“If one would pop out of there, I would.” The cat, angry, stomped out.
“Temper, temper,” Harry called out after her, which only made things worse.
She redialed the number as Murphy sat in the barn aisle, her back to Harry and her ears swept back.
“Hi, Janice. Harry Haristeen.”
“How are you?” the bright voice on the other end of the line responded.
“Pretty good. And you?”
“Great.”
“I hope you'll indulge me. I have a question. You're still editing the obituary page, aren't you?”
“Yep. Ninety-five cents a line. Five dollars for a photo.” Her voice softened. “Has, uh—”
“No. I'm curious about how Roscoe Fletcher's obituary appeared in the paper.”
“Oh, that.” Janice's voice dropped. “Boy, did I get in trouble.”
“Sorry.”
“All I can tell you is, two days ago I received a call from Hallahan Funeral Home saying they had Roscoe's body as well as the particulars.”
“So I couldn't call in and report a death?”
“No. If you're a family member or best friend you might call or fax the life details, but we verify death with the funeral home or the hospital. Usually they call us. The hospital won't give me cause of death either. Sometimes family members will put it in, but we can't demand any information other than verification that the person is dead.” She took a deep breath. “And I had that!”
“Do you generally deal with the same people at each of the funeral homes?”
“Yes, I do, and I recognize their voices, too. Skip Hallahan called in Roscoe's death.”
“I guess you told that to the sheriff.”
“Told it to Roscoe, too. I'm sick of this.”
“I'm sorry, Janice. I made you go over it one more time.”
“That's different—you're a friend. Skip is being a bunghole, I can tell you that. He swears he never made the call.”
“I think I know who did.”
“Tell me.”
“I will as soon as I make sure I'm right.”
7
The high shine on Roscoe Fletcher's car surrendered to dust, red from the clay, as he drove down Mim Sanburne's two-mile driveway to the mansion Mim had inherited from her mother's family, the Urquharts.
He passed the mansion, coasting to a stop before a lovely cottage a quarter mile behind the imposing pile. Cars parked neatly along the farm road bore testimony to the gathering within.
Raising money for St. Elizabeth's was one of Little Mim's key jobs. She wanted to show she could be as powerful as her mother.
Breezing through Little Mim's front door, Roscoe heard Maury McKinchie shout, “The phoenix rises from the ashes!”
The members of the fund-raising committee, many of them alumnae, laughed at the film director's quip.
“You missed the resurrection party, my man.” Roscoe clapped McKinchie on the back. “Lasted until dawn.”
“Every day is a party for Roscoe,” April Shively, stenographer's notebook flipped open at the ready, said admiringly.
April, not a member of the committee, attended all meetings as the headmaster's secretary, which saved the committee from appointing one of its own. It also meant that only information deemed important by Roscoe made it to the typed minutes. Lastly, it gave the two a legitimate excuse to be together.
“Where were you this time?” Irene Miller, Jody's mother, asked, an edge of disapproval in her voice since Maury McKinchie missed too many meetings, in her estimation.
“New York.” He waited until Roscoe took a seat then continued. “I have good news.” The group leaned toward him. “I met with Walter Harnett at Columbia. He loves our idea of a film department. He has promised us two video cameras. These are old models, but they work fine. New, this camera sells for fifty-four thousand dollars. We're on our way.” He beamed.
After the applause, Little Mim, chair of the fund-raising committee, spoke. “That is the most exciting news! With preparation on our part, I think we can get approval from the board of directors to develop a curriculum.”
“Only if we can finance the department.” Roscoe folded his hands together. “You know how conservative the board is. Reading, writing, and arithmetic. That's it. But if we can finance one year—and I have the base figures here—then I hope and believe the positive response of students and parents will see us through the ensuing year. The board will be forced into the twentieth century”—he paused for effect—“just as we cross into the twenty-first.”
They laughed.
“Is the faculty for us?” Irene Miller asked, eager to hitch on to whatever new bandwagon promised to deliver the social cachet she so desired.
