A Hiss Before Dying

by Rita Mae Brown

  He shook his head, then closed the door.

  “All the good men are taken,” Liddy lamented.

  “Oh, someone will come along. Just don’t make the mistake I did,” Bumbee counseled, voice softer.

  “But there must have been good times?” Liddy inquired.

  “Well—yes.” Bumbee laughed and the others laughed with her.

  January 3, 1786 Tuesday

  Although noon, the dark sky gave no hope of relief from the snow, which started New Year’s Eve, light enough, then turned into a thumping snowstorm that wouldn’t end. Six men ate corn bread, freshly churned butter, fried chicken, diced potatoes in cream with parsley, and green peas preserved from the summer in a tavern blessed with a gifted cook. Preserving fruit proved far easier than vegetables, but some vegetables were put up. Always tasted flat. Some of the luncheon customers drank French wine. Yancy Grant, a horseman from Albemarle County, and his impromptu tablemate downed coffee, the best coffee in Richmond.

  “What brings you to Richmond, Sir?” Yancy asked Milton Sevier.

  The man, close to Yancy’s age, middle-aged, a full head of hair, no powdered wig, reached for corn bread. “Had I known this storm would prove so severe I would have waited to come to Richmond. Land contingent to my own has become available and I hope to work out terms with the seller’s attorney, based here instead of Williamsburg. The seller has become befuddled with age and his daughter does not feel she is adept at such a large business decision.”

  “Might I ask what county, Sir?”

  “Appomattox. And you?”

  “Albemarle.”

  Milton nodded. “Well, we will both need prayers to Hermes to arrive home safely.”

  Just then the door opened and a young, handsome African man, bundled up, snow on his shoulders and cap, called out to the proprietress, “Miss Georgina. River’s freezing.”

  Georgina, well padded, still attractive, nodded to Binky, who removed his cap, disappearing back to the kitchen. Wearing a lacy mobcap on her suspiciously red hair, Georgina stopped at each table. Usually the room was jammed for a midday meal, but now it was so quiet the men could hear one another at the separate tables.

  Arriving at Yancy and Milton’s table, she beamed. “Two of my favorite gentlemen have met at last. Should travel become difficult, I will halve the rate for rooms. No one can control the weather and if you stay at Yorktown Victory Inn or down to Grace Street at Charlton’s Ordinary, the cost may be prohibitive if rooms are available. I have a feeling many a man is stranded today. I had hoped we’d endure some snow, that the worst of this would stay west of us, but no, snow, snow, snow.”

  “You are most kind.” Yancy smiled up at a lady he’d known over the years. “I will avail myself of your generosity.”

  Yancy had stayed at a small rooming house, but left this morning, thinking the storm would finally pass.

  “And I thank you, Madam, but I am staying with my sister and her husband. I do think I would enjoy myself here, though.” He smiled broadly.

  Georgina operated a fashionable house of pleasure. The tavern part of the house allowed businessmen to make appointments with other businessmen, thereby covering their tracks, should their wives wonder. Of course, wives were not to know such places even existed, but they did, pretending they did not.

  The less gorgeous girls acted as waitresses for midday meals. Certainly attractive, but often not as truly stunning as the ladies reserved for the evening guests, they helped Georgina turn a profit.

  “We both have distance to travel. Two days if all goes well. I came down by the river. What of you, Sir?” Yancy asked the round-faced fellow.

  “Yes. Always easier to travel downriver than up, but the roads are impassable. Now I find the older I get the less I like being jostled in a coach.”

  “Quite.” Yancy finished a delicious chicken breast. “May I inquire as to your business?”

  “Tobacco. The land now available is good tobacco land. There are fingers of soil reaching almost up the James, which support the crop. Yes, the best land is in our southern counties, but I have been most fortunate in my Burley tobacco.”

  “Let us pray,” Yancy said with a chuckle, “that our former adversaries never lose their taste for Virginia tobacco.”

  “Or the French, the German principalities, the Swedes, and you will be surprised to learn I do a brisk business with Poland.”

  “I am, Sir, indeed.”

