A Hiss Before Dying

by Rita Mae Brown

  Parking in front of the high school building, Tazio, BoomBoom, MaryJo, and Liz began to unload old school desks. The Reverend Jones had backed the truck up close to the door, cut the motor, and now he was lifting desks out of the truck bed.

  Harry walked out. “Hey, let me help.”

  “What are you doing here?” MaryJo asked, noticing Harry’s old Ford F-150 was parked behind the storage building.

  “Nosing around.” Harry, now at the truck bed, helped lift down one of the wooden desks with wrought iron on the side to hold up the desktop.

  Tazio unlocked the building, came back down the stairs. Within twenty minutes the six desks sat in two rows in the building. Everyone kept their coats on as the temperature hung at about fifty-two degrees. Wouldn’t have made sense to fire up the woodburning stove as they wouldn’t be there that long.

  BoomBoom, hands on hips, said, “Makes me want to get out my notebook and pencil.”

  “Where’d you find these?” Harry asked.

  The teacher’s desk sat on a raised platform at the front of the room. Three student desks remained but with six added, the room began to look like a real classroom.

  “Easton’s,” Liz replied.

  “I thought they went out of business.” Harry had read that in the paper.

  “Did, but the family’s still around and on the outside chance that a few odd pieces were left in storage I called.” Tazio filled her in. “Sure enough, six old desks from about 1918. These things really are indestructible.”

  “They’d have to be.” Herb smiled. “Farm kids were strong.”

  “There is that.” BoomBoom nodded.

  Mrs. Murphy sat in the seat on the left front-row desk, while Pewter reposed on the desktop. Tucker, on the floor, thought the desks breathed life into the place.

  “The more we can make this building look like it did back around the time of World War One, maybe the easier it will be to get cooperation from the county and the city regarding renewed classes.”

  “I hope you’re right,” MaryJo added.

  “Reverend, how’d you get roped into this?” Harry smiled.

  “Just happened to be at Tazio’s shop when BoomBoom walked in,” he replied.

  “The good reverend needs more modern insulation for his attic. Will save on the heating bill,” Tazio mentioned. “I know you’re in charge of buildings and grounds so don’t worry, I’m not taking over your job. There are such good products on the market now. They can reduce running costs. If the church decides to do this I think it can be done inexpensively. First, we need to remove the old stuff. Anyway, that’s another subject.”

  “I’ve got one for here. We’ve got heat pumps as a backup. If we run them it won’t be an authentic experience.” Liz sat down at an old desk.

  “Let the kids keep the stove going. That way they’ll learn what it was like,” Harry said with conviction.

  “I agree but we have the heat pumps for nights. If kids go home during their one- or two-week living history classes and complain that they’re cold, you know how that will turn out.” Tazio put her hands in her coat pocket, a warm fleece-lined leather short coat.

  “Electric is safer and warm.” MaryJo also sat down.

  “An old oil furnace from the period, well, we won’t be able to find that, but a true oil furnace, not propane, might work and be easier to install. We’d need vents but we can run stuff through the attic, keep the oil down in the basement.” BoomBoom wanted to save money. “The point is, you know the electrical service is not always reliable out here.”

  “Pretty much I think we’ll have to go to a gas generator backup for when the electricity goes out, which it will. Those heat pumps we installed can’t work without electricity. You can depend on that with winter in central Virginia as you said. Maybe we can get some of the materials and labor donated. And given that we have the woodburning stove we should still be able to keep the electrical costs down.” Harry, like BoomBoom, wanted to keep maintenance costs low.

  Buying cars, furnaces, air conditioners, was one thing. Maintaining them was another.

  “We can’t do anything until Ned maneuvers this through the city and the county. Who knows, maybe he can get some money from the House of Delegates.” Liz thought out loud.

  “If it’s not in a delegate’s district, a delegate isn’t going to vote for a penny.”

  They all sat down or leaned on the desks, batting around ideas.

  Another car pulled up. Panto Noyes bounded into the building. “Inkwells. Got old inkwells.”

