Рита Браун - Scarlet Fever

“Your scarlet isn’t in yet,” Jean called out to Harry, who was meandering down an aisle.

“I know. I know. I came up to see you.”

“Then why are you walking away?” she fired back.

“These goods are irresistible.”

“I thought I was irresistible,” Jean replied.

He stopped and smiled. “Indeed, but an irresistible woman can get you in more trouble than silverware.”

“Both can melt your credit card. Why didn’t you call? I could have saved you the trip. Your scarlet should come in next week.”

“I really came up to see you. Take you to dinner. I have a proposition and we are old hunting buddies. I can trust you.”

Jean, hands poised over the jewelry case, blinked. “Harry, you’ve never said anything like that to me before.”

“I should have. I should have told many people how I value them but here I am telling you.”

“Thank you. I have an Ashland Basset meeting. It should be over at seven-thirty.”

“How about I meet you back here at eight? Lower parking lot. We can switch to my car.”

“Sounds good.”

He peered into the case where Jean was removing jewelry to a special drawer for safekeeping. “That is stunning!”

“Erté. Pavé diamonds and emeralds. Obviously.”

“Let me see it.”

Jean pulled the ring out of the case. She was going to put it in the drawer anyway. Slid it toward him.

Harry carefully picked it up, inspecting the workmanship. “You know, Jean, there are people today who don’t know who this designer was.”

“There are people today who don’t know a lot of things and don’t care. Like history, for one.” Pointing to the ring she inclined her head. “Design is of no consequence to them.”

Bedazzled by the ring, fox’s tail over his nose, Harry shrugged. “I think it’s always been that way. Doesn’t matter the century or the country. Few people care about aesthetics in any form.”

“You’re right.”

He slipped the ring, a woman’s ring, on his pinkie then wiggled his fingers. “Perfect. Jean, let me wear this, I’ll give it back when I pick you up for dinner. But just for two hours let me commune with Erté.”

“Well, okay.”

“You girls get the best stuff. You know that.” He grinned at her.

“Depends on the stuff,” Jean shot back.

Harry nodded in agreement, stuck his hand in his pocket, waving to Jean with his other hand.

He picked up a dish on a counter, fox in the middle, placed it back, then disappeared downstairs.

Roni Ellis glanced up. “Harry, are you in the market for a new saddle?”

He smiled. “No. Just looking. Can’t help myself.”

He then climbed back upstairs.

Six on the dot, Jean walked through the aisles, called down to Roni, “I’m on my way to my meeting. See you tomorrow.”

“Have a good one.” Roni came to the foot of the stairs. “Tell Diana Dutton hello.” She mentioned one of the members of Ashland Bassets.

“Will do.” Jean slipped on her coat, tied a necessary soft wool scarf around her neck, left by the front door, locking it behind her, for it was closing time. Harry walked out with her, kissed her on the cheek as he opened her car door for her. “Eight o’clock.”

By six-twenty Roni had double-checked the main office. Everything seemed in order. She looked behind the main counter. The jewelry had been removed from the glass case, put into a shelf, the shelf Jean locked. Roni did not unlock it. No need. Jean never failed to secure valuables.

“Well, good.” Turning off the lights, Roni opened the front door and was greeted by a blast of February night air. She closed it, locked it, and sprinted to her car parked in the top lot.

The next morning, February 27, Wednesday, as the sun was rising a bit after quarter to seven, the light provided a soft glow, given the lay of Alexandria Pike. Few cars rolled on the paved road. That would pick up in a short time.

One early riser, Shirley Resnick, coffee cup in her right hand, slowly drove down Alexandria Pike toward the imposing creamcolored courthouse at the top of the hill.

She blinked. Stopped in the middle of the road. There was no traffic. She turned right into the bottom parking lot of Horse Country. Placed her coffee cup in the cup holder of her Accord. She sat for a minute, put the car in park, let the motor run, and stepped outside to the crumpled man sprawled at the bottom of the steep side stairs rising to the front door.

Kneeling, she slightly shook him. He was stiff. She recoiled, hurrying to her car, picked up her cellphone, and dialed 911.

CHAPTER 6

February 27, 2019 Wednesday

Noon

Sister, across from Walter Lungren, waited for Betty to join them for lunch at Keswick Club, where Sister was a founding member. Not much for country clubs, she remained fascinated by the history of this one. The golf pro was murdered in 1977. Killer never found.

Betty swept in the door, took her seat facing the Pete Dye golf course.

“Even in February it looks good, doesn’t it?”

“Soon as spring comes I am challenging Pat Butterfield to a match here. Then he’ll challenge me at Farmington Country Club,” Walter predicted.

Pat Butterfield was the senior master at Farmington Hunt Club, which back in the twenties hunted at the newish country club, Farmington Country Club, under the leadership of the intrepid Berta Jones. Farmington, built as a working plantation by Jefferson, one of his few private architectural commissions, fell upon hard times in 1927.

Keswick had also fallen upon hard times. Bought in 1990 by Sir Bernard Ashley, it was now restored far beyond its former glory.

“He’s pretty good. Good tennis player, too.” Sister smiled, for she adored Pat.

“We’ve all endured a rough season.” Walter folded the menu, knowing what he wanted.

“Rough. Yes. But how about what’s happened at Horse Country? On the morning news.” Betty’s blue eyes opened wider.

Sister noticed a stiff wind crossing the practice green. “What happened?”

“Harry Dunbar was found dead at the bottom of the side steps,” Betty answered.

“What?” Sister was aghast.

Walter nodded. “No signs of foul play, I suppose that’s the proper term, but the back of his head was cracked. No one knows but the simplest explanation is he slipped going down to his car, fell backwards.”

“Hmm.” Betty sighed. “The steps are steep but not that steep and there is a handrail.”

“I was in his shop Monday. He was full of the devil, as always. Oh, I am so sorry.” Sister reached for her napkin to dab her eyes.

“I’m not forecasting a murder,” Betty said. “No rain, a light frost, yes. He could well have slipped, but wouldn’t it have to be a ferocious one? You know, head over heels, or in this case heels over head, and then crack.” She said this almost with relish.

“Hard to say. He was in great shape, most of us foxhunters are. I assume an autopsy will be requested.” Walter handed Sister his napkin. “Sister, I am sorry. I didn’t know you all were that close.”

“You hunt with someone for years. You do become close even if unaware of it. He had such energy, such a playful sense of humor.”

“It is a shock.” Walter tried to sound comforting. “It was a most unlikely fate.”

“Here’s what I don’t understand,” Betty said. “Why was Harry Dunbar at the stairs? The interview with Jean Roberts and Roni on the news, both said the shop was locked. Roni was the last one out. Not a sound inside. It’s quite odd.” Betty liked Harry well enough but she did not feel close to him.

“Not so odd,” Sister posited. “What if he forgot the time, needed something, say ShowSheen?” She mentioned a special shampoo for horses. “He ran up the steps, realized the shop was closed, and then ran down. Slipped.”