Rest In Pieces

by Rita Mae Brown

  The uproar caused by this high-handed tactic obscured the follow-up story about the head in the pumpkin. Since no one could identify the corpse, interest fizzled. It would remain a good story for Halloweens to come.

  The respite was appreciated by Jim Sanburne, mayor, and the civic worthies of Crozet. Big Marilyn refused to discuss the subject, so it withered in her social circle, which was to say the six or seven ladies as snobbish as herself.

  Little Marilyn recovered sufficiently to call her brother, Stafford, and invite him home for a weekend. This upset Mim more than the sum of the body parts. It meant she’d have to be sociable with his wife, Brenda.

  This projected discomfort, awarded to Little Marilyn in lavish proportions by her mother, almost made the young woman back down and uninvite her brother and his wife. But it was opening hunt, such a pretty sight, and Stafford loved to photograph such events. She kept her nerve. Stafford would be home next weekend.

  Weary of the swirl of tempestuous egos, Fitz-Gilbert decided to stay out late that night. First he stopped at Charley’s, where he bumped into Ben Seifert on his way out. Fitz tossed back one beer and then hit the road again. He ran into Fair Haristeen at Sloan’s and pulled up the barstool next to the vet.

  “A night of freedom?”

  Fair signaled for a beer for Fitz. “You might call it that. What about you?”

  “It’s been a hell of a week. You know my office was ransacked. Doesn’t appear to have anything to do with the . . . murder . . . but it was upsetting on top of everything else. The sheriff and his deputy came out, took notes and so forth. Some money was missing, and a CD player, but obviously it’s not at the top of their list. Then Cabell Hall called me to tell me to watch my stock market investments, since the market is on a oneway trip these days—down—and my mother-in-law—oh, well, why talk about her? Oh, I just ran into Ben Seifert at Charley’s. He’s an okay guy, but he’s just burning to succeed Cabell some day. The thought of Ben Seifert running Allied National gives me pause. And then of course there’s my father-in-law. He wants to call out the National Guard.

  “Those are my problems. What are yours?” Fitz asked.

  “I don’t know.” Fair was puzzled. “BoomBoom’s out with that model guy. She says he asked her to the Cancer Fund Ball but I don’t know. He didn’t seem that interested in her when I met him. I kind of thought he liked Harry.”

  “Here’s to women.” Fitz-Gilbert smiled. “I don’t know anything about them but I’ve got one.” He clinked glasses with Fair.

  Fair laughed. “My daddy used to say, ‘You can’t live with them and you can’t live without them.’ I didn’t know what he was talking about. I do now.”

  “Marilyn is great by herself. It’s when she’s in the company of her mother . . .” Fitz-Gilbert wiped froth off his lips. “My mother-in-law can be a whistling bitch. I feel guilty just being here . . . like I slipped my leash. But I’m glad I didn’t get dragged to the Cancer Ball. Marilyn says she can only do but so many a year, and she wanted to get things ready for Stafford and Brenda. Thank God. I need the break.”

  Fair changed the subject. “Do you think this new guy likes Harry? I thought guys like that wanted leggy blondes or other guys.”

  “Can’t speak for his preferences, but Harry’s a good-looking woman. Natural. Outdoorsy. I’ll never know why you guys broke up, buddy.”

  Fair, unaccustomed to exchanging much personal information, sat quietly and then signaled for another beer. “She’s a good person. We grew up together. We dated in high school. We, well, she was more like my sister than my wife.”

  “Yeah, but you knew BoomBoom since you were yay-high,” Fitz countered.

  “Not the same.”

  “That’s the truth.”

  “Just what do you mean by that?” Fair felt prickly anxiety creeping up his spine.

  “Uh . . . well, I mean that they are so totally different from one another. One’s a quarter horse and the other’s a racehorse.” What he wanted to say was, “One’s a quarter horse and the other’s a jackass,” but he didn’t. “BoomBoom puts lead in your pencil. I’ve seen her start motors that have been stalled for years.”

  Fair smiled broadly. “She is attractive.”

