A Hiss Before Dying

by Rita Mae Brown

  The gray cat shot straight up in the air, turned to land on the dog’s back. She dug her claws into Tucker’s shoulders, which forced a yelp.

  “You two stop it!” Harry hollered.

  “Kind of like Israel and Palestine.” Cooper put up her tools.

  “Actually, they behave better than those two.” Harry drove her tractor into Cooper’s shed. She intended to drive it back to her place tomorrow. The sun was low, it set fast this time of year: Boom, it would just drop below the horizon. There might be a smashing sunset but no long, lingering twilights as in summer.

  The mercury was dropping, that early chill touched your bones. The two women walked back to Cooper’s house, the old Jones place, the Reverend Herbert Jones’s family. He rented the house and farm to Cooper. Both were happy with the arrangement.

  “Open the door!” Pewter insisted.

  Harry stepped back onto the porch and did just that. The three animals joined them.

  “Hot tea, cold beer, hot chocolate, um.” She looked around. “Port. I forgot I had a bottle of port.”

  “Coop, save the port. I’d love a hot chocolate.”

  “Tuna!” Pewter demanded.

  “A greenie.” Tucker wasn’t shy, either.

  As Cooper kept treats for Harry’s animals, Harry walked to the cupboard and pulled out the goodies. Soon the humans and the animals were all happy.

  “Good hot chocolate.”

  “Milk. Always use milk.” Cooper smiled. “Thanks again for all your work and the use of your equipment.”

  “That’s what friends are for.” Harry stopped. “Funny how you change, learn things. When I was at Smith, I’d stay up for bull sessions. I thought that was friendship, you know, all this talk. Then one day I realized I wasn’t as smart as I thought I was. I felt closer to people by working with them instead of showing off how smart I thought I was. I like accomplishing something. Talk doesn’t do that.”

  “Yeah. ’Course I was at Christopher Newport.” Cooper named a school down in Newport News, Virginia. “I never was the intellectual type. And then when I studied law enforcement, everyone thought I was really weird. Not many women in law enforcement then. Now I think in Virginia we’re around twenty percent of law enforcement officers. Loved it. Still do, but Harry, no matter what you do, someone is ready to jump on you.”

  “The times.” Harry sighed. “Even Fair. How can you jump on a vet, but just the other day a client, new and rich, I might add, chewed him out because he didn’t tell her about navicular. And here’s the thing. Her horse didn’t have navicular. Just had a stone bruise, but she was sure Fair was keeping something from her. Called in other vets.”

  “Crazy.” Cooper finished her hot chocolate, rose, and poured more for them both from the saucepan on the stove.

  “Any luck on the fellow who was found at Sugarday? The paper gave his name. You know, Rice is an old Virginia name.”

  “I knew we couldn’t get through the day without you poking around a case.” Cooper shook her head. “As it happens, yes, there’s information piling up, but nothing that points to murder. We’ve spoken to his sister in Richmond, Marvella Rice Lawson.”

  “Marvella Lawson! She practically runs the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. She’s a big deal and her husband is, too. Full partner at that powerful law firm, the one full of ex-governors and ex-senators,” Harry said.

  “I liked her. She held it together. Helped us as much as she could, but the whole thing is odd.”

  “You always say that until facts begin to make sense. Murder isn’t odd, it appears to be very human.”

  “True.” Cooper agreed with her friend. “Pierre Rice, the victim, whose name you read in the papers, often worked for large corporations or government agencies. But we have no records, no phone, no computer. He was so circumspect he didn’t even buy books with a credit card, you know, if he was researching something. He would have his best friend do it, a cardiologist here. Beverly Ely.”

  “I know Beverly. Not well but she rides, so I see her at meets. Seems solid.”

  “She does. Whatever he worked on, he kept a low profile but this time, somehow he got caught. Or he frightened someone badly.

  “Rick contacted the Environmental Protection Agency. Years back, Pierre uncovered a huge pollution problem down at West Point, thousands of pounds and gallons, more probably, of debris pumped into the river. But the EPA, who admitted knowing him, said he was not on a case for them.”

