A Hiss Before Dying

by Rita Mae Brown

  Petting Shortro, one of the horses, as she brought him in, she said to the handsome gray fellow as the cats and dog listened, “Shortro, I’m not as smart as I’d hoped I’d be.”

  “Humans worry too much.” The gentle horse nuzzled her. “Some things you’re not supposed to know.”

  Pewter piped up. “And even when you find out, if you do, what difference does it make?”

  Harry walked Shortro, followed by his friends, into the barn. She looked at the evening star, large and luminous light in the sky, and wondered if it shone that brightly on the night the woman was killed.

  Then wondered who desecrated the grave.

  Shrugging, she stared again at the blazing star, said to her animal friends, “I wonder if we’ll ever know who is behind this. If stars, trees, rocks could talk, we’d know most everything. Maybe it’s better we don’t.”

  Pewter blinked. “I can’t believe she said that, the world’s most curious human.”

  Mrs. Murphy’s whiskers swept forward. “It’s true, though. What do we really need to know? The evening star saw as we changed from saber-toothed tigers to house cats.”

  “Oh, Murph, the saber-toothed tiger turned into a tiger.” Tucker laughed.

  “Well, the evening star can watch you get swatted!” Pewter reached out to smack the dog, who dashed away.

  So the evening star observed one puzzled, tired human as well as a merry chase.

  October 15, 1786 Sunday

  St. Luke’s structure, washed in late-afternoon sun, testified to the progress Charles and the builders had achieved. The church itself, framed up, stood in the middle of the two wings, more or less roughed in as were the two smaller buildings, duplicates of each other at the ends of the arches. Charles decided to build with wood first, then cover that with stone. Usually the stone was done first but the press of oncoming winter encouraged him to try something different. The large log structure, now hidden behind the church, could serve indefinitely, but Charles learned if people could see progress they chipped in more readily.

  The entire congregation of St. Luke’s gathered in the new graveyard in the rear, the stone walls already constructed. The Taylors, respected and admired, drew friends from St. Mary’s, as well as the Episcopal Church along with the various smaller Baptist churches. Father Donatello came, as did clergy from the other houses of worship.

  Michael and Margaret Taylor, formerly strong and productive had wasted away. The cause was deemed the sweating sickness, malaria. At the end, both had lost so much weight as to be almost unrecognizable. In early middle age, they worked hard. He built snake fences, showing others how to do it, as well as stone fences. Michael oversaw the lovely stone fence for St. Luke’s graveyard. It was he who told Charles that while buildings, important though they were, excited the parishioners, a proper graveyard needed to come first. The dead must always be respected and cherished. Who could have believed he and his wife would be placed there together on a brilliant mid-October day? Margaret expired first, Michael two hours later.

  He had whispered to his eldest child, eighteen years of age, that he was sorry to leave her and her brothers, but he couldn’t imagine life without his perfect Margaret.

  To find the right mate provided progress, love, and respect. Catherine and John stood next to Rachel and Charles. Each of these young people knew of the fragility of life and each, like Michael, couldn’t imagine a life without his or her partner.

  The funeral was late in the afternoon so people from the other churches could attend. The Taylors had died that morning. As it was not unexpected, word traveled fast. The number of mourners testified to that.

  Maureen and Jeffrey attended. Well, just about everybody did, but Maureen wanted everyone to see the carriage her husband had built with his father. Indeed, it was a beauty and people marveled that a local cabinetmaker mastered the skills so quickly. Just getting the angle of the big wheels correct on the axle took some doing. Jeffrey was not afraid to ask for help and to import same. The coach-in-four gleamed a deep maroon with gold pinstriping. On the doors, Maureen’s crest had been painted. Yes, it was not the thing to do in a new republic, but Maureen’s defense was that she was from the Caribbean. No one argued. Of course, there were those who thought she should return to the Caribbean.

  The Shippenworths from Philadelphia were also there, having stayed in Virginia for the better part of the year. Their carriage, splendid but not flashy, would carry the Holloways and themselves to Hot Springs. If General Washington and Thomas Jefferson could take the waters there, so could the Shippenworths and the Holloways. The springs remained warm regardless of the season. Many swore by their medicinal powers.

  The service, dignified, closed with “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Tears filled many eyes.

