Nine Lives to Die

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Charlene, you and Peter were good parents. And I don’t know how you hung on, especially during the worst of the gas crisis.” Fair prudently focused on business.

  Despite the strange missing fingers, the initial autopsy report had declared Pete died of a heart attack. Happy to be able to talk about anything other than that verdict, she rose from behind the desk and sat next to Fair in an expensive Barcelona-leather-and-chrome chair.

  “Ford sailed through some dreadful times,” she said. “Finally, we got farsighted, gutsy leadership, and I think we will make a decent profit this year. Not taking the bailout money, going through those hard years before GM and Chrysler Motors tanked. It paid off for Ford and for the dealers who hung on.”

  “You always did have courage. Anyone that can ride Salsa when he’s having one of his bad mood days is gutsy.” Fair smiled.

  She waved her hand. “Salsa’s so funny, you know.” She folded her hands, leaning toward Fair. “He knew. When I went into the stable after Peter died, he knew. He nuzzled me and put his head on my shoulder. I’ve tried to ride him a bit every day. I wouldn’t tell that to too many people. I love that horse.”

  “He loves you.”

  This brought tears to her eyes as she nodded. “Love is more powerful than any of us realizes.” She took a deep breath. “I’m a bit older than you, Fair. There’s a time when a woman does think about the future without her husband. Nine times out of ten, you men go first. But I never thought it would happen so soon. Peter burst with fresh ideas and good health. This came out of the blue.”

  Fair reached over, taking her hand in his. “I’m sorry you have to think about it now.”

  She squeezed his hand, then withdrew hers to wipe away tears. “Arden says take it a day at a time. Good advice for life, no matter when.”

  “That’s the truth.” Fair’s deep voice resonated.

  “I’ve been thinking so much about Silver Linings. Pete loved working with young people. You know, what he really was focusing on was finding a building that could house the group. St. Cyril’s is bursting at the seams. We have so many Hispanic members now. Pete wanted the kids to be somewhere relaxing and safe. Plus, St. Cyril’s needs the space.”

  “Wonderful idea. And giving the truck for a raffle was so generous.”

  “We both loved doing that. We’ve been so fortunate. So many of those boys haven’t. Pete always said, ‘Give people a chance. Don’t shut the door. Open it.’ ”

  “Most people will go through the door.” Fair agreed with Pete’s philosophy.

  “I’ve met so many of the new people through the church. Many are Hispanic, as I mentioned. It enrages me that the stereotype is an apple picker who can’t speak English.”

  “Oh, Charlene, what would people do without stereotypes? What’s the stereotype of a car dealer?”

  This brought the relief of laughter. Someone was talking to her without a long face spouting platitudes about closure.

  “Think I fit it?” She smiled. “Give me a cigar, and let’s make a deal.”

  “That’s not you.”

  Her son Alex popped his head in. Fair stood and shook his hand.

  “Good to see you, Dr. Haristeen.”

  “You too, Alex. I know this is a difficult time. We’re all glad you’re working in the business over Christmas break.”

  “I like learning about the dealership.” He acknowledged Fair’s sympathetic words, then lifted his eyes to his mother. “Mom, the insurance claims adjuster is here to look at Dad’s Explorer.”

  “Fine.” She smiled. “If he wants it in the garage, have it towed in.”

  “Okay.” Alex left.

  Charlene turned to Fair. “Fixing a claim when you’re a dealer is usually simple enough. We’ve had people total cars on test drives. Still, I never look forward to it. The paperwork is almost as bad as the accident.”

  “I can believe that.” Fair’s voice was soothing. “Don’t you pay interest every day on cars on the lot?”

  “You bet I do.” Her eyes met his. “Owning a dealership is not for the fainthearted.”

  When Fair pulled up by the barn, it was already dark at 6:30. He cut the motor, sat in the cab and looked out at the frozen pastures, the deep night sky. Then he pulled the key, dropped it in the center tray. Inside, in the kitchen, he was greeted by his wife with a hug and a kiss.

  Within minutes, both had provided recaps of their days.

  “Glad Charlene looked good.” Harry pulled out two cups. “Green tea?”