  “I called him. Told him about the desks.” MaryJo smiled as Panto placed a shopping bag on her desk, and pulled out some simple, old brass inkwells with a lid. “You all are brave. Kids aren’t taught penmanship anymore. Do you know what a mess real ink will be?”

  “Think of it as primitive art.” Harry laughed.

  “Speaking of primitive,” Panto spoke. “When I go to powwows, visit reservations, especially out west, one of the first things I hear is how tribal children were not allowed to speak their native languages.”

  MaryJo chimed in, “They are now, but so few elders are left who can speak or teach the language. This wiping out of language, religion, even clothing went on for decades.”

  Reverend Jones said, “Of course, it was worse for defeated peoples, but immigrants were encouraged to shed the old ways. Their children, born here, didn’t want to speak, say, Italian.”

  “The terrible thing is, people thought this was the right thing to do to fit in,” MaryJo responded.

  “Give the tribal people credit. They didn’t want to fit in. They were forced,” Panto declared.

  Later, Cooper drove down Harry’s driveway with another piece of evidence. The bullet from Harry’s Volvo station wagon was from the same gun that killed Pierre Rice.

  March 31, 1786 Friday

  The last day of March ended with high winds, brilliant sunshine. The fine snow of days before melted, puddles and mud everywhere.

  People were glad to be back at their tasks, freed from winter’s last clutches. They hoped it was the last clutches.

  “Did you remember a birthday present?” Bumbee asked Grace as both set before their looms.

  “I’m not giving him a birthday present,” Grace immediately replied.

  Liddy, stoking the fire, turned. “Why not?”

  “He doesn’t call on me. Besides, what would I give him?”

  “A scarf,” Bumbee advised.

  “I’m not doing it.”

  “I see.” Bumbee focused intently on the garment, expertly weaving a brilliant aqua thread through the navy blue.

  Liddy took her place. “Grace, you’re sixteen. You’ll soon be an old maid.”

  “Tosh.” Grace threw her head back.

  Serena knocked on the door, entered when Bumbee called out, “Come in.”

  “It’s so bright in here today.” Serena put down a large basket. “Bettina sent down some extra deviled eggs, cold ham, bread.”

  “That was good of her.” Bumbee smiled.

  Lifting up the towel, Serena enticed them. “Churned butter thanks to the muscle power of Tulli, who Bettina commandeered from the barn. Honey and strawberry jam, too. Brought knives, if you need them.” She sat on the bench by the stairs. “I’m so glad to see sunshine.”

  “Gray, gray, gray. That has to be the last snow,” Liddy hoped.

  “Mmm.” Serena launched into the news. “Mr. Holloway is up at the big house.”

  “Are that witch and her handmaiden with him?” Bumbee minced no words.

  “No.” Serena leaned forward. “The sun really is shining on us. One of these days Sheba will forget herself and give one of us orders. Ha. I’ll knock her down, I swear I will. You know what I think? She’s so hateful cause she’s got all that white blood. Always parading the light color of her skin. Hateful.”

  The others laughed.

  Liddy responded, “The question is, whose white blood?”

  This sent them into
more peals of laughter.

  “I dare you to call her a clabberface,” Grace baited Serena.

  “Oh, we can come up with something worse than that, but listen, Mr. Holloway sent a letter to Yancy Grant asking for satisfaction.”

  Silence followed this.

  Everyone stopped what they were doing. Bumbee rose from her bench, and sat next to Serena.

  “Because of what he said at the party?”

  Serena nodded. “But it gets better. Bettina and Roger brought in coffee, morning refreshments, and then Roger waited outside the door. He can be a real quiet sneak that Roger.”

  “Well, between Roger and Bettina they know everything,” Liddy volunteered but without rancor.

  “But why did Mr. Holloway come here?” Bumbee inquired.

  “Because he doesn’t know about pistols. Yancy will get choice of weapons. So he came to ask Mr. Garth if he might come here and have John instruct him.”

  “I see.” Bumbee brought her hand to her chin.

  “He also wishes for John to be his second.”

