Probable Claws

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Motorhead. And I read all the car and bike magazines. That was a brand-new Ducati XDiavel. Cost about fifteen thousand dollars. No license plate.”

  “That bothers me.” Cooper frowned. “You’d think some traffic cop would have noticed.”

  “You would, but then again maybe the killer didn’t ride far. Maybe that bike is in a garage or maybe he towed the bike here in a closed trailer from who knows where, unloaded, did the deed, loaded it back up again. It’s not too far-fetched.”

  Cooper had known Harry enough years to appreciate her logic if not her curiosity. “I guess not if you’re determined to kill someone. If only it were his ex-wife,” she ruefully admitted.

  “Cooper!”

  “It would make this a lot easier.”

  Harry changed the subject. “I don’t know why it gets me, but it gets me that my plans are on the drafting table. Like he just stepped out.”

  “He did.” Cooper sighed. “He did.”

  6

  December 30, 2016

  Friday

  “She’ll ruin her eyes,” Pewter predicted.

  “She doesn’t use her computer that much,” Tucker countered the gray cat. “It’s Fair who will ruin his eyes, with that big screen in his office here and the same kind at work. He checks his patients, he checks medications and X-rays. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a Seeing Eye dog.” Tucker flicked a large left ear.

  Bother her ears were large, but her hearing proved excellent.

  “You could do it.” Mrs. Murphy sat on Harry’s desk in the tack room so she, too, could view the screen.

  “Too low to the ground. He’d trip over me,” Tucker sensibly replied.

  “What is she doing?” Pewter could hear click, click, click.

  “Jump up and see for yourself,” Mrs. Murphy suggested.

  Grumbling, Pewter did rouse herself from the tack trunk, stretch, then leap onto the desktop. As it was an old teacher’s desk from the 1950s, sturdy solid wood, her weight barely registered. The desk had been Harry’s father’s. He didn’t believe in wasting money when used furniture could do the job. Finding a teacher’s desk was easy. He paid fifteen dollars, sanded it smooth, then stained it.

  A small bright red propane stove with a glass front kept the tack room warm. Last year, after exhausting research, Harry had bought one, a Swedish model, for no matter what she tried, the room temperature barely got above sixty degrees. The space heaters sucked up electricity like mad, plus they really couldn’t evenly warm the room. The flames at this moment flickered at half-mast. Full blast really threw out the heat. When she went home at night, she’d only leave on the pilot light, but come morning she’d turn up the flame and the room would be perfect in about fifteen minutes. Harry wondered how she’d lived all those years in that miserable cold room. And she knew Gary was a hundred percent right to design space for one in her dream shed. She had just wanted to fuss with him a little bit.

  The door to the center aisle, closed, had a large glass window in it. Because Crozet was near the mountains, the sun set earlier than the Farmer’s Almanac listed for central Virginia. She was so wrapped up in her computer she didn’t notice that the sun had set, twilight was deepening at 5:45 PM.

  The horses, blankets on, began to doze in their stalls. The doors at both ends were shut as were the hayloft doors up top. Every now and then a big barn door would rattle when the wind hit it. She heard it but paid little attention.

  “That’s it.”

  Pewter peered at the screen. “Is.”

  “Is.” Mrs. Murphy echoed her friend then looked down at a curious Tucker. “The motorcycle. She’s got a picture of it.”

  “A beast. This thing is a beast.” Harry whistled. “1262cc. And they make faster bikes but this is their cruiser. Some cruiser.”

  “Does look scary. Well, it was scary,” Mrs. Murphy spoke.

  “Big Harley?” Tucker, living with a motorhead, had absorbed some of her human’s nomenclature.

  “No. It’s a Ducati XDiavel. That’s what the caption says,” Pewter remarked.

  “Pewter, you can’t read.” Tucker doubted her report.

  “She’s whispering stuff,” Pewter called back. “Stuff like this is for the American market. It’s not the pure Italian bike. She thinks that’s important. She’s scrolled that information three times.”

  “She’s falling in love. You know how she is with anything with an engine in it!” Mrs. Murphy laughed.

