Whisker of Evil (10 page)

19

C
an't people just elope?” Harry grumbled as she sorted the unusually large number of envelopes Saturday morning.

Isabelle “Izzy” Stoltfus, a ripe twenty-three, worked the post office on Saturdays, but this Saturday, June 12, her first cousin was getting married over in Stuart's Draft, so Harry filled in.

Izzy's distant cousin, Jerome, was the animal-control officer. The two of them possessed literal temperaments. If something was written down, surely it was revealed wisdom. If it wasn't written down, they were paralyzed by indecision.

Fortunately, post-office procedures had changed little since the postal relays of ancient Rome. You delivered the mail, simple as that. What had changed was the speed with which it could be handed to you.

Once the mail sack was dropped at the Crozet Post Office, sorting the mail took time. Harry had to place each person's letters, magazines, and junk mail into their box. Packages too large for the box were set on industrial shelving, numbered by postbox rows. So the top shelf, since this was a small town, was one through fifty; the second shelf was fifty-one through one hundred, and so on.

“Why is she moaning about elopements? The wedding invitations went out and came in two months ago,”
Pewter logically said.

“She's not complaining about the volume of mail. She's complaining because Izzy's not here. She's ready to cut hay, and you know how she gets about that first cutting.”
Tucker loved the first haying, the sweet smell of the newly mown hay flat on the ground in rows that often curved as gracefully as the line on a Manet canvas.

“It really is a mess of mail.”
Pewter sauntered over to the pile on the sorting desk, the rest in the cart.

Mrs. Murphy, already on the white, blue, pink, yellow, and even cerise envelopes, said,
“Party time. Flag Day parties. Fourth of July parties coming up. Bastille Day parties.”

This being Virginia, there were parties for every single human endeavor or lack of same. There were fishing parties, hunt club trail-clearing parties, the usual round of birthdays, retirement parties, let's-celebrate-death-to-chiggers parties (chiggers being a nasty little bug), and the ubiquitous informal parties. Now, these informal parties could be tricky. A lady didn't put on white gloves and party manners, but she couldn't show up in flip-flops, a tube top, and cutoff jeans. Despite protests to the contrary, there really were no informal parties. Dress might be relaxed, but folks pulled themselves together. Virginians take their public appearances seriously. This seriousness about personal display allows them to be wonderfully charming, funny, and entertaining at all the parties. When a person knows they are correctly turned out, even if the clothes aren't their favorites, they relax.

Every one of those invitations that Harry flicked into the back of the mailboxes specified the dress code. Not one of them said, “Come as you are.” No one wanted to see you as you are. Much too scary. They wanted to see you at your best.

Harry, born and bred in these parts, from families that arrived here in the early seventeenth century, received almost every invitation possible. She loved parties, but the dress tortured her. Her limited funds were spent on her farm.

No one could hold a candle to Big Mim or BoomBoom in the turnout department, but Harry looked okay. Big Mim could and did pop over to Milan and Paris. She ran ahead of the fashion curve. BoomBoom preferred shopping in New York, knowing just where to find all the bargains south of Houston Street. Nor was she averse to tromping through Bergdorf Goodman.

When Harry began to look a little tatty, Susan Tucker would drag her to Tyson's Corner—not Milan, Paris, or New York, but Nordstrom's was at Tyson's Corner and that was a plus. The real reason Harry allowed herself to be yanked up to Occupied Virginia—as Crozians thought of northern Virginia—was so she could then drive over to Middleburg and visit her Smith College friends, a few of whom had settled there. It should be noted, those Smithies had also married quite well.

Alone, Harry had finally popped the last letter in the box when she noticed Big Mim's sleek Bentley Turbo R glide past the post office. Seated next to Mim was the unmistakable profile of one of the most beautiful women of her or any generation, Alicia Palmer.

Harry heard the deep motor purr as the Bentley rolled around the back of the post office. Big Mim was just as happy coming in the back door as the front. She rapped on the back door.

Federal regulations specified that this back door should be locked, but life in a small town and in a small post office challenges such restrictions. Harry usually kept the back door unlocked because Miranda came in that way. Rob Collier, if the day's drop was large, would pull in the back alley instead of the front. If she counted all the times she would need to open the back door, it just made more sense to keep it unlocked. Since the front-door parking lot was small and often full, friends just naturally came 'round the back way.

“Harry, dear,” Big Mim cooed as she stepped through the door. “Alicia's home for a good long stay.”