  “Well, if he shoots and kills Yancy Grant, fine. If not, then we have made an enemy,” the shrewd Bumbee noted.

  No one said anything, then Grace piped up. “Is there no way to stop this?”

  “Doubtful,” Serena said. “But there might be a bit of time because when DoRe delivered the letter asking for satisfaction, Yancy had already left for Richmond.”

  “Well, he won’t refuse when he returns. Can’t. He’d look like a coward,” Bumbee said. “But if someone wishes, they might be able to bring them to terms and stop a duel.”

  “At least a duel solves the problem once and for all,” Grace spoke.

  “Oh, Grace.” Bumbee smoothed out her skirt. “Sometimes it does and sometimes it doesn’t.”

  “And what if Mr. Holloway is killed, which is more likely?” Liddy came over and plucked out an egg. “Then Maureen is a widow again and Sheba will be keeping her hand out to every suitor.”

  “No!” Grace was shocked.

  “Honey, you need to learn how the world works. She’s underhanded, greedy, and you’d better believe she will extract money and whatever else from the men lining up to marry that fortune. I can’t believe anyone really wants to marry Maureen.” Bumbee laughed.

  “Maybe she’s different with men than with women,” Liddy posited.

  “Aren’t most women?” Serena raised her eyebrows. “And the men believe whatever the women tell them.”

  “Men hear what they want to hear. I can vouch from personal experience that Mr. Percy never heard a word I said.”

  They all laughed.

  “I’d better get back up there. You know how Bettina can get. She’s been flying all over the place this morning.” Serena stood up.

  “Serena,” Grace asked, “do you think I’m going to be an old maid?”

  “What brought that on?” the attractive young woman wondered.

  “Liddy says I’m sixteen and I’m not married.”

  “Liddy, are you holding out your man as an example of the sweetness of marriage?” Serena gave Liddy a little dig.

  “He’s good to me.” Her lower lip jutted out.

  “Girl, he’s good to some other women, too. Grace,” she turned to the younger woman, “you aren’t going to be an old maid and there are plenty worse things than not having a man. Men are work, I can tell you.”

  “Hear, hear.” Bumbee grinned.

  Liddy, still stinging from Serena’s unwelcome information, kept quiet.

  “Sometimes it works, doesn’t it? I mean Momma and Poppa get along,” Grace remarked.

  Serena softened. “Does. You’re too young to remember but Bettina had a good man. Mr. Garth and the Missus were a match and really so are the girls and their husbands. Sometimes it works but don’t go round looking for it. Let him find you.” With that she swept out the door.

  Liddy returned to her task without a word.

  “Liddy,” Bumbee took pity on her, “don’t take it to heart. It will pass.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” She rolled yarn, head down.

  Hours later, Catherine, John, Ralston, Tulli, and Barker O. had wished Jeddie a happy nineteenth birthday. Bettina sent down a small chocolate cake. Horses as always remained the major topic of conversation but that slid into Jeffrey Holloway’s morning call, the news of which flickered through Cloverfields like fire.

  “Mr. John, what will you do?” Tulli asked.

  “What I can. The pistol Charles’s father gave him before the war is such a fine instrument, balanced, just the right resistance on the trigger. I’ll teach him with that if Yancy accepts the challenge.”

  “How could he not?” Barker O.’s deep voice filled the tidy tack room.

  “He could show himself to be a forgiving gentleman and admit he was under the influence of spirits,” Catherine answered.

  “Oh, Miss Catherine, he might admit he was drunk as a skunk but I don’t know as he would admit he was wrong.” Ralston, an old mind in a young head, spoke.

  John, next to his wife on a low bench, nodded. “I’m afraid he’s right, my angel.”

  “Dear Lord, wasn’t it bad enough we killed the British and the British killed us, now we’re killing one another, our currencies are close to worthless, and,” she threw up her hands, “is the world falling apart?” Then she caught herself. “Well, not on your birthday, Jeddie. This is a good day.”

  “Thank you, Miss Catherine.” He beamed.