  Harry tapped her fingers on the desktop, rattling against the wood. “Whoever shot Gary knew bikes and could ride them. No license plate. Who the hell is this? Who would think of such a thing?”

  “Someone with a lot to lose,” Tucker murmured.

  “Or gain,” Mrs. Murphy responded.

  Hitting the off button, Harry slumped in her chair. “There can’t be too many of these in all of Virginia. Cooper can get the state DMV records.”

  Pewter, shrewd in her own way, brushed against the screen. “But maybe it’s an out-of-state bike. If someone was smart enough to pull this off, I bet they’d be smart enough to know how scarce a XDiavel is.”

  Tucker, thinking hard, nodded. “You’ve got a point there.”

  “Does his ex-wife ride bikes?” Pewter wondered.

  Mrs. Murphy swept her whiskers forward. “The ex–Mrs. Gardner is a big BMW girl. She is a woman who takes her makeup seriously.”

  “Why would he marry a woman like that?” Tucker was puzzled.

  “He was a lot younger. And she is pretty even now with all that paint on her face.” Mrs. Murphy was fair about it. “I’m not sure men think clearly about these things when they’re young.”

  Pewter quoted Harry’s work partner from the old Crozet post office. The wonderful Mrs. Miranda Hogendobber was now in her late seventies although she wasn’t advertising. “Miranda always said, ‘Marry in haste. Repent in leisure.’ ”

  They giggled as Harry rose, flicked off the lights, turned the stove down to the pilot light, pulled on her beat-up Carhartt Detroit work coat with the wool flannel lining, rummaged for her gloves. “Let’s go, kids.”

  As she opened the tack room door to the center aisle the cold hit her. It wasn’t that bad in the barn, probably mid-forties. Being in a warm place, then stepping outside, the cold was so noticeable, it took time to adjust.

  Simon, the possum, peeked over the side of the hayloft. His nest, hollowed out of a hay bale, backed to the west which helped blunt the cold, even though the barn was closed up. Remnants of old blankets and towels kept him warm, plus he could fluff up the hay and snuggle in his blanket surrounded by sweet-smelling hay.

  “I’m going to eat fallen grain. Too nasty to go out.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Mrs. Murphy called up to her odd-looking friend.

  “Try to get her to bring some cookies, will you? Anything with molasses in it.”

  “We’ll try,” Tucker promised.

  Harry slid open the barn doors, squeezed through as did the animals. “Great day!”

  She’d been so focused on her bike research she hadn’t gotten up to look around. Three inches of snow had fallen thick and fast, blown sideways by a stiff wind.

  The four ran to the porch door but the animals allowed Harry to go first. She’d make a trail for them that would be easy for them to walk in.

  Harry stomped her boots on the porch, then wiped her feet on the rug and opened the kitchen door, grateful for the warmth. Even dashing that short distance, her cheeks were red, cold. The dog and cats shook their paws.

  Hanging her coat on a peg by the door, she walked into the living room, knelt down, started crumpling paper. Then she built a good log pile, starting with a square of logs, the center open. She put the paper in that center, crisscrossed logs on top of the square, remained on her knees, jammed fatback under the newspapers. She stood up, brushed off her pants’ knees, plucked up a box of long matches, struck one, knelt down and touched the flame to the papers.

  “You know, it’s
work building a good fire,” Tucker noted.

  “Well, she won’t turn up the thermostat. The wind will drop the indoor temperature. This way we’ll stay nice and cozy.” Pewter loved her creature comforts.

  “Did the weatherman predict a storm?” Mrs. Murphy didn’t remember that.

  “ No,” Tucker replied.

  “Well, we’ve got one,” Pewter announced.

  A big diesel motor rumbled, drew louder, then cut off. The outside porch door opened and closed, the kitchen door opened. Fair stepped into the kitchen, breathed deeply.

  Harry walked over to kiss her husband. “Glad there weren’t any traffic problems.”

  “There will be.” He removed his coat. “I think I got out just in time.”

  She made him a hot cup of ginger tea, sat across from him at the kitchen table, the same table her parents had used.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “A little.” He put his hands around the cup.

