Rick slapped his thighs, stood up. “Let’s get cracking. And let’s hope this doesn’t leak into the media.”
“They’ll broadcast that we’ve ID’ed the body.”
He moaned a bit. “Which means your neighbor will be hot on the trail. Do what you can to keep Harry out of it.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He stopped at the door and smiled. “Sometimes I think finding the killer or killers is easier than keeping Harry Haristeen out of the picture. She has more curiosity than her cats.”
“They’re more sensible,” Cooper replied.
They both laughed as Rick left her office.
January 15, 1786 Sunday
Sweat trickled down Charles’s brow. As St. Luke’s continued to raise money for a proper church, the congregants worshipped in a sturdy, large log cabin, a potbellied stove smack in the middle of the center aisle so as to distribute heat as evenly as possible. Except it wasn’t possible, and Charles and Rachel’s pew stood too near the stove. Those in the back of the cabin shivered.
The pastor had given a rousing sermon on the need for unity, for all Christians to work together. The men especially knew this was about the failing Articles of Confederation, which prompted one argument after another.
The women, while not uninterested, had no vote in the matter. Given their husbands’ businesses, they certainly heard about the failures.
The choir sang a last hymn, the congregants filed out as the lovely song ended. The cabin had a large vestibule, a necessity given all the pews in the worship space.
Charles, raised Church of England, and his wife, Rachel, raised an Episcopalian which was, more or less, an American version of the Church of England, wound up at this Lutheran church thanks to Charles’s commission to design it. The more the young couple learned about Martin Luther, about the tenets of this faith, the more they were attracted to it, until both joined St. Luke’s as communicants.
Crowding into the vestibule, everyone spoke of their trials during the everlasting storm.
Karl Ix, who had been a Hessian prisoner-of-war with Charles and now lived and worked at Cloverfields, enthusiastically spoke with a group of other Hessian former prisoners. These men escaped, but the colonials, as they were then called, rarely hunted them down. Manpower was scarce during the Revolution, and if a farmer found a strapping fellow he didn’t inquire too closely about his broad German accent. The same was true of the Italians, and once the war ended, they, too, remained to form St. Mary’s Catholic Church. Virginia benefitted from these Europeans who grasped freedom when they could. Given that many were highly skilled, they found ready employment when times were good. They also learned to work side by side with slaves who excelled at a trade. It made for an interesting combination.
“We have got to petition the state to build roads, good roads.” Karl clapped his hand on Gunther Swartzman’s back.
“Ya. Ya, but where’s the money?” Gunther agreed totally with Karl.
“That’s the problem. We have engineers, we have men who want to work but all we hear from our delegates is how poor we are. Is New York this poor or Pennsylvania with rich Philadelphia?”
“Ah, Philadelphia.” Charles smiled. “They managed to make money while occupied and make money after the British withdrew. We’d better pay attention to those Quakers.”
The others laughed, but most Quakers did succeed at any form of business. The Quakers in Virginia, not as numerous as those in Pennsylvania, suffered during the war since they did not believe in war or violence. They persevered and slowly were making their way back into society.
“If a man fails at business and is a Quaker, do they not reject him?” Michael Taylor, looking a bit too thin, asked.
“They do. They do. Perhaps that’s what spurs a man to succeed against all odds.” Gunther smiled as Big Billy Bosum joined them.
Nearing thirty, the tall fellow had served in the American Navy but was sent to a French ship as an exchange sailor, a kind of noncommissioned officer liaison. He learned a great deal, as did the Frenchman, on the U.S. ships. As the ships were built in different state ports those states petitioned the new government for some repayment, some help to bolster faltering state budgets. No monies were forthcoming and states fought one another in the national legislature. The congressmen barely worked with one another, each state trying to get what it could for itself alone. Things were going from bad to worse.
Charles filled him in. “We were talking about building roads.”
