A Hiss Before Dying

by Rita Mae Brown

  Millicent Grimstead, Susan’s mother, replied, “Actually, I know what they mean.”

  “You do?” Her mother was surprised.

  “Mother, do you remember Cash Green, older than dirt, when I was little?”

  “Cash Green.” Penny’s face broke into a big smile. “That man could talk a tin ear on you. What a good soul he was. He used to tell Sam and me he was born in 1872 right here on Big Rawly and he never left. Lord, that was back in the midforties just after the war. Sam said as long as he could remember, Cash was here.”

  “He knew about the squares?” Harry asked.

  “He did. He said little squares on the tomb of someone hated called down a curse. Little crosses on the tomb of someone loved called down blessings. He used to add that this came from remembered spirits from Africa. He’d lean toward me and whisper, ‘It’s the old power of my people.’ What stories he could tell!” Millicent grinned and wished she’d had the wit to write them all down, but she had been only a child then.

  No one mentioned that Big Rawly had witnessed its share of hard luck over the many decades.

  Millicent picked up the conversation after that brief pause. “I bet Cash told the same stories to Father when he was little. Mother, did you ever hear the one about buried treasure?”

  “No, I missed that one.” She folded the blue-striped hand towel. “I seem to have missed a lot.”

  “According to Cash, and this was relayed with long pauses, drama.” Millicent grinned. “There is buried treasure on Big Rawly. Jewelry and cash. There’s buried treasure at St. Luke’s and at Ebenezer Baptist Church. Tons of treasure. That’s all he ever said.”

  “I expect every old estate in Virginia has its buried-treasure story.” Susan took the containers. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if they were all true and people found them?”

  “Sure, then there could be lawsuits about who does the treasure really belong to and why.” Harry shrugged.

  “No. If you own property, you own its history as well,” Penny firmly stated. “So if you girls find the jewelry, it’s mine. I could use a new pair of earrings.”

  Laughing, the two friends left to pick up the three animals, still sound asleep.

  Harry placed her hand on Susan’s forearm. “Wait. Let’s get in the car and start the motor. That will get them moving.”

  Turning toward the front of the house, they slipped into Susan’s Audi A7, cut on the motor. Tucker lifted her head, blinked, then ran like the Devil for the station wagon.

  “Wait. Wait for me!”

  Mrs. Murphy, hearing her friend, quickly followed suit.

  Pewter opened one eye. Then two popped open. “Don’t you dare leave without me! I’ll get even!”

  As the large gray cat hurried toward the car, her belly flab swung from side to side, which made the humans laugh. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker shot into the car when Harry got out to open the back door.

  “Hurry, Pewts,” Mrs. Murphy encouraged.

  Pewter reached the opened door. “If you left me, you’d fall apart. Humans can’t think for themselves. You need me.”

  Susan, hand on the shifter knob, remarked, “She’s saying a mouthful.”

  “Better we don’t know what she’s saying.” Harry got back in, closing the door. “I doubt it’s praise. Hey, before you drop me back home, let’s go down to Barracks Road.”

  “I am not taking you to Keller and George.” Susan named a high-end jewelry store. “You’ve mooned over that pearl necklace for years. You are never going to buy it. It costs thousands and thousands of dollars. And we all know how tight you are.” She paused. “But it really is beautiful, and given that it’s Mikimoto, every time they sell the one you want they order a new one.”

  Exhaling loudly, Harry confessed, “It’s so beautiful. But no, I want to go to Liz Potter’s.”

  “Don’t you dare get involved in a murder case. That’s another thing you can’t resist.” Susan had been at the beagling plus she knew about the brass chit since it was reported in the paper.

  “I am not getting involved.”

  “Liar, liar, your pants are on fire,” Pewter helpfully called out from the back.

  The parking lot, enormous, made it easy to find a spot, except for Christmastime. The two walked to Liz Potter’s attractive store, inviting display window, near Barnes & Noble, which always enjoyed a lot of foot traffic.

  When they pushed the door open, Liz looked up. “How are you two?”

  Susan offered, “Good. We just cleaned up the family graveyard at Big Rawly.”

