Whisker of Evil (24 page)

44

T
he sweet smell of honeysuckle filled the late-afternoon air. Midsummer could fall anywhere between June twenty-first and June twenty-third, but Harry celebrated the entire week right up to July, since she loved the festivals and myths surrounding the longest day of the year.

However, this last Sunday in June she was anything but celebratory. That morning, as soon as Cooper called Rick regarding the long bone proudly displayed by Tucker, part of her was thrilled that this might be one of Mary Pat's bones and part of her was sickened. The idea that the vivacious Mary Pat was killed, then dragged to a lonely grave undiscovered until now, made her sad, far sadder than she could have imagined.

Cooper, to protect Harry, Fair, and Susan, waited for Rick Shaw. When he arrived she asked Harry to direct Tucker to lead Cooper to the spot. But both Cooper and Rick sent the three humans partway down from the meadows. The two law-enforcement officers didn't want any of them to know the exact spot if more bones were buried there. Why take the chance that Harry, Susan, or Fair might slip, say something to the wrong person?

Once Tucker took Cooper and Rick to the site, Cooper walked the corgi down to Harry, ordering all of them to go home.

Fair promised he'd visit Harry tonight after he checked pedigrees on his computer. He said he had an idea. Before leaving he also asked Rick to call him at the clinic should the sheriff find the remains of Ziggy Flame, as well.

Rick promised he would but cautioned them all not to jump to conclusions. One bone that looked like a femur did not constitute the solution to the disposition of Mary Pat Reines's remains. Nor were they even sure the bone was human. Rick especially cautioned Harry, who was known to jump the gun.

Harry, as always, sought solace in hard work. She was installing large rectangular trellises reaching from the ground to the roofline of her new shed. Her tools already hung neatly inside. The old but serviceable 1958 John Deere tractor rested inside, the manure spreader hooked up to the PTO. Her two-horse trailer was now sheltered along with the big Ford F350 dually that pulled it. Only the 1978 Ford endured the elements. That venerable machine remained parked near the back door. That way, should it rain, she could make a dash for it.

As she worked, she talked to her animals. Tucker would get up each time Harry took more than three steps. The cats reposed in the shade of the long barn overhang, but they could hear everything Harry said to them. Matilda, the four-foot-long black snake, hung from a huge old walnut tree in the back lawn. Her hunting radius started on the paddock by the western side of the barn, and over the summer she would make a big counterclockwise circle until, by fall, she was back at the barn, where she would hibernate throughout winter. Matilda evidenced no fear of the cats, dog, or Harry. Being a reptile, she rarely conversed with the mammals, but she kept one glittering eye on them always. Pewter bragged too much about her hunting prowess, and Matilda was determined to give the gray blowhard a vicious bite she would never forget if the fat kitty so much as looked cross-eyed at her.

“I just painted that eave.” Harry squinted up as she carefully placed the trellis straight against the outside wall.

A thin powder of sawdust spiraled out of a perfectly round hole, where a carpenter bee had already made an impressive home for herself and her offspring.

“Can't keep up with them. They're as industrious as beavers,”
Tucker sympathized.

Carpenter bees really didn't do damage, but the sight of those round holes in overhangs, eaves, and doorjambs offended human aesthetics. Some people worried that the large flying bombers, often mistaken for bumblebees, would sting them, but the carpenter bee with its smooth black bottom wasn't a stinger.

“Beavers built another dam on the creek. Low down this time. I walked over there last night,”
Mrs. Murphy informed them.

“Good. That will give us a good pond.”
Tucker, wary of beavers, appreciated their engineering skills.

Anyway, who could afford to dig out a pond these days? The beavers really were doing them a favor.

Harry walked back to the barn, shaded her eyes with her hand, checked to make certain she'd lined up the trellis perfectly. She had. She walked back, climbed the ladder next to the trellis. Gently she tapped in long thin nails to secure the top. Then she climbed down and nailed in the bottom. She subsequently put in a row of nails across the middle.

