Tall Tail

by Rita Mae Brown

  “The wagonmaker?”

  “Yes. He would like me to help him. He feels I can, as I had to move heavy cannon over bad roads, onto fields. Said I would.”

  “Now, don’t you go giving away the store, Bartholomew.” Mary used his full Christian name. “You are too generous. Too generous by far.”

  He waved his hand. “He will pay, dear.”

  “What you are worth, I hope. I can’t run a house on a pittance. We could use some help, and, my dear, you need a horse. Such would help on the burden of this house.”

  Smiling, for he heard this refrain often, he said, “A house. You deserve a castle. You deserve servants in livery and a coach-in-four with matched horses and jewels.” He ran his fingers down her cleavage, as she wore a lower-cut dress, given the weather. “Jewels that will rest on your natural jewels.”

  Mary took his finger and lightly bit it. “You are no good, Bartholomew. I knew it the minute I looked at you. I said to myself, ‘There is a no-good man, but, oh, there’s something about him.’ And here I am. Married to the same.” She laughed, then turned to tend her oven.

  All the windows and doors were open to let the heat escape. Unlike Virginia, these Pennsylvania homes did not have summer kitchens. While the heat came up in the summer, it didn’t last as it did in Virginia, and fall skidded in earlier, a perfect fall with robin’s-egg-blue skies, Canada geese flying overhead, fields waiting to be harvested. York County was rich in soil and water, and was stirring with industrious people. Walking through town, one could hear the hammer of blacksmiths, the rumbling of wagons, the shops making all manner of goods.

  “What’s for supper, love?”

  “Shepherd’s pie. Oh, I know it’s a bit early for shepherd’s pie, but I just felt like it. Won’t be long.” She brushed back a stray hazel tendril.

  He took the letter from his pocket. “From Captain West. Peter Studebaker was given it by a drover when Peter was in Littlestown.”

  The two men kept up a leisurely correspondence, both being former officers in the Crown’s army and choosing to live in the former colonies. The colonials rarely used the post except for business. First, it was slow. Second, it was expensive. Two sheets of paper might cost twenty-five cents, and the recipient had to pay. So letters were often passed along hand to hand. But West and Graves, Europeans, used letters to catch up with each other. Each man observed these “new” people with interest. Unlike the “new” people, they did not consider personal mail a luxury. They considered it civilized.

  Bartholomew sat down to read. He didn’t need spectacles, quite unusual. “Mary, he says all is well. Ewing Garth bought more land west of his current estate. The orchard is thriving. The hard winter seems to have helped this. He doesn’t know why. He has accepted a commission to design a Lutheran church, to be called St. Luke’s—”

  Mary interrupted. “Are there many Germans there?”

  He nodded. “Not as many as here. A few Swedes and Italians. Like here, my dear, so many Italians who fought for King George escaped from the prisoner-of-war camp.”

  “Truthfully, the guards at Camp Security here looked the other way,” Mary said. “My father said we needed men to work since so many were in the army. I hope never to see such times again.”

  “God willing, you won’t, my dear.” Bartholomew looked up from his letter and smiled. “He also writes that John and Catherine are well. His Rachel is radiant. No children yet, and Ewing is becoming fretful.” Bartholomew laughed loudly. “Such things take time and skill.”

  “I’m going to pray for you,” Mary teased.

  “No, dear, pray for them.” He laughed uproariously again, then returned to the letter. “Charles writes that there has been some exceptional brutality on a nearby estate regarding slaves. He says the longer he sees this institution the more he feels it is wrong, even though the Bible condones it.” Bartholomew looked up at Mary. “I don’t know what’s worse, being a slave or being an indentured servant.” He sighed. “I rather think this will resolve itself. Hellam Township has seven slaves and more indentured servants. I have no idea how many such people work in York County, but, Mary, the day will come when we visit Virginia. It’s different.”

  “Because of slavery?”

  “Different in many ways. A few very rich planters control the state.”

  “Well, let us not forget those very rich merchants in Philadelphia.”