  “No. I don’t know what I want right now.”

  “While you’re thinking about it, Susan and I saw Mr. Thompson. Our solid and trig teacher. Remember him?”

  “Sure. I thought he was dead.”

  “Half dead. Pickled.” She tipped back her head, swallowing an imaginary drink.

  “There was a rumor of that when we were in school. Sorry.”

  “He has this deaf and mostly blind dog, lives alone. Has a wood-burning stove in the kitchen. All the paint’s peeled from the house. It’s funny. Our last stop, we also dropped things off to an older person, Miss Rice. House just the opposite. Neat as a pin.”

  “Rice.” He pondered the name. “Little odd?”

  “Odd doesn’t cover it.”

  “She used to work for Diana Valencia, more money than God. Miss Rice worked in her barn office. I was starting out. She was nice, as I recall. Somewhat religious. As time went by, she rarely spoke to me anymore. Perfectly nice but introverted. I never knew how the Valencias got their money.”

  “When turn signals were first invented, the problems were with the wiring. In bad weather, a lot of them didn’t work. Diana Valencia figured out how to solve the problem. This was way back when women were told they couldn’t do mechanical or engineering things.”

  “Never knew that,” said Fair, before adding, “Come to think of it, Miss Rice is Esther Mercier’s older sister. I remember seeing Miss Mercier once at the barn. One thing about living in Virginia, your memory won’t go bad.”

  “Why?” Harry asked.

  “You need to use it constantly to remember who is related to whom.” He laughed.

  “Make up your mind yet?” She smiled.

  “I am going to have a cup of green tea with a shot of scotch.”

  “That’s original.”

  “Isn’t that why you married me?” He grinned.

  “There were other factors.” She poured the hot water into his cup.

  Listening in were the cats and dog all curled up in their kitchen beds. They had beds everywhere.

  Sipping their beverages, the husband and wife reviewed tomorrow’s schedule.

  “So you’re going out again?” he asked.

  “The response to the need for clothing has been overwhelming. Today we delivered stuff for St. Cyril’s. St. Luke’s is overflowing. More deliveries tomorrow.”

  “I thought December twentieth was supposed to be the big day.”

  “There will be plenty to do on that day, but we’ve got to disburse some of the canned goods and clothing. There’s no way we can deliver everything in just one day. Also, we lost some days with Pete’s death. Most of the St. Cyril’s ladies were at the Vavilovs’. Us, too.”

  “I have a couple of old but good sweaters. I could root through my drawers.”

  “Honey, we have more than enough, plus all your clothing is covered in cat hair.”

  “No outfit is complete without it!” Pewter loudly proclaimed.

  “What if I run out of the car?” Pewter maliciously considered this route in the back of the now almost empty Volvo. It had been a long, long day, with their human busy handing out food she could keep and nosing into other people’s business.

  “I’d chase you.” Tucker solemnly vowed.

  “Ha.” Pewter swished her tail.

  Nose-to-nose, Mrs. Murphy threatened her fellow feline, “You aren’t going anywhere. We’re almost done with this run, and I want to go home.” The tiger cat then turned to
Tucker. “Don’t set her off.”

  Ears drooping, Tucker flopped down in the back of the Volvo station wagon.

  Harry, by herself, had been dropping off food and clothing since eleven, the time she usually finished her farm chores. With one stop left, she peered upward out the windshield, then Harry reached over to pet Mrs. Murphy, who had come up to sit in the passenger seat.

  The twisting road climbed toward the Blue Ridge Mountains. The sky threatened, charcoal gray. Harry turned left onto another snow-packed dirt road, followed the ridge, then turned right down a narrow drive that was at least plowed. She finished by 3:30.

  ——

  At 3:30 Arden Higham labored in the small office at St. Cyril’s. Friday was her regular bookkeeping day. With the end of the year looming, the demands escalated. Arden wanted to keep up with it all.

  Jessica Hexham had the same idea. Walking in, she said, “It’s a zoo out there. I’ll be doing the church books until midnight.”