  “Coffeehouses now fill every European city and those gentlemen love to sip their coffee, smoke our tobacco, and discuss politics.”

  “Our world is changing. I think perhaps we Virginians no longer discuss politics with the fervor we did before the war. We should, you know.”

  “Yes. Banking is chaos. And I feel strongly that monies must be able to move freely between the states, between banks, between countries, really. As to goods, the same. It seems to me that everyone is so uncertain that no one can move forward.”

  “I quite agree.”

  “Mr. Grant, may I ask of your business?”

  “Horses, Sir. Also barley, corn, oats. All is well until Mother Nature refuses to cooperate. These last years have proven good for crops. I am as dazed as every man concerning our political difficulties. Prices for grains fluctuate sometimes wildly, as do shipping costs. I try to sell close to home, and even there people are pulling back. Fortunately, I can store any excess, but for how long?”

  “We are all in the same boat, are we not?”

  “Yes, yes. I had hoped to create more stability through marriage. I was drawing close to Francisco Selisse’s widow. I knew them both well and after the murder I did what I could to be of service to her. She simply cannot run that large an estate and I fear her slaves have taken advantage of her.”

  “All of Virginia, no, all of the original thirteen know of that murder. And the killers were never found. Of course, the estate— Old Rawly, is it not?” When Yancy nodded, Milton continued, “Is a large responsibility but I thought it had been well run.”

  “It had. Francisco brooked no interference nor laziness. He babied his wife, just babied her, so when he was killed, she was helpless except for her lady-in-waiting, a slave called Sheba. It is my thought that this woman truly controls the estate.”

  Milton’s brow wrinkled. “It would not be the first time. People can exert strange power over one another, regardless of station. But did the lady not remarry with somewhat indecent haste?”

  Yancy breathed deeply. “To a man almost half her age. Handsome. A carpenter’s son. Between Jeffrey Holloway and Sheba I think Mrs. Selisse, I can’t call her Holloway, will come to ruin. The man knows nothing. Perhaps he could build you a cabinet but run a large estate, no. She will be bankrupt in a few years’ time, mark my words.”

  “I do hope not, Mr. Grant, but I fear this may apply to many of us if we can’t straighten out the political morass in which we find ourselves.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Yancy, who himself suffered financial reverses, not that he wished anyone to know. “How do you find your beef, Sir? This chicken is excellent.”

  “Wonderful. Georgina excels at pleasures.” Milton allowed himself a double-edged statement.

  They finished their meal with pound cake nestled in a little pouf of raspberry sauce for dessert. As Milton took his leave, Yancy wished him success with his land transaction and hoped to see him in the future. As for himself, this storm would delay his meeting with a gentleman, Sam Udall, he hoped would extend him funds against his land holdings. He also hoped he could find a way to discredit Jeffrey Holloway and make Maureen his own.

  Not only had the mistress of Big Rawly shocked him by marrying a pretty boy far beneath her station, she had sold her young mare, Serenissima, to Catherine Schuyler. Francisco bred the mare, she was not quite one year of age when sold. He had a good eye, the late Francisco. Yancy had offered Maureen a good sum. He wanted to train and race Serenissima. Instead, the lady sold the horse to Catherine for the unbelievable sum of s
even thousand dollars. Seven thousand dollars. Yancy suspected Sheba was behind keeping the mare from him. She, no doubt, received some money, as well. Seven thousand dollars. Did Sheba use Jeffrey as a cat’s paw? He knew Jeffrey had called upon Catherine to discuss horses, which sounded Yancy’s alarm. Jeffrey Holloway barely knew one end of a horse from another. Jeffrey was not yet married to Maureen. What he knew was that Maureen did not sell him the mare. As for Catherine, he bore her no ill will. She was a consummate horsewoman.

  Once in the room, clean, one wooden chair, one high bed, one sturdy desk, a decent woven rug on the floor, he dropped in the chair. The fireplace, though small, kept the room warm enough, a pile of cut logs near it.

  The flickering lantern was needed as the sky darkened. More snow as he looked out from the second story down below to the large yard, stables. The weather vane even held inches of snow, frozen.

