Tall Tail

by Rita Mae Brown

  Hiram shrugged. “Selisse? Damned if I know. I thought Greek names ended in os and stuff like that.”

  “That boy Moses plumb vanished.” Potter gently put the hoof down. “Hand me that pot, will you?”

  Dennis handed the blacksmith a pot, a thinish black liquid therein. He painted it on her hoof.

  “All her shoes are off. Let me finish this here. It will toughen the frog a bit. She’s in good shape and she has good hooves, but our roads do their work.”

  The local roads were notoriously bad. Potholes, rocks, packed dirt. A few roads were corduroy, but most weren’t, and a steady rain turned everything into a quagmire. A gullywasher often took the road with it.

  “Aye.” Dennis shook his head. “We haven’t far to go and she had a nice pasture. Two days?”

  Potter nodded. “Press on her frog. If she flinches she’ll need more time, but I think she’ll be fine.”

  “All right.” Dennis looked at his boss. “I’ll walk her to the pasture. My wife will see to her and then, if you wish, we can go to Mrs. Selisse.”

  “You don’t have a horse.”

  “How fast do you want to go?” Dennis asked.

  “A walk.” Hiram smiled. “We’ll get there soon enough, where I’m certain we will receive an earful.”

  After dropping off his mare, Dennis walked alongside Hiram.

  “Tops of the maples are red,” Hiram noted.

  “Willows already turning,” said Dennis. “They’re always early.”

  “You’re fortunate to have a helpful wife. Then again, you haven’t been married that long.” Hiram laughed.

  “She’s a good wife.”

  “Dennis, she’d have to be, to put up with you.” Hiram teased him and Dennis knew it.

  Within the hour, they reached the Selisse estate. The peaches had been picked mid-August. The fieldhands stood on ladders in the small but abundant apple orchard, picking the last of the apples, which would be fed to stock. The cornfields boasted tall stalks with succulent ears. Summer slid into fall, a rich, bountiful fall.

  In front of the house, DoRe took Hiram’s horse.

  The two men knocked on the front door. Sheba was glimpsed in the hall, but she wouldn’t open the door. That was the butler’s job. Everyone knew their tasks, their boundaries, and defended them.

  Oliver, the ancient butler, opened the door. “The Missus is expecting you.”

  He led them to the rear of the lovely house, where Maureen Selisse sat on the same porch where she had entertained the Garths. Jeffrey Holloway sat beside her. As the two visiting men bowed to her, she fanned herself languidly.

  Jeffrey, rising, indicated they should sit down. Then he turned to Maureen. “Madam, I will take your leave. I do not wish to intrude on your business.”

  She snapped her fan shut, pointing it at him. “You will do no such thing, Jeffrey. I want you to hear the constable and his assistant. You may gather something I miss.” This was followed by a radiant smile, and then a less radiant smile at Sheba, who disappeared briefly before reappearing. In her wake came two women bearing a tray of refreshments and drinks. Maureen intended to bestow her hospitality on these public servants.

  Hiram decided to take the bull by the horns or the horn from the bull, who knows? “Mr. Holloway, it is a pleasure to see you here. Mr. McComb and I have fretted over Mrs. Selisse alone on this large estate. Having a gentleman drop in on her is a comfort to us all.”

  Jeffrey smiled at them, then smiled slightly at Maureen. “Mrs. Selisse possesses rare courage.”

  “Gentlemen, please,” she said, indicating the spread of food and drinks. “One of the stable boys ran up to tell us that you, Mr. McComb, walked. You must need some nourishment and a cool libation. It’s warm, not intolerable, but warm in the sun.”

  “Thank you, madam. My horse is lame. Nothing serious, but she needs rest.” Dennis accepted the drink handed to him by one of the ladies.

  “I regret to report that we have yet to find Moses. Both Mr. McComb and myself have called at every farm, dwelling, even the small houses in Scottsville, the river captains, nothing. We have looked into reported sightings of strangers but—” Hiram again shook his head.

  “You, sir, do not have enough help,” said Jeffrey. “There are many calls on your time.” He knew that Hiram could make his life miserable in a way he could not to those of higher station. “If you deem it necessary, I know many of us would join you.”