Alicia extended her hand to Harry. “It's been a long time between visits. You look as fresh and fit as ever.”

Big Mim grumbled, “A summa cum laude from Smith sorting mail. Alicia, encourage her to better herself.”

“Don't pay the least bit of attention to her, Harry. She always was a dictator.” Alicia squeezed Harry's hand.

At this Mim laughed. Most people were scared to death of the powerful woman. When someone teased her as Alicia did, it actually delighted her.

“You look gorgeous, Miss Palmer. We wish you'd move back to St. James permanently.”

“Must have had the world's best face-lift,”
Pewter cynically commented.

“She really is stunning,”
Mrs. Murphy said.
“Who cares how she does it?”

“I think Mom looks stunning.”
The corgi stoutly stuck up for Harry.

“Oh, Tucker, that is so sweet, but Mom has all the fashion sense of a praying mantis.”
Pewter hopped on the divider counter to be closer to the humans.

The corgi defiantly curled back her upper lip.
“You say! Well, she has a wonderful face and the best body. Not an ounce of fat on her, and if she wanted to wear expensive clothes she'd look better than anyone else.”
Tucker then sat next to Harry's leg, refusing to even cast a glance at the fat gray cat.

“. . . the most extraordinary thing.” Big Mim finished her sentence on Harry finding Mary Pat's class ring. She reached for Harry's hand.

Harry held up her hand for Alicia, then thought it better to slip off the ring so the retired movie star could study it.

Alicia placed the gold ring in her palm. “She was so proud of her high school.” She peered inside at the inscription, M.P.R., 1945.

“Would you like the ring, Miss Palmer?” Harry spontaneously offered it.

Alicia looked into Harry's eyes, her own violet eyes filling with tears. “You're very kind.” She took a deep breath. “You keep it, Harry. Mary Pat bestowed upon me wealth worth a raj's ransom—that and a wealth of wisdom. I learned so much from that woman.” She gently handed the ring back to Harry. “She died much too young.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wished her dead?” Harry inquired.

“No. I was the prime suspect. Obviously, I didn't kill her. I never would have killed her. God, what an awful, awful time.” Alicia noticed Pewter and Mrs. Murphy on the counter. “Still working at the post office, I see.”

“Yes, couldn't do it without them. Tucker, too,” Harry answered.

Alicia looked down at two bright eyes looking back up. “If dogs can fetch the paper, why not deliver the mail?” She laughed.

“Harry, dear, come over tonight. I'm giving an impromptu dinner party for Alicia. I browbeat her into it.”

“Now, Mim, you didn't have to browbeat.”

“Harry, it's a hen party.” Big Mim smiled. “Wear something cool.” The elegant small woman then said to Alicia in a stage whisper, “If Harry presses her jeans and white T-shirt, that's formal.”

Harry laughed at her as well as at herself. “Oh, I'll tart myself up.”

The two left by the back door just as Sugar Thierry lurched through the front door. He walked to his mailbox but kept inserting his key into the box to the left of his. “Harry, Harry, this damned key won't work.”

Harry leaned over the counter and noticed sweat running down Sugar's face. “One box to the right.”

He slipped his key in, turned it, and the heavy brass door with the glass front flipped open. “Right.” He pulled out his mail, dropping some of it, then he bent over, picked it up. He walked to the long table in the middle of the entry area to sort his mail. He'd study an envelope, throw it in the trash, then retrieve it.

“He's not right,”
Mrs. Murphy observed.

“Maybe he's hung over,”
Pewter opined.

“We'd smell it,”
Tucker sagely noted.
“I smell his scent, though. It's heavy because he's sweating.”

Then Sugar gave up on sorting his mail, glanced up at Harry, and realized she was staring at him. He burst into sobs. “Harry, Harry, I can't stop thinking about Barry. There's evil in this world. Terrible evil.” He choked back another wrenching sob. “Nureyev, Nijinsky, Fred Astaire.” He rattled off the names of three thoroughbred sires.

“Sugar, are you all right?” asked Harry, who knew perfectly well he wasn't. “Let me get you a Coke, or how about tea?”

His eyes, glazed, widened. “No, I'm fine. I'm fine.” He bolted out the front door.

Harry hurried to the phone, dialing Dr. Hayden McIntire in the office.

The receptionist, Frances, picked up the phone. “Oh, hi, Harry.” Harry had a distinctive alto voice. Once heard it was not forgotten. “What's up?”

“Is Doc there?”

