Rest In Pieces

by Rita Mae Brown

  “What would I have done?” Orlando asked.

  “He wasn’t sure. Remember, his whole life, the plan of many years, was jeopardized when the real Fitz showed up. Ben Seifert used the event to extort more money out of him. He was getting nervous. What if you noticed something, which, unlikely as it may have seemed to you, was not unlikely to him? You knew him before he was Fitz-Gilbert. The impossible was becoming possible,” Cynthia pointed out. “And it turned out you did cause trouble. You recognized the face in the photograph. The face that must have cost a fortune in plastic surgery.”

  “What about the earring?” Carol was curious.

  “We’ll never really know,” Harry answered. “But I remember Little Marilyn saying that she thought it must have popped off when she took her sweater off in the car, the Range Rover. Tommy had the body in a plastic bag on the front floor, and the sharp part of the earring, the part that pierces one’s ear, probably got stuck on the bag or in a fold of the bag. Given his hurry he didn’t notice. All we do know is that Little Marilyn’s earring showed up in a possum’s nest miles away from where she last remembered wearing it, and there’s no way the animal would have traveled the four miles to her place.”

  “Does Little Marilyn know?” Mrs. Hogendobber felt sympathy for the woman.

  “She does,” Cynthia told her. “She still doesn’t believe it. Mim does, of course, but then she’ll believe bad about anybody.”

  This made everyone laugh.

  “Did anyone in this room have a clue that it might be Fitz?” Mrs. Hogendobber asked. “Tommy. I can’t get used to calling him Tommy. I certainly didn’t.”

  Neither had anyone else.

  “He was brilliant in his way.” Orlando opened a delicate biscuit to butter it. “He knew very early that people respond to surfaces, just as he said. Once he realized that Fitz was losing it, he concocted a diabolically clever yet simple plan to become Fitz. When he showed up at Princeton as a freshman, he was Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton. He was more Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton than Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton. I remember when I left for Yale my brother said that now I could become a new person if I wanted to. It was a new beginning. In Tommy’s case that was literal.”

  Blair took that in, then said, “I don’t believe he ever thought he would have to kill anyone. I just don’t.”

  “Not then,” Cynthia said.

  “Money changes people.” Carol stated the obvious, except that to many the obvious is overlooked. “He’d become habituated to power, to material pleasures, and he loved Little Marilyn.”

  “Love or money,” Harry half-whispered.

  “What?” Mrs. Hogendobber wanted to know everything.

  “Love or money. That’s what people kill for. . . .” Harry’s voice trailed off.

  “Yes, we did have that discussion once.” Mrs. Hogendobber reached for another helping of macaroni and cheese. It was sinfully tasty. “Maybe the road to Hell is paved with dollar bills.”

  “If that’s the center of your life,” Blair added. “You know, I read a lot of history. I like knowing other people have been here before me. It’s a comfort. Well, anyway, Marie Antoinette and Louis the Sixteenth became better people once they fell from power, once the money was taken away. Perhaps somebody else would actually become a better person if he or she did have money. I don’t know.”

  The Reverend considered this. “I suppose some wealthy people become philanthropists, but it’s usually at the end of their lives when Heaven has not been secured as the next address.”

  As the group debated and wondered about this detail or that glimpse of the man they knew as Fitz, Harry got up and put on her parka. “You all, I’ll be back in a minute. I forgot to feed the possum.”

  “In another life you were Noah,” Herbie chuckled.

  Mrs. Hogendobber cast the Lutheran minister a reproving glare. “Now, Reverend, you don’t believe in past lives, do you?”

  Before that subject could flare up, Harry was out the back door, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker tagging along. Pewter elected to stay in the kitchen.

  She slid back the barn doors just enough for her to squeeze through to switch on the lights. It was hard to believe that a few hours ago she nearly met her death in this barn, the place that always made her happy.

  She shook her head as if to clear the cobwebs. Mostly she wanted to reassure herself she was alive. Mrs. Murphy led the way, and Harry crawled up the ladder, Tucker under her arm, and handed the food to Simon, who was subdued.

  Mrs. Murphy rubbed against the little fellow. “You done good, Simon.”

  “Mrs. Murphy, that was the worst thing I’ve ever seen. There’s something wrong with people.”

  “Some of them,” the cat replied.

  Harry watched the two animals and wondered at their capacity to communicate and she wondered, too, at how little we really know of the animal world. We’re so busy trying to break them, train them, get them to do our bidding, how can we truly know them? Did the masters on the plantation ever know the slaves, and does a man ever know his wife if he thinks of himself as superior—or vice versa? She sat in the hay, breathing in the scent, and a wave of such gratitude flushed through her body. She didn’t know much but she was glad to be alive.

  Mrs. Murphy crawled in her lap and purred. Tucker, solemnly, leaned against Harry’s side.

  The cat craned her head upward and called, “Thanks.”

  The owl hooted back, “Forget it.”

  Tucker observed, “I thought you didn’t like humans.”

  “Don’t. I happen to like the blacksnake less than I like humans.” She spread her wings in triumph and laughed.

  The cat laughed with her. “You like Harry—admit it.”

