A Hiss Before Dying
Page 24
November 19, 2016 Saturday
“How can people let themselves get like that?” Harry blurted out, looking out the window of Liz’s Barracks Road shop.
Susan chided her. “Harry, you can’t say things like that.”
“Why not? Fat is fat and if you’re fat you’re courting lots of sickness, plus you don’t walk, you waddle,” she shot back.
“Just don’t say it,” Susan replied.
Liz moved a bracelet on the counter. “Isn’t that part of the problem? No one can say anything anymore? You hurt someone’s feelings and you’re a monster. Now, I don’t think Harry should push open the door and tell that lady that she’s one step closer to the grave for being fat, but she can say it to us. Which reminds me, I need to lose fifteen pounds.”
“Liz, baloney,” Harry said.
“Not baloney. Fat.” Liz pinched her waist and a small roll of flesh did indeed stay between her fingers.
“If you want to lose that little bit of weight come on out to the farm and work with me for a week. Poof. That will be the end of that,” Harry promised.
“She’s got a point there,” Susan agreed. “When I was young I don’t remember so many overweight people, but then a lot of people worked outside jobs, physical labor. And housework qualified as physical labor. Our mothers had it easier than our grandmothers, but doing the wash, cleaning the floors, polishing furniture, keeping the fires going in the fireplace, women carried, toted, bent over, or got down on their hands and knees and scrubbed.”
“We’re spoiled.” Liz nodded. “Now, Harry, what have you found out about the bullet in your Volvo?”
“The bullet in my Volvo. Same gun that killed Pierre Rice,” Harry matter-of-factly reported.
Liz had not heard this so she froze for a moment. “Harry, that’s—”
“Frightening.” Susan spoke for her. “And you said you didn’t see anything or anyone when you left the meeting.”
“No, I didn’t. The rain poured down.” Liz looked behind her. “Someone stole that expensive dress. You are shot at. A man, successful, is killed. For what?”
“Don’t forget the tombstones at St. Luke’s,” Harry added.
“What has that got to do with you, the Tahoe, all that stuff?” Susan leaned on the counter, taking the weight off her feet.
“I don’t know. All I know is there’s a string of weird stuff, murder, and that’s weird, too. And you all can’t point the finger at me and say I’ve stuck my nose in all this. I did not. But I’m in it somehow so I want to get to the bottom of it.”
They both turned to her then, shut up as the door opened, and MaryJo Cranston pushed through it.
“Hey, what’s up?” MaryJo smiled.
“The bullet in Harry’s Volvo came from the same gun as the one that killed Pierre Rice,” Liz stated.
“No!” MaryJo’s hand came up to her heart. “No, it can’t be.”
Harry simply replied, “It is.”
“I drove out that driveway before you did. I’m telling you there wasn’t a car there or a lurking person. Nothing.”
“Even if there were could you have seen it?” Susan exhaled.
“Maybe. A glint of light on a fender, movement behind a tree. I mean it was raining cats and dogs but I might have seen something. Nada. Nothing. Zero,” MaryJo emphasized.
“Well, we aren’t going to solve this here.” Harry’s voice carried an edge. “Anyway, we popped in here to see if you really are selling out, Liz.”
MaryJo half laughed. “Me, too. Hard to shove away from the desk during the week, so here I am. Liz, are you?”
“I am. Thought I’d hang on through Christmas. I do good business around the holidays. Then I won’t renew my lease. I’ll close shop. Andy and I have done well, a good living for which I’m grateful. I’d like to travel. He swears if I go through with this then he’ll turn the business over to our daughter once she graduates from the Darden School.” Liz named the highly regarded graduate school of business at the University of Virginia. “Oh, he won’t just quit, he’ll work with her for a year but then we’ll be free. I’m actually excited about it and I feel like I’ll get to know my husband all over again.”
“Sounds wonderful.” MaryJo beamed. “I’m not sure I want to know Bruce all over again. I know him pretty well now.” She smiled. “He’s a good guy.”
