Cat's Eyewitness (26 page)

37

S
taring into the silver bowl, three feet across, engraved with the details of a steeplechase victory by Mim’s grandfather, Angus Urquhart, Susan was mesmerized as she stood in the large center hallway, Persian carpets underfoot.

“Ma’am.” The short gentleman in livery behind the bowl held up a silver cup, the long, graceful curving ladle in his right hand.

“Hank, I can’t get used to seeing you in livery.”

“Mizz Big”—he referred to Big Mim by the nickname her staff called her—“does everything tiptop. How do you like Gretchen in her do?”

Gretchen, Big Mim’s right hand, the woman who truly ran Dalmally, wore a mobcap with a low-cut eighteenth-century gown in deep maroon. Over that she wore a starched bright white apron. During the mid-eighteenth century it wasn’t uncommon for women to be well dressed with an apron over their skirts. This protected the dress while they served or did anything messy. They removed the apron when dining or dancing. What set apart the lady of the house from the servants wasn’t so much the fabrics, because a rich household dressed the servants with great care and at great expense. The dividing line for women was jewelry.

Mim, queen of Crozet, mourned the loss of elegance. She would quote Talleyrand: “He who did not live in the years before the Revolution cannot understand the sweetness of living.”

Rev. Herb Jones would reply that it depended on one’s station. An aristocrat might live very well but then again could be impoverished. A merchant might live like a prince although not be allowed a coat-of-arms or any such distinction. A skilled laborer might also enjoy the fruits of his labors. And then there were the hundreds of thousands who toiled, who sowed but did not reap. What sweetness life held would be found under a woman’s petticoats, in the bottle, or perhaps one sunny day when the fellow found a gold coin on the road.

To this Big Mim argued that the century is not that important when it comes to the suffering masses. There will always be millions on the bottom. No amount of social engineering has ever figured out how to truly distribute wealth without either punishing the enterprising, murdering the aristocrats, or burning up resources in wars.

Perhaps she was right. The twenty-first century displayed no signs of a solution, although the leveling tendencies flared up regularly.

When Susan beheld the gargantuan punch bowl, she was overwhelmed with its workmanship, including the perfection of the cursive engraving.

Harry walked up next to her. “Every time I see this bowl, which Mim breaks out for her extravaganzas, I think the damned thing must be worth over a hundred thousand dollars. It’s lined in gold, for Christ’s sake.”

Susan tipped back her head and laughed. “Harry, you are so predictable.”

“What did I do now?”

“Not one thing. You’re just you.” Susan accepted the filled silver cup from Hank with an appreciative nod.

“Mizz Harry?”

“Hank, I need a tonic water with lime. I’ll go to the bar for that. Can’t drink eggnog.”

“Jim mixed it up himself. The first cup will taste ever so delicious.” His eyes sparkled. “The second cup will make you roar like a lion. If you drink a third, we’ll carry you out of here feetfirst.” His deep laugh rumbled.

“Thanks for the warning.” Susan peered into her cup, a sprig of fresh mint floating on top along with a little sprinkle of nutmeg. The mint was Jim’s special touch when he gave instructions to Hank.

“Now, you know, Mizz Big cooked up her orange blossoms. A little less lethal.” Hank winked.

“Thanks. Merry Christmas, Hank.”

“You, too, ladies.”

As Susan accompanied Harry in her fight to reach the bar, she said, “Did you notice the color of the eggnog in the bowl?”

“Yeah.”

“Living room. I want that color in the living room.”

“I thought you were only painting two rooms and that wasn’t one of them.” Harry snaked through two rotund guests whose stomachs nearly touched.

“I know. I’m getting carried away. But I’ll pay you.”

“Don’t be silly. I actually like painting. But what I’ll do is get a large batch mixed up; I don’t want to go back and have a second mix. Never quite matches up, I swear it. Anyway, I’ll get enough for my living room, too. That can be your Christmas present to me.”

“I’m still getting the better deal.”

“Actually, I am, because I’ve got you for my best friend.” Harry smiled, her teeth exceptionally white.

After getting a large tonic water with a slice of lime, the two friends pushed through to the living room, a festival of white, red, and gold. Red and gold were Big Mim’s stable colors, as well.

In this part of the world, even if a person had one acre with a run-in shed on it, they displayed stable colors, often in a small square on their truck on the driver’s side, certainly on the sign to their place. It added color to country already steeped in nature’s colorful wardrobe. Even winter greeted the eye with white, all shades of gray, mauve, purple, and brilliant red holly berries set against dark, glossy green. The sky gleamed intense robin’s egg blue or true turquoise, at night giving way to pink, salmon, every shade of scarlet to purple.

