“I always wanted to put VOID on my license plate,” Harry confessed.
“Now, why would you want to do a thing like that?” Mrs. Hogendobber pursed her lips, seashell pink today.
“Because every time my annual renewal payments would go through to the Department of Motor Vehicles, their computer would spit out the check. At least, that’s what I thought.”
“Our own little saboteur.”
“Miranda, I never did it. I just thought about it.”
“From little acorns mighty oaks do grow.” Mrs. Hogendobber appeared fierce. “Are you behind this?”
The three laughed.
“You know, when I was a young doctor I had a big Thoroughbred I used to hunt named On Call,” Herb reminisced. “When someone phoned my office the nurse would say, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, the doctor isn’t in right now. He’s On Call.’ ”
Harry and Miranda laughed all the more.
“So what’s the scoop, Pewter?” Tucker asked, then turned her attention to Mrs. Murphy. “I suppose you already know or you’d have pulled her fur out.”
With that faint hint of superiority that makes cats so maddening, the tiger twitched her whiskers forward. “We had a little chat on the back stoop.”
“Come on, tell me.”
Pewter sidled over to the dog, who was now sitting up. “Aysha Cramer refused, to Mim Sanburne’s face, to work with Kerry McCray for the homeless benefit.”
Mim Sanburne considered herself queen of Crozet. On her expansive days she extended that dominion to cover the state of Virginia.
“Big deal.” Tucker was disappointed.
“It is. No one crosses Mim. She pitched a hissy and told Aysha that the good of the community was more important than her spat with Kerry,” the rotund kitty announced.
“Oh, Aysha.” Tucker laughed. “Now Mim will give her the worst job of the benefit—addressing, sealing, and stamping the envelopes. They all have to be handwritten, you know.”
“And all this over Norman Cramer. Mr. Bland.” Pewter giggled.
The animals caught their breath for a moment.
“Boy, it’s a dull summer if we’re laughing about that tired love triangle,” Mrs. Murphy said wistfully.
“Nothing happens around here,” Tucker carped.
“Fourth of July parade was okay. But nothing unusual. Maybe someone will stir up a fuss over Labor Day . . .” Pewter’s voice trailed off. “We can hope for a little action.”
Mrs. Murphy stretched forward, then backward. “You know what my mother used to say, ‘Be careful what you ask for, you might get it.’ ”
The three friends later would remember this prophecy.
2
Ash Lawn, the Federal home of James and Elizabeth Monroe, reposes behind a mighty row of English boxwoods. When the fifth president and his lady were alive, these pungent shrubs probably rose no higher than waist level. The immense height of them now casts an eerie aura yet lends an oddly secure sense to the entrance. The formal entrance isn’t used anymore; people must pass the small gift shop and arrive at the house by a side route.
The warm yellow clapboard creates an accessibility, a familiarity—one could imagine living in this house. No one could ever imagine living in the beautiful and imposing Monticello just over the small mountain from Ash Lawn.
Harry walked among the boxwoods and around the grounds with Blair Bainbridge, her new neighbor—“new” being a relative term in Crozet; Blair had moved there more than a year ago. A much-sought-after model, he was out of Crozet as much as he was in it. Recently returned from Africa, he had asked Harry to give him a tour of Monroe’s home. This irritated Harry’s ex-husband, Fair Haristeen, D.V.M., a blond giant who, having repented of his foolishness in losing Harry, desperately wanted his ex-wife back.
As for Blair, no one could divine his intentions toward Harry. Mrs. Hogendobber, that self-confessed expert on the male animal, declared that Blair was so impossibly rugged and handsome that he had women throwing themselves at him every moment, on every continent. She swore Harry fascinated him because she seemed immune to his masculine beauty. Mrs. Hogendobber got it more than half right despite arguments to the contrary from Harry’s best friend and her corgi’s breeder, Susan Tucker.
Mrs. Murphy chose the shade of a mighty poplar, where she scratched up some grass, then plopped down. Tucker circled three times, then sat next to her as she eyed the offending peacocks of Ash Lawn. The shimmering birds overran the Monroe estate, their heavenly appearance marred by grotesquely ugly pinkish feet. They also possessed the nastiest voices of birddom.
