He folded his arms over his chest. “Harry, I’m not going back there until Frank’s killer is found.”
“I can understand that. This does seem to be about that development. Deputy Cooper, my friend Susan Tucker, and myself went down to the county offices and traced back chain of title. Legal.”
His eyes opened wider. “That’s what Frank meant by chains!”
“We think so, but we can’t find anything.”
“Ma’am, I trust Frank. I don’t know squat about this sort of thing, but I do know this: When there’s a lot of money on the line, life is cheap.”
“You mean like the tax credits, the historic tax credits.”
“I don’t know about that either. Today was the first time I ever heard of that. Sounds like a good idea, and I bet Frank knew something about it. What does it mean, these credits?”
“Well, in North Carolina, for example, they used to have a program, maybe they still do, where if you bought a dilapidated historic house and revitalized it according to historical records, you received tax credits, so ultimately you saved a bundle of money. Many states have variations of that, Virginia being one. But if you can prove the background of a place, you keep much of it intact or preserve some of it, the federal and state government will again give credit and also money, real money. Marshall gets millions in tax credits.”
He whistled. “Millions. So these murdered men, the history professor and Frank, might have known something to ruin that?”
“We’ve checked everything and everything is aboveboard and legal, the property transfers, all the historical research done on Continental Estates, all properly done. And there’s also the fact that Marshall and Paul studied with Ginger and loved him. It seems unlikely that either one, and I expect Paul has benefited as well as the paving contractor, would kill Ginger.”
“Millions of dollars seem like a powerful motive to me.”
—
Driving back from dropping off Snoop, Harry checked in with her husband. Fair was enjoying the conference, happy to see colleagues and even a few people who were at Auburn when he was. He rattled on about how high-tech veterinary medicine is now and he had to run to catch up. She told him everyone felt that way. He also said Denver was as great as he remembered and he even had a little time to tour the state house.
Pressing the phone’s off button, she considered how good it was to be married to a man who wanted to learn and who loved what he did. They were both lucky that way.
It was three o’clock as she turned on the two-lane highway to the farm, then abruptly turned around. She called ahead to Trudy and then she looked out for anyone from the sheriff’s department because she was speeding.
Parking in the driveway, Harry sprinted to the door.
Opening it, Trudy couldn’t help but notice Harry’s flushed face. “Are you all right?”
“Trudy, forgive me. Remember our dinner at Reverend Jones’s?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you remember Ginger speaking about a professor, a don, I don’t know, a research person at Cambridge who was going to call him before his golf round the next day?”
“Yes.”
“Did that person call?”
“Oh, yes. Ginger took the call in his office and later he came out smiling like the Cheshire cat.”
“Did he tell you what it was about?”
“No, Ginger was on the phone so long he was afraid he’d be late for his tee time. He hurried out of here.”
“Again, forgive me, do you have that person’s number?”
“Let’s look. I know where he would keep it.”
They hurried into the office, late-afternoon light flooding the room. Trudy pulled an old Rolodex from the deep drawer.
“He liked this best. Never put numbers on his computer or his phone. Ginger always said, ‘What do you do when the power goes out or the battery dies?’ ” She smiled.
“Do you know the person’s name?”
“No, we can figure it out. I know how his mind worked. He would have this under three categories: the person’s name, Cambridge, and the research itself, which I would assume would be either under The Barracks or something close by.” She flipped first to CAMBRIDGE, where a list of names, neatly written, were listed in alphabetical order, fortunately with the project behind it. “This has to be the one.”
“A woman?” Harry exclaimed, as her vision of Cambridge was crusty dons in flowing robes teaching hard-partying male toffs.
“Harry, Ginger would want you to know some of the best academic work in England is being done by women, many of them young. The world has changed, well, North America and Europe. I don’t know about the rest of it.”
“Brazil, Argentina, for starters. Women presidents.”
Trudy smiled. “Sooner or later I expect we’ll catch up, but here she is, Sarah Lincoln.”
