Tail Gait

by Rita Mae Brown

  In the distance on this early Tuesday afternoon, the Blue Ridge Mountains stood to the west as a line of defense. In the early days, that defense held against western tribes, today it continues to somewhat defang high winds from Canada and the West. The mountains couldn’t protect anyone against the winter of 2014, when storm after undiminished snowstorm soared over the mountains, covering all below.

  Closer to the mountains, Harry’s farm afforded her a more dramatic view, but The Barracks Stud view was longer, and today the mountains dazzled, almost royal blue against a robin’s-egg-blue sky. She climbed back in the truck, where her three friends patiently waited. Well, two patiently waited.

  Pewter had much on her mind. “If she lets us out, we can run into the indoor arena. Sometimes there are birds in there.” Her lips parted slightly.

  Barracks Stud and The Barracks were owned and run by Tom and Claiborne Bishop. The Stud, a small breeding operation, blended nicely with what was now called The Barracks, referring to a large indoor arena, stalls next to same.

  Pastures, fencing, and outbuildings completed the well-run equine operation, all of it on the former prisoner-of-war camp. The camp had been dismantled more than one hundred and fifty years ago.

  The historical buildings, grave sites, and service building were long gone by the time Tom and Claiborne purchased the rolling meadows in the 1970s.

  Driving down to the office attached to the stable and the indoor arena, she parked the truck, jumped out, and opened the door for her friends. Tucker, lifted down, scampered after the two cats, who shot for the arena.

  “Harry.”

  “Claiborne, thanks for letting me come over and poke around.”

  Claiborne smiled. “Well, you’re not the first, you’re just the one I know best.”

  “Before going through Ginger McConnell’s papers, I had no idea how big this place was when it was a prisoner-of-war camp.”

  “Not a trace of it left, really. Ginger would come here a lot. I can’t believe he’s gone. He would point things out to me and Tom”—she mentioned her husband—“and he’d make it all come to life. Me, I look out and see a pasture that needs overseeding, yearlings that need to be brought in, potholes in the driveway.” She laughed.

  “That’s why you’re the best at what you do.” Harry had known Claiborne for years, and her late mother as well, a lady of graciousness.

  “If you need anything, holler,” the tall, good-looking Claiborne offered. Claiborne was one of those women confident enough that when her black hair turned gray she didn’t color it. The gray actually was stunning.

  “I will. Thank you again.”

  While liking history, Harry missed much, as did most people when only the highlights and battles were taught. It occurred to her even then that whoever wins a war writes the history books. But the battle at Saratoga was critical, not just for the colonists’ victory, but for lifting their spirits. The mighty British war machine, its powerful ships in our harbors, had landed its troops without issue. We’d lost New York and Philadelphia, severe blows. Again, Ginger had returned to this battle and its aftermath, a period he wrote about when he was young.

  She had no idea that about four thousand prisoners shifted to Charlottesville in 1779, marching all the way from Boston. They’d been held in Cambridge since the Battle of Saratoga. Prisoners of war were not usually studied in high school, nor in college, but how those men were treated says a great deal about the capturing army. As she read, she felt sorry for the British and Hessians. The terms of their surrender, called the Terms of Convention, had fizzled. Instead of being paroled or sent back to England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland, the poor fellows were stranded in America. King George would not ratify the arrangement.

  When the attitude of the Crown became unpleasantly clear, the congress—sitting in York, Pennsylvania, as it was far safer there than elsewhere—revoked the terms of the Saratoga surrender, the Convention. More or less tit for tat, but, to the congressmen’s credit, they made their position as clear as the Crown’s. It was not a happy situation.

  The Albemarle Barracks found itself overwhelmed even as the county’s population realized profit. She’d read personal journals; there were quite a few. The number of prisoners was so great the British had had to be divided. More than a thousand men marched up to York itself in 1781 to live in Camp Security, as a boon to the merchants in that beautiful area. Possibly congress pushed this along as a reward for York’s hosting the congress. Should the war be lost, the residents of York and York County would pay dearly for this, as would the residents of Albemarle County.

