Susan, who had come to take Harry for her six-month cancer checkup, arrived early because her best friend called her, informing her of last night’s event, accident, attempted what? Murder?
“Fair, I can’t snap my fingers to give you an answer. The bullet will be traced, if possible. We sent the team out first thing this morning and we’re fortunate it entered the side of the seat, the entry clearly visible.” Cooper wanted to soothe her beloved neighbor, a wonderful man.
“Dad’s really upset.” Tucker, under the table, cast her eyes upward.
“Just think. I could have been in the backseat.” Pewter’s green eyes widened.
“Pewter!” Mrs. Murphy bared her fangs for a moment.
“Well, I could have died,” the gray cat whined.
“And so could Harry.” Tucker was as worried as Fair.
“Why would someone shoot at the Volvo when Mom leaves her Virginia Wildlife meeting?” Mrs. Murphy, always thoughtful, moved closer to Harry’s leg as the human sat in the chair.
“Let’s review this again,” Cooper calmly ordered. “The meeting broke up due to the weather. Who left first? MaryJo, then I think it was Jessica Ligon.”
Susan nodded. “Jessica had the most distance to travel. Pretty much Jessica and MaryJo left together, followed closely by Liz. That’s what I remember.”
“Me, too,” Harry confirmed.
Cooper, writing this down in her reporter’s notebook, exhaled through her nose. “All right. I will call them to see if each recalls who drove out first. Did they see another car at the end of the driveway, on the dirt road leading out to the paved road? It’s possible their headlights caught sight of another car.”
“How anyone could see anything, I don’t know.” Harry remembered the wind and terrible, instant downpour.
“Still, it’s possible a glint of headlight off chrome. Now, look, I don’t want you two,” Cooper pointed at Harry and Susan with her mechanical pencil, “calling them. That’s my job. And since no one was hurt, let’s keep this away from the papers.”
“What do I tell my insurance agent?” Harry’s agent, Marsha Moran at Hanckle Citizens, would need information, plus once Harry started talking to Marsha, she couldn’t stop. The woman always made her laugh.
“Can you wait a day? I should know my insurance rules better. But if not, I will also call Hanckle Citizens. It won’t take us long to trace the bullet if it can be traced, thanks to the computer. Even ten years ago this would have dragged on. One good thing is arms manufacturers respond almost instantly to law enforcement requests. Obviously, the real problem is secondhand gun dealers.”
“Then what?” Fair frowned.
“We take it a step at a time. If the bullet can’t be traced to a registered gun, we contact dealers. Many are helpful. The ones that aren’t are almost always selling stolen merchandise. We have to prove it. Don’t get me going on this. It’s a problem across the nation, but as I said, many dealers and also manufacturers are responsible and easy to work with.” She looked into his eyes. “Fair, of course you’re worried but you know Sheriff Shaw and I will be on it.”
Susan reached down to pet Tucker, who came out from under the table. “Coop, there’s no way this can be an accident.”
A long pause followed, then the deputy spoke. “It does seem unlikely.”
Harry raised her voice. “I haven’t meddled in anything. I haven’t asked a bunch of questions about the private eye, really. I’ve not interfered. I’ve been good.”
Cooper smiled. “For you, yes.”
“Honey,” Harry said to her husband, “go on to work. Susan’s driving me to the doctor for my checkup. Cooper will be tracing the bullet. I’ll be fine.”
—
Later, Harry and Susan stopped at the club for lunch. Susan had waited while Harry endured the boob squisher, had her blood drawn, the usual. The oncologist’s office was in the same building as Dr. Beverly Ely, Pierre Rice’s dear friend.
The mammogram came out clear, nothing to worry about. The blood test results would take a day. For whatever reason, the day proved busy at the doctor’s office.
Harry, attacking a Cobb salad, felt relief. So did Susan.
“Good?” Susan pointed to the salad as she lifted her enormous Reuben.
“It’s worth driving across town to Keswick Club for the Cobb salad. I keep forgetting to ask you, how do you like the new Pete Dye course?”