  He would try to secure a loan when all this snow, wind, cold diminished. He had to hang on until springtime, when he knew his horses could win some races. And he had to hang on for his revenge against Jeffrey Holloway.

  October 25, 2016 Tuesday

  Harry stared at the case filled with original jewelry, beaded belts, handmade items, some heirlooms, gorgeous Plains Indian clothing, saddlebags, other treasures. “Liz, where do you find these things, especially the beadwork items? These bracelets and belts are incredible. The colors of the beads seem saturated.”

  “South Africa and our own west. Each tribe has its own way of doing things. The Crow, the Sioux, the Flatheads, the Crees, the Cherokees. Everyone has their style just as the tribes do in South Africa. Such painstaking, beautiful work.”

  Harry moved to another glass case, then stopped abruptly. “Where did you get this?”

  “You know what it is?”

  “I do.” Harry pointed to a brass rectangle with a large 9 in the middle and Garth in script, ornate, underneath.

  “Hootie Henderson brought that in. Actually, he brought a handful. Look.” She pulled out a drawer and took out a small leather bag, emptying the passes on top of the counter. “Fabulous, aren’t they?” Hootie, an older farmer, had cleaned out his attic in a worker’s house once on Cloverfields in its prime.

  “Did Hootie say how he came by these slave passes?”

  “Found them in the attic wall upstairs. He put up new insulation, found this, found some old accounting books. He figured no one would pay for the accounting books but they might buy these, as they really are pretty and the history means so much.”

  Harry allowed Liz to pour some of the passes into her cupped hands. “I wonder who wore them or kept them safe in a deep pocket.”

  “Garth’s people. You know, I hate to see things like this stored away at a museum, only brought out for special shows. It is our history. I think more of us should be part of it. We may have different viewpoints but we share it,” Liz declared with feeling.

  “Even white people? You wouldn’t be offended if I wore one?” Harry was fascinated.

  “No. I have one.” Liz pulled up her necklace with the pass, Number Seven. “Lucky seven.” She paused, then continued. “It’s history—something we should never forget,” she repeated, emphasized. “I know you’d never think of it as mere ornamentation.”

  “Has anyone bought one?” Harry felt her heart beating faster.

  “Last week a well-dressed fellow bought one. He knew what it was.”

  “And was he African American?”

  “As African American as I am. We had a good talk about it all. Obviously well educated, and I got the feeling rich, rich and important.”

  “Liz, I must call Coop. You read in the paper about the unidentified man found at Sugarday?”

  “Yes. Strange, really, that anyone would be out there.”

  “Liz, do you remember the number you sold your rich customer?”

  “Number Five,” Liz answered instantly.

  Harry pulled out her phone, reached Cooper, and Liz listened, mouth agape.

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “I can’t either, and it took a minute for it to register. She’s coming over…well, you heard, to see if you can identify him.”

  “I don’t have to go to the morgue, do I?” Liz looked ashen.

  “No. But try to remember everything that you can.”

  The two sat quietly behind the counter. Within fifteen minutes Cooper sailed through the door, as Liz’s shop was in Barracks Road Shopping Center and the detective had been just on the county line.

  Cities and counties operate separate governances as well as separate law enforcement agencies. Liz’s shop was in the city and therefore under the protection of the Charlottesville police. Cooper, a deputy in the sheriff’s department, Albemarle County, had every right to question Liz, as the body was discovered in the county. As it was, the two departments cooperated as opposed to engaging in useless competition. One would be surprised at how much needed to be covered in both jurisdictions, most of it having to do with traffic and domestic violence.

  Liz stood up. “Cooper, what can I do?”

  Gently, the tall blonde woman put her cellphone on the counter. “Now, Liz, this isn’t too bad. Don’t worry. He hadn’t been dead long. Do you recognize this man?”

  Liz gasped. “He’s the one who bought the chit, the pass.”

  “Can you tell me anything? Even the smallest detail may prove useful.”

  Liz repeated what she had told Harry, who remained quiet.

  “Do you remember what he wore?”