The living room, indeed every room but those upstairs, bulged with friends, acquaintances, a smattering of nonfriends and a few enemies. The ages ranged from a few months old to Aunt Tally, closing in on one hundred. The net worth spanned less than twenty thousand dollars a year to over seven billion dollars. And there wasn’t only one billionaire in the room. There were folks who could neither read nor write and those who made their living with language. The mix, heady, even combustible, represented a true Virginia party, and it was perfect.

Most everything Big Mim did was perfect. She didn’t cotton to not being the richest person at the party, but she made certain she was the most charming, elegant, and hospitable. Her legendary aesthetic abilities were much in evidence, and in this department she had hot competition. Again, it was Virginia. Colors had to be subtle, furniture had to be hand-built from exquisite woods, floors, often hundreds of years old, had to glow with the patina of time. If your house looked as though you’d spent a fortune decorating it, you were already off the board. This, of course, made the competition for beautiful homes and inviting interiors much, much harder. Big Mim ran first, although Alicia ran a close second and BoomBoom wasn’t far behind: win, place, show.

Then there was Harry, valiantly bringing up the rear. But she was cherished because she knew what was good and because she didn’t violate the integrity of her old farmhouse. Then, too, everyone knew she didn’t have the money to do it right.

Tazio Chappars, from a wealthy African-American and Italian family in St. Louis, endured an adjustment period when she first moved to Albemarle County. Being an architect, she had definite ideas about design and she loved interior decorating even though it wasn’t her profession. Defiantly, she decorated her attractive clapboard house in a minimalist style. After two years she found that bored her. She began to be seduced by Wedgwood blues, putty grays, seaweed greens. The soft curve of the back of a Sheraton sofa sang a siren song. When her two brothers visited her, they teased her but they had to admit, a softness, a welcome comfort, was part of her home and life.

Also part of her life was Paul de Silva, Big Mim’s steeplechase trainer. They couldn’t keep from touching each other’s hands as they spoke to others. BoomBoom, Alicia, Fair, and Ned chatted with them as Harry and Susan joined in.

“Where have you been?” Ned asked.

“Took me forever to get my eggnog.”

Ned peeked into the silver cup. “Doesn’t look like it took forever to finish it.”

“I’m sticking to one. Hank gave me fair warning.”

“Every year Jim makes that concoction more potent.” Fair laughed.

“Well, Harry, when are your mares due?” Paul asked.

“Mid-February.”

“Fair, you’d better party now, because once January is upon us you’ll be a busy man.” Tazio smiled.

“Every foal is a gift. I never get tired of helping a new life.” Fair meant it, too.

“I know all of you have bets on my mare. Did she get covered by Peggy Augustus’s stallion or did she behave like a slut with that donkey down the road?” BoomBoom giggled.

“Girl’s gotta have a good time.” Harry giggled, too.

“If she gives me a mule I’ll make it and ride it in the hunt field.”

“BoomBoom, you will, too.” Alicia laughed.

“May I have your attention, please,” Jim Sanburne called out.

Took a few minutes, but everyone quieted as the band set up in the ballroom.

Big Mim stood alongside her husband. “Merry Christmas,” she greeted the guests.

Jim raised his arms, a big smile on his face. “Every Christmas Mim and I love to have you with us. The Urquharts have kept Christmas in these rooms since 1809. Guess before that they celebrated in the log cabin.” He paused and smiled. “I like to think of Christmases past; I like to imagine that those guests who danced before us are with us. And I like to think that Christmas brings out the best in each of us. This Christmas is very special to my wife and me, because we are pleased to announce the engagement of our daughter to Blair Bainbridge. Come on up here, honey.”

“Daddy,” Little Mim demurred, but Blair took her elbow and led her next to her father.

“To the future union of Marilyn Sanburne the Second and Blair Bainbridge.” He stopped and held his glass over his head. “To the future!”

“To the future!” the assembled called back.

An eruption of noise followed this, as did the sounds of the band tuning up, then breaking into “The Virginia Reel,” to announce that the dancing should commence.

As guests surged forward to congratulate Blair and to wish Little Mim the best, Harry, Fair, Susan, Ned, BoomBoom, Alicia, Tazio, and Paul slowly moved into the line.

Alicia mentioned to Harry, “Have you visited the Greyfriars’ Web site?”

“Yes, why?”

“Tepid. Nothing about the tears,” Alicia replied.

Harry moved along, hoping Fair wasn’t listening to their conversation. He was bending down to listen to Paul, a shorter man than himself—but then, most men were.

Harry motioned toward Fair. BoomBoom winked.

Alicia understood and whispered, “Have you visited Web sites about the Virgin Mary?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

Susan squeezed closer to hear.