  He smiled at her. “Quite. I think it will always be a few at the top, some in the middle, and the rest below, but I see this home you have brought to life. I see glass in the windows, a hearth with a good draw, fancy, a feather bed. I think we live quite well.”

  Mary came over and kissed her husband’s cheek. “You see to that, Barth. I knew when I looked at you that you were a man who would succeed.”

  “I thought you said I was trouble,” Bartholomew teased. “And do you know what I thought when I first saw you? There’s a colleen worth fighting for! And there’s a girl of strong opinion!”

  “You like the strong opinion?”

  He shrugged. “I had no choice.”

  She swatted at him with a clean wooden spoon. “I ought to crack you wicked hard.”

  “I am never bored. And I am well aware that you with your rosy cheeks, your heavenly bosom, your full figure, you could have won any heart you wished. But you accepted me, a captured fellow, a man fifteen years your senior, gray amidst the black hair, in my mustache, even, you picked me.”

  Mary pursed her lips, as if she’d just made a practical decision. “You actually listened to what I had to say. Father and Mother were worried, of course.” She walked back to the stove. “All that’s behind us now.”

  “Are you happy, love?”

  She turned to look at him. “I am the happiest woman in York County.”

  “Then I am content.”

  Tuesday, July 19, 2016

  At eleven o’clock in the morning, the mercury read eighty-one degrees. With seventy-five percent humidity, cloud cover blocked the sun. Accustomed to working outside in all weather, Harry paid no heed to the drizzle turning into a light rain. Chores finished, she ducked into the house, changed her shirt, did not change her jeans.

  “Where are you going?” Tucker followed her. “You’ve that got ‘I’m going somewhere’ air.”

  She swapped her wet baseball cap for a dry one, tucking her hair into it as best she could. Harry, like most women, moved through hairstyles. In high school she wore her hair shoulder length, tied into a ponytail at the nape of her neck when playing volleyball, softball, basketball, whatever was in season, plus riding at home. In college, she went through the buzzed-hair phase and thankfully got through it. Over the years, she moaned and groaned along with Susan and her girlfriends about what to do with their hair. Do you spend a fortune at the beauty parlor? Do you go for flash or convenience? These days, it seemed even the area’s two dedicated bombshells, BoomBoom Craycroft and Alicia Palmer, elected convenience. However, one must realize convenience does not preclude coloring because Susan pitched a fit about the ever-increasing gray hair. Harry, with a touch of gray, refused to color her hair. Her rationale was she could buy bags of good alfalfa for the price of one color job. So Harry kept her hair in what used to be called a short pageboy. It was straight as a stick, so the cut worked. While it pained her, she spent money on a good haircut.

  Tucker watched as her beloved human fussed for all of ten minutes, smacked on a touch of light lipstick, walked through the house.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Pewter asked.

  “I don’t know, but we’re going.” Tucker quickly thought to zoom to the car, sit by the door.

  “If you’re going, I’m going.” The fat cat stretched, then followed Tucker, not that she would admit affection for the dog.

  Asleep on the counter, the tiger cat roused herself and leapt down. Now three furry creatures trailed Harry until Tucker charged ahead.

  “Oh, she pulls that every time.” Pewter sniffed. “You know,
the panting, eager, I-can’t-live-without-you look. Please, have some self-respect. I prefer proper deportment.”

  “Of course you do.” Mrs. Murphy’s voice carried a hint of humor.

  Mrs. Murphy knew that oh-so-proper deportment could fly out the window in a skinny minute. Harsh words would be uttered, claws unleashed, and more than occasionally, a bloody nose followed. No matter what, fur flew.

  The light rain didn’t provoke a run, but Harry walked briskly. Looking down at the three musketeers, she opened the cargo door of her Volvo station wagon and they jumped in.

  Once behind the wheel, she turned on the motor, checked the dash should any vital signs be amiss, then read her mileage: “198,762. You know, gang, soon time for a new car. This isn’t even that old, but boy, do we rack up the miles.”