  The distant rattle of a harness alerted them.

  Tulli ran out, then ran back. “DoRe!”

  “Seems to be a Big Rawly day.” Catherine stood up, wrapped her shawl around herself, stepped outside with the men.

  Daffodils survived the snow, peeking up everywhere. Forsythias threatened to bloom as DoRe drove the splendid coach-in-four toward the stable, the sides of the carriage gleaming.

  The boys ran out as he stopped, dismounted. “Miss Catherine, Mr. John. Miss Selisse returns your carriage with thanks. She had us draw every single thing about this piece of fine work, including the bud vase inside the carriage.” He grinned.

  “That was fast,” John remarked.

  “The Missus is determined to be seen in the best carriage in the country. She can’t steal yours so she’s going to have one built.”

  “In Philadelphia?” John wondered.

  “No.” DoRe paused for dramatic effect. “Mr. Holloway and his father will build it.”

  The dramatic effect produced dropped jaws, wide eyes, and a moment of silence.

  Catherine then said, “Well, DoRe, that is some news.” Thinking of Bettina’s hopes she smiled at the genial man. “Why don’t you go on up to the house and tell Bettina? I’ll be up shortly. Jeddie can drive you back to Big Rawly and I’ll send Bettina with him so he doesn’t have to drive back alone.”

  “Thank you.” DoRe thought this an excellent idea.

  As he walked up to the big house, his characteristic limp not slowing him down, Catherine put her hand on Jeddie’s shoulder. “Take the carriage back so they can sit inside. Tie his horses to the back. Wait. Don’t. This way DoRe has to come back for Maureen’s carriage horses.”

  “Miss Catherine, how can I drive when DoRe’s along? He’s near as good as Barker O.”

  Barker O., pleased with the compliment, chuckled. “Son, I think DoRe will be just fine.”

  “Barker O., why don’t you sit up with Jeddie and if he needs a lesson, well, there you are. Then the two of you can drive back.”

  “Thank you.”

  She reached in her pocket and pulled out some chits. “Here, Jeddie, Number Eleven. Barker O., Number Two. I don’t think anyone’s going to fuss but just in case.”

  They took their passes and Catherine took Jeddie’s hand in hers. “Happy, happy birthday.”

  Then she and John started back up to the house, running into Charles, who walked out from the carriage barn, plans under his arm.

  “Think I’ve got a way to sto
re grain and reduce spoilage.”

  Piglet murmured, “He never stops. He gets up in the middle of the night to make changes to St. Luke’s and now this. I just wish he’d sleep through the night.”

  “Piglet, you’re talkative.” Catherine adored the corgi.

  John told Charles the news about the potential duel.

  Charles shook his head, red-gold hair catching the light. “I’d hoped those words would be forgotten.”

  “When a man accuses you of consorting with, well, you know, and your wife is in the next room and her lady-in-waiting is literally waiting down below, I don’t know.” John sighed. “He has asked me to be his second.”

  “Good Lord, John.” Charles stopped walking for a moment.

  “I agreed. If Yancy accepts the duel, and we all think he will, then I will give Jeffrey some shooting lessons using your pistol.”

  A wry grin played over Charles’s lips. “The spoils of war. One of these days you’ll return my pistol to me.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You won the war, John, you don’t need my pistol.”

  “You were my captive. Fair’s fair.” John enjoyed bedeviling his brother-in-law just a bit.

  “You two.” Catherine slipped her hand in John’s. “Let’s return to the problem at hand. Yancy left for Richmond. Surely he will be there tomorrow if he’s on horseback. If he went down to Scottsville, boarded a boat, maybe tonight. We can hope his business there will take him two or three days, then two or three days to return. That gives us time.”

  “Time for what?” Charles appreciated Catherine’s sharp mind.

  “To see if there isn’t a way out where each man saves face.” Catherine watched chimney smoke rise straight up from the big house, a sign of good weather.

  “My love, that would be a miracle.” John squeezed her hand.

  “Miracles do happen and, don’t forget, Father’s birthday is Sunday.”