  “Lord, I hope not. If you’ll be here to midnight, I’ll be here until two in the morning. You’re faster than I am.” She twirled a pencil. “Traffic?”

  “Yes, and it’s snowing again. When is this going to end? Hardly any last winter, and now, boom.” Jessica shook her head.

  Arden’s cell rang. “Hello.”

  “Mom, where’s Dad?” her son, Tyler, said. “I’ve been waiting forty-five minutes.”

  “Did you call him?” she asked, looking over at Jessica.

  “Of course I called him.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Jessica just walked in and said traffic is a problem.”

  Arden folded her phone, said to Jessica, “I’ve got to go. Lou didn’t pick up Tyler. And he hasn’t returned Tyler’s calls. That’s not like Lou, so he’s held up somewhere where his cell isn’t working.”

  “Sometimes the service goes down in weather like this.” Jessica sat down.

  “That it does. I’m afraid I’ll have to come in tomorrow.”

  “Well, drive carefully. You never know what the other guy will do.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” Arden threw together her hat, coat, scarf. “You know, since Pete’s death, Lou has been forgetful.”

  “Well, these things affect people different ways,” Jessica sympathized. “I think it’s harder for men—the death of a friend, someone they love. They can’t fix it.”

  “As it is, Lou and Tyler pluck my last nerve. Lou can’t get it through his thick skull that Tyler is not athletic—” At this thought, she stopped and wrapped the hand-knit scarf around her neck. “The holidays wear me down anyway. I feel like sending out invitations to my nervous breakdown.”

  “Hold on, girl.” Jessica smiled at her.

  “I will.” As Arden sailed out of the room, she looked at the large wall calendar.

  Friday the thirteenth.

  With her deliveries done, Harry walked to her barn as the first snowflake twirled down.

  “Perfect timing.”

  The three animals and one human checked each stall, filled the water buckets, two to a stall, then Harry tightened her scarf, headed out the back of the barn, and started bringing in horses from the pastures. Night came so early, and this night would prove cold and long. The inside of the barn usually stayed warm enough for the water buckets not to freeze. Each horse wore a blanket, sized for him or her. However, Harry couldn’t figure out how to keep them from pulling the straps off from one another’s blankets. Horses loved this game, often accompanied by mock fighting, running about, and squealing. Though generally quiet animals, when they snorted, whinnied, and smacked their lips they did so with brio.

  After half an hour, everyone was inside a deeply bedded stall, with clean water, an extra flake of hay to keep them busy. The big feeding came in the morning. If anyone needed a little help to keep the weight on, Harry also gave them grain at night.

  By the time she’d put up Shortro, the last one to come in and always a gentleman about it, a new thin white shroud already covered the existing snow.

  Walking into the heated tack room, she unwound her scarf, hanging it over a saddle. Her Carhartt Detroit jacket she laid across a saddle rack. She sank into the chair behind the desk.

  “I’m tired.”

  “Low pressure,” Tucker informed her. The weather made the corgi tired, too.

  On the saddle pads by the old riding helmet, Pewter was already asleep. Mrs. Murphy, curled up next to her, began to doze off. The wall clock read 5:50. The sun had set, darkness gathered. Flatface, a huge great horned owl, stirred in the cupola above the hayloft. The blacksnake Matilda hibernated in her special hay bale up there, and Simon the possum also woke up. He felt the snow coming, double-checked his treasures, for he hoarded everything from candy wrappers to broken tack. He waddled to the edge of the hayloft to see what Harry was doing in the tack room. She usually left treats. His bright eyes missed nothing, including the one lone mouse who zipped out from behind the hay bales stacked in the aisle for tomorrow’s feeding.

  “She’s in there, you know,” Simon warned, but do mice ever listen to advice offered by possums?

  “She won’t hurt me.” The little fellow stopped near a small hole the mice had made at the outside corner of the tack room. They had pathways between each of the stalls. Cleverly hidden behind a trunk inside the tack room was another door. All the mice could come and go as they pleased. It must have been mice that designed the glorious sewers of Paris. Who better to create tunnels?

  “The cats are there,” Simon warned.

  Face upturned to him, the mouse simply replied, “They’re worthless,” then wiggled into the hole.