“We four married good men,” Susan added. “Much as I love him there are times when I look at Ned and I want to just throw up my hands. I, of course, am perfect.”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you that.” Harry reached over to poke Susan in the arm.
“While I’m here, I want to buy that turquoise necklace I’ve been salivating over.” MaryJo walked to the display case containing the necklace, which Liz removed.
“A knockout,” the proprietor remarked as MaryJo turned around so Liz could come out from behind the case and fasten the necklace.
Harry and Susan oohed and aahed, and it was gorgeous and gorgeously expensive. MaryJo whipped out her checkbook and wrote a four-figure check on the spot.
“Would you like a box for it?” Liz inquired.
“No. I want to feel it on this sweater.”
Then Liz reminded Harry, “You said you had an idea about all this stuff.” She looked at MaryJo, filling her in. “Harry reminded me of how many truly odd things have happened. The murder, the theft of the dress from my shop, which was hacked, really, and the eagle feather—”
“I’m dying to hear. Being shot at after our meeting would scare me no end,” MaryJo confided.
“I think this had to do with contraband.” Harry folded her hands for a moment. “Exactly what, I don’t know, but I suspect it has something to do with illegal smuggling of animals or animal parts. The eagle feather points to that.”
MaryJo’s mouth dropped open. Susan and Liz stayed quite still for a second.
“Harry, you mean like what MaryJo told us from her research at an earlier meeting?” Liz’s memory was sharp, as always.
“Kind of. It might be otherwise, but for me the Tahoe was another clue. Whoever is behind this knew where to park that vehicle to hide it. And it may be that the storage building has been used for months or even a year or so to hide or store illegal goods. We don’t thoroughly check it. When we do go to the schools we’re concentrating on the actual schoolrooms. The other thing is whoever did this has a key or has cut the lock and had a duplicate lock made to match our keys. Isn’t much but it’s something.”
“It can’t be!” MaryJo was aghast.
“What else can it be? Even if this isn’t about contraband, someone knows how to get into the storage building.” Harry noticed the sky darkening.
Susan, speaking very slowly, putting this together, replied. “What you’re saying could be true, but whoever is doing this took a risk.”
“They did, but remember, whatever vehicles they parked in there were probably to be loaded or unloaded. And this was done quickly. In and out. If we’d stumbled upon a car or truck in there, whoever is behind this might have had a ready-made excuse. Surely they would have considered the possibility. But they are bold and sure of themselves.”
“Harry, that creeps me out.” MaryJo fingered her new, beloved necklace.
“Me, too,” Susan and Liz said in unison.
“Harry, if you’re right, you’d better be careful. You shouldn’t be alone.” MaryJo fretted.
“I’ll be careful. Plus I have Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter. Their senses are better than mine.”
“Harry, don’t be facetious.” MaryJo’s voice sounded like a schoolteacher’s.
“I’m not. I’ll be careful.”
Once back in Susan’s Audi station wagon, heading west for home, the first tiny snowflakes twirled down.
The weather, dramatic, changing, never failed to interest them or most people in central Virginia.
“First snow.” Harry smiled. “Do you want to have a hot chocolate at my house or yours? Or mulled wine, I can make that.”
“Yours.”
“Good. I’ll call your husband, my husband, Coop, that should do it. Oh, Miranda. Haven’t seen her in an age.” She mentioned the older woman she used to work with in the old post office now subsumed by a big new post office, burdened with so many federal rules. When Harry and Miranda ran the old, small P.O., they managed it with common sense. Those days and ways were gone. Everything had to be centralized, controlled, watched.
“Harry, have you told Coop what you think?”
“Yes.”
They drove and the snow fell a bit heavier.
“A squall.”
“The first snow, even if it’s just a few flakes, is always such fun.” Harry punched in numbers on her phone.
“Before your call, if you’re right, the problem, the murderer, is close to home.” Susan gave the wagon some gas as they climbed the steep hill on the other side of the creek, the eastern borderline of former Cloverfields and Old Rawly.