  Rachel, wiping her own, said in a low voice, “They left us too soon, but they left us with a good example.”

  Charles, arm around her waist, nodded. “A short good life is better than a long, useless one.”

  As the assembled walked toward the log building, the main church was not yet ready for people, the delicious scent of food filled the air.

  Inside, Bettina, Serena, even Bumbee, busied themselves. Ewing had asked them to honor the Taylors. He paid them, too, for intruding on their Sundays. The women and the other slaves working in the makeshift kitchen liked the Taylors. Bettina, having lost her own husband at a young age, thought death made all people equal, king as well as slave. It was not an equality she soon wished to experience.

  St. Luke’s parishioners, the white women, also worked in the kitchen. Cooking, serving food did seem to bind women.

  “Miss Ix, this bacon is perfect,” Bettina praised the German immigrant.

  Given Bettina’s reputation, Miss Ix smiled. “I do try, Bettina.”

  Sheba did not serve, but she did her mistress’s bidding, as did Henry. DoRe popped into the kitchen, winked at Bettina, then popped out. How the ladies laughed even if it was a funeral.

  “That man.” Bettina pretended this was uncalled-for.

  “Oh, Bettina, what would we do without their foolishness?” Lillian Bosum remarked.

  “We’d get more done.” Rebecca Smythers arranged sweetbreads on a tray.

  Jutta Rogan nodded, then added, “Surely we would, Becky, but would we have as much fun?”

  As they chattered, the front door opened, the people poured in. The hum of talk filled the room.

  Given the distances, the constant labor, even a funeral provided warmth, gossip, the sense of belonging.

  Ewing, legs tired from standing, sat on one of the graceful, simple backed benches.

  “Father, what can I fetch you?” Rachel asked.

  “Anything at all, my dear, but a pinch of punch would certainly restore my spirits.”

  “Right away.” Charles, next to his wife, headed for the enormous silver punch bowl, loaned to the church for this occasion by Maureen.

  Catherine, next to Maureen at the long food table, noted this. “Mrs. Holloway, what a kindness. If only the Taylors could see your contribution to their memory.”

  A solemn look flashed across Maureen’s face. “Catherine, my dear, I believe they can. Nothing is ever truly lost except my husband’s temper.”

  Catherine did laugh. “In a good cause.”

  “I am still shaking from that experience, but isn’t it strange how men can try to kill one another, then make up?” She indicated with her head her husband talking to Yancy Grant.

  Yancy, on his crutch now, also sat down, Jeffrey on one side of him with John on the other. John did not anticipate trouble but he felt either gentleman could be combustible.

  “Mr. Grant.” Jeffrey leaned toward the older man. “Your interest in finance, well, let me put it this way, Mr. Shippenworth has a broad vision for our country’s finances.”

  “Does he now?”

  “I suspect he knows Sam Udall,” Jeffrey replied.

  Yancy considered this. “Mr. Udall has a sure grasp of value
whether it be tobacco or land or hemp. He knows the day’s prices. I wouldn’t be surprised if the two have met.”

  John leaned toward Yancy slightly. “He and Ewing see each other frequently.”

  “If anyone knows money, it’s Ewing.” Yancy complimented the well-liked man.

  The discussion between Ewing and Mr. Shippenworth was so lively other men gravitated toward them to listen.

  “I tell you, Mr. Garth, we need a national bank to stabilize our monetary policy. It’s not taxes that matter, Sir, it is monetary policy and we have none.”

  Men leaned closer.

  Ewing, careful, replied, “You, Sir, are far better informed than I. I do not argue the point at all but I fear a national bank will offend our people. It’s too close to the Exchequer in England.”

  A murmur of agreement attended this.

  “We must go beyond the war years. There are things the English do that make great good sense,” Shippenworth countered.

  Big Billy Bosum, the parishioner passionate about building a navy, spoke. “The Europeans think of control. If they can control us through money, so be it. Controlling us by arms failed, but I do not think we can ever rest easy until we have a standing army, a large navy, and men committed to defending our shores and, I add, our businesses.”

  “Hear, hear,” many said.

  Catherine, plate filled for old Mrs. Ciampi, partially blind, circumvented the lively discussion.

