Walking toward Bob was Kelly Craycroft. His chestnut hair, gleaming in the light, looked like burnished bronze. Kelly, an affable man, wasn’t smiling.
Wagging his tail, Ozzie stood next to Bob. Bob still didn’t move. Kelly arrived at the bottom step. He waited a moment, said something to Bob which Harry couldn’t hear, and then moved up to the second step, whereupon Bob pushed him down the steps.
Furious, his face darkening, Kelly scrambled to his feet. “You asshole!”
Harry heard that loud and clear.
Bob, without replying, sauntered down the steps, but Kelly, not a man to be trifled with, grabbed Bob’s shoulder.
“You listen to me and you listen good!” Kelly shouted.
Harry wanted to move out from behind the counter. Good manners got the better of her. It would be too obvious. Instead she strained every fiber to hear what was being said. Tucker and Mrs. Murphy, hardly worried about how they’d look to others, bumped into each other as they ran to the door.
This time Bob raised his voice. “Take your hand off my shoulder.”
Kelly squeezed harder and Bob balled up his fist, hitting him in the stomach.
Kelly doubled over but caught his breath. Staying low, he lunged, grabbing Bob’s legs and throwing him to the pavement.
Ozzie, moving like a streak, sank his teeth into Kelly’s left leg. Kelly hollered and let go of Bob, who jumped up.
“No” was all Bob had to say to Ozzie, and the dog immediately obeyed. Kelly stayed on the ground. He pulled up his pants leg. Ozzie’s bite had broken the skin. A trickle of blood ran into his sock.
Bob said something; his voice was low. The color ran out of Kelly’s face.
Bob walked over to his truck, got in, started the motor, and pulled out as Kelly staggered to his feet.
Jolted by the sight of blood, Harry shelved any concern about manners. She opened the door, hurrying over to Kelly.
“Better put some ice on that. Come on, I’ve got some in the refrigerator.”
Kelly, still dazed, didn’t reply immediately.
“Kelly?”
“Oh—yeah.”
Harry led him into the post office. She dumped the ice out of the tray onto a paper towel.
Kelly was reading his postcard when she handed him the ice. He sat down on the bench, rolled up his pants leg, and winced when the cold first touched his leg. He stuck his mail in his back pocket.
“Want me to call Doc?” Harry offered.
“No.” Kelly half smiled. “Pretty embarrassing, huh?”
“No more embarrassing than my divorce.”
That made Kelly laugh. He relaxed a bit. “Hey, Mary Minor Haristeen, there is no such thing as a good divorce. Even if both parties start out with the best of intentions, when the lawyers get into it, the whole process turns to shit.”
“God, I hope not.”
“Trust me. It gets worse before it gets better.” Kelly removed the ice. The bleeding had stopped.
“Keep it on a little longer,” Harry advised. “It will prevent swelling.”
Kelly replaced the makeshift ice pack. “It’s none of my business, but you should have ditched Fair Haristeen years ago. You kept hanging in there trying to make it work. All you did was waste time. You cast your pearls before swine.”
Harry wasn’t quite ready to hear her husband referred to as swine, but Kelly was right: She should have gotten out earlier. “We all learn at our own rates of speed.”
He nodded. “True enough. It took me this long to realize that Bob Berryman, ex–football hero of Crozet High, is a damned wimp. I mean, pushing me down the steps, for chrissake. Because of a bill. Accusing me of overcharging him for a driveway. I’ve been in business for myself for twelve years now and no one’s accused me of overcharging.”
“It could have been worse.” Harry smiled.
“Oh, yeah?” Kelly glanced up quizzically.
“Could have been Josiah DeWitt.”
“You got that right.” Kelly rolled down his pants leg. He tossed the paper towel in the trash, said, “Harry, hang in there,” and left the post office.
She watched him move more slowly than usual and then she returned to her tasks.
Harry was re-inking her stamp pads and cleaning the clogged ink out of the letters on the rubber stamps. She’d gotten to the point where she had maroon ink on her forehead as well as all over her fingers when Big Marilyn Sanburne, “Mim,” marched in. Marilyn belonged to that steel-jawed set of women who were honorary men. She was called Big Marilyn or Mim to distinguish her from her daughter, Little Marilyn. At fifty-four she retained a cold beauty that turned heads. Burdened with immense hours of leisure, she stuck her finger in every civic pie, and her undeniable energy sent other volunteers to the bar or into fits.