  “I’ll warm up the potpie.”

  “Food like that makes winter, mmm, almost desirable.” He smiled. “How was your day?”

  She filled him in then finally got to the Ducati XDiavel.

  “Remember my old Norton?” He sipped, felt a little jolt when the ginger hit.

  “Sure do.” She then cited all the stats on the powerful Ducati motorcycle.

  “Well, tell Cooper. ’ Course, she may have already researched that herself.”

  “Fair, this murder was well thought out and I so adored that man. Seeing him crumple like that, losing such a talented, kind person, I feel awful and really angry.”

  “That’s natural. He was a wonderful man and he adored you as well. However, you are not a law enforcement officer.” Fair stopped his lecture right there.

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Ha!” all three animals said at once.

  “What torments me is what did he do to anyone? Nothing that we know about. You’d think something would have leaked out over the years. He wasn’t rich, comfortable but not rich. He was well known in his field but he wasn’t, what, a star? He would get good designing jobs but he never rubbed in his success. Anyway, there’s enough work and money in this county to go around. I can’t think he had an outraged competitor. No debts that any of us heard about and no political stuff. He’d vote but politics bored him. I certainly never heard him in an argument. Usually, he’d shrug his shoulders. He was a social drinker. Never once heard him talk about drugs and, well, he wasn’t the type. He was a good man.”

  “Yes, he was.” Fair took a deep breath. “Maybe it’s middle-age. Maybe it was always around me but I didn’t notice before. But, honey, what I see are good people getting screwed every day.”

  “Screwed, yes. Murdered, no.”

  7

  November 7, 1786

  Tuesday

  Yancy Grant inhaled the odors of delicious food. Much as he loathed the long three-day journey from Albemarle County to Richmond, ninety miles east, once he arrived at Georgina’s, a marvelous tavern with a few rooms available for special guests, a wave of contentment would wash over him. The beautiful girls, some served food, some did not, were also available. Occasionally Yancy would hire the services of one, but since his kneecap was shattered in a recent duel, pleasures became more difficult and his temper could fray with the constant pain.

  Seated across from him, Sam Udall, a financier who could supply certain functions of a bank as well as more discreet monetary exchanges, also inhaled. “Lifts the spirits.” He held up his glass of expensive French wine to his companion.

  Yancy replied in kind, although he needed to be careful since too much alcohol made him impulsive and violent. That was the reason his kneecap was shattered. He foolishly accepted the challenge to a duel from a man, Jeffrey Holloway, he considered his social inferior and therefore not a good shot. Middling men rarely achieved the refinements of horsemanship, shooting, or musical accompaniment, if so gifted, that a man of parts took for granted. Yancy considered himself a man of parts. He was. He risked his fortune to back the rebels as did Ewing Garth. Had the former colonists lost that war, they would have been hanged. But like so many men who raised regiments, paid for food, temporary housing, and firearms, the state of Virginia had barely begun to repay those large outlays of cash. Other states were even worse off, although that was hard for the Virginians to believe. When you need money and aren’t getting it, it doesn’t matter if someone in North Carolina, a state whose only marketable products were pitch, tar, and turpentine, is worse off.

  The two men pleasantly chatted. Yancy would be owing Sam a tidy sum of loaned cash come April.

  Georgina, the proprietress, glided over to them. “Yancy Grant, you live too far away. How wonderful to see you and looking so well. As for you, Sam, how could I thrive here without your wisdom?”

  “Ah, Georgina, you flatter me.” Sam nodded slightly.

  Sam and Georgina did talk business. Both impressed the other as each responded to public events without a leaning toward the philosophy of Mr. Jefferson or Mr. Adams. The difference between a strong centralized government and a looser one was not of too much concern. Profits motivated them. The concern was the unpaid debt, credit difficulties, the signs of financial insecurity in France, plus an abiding fear of England.

  Europe craved products from the new United States. Except for England, other countries wanted to deepen relationships with the former colonies, free of the economically restrictive hand of England. Merchants in England wanted favorable terms with the new country. Parliament teetered one way then the next, although the anger against Lord North, prime minister and architect of the war, diverted some attention from commerce.

