“What can you see?” Pewter said, marching in behind. “My eyes are a lot better than yours.”
Brinkley, a natural diplomat, replied, “They are. I wish I could see as good in the dark as you and Mrs. Murphy do.”
Harry walked to the door to close it. “Boy, that temperature drops with the sun.”
“That’s another thing,” said Tazio. “This old heating system works. I checked it out, cast iron. The boiler is enormous but solid cast iron. The boiler room was installed right about the time of World War One.”
Harry wondered, “Who would know how to repair the boiler?”
“Same company’s been servicing it since installing it in 1915. Couldn’t stand it—I hopped on my computer, and sure enough, the information is online.”
“That’s a piece of luck.” Harry smiled.
Tazio agreed. “It is. Harry, thank you for signing on. You and I will make a great team. I hope Hester’s looking down on us and giving a cheer.”
“Me, too, but she might be saying, ‘Not Harry!’ ”
Tazio smiled. “Not a chance. Well, I think we’ve got the ride in good order.”
“This ride scares me before I even get on the hay wagon.” Harry’s eyes widened. “It’s going to be spectacular.”
“Let me show you the little bathroom.” Tazio stood up.
The two walked to the door at the back of the large room. Tazio opened it.
“Water still runs.” Harry turned the faucet on and off. “The old towel dispenser still works, too.” She gave the white towel a tug and more came down as the used portion fed up into the metal dispensing box. “Gets me excited. The quality of the workmanship, the layout.”
They closed the door and walked to the front of the room. Harry, always curious, sat behind the large teacher’s desk, which was set on a dais so the teacher could view the entire classroom.
“You will now recite your ABC’s,” Harry ordered.
Tazio, before her, ran through them quickly, then shoved Harry from the seat.
“Harry Haristeen, what is twelve times twelve?”
“One hundred and forty-four,” Harry victoriously answered.
“I gave you an easy one,” Tazio teased as she pulled out the middle desk drawer. “Hey, look.”
Harry stepped back up on the dais. “Pencils, a hand sharpener, a wooden ruler.”
“Grandpa’s Tar Soap,” Tazio said, reading the advertising printed on the ruler. “And here’s an old piece of paper.”
Harry read out the name printed on the paper: “Walter Ashby Plecker.”
“If Walter’s name was in the teacher’s drawer, he must have been a bad boy,” said Tazio.
Thursday, October 24, the service for Hester Martin was finally held at St. Francis Catholic Church in Staunton. Harry quietly sat in the pew, next to Susan, BoomBoom, Alicia, Big Mim, and Miranda Hogendobber. Fair, up in Leesburg at a veterinary conference, couldn’t attend, but most everyone else who knew Hester was there. Wearing a suit, Buddy Janss made people look twice, since the portly farmer was nearly always seen wearing overalls.
Harry appreciated the dignity of the Catholic service. She thought that being a Lutheran, as she was, was sort of like being a Catholic but without the incense. In her mind, people divided up into high church and low church. She admired Miranda, staunch member of the Church of the Holy Light, a charismatic church, for her strong feeling of a personal relationship with God. But Harry needed the liturgy, the ritual. Obviously, Hester had needed it, too.
Fortunately, Hester’s niece, Sarah Price, raised Catholic, had made sure the ceremony was done just right. She had spoken at length with the priest and had picked out appropriate hymns. A woman in her mid-thirties, Sarah quite resembled her eccentric aunt.
Hester’s niece had relied on Susan Tucker to help her with the other necessary arrangements after finding her name in Hester’s address book. She’d placed a gold star next to Susan’s name. Hester used different colored stars and gold meant the best.
Sarah also had the presence of mind to give the address book to the sheriff.
As the mourners filed out after the service, they walked down steep steps to the parking lot below. Wesley Speer and Buddy assisted the elderly down the hazardous steps, the older folks grasping the railing for all they were worth.
Slowly descending next to Harry, Big Mim said, “Staunton is a town of hills. One can find a wonderful view for a reasonable price.”