  “Your ancestors thank you.” Liz came out from behind the counter to give each woman a hug. “I’ve been in contact with the Wildlife Center of Virginia. Got more brochures and stuff for our next meeting. You know the real problem is the state’s restriction on veterinary treatment of wildlife. Oh, and MaryJo wants to finally report on her research about contraband animals.”

  “We know about the vet issues,” the two said in tandem.

  “That has got to be changed. We can help so many more animals and relieve suffering. It’s just bloody stupid.” Liz grimaced. “Besides, why shouldn’t a young veterinarian like Jessica Ligon be able to branch out?”

  She was referring to the Virginia state regulations that prohibited a veterinarian from treating injured wildlife. If one finds a harmed raccoon, say, it was necessary to drive all the way to a veterinarian certified to treat same. By the time you drive the fifty miles or whatever it is, the poor animal has died in pain more often than not.

  “This is an issue that will take people in every county leaning on their delegates.” Harry knew the drill. “We’ve got to educate the public, then mobilize them. Usually an elected official is smart enough to know what side his bread is buttered on. And, of course, there are always those jerks who try to make a splash by arguing against anything no matter what it is. Has it ever occurred to anyone that democracy is an expensive, inconclusive system that just drags out suffering on every level?”

  “Harry.” Liz’s bejeweled hand flew to her breast. “I’ve never heard you speak like that.”

  “Oh, Liz, I didn’t mean to upset you. Sometimes our foolishness, the corruption, just gets to me,” Harry said quietly.

  “Who was it that said democracy is a terrible system but better than anything else?” Susan wondered.

  “Good thought.” Liz walked behind the counter. “Anything tempting?”

  “Everything.” Susan admired a gorgeous beaded bracelet from South Africa.

  “I want to buy Number Eleven.” Harry pulled her checkbook from her rear jeans pocket.

  Rarely using credit cards, Harry paid by cash or check. She figured given how often credit card information was stolen, and the time it took to rectify matters, it was best not to use them except in those cases where it is much easier, like buying an airline ticket.

  Susan, now herself surprised at her best friend, asked, “And what are you going to do with Number Eleven?”

  The bag of chits, on the counter now, had the contents emptied out as Liz sifted through the beautifully engraved pieces with the Garth name for Number Eleven.

  Susan quickly added for Liz’s comfort, “I’m not trying to kill a sale, but we all know Harry probably has tucked away the first dollar she ever earned.”

  Liz laughed. “Harry, you’re no doubt smarter than the rest of us, but I operate on the principle that you can’t take it with you.”

  “Hear. Hear,” Susan chimed in.

  “Ah.” Liz held up Number Eleven.

  Susan examined it closely. “The script is gorgeous.” Then she checked out many of the other brass rectangles. “They’re really lovely, and when you think that they conferred temporary freedom of movement, I wonder about the important errands a slave must have carried out to be given one of these. Delivering goods, news, reporting emergencies, reaching people who needed things.”

  Harry held Number Eleven in her palm, turned it over. “Looks like a little mark.” She flipped over ot
her chits, also marked. “Hmm, maybe the engraver was testing his tools before actually engraving Garth and the number.”

  The door opened.

  “Ladies,” Panto Noyes greeted them. “Susan, I just came from a meeting with your husband about the old schoolhouses. He’s behind us and I’ve contacted all the tribes, recognized and not, to write their state legislators.”

  “Great,” Susan exclaimed. “You have more contacts than anyone.”

  “Helps that I’ve been dancing in powwows since I was a kid. I do know everybody.”

  “Big plus for a lawyer, too.” Liz smiled. “What can I do for you?”

  “As always, I came in to admire that Sioux deerskin. The red-and-white quills, the design, well, it inspires me.”

  “Me, too,” Liz agreed.

  “And I came in to see if you would donate an item to our tribal fund-raiser. It’s for scholarships.” He saw the chits but didn’t comment.

  “Of course.”

  “The best year we ever had for the fund-raiser was 2007. Fifty-two thousand dollars.” He beamed. “Then came the crash. We were lucky to clear ten thousand, but bless MaryJo. She invests for the tribe, nonprofit, and she does a hell of a job. Before she came on board I did the investments. No one else would do it. But she’s a star.”

