Authors: Rita Mae Brown
“Uh . . .”
“Orlando Heguay says he’ll come down for New Year’s Eve and I can’t put him up at my place—I hardly know the man. Would you?”
“Of course.” Blair held out his hands as if in benediction. “It’s what I meant to do all along.”
Susan whispered to Harry, “Has Fair spent a lot on his Christmas present for Our Lady of the Sorrows?”
“He says he can’t return it. He had a coat specially made from Out of the Blue.”
“Ouch.” Susan winced. Out of the Blue, an expensive but entertaining ladies’ apparel store, couldn’t take back a personalized item. Anyway, few women fit BoomBoom’s specifications.
“Tim-ber!” Harry cupped her hands to her mouth at the exact moment Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton hit the floor, drunk as a skunk.
Everyone laughed except for the two Marilyns.
“I’d better make up for that.” Harry wiggled through the crowd to Little Marilyn. “Hey, we’re all under pressure,” she whispered. “Too much party tonight. Don’t get too mad at him.”
“Before this night is out we’ll have them stacked like cordwood.”
“Where are you going to put them?”
“In the barn.”
“Sensible.” Harry nodded.
The Sanburnes thought of everything. The loaded guests could sleep it off in the barn and puke in the barn—no harm done to the Persian rugs. And no guilt over someone being in an accident after the party.
Before the night was over Danny Tucker’s girlfriend cried because he didn’t ask her to dance enough.
The juiciest gossip of all was that Missy Drysdale left Patrick, drunk and soon a stable candidate. She traipsed out of the party with Fair Haristeen, who dumped BoomBoom when he overheard her talking about Orlando Heguay’s visit.
BoomBoom consoled herself by confiding to Jim Sanburne how misunderstood she was. She would have made real progress if Mim hadn’t yanked him away.
Another Christmas party: Peace on Earth, Goodwill toward Men.
49
Harry sat in the middle of an avalanche of paper. Mrs. Murphy jumped from envelope pile to envelope pile while Tucker, head on paws, tail wagging, waited for the cat to dash through the room.
“You’re it.”
Mrs. Murphy jumped over Tucker, who leapt up and chased her.
“Stay on the ground. It’s not fair if you go to the second story.”
Tucker made up the rules as she ran.
“Says who?”
Mrs. Murphy arced upward, landing on the counter.
Mrs. Hogendobber barely noticed the two animals, a sign that she had become accustomed to their antics.
“One more day of this, Harry. There’s a bit of aftermath, as you well know, but the worst will be over tomorrow and then we can take off Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.”
Harry, sorting out mail as fast as she could, replied, “Miranda, I barely recover from one Christmas before the next one is on the way.”
Reverend Jones, Little Marilyn, and Fitz-Gilbert pushed through the door in a group, Market on their heels. Everyone plucked the offending postcards out of their boxes.
Mrs. Hogendobber headed off their protests. “We got them too. The sheriff knows all about it, and face it, we had to deliver them. We’d violate a federal law if we withheld your mail.”
“Maybe we wouldn’t mind so much if he were literate,” Fitz joked.
“Christmas is almost upon us. Let’s concentrate on the meaning of that,” Herb counseled.
Pewter scratched at the front door. While the humans talked, Mrs. Murphy and Tucker told Pewter about Simon and the earring.
As if on cue, Little Marilyn reached into her pocket and pulled out the undamaged Tiffany earring. “See.”
Harry placed the damaged earring next to the shiny gold one. “A pair. Well, so much for a Tiffany earring. It was the only way I was going to get one.”
“Put not thy faith in worldly goods.” The Reverend smiled. “Those are pretty worldly goods, though.”
Fitz poked at the bent-up earring. “Honey, where did you lose this? They were your Valentine’s present last year.”
“Now, Fitz, I didn’t want to upset you. I was hoping I’d find it and then you’d—”
“Never know.” He shook his head. “Marilyn, you’d lose your head if it weren’t fastened to your shoulders.” After he said this he wished he could have retracted it, considering the Halloween horror. His wife didn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t know where I lost it.”
“When’s the last time you remember wearing them?” Miranda asked the logical question.
“The day before the hard rains—oh, October, I guess. I wore my magenta cashmere sweater, played tennis over at the club, changed there, and when I got back into the car I couldn’t find one earring when I got home.”