“Mrs. Haristeen”—Mim observed the mess—“have you committed a murder?”
“No—just thinking about it.” Harry slyly smiled.
“First on my list is the State Planning Commission. They’ll never put a western bypass through this country. I’ll fight to my last breath! I’d like to hire an F-14 and bomb them over there in Richmond.”
“You’ll have plenty of volunteers to help you, me included.” Harry wiped, but the ink was stubborn.
Mim enjoyed the opportunity to lord it over someone, anyone. Jim Sanburne, her husband, had started out life on a dirt farm, and fought and scratched his way to about sixty million dollars. Despite Jim’s wealth, Mim knew she had married beneath her and she was a woman who needed external proof of her social status. She needed her name in the Social Register. Jim thought it foolish. Her marriage was a constant trial. It was to Jim, too. He ran his empire, ran Crozet because he was mayor, but he couldn’t run Mim.
“Well, have you reconsidered your divorce?” Mim sounded like a teacher.
“No.” Harry blushed from anger.
“Fair’s no better or worse than any other man. Put a paper bag over their heads and they’re all the same. It’s the bank account that’s important. A woman alone has trouble, you know.”
Harry wanted to say, “Yes, with snobs like you,” but she shut up.
“Do you have gloves?”
“Why?”
“To help me carry in Little Marilyn’s wedding invitations. I don’t want to befoul them. Tiffany stationery, dear.”
“Wait a minute, here.” Harry rooted around.
“You put them next to the bin,” Tucker informed her.
“I’ll take you to the bathroom in a minute, Tucker,” Harry told the dog.
“I’ll knock them on the floor. See if she gets it.” Mrs. Murphy nimbly trotted the length of the counter, carefully sidestepping the ink and stamps, and with one gorgeous leap landed on the shelf, where she pushed off the gloves.
“The cat knocked your gloves off the shelf.”
Harry turned as the gloves hit the floor. “So she has. She must know what we’re saying.” Harry smiled, then followed Big Marilyn out to her copen-blue Volvo.
“Sometimes I wonder why I put up with her,” Mrs. Murphy complained.
“Don’t start. You’d be lost without Harry.”
“She is good-hearted, I will admit, but Lord, she’s slow.”
“They all are,” Tucker agreed.
Harry and Mim returned carrying two cardboard boxes filled with pale cream invitations.
“Well, Harry, you will know who is invited and who isn’t before anyone else.”
“I usually do.”
“You, of course, are invited, despite your current, uh, problem. Little Marilyn adores you.”
Little Marilyn did no such thing but no one dared not invite Harry, because it would be so rude. She really did know every guest list in town. Because she knew everything and everybody, it was shrewd to keep on Harry’s good side. Big Marilyn considered her a “resource person.”
“Everything is divided up by zip code and tied.” Mim tapped the counter. “And don’t pick them up without your gloves on, Harry. You’re n
ever going to get that ink off your fingers.”
“Promise.”
“I’ll leave it to you, then.”
No sooner had she relieved Harry of her presence than Josiah DeWitt appeared, tipping his hat and chatting outside to Mim for a moment. He wore white pants and a white shirt and a snappy boater on his head, the very image of summer. He pushed open the door, touched the brim of his hat, and smiled broadly at the postmistress.
“I have affixed yet another date with the wellborn Mrs. Sanburne. Tea at the club.” His eyes twinkled. “I don’t mind that she gossips. I mind that she does it so badly.”
“Josiah—” Harry never knew what he would say next. She slapped his hand as he reached into one of the wedding invitation boxes. “Government property now.”
“That government governs best which governs least, and this one has its tentacles into every aspect of life, every aspect. Terrifying. Why, they even want to tell us what to do in bed.” He grinned. “Ah, but I forgot you wear a halo on that subject now that you’re separated. Of course, you wouldn’t want to be accused of adultery in your divorce proceeding, so I shall assume yours is virtue by necessity.”