“I know.” Harry turned to look at her dearest friend. “I know, but I don’t know enough and I don’t know why I’m the target. Did I blunder onto something? Could you do the same? I hope I find out before it’s too late.”
“Harry, don’t say that.”
April 1, 1786 Saturday
A blue sky filled with fleecy cumulus clouds promised true spring. The James River sparkled, batteaus, larger ships, filled the docks and slips. Traffic, thanks to the good weather and the ice having broken up, filled the wide river. Above the slip, walking away from the ceaseless activity, Yancy Grant and Sam Udall could still hear some of the shouting, a ship’s bell ringing.
A young man hurried past them, tipping his hat to Sam.
“Mr. Udall.”
Sam returned the gesture. “Mr. Parham.” He commented as he swung his gold-tipped walking stick, elegant and expensive. “The young are ever in a hurry.”
Yancy, his stick under his arm, wolf’s head in silver at the top, nodded. “And it’s spring.”
Sam smiled. “I’ve always thought that high spring, when the dogwoods bloom, should be a respite from work. No one can think anyway.” He laughed. “The sap is rising.”
Yancy chortled. “Indeed.”
They passed houses, the farther away from the docks, the more impressive. Had they stopped to look back and down, the tops of the tobacco warehouses would have reflected the light, row after row, of long, large buildings. The Old World could not get enough of Virginia tobacco. Hemp sold well and if apples were properly packed and the ship made good time, the English were awakening to some of the sweet varieties not found over there.
“Madam.” Sam lifted his hat high, inclined his head slightly as did Yancy.
Yancy whispered, “Dazzling.”
The redhead, accompanied by her lady-in-waiting, enjoyed the weather on her brief walk to a friend.
“Maria Skipwith.”
“Ah, the Skipwiths.”
“Mmm.” Sam nodded. “Now of marriageable age, her mother has fantasies of the beauty marrying a noble in England or France.” He paused, then related with relish, “And that divine creature said, ‘I will marry an American or I will not marry at all.’ ”
They walked along, children playing, dogs playing with them, an open carriage rattling by, its deep green paint shining.
“Have you considered my proposition?” Yancy hoped his desperation didn’t show.
“I have. I believe this will be a good year for corn, hemp, annual crops unless we suffer a July and August drought. One can never discount that, but it has been a wet winter and spring. I am prepared to lend you fifteen thousand dollars against your estate at five percent interest.”
Yancy swallowed. Five percent was outrageous. “When would you wish repayment, Sir?”
“A year from April 15. You may pay quarterly or all at once. But I must have the total sum plus interest by April 15.”
“We have never discussed what would befall me should I fail, not that I will,” Yancy hastily added. “It’s just that I had not considered such a dolorous event.”
“The land becomes mine. I have the documents for you to sign, granting me the title should you fail or perish. All is in my office and we can review same on Monday. My clerk will be there and should corrections be needed he can do so.”
“Would you keep the land or sell it?” Yancy sounded unconcerned, just curious.
“Sell. Mrs. Sel—I mean Holloway, whom I know through her first husband and, of course, I am adjusting to Mr. Holloway, has expressed interest.”
Yancy’s voice shot up. “Has she now? And how did she learn of my situation?”
“That, Sir, I don’t know. Our dealings are in strictest confidence, but as I am one of the few financial men making speculative loans, someone could reach such a conclusion as we have been seen together. Naturally, I replied through a letter that I am not at liberty to discuss any such business and I had not made a loan to you, which at the time I wrote the missive was true.”
Color flushing in his cheeks, Yancy, with his voice level, said, “I feel this uncertainty will pass. The land I purchased before all this confusion is valuable and I think I will be fortunate I did not let it slip through my fingers.”
“Indeed. We must develop financial consistency. We need businessmen in Congress, men who understand something as simple as you cannot expect states to raise militias, train them, feed them, clothe them and yet only Congress can declare war. This is a burden that must be shared, a true national expense regarding our protection. As to our currency problems, again, businessmen must untangle this mess.”