  —

  A fat gray cat thundered past, followed by Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. Pewter made a U-turn, blew by them, and dashed into the stables again, turning left toward the arena where she had begun her race.

  “Harry, if that cat gets any bigger, throw some tack on her,” Claiborne suggested.

  Harry threw up her hands, laughed with her, and decided it best to follow her pet. She hurried into the stables. One of the stable girls just pointed like a traffic cop. Harry trotted in that direction. Stepping into the huge indoor arena, Harry couldn’t see the cats and dog, but she heard them thundering on the raised viewing section, the lower arena to her right.

  “You’ll never catch me!” Pewter squealed.

  Tucker didn’t answer, trying to catch up.

  Mrs. Murphy, now next to Pewter, said, “Let’s jump over her head. Turn around.”

  “Yeah!” Pewter agreed.

  The two cats skidded to a halt. Tucker was now three steps behind and moving forward. They hunched down, wiggled their bottoms to fly right over the dog’s head, then raced to the other end of the building, where the doors were slightly open to allow horses inside.

  The air, still cool, flowed through that opening. Harry, foot on the steps, nearly fell over as the cats shot between her legs and Tucker blew by her. Out the cats ran, now turning toward the cars parked by the arena and from there into the pasture. Once in the pasture, across from the large structure, they cut left, ran for all they were worth, crossed the driveway, and halted in another smaller southern pasture. Tucker caught up with them. The three sat there, breathing heavily, thrilled with themselves.

  Harry trotted alongside the road to reach them. She didn’t climb into the pasture, didn’t want to disturb the horses who didn’t know her. Her animals laughed a bit more.

  “Two legs,” Pewter simply noted.

  “Makes them unbalanced,” Mrs. Murphy added.

  Harry reached the black board fencing, leaned over on the top board. “You all are crazy. Luckily you didn’t scare the horses in the arena, but they could hear you. I think your screaming and hissing could be heard down to the Rotunda.” No one said anything. They stared at her, wondering if she was going to climb over the fence. She stood where the drive to the buildings curved and a little speed bump was perhaps twenty yards away. A new three-trunk river birch had been planted there in the line of long-established trees. Harry thought the tree lovely. The older dead tree had been removed, so this was truly brand-new. She wondered who had selected this type of tree, for birches didn’t grow well in Virginia. Being more of a northern species, they died off, especially the white-bark ones called paper birches by country people. But these dark river birches were different. The peeling bark created interesting color gradations. Harry stepped closer, keeping her feet on the edge of the mulch. Fingering a peeling piece of bark, she marveled at its texture.

  Turning back to the three still sitting there, she said, “Come on.”

  “Not yet.” Pewter sauntered in the other direction.

  “Pewter. Pewter, I could wring your neck.” Harry climbed over the fence.

  “Ha! You could never catch me, slowpoke.” Pewter ran a few steps, waited for Harry to get close, then ran again.

  “I really will kill her!” Harry muttered as Tucker and Mrs. Murphy fell into step behind her.

  “La-de-da!” Pewter continued her taunting with a
few steps forward, then sat, then took a few steps running.

  “Pewts, don’t get her in a bad mood,” Mrs. Murphy counseled.

  “She’s already in a bad mood,” Pewter meowed. “It’s a good idea to remind her every now and then how limited she is compared to me. But then everyone is limited compared to me.”

  Mrs. Murphy looked at Tucker, who returned the look with a resigned countenance. Pewter was going to milk this for all it was worth.

  Harry trudged out to the middle of the pasture, stopped, and looked northward toward the refined brick house in the distance.

  Speaking to Mrs. Murphy and Tucker, she said, “A couple of hundred acres, filled with prisoners of war. I bet if we were standing here at that time, 1779, 1780, there were barracks as far as the eye could see. Funny how their blood is still here. Those that stayed.” She sighed. “Well, human bloodlines aren’t as clear as animals’, I think. When I was a kid, Heron’s Plume lived in this pasture. About as perfect a conformation as you’d ever see.” She smiled, remembering the horse. “My mother would come and visit Mrs. Smith, Claiborne’s mother, and I remember Heron’s Plume because he’d come over to the fence and I could feed him apples. Oh, I must be getting old, taking a trip down Memory Lane.” She turned, walking back toward the fence.