“True,” Harry replied.
“Mary Baldwin has the best spot in town,” remarked BoomBoom, just behind them.
Mary Baldwin College did indeed have a wonderful setting. The prestigious school had been continually graduating women since 1842, and most of those alumnae had flourished, often bucking the odds against women.
Woodrow Wilson’s house rested not far from the college, and Harry wondered whether as a boy he had watched the girls walk by. It was hard to imagine the former president as a man being dazzled by women. In photographs, he appeared rather cold.
“Well, on to the cemetery. It’s really beautiful,” Alicia noted. On the west side of town, the graveyard was a refuge for the living to think and reflect, and a fitting place for the departed.
The graveyard was glowing with October sunlight when Hester’s Crozet friends reached it. Again, the burial service for the dead was dignified and brief.
The reception that followed was held in Hester’s home and started at four. It took most of the crowd about forty-five minutes to drive to the simple brick two-story house, a graceful structure that had belonged to Hester’s grandparents. The paint on the brick, a creamy yellow, had flaked in spots, and the soft paprika of old brick shone through. The old place felt warm and lived in.
Having never been inside Hester’s house, Harry was curious to see it, and paused in the entryway.
Cooper, right next to her, also paused a moment. “Some of this furniture has to go back to the Revolution.”
“Heppelwhite,” Big Mim, close by, crisply filled her in. “And the silver is Georgian, but not just any George. George II.”
“I had no idea,” Harry exclaimed.
“That was her way.” Big Mim removed her hat. “Hester lived simply. She wanted it that way.”
Always proper, Big Mim wore a hat in church, as did most of the older women. Harry and Susan also wore hats, mostly because their mothers had long ago drummed it into them. Neither woman much liked hats.
Big Mim knew Hester better than the others. “She inherited most of what one needs in life. Not an ounce of the snob in her; she would never have called attention to the quality of the furnishings, the fabrics, and, of course, the elegant silver. I will miss her.” The older woman smiled sorrowfully, then began moving about, a pure political animal regardless of circumstance. Big Mim was of that generation that worked through men. Her husband, Jim, was mayor of Crozet.
“Well, old girl, ready for the shake and howdy?” Harry teased Cooper, who had not been born and bred in the region.
“I’m getting ready.” Cooper followed Harry.
Susan stood next to Sarah, introducing her to the guests.
“Sarah, please meet my best and oldest friend in the world, Harry Haristeen, and with her, one of our sheriff’s department deputies, Cynthia Cooper.”
Sarah shook their hands. “Thank you so much for helping to celebrate my aunt’s life.”
“The service became her: simple and elegant,” Harry complimented her.
Cooper stepped up to the plate. “And the gravesite is so beautiful.”
“Thank you. Please have some refreshments,” said Sarah. “Buddy Janss made the punch. He said it was my aunt’s favorite.”
The two moved on, glancing at each other with raised eyebrows.
Harry pushed Cooper through the crowd. “You first.”
“I am not drinking that stuff.”
“A sip. Come on, girl. You can do it.”
They arrived at an enormous silver scalloped punch bow
l; the family initials in elegant script were intertwined on its front.
Between laughter and tears, Buddy ladled out a full silver cup.
“Buddy,” warned Coop, not yet committed to this alcoholic endeavor.
“Come on, Coop. You’re not on duty.”
“If I drink this, I will pass out,” Coop protested.
“First your legs will lock up. But I’ll carry you home,” he promised.
He was irresistible, so Coop took a too-big swig. Harry wisely sipped hers.
Coop gasped. “My throat is on fire.”
Buddy laughed. “Well, go on and talk to people. That will cool you down. Neil, come on, your turn.”
Neil Jordan accepted a silver cup, drank a bit. His eyes watered. Reverend Jones squeezed in next to him and laughed.
“Did Hester really drink this stuff?” Neil sputtered. “My God, what a tough broad.”
“You’re just now figuring that out?” Reverend Jones slapped him on the back.
