the Greenbrier.” Miranda was getting confused.
“Yes, Mother is going, she says, in February, but we’re going tonight. A second honeymoon maybe, or just getting away from all this. You heard that Mim received an ugly present.” They nodded and he continued: “I think she ought to go to Tahiti. Oh, well, there’s no talking to Mim. She’ll do as she pleases.”
Blair came in. “Hey, I’ve got good news for you. Orlando Heguay is coming down on the twenty-eighth and he can’t wait to see you.”
“Orlando Heguay.” Fitz pondered the name. “Miami?”
“No. Andover.”
Fitz clapped his hand to his face. “My God, I haven’t seen him since school. What’s he doing?” Fitz caught his breath. “And how do you know him?”
“We’ll catch up on all that when he gets here. He’s looking forward to seeing you.”
“How about dinner at the club Saturday night?” Fitz smiled.
“I’m not a member.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Fitz clapped him on the back. “Be fun. Six?”
“Six,” Blair answered.
As Fitz left with an armful of mail, Blair looked after him. “Does that guy ever work?”
“He handled a real estate closing last year,” Harry laughed.
“Are you going to be home after work?” Blair asked her.
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