“There.”

“Perfect.”
Pewter, considering herself an expert on all things demanding a critical eye, praised her human.

“Now the big question. Do I plant climbing roses, clematis, or morning glories?”

“Morning glories are running wild over the back pastures. I say roses. That will bring out all the bees. I like to hear them,”
Tucker suggested.

“I vote for that.”
Mrs. Murphy half-dozed.
“Plant the clematis around the lamppost by the back walkway.”

“Clematis has those big showy flowers. Purple. Hmm, maybe white. Of course, I could do both purple and white.” Harry paced along the building. “I'll do that on the lamppost. If I put out climbing roses the fragrance will be spectacular, plus I think the clematis will go better on the back there because I've got the ivy lining the walkway. That's it.” She walked inside, plucked a shovel off the wall, and began digging a bed for the rosebushes. The good soil would be enriched from the compost heap.

Yesterday she'd bought rosebushes and clematis starters at the big nursery, Eltzroth, on Route 29 south of Charlottesville.

Just as she pulled the last of the soil over the roots, the low motor rumble of Miranda's Ford Falcon alerted Tucker.

“Miranda!”
Tucker recognized the sound of all of Harry's friends' vehicles.

“We know that.”
The cats could identify the sounds, too.

“That looks good. Roses are so tough.” Miranda, large basket in both hands, kicked the car door shut. “Thank you for calling me about your adventure this morning. I thought you might need refreshment and”—she smiled—“conversation.”

Wiping her hands on her jeans, Harry kissed Miranda on the cheek. “I'm so glad to see you.”

“Well, come on. Let's take a tea break. It's almost teatime. Where would you like to eat? Kitchen? Screened-in porch? Backyard?”

“Let's go in the kitchen. It's nice and cool inside.”

Harry took the basket from Miranda and the two women made their way to the kitchen slowly, for Miranda had to stop and admire Harry's flowers. The animals shot ahead of them. Pewter knew something good in that basket had her name on it.

Once the iced tea was poured and the herbed turkey sandwiches—along with extra turkey for the cats and dog—served, the two women sat down.

“Tucker found a bone.” Harry jumped right in.

“That's what you said.” Miranda pushed over a jar of her homemade herbed mayonnaise should Harry want more.

“Did I?”

“When you called.” Miranda shook her head.

“I'm getting forgetful.” Harry frowned.

Miranda reassured her. “You have a lot on your mind and it's a good mind. Don't worry, you're not losing your memory.”

Mrs. Murphy stoutly spoke up.
“I worked hard this morning. More food, please.”

“Here, Murphy.” Harry gave her another morsel of turkey.

“Big Mim's calling a gathering. She wants everyone at her house tomorrow evening.”

“About this?”

“No. Mim's too smart to be that obvious. We are all to get there at six to go over details for Herb's anniversary. He'll come over at seven-thirty. You know Mim. She'll find out as much as she can this way. It will appear spontaneous.”

“I don't think Big Mim ever had a spontaneous moment.”

“Before you were born.” Miranda winked.

“Is that what happens, Miranda? I mean, as we go along in life there's no time to be free, to just pick up and go.”

“And where would you go?”

Harry laughed. “I don't know.” She dropped more turkey for each critter, then grew serious. “I know that bone was Mary Pat's. I just know it.”

“My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” Miranda quoted Second Corinthians, Chapter 12, Verse 9.

“What made you think of that?”

“I don't know. It popped into my head. Happens to me a lot. Eventually I figure it out.” She dabbed the napkin at the corners of her mouth, light-pink lipstick transferring to the napkin. “I trust in the Good Lord's messages.”

“Which reminds me, how was church today?”

“Wonderful, even if Ruthie Dalsky did forget her robe. She never sings off-key, so what's a choir robe compared to that?” The ice cubes tinkled as she lifted the tall glass. “Harry, I think the Good Lord brought Alicia back for a reason and I think she'll stay. She'll move back.”

“You think she killed Mary Pat and will come to get justice?”