  Pewter watched, then called out, “Hey. Hey, I’m still here.”

  Harry, a few tricks up her sleeve, ignored the meow.

  Tucker lifted her head. “M-m-m.”

  “Where are you going?” Mrs. Murphy stuck to Harry.

  “A most enticing fragrance.” With that, Tucker loped to the newly planted tree.

  Harry didn’t pay much attention to her dog, as Tucker frequently investigated things that were of no interest to Harry. The tiger cat and human walked toward the buildings.

  “You’re giving up. Lazy!” Pewter yelled, louder now.

  Harry kept walking. In front of her, Tucker was digging furiously at the base of the river birch.

  “Hey.” Pewter emitted a shriek, the timber of which pleased Harry.

  Harry giggled. “Two more minutes and she’ll have a hissy fit.”

  “Make that one.” Mrs. Murphy giggled too.

  Reaching the fence, Harry climbed over, then beheld Tucker tearing at the base of the new tree.

  “Tucker! Tucker, leave it!”

  With attention diverted from her game to Tucker, Pewter ran across the pasture to join the dog.

  Now there were two animals determined to dig up Claiborne’s new birch tree. Already Harry’s mind was calculating what it would cost if they ruined it.

  “Dammit.” She swore under her breath as she hurried to the spot.

  Pewter didn’t look up, but, more obedient by nature, Tucker did. She stepped back.

  Harry grabbed the dog’s collar to pull her back, Tucker’s snout covered with mulch and dirt. A sickly odor assailed Harry. It was a foul odor she recognized.

  Looking down, she saw part of a worn shoe and a glimpse of an ankle. She let go of the collar, peered intently. With the toe of her boot, she brushed off a bit more mulch and soft earth.

  No mistake, this was the foot of a sufficiently dead human.

  April 28, 2015

  Three Hours Later

  Sheriff Shaw, Deputy Cooper, and a forensic team of three stood over the emptied makeshift grave. The body, after being placed in a bag, had already been taken away. The police photographer had reached the scene just as Rick and Cooper did, and had been able to document the unearthing, paying particular attention to the positioning of the corpse. The dead person had been folded up, knees to chin, arms tied to torso, and placed on its side under the tree. It wasn’t clear if the corpse was put there as the tree was planted or later.

  When Harry discovered the foot and ran to Claiborne’s office, they both hurried back to the grisly find. Shocked, but clearheaded, Claiborne pulled out her cellphone from her jacket and called the sheriff. Harry had left her cellphone in the truck. Claiborne, a quick thinker, then called her husband, Tom, instructing him to pull and copy the records for the purchase of the river birch as well as the date it was planted.

  She and Harry then returned to the stables, where they asked everyone to remain on the premises until further instruction. As is often the case, some took this news better than others, especially those mothers who kept a tight schedule. Claiborne calmly but with authority told the ladies—it was mostly ladies—that no one could leave The Barracks until Sheriff Shaw released them. Which would likely be soon.

  Harry mentioned, “Claiborne, call Tom again and tell him what you’ve done, then post someone at the drive in. Sheriff Shaw should be here within fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  “Tom,” she hollered, and her blue-eyed husband appeared from the opposite direction, in the stables. “We’ve got to keep people out until the sheriff allows traffic, and Harry says she thinks he’ll be here in twenty minutes. Can you go down and sit at the entrance?”

  “Of course.” He hurried out to bar the road with his car.

  Once he arrived, Rick appreciated the quick thinking. He told Claiborne that everyone could leave and asked if she would mind, with Harry’s help, making a list of who was at The Barracks now, including staff. Once the body was transported from the scene, Coop came up to the office.

  “I found it!” Pewter bellowed from Claiborne’s desk, which she’d commandeered.