“I found one mentioning the statue at Afton. Goes through the whole history—you know, the legend of the tears before World War One and World War Two. Tells about the tears now, and the Web master promises to pray for you at the statue, say a rosary if you like.”

“No kidding?” Susan raised her voice.

“Susan.” Harry elbowed her. “Don’t let him hear you.”

“Harry,” BoomBoom whispered, “he was married to you. He knows you’re up to something.”

“He doesn’t have to know what,” she whispered back.

“The Web master—a pseudonym, I’m sure—is called Brother Love.” Alicia reached for BoomBoom for balance when a large group of people crowded up behind them. “Brother Love is making a pretty penny.”

“I know,” Harry replied. “Cooper knows, too. I was playing around one night and found it. I called Coop, but she already knew.”

Glorious though the party was, Harry couldn’t wait to get home. Fair came home with her, and there was nothing to do but park him in front of the computer, too.

Silently, he read everything.

After they’d gone through it all, the cats on either side of the computer, Fair remarked, “Brother Love will take your Visa card number for a rosary. Extra prayers are available, too. Irritates me.”

“That’s capitalism.” She anticipated his next question. “I didn’t mention this to you because you were busy—me, too, and, really, I just found it myself yesterday.”

“You should have told me right off the bat, dammit.”

Harry squinted, took a deep breath. “Susan said something to me once. She said, ‘Sometimes it’s not who has the most to gain, it’s who has the most to lose.’ ”

Neither Harry, Fair, nor the animals could have known that as they scrolled through the Bleeding Mary Web site, Brother Handle was suffering the long, dark night of the soul. He knelt on the cold floor of the chapel as he prayed. He knew the killer was in his flock, and he didn’t think it was Brother Andrew. If he called in the sheriff, that would warn the killer, who must be relaxing thanks to Brother Andrew’s arrest. He hoped he could flush the man out. He still couldn’t imagine the reasons for anything so foul. He didn’t know about the Web site, but even if he had, it wouldn’t have led him to the murderer. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t think of how to set a trap. He couldn’t confide in anyone. He didn’t trust anyone.

As he prayed, tears falling down his cheeks, he thought this would be the worst night of his life. It was a blessing he couldn’t have known what was to follow.

38

A
massive lone oak, well over three hundred years old, graced the middle of the family cemetery at Blair Bainbridge’s farm, which touched Harry’s farm on the western border, a strong-running creek being the dividing line.

This cemetery contained the remains of the Rev. Herbert C. Jones’s ancestors. The Rev always considered this farm the old home place, lost by his uncle’s frivolous nature. The now departed man had sat under the oak among the hand-carved tombstones and read his life away. Fond of Russian novels, he had learned Russian, but he also devoured literature in French, Italian, and German. Brilliant though he was, the stout fellow hadn’t a grain of common sense.

A parson barely makes enough to keep body and soul together. Herb couldn’t step in to repair the outbuildings or the house. When hard necessity dictated the farm must be sold, he was glad a young, well-to-do man bought it. Blair transformed the farm into a tidy, working place, helped by Harry’s country wisdom.

A light snow fell on the oak as Harry and Blair stood underneath. At 7:45
A.M.
the skies promised even more snow to come, for clouds darkened in the west. In the country, people meet early, since the workday begins by six
A.M.
In summertime, it often begins at five
A.M.,
so people and animals can beat the heat.

“There you have it.” He smiled wanly. “I’ve poured my heart into this farm.” He laughed. “If I’d known how much work these couple of hundred would be!” He whistled. “I would never have made it without you.”

“You’re a very intelligent man, Blair. You would have figured it out,” she demurred.

“What I would have done is hire a consultant who would have charged me an arm and a leg. You did it all because you’re a good neighbor. I don’t think there’s anything you don’t know about farming.” He sighed deeply. “It’s so beautiful in this graveyard, with the wrought-iron fence, this oak, which was a sapling seventy years before the American Revolution. Guess you know why we’re here.”

“Well, Blair, I have a pretty good idea.”

“You asked if I would come to you first if I decided to sell. I love this farm, but Little Mim wants to live at Aunt Tally’s. She’ll inherit that farm, and I guess both she and Stafford will inherit Dalmally someday.”

“Be a cold day in hell, because the Urquharts live forever.” Harry laughed.

“I thought of that. I expect that Dalmally will go to Stafford’s children and to ours. We hope to have children. Mim’s spoken to her brother in New York about all this. They’re on the same page. But I hate to leave this place, I really do, even though Rose Hill is only another two miles down the road.”

“It’s a lovely, lovely place, and you two will make it your own.”

