Authors: Rita Mae Brown
43
Tommy Van Allen's memorial service on Thursday, intended to be a subdued affair, scandalized Crozet because his widow chose not to attend. It wasn't because she was too shocked to fulfill this last duty to her husband. She just didn't care. She'd already returned to Aiken and she had given Rick Shaw carte blanche to ransack Tommy's records. She also allowed him to impound the Porsche for a week. He promised to send it on to Aiken after it had been searched.
Big Mim hosted a small luncheon after the memorial for Van Allen. Her prize-winning peonies picked that moment to open.
Miranda Hogendobber strolled through Mim's magnificent gardens, which undulated down to the lake. The catamaran,
Mim's Vim
, gently bobbed in the water. The reverend escorted her.
“Young people today have no discipline.” Mrs. Hogendobber's hazel eyes were troubled. “Jessica Van Allen should have come to the funeral. God knows she'll inherit all his money.”
“Miranda, if people no longer dress as they should it's an outward sign that they've lost all sense of propriety. Dress isn't superficial.”
“I quite agree.”
“Even Harry, who does have manners, falls down in the dress department.”
“Poor dear. She has to be dragged kicking and screaming to shop. Susan and I are considering putting silver duct tape over her mouth on our upcoming foray.”
“Not like my dear departed. Her motto was, Shop until you drop.” Herb Jones chuckled.
They sat on the wrought-iron bench, two old friends together. “What's become of the world, Herbert?”
“I don't know. Maybe every old person asks that question. But it's a cruder and more vulgar world than the one I knew as a boy. And it's more violent.”
“We thought the violence would end with World War II.”
“Now we turn it back on ourselves.” He drank in the refreshing sight before him. “If nothing else, the gardens are flourishing.” He patted Miranda on her gloved hand. “Your tulips this year could have won national awards.”
“Do you really think so?”
“You outdid yourself.”
A sharp voice interrupted their enjoyment. “You two spooning?”
“I haven't heard that word since grade school.” Herb burst out laughing.
Tally Urquhart, moving slowly, but moving, descended upon them. “Just what are you doing down here, off by yourselves? You don't appear to be grieving.”
“Are you?” Miranda, usually not at all saucy, had been emboldened by Herb's praise.
“No. I've grieved enough in my life. After a while you learn to say good-bye and be done with it. When your number's up it's up. I should have been dead years ago, but here I am.”
“You'll outlive us all.” Herb stood up, offering her his seat.
Tally balanced on her silver hound-headed cane, lowering herself next to Miranda. “The sheriff is taking Tommy's and Blair's cars apart.”
“Yes, we heard that, too.” Miranda shifted her position to face the vinegary lady.
“Won't do a bit of good.”
“Why is that?” Herb mildly inquired.
“Because science, machines, fingerprints, oh, it's all very impressive. The
how
fills page upon page. But it's the
why
that matters.”
“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Hogendobber mused while watching two children paddle a dark green canoe at the far side of the lake.
“Such as, why doesn't Blair Bainbridge call on Marilyn? He doesn't appear to be in love with anyone else. She's certainly the most eligible young lady in the entire county.”
“I think Harry is the most eligible young lady.” Miranda surprised herself by contradicting Tally.
“She hasn't a sou,” Tally grumbled, then half smiled. “But she's a far more interesting soul than my great-niece. Don't tell Mimsy, though.” She laughed in earnest.
“We ought to get Harry out of that post office. She's too intelligent for that job.”
“Thank you, Herbert,” Mrs. Hogendobber said with unaccustomed sarcasm.
“Miranda, your husband was the postmaster. It's something else entirely.”
“Oh?”
“She graduated from Smith College in art history.” Herb hoped this would explain his point of view without further insulting the memory of Miranda's husband.
“I graduated from Mary Baldwin,” Tally said, “and I never worked a day in my life. Of course, we weren't expected to then.”
“You did work,” Miranda said.
“Of course I worked. I worked harder than a stevedore but you know what I mean. For money. I think it's better now.”
“You do?” Herb pressed.
“Yes. People ought to be able to pursue their talents.”
“My point.” Herb beamed. “Harry is not pursuing her talents.”