  “Any thoughts about the Number Five chit?”

  “After talking to Dr. Ely, I called her back because she had had lunch with him the day before we found him. He wore the chit.”

  “And?”

  “According to Dr. Ely, Pierre said he was descended from the Rices at Cloverfields. Then he teased her and said this would lead to buried treasure.”

  Harry laughed. “If we dug at all the places where there’s supposed to be buried treasure there wouldn’t be an undamaged lawn in Albemarle County.”

  “We still haven’t found Pierre’s Tahoe. If we had that it would help.”

  “Black Tahoes are ultracool. All someone would have to do is put on new plates. Lots of Tahoes with tinted windows, too.”

  “I know. We just need a break.”

  She was about to get one out of left field.

  November 7, 2016 Monday

  “Better here than at a firing range.” MaryJo lifted the flintlock rifle to her shoulder, fired.

  The metallic sound when the shot hit the empty soda can sounded great.

  “Good shot.” Harry was impressed.

  “You shoot. Glad you got the pistol revamped.”

  “The firing pin is so graceful. The trigger fits my finger curve perfectly. These things are works of art.”

  “Couldn’t help myself. I bought this rifle last week. Ed Clark fired my imagination, forgive the pun.” MaryJo continued, “I’m learning to make my own cartridges. Bruce stopped in his tracks when he came home from a small job out at Continental Estates. I had powder, paper, string lined up on the oilcloth tablecloth I bought just for this. Fortunately, he’s an understanding husband.”

  The cats sitting on the top rail of the three-board fence way in the back pasture observed all this. Tucker sat below.

  “Let’s hope she doesn’t get obsessed with this,” Mrs. Murphy remarked.

  “Just wait. Old firearms, history.” Pewter’s tail hung straight down. “She’ll start reading about battles where those things were used. She’ll have to practice and be a good shot. She’s using a pistol her ancestor used in the Revolutionary War. Who cares?”

  “The horses are watching like we are. Two humans shooting at a target. Just seems boring.”

  After a half hour of this the two women walked back to the barn. MaryJo, rifle over her shoulder, stopped to place it in her Range Rover.

  “MaryJo. If you have time let’s drive over to the school. I’ll call Cooper and Tazio. Maybe they can meet us there,” Harry suggested.

  MaryJo checked her Baume and Mercier watch. “We’ll need to take separate vehicles. I have to go home to dress for dinner with a client.”

  “Business must be good,” Harry said.

  “Good enough for me to buy that rifle.” MaryJo smiled. “You and Fair should consider more aggressive investing. Just a thought.”

  Within twenty minutes the two women met Cooper and Tazio at the formerly named Crozet Colored School. In respect of history, however painful, changing the name seemed a bad idea.

  Tazio opened the thick door to the ninth- to twelfth-grade building. As she did so, her dog Brinkley, a yellow Lab; Tucker; and the cats decided to stay outside and play as the sun was low on the horizon.

  “Looks pretty good, doesn’t it?” Tazio beamed, her smile warm.

  “Does,” Harry agreed.

  “Bruce told me they cleaned it up after he and the boys had their poker game here while we had our wildlife meeting,” MaryJo added.

  “Thought if we were here, we co
uld come up with an idea for a fund-raiser. There’s still work to be done,” Harry told them. “Ned is approaching the county commissioners about using this to teach history. Having students from the county spend some days or a week studying as did the children from the past. Given all the schools we now have that would cover months.”

  “Susan called me about that. Great idea. But a fund-raiser?” Tazio questioned.

  Harry jumped in. “The more people that see this, the better. We can print up a card or small booklet about the history. We’ve got three buildings. Let’s use them for a blowout party. Cocktails in the elementary school. Dinner here. Dancing in the storage shed, which is this size. That will take some work but we can do it.”

  “When?” Cooper was intrigued.

  “What about an early spring party or St. Patrick’s day?” Harry tossed out those two times.

  As the humans deliberated, mulling over how to decorate the buildings, work out food, the animals chased a deer who easily dumped them.