  “She must read tea leaves,” Harry joked.

  He smiled. “I wonder about that myself, but, you know, some people just have a knack.”

  “Like Warren Buffett.” Liz nodded.

  “That’s the top of the top. But around here think of guys like Mark Catron, Derwood Chase. There’s a small club of shrewd investors.”

  “Men?” Harry lifted her eyebrows.

  “Mostly. Marge Connolly, although she retired. No, there are women,” Panto quickly replied. “And younger women are moving into finance.”

  Harry paid for Number Eleven, chatted a bit more, and the two returned to the station wagon where three crabby animals awaited, the windows cracked for the cool, fresh air.

  “You should have taken us,” Pewter complained.

  None of the three thought about the wisdom of running about a busy parking lot.

  “Home,” Harry cheerily said to the three in the back.

  “Tuna better be there,” Pewter grumbled.

  “Steak.” Mrs. Murphy felt like red meat.

  Tucker, uninterested in the food discussion, leapt into the front seat by scrambling over the divider between the two front seats.

  “Tucker. You’re bigger than you look.” Harry grasped her small sun-yellow shopping bag from Liz, the interior tissue an azure blue.

  “Now that it’s the two of us, why did you buy Number Eleven?” Susan inquired.

  “I don’t know. It’s…it’s almost a compulsion. I’m putting it on a gold box chain I have and will wear it under my sweaters and shirts. I don’t know why and I paid one hundred dollars, so you know it’s a compulsion.”

  Someone else shared that compulsion, more or less. They sat in the parking lot, computer at hand in their lap in the dead of night and disabled Liz Potter’s shop alarm system. Whoever it was went in, took all the beaded bracelets, short jackets with beaded shoulder stripes, as well as the $25,000 western Sioux dress, and other things.

  October 27, 2016 Thursday

  Sitting side by side in front of Cynthia Cooper’s desk computer, Sheriff Rick Shaw and his deputy stared intently at the screen.

  He breathed out his nostrils. “It’s a match.”

  Also exhaling, Cooper nodded. “Is.”

  “Go back to the building,” he told her.

  Within seconds a pale beige brownstone with dark green shutters appeared on the screen. Next to the lighter green wooden door, a handsome brass plaque appeared. Pierre Rice Inc. was engraved in lovely script with flourishes. Underneath the name, also in script, was Private Investigator, and underneath that, also beautifully done in old script, was the number 5.

  “That number again.” Rick pushed his chair closer to the screen.

  The county had upgraded all their computers, hardware, everything electronic. The image on the large screen was crystal clear, not a hint of fuzziness.

  “Well, it is the house number on a very expensive Georgetown Street in D.C.,” Cooper reminded the sheriff.

  “I know,” he grumbled. “Still, he wore the chit around his neck. Number Five.”

  “Well, Boss, maybe he liked that he found a slave chit with his street address.”

  “Maybe, Coop, but how did he find Liz and her store? And why? According to Liz, she put pictures of the brass rectangles on the store website a month ago. Says the website is invaluable to her business.”

  Fingering the keyboard, she quietly replied, “I don’t know, but it probably isn’t insignificant. What I want to find out is how much money he made. He owned that house. A brownstone in Georgetown is hideously expensive.”

  “Anything in Washington is hideously expensive.” Rick snorted.

  “That’s my point. He probably had contracts for government work or corporate investigations. As he was not employed by the government he could use methods frowned upon by Congress, the judiciary, et cetera.”

  “You forgot executive.”

  She smiled. “No, I didn’t. The executive branch will break or bend the laws first.”

  He laughed. “Amazing what you learn as time goes by, isn’t it? But whatever he was working on, it frightened someone else. No files, no computer, no cellphone. No records found anywhere. And the FBI went through his place with a fine-tooth comb. Nothing there. Did Pierre destroy records or did someone get there before the FBI? Whatever Pierre Rice was investigating, someone or some agency had something to fear if the FBI was there.”

