Authors: Rita Mae Brown
“Gold plate. And I go on record as being opposed to your plan.”
“I hear you but I’m not listening.” Harry opened the door. Tucker leapt out and sank into the snow over her head.
Mrs. Murphy laughed.
“Swim, Tucker.”
“Very funny.”
Tucker pushed through the snow, leaping upward every step to get her head above the white froth.
The cat remained on Harry’s shoulder. Harry helped Tucker along and Mrs. Hogendobber opened the door.
“I’ve got something to show you.” Mrs. Hogendobber shut the door and locked it again. “Come here.”
As Harry removed her coat and extra layers, Miranda plunked a handful of cards on the counter. They appeared to be sale postcards sent out at regular intervals by businesses wanting to save the additional postage on a regular letter. Until Harry read one.
“‘Don’t stick your nose where it don’t belong,’ ” she read aloud. “What is this?”
“I don’t know what it is, apart from incorrect grammar, but Herbie and Carol have received one. So have the Sanburnes, the Hamiltons, Fair Haristeen, BoomBoom, Cabby and Taxi—in fact, nearly everyone we know.”
“Who hasn’t received one?”
“Blair Bainbridge.”
Harry held up the card to the light. “Nice print job. Did you call Sheriff Shaw?”
“Yes. And I called Charlottesville Press, Papercraft, Kaminer and Thompson, King Lindsay, every printer in Charlottesville. No one has any record of such an order.”
“Could a computer with a graphics package do something like this?”
“You’re asking me? That’s what children are for, to play with computers.” Mrs. Hogendobber put her hands on her hips.
“Well, here come Rick and Cynthia. Maybe they’ll know.”
The officers thought the postcards could have been printed with an expensive laser printer but they’d check with computer experts in town.
As they drove slowly away Cynthia watched new storm clouds approaching from the west. “Boss?”
“What?”
“Why would a killer do something like this? It’s stupid.”
“On the one hand, yes; on the other hand . . . well, I don’t know.” Rick gripped the wheel tighter and slowed to a crawl. “We have next to nothing. He or she knows that, but there’s something inside this person, something that wants to show off. He doesn’t want to get caught but he wants us and everyone else to know he’s smarter than the rest of us put together. Kind of a classic conflict.”
“He needs to reaffirm his power, yet stay hidden.” She waved to Fair, stuck in the snow. “We’d better stop. I think we can get him out.”
Rick rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “Look, I know this is illegal so I won’t ask you directly but wouldn’t it be odd if these postcards were misplaced for a day—just a day?” He paused. “We got someone smart, incredibly smart, and someone who likes to play cat and mouse. Dammit. Christmas!”
“Huh?”
“I’m afraid for every Christmas present under every tree right now.”
48
A stupendous Douglas fir scraped the high ceiling in Mim Sanburne’s lovely mansion. The heart-pine floors glowed with the reflection of tree lights. Presents were piled under the tree, on the sideboard in the hall, everywhere—gaily colored packages in green, gold, red, and silver foil wrapping paper topped off with huge multicolored bows.
Approximately 150 guests filled the seven downstairs rooms of the old house. Zion Hill, as the house was named, originated as a chinked log cabin, one room, in 1769. Indians swooped down to kill whites, and Zion Hill had no neighbors until after the Revolutionary War. There were rifle slits in the wall where the pioneers retreated to shoot attacking Indians. The Urquharts, Mim’s mother’s family, prospered and added to the house in the Federal style. Boom times covered the United States in a glow in the 1820’s. After all, the country had won another war against Great Britain, the West was opening up, and all things seemed possible. Captain Urquhart, the third generation to live at Zion Hill, invested in the pippin apple, which people said was brought into the county from New York State by Dr. Thomas Walker, physician to Thomas Jefferson. The Captain bought up mountain land dirt-cheap and created miles of orchards. Fortunately for the Captain, Americans loved apple pie, apple cider, applesauce, apple tarts, apple popovers, apples. Horses liked them too.
Before the War Between the States, the next generation of Urquharts bought into the railroad heading west and more good fortune was heaped upon their heads. Then the War Between the States ravaged them; three out of four sons were sacrificed. Two generations later, only one daughter and one son survived. The daughter had the good sense to marry a Yankee who, although locally despised, arrived with money and frugal New England values. The brother, never free of his war wounds, worked for his sister’s husband, not a comfortable arrangement but better than starvation. The stigma of Yankee blood had slightly faded by World War II, faded enough so that Mim didn’t mind using her paternal family name, Conrad, although she always used her mother’s name first.