“And lack of opportunity.”
“Don’t despair, Harry, don’t despair. Anyway, you got a great nickname out of ten years of marriage . . . although Mary suits you now, because of the halo.”
“You’re awful sometimes.”
“Rely on it.” Josiah flipped through his mail and moaned, “Ned has given me the compliment of an invoice. Lawyers get a cut of everything, don’t they?”
“Kelly Craycroft calls you Moldy Money.” Harry liked Josiah because she could devil him. Some people you could and others you couldn’t. “Don’t you want to know why he calls you Moldy Money?”
“I already know. He says I’ve got the first dollar I ever made and it’s moldering in my wallet. I prefer to think that capital, that offspring of business, is respected by myself and squandered by others, Kelly Craycroft in particular. I mean, how many paving contractors do you know who drive a Ferrari Mondial? And here, of all places.” He shook his head.
Harry had to agree that owning a Ferrari, much less driving one, was on the tacky side. That’s what people did in big cities to impress strangers. “He’s got the money—I guess he can spend it the way he chooses.”
“There’s no such thing as a poor paving contractor, so perhaps you’re right. Still”—his voice lowered—“so hopelessly flashy. At least Jim Sanburne drives a pickup.” He absentmindedly slapped his mail on his thigh. “You will tell me, of course, who is and who isn’t invited to Child Marilyn’s wedding. I especially want to know if Stafford is invited.”
“We all want to know that.”
“What’s your bet?”
“That he isn’t.”
“A safe bet. They were so close as children, too. Really devoted, that brother and sister. A pity. Well, I’m off. See you tomorrow.”
Through the glass door Harry watched Susan Tucker and Josiah engage in animated conversation. So animated that when finished, Susan leaped up the three stairs in a single bound and flung open the door.
“Well! Josiah just told me you’ve got Little Marilyn’s wedding invitations.”
“I haven’t looked.”
“But you will and no time like the present.” Susan opened the door by the counter and came around behind it.
“You can’t touch that.” Harry removed her gloves as Tucker joyfully jumped on Susan, who hugged and kissed her. Mrs. Murphy watched from her shelf. Tucker was laying it on pretty thick.
“Wonderful doggie. Beautiful doggie. Gimme a kiss.” Susan saw Harry’s hands. “Well, you can’t touch the envelopes either, so for the next fifteen minutes I’ll do your job.”
“Do it in the back room, Susan. If anyone sees you we’re both in trouble. Stafford will be in the one-double-oh zip codes and I think he’s in one-double-oh two three, west of Central Park.”
Susan called over her shoulder on her way to the back room: “If you can’t live on the East Side of Manhattan, stay home.”
“The West Side’s really nice now.”
“It’s not here. Can you believe it?” Susan hollered from the back room.
“Sure, I believe it. What’d you expect?”
Susan came out and put the box under the counter. “Her own son. She’s got to forgive him sometime.”
“Forgiveness isn’t a part of Big Marilyn Sanburne’s vocabulary, especially when it impinges on her exalted social standing.”
“This isn’t the 1940’s. Blacks and whites do marry now and the miscegenation laws are off the books.”
“How many mixed marriages do you know in Crozet?”
“None, but there are a few in Albemarle County. I mean, this is so silly. Stafford’s been married for six years now and Brenda is a stunning woman. A good one, too, I think.”
“Are you going to have lunch with me? You’re the only one left who will.”
“It just seems that way because you’re oversensitive right now. Come on, you’d better get out of here before someone else zooms through the door. You know how crazy Mondays are.”
“Okay, I’m ready. My relief pitcher just pulled in.” Harry smiled. It was nice having old Dr. Larry Johnson to cover the post office from 12:00 to 1:00 so she could take a lunch hour. It was also handy when she had errands to run during business hours. All she had to do was give him a call.
Dr. Johnson held the door for Harry, Susan, and the animals.
“Thank you, Dr. Johnson. How are you today?” Harry appreciated his gentlemanly gesture.
“I’m doing just fine, thank you.”
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” Susan said as Mrs. Murphy and Tucker greeted him with a chorus of purrs and yips.