  “Your truck is from 1978,” Tucker reminded her, which was decades and decades before his birth.

  Harry’s father had bought it when she was just four years old. She babied that truck; she used it hard, but she still babied it. She replaced hoses long before they wore out. Years ago, she had the entire engine dismantled and cleaned. She was beside herself with joy. Early this spring, she had the silver-and-blue truck painted. People, almost always men, constantly tried to buy that truck from her. Why would Harry part with a truck that wasn’t controlled by computer chips, that used manual transmission, and, best of all, that when she cut on the motor the satisfying burble of a powerful V-8 engine sang to her?

  The Volvo did not sing to her when she turned it on, but being a station wagon and well built, she learned to appreciate its good qualities and she learned to drive by computer chip. Not that she liked it.

  The animals enjoyed the Volvo because they had beds in the back and they could see well out of the cargo window. And with a half leap, all three could move up into the second row of seats or even the first. Mrs. Murphy, in particular, wished to help Harry drive. Human eyes left a lot to be desired, but then they couldn’t help it. The tiger cat believed she helped ensure safety.

  Harry remembered what her father had told her about rain: The roads are more dangerous when the rain begins. She drove accordingly, reaching the Ivy post office in twenty minutes.

  Cracking the windows a bit, she hopped out, pushed the door open to the narrow post office service counter at the end. The post office boxes were on her right as she walked down. The metal boxes filled the wall, which was maybe eight feet high and twelve to fourteen feet long. It was a small post office, so not too many post boxes.

  It reminded her of her old post office in Crozet. She became the Crozet postmistress right out of Smith College after the postmaster, George Hogendobber, died and people were desperate for someone to run the old country office. Harry took the job, no other prospects at the time, figuring it would be temporary. George’s widow, wise and kind Miranda, helped her enormously. Ten years later, Harry still sorted mail, pushed the carts with the cats in them, spoke with everyone who came into the post office, which was to say all of Crozet.

  But times change. New people moved in, their houses with granite countertops and controlled lighting. People of some means, mostly quite nice but demanding. A little country post office would never do. Plus, Harry ran out of post boxes, had a waiting list that stretched into next week.

  The federal government built a new, large, gleaming post office. The job of running it was offered to Harry but with an appalling list of restrictions, including not being able to bring Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker to work. She declined, but she did miss the daily contact. She also missed hearing the old uneven wooden floors creak, the sound of a metal box opening from the outside, requests for the prettiest stamps, especially ones featuring flowers, birds, or historical sites. Stamps had become little works of art during her tenure. She still loved looking at them.

  All gone. Well, not the stamps, but the wonderful feeling of being crowded into an old building hard by the railroad, where before her time the mail sack hung on a large hook, the arriving mail tossed onto the siding.

  The Ivy post office was not nearly as charming or old as her old post office, but it had a nice young fellow as postmaster. Harry liked to stop in and catch up on the news among her old colleagues throughout the area.

  “James!” she called, as he wasn’t up front.

  “Be right there.”

  And he was. “Harry, what’s new?”

  “Good hay crop, sunflowers look good.”

  “So far, a good year.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Okay. I was so sorry to hear about Barbara Leader dying in that car accident. All of Ivy”—he mentioned the little crossroads—“everyone’s in shock.”

  The Leaders owned a pretty house on the south side of Route 250 not far from the post office. They were regulars at the post office; at Duner’s, the restaurant; and at Ivy Family Chiropractic, where both Barbara and her husband got the kinks out.

  “Me, too. She was a year behind me in high school. Isn’t it funny how you know more kids older than you or in your class than younger?”

  “Because they boss you around. I was so glad when I became a senior. I thought I’d boss around people, but I was too busy.” He laughed at himself, then pulled out a sheet of drawings. “Look what stamps are planned for next year. I know how you like stamps.”

  Harry examined the ones drawn from nature. “I liked the songbirds issued in 2014. The color was extraordinary and maybe people learned something about goldfinches, painted buntings. I like color.”

