Probable Claws

by Rita Mae Brown

“Rachel, my love, you feel such things so deeply. I had no idea. Oh yes, I knew that Bettina cared for your mother, and your mother asked her to promise to watch over you for Ewing has spoken of it many times.” Charles smiled at her. “And now you are watching over her.”

  Rachel modestly dropped her eyes, then raised them up to Maureen, who cared little for the emotion involved.

  “If you will give me time to be certain one of the stable boys can take over.”

  “DoRe has trained them. It shouldn’t take long.” Rachel wanted to clap but didn’t. “Two months?”

  “Three. I won’t free him until I have made all the arrangements with the baron. That will be months, for once we are in England I intend to enjoy London.”

  “Of course, but if there is hope, perhaps DoRe will not wait overlong to speak to Bettina about a future,” Rachel said.

  Charles glanced at the ormolu-festooned clock. “We have overstayed our welcome. You, as always, have been gracious. It’s such a pleasure to visit you and Big Rawly,” Charles fibbed, but did not stand up until Maureen did.

  His manners were impeccable, not lost on Maureen or anyone, really.

  Rachel kissed Maureen on the cheek. Charles bowed and brushed his lips over her hand. She felt quite regal.

  Driving back to Cloverfields, a glorious light breeze tossing her hair, for she put her bonnet on the seat, Charles said, “You think of everything.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I hope for the best. And I pray the Holloways and your brother will work this out.”

  “Rachel, he has no choice. It’s an heir or ruination. Clearly she has the money. She didn’t blink.”

  “What do you think a dollar is worth versus the pound?” she asked, feeling the soft leather in her hand as King David trotted along.

  “The pound is worth far more. Twenty dollars? Fifteen?”

  “Then again, a dollar in Virginia, in South Carolina. Just what is a dollar worth?”

  He grinned. “A pound, a dollar, a pittance compared to your value.”

  41

  February 20, 2017

  Monday

  The moon passed half moon heading to a dark moon. As February 20th was Presidents’ Day, a national holiday, federal workers and many others enjoyed a day off.

  Harry figured to use this to her advantage, especially in the encroaching darkness. Driving to Richmond on I-64, she remembered when people were given Lincoln’s birthday on the 12th and Washington’s on the 22nd. Schoolchildren loved two days off, as did many adults. Well, commerce first, so both men’s birthdays were rolled into one, Presidents’ Day. She considered it a gyp.

  Tucker, seated next to her in the Volvo, watched out the window as the early sunset turned the snow-covered pastures and bare trees gold, then salmon, finally red, then boom: darkness. The intrepid dog knew her human was up to something, but what? The cats, left behind, complained loudly. And Tucker knew when they returned to Crozet a book would be knocked off a shelf and desecrated or something would be pushed on the floor from the kitchen counter. The cats believed in revenge.

  Finally, Harry reached the site of the Cloudcroft construction. Parking the station wagon on a side street, easier in Richmond than in other cities, she put Tucker on a leash, grabbed bolt cutters and a mountaineers pick, shoved a small flashlight in her pocket, locked the wagon, began walking. Puffs of breath escaped their noses and mouths, little tokens of winter.

  In the left deep pocket of her heavy Filson coat, she’d jammed the bolt cutters. Given Tucker’s superior senses, Harry thought she would be a help, just in case. The other pocket held her snub-nosed .38. If anyone threatened her, once close she could take care of him; and she believed it would be a him.

  This was crazy but Harry felt she owed this to Gary. Not much traffic. No worries there. Even if they saw her, who would report her as she cut the heavy chain around the large double doors that allowed the equipment in and out? The chain, hardened, took all her strength but she got it, quickly slipped inside the crack she opened in the doors, and just as quickly shut them. She unsnapped Tucker’s leash.

  The excavation had reached all bedrock. Once the piles of dirt and debris were removed the sinking of mighty girders could begin. At least she thought that would be the process, for Gary had once told her how skyscrapers were built. Steel beams would be driven to six or eight feet, the true foundation. Construction had moved on from that, depending on the building, but she didn’t know other methods. Bedrock was all she knew. She needed to get to Cloudcroft before the debris piles were removed.