  Hiram considered this. “Thank you, Mr. Holloway. It may come to that. My suspicion is that neither Moses nor the woman has left the area. Someone is sheltering them. Had there been any movement at all, given how quickly we reported the news, I would have heard, but you know”—he looked straight up at Sheba—“slaves have many ways to subvert the law.”

  “They aren’t the only ones,” McComb added.

  Hiram took over. “Mrs. Selisse, if there is a poor white who has cause to protect these two or who is holding them, waiting for a large ransom, which is also very possible, we will find them.”

  “I do hope so.”

  “Fortunately”—Jeffrey again soothed the water—“I believe that even though Moses and the woman were fool enough to dispatch Mr. Selisse, they would not be fool enough to return to harm Mrs. Selisse. But we can all understand this good woman’s discomfort. This lady saw her husband murdered before her very eyes. I trust in good time you will find them and, as I offered, I know many men will aid you if needed.”

  “Yes, Yancy Grant offered the same,” Hiram replied.

  At this, Jeffrey’s lips pursed together while Maureen took it all as her due. One fascinating development about Francisco’s death was how many protectors stepped forward to cast their wing over her. Of course, men should, but so many? Perhaps Francisco should have died earlier? She looked at Jeffrey with a tenderness that did not escape him, nor the others.

  So many men, yes, but only one so young and dazzlingly handsome.

  Hiram and Dennis left, Dennis on Mrs. Selisse’s borrowed gelding, a stalwart fellow.

  —

  That night, after supper, Dennis McComb told his wife the story of the Trojan horse.

  “What an awful tale.” Her hand fluttered to her breast. Although she had heard it in school, she pretended otherwise for him.

  “Lies and deceit,” Dennis mused. “Sometimes I think that’s what holds the world together, a tissue of lies and deceit.”

  “Oh, Dennis, no. You’re overtired and Hiram doesn’t realize what a good man he has in you. It’s wearing.”

  He smiled. She always made him feel better. “Sooner or later he will step down,” said Dennis.

  “Sooner better than later.” She grinned, then wrinkled her brow. “Dennis, could it be possible that Mr. Selisse’s killers are hidden in a Trojan horse?”

  “What, my sweet?”

  “They’re hiding in someplace, something no one would question. It could be on a boat, or just on a farm somewhere, but someplace ordinary, or just”—she searched—“in something one wouldn’t question.”

  Monday, August 8, 2016

  “Here.” Harry handed Susan an iron.

  “I am not using my seven iron.” Susan handed it back. “Give me a wood.”

  “No.”

  “You were born to irritate me. Give me my five wood.”

  “Susan, if I give you the wood, you will knock a real boomer. This is a tricky hole. You’ll lay up in a bunker or the rough. If you take the iron, you won’t hit as long a shot, but you’ll land in the middle of the fairway. Then your second shot will put you exactly where you want. You’re a great second-shot player.”

  Susan snatched the seven iron from Harry, looked down at the ball, then up at the fairway. Her swing, always fluid, picked up the ball and sent it exactly into the middle of the fairway. Still mad at Harry, she refused to tell her best friend that she was right. She strode down the fairway, making Harry drive the cart on the path.

  Remembering she needed her putter, she then tr
otted up to Harry on the path, exchanged clubs, walked onto the green, and sank a beauty, making par.

  She plopped back in the cart. “I hate it when you tell me what to do.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Harry hit the gas pedal, lurching forward.

  They’d started at eight, but the rest of the morning progressed silently. Harry handed Susan woods or irons without a word and Susan snatched them from her. She finished the eighteenth hole four under par, a very, very nice score.

  As they trundled back to the golf cart area, the little motor wheezing, Susan finally said, “Dew sure slows the ball down. On the other hand, I don’t want to be out here at two in the afternoon.”

  “Course is perfect right now. Farmington has good greens keepers.”

  “Hell of a job. You know, I was thinking of going down to The Country Club of Virginia over the weekend. That’s another old course. I need to push myself a little. I am going to win the country club championship this year if it kills me. Anyway, I know this course like the back of my hand. Thought I’d go to another old course and test myself.”