  “Fast,” Tucker acknowledged.

  “And she knows the territory better than we do.” Mrs. Murphy sat down.

  Brinkley turned back toward the school. Nearing the buildings, a squirrel scrambled over the storage facility.

  “Go away!” the squirrel shouted.

  “Oh, shut up.” Pewter bared her fangs.

  “I’ll throw acorns.”

  “You have to find them first.” Brinkley laughed.

  “Drop dead.” The gray fellow with the flicking tail ducked into an opening he’d made where the roof and sidewall met.

  “Let’s get him.” Pewter was working at the door.

  With joint effort they only managed to pound on the locked door, but the noise was considerable.

  “That doesn’t sound good. Let me check this out.” Harry opened the door to the high school, the racket loud now.

  “My dog’s in on it.” Tazio joined her.

  Didn’t take them a minute to reach the storage building, four frantic animals at the door.

  Tazio fished the keys out of her pocket, opened the door, and was nearly knocked over as they rushed in.

  Harry stepped inside, cut on the light. “What the—?”

  Cooper, now behind her, also stopped.

  As the squirrel disappeared, the animals shut up, then Tucker said, “Old cologne.” The others agreed.

  MaryJo walked through the door.

  A black Tahoe sat on the low wooden floor. Two large barnlike doors at the rear of the building would allow a vehicle to be driven in, unloaded.

  They could see a mesh cage, a few large feathers inside, in the back of the Tahoe. Cooper opened the front door of the vehicle, opened the glove compartment

  She read the registration.

  Pierre Rice.

  March 3, 1786 Friday

  “B. See. Butter.” Eudes pointed to a small crock of freshly churned butter.

  Mignon, standing next to him at the long, clean preparation table, stared down at the ABCs she had written and rewritten over the last two weeks.

  Eudes thought the best way to teach Mignon how to read was through cooking. So for a, he had her write out a for apple, b, butter. Each time he would place food on the table, he would tell her how to write it down. She’d search through her letters, then put them together.

  Eudes also taught her the sounds for each letter. She pleased him being a quick study.

  “It’s magic.” She grinned.

  “What?”

  “That scratching on paper means something. Magic.”

  “Mignon, that magic goes back thousands of years. I can hear a man’s voice from ancient Athens.”

  “You can?” She was dazzled.

  “I could if I read Greek, which I don’t, but I have some translations.”

  “Eudes, you are a learned man.”

  “And why am I a cook in a whorehouse, pardon me, a place of relief and renewal?” He laughed. “Money. If I taught Latin to that handful of boys, free black boys, who wanted to read I would starve. Not a penny in teaching, plus I would be curt with a child who didn’t want to learn.”

  “How did you learn?”

  “First off, I’m a free black man, as is my family. I asked my father, a joiner and a good one, would he send me to school. Instead he hired a tutor. No distractions. No other boys. Just old Mr. Disston and me. I learned. When I began to shave, my father declared it was time to learn a profession. I liked his work but he said it relied on whether men were making money or not. Pick a trade that people always need. Well, they need to eat.”

  She looked at him admiringly. “I wish I knew how to think like that.”

  “Honeychild.” He patted her forearm. “Where you were, what good would it have done? You did what the master told you to do.”

  She nodded. “But people learned things. Mr. Selisse had coopers, and barrel makers, he had men who could plane timber so you could see your reflection in it. And the boys and men in the stables, they knew a lot.”

  “Guess you’re right. What did you learn? You don’t talk much, Mignon. I’m a deep well. You can tell me anything.”

  She felt she could. “As a little one, I was in the kitchen, where I learned to make and cut out cookie dough. When I was bigger, I could knead it. The cook, she knew a lot, but she was jealous. I had to watch her and there were older girls above me. But I learned a bit.”

  Georgina blew through the double swinging doors. “Friday. We’ll have our afternoon crowd and it’s bitter cold out there. What do you have planned?”

  Eudes smiled. “Black bean soup with a little pork fat. I’m roasting capons and I’m experimenting with a hot spiced wine. Mignon gave me the idea.” He indicated Mignon.