Harry scribbled down the number. “Let me hurry home and call her. I just might make it because it’s nine-thirty there. Hopefully this second number is the home number.”
“Don’t wait until tomorrow.” Trudy grasped the significance of this as well as the danger, which Harry ignored. “Call her from here.”
Harry dialed 011, then the number. Waited. To her joy, a lovely voice answered the call. “Hello, Sarah here.”
“Miss Lincoln, forgive me for calling you in the evening. I am Harry Haristeen, a friend of the late Professor Greg McConnell.”
A sharp intake of breath told Harry that Sarah didn’t know Ginger was dead. “Oh, no. Oh, I am so very sorry. He was so helpful to me in my work on Lord Cornwallis, and I even had the good fortune to meet him when he was visiting Cambridge. I am so sorry.”
“We all are, Miss Lincoln. It was a profound shock. And recent, so his obituary will most likely be in next month’s various academic publications. It’s probably on the Internet, too, but let me tell you why I am calling. This will further upset you. He was murdered.”
“What! I can’t believe it.”
“We can’t either, but I’m wondering if you can help me. I’m looking into some of the professor’s research when he died.”
“Of course, anything.” The young woman was terribly upset.
“You called him on Saturday morning, April eleventh. Do you recall the conversation?”
“Vividly. In my work over the last few years I have discovered many Loyalists who returned to England, some of whom flourished, some not.”
“Were any of these families from Albemarle County?”
“Yes, there were a few fearing increased hostility and even violence, as Albemarle was considered one of the hotbeds of sedition. One of these men had connections to Lord Cornwallis through his wife. She died early in 1779. Cornwallis had rushed back to England to be with her. It was a true love match. Peter Ashcombe, the Loyalist related to Lady Cornwallis, gave the general some trinkets from his wife’s childhood. He appears to have been a decent man, Ashcombe, and he left behind thousands of acres under care of a farm manager.”
“And it was this that Professor McConnell was interested in?”
“Yes, and it is a great curiosity. You see the bill of sale, I assume it’s called that there, but the purchase of those thousands of acres was made, according to Professor McConnell, on February first, 1782. A Mr. Garth purchased Peter Ashcombe’s land for twenty thousand pounds.”
“Yes, he did. I’ve seen the sale papers and the subsequent deed in the records at the county offices here.”
“But Peter Ashcombe had died January twenty-second, 1782,” said Sarah. “Sailing the North Atlantic in winter takes longer than in summer, and even then you must figure two or three weeks.”
This time it was Harry’s turn to sharply breathe in. “Miss Lincoln, this is almost as much of a shock as Professor McConnell’s death.”
“I doubt a man can sell property from the grave, and Ashcombe had no heirs.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much. When we get to the bottom of this, either myself or Mrs.
McConnell will call you.”
“I’m glad to be helpful. He was one of the most delightful men I have ever met.” Then she added with a light laugh, “It was hard to believe he was a professor.”
After bidding goodbye, Harry turned to Trudy. She had heard most of it, but to be certain, Harry repeated the dates.
Trudy’s face flushed for a moment. “My God. But why kill Ginger?”
“If Ginger told Marshall, Paul, or Rudy, I would narrow it down to those three. A lot of money could be lost, and as Continental Estates is owned by Marshall’s company, well—”
Trudy protested in disbelief. “But it’s been centuries.”
“Has, but think, Trudy. Who really owns the Ashcombe land? Probably the state of Virginia, once this all comes out.”
—
Harry hopped in the truck, heading back to the farm, calling Cooper on the way. She didn’t like talking and driving, but she felt she had abused Trudy’s hospitality enough. Best to call Coop from her cell.
After telling her everything, Harry added, “You’re almost off duty. Stop by. Maybe we can figure this out.”
“Be there.”
As Harry pulled up to the barn, out rushed Tucker.
“There’s an intruder in the hayloft!”
Bending over, Harry smiled. “You’re excited.”