“Maybe it popped off when you pulled your sweater over your head. Mine do that sometimes,” Harry mentioned.
“Well, I did take my sweater off in the car and I had a load of dry cleaning on the front seat. If the earring flew off, it might have landed in the clothing and I wouldn’t have heard that tinkle, like when metal hits the ground.”
“Which car were you in, honey?” Fitz asked.
“The Range Rover. Well, it doesn’t matter. I thank you for finding this, Harry. I wonder if Tiffany’s can repair it. Did you really find it in a possum’s nest?”
“I did.” Harry nodded.
“What are you doing ransacking possums’ nests?” Fitz pinched Harry’s elbow.
“I have this little guy who lives with me.”
“You found my earring on your property?” Little Marilyn was astonished. “I was nowhere near your property.”
“I found it but who knows where the possum found it? Maybe he’s a member of Farmington Country Club.”
This made everyone laugh, and after more chatter they left and the next wave of people came in, also upset when they pulled the “Don’t stick your nose where it don’t belong” postcards out of their boxes.
The animals observed the human reactions. Pewter washed behind her ears and asked Mrs. Murphy again,
“You believe that earring is connected to the first murder?”
“I don’t know. I only know it’s very peculiar. I keep hoping someone will find the teeth. That would be a big help. If the earring was dropped, what about the teeth?”
“Since those would identify the first victim, you can bet the killer got rid of the teeth,”
Tucker said.
“Once the snow melts, let’s go back to the graveyard. Can’t hurt to look.”
“I want to come.”
Pewter pouted.
“You’d be a big help,”
Mrs. Murphy flattered her,
“but I don’t see how we can get Mother to bring you out. You can do one thing, though.”
“What?”
Pewter’s eyes enlarged, as did her chest. She was puffing up like a broody hen.
“Pay attention to each human who comes to the store. Let me know if anyone seems stressed.”
“Half of Crozet,”
Pewter grumbled but then she brightened.
“I’ll do my best.”
Tucker cocked her head and stared at her friend.
“What’s wrong, Murphy?”
“What’s wrong is the postcard. It’s kind of smartass. I mean, if it
is
from the killer, which we don’t know, but if it is, it’s also a warning. It means, to me, that maybe this person thinks someone just might get too close.”
50
Using the Sheaffer pen that had once been his father’s, Cabell wrote his wife a note. The black ink scrawled boldly across the pale-blue paper.
My Dearest Florence,
Please forgive me. I’ve got to get away to sort out my thoughts. I’ve closed my personal checking account. Yours remains intact, as does our joint account and the investments. There’s plenty of money, so don’t worry.
I’ll leave the car at the bank parking lot behind the downtown mall. Please don’t call Rick Shaw. And don’t worry about me.
Love,
Cabell
Taxi did just that. The letter was propped up against the coffee machine. She read it and reread it. In all the years she had known her husband, he had never done anything as drastic as this.
She dialed Miranda Hogendobber. She’d been friends with Miranda since kindergarten. It was seven-thirty in the morning.
“Miranda.”
Mrs. H. heard the strain in her friend’s voice immediately. “Florence, what’s the matter?”
“Cabell has left me.”
“What!”
“I said that wrong. Here. Let me read you the letter.” As she finished, Florence sobbed, “He must be suffering some kind of breakdown.”
“Well, you’ve got to call the sheriff.”
“He forbids me to do that.” Florence cried harder.
“He’s wrong. If you don’t call him I will.”
By the time Rick and Cynthia arrived at the beautiful Hall residence, Miranda had been there for a half hour. Sitting next to her friend, she supplied support during the questioning.
Rick, who liked Taxi Hall, smoked half a pack of cigarettes while he gently asked questions. Cynthia prudently refrained from smoking, or the room would have been filled with blue fog.
“You said he’s been preoccupied, withdrawn.”
Taxi nodded, and Rick continued. “Was there any one subject that would set him off?”
“He was terribly upset about Ben Seifert. He calmed down once the books were audited but I know it still bothered him. Ben was his protégé.”
“Was there resentment at the bank over Ben’s being groomed to succeed your husband?”
She folded her arms across her chest and thought about this. “There’s always grumbling but not enough for murder.”