“Roads. Ships!” Billy raised his voice. “Every year the firepower increases, the accuracy increases. The French are building more ships. The English intend to encircle the globe. We do nothing. We have nothing!”
This provoked a full discussion concerning the lack of central leadership. Each state could commission an Army and a Navy, but not the national Congress, which was, however, the only body that could declare war.
As the men deliberated this mess, the women spoke of Maureen Selisse’s continuing problems with her people, as they referred to the slaves.
“Well, I heard another woman ran off. Sheba caught her stealing pearls,” Jutta Rogan declared. “Not that I believe it.”
“How can you?” Billy’s wife, Lillian, replied. “First of all, no woman over there at Big Rawly would be stupid enough to steal anything.”
The others nodded.
Rachel innocently asked, “Who was it that ran off?”
“Mignon,” Jutta answered. “The little woman, tiny like a house wren, youngish, I’d say. Certainly younger than Maureen, who wants us all to believe she’s still twenty-eight.”
The others laughed.
“Maybe a woman is only as old as the man she marries.” Rebecca Smythers unwound her scarf for the small stove made the vestibule comfortable unlike the big potbellied stove inside.
The room, filled with cherrywood’s sweet burning odor, proved more pleasant than the big interior room. Chairs lined the walls and many took advantage of them, the elderly women being seated first.
“He is a handsome young man,” Jutta wistfully remarked.
Gunther Swartzman’s wife smiled, looking at Rachel. “What is it you horsemen say? Your sister says it, pretty…” She paused.
Rachel filled in the expression. “Pretty is as pretty does.”
—
As the ladies enjoyed one another’s company, Catherine, John, and Ewing Garth were engaged in similar discussions at the small clapboard Episcopal church east of Ivy Creek, on the high hill that looked down on the creek.
As it had taken this long for the rutted roads to be somewhat passable, business proved a lively discussion just as it was at St. Luke’s. The ladies did not refer to a missing slave from Big Rawly, as all were too excited that Elizabeth Hart had become engaged to Roger Davis, a young man on the way up politically. Everyone declared it a brilliant match.
As the churches throughout Albemarle County were filled with people glad to get out finally, Mignon slipped away from Cloverfields.
Bumbee, Bettina, Ruth, Grace, Liddy, and the other women provided her with layers of clothing, plus a sturdy pair of shoes, as hers had been ruined in the blizzard. Bettina wrapped biscuits and cold ham in a dish towel along with a small cup so the runaway could drink water. Father Gabe gave her a good knife.
They watched her as she made her way down the steep wooded path to the creek.
“I hope she makes it to Richmond. There’s enough people there that she can disappear. Maybe she can get on a boat bound for Philadelphia,” Bumbee murmured.
“No point heading north. They’ll be looking for that. Charleston, that would be good, or Savannah. Work at a shop down by the ships,” Bettina wisely said.
“That’s a long way,” Father Gabe quietly replied.
“I wish I could have given her a chit,” Serena, who also helped make extra food, said.
Bettina quickly replied, “And if she’s caught, we would all be in trouble. Mr. Garth would be questioned. We would b
e questioned and the constable, in particular, would blame us. Serena, think.”
“Yes, Bettina.”
The powerful cook softened for a moment. “Chile, much as we want to help someone, we have to stick together first. Always think of Cloverfields.”
“I pray she makes it. I fear she won’t,” Ruth whispered.
“And if she doesn’t?” Serena’s eyebrows raised.
“You know as well as I do. She will be returned to Maureen and she will be dead within a year. An accident, of course.” Bumbee’s voice was sharp. “I pray that someday, some way, I will be able to kill Sheba and Maureen for what they did to Ailee.” Her bosom heaved. “I pray for vengeance.”
“Ah, Bumbee, vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.” Father Gabe touched her arm.
“The Lord is mighty slow,” Bumbee grumbled.