  “Dynamite, buddy, dynamite.” Fitz, less inhibited than usual, kept on. “But I’d take Harry any day of the week. She’s funny. She’s a partner. She’s a friend. That other stuff—hey, Fair, it gets old.”

  “You’re certainly forthcoming,” came the dry reply.

  “Nothing’s preventing you from telling me to keep my mouth shut.”

  “While we’re on the subject, tell me what you see in Little Marilyn. She’s a miniature of her mother, on her way to being as cold as a wedge, and near as I can tell she’s even slacking off on the charity work. What’s the—”

  “Attraction?” Fitz decided not to take offense. After all, he was handing it out so he’d better take it. “The truth? The truth is that I married her because it was the thing to do. Two respectable family fortunes. Two great family names. My parents, had they lived, would have been proud. Superficial stuff, when you get right down to it. And I was kind of wild as a kid. I was ready to settle down. I needed to settle down. What’s strange is that I’ve come to love Marilyn. You don’t know the real Marilyn. When she’s not knocking herself out trying to be superior she’s pretty wonderful. She’s a shy little bug and underneath it there’s a good heart. And what’s so funny is that I think she likes me too. I don’t think she married me for love, any more than I married her for it. She went along with the merger orchestrated by that harridan”—he sputtered the word—“of a mother. Maybe Mim knew more than we did. Whatever the reason, I have learned to love my wife. And someday I hope I can tear her away from this place. We’ll go someplace where the names Sanburne and Hamilton don’t mean diddly.”

  Fair stared at Fitz, and Fitz returned the stare. Then they burst out laughing.

  “Another beer for my buddy.” Fitz slapped money on the counter.

  Fair eagerly grabbed the cold glass. “We might as well get shitfaced.”

  “My sentiments exactly.”

  By the time Fitz reached home, supper was cold and his wife was not amused. He cajoled her with the tidbit about BoomBoom and Blair attending the Cancer Fund Ball and then poured them each a delicious sherry for a nightcap, a ritual of theirs. By the time they crawled into bed, Little Marilyn had forgiven her husband.

  * * *

  28

  Two men argued at the end of an old country road. Heavy cloud cover added to the tension and gloom. Way up in the distance beckoned the sealed cavern of Claudius Crozet’s first tunnel through the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  One man clenched his fists and shook them in the face of the other. “You goddamned bloodsucker. I’m not giving you another cent. How was I to know he’d show up? He’s been locked away for years!”

  Ben Seifert, being threatened, just laughed. “He showed up in my office, not yours, asshole, and I want something for my pains—a bonus!”

  The next thing he knew a brightly colored climbing rope was flipped over his neck and the word bonus was choked right out of him. Strangulation took less than two minutes.

  Still furious, the killer viciously kicked the body, breaking some ribs. Then he shook his head, collected his wits, and bent down to pick up the limp corpse. This was an unpleasant task, since the dead man had voided himself.

  Cursing, he tossed the body over his shoulder, for he was a strong man, and carried him up to the tunnel. Although it had been sealed after World War II, there was an opening of loose stones which had been dug out by a former Crozet resident. The railroad had overlooked resealing the tunnel.

  His brain worked clearly now. He removed the stones with care so as not to tear up his hands and then dragged the body into the tunnel. He could hear the click of little claws as he slammed his unwanted burden on the ground. He walked outside and replaced the stones. Then he picked his way down the hillside, composing
himself, brushing off his clothes. People rarely hiked up to the tunnels. With luck it would be months before they found that bastard, if they found him at all.

  The problem was Seifert’s car. He searched the seats, trunk, and glove compartment to make certain no note existed, no clue to their meeting. Then he started the engine and drove to the outskirts of town, leaving the car at a gas station. He wiped off the steering wheel, the door handle, everything he’d touched. The car shone when he finished with it. Shrewdly, he’d left his own car three miles away, where the victim had picked him up on Three Chopt Road. That was at one o’clock this morning. It was now four-thirty and darkness would soon enough give way to light.

  He jogged the three miles to his own car, parked behind one of the cement trucks at Craycroft Cement. Unless someone walked around the mixer they’d never have seen his car.