  “I’ll never tell.” The owl lifted off her perch in the cupola and swept down right in front of Harry, startling her. Then she gained loft and flew out the large fan opening at the end of the barn. A night’s hunting awaited her, at least until the storm broke.

  Harry backed down the ladder, Tucker under her arm. Harry stood in the center of the aisle for a moment. “I’ll never know what got into you two,” she addressed the horses, “but I’m awfully glad. Thank you.”

  They looked back with their gentle brown eyes. Tomahawk stayed in one corner of his stall while Gin, sociable, hung her head over the Dutch door.

  “And Mrs. Murphy, I still don’t know how the blacksnake came flying out of the loft, followed by you. I guess I’ll never know. I guess I won’t know a lot of things.”

  “Put her back up in her place,” Mrs. Murphy suggested, “or she’ll freeze to death.”

  “She doesn’t know what you’re talking about.” Tucker scratched at Tomahawk’s stall door and whined. “Is this the one she hid in?” the dog asked the cat.

  “Under the shavings in there somewhere.” The tiger’s whiskers swept forward as she joined Tucker in clawing at the door.

  She knew the snake would be there but nonetheless it always made her jump when she saw one. Harry, curious, opened the door. Now she knew why Tomahawk was in one corner of his stall. He did not like snakes and he said so.

  “Here she is.” Tucker stood over the snake.

  Harry saw the snake, partially covered by shavings. “Is she alive?” She knelt down and placed her hand behind the animal’s neck. Gently she lifted the snake and only then did she realize how big the reptile was. Harry suffered no special fear of snakes but it couldn’t be said that she wanted to hold one, either. Nonetheless, she felt some responsibility for this blacksnake. The animal moved a bit. Tomahawk complained, so they backed out of the stall.

  Mrs. Murphy climbed up the ladder. “I’ll show you.”

  Harry racked her brain to think of a warm spot. Other than the pipes under her kitchen sink, only the loft came to mind, so she climbed back up.

  The cat ran to her and ran away. Harry watched with amusement. Mrs. Murphy had to perform this act four times before Harry had enough sense to follow her.

  Simon grumbled as they passed him, �
�Don’t you put that old bitch near me.”

  “Don’t be a fuss,” the cat chided. She led Harry to the snake’s nest.

  “Look at that,” Harry exclaimed. She carefully placed the snake in her hibernating quarters and covered her with loose hay. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform,” she said out loud. Her mother used to say that to her. The Lord performed his or her wonders today with a snake, a cat, a dog, and two horses. Harry had no idea that she’d had more animal help than that, but she did know she was here by the grace of God. Tommy Norton would have shot her as full of holes as Swiss cheese.

  As she closed up the barn and walked back to the house, a few snowflakes falling, she recognized that she had no remorse for shooting that man in the kneecap. She would have killed him if it had been necessary. In that respect she realized she belonged to the animal world. Human morality often seems at a variance with Nature.

  Fair Haristeen’s truck churned, sliding down the driveway. He hurriedly got out and grabbed Harry in his arms. “I just heard. Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She nodded, suddenly quite exhausted.

  “Thank God, Harry, I didn’t know what you meant to me until I, until I . . .” He couldn’t finish his sentence. He hugged her.

  She hugged him hard, then released him. “Come on. Our friends are inside. They’ll be glad to see you. Blair was shot, you know.” She talked on and felt such love for Fair, although it was no longer romantic. She wasn’t taking him back, but then he wasn’t asking her to come back. They’d sort it out in good time.

  When they walked into the kitchen, a guilty, fat gray cat looked at them from the butcher block, her mouth full. She had demolished an entire ham biscuit, the incriminating crumbs still on her long whiskers.

  “Pewter,” Harry said.

  “I eat when I’m nervous or unhappy.” And indeed she was wretched for having missed all the action. “Of course, I eat when I’m relaxed and happy too.”

  Harry petted her, put her down, and then thought her friends deserved better than canned food tonight. She put ham biscuits on the floor. Pewter stood on her hind legs and scratched Harry’s pants.

  “More?”

  “More,” the gray cat pleaded.

  Harry grabbed another biscuit, plus some turkey Miranda had brought, and placed it on the floor.

  “I don’t see why you should get treats. You didn’t do anything,” Mrs. Murphy growled as she chewed her food.

  The gray cat giggled. “Who said life was fair?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Books by Rita Mae Brown with Sneaky Pie Brown

  WISH YOU WERE HERE

  REST IN PIECES

  MURDER AT MONTICELLO

  PAY DIRT

  MURDER, SHE MEOWED

  MURDER ON THE PROWL

  CAT ON THE SCENT

  SNEAKY PIE’S COOKBOOK FOR MYSTERY LOVERS

  PAWING THROUGH THE PAST

  CLAWS AND EFFECT

  CATCH AS CAT CAN

  THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF

  WHISKER OF EVIL

  Books by Rita Mae Brown

  THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCK

  SONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN

  THE PLAIN BROWN RAPPER

  RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE

  IN HER DAY

  SIX OF ONE

  SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT

  SUDDEN DEATH

  HIGH HEARTS

  STARTING FROM SCRATCH:

  A DIFFERENT KIND OF WRITERS’ MANUAL

  BINGO

  VENUS ENVY

  DOLLEY: A NOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND WAR

  RIDING SHOTGUN

  RITA WILL: MEMOIR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER

  LOOSE LIPS

  OUTFOXED

  HOTSPUR

  FULL CRY

  * * *

  Don’t miss the new mystery from

  RITA MAE BROWN

  and

  SNEAKY PIE BROWN

  Whisker of Evil

  Now available in hardcover

  from Bantam Books

  Please read on for a preview . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  Whisker of Evil

  on sale now

  Barry Monteith was still breathing when Harry found him. His throat had been ripped out.