“No. I don't know what I think. It's a feeling.”

“Well,” Harry exhaled, “my feeling is, whatever my pets found will be in Tuesday's newspaper.”

“Did you see anything?”

“No.”

“I helped,”
Pewter boasted.

“Eat your turkey, turkey.”
Mrs. Murphy tapped her with her right paw.

“If they find Ziggy Flame it will be a different—mmm, not a solution to all this, exactly, but a different take than if they don't. Because if Ziggy isn't up there with Mary Pat, then I believe she was killed because of him.” Harry thought out loud.

“Isn't it you who says people are killed for love or money—not horses?”

“Ziggy, at the time of Mary Pat's death, was just proving himself at stud. Had he lived he would have been worth a fortune. It's funny, Miranda, I feel like I'm walking in a fog and I can see shapes up ahead but I can't quite make out what they are. I know I'm getting closer. I know that if Mary Pat is up there, more than her bones will be pried loose. Someone is going to break.”

“It takes them longer, but they do figure things out,”
Pewter said between chews.

“We haven't figured it out yet, Pewts. We just know that the murders are related.”
Mrs. Murphy reached up, her claws digging into the tablecloth.

“Murphy!” Harry rapped her paw but gave her another piece of turkey nonetheless. Then she gave Pewter and Tucker a piece, as well.

“If that is Mary Pat, someone is going to be pretty darn nervous,”
Tucker said.

While Harry and Miranda visited with each other, Fair was glued to his computer. What he was finding was extremely interesting, and he kicked himself for not thinking of it earlier.

45

N
ewcomers to the country take some time to adjust to the pace of life. It's not so much that it's slower but that it often begins before sunup. If a person's work is physical—like that of a farmer, a carpenter, a stone mason—folks from the North may think such a worker is lazy. Instead of working fast, the Southern worker keeps a slower but steady pace. It's not until the Northerner labors in the heat that he or she can appreciate the wisdom of this approach.

Blair Bainbridge, when he first moved to Crozet from New York City, suffered the normal prejudices about Virginians. Being a gentleman, he kept them to himself. As years passed, he began to understand that people worked very hard but they didn't make a show about it. He also began to understand that showing off your knowledge was not a good thing. The point was to bring people together, to be inclusive, not to set yourself above others. Even Mim Sanburne, for all her imperiousness, rarely tried to make someone else look stupid. As for Little Mim, her graciousness in the face of unpleasantness astonished him. In fact, the worse it got, the more gracious Little Mim became. That this was the ultimate social revenge had not yet occurred to him. Nor had it occurred to him that if he married Little Mim, there would still be things the family would never say in front of him. This was not because Mim, Jim, or Little Mim disdained Blair but rather because it took twenty years, at least, to comprehend the mere basics of manners and mores of Dixie. Just as aristocrats in old France had learned from birth how to move, how to address people, the various courtesies, and, above all, their own genealogy, so, too, did Southerners, regardless of station. It was bred in the bone.

Harry at six in the morning was inspecting the new beaver dam. She didn't want to disturb their work, but if she ever could, she'd like to build a pond on this site with a small spillway below to the creek. Nature leeched out some of the water, but the beavers constructed a formidable dam, their lodges dotting the rough pond created by their effort. A blue heron and a green kingfisher worked the waters.

Green kingfishers are native to southern Texas and the tropics, not Virginia, but there was a beauty right on Harry's farm. No doubt the shining fellow hadn't read the
National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Birds
.

On seeing the green kingfisher, his white collar immaculate, Harry made a mental note to call Nancy King, a friend who was an avid bird-watcher.

Insects buzzed around, squirrels romped, a doe with twin fawns raised her head from grazing to observe Harry and her companions. The doe often jumped into the large paddocks to graze with the horses. Sugar and Barry's mares chatted contentedly under wide spreading oaks.