  Georgina eyed Mignon, barely five feet and thin. “Did you, now?”

  Mignon nodded, her hands covering her papers.

  Eudes, wishing to promote this woman who touched him, boasted. “Georgina, since she came to us, I have gotten more done, more ideas. But I need a serving boy who isn’t asleep at noon.” He pointed to the big clock on the wall. “Twenty to noon. Where is Binky?”

  As if on cue, a young handsome fellow pushed open the doors with one hand, buttoning his shirt with the other.

  Seeing the boss, he fashioned his best grin. “Miss Georgina, and in blue. Matches your eyes.”

  “You worthless thing.” She glared at him but did like the compliment. “You were up there with Deborah. Well, set the table and right now. Eudes,” she looked at her cook, “has the full complement for a nasty day. Hot soup. And put out small glass cups for spiced wine and do it now. My God, can’t you keep that thing in your pants! I ought to charge you for fooling with that girl.”

  “I love Deborah. She loves me.” He protested as only a young man can.

  “Love you she might, but she has customers to serve. Now get out there.” As he left, Georgina turned to Eudes and Mignon. “My girls need to keep their strength.” She glanced at the clock, one of the weights shaped like a pinecone dangling a touch longer than the other. “Half the girls are still asleep. Well, our afternoon crowd will have choices but don’t forget, Friday. Tonight we will be packed unless a storm comes up.” She smiled. “Cold weather encourages a man to get warm.”

  With that wisdom she left the kitchen. Eudes just shook his head.

  Mignon breathed relief. “I was afraid she’d see my papers.”

  “Georgina doesn’t care if you learn to read, but she will care if she sees you do anything but work. I’m the one that needs to be more careful.” He walked to the open fire, bread openings on the side of the laid brick. This way he could make biscuits, bread, anything needing dough while he cooked soups. The capons crackled in an oven, wood fired. The wonderful hickory often infused the meats.

  Many men stopped by Georgina’s for a hot midday meal but did not hire a girl afterward. Apart from the girls, the place had a reputation for conviviality and excellent food. Eudes’s creations were so good they brought the people in.


  Most of the sex customers crowded the place at night after the cares of the day vanished. Or perhaps they hadn’t vanished—but an hour or more with a good-looking woman banished them temporarily.

  Eudes and Mignon worked side by side. She knew exactly what to do. He ladled the soup in a big silver tureen. She dressed this up by putting small pine boughs around the tureen. She kept a supply of greens and dried flowers to set alongside dishes. To keep the biscuits warm she folded over the heaviest, prettiest dish towels, carefully covering the biscuits with a ridge in the middle so the towel could be easily lifted.

  Eudes enjoyed this. He had help in the kitchen before, but Mignon anticipated his needs as no one else had done, plus she enhanced the look of the dishes. He didn’t need to manage her.

  An hour later, Binky came back in, his shirt still neatly tucked inside his pants. “More spiced wine. They are drinking like fish.”

  Eudes turned to the long stove on the wall as Mignon quickly washed out the large jug. This was the sixth refill and the noise outside the door testified to the good spirits the wine provided.

  Binky, finger through the top piece, dashed back outside.

  Mignon couldn’t help it. She peeked out the doors, then quickly ducked back in.

  “Eudes, my master is out there.”

  “What?” His face darkened.

  “My master. Jeffrey Holloway. The true master is the Missus, but Mr. Holloway married her soon after her husband was killed.”

  “Does he know who you are?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t come into the kitchen but he could have seen me. I’m hard to miss.” She knew her small size distinguished her.

  “How big is your reward?”

  “One hundred dollars. I mean, that’s what the good people who took me in told me.”

  “Is he a brutal man?”

  “No. He’s at least twenty years younger than Mrs. Selisse. He spends his time in the carpentry shed.”

  “Don’t leave the kitchen. When he goes, you’ll be fine. Describe him.”

  “He’s in his twenties, English-looking, handsome. Lean. Thick, wavy hair, a touch of chestnut. He’s a quiet one.”