“I expect Aunt Tally will drive us both crazy sometimes, but you know, she’s a good woman. I’m glad to know her. She’s a free thinker. To have that kind of energy at ninety-nine, she really has become one of my heroes.”

“Mine, too.”

He paused, watching a blue jay fly onto a tombstone, bitch and moan at the cats below, then fly off, dusting them with snow. “Jane Fogleman at Roy Wheeler Realty says I can ask one point two million and probably sell for a million, but—” Harry’s face fell. He held up his hand. “You and Herb can’t come up with that kind of money. Here’s what I propose. You’ve saved me plenty. You laid out my pastures. Took me to the tractor dealers. Introduced me to the honest workmen and craftsmen in the county. You hauled me over to Art Bushey and got me a deal on two trucks. You even sat down and explained to me what a four-ten axle is compared to a lesser one and why I needed that to haul cattle although it would make for a bouncier ride. You spent weeks with me that one summer showing me the different kinds of cattle, the ratio of meat to bone. You were patient. You’re a good friend to me. Let me be a good friend to you. I’ll sell the farm to you and Herb for five hundred thousand dollars. I’ll write you up a lease-to-buy contract for all my equipment. It will be simple, five thousand dollars a year. You maintain the equipment and you give me the right to borrow it from time to time should Aunt Tally’s tractors or implements break down. How does that sound?”

Stunned, Harry opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“Yes!”
Mrs. Murphy spoke for her human.

“But we don’t have the money.”
Tucker’s brown eyes implored the tiger cat to think of something.

“You don’t pass on a deal like that, Tucker. And she’ll get the money. Risk drives people forward. This kind of scramble separates the sheep from the goats.”

Her mind racing, Harry gulped the cold restorative air. She held out her hand. “Blair, I accept your offer. How much time do I have to raise the money?”

“If you can do it in four months’ time, great. If not, a year.”

“All right.”

He touched a tree limb, low and so old the thickness of it was as big as a man’s thigh. “I’m not a poor man. My profession, silly as it is, has made me a lot of money, but I’m a piker compared to the Sanburnes and the Urquharts. They must have triple-digit millions.”

“Easily, but they’re responsible people. They manage their wealth with wisdom and they’re the mainstays of important charities.”

“Oh, I know. I admire them but I keep asking myself, how do I raise children in this wealth and teach them that other children are starving?”

“Tally and Big Mim will pass that on. Take your cues from them, and you’re good with people, you’ll be good with children. Actually, I don’t know how anybody does it. I can raise cats, dogs, horses, and cattle, but I don’t know how I’d do with the human variety.”

He beamed. “You’d do just fine. Probably have them cleaning tack by the time they could walk.”

She laughed, a sense of relief and fear bearing on her with equal measure. “Blair, you’re probably right.”

As she walked back through the snow, passing the ever-growing beaver dam in the creek, she thought about how unpredictable was life. Then she laughed out loud because she was glad of it.

“Happy,”
Pewter, jumping from human footstep to human footstep, remarked.

“For once, she’s taking a big chance. Even if she falls on her face, and I know she won’t,”
Mrs. Murphy said,
“this will be good for her. She’ll finally make good in the world, the human world.”

Once beyond the beaver dam, beyond the low hillock at a right angle to the pond the beavers had created, Harry noticed fox tracks heading to the den on the hillock. “Smart,” she said to her companions.

“Too smart,”
Tucker replied.

Harry lifted her head. “Hey, come on.” She ran through the snow, breathing heavily. Snow wore you out.

Opening the door from the kitchen was Susan, and Harry reached it just as Susan was leaving. Before she could open her mouth to exclaim her good fortune, Susan grabbed her by the arm, pulling her into her own kitchen. She helped Harry with her coat.

“Susan, I can—”

“Harry, Ned ran a check on the Brother Love site. Ned forgot about it until this morning. He’s on overload and gets forgetful. As an elected official Ned can get information from the phone company, from the Internet services that we can’t. He can ask the sheriff to get information, too.”

“What did you find?”

“Brother Love was Nordy Elliott.”

“What?” Harry had one arm in her jacket, the other arm out, the jacket dangling to the floor as the cats attacked it.

“Nordy Elliott set up and ran the Web site.” Susan became more clear. She was rattled.

“What a total creep.”

“If Nordy set it up and now he’s dead, there had to be someone else in on the deal.”
Pewter stated the obvious.

“I hate this,”
Mrs. Murphy said. It was all much too clever, almost catlike.

“Susan, we’ve got to get up on that mountain.” Harry slipped her arm back into her jacket.

“Take your thirty-eight, Harry. I left the house in such a fit I forgot mine.”