“If you mean Hayden, no. He's out on the golf course with David Wheeler, Cindy Chandler, and BoomBoom. He's got Cindy as his partner. He just might keep that money in his pocket.” Frances laughed. “What do you need?”

“It's not me. It's Sugar Thierry. I think he's sick. Bad sick.”

“Oh, Bill's here. Let me page him.”

A few moments passed and Bill picked up the phone. “Hello, Harry. Frances said you were concerned about Sugar Thierry.”

“Yes. He was Barry Monteith's business partner.” She clearly identified Sugar because Bill was new to the community. He hadn't been in Crozet a year yet.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“He's sweating; he must have a terrible fever. And he's, well, I don't know how to say this—he's acting loopy, looney. He's not a drinker.”

“Where is he?”

Harry looked out the front door. Sugar was trying to open the door to his truck. He slid down to his knees. “Bill, he's out front. He's really sick. He can't get in his truck.”

Bill, his office just a short distance away, said, “I'll be right there.”

20

A
re you sure?” Fair sternly questioned Harry.

She sat next to him in his truck, with Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker cuddled around her as they rolled down Route 250 heading west.

The post office closed at noon on Saturdays.

“I told you.” A note of irritation crept into her voice, a note reserved for husbands and ex-husbands. “Sugar acted weird. He fell down at his truck. I called Bill. I ran out to help Sugar, but he was kind of rolling around. He scared me. I mean, he didn't intend that but he was just—sick. So I didn't touch him.”

“Did he spit on you?”

“No.” She stared out the window as they passed the middle school and Western Albemarle High School. “Bill Langston knows what he's doing. I was impressed with how he handled the situation. He arrived at the same time as the rescue squad. Everyone wore gloves. AIDS has changed everything, hasn't it?”

“Harry, nature is cooking up diseases we can't even imagine. A new virus from the heart of Africa can reach here in twenty-four hours thanks to air travel, and we live within two hours of a huge international airport, Dulles.”

“Hadn't thought of that.”

“Few people do.” He checked his speedometer and slowed to fifty-five.

“Where are we going?”

“Mary O'Brien. She came in to the clinic just for you.”

“Why?” Harry liked the good doctor but wondered why Fair was whisking her over to Staunton.

“You're getting the rabies vaccine.”

Harry turned toward him. “Fair, those are awful. My tests came back negative.”

“You need them.”

“They shoot the needle in your stomach!”

“Not anymore. I'm not saying this is the most pleasant experience you'll ever have, but you're outside, you're around wild animals, and I just have a bad feeling about recent events. You need the prophylactic shots. Better safe than sorry. That's it.” He was firm.

“Can't we wait?” Harry's heart was sinking.

“No.” His deep voice was firm. “I don't think you've been exposed to rabies. You can only contract the disease through saliva. You'd need to be bitten, although you could also contract it through corneal transplants. Well, I'm getting off track. But you're going to get the vaccine the same way I've been protected or Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter are protected.”

“The series is very expensive.”

“About two thousand dollars.”

“Fair!”

He kept his eyes on the road. “What's your life worth?”

“Uh—a lot,” she sighed. “To me.”

“And to me. I'm willing to bet Sugar's got rabies.” He sighed. “When I was out at the farm he thought he was allergic to pollen—so much of it now. I should have been thinking that perhaps whatever bit Barry bit him.” He paused for a second. “But I'm really confused about Barry's situation. Still, I should have been more alert.”

“What!”

“Every vet sees this film about rabies. Can't get through school without viewing it, and there's old footage of a man dying from rabies. It tends to stay in your mind, that old grainy footage.”

“I didn't touch Sugar, and all I did was hold Barry's hand.”

“I know that. I know you're fine. Bill Langston said you're fine, but you're getting the vaccine, Harry. Just shut up.”

Harry rubbed her temples. She'd endure the series of shots. She wasn't that big of a chicken. “What's going on?”

“I don't know.”

“Barry and Sugar,” she half-whispered. “Could it be that one of the horses is rabid?”

“Harry, I gave every animal on that farm shots. I've got all my records. Sugar must have records for the lay-up horses. I'm going to have to go through everything in his files. I don't know if he's mentally clear enough to give me permission. I hope so. But I'll do it anyway.”

“If a horse had rabies, you'd know it.”