  He had figured killing his unwanted partner was a possibility, hence the preparation. Not that he had wanted to kill the dumb son of a bitch, but he’d gotten so greedy. He kept bleeding him. That left little choice.

  Blackmail rarely ended with both parties wreathed in smiles.

  * * *

  29

  The mail slid into the boxes but the magazines had to be folded. Ned Tucker received more magazines than anyone in Crozet. What was even more amazing was that he read them. Susan said it was like living with an encyclopedia.

  The morning temperature hovered at thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, so Harry, Mrs. Murphy, and Tucker hopped to work at a brisk pace. Harry brought the blue truck only when the weather was filthy or she had errands to run. As she’d done her grocery shopping yesterday, the blue bomb reposed by the barn.

  Harry cherished the quiet of her walk and the early hour alone in the post office after Rob Collier dropped off the mail. The repetition of chores soothed her, like a labor’s liturgy. There was comfort in consistency.

  The back door opened and closed. Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and even Harry could tell by the tread that it was Mrs. Hogendobber.

  “Harry.”

  “Mrs. H.”

  “Missed you at the Cancer Ball.”

  “Wasn’t invited.”

  “You could have gone alone. I do sometimes.”

  “Not at a hundred and fifty dollars a ticket I can’t.”

  “I forgot about that part. Larry Johnson paid for my ticket. He’s quite a good dancer.”

  “Who all was there?”

  “Susan and Ned. She wore her peach organdy dress. Very becoming. Herbie and Carol. She wore the ice-blue gown with the ostrich feather ruff. You should have seen Mim. She had on one of those gowns Bob Mackie designs for Dynasty.”

  “Did she really?”

  “I am here to tell you, girl, she did, and that dress must have cost her as much as a Toyota. There isn’t a bugle bead left in Los Angeles, I am sure of it. Why, if you dropped her in that lake of hers she’d attract every fish in it.”

  Harry giggled. “Maybe she’d get along better with the fish than she does with people.”

  “Let’s see, I said Ned and Susan. Fair wasn’t there. Little Marilyn and Fitz weren’t there either—must be taking a break from the black-tie circuit. Most of the Keswick and Farmington Hunt Clubs showed up, and the country club set too. Wall to wall.” Mrs. Hogendobber picked up a handful of mail and helped to sort.

  Mrs. Murphy sat in a mail bin. She had sat so long waiting for a push that she fell asleep. Mrs. Hogendobber’s arrival woke her up.

  “What did you wear?”

  “You know that emerald-green satin dress I wear at Christmas?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I had it copied in black with gold accents. I don’t look so fat in black.”

  “You’re not fat,” Harry reassured her. It was true. She wasn’t fat but she was, well, ample.

  “Ha. If I eat any more I’m going to resemble a heifer.”

  “How come you haven’t told me that Blair escorted BoomBoom to the ball?”

  “If you know it why should I tell you?” Mrs. Hogendobber liked to stand behind the post boxes and shoot the letters in. “Well, he did. Actually, I think she asked him, because the tickets were in her name. The hussy.”

  “Did he have a good time?”

  “He just looked so handsome in his tuxedo and I like his new moustache. Reminds me of Ronald Colman. BoomBoom dragged him to meet everyone. She was wearing her party face. I guess he had a good time.”

  “No dread disease?”

  “No. She danced so much I doubt she even had time to tell him of the sorrows of her youth and how awful her parents were.” Miranda didn’t crack a smile when she relayed this observation but her eyes twinkled.

  “My, my, doesn’t he have something to look forward to: ‘The Life and Times of BoomBoom Craycroft.’ ”

  “Don’t worry about her.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Harry, I’ve known you since you were born. Don’t lie to me. I remember the day you insisted we call you Harry instead of Mary. Funny that you later married Fair Haristeen.”

  “You remember everything.”

  “I do indeed. You were four years old and you loved your kitty—now let me see, her name was Skippy. You wanted to be furry like Skippy, so you asked us to call you Hairy, which became Harry. You thought if we called you that, you’d get furry and turn into a kitty. Name stuck.”

  “What a great cat Skippy was.”