“With a few notable exceptions, yes,” Roscoe replied.
“Sandy Brashiers,” April blurted out, then quickly clamped her mouth shut. Her porcelain cheeks flushed. “You know what a purist he is,” she mumbled.
“Give him an enema,” Maury said, and noted the group's shocked expression. “Sorry. We say that a lot on a film shoot. If someone is really a pain in the ass, he's called the D.B. for douche bag.”
“Maury.” Irene cast her eyes down in fake embarrassment.
“Sorry. The fact remains, he is an impediment.”
“I'll take care of Sandy,” Roscoe Fletcher smoothly asserted.
“I wish someone would.” Doak Mincer, a local bank president, sighed. “Sandy has been actively lobbying against this. Even when told the film department would be a one-year experimental program, totally self-sufficient, funded separately, the whole nine yards, he's opposed—adamantly.”
“Has no place in academia, he says.” Irene, too, had been lobbied.
“What about that cinematographer you had here mid-September? I thought that engendered enthusiasm.” Marilyn pointed her pencil at Roscoe.
“She was a big hit. Shot film of some of the more popular kids, Jody being one, Irene.”
“She loved it.” Irene smiled. “You aren't going to encounter resistance from parents. What parent would be opposed to their child learning new skills? Or working with a pro like Maury? Why, it's a thrill.”
“Thank you.” Maury smiled his big smile, the one usually reserved for paid photographers.
He had enjoyed a wonderful directing career in the 1980s, which faded in the '90s as his wife's acting career catapulted into the stratosphere. She was on location so much that Maury often forgot he had a wife. Then again, he might have done so regardless of circumstances.
He had also promised Darla would lecture once a year at St. Elizabeth's. He had neglected to inform Darla, stage name Darla Keene. Real name Michelle Gumbacher. He'd cajole her into it on one of her respites home.
“Irene, did you bring your list of potential donors?” Little Mim asked. Irene nodded, launching into an intensely boring recitation of each potential candidate.
After the meeting Maury and Irene walked out to his country car, a Range Rover. His Porsche 911 was saved for warm days.
“How's Kendrick?” he inquired about her husband.
“Same old, same old.”
This meant that all Kendrick did was work at the gardening center he had built from scratch and which at long last was generating profit.
She spied a carton full of tiny bottles in the passenger seat of the Rover. “What's all that?”
“Uh”—long pause—“essences.”
“What?”
“Essences. Some cure headaches. Others are for success. Not that I believe it, but they can be soothing, I suppose.”
“Did you bring this stuff back from New York?” Irene lifted an eyebrow.
“Uh—no. I bought them from BoomBoom Craycroft.”
“Good God.” Irene turned on her heel, leaving him next to his wildly expensive vehicle much favored by the British royals.
Later that evening when Little Mim reluctantly briefed her mother on the meeting—reluctant because her mother had to know everything—she s
aid, “I think I can make the film department happen.”
“That would be a victory, dear.”
“Don't be so enthusiastic, Mother.”
“I am enthusiastic. Quietly so, that's all. And I do think Roscoe enjoys chumming with the stars, such as they are, entirely too much. Greta Garbo. That was a star.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“And Maury—well, West Coast ways, my dear. Not Virginia.”
“Not Virginia,” a description, usually whispered by whites and blacks alike to set apart those who didn't measure up. This included multitudes.
Little Mim bristled. “The West Coast, well, they're more open-minded.”
“Open-minded? They're porous.”
8
“What have you got to say for yourself?” A florid Skip Hallahan glared at his handsome son.
“I'm sorry, Dad,” Sean muttered.
“Don't talk to me. Talk to him!”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Fletcher.”
Roscoe, hands folded across his chest, unfolded them. “I accept your apology, but did you really think phoning in my obituary was funny?”
“Uh—at the time. Guess not,” he replied weakly.