“It makes you think, which I like. I’ve only played it once and that was with Cindy Chandler so we buzzed around in the golf cart, but next time I’ll use you for my caddy. You can see for yourself.”
“Mmm.” Harry bit into the egg on her salad. “People say Pete Dye courses are unforgiving.”
Susan put down her sandwich, wiped her fingers on her linen napkin. “This isn’t an easy course, but I don’t think it’s punishing.”
“You’re the champion at Farmington. Of course, you wouldn’t think it’s punishing.” Harry smiled at her friend.
“That’s good of you to say, especially since you bitch and moan at me when you caddy for me.”
“Someone has to do it.” Harry laughed, as did Susan.
“Like I said, you have to think. If you’re a strong player and you take the more difficult shot and you make it, great. If you’re foolhardy and overestimate what you can do, this course can cost you but any course can. I often think one of the keys to playing golf is not just your strokes but the ability to read terrain. Funny, but that’s where our foxhunting pays off. You pay attention to swales, reverse ridges, soil. And that reminds me, we haven’t gone out much this season. Hope the weather improves so we can.”
“Me, too.”
Both hunted. Of course, no foxes were killed. Americans don’t hunt to kill, which isn’t to say sometimes a fox zigs when he should have zagged. Every now and then one does run a dumb fox, but in the main, they are frighteningly intelligent.
Neither women discussed Harry’s results. They were happy when the mammogram was good. Harry was almost at the five-year mark since her breast cancer surgery. Relief was palpable. When Harry awoke from her surgery back then, her husband and her best friend waited in the room. She opened her eyes to the two faces she loved most in life except for those on four feet.
Harry always accompanied Susan for her mammograms, as well. One could go alone but it was one of those procedures where a friend lightened the load. Should the nurse return and say you needed a second mammogram, your friend was there with you. A second was rarely good news.
They listened to the fire in the fireplace, nodded to the other people in the grille, looked out on the course, wrapped in November gray.
“Susan.” Harry’s voice carried a tone of seriousness.
“What?”
“What could we be doing at Virginians for Sustainable Wildlife that would threaten someone?”
“I don’t know. Ned’s efforts for Save the Old Schools, seems to me, would provoke some negative response. But since Tazio, all of us have been working on that, there hasn’t been much pushback. I mean there’s always the possible nutcase.”
“Well, Pierre Rice’s Tahoe was found in the shed.”
Susan shook her head. “That whole thing, the murder, the car showing up later, the chit around his neck, the cage, it’s like a dense fog. I can’t see anything.”
“So, you believe that shot was meant for me.”
Susan replied, “Well—yes.”
“Here’s the thing. If it was meant to warn me, warn me of what?”
“That’s just it, isn’t it?”
“And here’s the other thing. If someone wasn’t waiting for the meeting to break up, waiting in the dark which turned into a nasty storm, then whoever fired that shot was at the meeting.”
A very long pause followed this. “That has occurred to me.”
March 29, 1786 Wednesday
Piglet felt a tiny hexagonal snowflake on his nose. The snow had fallen off and on since last night, sometimes heavy
other times almost a fine mist. The dog trotted along a cleared path to the mares’ stable, the accumulation reaching six inches.
He gratefully ducked into the stables, and hearing voices in the tack room, headed there. Charles, Jeddie, and Ralston sat around the small fireplace. The boys cleaned tack while Charles sat across from them, his drawings rolled up, placed on a low wooden table.
“Piglet.” Charles smiled.
“You left me. I was fast asleep under the kitchen table.” The dog sat next to his human.
“Do you think he’ll do it? A duel?” Charles returned to Jeddie.
The young man nodded. “Hot temper.”
“Why die for a drunken insult?” Charles took off his gloves, unrolled his drawings, changed the subject. “Here. If we build a carriage house at a right angle to the carriage barn, we’ll create a windbreak. Back home stables and kennels are often built around a square area, so three buildings open onto this area, the new building at a right angle.” He scribbled at the edge of one of the papers. “Everything is closer, less time going between buildings and the buildings offer some protection from the weather. We’ve created a short courtyard. Two buildings at a right angle would be more proportionate but the cost will be a problem. Obviously, you can always use more stables.”