“But perhaps she is,” Tally said. “She enjoys life. She appreciates the clouds and the peonies and us. She has before her every day at the post office the peerless entertainment of the human comedy.”
“I never thought of that.”
“Of course not, Herbie, you're thinking of your next sermon.” Tally flicked her cane out at him. “Now, what are we going to do about Little Mim and this Bainbridge fellow? She'll perish if she doesn't land him. I tell her she's better off alone but I don't think a young woman like Marilyn believes that.”
“Nor do I.” Herb folded his hands behind his back.
“Naturally. Men need women. Women don't need men.” Tally sounded triumphant.
“Fiddlesticks.” He restrained himself from saying
bullshit
.
Harry headed down to join them. “Why is everyone suddenly shutting up?”
“Because we were talking about you,” Tally replied.
“Only good things.” Miranda smiled.
“That's a relief.”
Mim trooped down to the lake a few moments after Harry's arrival. “What are you all doing down here? I need you in the garden. You all are the social spark plugs of Crozet.”
The small gathering looked at one another with resignation, then Miranda piped up. “And what are you doing here, Mim, dear?”
“Came here to get away from all of them.”
They laughed together, which lightened the unexpressed tension and worry.
44
The day started quietly enough. It had dawned crimson, then gold. Harry knocked out her chores quickly, then decided to walk to work, given the exceptional beauty of the morning.
Pewter complained long and loud about Harry's decision. Pewter hated being stranded without wheels.
Harry hadn't gone a half mile down the road before a low rumble captured her attention. Blair Bainbridge snaked around the corner, saw her, and braked. He opened the door from the inside.
“Hop in.”
“I've got the critters.”
“We'll squeeze in.”
“I've been dying to ride in this car.”
Murphy sat in Harry's lap, forcing Tucker and Pewter onto the small backseat.
Blair turned toward the farm.
“I've got to go to work.”
“You need the truck. Didn't you listen to the radio this morning?”
“No.”
“Big storms are moving up from the south. Fast. You need the truck.”
“When they come from the south they're wet. How long before they arrive?”
“The weatherman isn't sure, of course. They always cover their butt. There's a high off the coast that might hold it up for a bit.”
“Oh, goody,”
Murphy sarcastically said.
“Not fair that you're in the front.”
Tucker stuck her nose between the seats.
“Get over it.”
“Selfish.”
Pewter leaned on Tucker as they turned down the long dirt driveway.
“Are you coming or going?” Harry asked.
“Ever hear the one about the duke who died in the prostitute's arms? The bobby asked what happened and she said, âHe was coming and going.'” Blair scratched his head. “Did I get that right?”
“I don't know, but you're certainly in a good mood.”
“I have four hundred horsepower at 5,750 rpm. Of course I'm in a good mood.” He pulled up next to Harry's truck. “I'll see you later.”
“Come on, gang.”
Pewter stubbornly waited to be lifted into the truck.
“I told you to take the truck. Nobody listens to me.”
“Pewter, stop bellyaching.”
Tucker found an old rawhide chew wedged in the seat just under the unused middle seat belt. Harry turned the key; that old familiar cough-then-shake was followed by the motor turning over.
“See that?”
Pewter put her paws on the windshield.
“What?”
“The blue jay is sitting on the lamppost by the back door. Because he sees us pulling out.”
“Could be because Mom throws out birdseed there for Simon and the birds.”
Miranda was carrying a big tray into Market Shiflett's just as Harry pulled into her parking space in back of the post office.
“Let me help.”
“There's a second one on the kitchen table. You fetch that one.”
Harry brought the light, flaky biscuits to Market's.
He wiped down the counter, said hello to his former cat, Pewter, and threw scraps to the animals. “H. Vane-Tempest called to tell me there's a reenactors' meeting at his house tomorrow to discuss
safety
measures. I like that.” He shook his head cynically.
“Are you going?” Harry asked.
“Well, I bought all that stuff for the Oak Ridge affair, I suppose I ought to get my money's worth.”
“You could sell it,”
Pewter, ever the realist, suggested.
He fed her another small beef scrap. “She's a good mouser.”
“Can't catch a bird, though, to save her life.”
Murphy stood on her hind paws to catch a tossed morsel.
