Cat's Eyewitness (21 page)

31

H
arry, I’m putting you to a lot of trouble,” Susan apologized as she fumed in stop-and-go traffic around Virginia Commonwealth University.

The closer they approached the area of Richmond known as the Fan, the heavier the traffic became, as did the pelting rain just this side of ice.

The cats and dogs slept in the sheepskin beds in the back of the station wagon.

“You’d do the same for me.”

Susan, eyes glued to traffic, growled as a Subaru WRX Sti skidded in front of her. “Idiot! Ever notice how the people in the smallest cars drive the worst?”

“That’s a great car for the money. One second slower than a Porsche Boxster from zero to sixty. However, it’s pretty much a kid’s car, as are most little cars.” Harry shrugged. “Kids are always in a hurry.”

“In this weather!”

“You’re sounding middle-aged and we aren’t forty yet,” Harry admonished her with a grin.

“Damned close. Boy, I hope Danny and Brooks don’t drive like this when I’m not in the car.”

“Who knows what they do or who they do it with—but whatever, if the Fates are kind, they’ll live. As it is, they have pretty good sense. I attribute that to you, of course.”

“Of course.” Susan turned right onto a tree-lined street of lovely old town houses. “Here we are.”

“Where’s here?”
Pewter opened her eyes.

“The Fan,”
Owen obligingly answered as the motor cut off.

“That tells me a whole hell of a lot,”
Pewter grumbled.

Mrs. Murphy stretched, as did Tucker, both hoping they’d be allowed to go with the two women.

“Come on.” Susan opened the door.

Harry reached behind her seat, pulling out a towel. When they stepped through the front door of the house, which had been divided into rental flats, Harry knelt down to wipe off each set of paws.

Pewter pulled hers back, shaking them after being wiped off.
“I can do it myself.”

The carpeted stairs muffled their footsteps as they climbed four flights to the top floor. Susan opened the lock.

“What a pretty room,” Harry exclaimed.

The animals immediately inspected the place.

“It is. The rents they get, though.” Susan dropped the key back in her jeans pocket. “I’ll give you the tour. Two bedrooms. You can see this one is his office.” She paused a minute. “Where did he get that etched-glass table? That must have cost a fortune. He didn’t tell me about that.”

“Susan, it didn’t cost five hundred dollars. Places like Pottery Barn carry stuff like this. Actually, the way he’s pulled this together surprises me. I never thought of Ned as a particularly aesthetic kind of person. I guess I think of him as a fishing buddy for Herb.” She smiled.

“Considering we had a budget of six thousand dollars for everything, and I squeezed to get that, the place isn’t bad. I put together the living room, faux Parish-Hadley”—she smiled as she mentioned the famous, conservative New York interior design firm—“but the rest of it really reflects what he wants. I haven’t been down here in two weeks. He’s gotten a lot done. I guess I’m a little surprised, too, at how modern it is. Lots of glass and chrome, or what passes for chrome.”

“Now don’t you feel better?”

“Sort of.”

“Susan, use your head. If the man were having an affair, or contemplating an affair, would he give you a key to his Richmond apartment?” Harry pointed to the law books and research papers already piling up on the industrial shelving. “He’s hitting the tarmac running. He has to hire a staff, he has to get up to speed on all the issues before the Senate. And he has to be available to folks back home or he’ll be a one-term guy.”

“Well, dammit, Harry, something’s not right.”

“Maybe so, but I’m telling you, this isn’t some kind of love nest.”

“Doesn’t mean it won’t turn into one.”

Harry threw up her hands in defeat to Susan’s stubbornness. “Show me the rest of the apartment.”

The bedroom, simple, also had books stacked next to the bed and a good reading lamp on the black lacquer nightstand. The kitchen, though small, boasted Corian countertops, one with a large inset butcher block for chopping. The place exuded a charm, aided by the light—what there was of it today—flooding through the large skylight over the living room and a smaller one over the kitchen. The glass–paned windows fronting the street helped, too, and the ones in the back overlooked a small garden.

“No women have been here,”
Tucker pronounced after a thorough search, nose touching furniture.

“Only Ned’s scent,”
Owen concurred.
“Danny’s, too; he came down yesterday to help his dad. He had his finals early so he could come home. Danny has a four-point-oh, you know. They’re supposed to be Christmas shopping today.”

Pewter giggled, humor restored,
“A present for Dad, a present for Mom, a present for Brooks, a present for me, hmm, another present for me.”

“Want to leave Ned a note?” Harry suggested.

“Sure.” Susan scribbled a few lines, putting the paper on the refrigerator, held with a magnet extolling the virtues of a local insurance company.

“Where’s Ned’s computer?” It occurred to Harry that the etched desk, set up for a computer, lacked same.

“He and Danny went to buy one today. Ned said he’s not doing it without Danny.”

“Smart. Do you want to do any Christmas shopping while we’re in Richmond?”

“No. Do you?”

“No. Can’t believe you’re passing up a shop-a-thon.”

“I’ve done enough spending.”

“How about stopping at the tack shop in Manakin-Sabot? There’re actually two tack shops there. The one we always go to and a kind of Western one across the street. We could call Mary Robertson and see if she or Ronnie Thornton could make it for lunch. Or Ginny Perrin.” Harry began to mentally go through the list of her Deep Run Hunt friends who lived in the area.

“It’s Tuesday. They’re hunting,” Susan said.

“They may have started out, but I bet they’re coming back in. Getting nasty out there. By the time we reach them they’ll be in the stables cleaning up.”