Jeddie excitedly looked over the plans. “Cobblestone?”
“In the yard. Or brick. Easier to clean, stops the mud, the endless mess of mud. With good workers, we can cut them, not so round. And see here,” he pointed to the rear of the addition, “manure, straw can be taken out this way. Haul it to the midden pile and when my wife wants some for her garden, well, easy to do.”
“Has Miss Catherine seen this?” Jeddie asked.
“She has. She wanted me to extend the roof a bit to provide more shade in the summer, keep the snow from sliding off the roof in front of the back stall doors.”
“You’ve got those little clams.” Ralston pointed to the fanciful snow holders on the roof.
“Do, but they can’t hold back the heavy snows like we’ve been having.” Charles looked out the window. “This one’s not heavy but fine. It’s almost April.”
“Momma says we’ve had snowstorms in April.” Jeddie offered the maternal observation.
“Jeddie’s momma wants him to get married.” Ralston smirked.
“Does she, now?” Charles smiled.
Jeddie, embarrassed, nodded. “Says a good wife will help me.”
“True enough. Prospects?”
Jeddie blushed now. “Momma has some.”
Both Charles and Ralston laughed, then Charles said, “Estimable girls, I’m sure, but I’d trust to lightning if I were you.”
“Sir?” The slender fellow raised his eyebrows.
“Love can be like a lightning strike. You never know when it will hit you.” Charles rolled up the papers. “No need to worry about it now. If it happens, you’ll know.”
“Sir, what if Yancy Grant really does challenge Jeffrey Holloway to a duel?” Ralston inquired.
“Hard to tell. I have no idea if Jeffrey knows how to use firearms. Given the circumstances, I would think it would be Jeffrey Holloway that challenges Yancy. Yancy accused him of some nefarious things.”
“What’s nefarious?” Jeddie wondered.
“Bad, dark deeds. Man was a damned fool. Drunk.” Charles shrugged.
“I never saw a duel,” Ralston said.
“And you won’t see this one either if it comes to pass. Duels are fought between the two men, weapons chosen by the man who is challenged so it could be a pistol or a sword. Each man is accompanied by a second, a friend who takes his coat, speaks to the other second, sets out the rules. Also a physician is in attendance, but spectators, no.” Charles emphasized no.
“Do people ever get scared and run away?” Jeddie couldn’t imagine standing there waiting to be shot or fighting by sword.
“No. Your honor is at stake, which is why duels are fought in the first place, or so the offended party believes.”
—
Jeffrey Holloway considered his honor. His wife sat in the morning room with him, breakfast on the table. Sheba hovered in the room, pretending to serve Maureen.
“Henry!” Maureen called.
“Yes, Ma’am.” An elderly men appeared, wearing house clothes.
“I am freezing. Do something!”
“Yes, Ma’am.” He bowed to his mistress, stepped outside the room.
Within minutes two young slaves carried hardwoods and more kindling to the fireplace. The surround was white marble. Her late husband, Francisco, declared a wooden surround not up to his standards. Once he visited upstate New York, beheld the tile that the Dutch used, he had to have that. His personal fireplace in his office was deep blue and white tile.
“I must challenge Yancy Grant. His conduct shocked me. Clearly he is given to both drink and fantasy.”
“Do you know how to shoot?” Maureen sensibly asked.
“Not well. I can shoot, though. Father made me take fencing lessons—why, I don’t know.”
“But you won’t be the one to select the weapons,” Maureen clearly replied.
Sheba made sure she had heard the accusations Yancy leveled at her mistress’s husband. Sheba also pressed that Maureen would be a laughingstock, she didn’t say it that way, but that her mistress couldn’t afford two philandering husbands. Her honor was at stake, too.
Sheba felt she was sitting in the catbird seat. Of course, Yancy would pick pistols and dispatch Jeffrey, who was holding too much sway over Maureen. Sooner or later, Sheba and Jeffrey would collide, so best to be rid of him now. Powerful though she was she remained a slave. The key to all this was Maureen.