  “It is a terrific course, but just remember, no matter how well you know Farmington, the holes will be placed each day on the green in a different spot. The more you play this course, the more you will have seen a lot of placements. I’m not saying don’t go on down there to Richmond, I’m just saying…” Harry trailed off. “Wendell Holmes!”

  The springer spaniel greeted her. “Hello.”

  “What’s G-Mom doing here?” Susan asked.

  “She can still hit the ball.” Harry so admired Penny Holloway, such a good athlete.

  Most of the Holloways loved sports. Susan came by her abilities honestly.

  “There you are.” Penny had been chatting around the corner with an old friend. Hearing a golf cart return, she walked around to see who it was. “I was hoping it would be you.”

  Wendell Holmes ran back to Penny.

  “Is everything all right?” Susan asked with trepidation.

  “Your grandfather is as well as can be expected. It’s not that but no, everything is not all right.”

  “What gives?” Susan used slang, but it was slang that her grandmother understood.

  “Sam finally saw the interview with Eddie. I thought if I kept him away from the TV, he’d miss it, but they must be playing the darned thing every fifteen minutes. Your grandfather watched Eddie on the news this morning and he hit the roof.”

  “Oh, dear.” Susan tipped the boy in the golf cart garage.

  “Come home with me and see if you can help calm him down. You, too, Harry. I did not take Eddie’s part, by the way. He should never have done that. Sam is so mad he accused me of being soft on Eddie.” Wryly, she looked at Susan. “He knows you won’t be.”

  One reached the front hall of Big Rawly by passing through the back gate of the Farmington Country Club, getting on 21 Curves to emerge on Garth Road, which was at the base of a steep hill. Old Garth Road dropped down to the hill where Ewing Garth’s wide, sturdy bridge once stood. The state highway department had since widened the road, building a succession of new bridges over the creek over centuries. Still, if Ewing had returned to the twenty-first century, he would have likely recognized the spot.

  They turned left on Garth Road, passed a subdivision carved from an estate, turned left onto the Beau Pre road, Oakencroft, the winery, in front of that. Took no time at all to reach Big Rawly, passing the graveyard.

  Mignon and Millicent Grimstead heard them arrive and entered the hallway from the cozy TV room. When he wasn’t in his library, the governor spent his time there in a recliner. Some days just walking to his library took too much energy.

  “Calmer?” Penny inquired of her husband.

  “Some. I’m glad you’re here. You, too, Susan and Harry. He needs to vent. Maybe if he yells enough, he’ll wear himself out.” Millicent threw up her hands.

  The five women ventured into the governor’s lair.

  “Penny, where were you?” Sam Holloway barked. “Wendell Holmes, I’ve been calling for you.”

  “Mom needs a buddy,” the dog replied.

  “Ladies, forgive me if I don’t properly rise, but do sit down.” As they were sitting, Sam started in. “You saw that disgraceful statement by my grandson? Certainly you did. Everyone in Virginia must have seen it!”

  “I saw it at Harry’s house,” Susan answered her grandfather. “Miranda Hogendobber saw it. So did Ned, Fair, Alicia Palmer, and BoomBoom Craycroft.”

  As Sam had always admired Alicia from her movie days, he leaned forward. “What did Alicia think?”

  Susan gilded the lily. “Terrible. Doesn’t know if she can ever look Eddie in the eye again, much less vote for him.”

  “Ha! I’ve called him. He won’t return my call. Mignon texted him. No reply. Coward.” Sam nearly spat that word out.

  “G-Pop, he’s riding on your coattails,” said Susan. “I’m not making excuses for him. Eddie and I have never seen eye to eye, as you know, but politics is uglier than ever, and you are someone everyone knows. Look at the way you leaned on the federal government to build all the interstate roads. I can understand Eddie wanting everyone to associate him with you. I deplore it, but I understand it.”

  “Worrying about my safety. Oh, what a cheap shot!”

  “It was.” Harry felt that agreeing with him might calm him more quickly.

  As it was, she did agree with him.

  “He has enjoyed the advantage of my network, a network it took me seventy-five years to build,” said Sam. “No, it’s not the old Byrd machine with which I was only too familiar, but it is a network. The people may change, die, but the structure remains. I can call them off as easily as I called them on to get him elected, and by God, I’m going to do it.”