“Oh, how I’d like to wrestle that big showoff to the ground,” Tucker growled as a huge male strutted by, cast the little dog a death-ray eye, and then strutted on.
“Probably tough as an old shoe.” Mrs. Murphy occasionally enjoyed a wren as a delicacy, but she shied off the larger birds. She prudently flattened herself whenever she perceived a large shadow overhead. This was based on experience because a redtailed hawk had carried off one of her tiny brothers.
“I don’t know why President Monroe kept these birds. Sheep, cattle, even turkeys—I can understand turkeys—but peacocks are useless.” Tucker jumped up and whirled around to bite something in her fur.
“Fleas? It’s the season.” Mrs. Murphy noticed sympathetically.
“No.” Tucker grumbled as she bit some more. “Deer flies.”
“How can they get through your thick fur?”
“I don’t know, but they do.” Tucker sighed, then stood up and shook herself. “Where’s Mom?”
“Out and about. She’s not far. Sit down, will you. If you go off and chase one of those stupid birds, I’ll get blamed for it. I don’t see why we can’t go into the house. I understand why other people’s animals can’t visit, like Lucy Fur, but not us.” The younger of Reverend Jones’s two cats, Lucy Fur, was aptly named as she was a hellion.
“Bet Little Marilyn would let us through the back door.” Tucker winked. She knew Mim Sanburne’s daughter loved animals.
“Good idea.” The cat rolled in the grass and then bounded up. “Let’s boogie.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Tucker asked as they trotted to the side door. A bench under a small porch made the area inviting. No humans were around.
“Susan said it yesterday. She picks up that stuff from her kids. Like ‘ABC ya’ for when you say good-bye.”
“Oh.” Tucker found the semantics of the young of limited interest, since every few years the jargon changed.
Underneath Ash Lawn’s main level, docents dressed in period costumes spun, wove, boiled lard for candles, and cooked in the kitchen. Little Marilyn—Marilyn Sanburne, Junior, recently divorced and taking back her maiden name—was the chief docent at Ash Lawn this day. Although only in her early thirties, the younger Marilyn had contributed a great deal financially to Ash Lawn as well as to the College of William and Mary. The college maintained the house and grounds of James Monroe and provided most docents. Little Marilyn was a proud alumna of William and Mary, where she had switched majors so many times, her advisers despaired of her ever graduating. She finally settled on sociology, which greatly displeased her mother, and therefore greatly pleased Little Marilyn.
As Harry had graduated from Smith College in Massachusetts, she was not one of the inner circle at Ash Lawn, but the staff was good at community relations, so Harry and her animals felt welcome there. Of course, everyone at Ash Lawn knew Mrs. Murphy and Tucker.
The other docents that July 30 were Kerry McCray, a pert strawberry-blonde and Little Marilyn’s college roommate; Laura Freely, a tall, austere lady in her sixties; and Aysha Gill Cramer, also a friend of Little Marilyn’s from William and Mary. As Aysha had been married only the previous April, in a gruesome social extravaganza, it was taking everyone a bit of time to get used to calling her Cramer. Danny Tucker, Susan’s sixteen-year-old son, was working as a gardener and loving it. Susan was filling in at the gift shop because the regular cashier had calle
d in sick.
A scheduling snafu had stuck Aysha and Kerry there at the same time. The two despised each other. Along with Little Marilyn, the three had been best friends from childhood all the way through William and Mary, where they pledged the same sorority.
After graduation they traveled to Europe together, finally going their separate ways after a year’s time. They wrote volumes of letters to each other. Kerry returned to Crozet first, getting a job at the Crozet National Bank, which had started locally at the turn of the century but now served all of central Virginia. Little Mim followed soon after, married badly, and then divorced. Aysha had returned to Albemarle County only six months ago. Her impeccable French and Italian were not in demand. Career prospects were so limited in this small corner of the world that marriage was still a true career for young women, providing they could find a suitable victim.