Neil didn’t spill a drop. He reached into his pockets, pulled out tickets to the Halloween Hayride, and began moving through the crowd—with difficulty, but he was selling those tickets.
“Reverend, did you have a clue that Hester had such impeccable taste in home furnishings?” Harry asked as he was now pushed next to her.
“Well, I’d been here once or twice. Knew her people, of course, as did you. All of them quiet living. Well, you knew her mother and father and her older brother.”
“I was pretty little and they seemed so old. I don’t remember her brother except that he was tall,” Harry responded.
The party grew louder as the punch took effect. Faces red, people in the crowd talked over one another as they each recalled their favorite Hester stories. Some burst into tears, but that’s the way of a Virginia celebration. Emotions rise right up to the surface.
“She was not lonely,” said the reverend. “People thought she was, because in this part of the world you march in twos. Crozet is a Noah’s ark.” The preacher took a sip, peered over the silver rim. “And, Coop, you’ll be walking side by side with someone before you know it.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“A good-looking woman like you? Just you wait.” He beamed at her, then returned to the subject of Hester. “She threw herself into good works. I believe she was a fulfilled person, a good person. Granted, sometimes the notions about black gum trees or the fact that food modification would make us all idiots took me aback, but we all have our pet peeves.”
As the conversation continued, Wesley Speer moved toward Buddy. A funeral gathering is as good a place as any to patch up hard feelings.
Buddy held out a full cup. “Wesley.”
“Buddy, I’ve been pushing you a little hard about those one hundred acres. I’m overanxious.”
Buddy took a deep breath. “Wesley, in these times I think we are all overanxious. Let’s just set it aside for now and we can talk maybe after Thanksgiving. I can’t sell rich soil without replacing it, you see?”
“I do, Buddy, I really do.”
The two men clinked cups and Buddy then nodded to the next person pressing at the punch bowl.
“I can hardly breathe,” Cooper whispered.
“What?” Harry inclined her ear toward her.
A bit louder, Coop repeated herself.
“It’s the punch,” said Harry. “It’ll stay with you for a while. Don’t drink any more,” she advised.
“I’m sorry I drank what I did. This can’t be legal.” Cooper ruefully smiled.
“Well, dear Deputy, if you run a roadside stand and you’ve lived here all your life and your people have lived here since way back, your friends know where to find the best country waters to see you off with.”
Cooper laughed as she saw her boss, Rick Shaw, the sheriff, come into the room. “He knows about the hooch, of course.”
“Always did.” Harry laughed. “It’s a wise law enforcement officer who knows when to turn a blind eye.”
“Ain’t that the truth? Let’s see if we can work our way over to the library. Doesn’t look like so many people there.”
The two edged their way through the crowd toward the mahogany-shelved library, chatting as they did so, which meant the short walk into the next room took a half hour.
Just before reaching the library, Harry bumped into Cindy Walters, whom she introduced to Cooper.
“This is so terrible.” Cindy spoke above the crowd noise. “I no sooner reached home than I turned around to come back. She would have done the same for me.”
“Yes,” Harry simply agreed.
Cindy looked at Cooper. “I don’t know if this will help you but Hester told me she was stepping on toes. Her refusal to sell sprayed crops, her opposition to development. She mentioned this in passing.”
“Any names?” Cooper was accustomed to people providing information.
“No.”
“Did she seemed frightened?”
“Officer, I don’t really know. Hester hid a lot.”
“Thank you, Miss Walters.”
“Where’s Heidi?” Harry asked.
“Upstairs. Couldn’t live without her.” The short, trim lady smiled.
Once inside the library, they looked at the books, many old, bound in Moroccan leather of deep colors.
Harry found a shelf dealing with agriculture. “She’s got books dating back to World War One; she’s got books released year by year from the U.S. Department of Agriculture.”
Coop bent down to read spines on the lower shelves. “Some of these are in French. Hey, here’s one on Percherons and it looks very, very old.”