  Penny soothingly reached over to touch his hand. “Sugar, you can and you must. I know you will be discreet, but we can’t have Eddie being so public, using you in such a fashion and, worse, darling, implying that you can’t take care of yourself.”

  Sam glared at his wife, then relaxed. “The truth is I can’t.”

  Susan picked up the thread. “G-Pop, a phone call from you and we are all better off. We don’t need to be running for political office to be protected by you.”

  The governor fell back into his role of patriarch. He waved off Susan as though this was nothing, no matter at all, but already he felt stronger, on familiar ground. His wife, daughter, granddaughter, friend, and ghostwriter, all women, looked up to him. Sam was vital and needed. He needed to feel needed. The damned leukemia undermined that. His body might be failing, but he was still a man.

  Penny stood up. “Sam, let me get you a drink. It’s early, but a spot of bourbon followed by a tall glass of lemonade will refresh. Any other takers?”

  “No, thanks, G-Mom.”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Holloway.”

  “Eddie!” Wendell Holmes barked.

  As he’d heard the voices, Eddie tiptoed into the room. “Sorry I didn’t call right back. Crazy morning.”

  Sam got right to it. “How could you humiliate me like that?”

  “I didn’t humiliate you. You are an ex-governor and you deserve state protection.” Eddie sounded smarmy.

  “I am in no danger. Barbara Leader could have been killed for any number of reasons, none of which I can imagine, but not because she tended to me.”

  “G-Pop, you are an ex-governor known by all and there’s still hard feelings about desegregation. You are vulnerable.”

  Enraged, the old man got out of his chair much faster than anyone could have anticipated, yanking a gold-tipped cane out of the large jar in which it stood. He smashed it over Eddie’s head. “You slackass. You weakling. Get out of my house and don’t you ever use my name again.”

  The governor swung a broken piece of cane at Eddie again.

  A trickle of blood ran down Eddie’s face. Hearing the ruckus, Penny came in, tray in hand. She put the tray down and wisely did not tend to Eddie.r />
  “Edward, you had better go. I will speak to your mother.”

  With his hand over the bleeding wound, Eddie turned heel and left.

  Shocked, but not entirely unpleased to see her cousin caned, Susan said, “I knew you could protect us, G-Pop, but that might be going too far.”

  The old man collapsed in his chair, but with a huge grin on his face. “I’ll damned well kill him.”

  Monday, September 27, 1784

  “Early fall, I think.” John Schuyler inhaled the air, the faint aroma of leaves beginning to turn apparent.

  “Autumn,” Charles West corrected him, with one arm around Piglet. “Fall is when you lose your footing.”

  John shook his head, smiled. Charles’s upper-class English pronunciation was bad enough, but fall was fall and that was the end of it.

  Hauling their steeple behind, they’d crossed over the Potomac at Point of the Rocks, where a good, busy ferry plied its trade. A bit high, the river kept the ferryman and his sons alert. The river was never placid, and it swept along faster when its waters rose. Fortunately, the horses stood quietly, as did the other three passengers. Crossing a major river at sunrise held everyone’s attention as a red, then gold path enticed one. So bright was the sunlight on the river, you felt you could walk on it.

  On the Maryland side, carts and riders waited to be ferried over to Virginia. Two hours later, the road was all theirs. Occasionally they’d pass another wagon, rider, or coach, but mostly the men headed north alone.

  With their heavy load, the best they could do was twenty miles a day. They didn’t mind, being in no particular hurry. The September days shimmered, the nights were cool, and wayside inns and ordinaries pleased them. The food was good, harvests were coming in. The houses they passed in the small towns boasted zinnias, asters, black-eyed Susans, many kinds of cornflowers, such bright reds, pale to deep yellow, purples, and the last white daisies of the year. On the Virginia side, the Virginia creeper was beginning to turn blood red. On the Maryland side the yellow willows were not yet dropping their leaves, but they would soon enough.

  The farther away they moved from the river, the crisper the air smelled. The river odor had covered other scents until about two miles away. Charles noted how different a river’s smell was from the ocean’s. From that long trip across the Atlantic, with its stopover in the Caribbean with troops, Charles West would never forget the salty odor.