  “Mrs. Ciampi, what would you like to drink?”

  “Oh, thank you, dear. Have they any sweet tea?”

  “Always. I’ll be right back.” Catherine hurried to the drinks table, met Rachel there, and both sisters returned to the elderly lady.

  “Thank you. It’s a bit warm for mid-October. I find I am thirsty.”

  Rachel spoke. “Beautiful day, though.”

  “Oh, you two girls sit with me for a moment. I miss young people.” Her little mobcap shook a bit as she spoke, for her head wobbled. “The loss of the Taylors distresses me. Such good people and in the prime of life. Oh, Margaret fussed about getting old and I would chide her, ‘Old. Look at me! I was born in 1712. Don’t talk to me about old.’ ”

  They both laughed.

  Rachel then said, “Mrs. Ciampi, you have more energy than women half your age.”

  This pleased the lady no end. “I will tell you my secret.” She motioned for them to come a bit closer. “Never stop. Truly, never stop. Keep cleaning, cooking, chopping your own wood. Go on walks with the dog. Dig in your garden. We are meant to be busy. Idle hands do the Devil’s work.”

  When the funeral gathering broke up all agreed that the number of people, the quality of the food, Mrs. Holloway’s huge punch bowl, proved how valued were the departed.

  Maureen and Jeffrey climbed into the Shippenworths’ coach. Everyone went their separate ways. DoRe, now high in the driver’s seat, waited for Sheba and Henry to get inside the coach.

  Henry said not one word to Sheba nor she to him on the way to Big Rawly.

  —

  That evening, Sheba tiptoed into Maureen’s bedroom. She knew where everything was. She put on Maureen’s exquisite mustard-colored silk dress, the one with a low-cut bodice. Then she opened her jewelry box, for she knew where the key was. Picking up one glittering piece after another, she decided the colored stones would clash with the mustard color. Sheba possessed a good eye. Walking to the corner, she knelt down, then lifted up a loose floorboard. She took out the pearl necklace, the one with the huge pearl in the center, placed it around her own neck. Then she put the dangling large pearl earrings in her ears, the very pearls she had accused Mignon of stealing. Sheba longed for the day when she could wear what she had hidden.

  “Looks better on me than that old bat,” she murmured.

  She couldn’t help it. She wanted to walk outside in the cooling air. To glide, feeling herself a grand lady wearing a fortune in pearls.

  As she swirled around, a figure approached her.

  “DoRe,” she acknowledged him. “Don’t tell.”

  “Never.” He came up behind her, put his hands on each cheek and twisted her neck so powerfully and quickly that he snapped it. She went down into the folds of the gorgeous voluminous skirt.

  He walked slowly down to the barn, hitched up a simple hay wagon. He came back, picked her up like a rag doll, tossed her in the back, and threw hay over her.

  As he drove out, Henry met him by the front of the house.

  “Henry.”

  “DoRe.”

  “I trust you will say nothing.”

  “I will not. You’ve done us all a great favor.”

  “This is for my boy and for Ailee.” He drove off.

  —

  Within forty-five minutes he was at St. Luke’s graveyard. The earth was soft and easy to dig up on the Taylors’ grave. Once he hit the casket, he quickly cleaned it off, placed Sheba on it, covered all with dirt, then tamped it down.

  Driving back to Big Rawly, he realized the pearl necklace, the earrings would buy freedom. Then again, it could buy death.

  Venus, the evening star, shone with brilliant light. He and his late wife would tell Moses stories about the stars when the boy was small. As Moses grew, father and son would identify stars, the Milky Way in the night sky. When his wife died, he told Moses, then a late teenager, that she was now a star. All would be well even though they missed her.

  Looking up at the glittering planet, DoRe asked it, “Venus, shine your love-light on me.”

  Afterword

  Once back at Big Rawly, Maureen did not mourn Sheba. No one seemed to mind that the lady’s maid vanished.

  Over at Cloverfields, the news of yet another missing slave from Big Rawly was met with resignation. Big Rawly leaked people like an old bucket.

  The missing jewelry, though, caused talk. Did Mignon really take them or did Sheba? Did Sheba buy her way to freedom? Did she bury the treasure? Would she return for it?

  As time went by, many folks believed Sheba was dead.