Harry knelt down. “Percherons are French draft horses. I had no idea. I mean, I knew that Hester had a college degree, but look at all these books.”
“Here’re two rows on Indian affairs.” Cooper squinted to see better.
Harry joined her and looked closely at the titles. “She must have everything Virginia and the U.S. government ever released on the subject.”
“She’s got newer stuff, too,” said Coop. “Custer and Little Big Horn. Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee.” The law officer read a few more titles out loud, then moved to the next shelf at her eye level. She stopped cold. “Harry.”
“Yeah?” Harry was utterly absorbed in her examination of the old volumes.
“Come here.”
Harry did as she was asked and beheld a photograph of Hester in an old silver frame. She had a fly rod in her hand, and her surroundings looked to be Bath or Highland County, Virginia counties adjacent to the state of West Virginia. Standing next to her in a stream was a man considerably younger, fishing rod also in hand. He held up a lovely trout.
Harry leaned closer.
“It’s Josh Hill,” Cooper said, her voice low.
Harry swallowed. “I never saw his face, I mean intact.”
Cooper had seen plenty of photographs of the accountant during her ongoing research. “It’s him all right, which makes me wonder: Were these two fishing for trouble together?”
Sunlight flooded Hester’s kitchen, which faced east. The morning after the reception, Cooper and Rick Shaw sat at the kitchen’s small square wooden table with Sarah Price. After apologizing for troubling her at such a time, the two law enforcement officers began their questioning of Hester Martin’s niece.
“Did you ever meet the young man in the photograph?” Rick Shaw asked Sarah. The silver-framed photo of Hester and Josh Hill sat on the table in front of them.
“Not that I remember,” the pleasant woman replied. “I don’t know who he is.”
“She never mentioned Josh Hill?” asked Rick.
Sarah looked again at the photo. “No.”
“Did she talk about fishing?” Cooper asked.
“Some. Aunt Hester and I would speak over the phone about once a week. She wouldn’t text me or email. She said she wanted to hear my voice, then she’d know if I was okay.”
“Did she talk about her other intere
sts?” Rick folded his hands then unfolded them.
“Aunt Hester loved to lecture! That is, once she had inquired about my health, boyfriend status—I’m divorced—and my career advancement or lack thereof.” Sarah smiled. “After all that, I would be treated to discussions about the global food crisis, why agribusiness couldn’t meet the demand, and why she refused to sell foods treated with pesticides. She admitted organic farming was less efficient. A lot of goods are lost to bugs and stuff. You didn’t so much talk with my late aunt as you listened.”
Both Rick and Cooper smiled before Cooper spoke up. “Did your aunt ever talk about what she was reading? That’s a gorgeous library. All those books from the nineteenth century and the early twentieth. She must have loved reading or at least collecting.”
“Much of that library she inherited, but she was an avid reader. Often she read in French, especially plays and novels. We would laugh about something she quoted from Molière. But mostly, with me, anyway, she would talk about something she’d read in English about farming or about human impact on wildlife.”
“It’s funny, Miss Price,” said Cooper. “I have stopped at your aunt’s roadside stand for years and I never knew she could read in French, never knew she owned such beautiful things.” She looked around the kitchen, her eyes resting on the old wooden cupboards.
“That doesn’t surprise me. I don’t know as I would classify Aunt Hester as secretive so much as, uh, compartmentalized.” She leaned to her left, toward Rick. “Her friends and interests fell into categories, which didn’t overlap.”
“Did she talk about them with you?” Rick inquired.
“Not much. Most of what I knew came from my dad, who died about six years ago from lung cancer. He was older than Hester by two years. They got along but weren’t close. Too different.”
“How?” Cooper often found that an offhand comment, a recollection, pointed in the right direction.
“Oh, Dad was sophisticated, driven. And social. Houston is a great city in which to be social. He married very well. Both my parents loved fine things, evening-gown parties. You know the type. Aunt Hester thought he was superficial.”
The Litter of the Law Page 11