October 31, 2016 Monday
Marvella Rice Lawson, informed of her brother’s murder Friday by the Richmond chief of police, sat on her divan, hands folded. The fact that the chief of police personally delivered the news bore testimony to how important the Lawsons were. Marvella’s husband, Tinsdale, was partner in one of the most powerful law firms in the Mid-Atlantic. The Lawsons entertained on a lavish scale and were entertained in turn by Virginia’s governor, her two senators, the mayor of Richmond, and other people of note.
Rick sat across from the elegant woman, late fifties, as did Cooper, notebook in hand.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Lawson,” Rick opened.
“Of course. Anything I can do to assist in finding my brother’s murderer, I want to do it.” She spoke with the precision of a well-educated woman who moves in the highest circles.
“Did he ever discuss his business with you?” Rick asked.
“Sometimes after a job had ended, but usually, no. He would tease me and say what I didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me. Now I think perhaps he wasn’t teasing.” She leaned back slightly as her maid entered with a tray of tea and shortbread cookies. As Rick and Cooper were on duty, they couldn’t drink liquor, but tea sounded good on a cold Halloween day.
“Did he ever seem fearful to you?”
“Pierre?” Her eyebrows raised. “Fearful, no. Foolhardy, well, yes.”
“In what way?” Rick pressed.
“He knew how to spend money.” She inhaled. “In his defense, he bought beautiful things and the paintings have accrued in value. We often argued about art, especially art.” The salmon cashmere sweater she wore offset her skin tone, as did her lipstick. Elegant enameled Tiffany barrel earrings, royal blue, added to her subdued glamour.
“Any special reason?” Rick paused. “We have seen the interior of his Georgetown house, and yes, there is impressive art on the walls. The department up there, D.C., videoed a walking tour of his home for us.”
She smiled. “He had an eye. Not something you expect to find in a private investigator. I was the art history major. He majored in business. We were both at Howard. I wanted to go to William and Mary, but Daddy said, ‘Why deal with white people? Put all your energy into your studies. Howard.’ And Daddy was right for the time Pierre and I were at university. I digress. I’m not quite myself. I loved my brother very much and I can’t understand—” She stopped before the tears came.
Rick said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but we don’t want to waste a minute. The more we find out, the closer we may come to apprehending whoever did this. Is it possible someone was furious over a painting? The artwork in his apartment is astonishing.”
She smiled a bit. “Millions. He built such an impressive collection and he started small. Do I think someone killed him over a Thomas Hart Benton? No. You can see by what art interests me that we differed somewhat. Hence the not really arguments but lively discussions.”
“He must have met many rich people,” Rick simply stated.
“Pierre could get along with most anyone. Even as a child. He was two years older, he had an entertaining way of observing events and people. As for his art collection, we took classes together. He had an interest but declared that men don’t go into art history. Hence the business major.”
“How did he wind up as a private investigator?”
She laughed. “He liked business, he liked politics, and in his senior year he worked on a local campaign. That’s when he discovered that politicians and businessmen are two hands washing each other. The corruption intrigued him, especially how congressmen and businessmen were not above blackmailing one another, not that the word would be used. A private investigator always had business. Given Pierre’s discretion, he was a natural, and, well, he was smart. He originally found a job at Minton Agency in Washington, where he learned his trade, and oddly enough, he loved it.”
“When was the last time you talked to your brother?”
“Last weekend. He came down for a gathering of old classmates at Quirk Hotel. He also wanted to see the artwork displayed there.”
“Do you remember the friends?” Rick inquired.
“I thought you might ask that. I wrote down the names and his relation to each one, not just those at the gathering but in his circle generally. I marked with a star those that are closer to Tinsdale and myself, but Pierre did know everyone.”
“Did he have a girlfriend? Or an ex-girlfriend? Someone who might be angry at him.”