  “Pewter, shut up,” Mrs. Murphy ordered.

  Tom handed Cooper the paperwork for the transplanted birch. She read the company name aloud: “Huber Landscaping.”

  “They’re landscaping Marshall Reese’s development, Continental Estates, over there on the back side of The Barracks. Seemed like a good time for us to replace our tree that died,” Tom said.

  “Did you select the type of tree?” Coop flipped open her notebook as she asked Claiborne.

  “Tom did. Once I saw what he was talking about, I thought it was beautiful.” Claiborne caught herself looking out the window at the sheriff’s vehicles, then she returned her gaze to the deputy.

  “Tom, did you go to the nursery at Huber’s to pick out the tree?” Coop asked.

  “Did. We’ve known the Hubers forever. By the time I got to UVA, Paul was no longer a student. I met him when he took over his father’s business.”

  “Was Paul on the site when the tree was planted?” Coop continued.

  “No. He came the day before. Checked everything out. Had his supervisor with him, and the next day they arrived with one of those huge machines that easily excavates earth. The tree was in the ground in less than two hours. Most of the time was spent throwing the earth back on, packing it down, and staking the trunks.” Tom filled them in. “That bill is a copy for you.”

  “Thank you.” Cooper folded it, placing it inside her front pocket.

  “May I ask, do you know who was in that grave?” Claiborne, having seen the ankle, hoped she didn’t know to whom it belonged. But she did.

  “It’s Frank Cresey,” answered Coop.

  April 29, 2015

  Morning

  With her notebook flipped open, Cooper sat in Paul Huber’s office. Three of its walls were floor-to-ceiling windows so Paul could observe the activity in the nursery. One of the ways his father had figured out to build a better landscaping business was to manage the company’s own nursery. The savings passed on to the customer made for loyal customers over the decades. If Paul Huber said he was going to do something at a certain price, no matter what, storms, floods, acts of God, he did it.

  In the distance, Cooper could see a large pond filled with water lilies.

  Following her gaze, the still athletic-looking Paul said, “We can do aquatic landscaping. It’s a small market, but really a fascinating one. You’d be surprised how a landscaped pond can bring in waterfowl. People enjoy that.”

  “I think I would.” She smiled, then said, “Appreciate your seeing me on short notice.”

  Sitting opposite her by the coffee table, he re
plied, “Officer, when you called, I was shocked to hear about Frank. He’d failed spectacularly and…” Paul stopped, started again. “Frank was in the grip of something we can’t understand unless we’ve been visited by that demon. No matter what, remember he once achieved greatness. He was an All-American and UVA hasn’t had but so many. We’re not Nebraska or USC.”

  “You saw him play?”

  “Sure. All of us who lived here did. We still go to games. Only now we go with our wives, children, grandchildren.” He smiled slightly.

  “Can you think of anyone who would kill Frank?”

  Paul folded his hands together. “No.”

  “When did you last see Frank?”

  “At Ginger McConnell’s funeral. He was hiding behind the pillars of the Rotunda. He hated Ginger. Frank was never shy about expressing that, but maybe on some level he remembered the classes, remembered the old days.” Paul shrugged.

  “Olivia mentioned that Frank had studied with her father.”

  “We all did. Everyone on all the teams tried to take the same classes. It created strong bonds between us, and also we could help each other. I would never have made it through chemistry without Nelson Yarbrough. I graduated long before Frank, but I’m sure many of his teammates were in the same classes as Frank. Tradition, sticking together.”

  “Did he ever mention to you anything about Professor McConnell’s class?”

  “After graduation, by the time I had contact with Frank, he was speeding on the way down. Once or twice he did mention a historical date, so I guess he learned something.”

  “Do you think you had a good relationship with him?”

  “Well, we never exchanged harsh words. Frank wasn’t capable of friendship. He was self-centered. Other people existed to be his audience. Like I said, we never had harsh words, but I gave him odd jobs. He was an All-American, and that counts for something.”

  “When the tree was put in, were you there?”