Architecture buffs liked an invitation to Zion Hill because the rooms had been measured by the distance from the foreman’s elbow to the end of his middle finger. The measurements weren’t exact, yet visually the rooms appeared perfect. Gardeners enjoyed the boxwoods and the perennial and annual gardens lovingly tended for over two centuries. Then, too, the food pleased everyone. The fact that the hostess lorded it over them pleased no one, but there were so many people to talk to at the Christmas party, you only had to say “Hello” to Mim and “Thank you for the wonderful time” as you left.
The lushes of Albemarle County, glued to the punch bowl as well as the bar, had noses as red as Santa’s outfit. Santa appeared precisely at 8:00
P
.
M
. for the children. He dispensed his gifts and then mommies and daddies could take home their cherubs for a good night’s rest. Once the small fry were evacuated, folks kicked into high gear. Someone could be depended on to fall down dead drunk every year, someone else would start a fight, someone would cry, and someone would seduce a hapless or perhaps fortunate partygoer.
This year Mim hired the choir from the Lutheran Church. They would go on at 9:30
P
.
M
. so the early risers could carol and go home.
The acid-green of Mim’s emeralds glittered on her neck. Her dress, white, was designed to show off the jewels. Dangling emerald earrings matched the necklace, the aggregate value of which, retail at Tiffany’s, would have topped $200,000. Hot competition in the jewelry department came from BoomBoom Craycroft, who favored sapphires, and Miranda Hogendobber, who was partial to rubies. Miranda, not a wealthy woman, had inherited her sumptuous ruby and diamond necklace and earrings from her mother’s sister. Susan Tucker wore modest diamond earrings and Harry wore no major stones at all. For a woman, Mim’s Christmas party was like entering the lists. Who wore what counted for more than it should have and Harry couldn’t compete. She wished she were above caring but she would have liked to have one stunning pair of earrings, necklace, and ring. As it was she was wearing the misshapen gold earring.
The men wore green, red, or plaid cummerbunds with their tuxedos. Jim Sanburne wore mistletoe as a boutonniere. It produced the desired effect. Fitz-Gilbert sported a kilt, which also produced the desired effect. Women noticed his legs.
Fair escorted BoomBoom. Harry couldn’t figure out if this had been a longstanding date, if he was weakening, or if he was just a glutton for punishment. Blair accompanied Harry, which pleased her even if he did ask at the last minute.
Fitz-Gilbert passed out Macanudos. He kept his Cuban Montecristos for very special occasions or his personal whim, but a good Macanudo was as a Jaguar to the Montecristo Rolls-Royce. Blair gladly puffed on the gift cigar.
Susan and Ned joined them, as did Rick Shaw, in a tuxedo, and Cynthia Cooper wearing a velvet skirt and a festive red top. The little group chatted about the University of Virginia’s women’s basketball team, of which everyone was justly proud. Under the astute guidance of coach Debbie Ryan, the women had evolved into a national power.
Ned advised, “If only they’d lower the basket, though. I miss the dunking. Other than that it’s great basketball and those ladies can shoot.”
“Especially the three-pointers.” Harry smiled. She loved that basketball team.
“I’m partial to the guards myself,” Susan added. “Brookie’s hero is Debbie Ryan. Most girls want to grow up to be movie stars or players. Brookie wants to be a coach.”
“Shows sense.” Blair noticed Susan’s daughter in the middle of a group of eighth-graders. What an awkward age for everyone, the young person and the adults.
Market Shiflett joined them. “Some party. I wait for this each year. It’s the only time Mim invites me here unless she wants a delivery.” His face shone. He’d been downing Johnnie Walker Black, his special brand.
“She forgets,” Harry diplomatically told him.
“The hell she does,” Market rejoined. “How’d you like your last name to be Shiflett?”
“Market, if you’re living proof I’d be honored to have Shiflett as my last name.” Blair’s baritone soothed.
“Hear, hear.” Ned held up his glass.
The tinkle of shattered glass diverted their attention. BoomBoom had enraged Mrs. Drysdale by swinging her breasts under Patrick Drysdale’s aquiline nose. Patrick, not immune to such bounty, forgot he was a married man, a condition epidemic at such a large party. Missy threw a glass at BoomBoom’s head. Instead, it narrowly missed Dr. Chuck Beegle’s head and smashed against the wall.