  This aroused Mrs. Murphy from her half-slumberous state. “Not as great as the Murphy!”

  “Ha!” Tucker laughed.

  “Shut up, Tucker. There was a dog before you, you know. A German shepherd. His photo is on the desk at home, for your information.”

  “Big deal.”

  “Playtime.” Harry heard the meows and thought Mrs. Murphy wanted a push in the mail bin. Although it wasn’t what the cat was talking about, she happily rolled around in the canvas-bottomed cart.

  Mrs. Hogendobber unlocked the front door. She no sooner turned the key than Blair appeared, wearing a heavy red Buffalo-checked jacket over a flannel shirt. He rubbed his boots over the scraper.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hogendobber. I enjoyed our dance last night. You float over the floor.”

  Mrs. Hogendobber blushed. “Why, what a sweet thing to say.”

  Blair stepped right up to the counter. “Harry.”

  “No packages.”

  “I don’t want any packages. I want your attention.”

  He got Mrs. Hogendobber’s too.

  “Okay.” Harry leaned over the other side of the counter. “My full attention.”

  “I’ve been told there are furniture and antique auctions on the weekends. Will you tell me which are the good ones and will you go along with me? I’m getting tired of sitting on the floor.”

  “Of course.” Harry liked to help out.

  Mrs. Murphy grumbled and then jumped out of the mail bin, sending it clattering across the floor. She hopped up on the counter.

  “The other request I have is that you accompany me to a dinner party Little Marilyn is giving for Stafford and Brenda tomorrow night. I know it’s short notice but she called this morning to ask me.”

  “What’s the dress?” Harry couldn’t believe her ears.

  “I’m going to wear a yellow shirt, a teal tie, and a brown herringbone jacket. Does that help?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Hogendobber answered because she knew Harry was hopeless in these matters.

  “I’ve never seen you dressed up, Harry.” Blair smiled. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven.” He paused. “I looked for you at the Cancer Ball last night.”

  Harry started to say that she wasn’t invited but Mrs. Hogendobber leapt into this breach. “Harry had another engagement. She’s kept so busy.”

  “Oh. Well, I wanted to dance with you.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. “That Craycroft woman is a real motormouth. Never stopped talking about herself. I know it isn’t gallant of me to criticize someone who made such an effort to hav
e me meet people, but jeez”—he let out his breath—“she likes to party.”

  Both Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber tried to conceal their delight at this comment.

  “BoomBoom knows you’re rich,” Mrs. Murphy piped up. “Plus you’re single, good-looking, and she’s not above driving Fair crazy with you, either.”

  “She has a lot to say this morning, doesn’t she?” Blair patted Mrs. Murphy’s head.

  “You bet, buster. Stick with me, I’ll give you the scoop on everybody.”

  Blair laughed. “Now, Murphy—I mean, Mrs. Murphy; how rude of me—you promised to help me find a friend exactly like you.”

  “I’m going to throw up,” Tucker mumbled from the floor.

  Blair picked up his mail, got to the door, and stopped. “Harry?”

  “What?”

  He held up his hands in entreaty. Mrs. Hogendobber kicked Harry behind the counter. Blair couldn’t see this.

  “Oh, yes, I’d love to go.”

  “Seven tomorrow.” He left, whistling.

  “That hurt. I’ll have a bruised ankle tomorrow.”

  “You have no sense when it comes to men!” Miranda exclaimed.

  “I wonder what got into him?” Harry’s gaze followed him to his truck.

  “Yours is not to reason why. Yours is but to do and die.”

  Just then Susan sauntered in through the back door. “‘Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred.’ ”

  “Blair Bainbridge just asked her to a dinner party at the Hamiltons’ tomorrow night and he wants her to take him to some auctions.”

  “Yahoo!” Susan clapped her hands together. “Good work, girl.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Susan, help me with her. She nearly told him she didn’t have a date for the Cancer Ball. She’s going to iron her jeans for the dinner party and think she’s dressed. This calls for action.”

  Miranda and Susan looked at each other and then both looked at Harry. Before she knew it, each one grabbed an arm and she was propelled out the back door and thrown into Susan’s car.