“Your voice does sound a lot like your father's.” Roscoe leaned forward. “No detentions. But—I think you can volunteer at the hospital for four hours each week. That would satisfy me.”
“Dad, I already have a paper route. How can I work at the hospital?”
“I'll see that he does his job,” Skip snapped, still mortified.
“If he falters, no more football.”
“What?” Sean, horrified, nearly leapt out of his chair.
“You heard me,” Roscoe calmly stated.
“Without me St. Elizabeth's doesn't have a prayer,” Sean arrogantly predicted.
“Sean, the football season isn't as important as you learning: actions have consequences. I'd be a sorry headmaster if I let you off the hook because you're our best halfback . . . because someday you'd run smack into trouble. Actions have consequences. You're going to learn that right now. Four hours a week until New Year's Day. Am I clearly understood?” Roscoe stood up.
“Yes, sir.”
“I asked you this before. I'll ask it one last time. Were you alone in this prank?”
“Yes, sir,” Sean lied.
9
A ruddy sun climbed over the horizon. Father Michael, an early riser, enjoyed his sunrises as much as most people enjoyed sunsets. Armed with hot Jamaican coffee, his little luxury, he sat reading the paper at the small pine breakfast table overlooking the church's beautifully tended graveyard.
The Church of the Good Shepherd, blessed with a reasonably affluent congregation, afforded him a pleasant albeit small home on the church grounds. A competent secretary, Lucinda Payne Coles, provided much-needed assistance Mondays through Fridays. He liked Lucinda, who, despite moments of bitterness, bore her hardships well.
After her husband, Samson, lost all his money and got caught with his pants down in the bargain in an extramarital affair, Lucinda sank into a slough of despond. She applied when the job at the church became available and was happily hired even though she'd never worked a day in her life. She typed adequately, but, more important, she knew everyone and everyone knew her.
As for Samson, Father Michael remembered him daily in his prayers. Samson had been reduced to physical labor at Kendrick Miller's gardening business. At least he was in the best shape of his life and was learning to speak fluent Spanish, as some of his coworkers were Mexican immigrants.
Father Michael, starting on a second cup of coffee—two lumps of brown sugar and a dollop of Devonshire cream—blinked in surprise. He thought he saw a figure sliding through the early-morning mist.
That needed jolt of caffeine blasted him out of his seat. He grabbed a Barbour jacket to hurry outside. Quietly he moved closer to a figure lurking in the graveyard.
Samson Coles placed a bouquet of flowers on Ansley Randolph's grave.
Father Michael, a slightly built man, turned to tiptoe back to the cottage, but Samson heard him.
“Father?”
“Sorry to disturb you, Samson. I couldn't see clearly in the mist. Sometimes the kids drink in here, you know. I thought I could catch one in the act. I am sorry.”
Samson cleared his throat. “No one visits her.”
“She ruined herself, poor woman.” Father Michael sighed.
“I know. I loved her anyway. I still loved Lucinda but . . . I couldn't stay away from Ansley.” He sighed. “I don't know why Lucinda doesn't leave me.”
“She loves you, and she's working on forgiveness. God sends us the lessons we need.”
“Well, if mine is humility, I'm learning.” He paused. “You won't tell her you saw me here, will you?”
“No.”
“It's just that . . . sometimes I feel so bad. Warren doesn't visit her grave, and neither do the boys. You'd think at least once they'd visit their mother's grave.”
“They're young. They think if they ignore pain and loss, it will fade away. Doesn't.”
“I know.” He turned, and both men left the graveyard, carefully shutting the wrought-iron gate behind them.
At the northwest corner of the graveyard a massive statue of the Avenging Angel seemed to follow them with his eyes.
“I just so happen to have some of the best Jamaican coffee you would ever want to drink. How about joining me for a cup?”
“I hate to trouble you, Father.”
“No trouble at all.”
They imbibed the marvelous coffee and talked of love, responsibility, the chances for the Virginia football team this fall, and the curiousness of human nature as evidenced by the false obituary.