  “Me, too. Did you ever pick a favorite?”

  “Yes. Martin Johnson Heade’s painting from the American Treasures series.”

  “Remind me.”

  “Giant Magnolias on a Blue Velvet Cloth, circa 1890. My all-time favorite. Oops, here comes a customer. Good to see you. When you have a minute, look up the stamp on your computer.”

  “Will do. Good to see you, too.” He greeted a lady wearing Bermuda shorts. “What can I do for you?”

  As she pushed a small package onto the counter, Harry returned to the parking lot, turned on the motor, air-conditioning filling the interior immediately. She sat there for a minute, but before she backed out, Cooper, in a patrol car, pulled into a spot in front of the store next to the post office. This little place carried such healthy hanging baskets, small shrubs in pots, a wide variety for such a small place.

  Harry left her Volvo running, no worries about theft, and sprinted through the rain over to Cooper.

  “Coop.”

  “Get out of the rain.”

  “I can sit with you or you can sit with me. I have the kids.”

  “I’ll sit with you for a minute, but I need a drink. Want one?”

  “No, I’ve got my little cooler in the car as always. I can give you one of those carbonated grapefruit drinks.”

  “I’ll take it.” Cooper got out of the squad car, locked it, followed Harry back to the station wagon.

  “Coop!” All three animals greeted her.

  She turned and smiled. She wanted a dog, but her hours were just terrible. Wouldn’t be fair to the dog. Harry handed her the grapefruit drink, Pompelmo, made by Sanpellegrino.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Oh, a complaint. Some new people who bought near Verulam woke up to see cattle in one of their fields. The wife wanted me to get them out of there before they destroyed her hydrangeas. I said, ‘Ma’am, your hydrangeas are up here at the house.’

  “She then complained that I wasn’t taking her problem seriously.” Coop was still feeling the anger. “I handed her my card, pointed out the HQ number, and suggested she call if she was unsatisfied. She blinked, surprised, I think, then said was I going to get the cattle out of her pasture? I replied with the greatest pleasure that no, I was not. She needed to call Animal Control.”

  “Good for you, Coop. You’re not a hired farm worker.” She paused, then shifted gears. “Been thinking about Barbara Leader. I know you’ve been checking out hospital
records and doctors’ records concerning thallium chloride. I’m assuming since you haven’t told me anything you haven’t found anything unusual.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I keep coming back to what did she know?” Harry seemed to be deep in thought. “Something about a doctor, another nurse, a hospital administrator. Any of those people could steal drugs and use or sell them, and obviously they wouldn’t be using thallium chloride. It would be one of the opiates.”

  Cooper looked at Harry. “Right.”

  “Maybe Barbara knew something about another patient, like Governor Holloway, for instance.”

  Cooper said, “We thought of that. So far nothing. Politicians of Governor Holloway’s time, their secrets almost always involved extramarital affairs or booze or both. We’ve investigated his past and that of a few of Barbara’s other patients who were high-profile doctors or businessmen. They all drank. It was a big part of the culture, but no one was a raging alcoholic. As for affairs, they indulged, but Governor Holloway did not, or if he did, not a hint of it.”

  “It appears that once he married Penny he had no interest in other women,” said Harry. “Millicent would have sniffed that out. Susan’s mother can’t keep a secret.”

  “It’s not usually a daughter who ferrets that secret out.” Cooper smiled. “The worst blunder that Governor Holloway appears to have made was his anti-integration stand. Aroused a lot of passion for and against at the time, and I bet there are still people who can get worked up about it. Maybe we’re too young, but I think it’s all water over the dam.”

  “For which we can be grateful. I’m glad I didn’t live through it. I mean, we aren’t out of the woods. There’s lots to be done, but not like then. It’s hard to believe people believed that stuff.”

  “Believed and screamed about it.” Cooper at that moment wanted a cigarette, which she had given up for the second time this year.

  “Anyway, why would a nurse be killed over an old segregation issue?” Harry pondered, then brightened. “Maybe this is something we’ve never dreamed of.”