Crossing below the beaver dam, Harry scrambled up the creek bed. Trotting to the three-board fence line between her property and Blair's, she put one hand on the top board and vaulted over, thrilled that she could do it. She'd been good at gymnastics in school.

Pewter scooted underneath. Mrs. Murphy, pretending to be one of the hunters, leapt between the lower board and the second board in the fence. Tucker, like Pewter, squeezed under.

They walked to the top of a low rise midway between the property line and Blair's lovely farmhouse. The old Jones family graveyard, neatly set off by a wrought-iron fence with a curly filigree above the gate, promised peace when the end came. Bryson Jones, Herb's impractical but beloved uncle, rested here, along with all the Joneses through the mid–eighteenth century. The married daughters over the centuries rested here, too. Surnames of Lamont, Taliaferro—pronounced Tolliver—and Sessoms slept with the Joneses. Sessoms is a Cherokee name, and the marriage of a Jones daughter to a Sessoms in the late eighteenth century became a cherished family story.

Leaning against a spectacular oak, Harry thought about three of her contemporaries gone to eternal rest—Barry, Sugar, and Jerome. She didn't like to dwell on her own demise, but under the circumstances it was hard not to think about it.

“Tucker, ever notice that skulls are grinning?”

“Can't say that I've thought about it,”
the corgi replied seriously, the slanting rays of the early sun burnishing her coat red-gold.

“Don't,”
Pewter, sitting on a flat long slab, said.
“Morbid.”

Just then a fat caterpillar, green with spiky outgrowths, traversed over her tail, all those caterpillar feet in her fur. Pewter jumped straight up, flipping the caterpillar onto another flat slab tombstone.

Harry, Mrs. Murphy, and Tucker laughed.

“Mighty Puss!”
Murphy mocked her.

“Oh, shut up.”
Pewter turned her back on them all, picked up her tail, and licked the fur back down.

The sky, a brilliant blue, promised a spectacular day.

Harry exhaled through her nose. “Up and at 'em.”

“Is she going to cut hay today?”
Tucker wondered.

“Think so, but at the moment,”
Mrs. Murphy paused as Harry opened the gate and headed toward Blair's,
“she's going to pay a social call. Pewter, are you coming?”

“No, I'm going to stay here and commune with nature,”
came the haughty reply.

“Oh, I thought the caterpillar was more nature than you could handle.”
The tiger bounded out of the graveyard along with Tucker.

“I'll show them. Bunch of snots. I'm not afraid of a caterpillar. It felt creepy, that's all. Too many chubby legs, and there's sticky stuff on the feet. O-o-o.”
She wrinkled her nose as she turned to watch her family skip toward the farmhouse.

Her nemesis, the bluejay, zoomed into the oak, shrieked, squawked, shook the branches, and then, conceit to the max, floated down to perch on top of a vertical tombstone not four feet from Pewter, who was nursing her pride.

“Where'd you put the caterpillar, idiot cat?”

Pewter's pupils widened.
“What are you doing here?”

“Looking at your sorry self,”
the jay whistled.

“I'm not sorry. I'm sitting here amongst the dead, which provokes me to philosophical musings.”
She wished that the hateful bird were even six inches closer. She knew she'd nab him for sure then.

“Don't make me regurgitate!”
The bluejay's topknot stood straight up as he laughed, which sounded like
“queedle, queedle,”
the little happy sound jays make.

“Actually, I didn't think your range would be this far. There's plenty to eat at our place.”

“I fly from one state to the other if I feel like it. Bluejays migrate, you know. Life's too good here, so I stay. Course, right now it's getting a little exciting, what with Tucker finding Mary Pat's thigh bone. All the wild animals and birds are talking about it.”

“I helped, you know.”
Pewter puffed out her chest, as did the jay. They looked like odd mirrors of each other.

“Queedle, queedle,”
the jay's beak clacked.

“I did!”

“Pewter, you'd run the other way if you saw a dead anything.”

“Bull! I picked up a dead pileated woodpecker, and I've seen plenty of dead old things.”
She stopped for a moment as she inched a tad closer.
“The smell. Hate the smell. Tucker, of course, loves it, but dogs are—well, I don't have to explain.”