A light knock on the backdoor got Father Michael out of his chair. He opened the door. Jody Miller, one of his parishioners, wearing her sweats as she was on her way to early-morning field hockey practice, stood in the doorway, a bruise prominent on her cheek and a red mark near her eye that would soon blacken.
“Father Michael, I have to talk to you.” She saw Samson at the table. “Uh—”
“Come on in.”
“I'll be late for practice.” She ran down the back brick walkway as Father Michael watched her with his deep brown eyes. He finally closed the door.
“Speaking of curious.” Samson half smiled. “Everything is so important at that age.”
It was.
Five minutes after Samon left, Skip Hallahan pulled into Father Michael's driveway with Sean in the passenger seat. Reluctantly, Sean got out.
“Father!” Skip bellowed.
Father Michael stuck his head out the backdoor. “Come in, Skip and Sean, I'm not deaf, you know.”
“Sorry,” Skip mumbled, then launched into Sean's misdeed before he'd taken a seat.
After Skip ranted for a half hour, Father Michael asked him to leave the room for a few minutes.
“Sean, I can see the humor in calling in the obituary. I really can. But can you see how you've upset people? Think of Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I'm getting the idea,” Sean replied ruefully.
“I suggest you call on Mrs. Fletcher and apologize. I also suggest you call Janice Walker, editor of the obituary page at the paper, and apologize, and lastly, write a letter of apology and send it to ‘Letters to the Editor.' After that, I expect the paper will take your route away from you.” The good priest tried to prepare him for retaliation.
Sean sat immobile for a long time. “All right, Father, I will.”
“What possessed you to do this? Especially to your headmaster.”
“Well, that was kind of the point.” Sean suppressed a smile. “It wouldn't have been nearly as funny if I'd called in, uh, your obituary.”
Father Michael rapped the table with his fingertips. “I see. Well, make your apologies. I'll calm down your father.” He stood up to summon Skip Hallahan.
Sean stood also. “Thanks, Father.”
“Go on. Get out of here.
” The priest clapped the young man on the back.
10
Every hamlet and town has its nerve centers, those places where people congregate to enjoy the delights of gossip. Not that men admit to gossiping: for them it's “exchanging information.”
A small group of men stood outside the post office on the first Monday in October in buttery Indian-summer sunshine. The Reverend Herbert Jones, Fair Haristeen, Ned Tucker, Jim Sanburne—the mayor of Crozet—and Sandy Brashiers spoke forcefully about the football teams of Virginia, Tech, William and Mary, and, with a shudder, Maryland.
“Maryland's the one to beat, and it hurts me to say that,” the Reverend Jones intoned. “And I never will say it in front of John Klossner.”
John, a friend of Herb's, graduated from Maryland and never let his buddies forget it.
Another one of the “in” group, Art Bushey—absent this morning—had graduated from Virginia Military Institute, so there was no reason for argument there. Poor VMI's team couldn't do squat, a wretched reality for those who loved the institution and a sheer joy for those who did not.
“This is the year for Virginia, Herb. I don't care how hot Maryland has been up to now.” Sandy Brashiers crossed his arms over his chest.
“Say, why aren't you in school today?” Herb asked.
“I've worked out a schedule with King Fletcher, so I don't go in until noon on Mondays.” Sandy breathed in. “You know, I love young people, but they'll suck you dry.”
“Too young to know what they're asking of us.” Fair toed the gravel. “Now before we get totally off the subject, I want to put in a good word for William and Mary.”
“Ha!” Jim Sanburne, a huge man in his middle sixties, almost as tall as Fair but twice as broad, guffawed.
“Give it up, Fair.” Ned laughed.
“One of these days the Tribe will prevail.” Fair, an undergraduate alumnus, held up the Victory V.
“How come you don't root for Auburn? That's where you went to veterinary school,” Sandy said.
“Oh, I like Auburn well enough.”
Murder on the Prowl Page 5