  Briskly walking to a large dirt mound, she clicked on her flashlight, took out a small pick from her inside pocket, dug in. Glass shards, different colors but mostly beer bottles, flicked out. Nothing of human remains. She believed if more had been found, say, just a finger bone, that might not be noticed or, if so, reported. Enough time had been lost with the discovery of Edward Elkins from 1984, that number again. If only she could find Gary’s missing file for 1984. If she had it she felt she would have the killer, killers, or parties responsible. She had no idea if the deaths noted, well the dates and notes, really, in the columns of the old files had all been committed by one individual, but she now believed these construction deaths were related, cleverly done. She didn’t know why, but she felt sure much of the answer might reside in these piles. Not too much in this one, so she moved all the way across to another. More glass, some old pieces of chain, tin cans, then a tooth popped out, a very large tooth.

  Tucker, on patrol, kept silent. They were alone and safe for now. Shining the flashlight, Harry stuck the tooth in her pocket. She dug some more through the frost covering the dirt, but the pile, so huge, had not frozen through or she would have had to work harder with her little mountaineers pick. The tooth spurred her. Digging further in and making a straight line of four feet, her reach, she vigorously dug. Then she saw them—some sort of bones, gleaming in the dirt. She renewed her efforts, but whatever it was, it was buried too deep for her to dislodge. She took a picture with her cellphone.

  She had what she wanted. She knew what this was about or at least what lay underneath Richmond.

  Looking around, no security guard, no one at all, she felt safe. Then again, why have a security guard for a big hole? That thought occurred to her as she climbed up the ramp to the street. Whoever was behind this was supremely confident. Well, so was she. She had a big part of the answer. Hers was a misplaced confidence. She failed to notice the small cameras mounted on top of parts of the fence and one even on top of a large yellow excavator. She knew about the cameras from that discussion in Sean’s office. But so intense was her obsession, she forgot.

  Yes, Harry had her evidence, but they had her.

  42

  February 21, 2017

  Tuesday

  Sean Rankin’s office offered a fabulous view of the James and the streets leading down to this wide, swift river. Kayakers loved it for they could live in the city, go down to the river, set off, and paddle. The falls might prove a problem for the neophyte but not the advanced. Truly, it was a beautiful river with bald eagles, great blue herons, ospreys, all manner of fishing birds and even a few fishing people, although not on a bitter day like this one.

  Marvella, body still terrific, sat next to Sean. Her cashmere dress, a shocking magenta, revealed just how good her body was.

  Leather boots completed the outfit along with a golden pin the shape of an Irish harp. Sean, buying his clothes from Paul Stuart on Madison Avenue in Manhattan, looked equally well turned out but less colorful. Both individuals loved fashion.

  With a thumb drive in his personal computer, he clicked through Russian artists.

  “I do see why this would be good for the VMFA. It compliments the Fabergé collection in the sense that this is another way into rich Russia, the sophisticated Russians who were as comfortable in Paris as they were in St. Petersburg. Have you spoken to Alex Nyerges?” Mr. Nyerges was the VMFA director.

  “Yes, he has seen the pain
tings. He is willing to mount an exhibit. The museum, now world class, intends to show us the world. It’s thrilling, really.”

  “How do you propose to get the artworks?”

  “The museum has European experts, as you know, quite strong in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. And of course, more works from those centuries remain intact. But really, Sean, there isn’t a weak department at the VMFA anymore. It truly is world class. Those individuals can call their counterparts at other museums. Most will loan the work. It’s undervalued and unknown for the most part. This will help the breakthrough to Russian art. Most people just think of icons.”

  He smiled. “They’re in for a surprise.” Then he asked, “How do you propose to get those works that are in private hands?”

  “We will need Sotheby’s for that. They really have led the way on selling Russian art and artifacts. Sotheby’s has specialists in London, New York, Moscow, Paris, even a private client group. It’s to their benefit for us to mount such an exhibit. I think they will help us reach private clients who have bought their offerings over the last few years.”