Poor Tucker did all she could. She’d run a few paces ahead, stop, turn, bark, but her warnings were useless.
When Harry walked into the barn, the cats in the hayloft leaned over. “Run!”
“Aren’t you two the busybodies?”
“She is abysmally stupid,” Pewter wailed.
Harry walked to a hanging tack hook by the corner of the tack room, slipped halters over her shoulder, when she heard a creak. Looking up, she saw the barrel of a gun pointing right at her.
“Harry, I’m sorry to do this,” Marshall Reese apologized. “I like you. I’ve always liked you.”
Keeping calm, Harry replaced the halters with which she would have led the horses back in. She was glad they were out in their paddocks just in case he started shooting wild. She put her hands on the ladder, began climbing up. Harry was nothing if not brave. She also bet on Marshall’s desire for her information. More important, even, who did she tell?
“Let’s talk about this,” said Harry. “You don’t know what I know.”
Keeping the gun level on her, his curiosity aroused, Marshall warned, “You know enough.”
“I know you killed Ginger and Frank. Is that the gun that killed Ginger? Is three the charm?”
In a way, Marshall admired her. “You’re cheeky, you know that? Why tell you about the gun? It’s unregistered, I’ll tell you that.”
Mrs. Murphy edged closer to his left leg. “Pewter, take the right. Don’t do anything yet.”
While poor Tucker howled in the center aisle, Pewter did as she was told without argument.
Harry took a small step toward Marshall. He stepped back. “Ginger told you about his phone call from Sarah Lincoln of Cambridge, didn’t he?” she asked.
“He did. I had to act quickly before he released his research. I told him this could cost me untold millions. I would have to stop the project, spend years in court with the state while the homes disintegrated without proper care. Millions. And that’s not counting the historic tax credits.”
“Did you tell Ginger this?”
“I did.” As Harry had stepped toward him again, he stepped back. “Don’t push, Harry. I will shoot.”
“I know you will, but you want to know what I know, don’t you? Or who I’ve told? I mean, how many people can you kill?”
“As many as I have to kill. But I told Ginger, and he said all would be well. The state would drop it. They might after I shelled out millions, if they didn’t drag me through court. It’s not like I’m a criminal. I didn’t know. No one knew, but when Ginger found out when Peter Ashcombe died, he would have to write about it. He was a historian. It makes a great story about those days, but the man had no business sense at all. None. He would have ruined me.”
“Do Paul and Rudy know?”
“Nothing. The fewer people who know, the better.”
“Which means you need to know who I have spoken to because one of them will tell.” Taking another step forward, she was guiding him bit by bit back to Matilda, who watched the entire drama with great interest.
Matilda tolerated the opossum, ignored the cats, tolerated Harry because she put out food to help her in early spring. But one human was the limit. Matilda curled up, ready to strike.
“Well, who did you tell?” asked Marshall.
“Put down the gun and we can discuss it.”
“Harry, I’m not a fool. I’m not putting down the gun.”
She shrugged as though this was of no account. “All right, then. You killed Ginger. You killed Frank. Killing Ginger, thanks to the woods at the country club, all the people playing golf that day, was pretty easy especially since you’re a cool customer.”
“Thank you for that.” He kept the gun leveled at her.
“And I figure you probably lured Frank with some kind of promise.”
“Jim Beam.” He smirked as he mentioned the brand of bourbon. “Too easy, really.”
“But exactly how did you bury him under the tree?”
“Killing Frank was the easy part. Burying him was hard. Remember all the Band-Aids and the gauze on my palm? From burying Frank. First I had to dig up the tree which, although newly planted, took a lot of effort. Then I had to fold him up and tie him up. Otherwise, a rectangle would have been noticeable. So I pulled the tree out, dug deep as I could so I could put the tree back. Fortunately, he was pliable. No rigor mortis. Tied him up, dropped him down, put the tree back, covered it all up. Even though I wore gloves”—he sighed—“it tore my hands to hell. And you know that would have been the healthiest tree in the line. Nothing like good compost.” He laughed. “Your damn dog and cats figured it out. Never underestimate the olfactory powers of dogs or I guess cats. So you see you’ve been a thorn in my side one way or another.”