  Harry didn’t know a small furry fellow walked by her boots under the desk, emerged on the other side, looked at the sleeping cats, then zipped for the back of the tack trunk.

  Checking that day’s delivery list, Harry thought that aside from her three pets, she was alone. One is never truly alone on a farm. If nothing else, there’s always a spider within three feet of you.

  Tucker raised her head, let out a low bark. “Coop’s here.”

  This woke Pewter. “Will you kindly shut up?”

  “It’s my job to announce any person or animal who comes onto this property.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.”

  Harry heard the motor cut off, then the barn door open. She stepped outside the tack room. “Damn, it’s gotten even colder,” she said.

  Cooper entered and sat down. “Supposed to get into the teens tonight. Maybe a foot of snow.”

  “Everything okay at your place?” Harry inquired, making sure, for Cooper wasn’t a country girl, although she was learning.

  “Got the generator hooked up in case. The fireplaces help, too. I keep promising myself that I’m going to install a wood-burning stove in the basement like you have, but I never get around to it.”

  “Saves a boatload of money.” Harry changed the subject. “I can make a pot of tea.”

  A nearby hotplate, rarely used, did work.

  Cooper answered, “No, thank you. Harry, you know the Highams?”

  “Socially. She plays cards with us. Why?”

  “Arden Higham, sounding worried, reported that her husband, Lou, didn’t pick up their son from school. He hasn’t answered calls. She’s called his friends and coworkers, and they said they hadn’t heard from him. He left the office early to run some errands and said he’d pick up Tyler. He wouldn’t be back at the office. She’s asked us to look for him.”

  “Like a missing person?”

  “No one is using that terminology just yet. The man’s only been gone for a few hours, and it is Christmastime and it is snowing.”

  “Right.”

  “Ever hear of any home trouble?”

  Harry shook her head. “Like I said, I only know them socially, and things seem to be fine. The kid’s at the gawky stage and just a whiz with computers. I can’t imagine he’d run out on her and Tyler. Probably Lou’s lost his cellphone or he’s tied up somewhere.
”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you concerned? Do you know something I don’t?”

  Cooper teased her. “I know a lot you don’t. I’m not concerned. Yet.”

  “Call me if I can help.” Harry felt something run over her foot. She looked down in time to see a tail disappear. “A mouse.”

  Cooper reached inside her back pants pocket, rising to do so, retrieved a folded-over sheet of yellow paper, which she put on the desk in front of Harry. “A Christmas mouse. Here. Read my notes and tell me what you think.”

  Harry scanned the page. “Peter Vavilov. Well-off. Aggressive. Local. High school star athlete back in the late eighties. Community leader. Member of many nonprofits, such as Silver Linings, Red Cross, Cancer Fund, MS Foundation, et cetera. Church: St. Cyril’s. Wife. Two sons. Well liked.”

  “Right?” Coop lifted her eyebrows.

  “Right. He was a good fund-raiser.” Harry then continued reading. “No mistresses. Especially concerned with sports and youth.”

  “No pretty young things on the side?”

  Harry thought for a moment. “I rarely saw Peter around any woman other than Charlene or women at fund-raisers. Never heard any talk about Pete in that way.”

  “Can you think of anything else?”

  “First, tell me what you mean by writing that he was aggressive.”

  Cooper crossed one leg over the other. “When I would question people, that word came up again and again. He was aggressive as a football player. He was aggressive in advertising Fords, competitive with other dealerships, especially other Ford dealerships, like in Richmond. Can you think of an old feud?” the police officer asked. “Maybe someone hated him?”

  “No.” Harry felt a tingling sensation at the back of her neck. “I thought Pete died of a heart attack. Why these questions?”

  “Curious.” Cooper looked at the two cats. “So peaceful. Hey, that helmet has seen better days.” She rose, picked up the riding helmet.

  Tucker barked. “Put that down. You don’t really want it.”

  The cats opened their eyes. Mrs. Murphy sat up.

  Pewter, also now on her feet, reached up for the helmet but too late. Cooper turned it over and the buckle bracelet fell out.