“I thought I might ask John Schuyler to assist me in sharpening my skill,” Jeffrey softly answered. “I can’t let this go unanswered.”
“What shall you do?” Maureen, disturbed by the low talk of Yancy Grant, nonetheless did not wish to lose her handsome younger husband.
“I will write a letter asking for satisfaction,” he firmly spoke.
“And who shall be your second?”
“John Schuyler.” He looked at his wife.
“He’s certainly seen enough bloodshed,” she remarked.
“Yes.”
“I do hope what’s shed is not yours. I can’t understand why Yancy would accuse you of keeping low company.” Her voice carried an edge.
“Maureen, I told you, yes, I was at Georgina’s. I met with the banker, Udall, at his suggestion. I found out more about the tavern once I was there. Had I known, I would have asked for another place to meet.”
Sheba, now standing behind Jeffrey, so she faced her mistress, raised her eyebrows just enough to indicate doubt, men are dogs, that sort of thing.
“I should like to see this place.” Maureen startled them both.
“My dear. You can’t possibly mean that.” Jeffrey put his cup down so hard he nearly broke the good breakfast china.
“Yes, I would like to see it, perhaps even go inside.” Her face hardened. “I can buy them all and consign them to hell if I choose. I can buy the house and burn it with them in it!”
“Sweetheart.”
“If you have betrayed me, Jeffrey, there will be another duel if you survive the first one.”
Sheba was in heaven.
“I have not betrayed you. I love you. You wound me, you wound me to think me so crude.” He was truly hurt.
“My experience, well, yes, my experience has taught me men will do what they wish.”
“I am not Francisco.” He nearly shouted, as he slammed down his hand, rose from the table, and strode out.
Maureen sat there, surprised, a hint of realizing she shouldn’t have said that bubbling up.
“They’re all alike.” Sheba’s voice carried menace as well as false sympathy.
“You shut up.” Maureen stood up, stepped closer to her, and slapped her hard, so hard it could be heard in the hall, then turned and blew out of the room
.
Henry, outside the door, wished the plague on both their houses.
November 18, 2016 Friday
“She’s scanned the walls, even inspecting the cracks in the wood.” Tucker sat on her haunches as Harry with a high intensity flashlight slowly went over the storage building at the old school.
“These buildings have held up. I think they should turn this one into a cafeteria.” Pewter focused on food.
Mrs. Murphy watched Harry. “Guess they will have to, because what if students bring lunches full of sugar. Parents can’t feed their children now because the government figures they’re too stupid to do it.”
“Feed them mouse tartar.” Pewter laughed. “Think of the protein. When we were little it made us healthy.”
“Maybe in your case a little too healthy,” Tucker teased the gray cat.
“At least I have a tail and, I remind you, claws.” Pewter huffed up, dancing sideways toward the dog.
Harry, dropping to her hands and knees on the wooden floor, warned, “If you two get in a fight you’ll be grounded for the weekend.”
Pewter unpuffed, said, “Where are we going this weekend?”
“It will be spur-of-the-moment,” Tucker replied. “Those are the most fun, but probably she’ll check the barn, the outbuildings, all that stuff before winter really socks us.”
“Then why listen to her?” Pewter smacked the dog just enough to hear a little growl.
Peering at the few gaps between the worn floorboards, Harry grumbled, “Behave.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The gray cat sauntered over to give the human the benefit of her sharp eyes.
Tucker glanced up in the rafters. “You’d think birds would have gotten in here. A good place for a nest.”
As if on cue, Pewter unleashed one claw to slide it in a slight gap between two boards. “Hey, come here.”
Mrs. Murphy walked over, Tucker came closer but not too close. The tiger cat also used one claw. The two cats found nothing.
The rumble of a truck caught Harry’s attention. She zipped up her worn Carhart Detroit jacket. Once the weather turned colder, she did her chores in this jacket, wearing layers underneath depending on the day. Wet days she wore her Barbour. Farming fashion centers on what holds up, what keeps one dry, warm, and allows the wearer to still move efficiently.
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