As birds have a sharp sense of smell, the jay shrugged.
“Doesn't bother me one way or t'other. I'm not a carrion eater so I don't much care, but the crows, now, they'll tell you that the eyes and the tongue are the greatest delicacy. Whenever a large mammal dies, they hurry to get there before the buzzards.”
He slicked down his handsome crest for a moment.
“I love acorns and seeds. I bury them, you know.”

“You don't remember where you buried them.”

He cocked his head.
“Sometimes I do forget. Tell you what, whoever planted Mary Pat up there on that high ridge didn't forget.”

“Don't know if it's Mary Pat for sure.”
Pewter scooted a tiny bit closer.

“It is. We birds can get the word out faster than you guys. And I'll tell you something else, fatty: No Ziggy Flame up there. I bet you Ziggy was right under the human noses all the time.”

A thin tongue of breeze licked the distinctive pin-oak leaves.

“That was before my time, but everyone says that Ziggy was charismatic and bright, a bright chestnut. I don't think anyone could hide him. Not for long. He wasn't under their noses.”
Pewter refuted the jay.

“You know, if you fly over those high pastures there are old trails, and some will take you east, some west. But the most interesting one, considering what's going on, is the one that will take you right down into Greenwood and Route 250. Whoever killed Mary Pat could have hidden Ziggy, then walked him down to Greenwood, loaded him on a trailer, and been out of town before you can say ‘caterpillar.' ”

“Guess that's one of the reasons—the disappearance of Ziggy Flame—that Alicia wasn't as solid a suspect as the cops hoped she was.”
Pewter swished her tail. Since the caterpillar had crawled on it, she felt like other things were crawling over her.
“I mean, the woman inherited everything but a couple of broodmares. Ziggy Flame was hers. Why steal him?”

The jay gurgled, then spoke clearly.
“Throw everyone off the track.”

“Do you think Alicia Palmer killed Mary Pat?”

He shrugged, fluffed out his feathers.
“I don't know Alicia, but one human's pretty much like any other. They're killers by nature.”

Pewter didn't dispute this. The human predatory drive seemed out of proportion to their needs.
“Harry's different.”

The bluejay liked to needle Pewter, but Harry did seem closer to animals than most humans. He decided not to disparage Pewter's favorite human. He watched as Blair opened the back door of his farmhouse.
“Aren't you going to join them?”

“No.”

“What if a whole bag of tent caterpillars fell on you?”

Pewter shuddered.
“Ugh.”
Then she leapt at the bluejay, who simply flew straight up, circled, and dive-bombed her.

“Fat cat!”

“I will get you,”
Pewter spat as he circled her one more time, then sped away.

Harry, like the Sanburnes, recognized that Blair was from other parts. But much as it cut against the grain, she decided to come straight to the point with him. This denied her the pleasure of coming to the point by those decreasing concentric circles that gathered in a wealth of information. That information might appear extraneous, but in good time it was always money in the bank. The other reason she shied away from this was she would go straight to the point only with a dear friend. Such communication was a sign of love and respect. Much as she liked Blair, he wasn't as close to Harry as Susan, Miranda, or Herb.

After Harry and Blair exchanged ideas about Carmen's disappearance, the strange events going on, Amy Wade's settling in at the post office, and other sundry things, Harry thought she might as well get to it.

“More tea?” Blair offered.

“No, thank you. I've overstayed my welcome as it is. I know you've got a lot to do.”

“Not as much as you.” He smiled.

“The shed is wonderful. I can't thank you enough for your help, and the fence posts are a godsend.”

“Harry, you've bailed me out of so many things. If it weren't for you, I don't think my cattle would be looking as good as they do.”

“Oh, Blair, you would have learned sooner or later.”

Harry had built him a cattle chute, which made worming, giving shots, and tagging so much easier. Blair had been trying to catch his cattle one by one in the field.