“Still am. You need to know if I’ve told Coop or my husband or anyone. If you put the gun down, we can discuss it.”
“Harry,” he replied with some disbelief, “I can blow a hole through you. You do what I say.”
“It’s kind of like offense versus defense, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Nelson Yarbrough says that defense men are spoilers. They have to get whipped up, especially in the locker room. The offense can stay quiet and calm.”
“What does that have to do with this?”
She took another step. He moved within Matilda’s striking range. Matilda eyed the two cats, then returned her concentration on the man’s leg moving closer.
“But I’m offense,” she said. “I have the ball, so to speak. I have the information. You want it. Offense versus defense.” Harry spoke as though they were chatting in her kitchen, anywhere but here with a gun pointed at her. She figured if she was going to die she wasn’t going to be a ninny about it. She took one more step toward him.
“Stop right there.” He was right in front of Matilda’s hay bale with his left foot.
“Now!” Mrs. Murphy commanded.
Each cat clawed a leg, which made Marshall step back again. Matilda struck, sinking those long curved fangs into his right calf.
Screaming, Marshall lurched forward, gun firing into the air. Matilda wasn’t finished yet. She sank those fangs as deeply as she could while the cats shredded his pants and then his legs.
Finally released by Matilda, Marshall stumbled forward. The snake slithered back into her home.
Emboldened by Marshall’s scream, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter chomped their fangs deeper into each leg. He ran a few steps, cats hanging on, then tottered, falling over the edge of the hayloft onto the aisle below. Below, his gun clattered across the concrete surface.
Harry looked over, then slid down the ladder, hands
and feet on the outside. She didn’t waste time on the rungs. The cats climbed down on the rungs. Tucker growled in Marshall’s face, ready to tear him apart.
Harry picked up the gun first thing, then turned to Marshall. From the angle of his head, she knew he was dead. He’d broken his neck.
Cooper pulled up in the driveway. Harry ran outside, gun in hand. Cooper jumped out of the car, saw the gun, looked at Harry, and sped inside the barn.
Kneeling down over Marshall, she felt for a pulse. “Dead.”
“Good,” Harry succinctly replied.
“I did it.” Pewter puffed up.
“We both did,” Mrs. Murphy corrected her.
“He’s lucky I couldn’t get to him.” Tucker regretted not being able to inflict damage.
Harry suddenly felt the gun in her hand; she hadn’t been paying attention to it. She turned it around, handing the butt end to Cooper.
“You could have been killed.” Cooper was a bit shaken herself.
“But I wasn’t. I have two cats and a snake to thank for that. Coop, while you call the department, let me tell you what happened. By the time the other officers get here, you’ll have the whole story.”
“First, did he act alone?”
“He did, and it was all about greed.”
“One of the good old seven deadly sins.” Cooper stared at the sprawled figure who seemed to have had everything except morals.
“In this case very deadly,” Harry agreed.
February 1, 1782
Walking in wagon ruts and a foot and a half of snow, Charles was in front. Piglet trailed behind. Finally, he reached what Charles hoped would be some sort of refuge.
Pushing through the snow, he arrived at the shoveled-out meandering walk to Ewing Garth’s imposing house. Shivering in the pale morning light, he climbed the front stairs, lifted the shiny brass pineapple knocker, and rapped loudly three times.
The butler, Roger, answered. Looking at Charles, Roger paused, his mouth dropping open.
“Pardon my appearance. May I speak to Mr. Garth?”
“I…I, come in, Sir. You’ll freeze to death out there.” The elegant older man saw Piglet. “The dog, too, Sir.”
Charles stood in the hallway, the warmth heaven-sent. Roger stared at his wrapped boots, the paper and cloth worn, too, and the rags wrapped around his hands.
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