Tucker, too, grabbed a piece of meat from the air. She was very quick.
“Did he ask Archie to the meeting?” Harry inquired.
“I don't know.”
The post-office crew hurried over to the frame building as Rob Collier tossed in the canvas sacks from the main office on Seminole Trail, also called Route 29.
“Time to work.” Harry started sorting.
The phone rang and Harry picked it up.
Cynthia Cooper was on the line. “Harry, can you come with me this lunch hour?”
“Sure. What are we doing?”
“Tell you when I see you.”
She hung up. “Miranda, will you mind Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker for lunch? Cynthia asked me to go with her but she won't say why. Official business, I guess.”
At twelve Cynthia picked up Harry in the squad car. Harry asked Miranda to cover for her for two hours.
Within fifteen minutes they were at the airport, at the private hangar.
“Are you afraid of small planes?” Cynthia asked.
“No.”
“Glad to hear it.” Cynthia bent over to fit through the small door, then reached out to pull Harry in. “This is Bob Green. He's a pilot for FedEx. In his off time he still loves to fly.”
“Hi.” The square-jawed pilot nodded a greeting.
They taxied down the runway, lifted off, and were airborne in minutes. Harry, on the passenger side, looked down on the patchwork quilts of green, beige, and forest. Creeks and rivers glittered. The tops of the buildings at Fashion Square Mall were flat.
“Boy, hope we never get five feet of snow. Bet those roofs wouldn't take the stress load.”
“Bet they can.” Bob smiled. “Or there will be lawsuits up the wazoo.”
Cynthia, hand on the back of Harry's seat, leaned forward between Bob and Harry to hand her Tommy Van Allen's map. “You grew up here. We're flying you over these parcels. Tell me what you know.”
Bob flew over the first parcel, a high meadow adjacent to Sugar Hollow.
“Well, that used to belong to Francie Haynes, an old lady who raised Herefords, the horned kind.”
“Haynes. The black Haynes?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything special about the land?”
“Not that I know of.”
As they flew over each parcel, Harry recounted the history as she knew it.
“Bob, can we go up just a little bit, another thousand feet or so, and make a big circle?” Harry requested.
“No problem.”
“Coop, look down. Can you see how the land folds together? Can you see the old reservoir at Sugar Hollow?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, we're flying over the watershed. See how everything drains, essentially, in one direction? That's where the state and some in the county want to put the new reservoir, between Free Union and Earlysville.”
“I can see it.”
“Let's go lower over Sugar Hollow.”
Bob pushed in the steering wheel and they gently descended.
“Really obvious here.” Cynthia strained to look over Harry's head, out the passenger window. “And I can see Francie Haynes's land.”
“Now, wouldn't it make more sense to use Sugar Hollow?” Harry said.
“From up here, yes.”
“Hey, you two, it's just us and the birds up here,” said Bob. “The landowners are bigger and richer at the other place. This is poor people. Used to be poor people, I mean. Other folks are moving in now.”
“And let's not forget the contractors.” Cynthia shielded her eyes as they turned toward the sun. “You know when the state writes the specs for these massive projects they write them so only a few firms can truly compete. What a crock of shit it all is. Sorry, Bob, I don't know you well enough to swear.”
“Fine by me.”
“So, there's nothing special about these parcels of land?”
“Some are in the watershed and some aren't. But no, there's nothing that I know of that marks these off. Why?” Harry asked.
“Can't tell you that part.”
“Since we're up here, can we fly over Tally Urquhart's?”
“Good idea.” Cynthia raised her voice because the propeller noise drowned out normal conversation. “The back side of Little Yellow Mountain. I guess Mint Springs is a better coordinate.”
“Okay.”
Within a few moments they were cruising over the verdant acres, the miles of crisp white fencing that constituted the Urquhart place. The old hay barn and stone buildings came into view.
“Bob, see that barn down there? How hard would it be to land there? I'm not asking you to land,” she hastened to add as he descended, “but how hard would it be?” Cynthia asked.
“Not much of a strip. A little like threading the needle between the two hills. Take a good pilot.”
“How about in rain and fog?” Harry asked.
“Take a pilot with brass balls and a sure touch.”