The friends picked up where they had left off. Aysha, a bit chubby when she was younger, had matured into a good-looking woman bubbling with ideas.
Little Marilyn, recovering from her divorce, was still blue. She needed her friends.
Kerry, engaged to Norman Cramer, often invited Aysha and Little Marilyn out with them for dinner, the movies, a late night at the Blue Ridge Brewery.
Weedy and timid, Norman possessed a handsome face framing big blue eyes. He, too, worked at the Crozet National Bank as the head accountant. Excitement was not Norman’s middle name, so everyone was knocked for a loop when Aysha snaked him away from Kerry. No one could figure out why she wanted him except that she was in her thirties, disliked working, and marriage was an easy way out.
Her mother, Ottoline Gill, far too involved in her daughter’s life, seemed thrilled with her new son-in-law. Part of that may have been shock from ever having a son-in-law. She had despaired of Aysha’s future, declaring many times over that a girl as beautiful and brilliant as her darling would never find a husband. “Men like dumb women,” she would say, “and my Aysha won’t play dumb.”
Whatever she played or didn’t play, she captivated Norman with the result that Aysha and Kerry were now bitter enemies who could barely speak to each other in a civil tone of voice. Norman, away from Aysha’s scrutiny, would be pleasant to Kerry, although she wasn’t always pleasant back.
Marilyn sent Aysha to work downstairs, packing Kerry out to the slave quarters. It eased the tension somewhat. She knew each one would seek her out in the next day to complain about the mix-up. Kerry would be easier to console than Aysha, who liked nothing better than to have someone at an emotional disadvantage. However, Aysha enjoyed being a docent for Ash Lawn and Marilyn would mollify her, for her sake as well as the good of the place. Bad enough to have Aysha fuss at her, but coping with that harridan of a mother was real hell. And if Ottoline picked up the cudgel, then Marilyn’s own mother, Mim, would become involved, too, if for no other reason than to put the pretentious Ottoline in her place.
Mrs. Murphy, tail to the vertical, felt the cool grass under her paws. Grasshoppers shot off before her like green insect rockets. They’d jump, settle, then jump again. Usually she would chase them, but today she wanted to get inside the historic home just to prove she wouldn’t be destructive.
As the day drew to a close, most of the tourists had left. A few lingered in the gift shop. The staff of Ash Lawn began closing up. Harry and Blair had entered the house to see if Marilyn needed any help.
A distant roar grew louder. Then a screech, burp, and cutoff announced that a motorcycle had pulled into the parking lot, not just any motorcycle, but a gleaming, perfect black Harley-Davidson. The biker was as disheveled as his machine was gorgeous. He wore a black German World War II helmet, a black leather vest studded with chrome stars, torn jeans, heavy black biker boots, and an impressive chain across his chest like a medieval Sam Browne belt. Wraparound black sunglasses completed the outfit. He was unshaven but handsome in a grungy fashion.
He sauntered up the brick path leading to the front door. Tucker, now on the side of the house by the slave quarters, stopped and began barking at him. Both animals had left the side door to see what was going on.
“Shut up, Tucker, you’ll spoil my strategy,” the cat warned. She was lying flat by the public entrance just waiting for it to swing open when the visitor entered so she could dart in. Whoever opened the door would let out a yelp as she zipped between their legs. Then they’d have to chase her or cajole her. Harry would have a fit and fall in it. Someone would think to bribe her with food or perhaps fresh catnip from the herb garden. Mrs. Murphy had it all planned. Then she glanced up and saw the Hell’s Angel marching toward the door. She decided to stay put.
He opened the door and Little Marilyn greeted him. “Welcome to the home of James and Elizabeth Monroe. Unfortunately our hours are ten to five during the summer and it’s five-thirty now. I’m terribly sorry, but you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He brushed right by her.
Laura heard this exchange from the parlor and joined Marilyn. Harry and Blair remained in the living room. Aysha was downstairs in the summer kitchen and Kerry was closing up the slave quarters.
“You’ll have to leave.” Little Marilyn pursed her lips.
“Where’s Malibu?” His guttural voice added to his visual menace.