“Indeed. And what do you think will happen in Europe?”
“Ah.” Sam’s walking stick was raised up higher from the ground for emphasis. “If the various kings live, we can consider a stable foreign policy. The men we send on missions to England, France, even Russia, seem highly intelligent, but, Sir, should a king die unexpectedly, who is to say? That’s the terrible crisis of a monarchy, a sudden death or a king who is mentally unable to rule.”
“They all seem healthy,” Yancy murmured.
“Well, King George is fat.” Sam laughed as they approached Georgina’s.
Walking in the opposite direction, chattering away, were Eudes and Mignon, who opened the back gate to go to work. Eudes had given Mignon an early tour of houses close to Georgina’s with lovely gardens.
Yancy stopped.
“Are you well, Sir?”
“Oh, quite.” The horseman paused. “It’s just that I recognize that tiny little woman.”
“I don’t believe I have ever seen her but the fellow is the cook, best cook in town.”
“She’s a runaway slave.” Yancy spoke with emphasis on runaway.
“Ah, well, Sir, I would keep that to myself as I am certain she is not the only such woman at Georgina’s.”
“There is a one-hundred-dollar reward.”
Sam’s reply cut. “A pittance to a man of your standing. One should stay on the good side of Georgina. She has long talons. Do keep it to yourself.”
April 2, 1786 Sunday
The gorgeous weather held, the temperature when all returned from church hovered in the midfifties. The doors to the big house stood open for fresh air but the windows remained closed. A bit of cooling in the house would be welcome, but once the sun set it would become cold quickly.
The late-afternoon sun drenched the meadows, the orchards with gold.
Pink and white hyacinths formed a low arrangement in the center of the table where cakes and cookies were piled on the table along with small wrapped gifts.
JohnJohn, Marcia, and Isabelle raced around the table screaming while Piglet chased them.
Ewing commanded the head of the table while his daughters and sons-in-law teased him about turning forty-eight.
Marcia grabbed a gift before Rachel could smack her hand and she leaned on Ewing’s thigh to drop
it in his lap.
“Birfday.” She mangled the word.
“My, yes.” He noted the name on the small card. “Piglet. Well, this will be good.”
The three stopped to watch their grandfather open the box. He pulled out a handsome collar that one of the estate’s leatherworkers had made.
“A collar for you, Grandpa!” Isabelle clapped.
They all laughed, then Ewing solemnly remarked to the children, “I believe Piglet has made this present for himself. Let’s see if it fits.”
Charles stood up, called his beloved friend to him, walking him to Ewing. Piglet sat down and, yes, the collar fit perfectly.
One by one the gifts, useful items such as gloves, cravats, an elegant silk bottle-green waistcoat, were opened with appreciative noises. The children did not find the clothing and books that thrilling but they did quiet down.
Finally, Catherine and Rachel disappeared into the kitchen, returning with Bettina, Serena, Weymouth, and Roger.
“Now, what are you all up to?” Ewing loved every minute of this.
The sisters approached their father, Catherine took the smallish beautiful wooden box that Bettina handed to her.
“Hiding things?” His eyebrows raised.
“Mr. Ewing, you can poke around.” Bettina laughed. “But we all thought the pantry would be safe.”
“Now, what is this?”
“Open it, Grandpa!” The three small children were flush with excitement.
The two sisters stood a bit nervously, as did their husbands.
He untied the ribbon, opened the box, and there nestled in royal blue silk gleamed a pocket watch, gold with his initials on the back in an elegant script.
Lifting it out, he admired the hands, the wonderful numbers, and was so very glad no one in his family had heard him at the dinner party crab about this newfangled piece of jewelry, a pocket watch.
“Father, it chimes the hours. May I show you?” Rachel held out her hand. He dropped the expensive watch into it.
She moved the hands to four o’clock and a low chime rang out four times, which made Piglet bark and the children scream again. Then Rachel reset the time, handing him the watch with its heavy gold chain, an oval at the end with Cloverfields engraved on it so he could wear the gift on his new waistcoat.