“Did your husband ever specifically name anyone?”
“He mentioned that Marion Molnar couldn’t stand Ben but she managed to work with him. Really, the politics of the bank are pretty benign.”
Rick took a deep breath. “Have you any reason to suspect that your husband is seeing another woman?”
“Is that necessary?” Miranda bellowed.
“Under the circumstances, yes, it is.” Rick softened his voice.
“I protest. I protest most vigorously. Can’t you see she’s worried sick?”
Taxi patted Miranda’s hand. “It’s all right, Miranda. Everything must be considered. To the best of my knowledge Cabell is not involved with another woman. If you knew Cabby like I do, you’d know he’d much rather play golf than make love.”
Rick smiled weakly. “Thank you, Mrs. Hall. We will put out an all-points alert. We’ll fax photos of Cabby to other police and sheriff’s departments. And the first time he uses a credit card we’ll know. Try to relax and know that we are doing everything we can.”
Outside the door Rick dropped a cigarette, which sizzled in the snow.
Cooper observed the snow melting around the hot tip. “Well, looks like we know who killed Ben Seifert. Why else would he run?”
“Goddammit, we’re going to find out.” He stepped on the extinguished cigarette. “Coop, nothing makes sense. Nothing!”
51
Harry wondered where Mrs. Hogendobber was, for she was scrupulously punctual. Being a half hour late was quite out of line. The mail bags clogged the post office and Harry was falling behind. If it had been any time other than Christmas, Harry would have left her post and gone to Miranda’s house. As it was, she called around. No one had seen Mrs. Hogendobber.
When the back door opened relief flooded through Harry. Those emotional waters instantly dried up when Mrs. Hogendobber told her the news.
Within fifteen minutes of Miranda’s arrival—half an hour before the doors opened to the public—Rick Shaw knocked on the back door.
He walked through the mail bags and up to the counter, glanced at the composite picture of the reconstructed head. “Lot of good that’s done. Not a peep! Not a clue!
Nada!
” He slammed his hand on the counter, causing Mrs. Murphy to jump and Tucker to bark.
“Hush, Tucker,” Harry advised the dog.
Rick opened his notebook. “Mrs. Hogendobber, I wanted to ask you a few questions. No need to cause Mrs. Hall further upset.”
“I’m glad to help.”
Rick looked at Harry. “You might as well stay. She’ll tell you everything anyway, the minute I leave.” He poised his pencil. “Have you noticed anything unusual in Cabell Hall’s behavior?”
“No. I think he’s exhausted, but he hasn’t been irritable or anything.”
“Have you noticed a strain in the marriage?”
“See here, Rick, you know perfectly well that Florence and Cabby have a wonderful marriage. Now this line of questioning has got to stop.”
Rick flipped shut his notebook, irritation, frustration, and exhaustion dragging down his features. He looked old this morning. “Dammit, Miranda, I’m doing all I can!” He caught himself. “I’m sorry. I’m tired. I haven’t even bought one Christmas present for my wife or my kids.”
“Come on, sit down.” Harry directed the worn-out man to a little table in the back. “We’ve got Miranda’s coffee and some Hotcakes muffins.”
He hesitated, then pulled up a chair. Mrs. Hogendobber poured him coffee with cream and two sugars. A few sips restored him somewhat. “I don’t want to be rude but I have to examine all the angles. You know that.”
“Yeah, we do.”
Rick said, “Well, you tell me how one partner in a marriage knows what the other’s doing if she’s asleep.”
Miranda downed a cup of coffee herself. “You don’t. My George could have driven to Richmond and back, I’m such a sound sleeper, but well, you know things about your mate and about other people. Cabell was faithful to Taxi. His disappearance has nothing to do with an affair. And how do we know he wrote that letter voluntarily?”
“We don’t,” Rick agreed. A long silence followed.
“I have a confession to make.” Harry swallowed and told Rick about the misshapen earring.
“Harry, I could wring your neck! I’m out of here.”
“Where are you going?” Harry innocently asked.
“Where do you think I’m going, nitwit? To Little Marilyn’s. I hope I get there before she mails off that earring to New York. If you ever pull a stunt like this again I’ll have your hide—your hide! Do you understand?”
“Yes,” came the meek voice.