  As for DoRe, neither he nor Henry ever spoke of things. DoRe had avenged a wicked abuser of a beautiful girl and his son ran for his life as she lied about Moses killing Francisco Selisse. Moses was making a good life in York, Pennsylvania, but his father missed him.

  Bettina’s response to all this was, “I didn’t wish her dead, but I rejoice that she’s gone.”

  About ninety miles east in Richmond, Binky, throat slit, was found propped up against a tobacco warehouse door. As no one claimed to know him, he was thrown in a pauper’s grave.

  Catherine, Rachel, John, Charles, and Ewing paid some attention to all this but fell into the routine of hard work.

  The big news was that France was having difficulty paying its bills. That and the wonderful news that Catherine would have another child, due in June.

  In the twenty-first century, things also died down. Harry felt sure that whoever had been troubling the Taylors’ grave would eventually be found. She was right, but it would take time and cleverness. That would come next spring. The chits, too, would be found in good time.

  Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker lived in harmony with nature, although not always with one another. They evidenced no interest in divining the future. The day they were in proved sufficient for happiness. They had long ago given up teaching their humans this lesson.

  Dear Reader,

  You can see from reading this book that I am the one with the insights.

  Also, I am not fat. My fur is dense.

  Yours,

  Dear Reader,

  Pewter is mental.

  Dear Reader,

  As a corgi, I am calm, cool, and collected. Cats are irrational and emotional. Mrs. Murphy is somewhat doglike. Pewter is impossible.

  I hope you have a dog in your life to guide you.

  Dear Reader,

  I am a saint.

  Dedicated to Major Sara Bateman, U.S. Army Ret., ex-MFH.

  We’ve been through a lot together and most o
f it was your fault.

  Books by Rita Mae Brown & Sneaky Pie Brown

  WISH YOU WERE HERE • REST IN PIECES • MURDER AT MONTICELLO • PAY DIRT • MURDER, SHE MEOWED • MURDER ON THE PROWL • CAT ON THE SCENT • SNEAKY PIE’S COOKBOOK FOR MYSTERY LOVERS • PAWING THROUGH THE PAST • CLAWS AND EFFECT • CATCH AS CAT CAN • THE TAIL OF THE TIP-OFF • WHISKER OF EVIL • CAT’S EYEWITNESS • SOUR PUSS • PUSS ’N CAHOOTS • THE PURRFECT MURDER • SANTA CLAWED • CAT OF THE CENTURY • HISS OF DEATH • THE BIG CAT NAP • SNEAKY PIE FOR PRESIDENT • THE LITTER OF THE LAW • NINE LIVES TO DIE • TAIL GAIT • TALL TAIL • A HISS BEFORE DYING

  Books by Rita Mae Brown featuring “Sister” Jane Arnold

  OUTFOXED • HOTSPUR • FULL CRY • THE HUNT BALL • THE HOUNDS AND THE FURY • THE TELL-TALE HORSE • HOUNDED TO DEATH • FOX TRACKS • LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE

  The Mags Rogers Books

  MURDER UNLEASHED • A NOSE FOR JUSTICE

  Books by Rita Mae Brown

  ANIMAL MAGNETISM: MY LIFE WITH CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL • THE HAND THAT CRADLES THE ROCK • SONGS TO A HANDSOME WOMAN • THE PLAIN BROWN RAPPER • RUBYFRUIT JUNGLE • IN HER DAY • SIX OF ONE • SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT • SUDDEN DEATH • HIGH HEARTS • STARTED FROM SCRATCH: A DIFFERENT KIND OF WRITER’S MANUAL • BINGO • VENUS ENVY • DOLLEY: A NOVEL OF DOLLEY MADISON IN LOVE AND WAR • RIDING SHOTGUN • RITA WILL: MEMOIR OF A LITERARY RABBLE-ROUSER • LOOSE LIPS • ALMA MATER • SAND CASTLE • CAKEWALK

  About the Authors

  RITA MAE BROWN has written many bestsellers and received two Emmy nominations. In addition to the Mrs. Murphy series, she has authored a dog series comprised of A Nose for Justice and Murder Unleashed, and the Sister Jane foxhunting series, among many other acclaimed books. She and Sneaky Pie live with several other rescued animals.