Marvella paused for a long time, then looked into Rick’s eyes. “My brother was a homosexual. It is—or was, anyway—more difficult for a black man to be gay than a white man. Pierre, when young, engaged in furtive affairs. We would talk. My biggest regret for my brother is that he never found a partner or thought that he could. When I would bring it up, citing that times have changed, he’d say, ‘Marvella, no one wants a fifty-eight-year-old man.’ As far as I know, he never spoke of this in his work or his social life. And I hasten to add, Pierre did not indulge in rough trade. He didn’t have a hidden sex life or a bar kind of life. I guess you would say he had evolved to the point where he lived in a closet with an open door, but unfortunately he lived there alone.”
Cooper lifted her eyes from her reporter’s notebook to gaze on a beautiful Parisian street scene, a young woman fashionably dressed in baby blue, stepping into a carriage, the hackney horse as elegant as the woman. Her left ankle is clearly visible covered by a sheer white stocking. Risqué for the time.
Marvella noticed. “Jean Béraud. When I first started collecting you could purchase his work for a song. All people wanted were the Impressionists, Picasso, paintings like that. Béraud was a sly social commentator and the draftsmanship is secure, the paintings themselves lovely. I snapped up as many as I could, all the while Pierre kept telling me, ‘Focus on Americana.’ ” Tears suddenly spilled down her cheeks. “How I will miss him. I don’t think it’s hit me yet.”
“Mrs. Lawson, you’ve been generous with your time.” Rick rose, reaching inside his front uniform pocket, retrieving a card. “If you think of anything, no matter how trivial you believe it is, call me or call my deputy.”
Cooper also gave Mrs. Lawson her card.
“Two lists.” Marvella handed him neatly handwritten lists on expensive paper. “These are his dearest friends, and then others in his acquaintance that I can think of farther down. And this one is, to the best of my memory, when and where he acquired each of his paintings and the pencil sketches. Those sketches brought him into contact with so many people. When he was ready to buy oils, he had made many friends.” She took a long breath.
Cooper walked closer to the Jean Béraud. “You almost feel as though you’re in the painting. That it will come to life.”
“Yes, you do.”
Now at the front door, the maid, standing in as a butler, opened the door. She was watchful of Marvella suffering from this shocking loss.
Rick did not step through it but turned. “Mrs. Lawson, have you any idea why this might have happened?”
“In a sense, I do. Pierre was handsomely paid by his clients. Whatever this is about, there is a grea
t deal of money at stake and possibly reputation. My brother was a careful man. Someone killed him before a public investigation could come to light.”
January 19, 1786 Thursday
“Dammit to hell!” Ewing Garth slammed down a letter he’d been reading.
Weymouth, Roger’s son, jumped.
Roger, hearing his master’s voice raised in anger, hurried down the hall, looked at his handsome son, eighteen, a contemporary of Jeddie Rice, standing behind Ewing. Weymouth raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He’d brought Ewing a huge pile of mail fifteen minutes ago after paying Jarvis Hoffman, who had dropped it off now that the travel proved a bit easier.
Ewing’s mail bills alone totaled more than a thousand dollars per year. One paid the postage when a letter arrived and the postal service, disorganized and miserable, left no one happy. Given that Ewing’s business interests spanned the thirteen original colonies, England, and France, the mail, critical, infuriated him as well as everyone else.
England and Europe enjoyed royal post, announced with a hunting horn when the mail arrived. The United States, lacking royal authority or any central authority, tried to anoint a postmaster general, but the chore of setting up and maintaining a national service without good roads, without enough money, proved overwhelming. Ewing paid for each letter sent to him. He need not pay when he sent out mail, but what he did do was become terse in his communications. Anyone receiving a letter from Cloverfields knew it would not be expensive and eagerly accepted it.
“Master?” Roger quietly said.
Ewing looked up from the offending document. “Roger.” Exasperation filled his voice. “Do you know where Catherine is?”
A voice called from the hall at the back of the house. “Father, what’s wrong? Bettina and I can hear you all the way to the kitchen.”
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