  “The lack of any records is unnerving. Our running down this crime might put us in the political crosshairs.” She paused. “And I don’t give a damn.”

  “Coop, the government can ruin any of us in a heartbeat. Can and would.”

  A long silence followed this. “I hate to think of my country as that criminal and corrupt.”

  “Some individuals and some agencies are. But I still believe there are honest public servants and I especially want to believe that many of them are in law enforcement.”

  Without replying, she, again, scrolled through pictures of the interior of Number Five.

  “Just in case we missed anything.”

  Rick, nose nearly on the screen, sat back when she handed him his glasses, which he snatched from her hand. “All right.”

  “I didn’t say anything. Everyone needs glasses as they get older, right?”

  He ignored the statement. The elegant living room, walls a pale peach, furniture very Sister Parrish, which is to say traditional, opulent but subtle, filled the screen. A large painting hung over the Sheraton sofa. Cooper zoomed in.

  “Jesus Christ,” Rick blurted out. “That’s a Frederic Church. My God, Coop, if that’s original—and it looks like it is—it’s worth millions.” He stopped a moment, caught his breath. “Have Darrel track the provenance. If Sotheby’s doesn’t have it, Christie’s will,” he said, citing the two top-of-the-line auction houses in the country.

  Darrel, a young officer, proved a whizz at finding anything via computer. He could also fix just about anything.

  Cooper blinked. Occasionally she would traipse with the girls to the fabulous Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, but mostly she was ignorant of the field. “Millions?”

  Nodding, Rick added, “And he had to know what he was doing. I think this is what’s called the Hudson River School of painting, but don’t hold me to it. At any rate, Church, immensely talented, painted the mountains, the rivers, he struck out on a new path when others still imitated Europe or painted wealthy Wall Street bankers, senators, and society ladies. He was a true original.”

  “The painting is beautiful and it looks like the Hudson River.” Cooper enlarged it.

  “Is. Pierre Rice clearly had taste, money, and some form of art training or passion.
”

  They then looked at other artwork, all of it American from the eighteenth century up to the twenty-first. Many of the hangings on the wall were pencil sketches for paintings. Pierre Rice started small, not quite so expensive. When he made money he began to spend very big.

  After going from room to room, Cooper returned to the front of the brownstone. “Boss, we caught a break that his maid came in, found the place immaculate but no Mr. Rice, no computer, no file cabinets, and no car. We’re lucky she called the police. They looked for unclaimed victims, missing persons and the like. Our photo of Mr. Rice, not horrific but certainly sad, proved the key. The maid knew him when the officer showed her the photo. My next question, where’s the car?”

  He grunted. “It’s bound to show up somewhere.” He glanced at a list. “You track down other private investigators in D.C. Find out who knew him. If they did, did they like him, and did they know what projects he investigated or people he investigated?”

  “Right. He has a sister in Richmond.”

  “The Richmond police will need to inform her about her brother. Has to be done in person. Then we’ll call on her. We’re lucky there is a next of kin close by. I hate to push people after they’ve heard painful news but the sooner a witness or family member talks to us, the better off we are. Time blurs memories.”

  Cooper glanced at the address. “She’s not poor, either. I think she’s an important person in the arts. I know I’ve heard that name. On Monument Avenue near the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. Finding out about the Rices is going to be very interesting.”

  “A wealthy man is shot twice in the back and left on Sugarday estate. He’s wearing a hoodie and jeans. The Number Five slave chit is hanging around his neck on a chain. The Kalergis’s heard no shots, no sign of any disturbance. And this is what bothers me, no tire tracks. Either he was chased and dropped nearby, then carried to Sugarday or killed farther away, brought to the estate, then carried into the copse. It’s hard work to do that, hard work and unusual. The ground, dry as a bone, had no tracks. Why not shoot him and leave him in his car?”

  Cooper rattled off the details on the missing vehicle, which Rick knew by now. “A black 2014 Tahoe four-by-four. Nice car. Terrible on gas, but it will go through anything. Also, a Tahoe would not elicit suspicion or interest. If he drove a BMW SUV or a Porsche he would stand out. So apart from his wealth and good taste, we know he was smart about blending in.”