  “Not that sweatshirt. He was in a good suit, expensive. He wore a gorgeous silk rust-colored tie that was exquisite. I asked him where he bought it and he said Ben Silver in Charleston, South Carolina. He knew which beaded bracelets and belts were from South Africa and which were North American. He also knew, and this surprised me, that the deerskin fringe dress behind me on the wall, dyed quills on the top and the sleeves, as from the last quarter of the nineteenth century. He recognized the design, knew it was Sioux. He pegged the price at $25,000 without asking me. I thought at first he was a collector. He did mention, not to make a point, that he worked in fine art. He was somewhat acquainted with American tribal work but declared he was no expert. He was based in D.C., traveled everywhere, and loved seeing Native art as well as Rubens. Knew the high-class galleries in the west, especially Santa Fe. A nice fellow. I thought, anyway.”

  “Liz, you’ve been helpful.”

  “You don’t know who he is? No missing persons or stuff like that coming through the department?”

  “No, and given how you described him and his appearance, that is doubly strange.” Coop turned off her phone.

  “Rich people don’t disappear unnoticed,” Liz flatly stated.

  Cooper said, “Maybe he wasn’t rich.”

  “I can tell,” Liz declared. “I need to read a customer the minute they walk through that door.”

  “Never thought of that,” Harry replied. “And you’re still friends with me. My purchases are modest.”

  Liz smiled, a relief from her surprise at having talked with a man subsequently murdered. “Your friendship is priceless.”

  Harry put her arm around Liz’s waist and squeezed. “Coop, what now?”

  “Thanks to Liz, I’ll call the Ben Silver shop. They may remember him if he visited in person. But if he shopped online, I can track down rust ties.”

  “Thousands of transactions. Lots of rust ties.” Harry sighed. “You’d think someone would know who this man was. Did he say why he was here?”

  Liz shook her head. “No. I got the impression he was simply killing time. He did say he had family from here, but they dispersed after 1865. He bought the Number Five and left.”

  After Cooper left, Harry stayed back for a few minutes. “You okay?”

  “I am. I’m a bit shocked that he was or is the victim, but who knows, Harry? We’re here one minute and gone the next.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  “It is high
ly irregular that a man like that would not be reported missing unless his business was, shall we say, irregular?”

  “Like drugs?” Harry replied.

  “Yes, but I didn’t feel that. I can’t say that I have drug radar, but sometimes one does get a feeling. I almost always know if someone is gay. I don’t know why. I’m not. I felt he was gay. Subtle. But it wasn’t that. I just had the sense that maybe his business wasn’t entirely straightforward, I don’t know.”

  “Your husband would be surprised.”

  Liz laughed. “Oh, I don’t know. Andy has gotten used to me being a maverick. Actually, stay here while I call him.”

  Andy picked up the phone, listened intently to his wife.

  “Honey, you like good clothes. Tell me about Ben Silver.”

  “English goods, Scottish cashmere sweaters, everything is top drawer. Low-key. Quiet money, that sort of thing.”

  “Your kind of style.” She smiled.

  “I have a Ben Silver cashmere sweater that is eleven years old and isn’t worn thin. Looks great.”

  “How is it I didn’t know you shopped there?”

  “Liz, you did. I get the catalogues.”

  “Oh. I’d better pay more attention to men’s catalogues.” She thought for a minute. “But I have a husband who can dress himself, unlike so many women.”

  “And I have a wife who can undress her husband.”

  “Andy.”

  He laughed. “See you later, sweetheart.”

  She clicked off her phone. “That man. Get Fair to go online and see if he likes the merchandise.”

  “Will.”

  “Harry, consider it gathering information. If the man spends money you aren’t going to wind up in the poorhouse.”

  All Harry’s friends knew money gathered mold in her purse.

  —

  Later that night, Harry and Fair sat before his enormous computer screen. Given his profession, he needed it and he spent thousands on that computer. At Ben Silver’s website, the goods or furnishings if properly described in nineteenth-century terms, were outstanding, very male, very understated.

  Fair lingered over a silk-and-wool jacket with a pale aqua windowpane pattern over the basic color.