  He leaned back in the chair, then forward, popped out the thumb drive, slipped another one in. The Cloudcroft bedrock appeared, a shadowy figure with a corgi, picking at a dirt pile. The figure was clearly caught by each camera, although far away and therefore a bit fuzzy. One camera somewhat revealed Harry’s face. Her cap pulled down for warmth covered only a part of her face.

  “Could this be your friend?” he asked smoothly.

  Marvella’s stomach twisted into a tight knot. In that instant she knew Rankin was behind, at least, the disappearance of Edward Elkins, who had been found underneath what was the old Kushner Building. Something in his tone, his feigned innocence, told her. She pulled herself together, leaned forward.

  “It’s difficult to make out features but it could be. Then again, how many women could fit this image?” She prayed that was enough to allay his fears.

  “Yes.” He folded his hands together. “I’m still waiting on Dad for the exhibit confirmation. I have been working on him and I’ll get back to you.”

  As she left his sumptuous office she knew what he really said was “Help me out and I’ll help you out. Discreetly.”

  Sweat rolled down Marvella’s back like an old hot flash.

  The minute she reached home she picked up her landline. Much harder to trace the call.

  “Harry.” Her voice’s urgency alerted Harry.

  “Marvella, what’s wrong?”

  “Were you at Cloudcroft last night with your corgi?”

  A long pause followed, then “Yes.”

  “They know. Cameras. Protect yourself, Harry. I don’t know what is going on but I feel strongly that you are in danger.”

  “I could be.” Harry told the truth. “Marvella, thank you and watch out for yourself.”

  “I didn’t identify you. I did say it might be you but so many women could fit the description of that shadowy woman in the dark.”

  “You risked your exhibit.”

  “That’s irrelevant,” Marvella immediately replied. “Promise you will protect yourself and not do anything so foolish.”

  “I will. I found old bones, Marvella. Not human. Older. Much older.”

  “No good can come from old bones, no matter to whom they belonged,” Marvella said with feeling, for after all, one does not disturb the dead.

  43

  May 16, 1787

  Wednesday

  Spring, late this year, exploded. Dogwoods opened, the redbuds bloomed and bloomed longer than usual. The daffodils finished just as tulips popped up. Man and beast breathed in the delicious air, happy the last frost was finally over.

  Catherine, watching Ralston ride, stood next to Jeddie.

  “He’s stiff. His elbows are locked. Tell him to get off,” Jeddie criticized.

  “He’s not the rider you are but the horses need a bit of work. I’ve seen a lot worse.”

  “Just let me ride. I can do it with a sling. I only need one arm and I’ve walked them with this sling. I can trot and gallop.”

  “No,” she sharply replied. “That’s final. Walking, yes. The rest, no.”

  Grimacing, he stared at Ralston, his eyes narrowing. “All he thinks about is girls.”

  “Well.” She decided not to pursue that.

  “I can’t stand this.”

  “A few more weeks. They’ll fly by. Now stop complaining. Have you any ideas how we can help Yancy?”

  “Do what?”

  “Well, he’s paid off Maureen for William’s labor. Actually, he paid double. She was insisting that Yancy pay William’s value, which of course she trebled. She did not offer to pay for the loss of Black Knight. Yancy quite rightly said this was a matter for the authorities.”

  “William can’t keep Black Knight, although he could get a high price for the horse. If he’s smart and I think he is, he left the horse, started walking by foot.”

  “Jeddie, there’s been so much to do you and I haven’t been able to study this. Did William say anything to you when you worked horses together?”

  Jeddie shook his head “no,” which was the truth. “He bragged on himself. He kept telling me how he would outride me but I paid no attention.”

  “He’s left you a scar on your cheek.”

  “If I ever find him I’ll break his arms,” Jeddie hissed. “If he’d hurt Reynaldo, I would kill him.”

  “I’d help you.” She touched his shoulder. “Be careful.” As he looked at her, puzzled, she quietly said, “I don’t want Maureen’s anger to travel to you.”