  Tee Tucker, a corgi, racing ahead of Mary Minor Haristeen as well as the two cats, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, found him first.

  Barry was on his back, eyes open, gasping and gurgling, life ebbing with each spasm. He did not recognize Tucker nor Harry when they reached him.

  “Barry, Barry.” Harry tried to comfort him, hoping he could hear her. “It will be all right,” she said, knowing perfectly well he was dying.

  The tiger cat, Mrs. Murphy, watched the blood jet upward.

  “Jugular,” fat, gray Pewter succinctly commented.

  Gently, Harry took the young man’s hand and prayed, “Dear Lord, receive into thy bosom the soul of Barry Monteith, a good man.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  Barry jerked, then his suffering ended.

  Death, often so shocking to city dwellers, was part of life here in the country. A hawk would swoop down to carry away the chick while the biddy screamed useless defiance. A bull would break his hip and need to be put down. And one day an old farmer would slowly walk to his tractor only to discover he couldn’t climb into the seat. The Angel of Death placed his hand on the stooping shoulder.

  It appeared the Angel had offered little peaceful deliverance to Barry Monteith, thirty-four, fit, handsome with brown curly hair, and fun-loving. Barry had started his own business, breeding thoroughbreds, a year ago, with a business partner, Sugar Thierry.

  “Sweet Jesus.” Harry wiped away the tears.

  That Saturday morning, crisp, clear, and beautiful, had held the alluring promise of a perfect May 29. The promise had just curdled.

  Harry had finished her early-morning chores and, despite a list of projects, decided to take a walk for an hour. She followed Potlicker Creek to see if the beavers had built any new dams. Barry was sprawled at the creek’s edge on a dirt road two miles from her farm that wound up over the mountains into adjoining Augusta County. It edged the vast land holdings of Tally Urquhart, who, well into her nineties and spry, loathed traffic. Three cars constituted traffic in her mind. The only time the road saw much use was during deer-hunting season in the fall.

  “Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter, stay. I’m going to run to Tally’s and phone the sheriff.”

  If Harry hit a steady lope, crossed the fields and one set of woods, she figured she could reach the phone in Tally’s stable within fifteen minutes, though the pitch and roll of the land including one steep ravine would cost time.

  As she left her animals, they inspected Barry.

  “What could rip his throat like that? A bear swipe?” Pewter’s pupils widened.

  “Perhaps.” Mrs. Murphy, noncommittal, sniffed the gaping wound, as did Tucker.

  The cat curled her upper lip to waft more scent into her nostrils. The dog, whose nose was much longer and nostrils larger, simply inhaled.

  “I don’t smell bear,” Tucker declared. “That’s an overpowering scent, and on a morning like this it would stick.”

  Pewter, who cherished luxury and beauty, found that Barry’s corpse disturbed her equilibrium. “Let’s be grateful we found him today and not three days from now.”

  “Stop jabbering, Pewter, and look around, will you? Look for tracks.”

  Grumbling, the gray cat daintily stepped down the dirt road. “You mean like car tracks?”

  “Yes, or animal tracks,” Mrs. Murphy directed, then returned her attention to Tucker. “Even though coyote scent isn’t as strong as bear, we’d still smell a whiff. Bobcat? I don’t smell anything like that. Or dog. There are wild dogs and wild pigs back in the mountains. The humans don’t even realize they’re there.”

  Tucker cocked her perfectly shaped head. “No dirt around the wound. No saliva, either.”<
br />
  “I don’t see anything. Not even a birdie foot,” Pewter, irritated, called out from a hundred yards down the road.

  “Well, go across the creek then and look over there.” Mrs. Murphy’s patience wore thin.

  “And get my paws wet?” Pewter’s voice rose.

  “It’s a ford. Hop from rock to rock. Go on, Pewt, stop being a chicken.”

  Angrily, Pewter puffed up, tearing past them to launch herself over the ford. She almost made it, but a splash indicated she’d gotten her hind paws wet.

  If circumstances had been different, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker would have laughed. Instead, they returned to Barry.

  “I can’t identify the animal that tore him up.” The tiger shook her head.

  “Well, the wound is jagged but clean. Like I said, no dirt.” Tucker studied the folds of flesh laid back.

  “He was killed lying down,” the cat sagely noted. “If he was standing up, don’t you think blood would be everywhere?”

  “Not necessarily,” the dog replied, thinking how strong heartbeats sent blood straight out from the jugular. Tucker was puzzled by the odd calmness of the scene.

  “Pewter, have you found anything on that side?”