“In California.” Blair strode into the front hall.
The biker sized him up and down. Blair was a tall man, broad-shouldered, and in splendid condition. This was no push-over.
“You the resident comedian?” The biker reached into his vest and pulled out a little switchblade. He expertly flipped it open with one hand and began to pick his teeth.
“I am for today.” Blair folded his arms across his chest. Harry, too, stepped into the hall behind Blair. “These ladies have informed you that Ash Lawn will be open tomorrow morning. Come back then.”
“I don’t give a frig about this pile. I want Malibu. I know she’s here.”
“Who’s Malibu?” Harry wedged forward. It occurred to her that the biker’s pupils were most likely dilated or the reverse, and he wore sunglasses to cover that fact. He was on something and it wasn’t aspirin.
“A thieving slut!” the biker exploded. “I’ve tracked her down and I know she’s here.”
“She couldn’t possibly be here,” Marilyn replied. “All of us who work here know one another and we’ve never heard of a Malibu.”
“Lady, you just never heard the name. She’s cunning. She’ll hypnotize you, take what she wants, and then strike like a snake!” He pointed his two front fingers at her like fangs and made a striking motion.
Out of the corner of her eye Harry saw Aysha enter through the back door. She could see Kerry out back also on her way to the main house. The biker didn’t see them. Harry backtracked, her hands behind her, holding them up in a stop signal. Blair by now had his hand on the biker’s shoulder and was gently turning him around toward the front door.
“Come on. You won’t find her today. Half the staff’s already gone home.” Blair’s voice oozed reassurance. “I know what you mean, some women are like cobras.”
The two men walked outside. Mrs. Murphy stared up at them. The biker smelled like cocaine sweat and grease. She put great store by smell.
The gruff man’s voice quivered a touch. “This one, man, this one, oh, you don’t know the things she can do to you. She plays with your body and messes with your mind. The only thing she ever really loved was the dollar.”
Blair realized he would have to walk this fellow with the stoned expression all the way to his bike because he wasn’t budging off the front porch. “Show me your bike.”
Mrs. Murphy darted from bush to bush, keeping the men in sight and hearing every word. Tucker dashed ahead of her.
“Tucker, stay behind them.”
“You’re always telling me what to do!”
“Because you act first and think later. Stay behind. That way if Blair needs help this guy won’t know you’re there. The element
of surprise.”
“Well—” The dog realized the cat had a point.
“She wanted to make enough money to sit home, to be a lady.” He laughed derisively. “I thought she was joking. A lady?”
Blair arrived at the sleek machine, resting on its kickstand. “Bet she hums.”
“Yeah, power to burn.”
Blair ran his hand over the gas tank. “Had a Triumph Bonneville once. Leaked oil, but she could sing, you know?”
“Good bike.” The fellow’s lower lip protruded, a sign of agreement, approval.
“Started out with a Norton. How ’bout you?”
“Liked those English bikes, huh?” He leaned against the motorcycle. “Harleys. Always Harleys with me. Started out with a 1960 Hog, 750cc, in pieces. Put her back together. Then I put together a Ducati for a buddy of mine, and before I knew it, I had more work than I could handle.”
“BMWs?”
The biker shook his head. “Not for me. Great machines but no soul. And that piston instead of a chain drive—you shift gears on one of those things and it’s a lurch. Kill your crotch.” He laughed, revealing strong, straight teeth. “’Course there’s no more chains, you know. They use Kevlar.” He pointed to the space-age material that had replaced the chain.
“My dad had an Indian.” Blair’s eyes glazed. “What I wouldn’t give for that bike today.”
“An Indian. No shit. Hey, man, let me buy you a beer. We’ve got some serious talking to do.”
“Thanks, but my date is waiting for me back at the house. Take a raincheck though.” Blair inclined his head back toward Ash Lawn, where Harry stood at the end of the entrance walk. She wanted to make sure Blair was okay.
“I’m staying at the Best Western.”
“Okay, thanks.” Blair smiled.
“I’m not going anywhere until I find that bitch.”
Pay Dirt Page 2