“Hi, Susan. Good afternoon, Mrs. Murphy. And to you, too, Tee Tucker.” Dr. Johnson reached down to pet Harry’s buddies. “Where are you ladies headed?”
“We’re just trotting up to Crozet Pizza for subs. Thanks for holding down the fort.”
“My pleasure, as always. Have a good lunch,” the retired doctor called after them.
Harry, Susan, Mrs. Murphy, and Tucker strolled down the shimmering sidewalk. The heat felt like a thick, moist wall. They waved at Market and Courtney Shiflett, working in the grocery store. Pewter, Market’s chubby gray cat, indulged in a flagrant display of her private parts right there in the front window. On seeing Mrs. Murphy and Tucker, she said hello. They called back to her and walked on.
“I can’t believe she’s let herself go to pot like that,” Mrs. Murphy whispered to Tucker. “All those meat tidbits Market feeds her. Girl has no restraint.”
“Doesn’t get much exercise either. Not like you.”
Mrs. Murphy accepted the compliment. She had kept her figure just in case the right tom came along. Everyone, including Tucker, thought she was still in love with her first husband, Paddy, but Mrs. Murphy was certain she was over him. Over in capital letters. Paddy wore a tuxedo, oozed charm, and resented any accusation of usefulness. Worse, he ran off with a silver Maine coon cat and then had the nerve to come back thinking Mrs. Murphy would be glad to see him after the escapade. Not only was she not glad, she nearly scratched his eye out. Paddy sported a scar over his left eye from the fight.
Harry and Susan ordered huge subs at Crozet Pizza. They stayed inside to eat them, luxuriating in the air conditioning. Mrs. Murphy sat in a chair and Tucker rested under Harry’s chair.
Harry bit into her sandwich and half the filling shot out the other end. “Damn.”
“That’s the purpose of a submarine sandwich. To make us look foolish.” Susan giggled.
Maude Bly Modena came in at that moment. She started to walk over to takeout, then saw Harry and Susan. She ambled over for a polite exchange. “Use a knife and fork. What’d you do to your hands?”
“I was cleaning stamps.”
“I, for one, don’t care if my first class is blurred. Better than having you look like Lady
Macbeth.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Harry replied.
“I’d stay and chew the fat, ladies, but I’ve got to get back to the shop.”
Maude Bly Modena had moved to Crozet from New York five years ago. She opened a packing store—cartons, plastic peanuts, papers, the works—and the store was a smash. An old railroad lorry sat in the front yard and she would put floral displays and the daily store discounts on the lorry. She knew how to attract customers and she herself was attractive, in her late thirties. At Christmastime there were lines to get into her store. She was a sharp businesswomen and friendly, to boot, which was a necessity in these parts. In time the residents forgave her that unfortunate accent.
Maude waved goodbye as she passed the picture window. Harry and Susan waved in return.
“I keep thinking Maude will find Mr. Right. She’s so attractive.”
“Mr. Wrong’s more like it.”
“Sour grapes.”
“Am I like that, Susan? I hope not. I mean, I could rattle off the names of bitter divorced women and we’d be here all afternoon. I don’t want to join that club.”
Susan patted Harry’s hand. “You’re too sensitive, as I’ve said before. You’ll cycle through all kinds of emotions. For lack of a better term, sour grapes is one of them. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
Harry squirmed in her seat. “I feel as if there’s no coating on my nerve endings.” She settled in her chair. “You’re right about Maude. She’s got a lot going for her. There ought to be someone out there for her. Someone who would appreciate her—and her business success too.”
Susan’s eyes danced. “Maybe she’s got a lover.”
“No way. You can’t burp in your kitchen but what everyone knows it. No way.” Harry shook her head.
“I wonder.” Susan poured herself more Tab. “Remember Terrance Newton? We all thought we knew Terrance.”
Harry thought about that. “Well, we were teenagers. I mean, if we had been adults, maybe we’d have picked up on something. The vibes.”
“An insurance executive we all know goes home, shoots his wife and himself. My recollection is the adults were shocked. No one picked up on anything. If you can keep up your facade, people accept that. Very few people look beneath the surface.”
Wish You Were Here (Mrs. Murphy Mysteries) Page 2