Mim observed this. She cocked her head in Little Marilyn’s direction.
Little Marilyn glided over. “Now, Missy, honey, how about some coffee?”
“Did you see what that vixen did? Obviously, she has nothing to recommend her other than her . . . her tits!”
BoomBoom, half in the bag, laughed, “Oh, Missy, get over it. You’ve been jealous of me since sixth grade, when we were studying pirates and those boys called you a sunken chest.”
Her remark inflamed Missy, who reached into a bowl of cheese dip. The gooey yellow handful immediately decorated BoomBoom’s bosom.
“Damn you for getting that stuff on my sapphires!” BoomBoom pushed Missy.
“Is that what you call them . . . sapphires?” Missy shrieked.
Harry nudged Susan. “Let’s go.”
“May I assist?” Blair volunteered.
“No, this is women’s work,” Susan said lightly.
Under her breath Harry whispered to her friend, “If she swings she’ll take a roundhouse. BoomBoom can’t throw a straight punch.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Susan swiftly wrapped an arm around BoomBoom’s small waist, propelling her into the kitchen. The sputtering died away.
Harry, meanwhile, ducked a punch and came up behind Missy, putting both hands on Missy’s shoulders, and steered her toward the powder room. Little Marilyn followed.
“God, I hate her. I really hate her,” Missy seethed, her frosted hair bobbing with each step. “If I were really awful I’d wish her upon Patrick. She ruins every man she touches!” Missy realized who was shepherding her. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m so mad I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“It’s all right, Missy. You do know what you’re saying and I agree.”
This opened a new line of conversation and Missy calmed down considerably. Once in the immense bathroom, Little Marilyn ran a washcloth under cold water and applied it to Missy’s forehead.
“I’m not drunk.”
“I know,” Little Marilyn replied. “But when I get rattled this works for me. Mother, of course, supports Upjohn Industries.”
“What?” Missy didn’t get the joke.
“Mummy has pills to calm her down, pills to pep her up, and pills to put her to sleep, forgive the expression.”
“Marilyn”—Missy put her hand over Little Marilyn’s—“That’s serious.”
“I know. She won’t listen to her family and if Hayden McIntire won’t prescribe them she simply goes to another doctor and pays him off. So Hayden goes on writing out the prescriptions. That way he has an idea of how much she’s taking.”
“Are you okay now?” Harry inquired of Missy.
“Yes. I lost my temper and I’ll go apologize to your mother, Marilyn. Really, Patrick’s not worth fussing over. He can look at anything he wants on the menu but he can’t order, that’s all.”
This was an expression both Harry and Little Marilyn heard frequently from married couples. Little Marilyn smiled and Harry shrugged. Little Marilyn stared at Harry, bringing her face almost nose to nose.
“Harry!”
“What?” Harry stepped backward.
“I had earrings like that, except that one looks—”
“Squashed?”
“Squashed,” Little Marilyn echoed. “And you only have one. Now that’s peculiar because I lost one. I wore them all the time, my Tiffany disks. Anyway, I thought I lost it on the tennis court. I never did find it.”
“I found this one.”
“Where?”
“In a possum’s nest.” Harry studied Little Marilyn intently. “I traded the possum for it.”
“Come on.” Missy reapplied her lipstick.
“Scout’s honor.” Harry raised her right hand. “Did you keep the mate?” she asked Little Marilyn.
“I’ll show you tomorrow. I’ll bring it to the post office.”
“I’d love to see what it looks like in pristine condition.”
Little Marilyn took a deep breath. “Harry, why can’t we be friends?”
Missy stopped applying her lipstick in mid-twirl. A Sanburne was being emotionally honest, sort of.
In the spirit of the season Harry smiled and replied, “We can try.”
Three quarters of an hour later Harry, having spoken to everyone on her way back from the bathroom, managed to reach Susan. She whispered the news in Susan’s ear.
“Impossible.” Susan shook her head.
“Impossible or not, she seems to think it’s hers.”
“We’ll see tomorrow.”
BoomBoom swooped upon them. “Harry and Susan, thank you ever so much for relieving me of Missy Drysdale’s tedious presence.”
Before they could reply, and it would have been a tart reply, BoomBoom threw her arms around Blair, who was relieved to find his date finally sprung from the powder room. “Blair, darling, I need a favor—not a humongous favor but a teeny-weeny one.”