“Let’s call them when we can all relax and enjoy one another’s company,” Susan suggested.

“Hey, there’s another tack shop in Manakin-Sabot. Makes it three. We can go to the first two, and then there’s the one around the corner from Mary Robertson’s farm.”

“Harry, what do you need? What’s the tack shop kick?”

“A new martingale. We could hit up the shops in Manakin-Sabot, then go up to Horse Country in Warrenton, then on to Marshall and then Middleburg and—”

“Sure. I’d burn a tank of gas while you grieved in each shop about how expensive everything is. You’d compare all the martingales, buy none, then after Christmas go buy one. Harry, you need to change your attitude about money just like I guess I need to change my attitude about Ned. If you say he isn’t cheating, I reckon he isn’t.” She stopped, staring up at the rain on the skylight. “Still, something’s . . . mmm.” She shrugged.

“I don’t have any money.”

“And whose fault is that?” Susan, as only an old friend who has watched for years can do, let her have it. “You farted around in the post office. You never tried to develop outside income. You really took an economic nosedive when you divorced Fair, and now you have a chance to work together and you’re tanking that.”

Harry stiffened. “I don’t want to work for him. It would be different if I were a vet.”

As their voices became stronger, the animals filed in to watch.

“I understand that, but if you don’t have money, that’s your choice. You were born with many advantages, as was I. Neither of us was born rich but we weren’t poor, we received excellent educations, we’re white—which is still an advantage in this world—and, okay, we’re women, that’s a hurdle to overcome in some situations but a real plus in others. What’s your excuse?”

Furious, Harry’s face flushed. “I don’t need an excuse. I never made money the center of my life.”

“The hell you didn’t. All you talk about is not having it. That’s like an alcoholic in Alcoholics Anonymous. No, they aren’t drinking anymore, but alcohol, its absence, is central to their life. Wake up and smell the coffee.”

“Damn you!” Harry’s lips compressed, she sputtered, then controlled herself. “At least make me a cup of coffee if you’re going to be a pure-D bitch.”

“Gladly.” Susan poured water into the coffeemaker. She ground whole beans kept in the freezer. As the brew percolated, she leaned against the counter, arms crossed over her chest. “Who else is going to tell you the truth?”

“No one. Even Miranda will sugarcoat it,” Harry admitted. “I hate it when you’re right. I just hate it.”

“I love you. You’re my sister, the sister I never had. I want you to be happy and you can only be happy if you’re productive. That’s your nature. Other people need love. I’m not saying you don’t need love, but you need to be doing something, you need a task, a goal.”

“That’s true.” Harry opened the fridge. “Least Ned has half-and-half. If I’m going to drink coffee I need real cream or half-and-half.”

“Almost ready.”

The reassuring aroma of coffee filled the kitchen. Susan poured them each a large mug. They perched on stools at the counter between the living room and the small kitchen.

“I’ve been an ass.”

“No, you haven’t. You’ve been avoiding the big issues, and you know why I can recognize it? I have, too.”

“Susan, you’ve raised two children, worked nonstop for every good cause in the county and the state. You’re perfect. Almost.” Harry wryly smiled.

“Don’t you feel sometimes like you’re looking in a pair of binoculars? Pretend the binoculars see into the future. I look and it’s blank.”

A long sigh escaped Harry. “Yeah.”

“But I have a good life. I know I have a good life, but I feel . . .” Susan couldn’t find the words; she turned her hands palms upward.

“I know. That’s why I like solving problems. I’ve done something. I guess I’ve held the blankness off.”

“Do you regret not having children?”

“When I see you with your children, I do. When I see other people with those little consumer parasites, no.” Harry laughed.

“What do we do now?”

“I don’t know. I guess we grow old disgracefully.”

“I don’t want to grow old. I don’t even want to turn forty.” Susan tried to sound funny, but she meant it down to her bones.

“You know, Susan, it’s funny, but I don’t give a rat’s ass. It’s not the age thing, it’s exactly what you said: I don’t have a purpose. And I didn’t take money seriously, which I truly believe is a woman’s fault. We aren’t raised to be responsible that way. We’re raised to take care of other people, not the pocketbook.”

“Lot of truth to that.”

They drank their coffee, sat quietly, and then Harry said, “Since we found Great-Uncle Thomas, I’ve been reading about the Carmelite order on which the Afton monastery is modeled. Back in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, people, including the Carmelites themselves, believed in a mythology about the order. They believed that the sons of the prophets, the Old Testament prophets, belonged to the Essenes one thousand years before Christ. They lived on Mt. Carmel. One thousand years later, some of these holy men were present at St. Peter’s first sermon on Pentecost. He converted them to Christianity and they built a chapel on Mt. Carmel in honor of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

“According to the myth, the Virgin Mary and the Apostles enrolled in the order.

“Clearly this is all made up, but that didn’t prevent people from believing it. Over the centuries the order would relax, then suffer a cleaning paroxysm. Discipline would be restored. But throughout, many believed the story about Mary. My point is twofold.” She smiled. “Do I sound like a lawyer?”

“More like a professor.”

“Ah, well, anyway, here’s where I’m going: this order has a long and rich history, and the Blessed Virgin Mary is at the center of it. My other thought is, what do we believe now that is as patently false as the stories about the Essenes, the sons of the prophets, Mary, and the Apostles? That’s where we’re coming a cropper, see? We can’t see what’s real. We literally can’t see what’s in front of our eyes.”