  Georgina left them to chatter in peace. A new girl, Sarah, delivered their food.

  Yancy cut open his chicken pie, a plume of steam rising upward. “You know, Sam, much as I enjoy those sauces and fripperies the French can concoct, I do so love chicken pie. My mother used to make it.”

  “Solid food for the cold.” Sam savored a lamb chop standing straight up, stuffed with a thin glaze of mint jelly. Eudes, the cook and a free man of color, dazzled the clients with his specialties. An ordinary cook would have basted the lamb chop, then put a glob of green mint jelly by its side. Not Eudes. He stuffed the thick chop, stood it upright on a fine china plate, a small helping of tiny potatoes next to it, sprinkled with parsley and sitting in a light butter sauce.

  Both men enjoyed the food, the wine.

  Occasionally Deborah would serve in the afternoon but usually she did not. So great was her beauty she was reserved for the nights only and then to sing next to the fellow playing the pianoforte. But if a powerful client, new, arrived in the afternoon, usually brought by a regular customer, Deborah would appear. She made men crazy. She made Georgina money. She made herself money, too.

  The beauty walked by the two men, smiled, kept walking toward Georgina’s office.

  “Aphrodite.” Sam grinned.

  “A Venus to be sure, but I always think of the goddess as a Greek, when the Greeks were blonds, you know?”

  Sam, an educated man, laughed. “When the Romans conquered Athens they took all the beautiful ones back to Rome to teach their children perfect Greek.”

  Yancy, educated at William and Mary, had some basis in Latin, in Greek. One was not considered educated without the ability to understand Latin. Greek was desirable but Latin was essential. “Odd, is it not? That if you are upper class you don’t speak the native tongue, that’s vulgar.” He used the Latin word for common people, which transformed in English to mean still common but with a stray whiff of dirty, stupid, not worthy of consideration.

  “Well, it is. Fortunately, we are not so afflicted. The Russians speak French.” He paused. “But then everyone speaks French to an extent. It truly is the language of diplomacy.”

  “What then, Sir, is the language of finance?”

  “Ah, English. Without a doubt. The French have had rich episodes in their history, but fo
r business it’s hard to beat a practical, intelligent Englishman. Which we once were,” Sam slyly said.

  “I have my doubts about us,” Yancy glumly replied, then, not wanting to be dour, added, “If we can resolve these current monetary difficulties, I think we will be fine.”

  “Difficulties?” Sam’s eyebrows raised. “Our government has no monetary policy.”

  “Hamilton is trying.”

  “One man. And one man who seems to divide others. Some like him. Others loathe him. We need men of acumen to step up and support him as his ideas are the correct ones. Men like Gouverneur Morris.” He named a wealthy man from New York.

  “If we could just get together the men of means from Boston, from Charleston, Philadelphia, even New York, which is growing.” Yancy, hotheaded though he might be, was a solid businessman.

  Sam leaned forward. “Yes, and do you know what I really think? We’d better clean up these war debts both internally as well as foreign. We must have a unified Army and Navy. Militias won’t do.”

  “But we won the war.” Yancy was surprised.

  “My good Sir, our resources are beyond a European’s imagining. But once they truly understand, they will be back.”

  This hit Yancy. “Oh, I hope not.”

  “Think of it, Yancy. The great rivers we have depositing all that rich soil as they flow to the sea. The impossibly long seacoast and now the Ohio territory is opening, and that is vast, vast. More riches. In Europe a day or two in a coach and you are in another country. Here you can travel for weeks in a coach and you are still in the United States. And who are our neighbors?”

  “Spain to the south and England to the north. Both could attack us through their colony.” Yancy’s mind was spinning now. “And Canada is large, difficult climate but still more resources than any other foreign country.”

  “They could but England must ferry their Army across the Atlantic and then live off the land. That will be quite difficult because we will fight them as the Indians fight. They have no inkling of that, nothing. Look how they fought our glorious war for independence.”