“Eventually, yes. I'm not worried about any animal on the farm now. I'd see the symptoms. I want to go through the records to see what lay-up horses have passed through the farm in the last four months. If Sugar or Barry were exposed via a horse, it would have been in that time frame. Remember, it takes rabies one to three months to incubate. The symptoms don't present themselves until the virus reaches the brain.”

Within forty minutes, they pulled into the parking lot of the red brick medical building. Dr. O'Brien, a tall, slender woman with gorgeous silver hair and an engaging manner, had been a close friend of Fair's for twenty years. Harry liked her, too, although she couldn't participate in the scientific discussions Fair and Mary enjoyed. Both were people who loved medicine, who loved learning.

“Harry, come on in here.” Mary pointed to an examining room. “Fair, you can come in, too.”

Harry dragged in, plopped on the examining table. “Is this going to hurt?”

“Yes,” Mary forthrightly said, “but for less than a second. How's that?”

“Not so bad. Will it make me sick later?”

“That I don't know. Different people have differing reactions. I think of each person as their own specific chemical cocktail.” She smiled. “But to be on the safe side, take it easy today and tonight. What I'm doing is introducing the killed virus into your system. You'll fight back, create antibodies. Some people don't feel it. Others do, find themselves tired, off feed. This is your first shot.” Mary hit her so quickly with the needle that Harry hardly knew she'd been stuck. “I'll see you in two weeks for the second. And if you don't mind, Harry, let me take blood then. So come first thing in the morning, don't eat or drink after midnight. You can have a big breakfast when I'm done with you.” She wiped Harry's arm once more with the antiseptic pad. “Told you it would take less than a second.”

“You're amazing.”

“Thank you.” Mary smiled.

“Why are you taking blood next time if this is a disease of the nervous system?”

“Because, my dear, I want to check your cholesterol. You haven't had blood pulled in four years. I reviewed your records. And, Harry, when you go out, stop at the receptionist's desk and pick up your papers for a mammogram. I signed them. All you have to do is make the appointment.”

“Mary!”

Smiling, the tall doctor held up her hand. “Save your breath. I know you're not forty. I know you're a strong girl. But I know a checkup
is
in order. Don't argue with me.”

Fair laughed. “Mary, I need to take lessons from you.”

“Thought your patients didn't talk.”

“I mean Harry. You can handle Miss Bullhead.”

“I just love that you two are having a laugh at my expense.”

“You poor thing.” Mary's voice registered false pity, then she winked. She walked to the door, put her hand on the knob, then paused. “Called Bill just before you arrived. Sugar's hallucinating.” She took a deep breath. “Not much doubt.”

“Jesus.” Fair whistled. “I'd hoped against hope, you know.”

“Bill questioned him when he could. Couldn't get much out of him, but Sugar did swear he hadn't been bitten. You know, if someone comes to me after they've been bitten or think they've been exposed, the shots will save them if they come in time. But two men working at the same place,” she shrugged, “what's there?”

“Barry was murdered. He didn't die from rabies and he sure didn't die a natural death, although at first it looked like it.” Fair's jaw tightened.

“Disturbing—very.” Mary knew all the horse people, being one herself, so she'd heard all about it. “But he still had rabies. It's not impossible that both Barry and Sugar were bitten by a bat and didn't know it. Anything else, they'd know.”

“But that's what makes Barry's death so disturbing,” said Harry. “His throat. The killer wanted to pin it on an animal. He wasn't sick—I mean, he wasn't sick when I found him. No one would have known he had rabies if the pathologists in Richmond hadn't run a dFA test on a brain-tissue sample.”

Mary's blue eyes clouded over. “Well, there might be a connection. You can't assume there is, but you can't assume there isn't.”

Driving back down Route 250, Harry noticed the rich green of the leaves, a green that would deepen throughout the summer. “Fair, I'll help you go through the files.”

“Thought you might.”

“May I use your cell phone?”

“Sure.”

She called Big Mim, explaining why she couldn't attend the hen party and hoped that Alicia would understand. Big Mim, horrified to hear that Sugar had rabies, told Harry to take care of herself.

Harry hit the End button. The phone was in a cradle, and a speaker was fastened to the roof of the cab so the driver need not hold the phone. “There. I really want to talk to Alicia Palmer.”

“There's something else I need to tell you.”

“What?” Harry's face registered worry.

“Kind of odd. I was at Sugar's yesterday. Ultrasound on his big mare. And he said the strangest thing. He asked me if he should die, would you and I take over his mares. He has no family, and he knows we'll do right by the mares.”

“Good Lord.” The tears rolled down Harry's cheeks.