  He looked at her. He knew what Maureen was capable of doing to her slaves.

  Ralston trotted back, stopped at Catherine and Jeddie, who gave him a withering look.

  “He’s such a lovely mover. Ralston, when you and Tulli wipe him down, turn him out, go to the carriage house and see if Barker O. needs a hand.”

  “Yes, Miss Catherine.” He smiled, ignored Jeddie, rode toward the stable while Jeddie watched.

  “I can go to Barker O.”

  “Let him do it. We need to sit down and figure out if we’re going to breed Queen Esther. Have you studied your bloodlines?”

  “Yes.”

  Before she could answer, the rhythmic clip-clop of two horses working in tandem drew their attention as DoRe drove to the stable. Jeddie stepped forward to hold the matched pair with his good hand.

  DoRe easily swung down, winced a bit as his one leg touched the ground. “Miss Catherine.”

  “DoRe. How good to see you and on such a beautiful day. How did you manage to slip away from Big Rawly?”

  He sighed. “She wants to know if anyone believes Sheba is behind William’s escape.”

  Sheba had been missing since October 1786. As Maureen’s lady-in-waiting she exercised her power with deviousness, greed, and endless lies. DoRe knew she was dead, but no one else did.

  “Sheba wouldn’t help anyone,” Catherine swiftly replied.

  “True.”

  “Go on to the house. Bettina will have something special. Perhaps we can all come up with something that will satisfy Maureen’s curiosity. She has lost five people in the last few years.”

  “She believes it’s a conspiracy,” DoRe solemnly reported. “She’s offered me money to spy. For now. Who knows what she’ll do next?”

  “Indeed.” Catherine nodded in agreement.

  DoRe looked at Jeddie. “Hurt?”

  “Not much. I want to ride but Miss Catherine won’t let me.”

  “She’s right.”

  “DoRe, go on, Bettina will be happy to see you,” Catherine urged him, then turned to Jeddie.

  “Tell Ralston and Tulli to unhitch the horses, wipe them down, put them in a stall. Be a good rest. And don’t use your arm, hear?”

  “I do.”

  She left him and walked toward Rachel’s house. Her sister was bent over Charles’s drafting table.

  “Look at this.” Rachel called
her over once Catherine came through the door. “Charles wants to gild, just one line on the trim between the wall and the ceiling. He wants to repeat the line on the pulpit and the lectern.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “He doesn’t want the church to look Papist, all that gilt, candles, you know.”

  “St. Luke’s is safe from excess.” Catherine folded her arms over her bosom. “DoRe’s here.” She relayed his mission.

  “She never gives up, does she?”

  “No. Do you really think Hugh will sell his title?”

  “It’s that or debtor’s prison. Charles says Hugh can’t actually vacate the title, but Jeffrey as his son, despite age, would be called lord. When Hugh dies Jeffrey becomes a baron.”

  “If Hugh dies first.”

  “Best not to look closely into the future. I have been thinking about Bettina. Until we know for certain that this arrangement has been effected, I don’t think we should upset Father. The losses from France and the uncertainty in Philadelphia capture his attention.”

  “All he has heard from the convention is Mr. Adams pushes endlessly for his idea of government, with which Father is uncertain. He fears concentrating power in a few hands. He says that’s why we fought the king. But then he thinks Jefferson’s ideas are too loose. He is deeply puzzled!”

  “Just so, Sister, we have no say, what we have created isn’t working.”

  Catherine agreed. “A tidbit of gossip enlivened the news. A very pretty young widow who serves food at her mother’s tavern seems to have caught the attention of half the delegates. She’s Patrick Henry’s cousin.”

  Rachel laughed. “I hope she has better morals.”

  Catherine laughed, too, for Henry was known for fathering many illegitimate children, a concern for his mother and, of course, the women who bore them.

  “Charles says fishing rights might be a difficult issue without a strong central government. One state can accuse another of poaching. He says a House of Parliament doesn’t mean there will be a king, but there has to be some form of representation.”

  “Yes.” Catherine shrugged. “Virginia is vast. We should have the most representatives.”