Рита Браун - Tail Gait

“Garth?” Cooper knew the name.

“He bought the land grant that the Ashcombes held. Here, I can show you.” Mildred pulled up a facsimile. “The land was originally granted by their majesties, William and Mary, to Obadiah Ashcombe. His grandson Peter Ashcombe, a Loyalist, sold the entire grant to Ewing Garth.”

“For twenty thousand pounds,” said Harry. “My God, that would be millions today!” she exclaimed.

“It was very valuable land,” Mildred concurred.

Susan whistled. “Ewing had to be rich as Croesus.”

“He was.”

“February first, 1782,” Harry read the date out loud.

“Here’s the grant on the plat, here’s how it added to Garth’s lands. You can see he controlled both sides of Ivy Creek, the road east and west and a back road into The Barracks. So along with his crops and whatever, he controlled that road still in use today.”

“Did he establish a toll?” Susan asked.

“No, from what I understand from Professor McConnell and the other professors who have been in here—curious about the prisoner-of-war camp, that sort of thing—if you used Garth’s road, he occasionally would call in a favor. He must have been terribly clever.”

“And Frank knew all this?” Cooper asked.

“Yes, Officer, he did.”

Cooper pushed the pencil behind her ear. “I don’t see any problem with this.”

“Marshall Reese bought it for Continental Estates, after doing his research, of course.”

“Mrs. Gianakos, what would happen if there were a problem?” Harry wondered.

She frowned. “Well, that would depend on the type of problem.”

May 13, 2015

As Cooper pored over deeds of title Wednesday morning at the county offices, Harry drove to St. Luke’s.

The Very Reverend Herbert Jones’s reading glasses slipped down near the tip of his nose as he reviewed a national church publication while sitting at his cluttered desk. On the left side, his cat Elocution held down papers. On the right side, Cazenovia pinned correspondence. On the floor, Lucy Fur, on her back, front and hind legs extended, slept soundly.

A knock on the door woke up Lucy Fur. Elocution and Cazenovia were alert but remained in place.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker preceded Harry into the Reverend’s spacious, light-filled office.

“Let’s get some Communion wafers,” Pewter encouraged the Lutheran cats.

“Locked,” Elocution mournfully informed them. “The closet with all the Communion things except vestments is locked.”

“I know that, but we opened it once before. Come on. The humans will just sit here and blab.” Pewter incited them.

“That’s a fact.” Cazenovia leapt off the desk, papers flying.

Harry walked over, picked them up, handing them to the Reverend.

Mrs. Murphy followed the cats out of the room with the observation, “No crunch in the Communion wafers. Let’s see if we can open a cabinet door in the kitchen instead.”

“No.” Pewter gleefully skidded down the hallway. “Communion wafers. Drives the humans crazy.”

Tucker stayed with Harry.

“I don’t know what gets into them,” said the Reverend. “Asleep one minute and zooming out of here the next.” He pushed his readers up onto the bridge of his nose. “What’s cooking? Don’t tell me there’s a rebellion on the vestry board?”

Harry laughed. “No. We’re all getting on quite well.” Looking out the window, she blinked. “How beautiful this view is over the first quad, then out to the big one and the graveyard beyond. I bet you never tire of it.”

“I don’t. If I get stuck on a sermon, I take a walk outside or I stare at the vista. Always figure out the problem. What can I do for you?” He stood up, leading her to the comfortable sitting area. “Would you like a drink?”

“Oh, no, thank you.” She settled into the club chair, its leather thin on the edges. “Reverend, remember that last night of wonderful conversation at the dinner table with Ginger, Trudy, everyone?”

He made a steeple out of his hands, sighed. “I do. How quickly life changes.”

“It sure does. I think of Ginger and Trudy every day, and I know you do.”

“Harry, as a pastor I can offer what comfort the scriptures give us. As a friend, I can offer my time and love, but you know there’s no shortcut for those grieving for Ginger. It takes time.”

“I’ve been rummaging around Ginger’s last research project. He’d talked about it with us, the prisoner-of-war camp, the confusion once the war ended. I’ve thought about everything, and Cooper, bless her, hears me out. Nothing in Ginger’s past suggests his murder as an act of revenge. Even Frank Cresey’s meltdown didn’t go that far, and in a way, Frank continued his studies.” Harry then told the pastor all they had discovered about Frank from the library and from Snoop.

“You know, we must do something about those homeless people,” said Reverend Jones. “We pastors, priests, rabbis need to put our heads together. The city can only do but so much, and same goes for the Salvation Army.”

She filled him in on Snoop’s memories, how he found the letter opener that murdered Frank and how he was in, for lack of a better word, protective custody. “I like him,” she said.

The Reverend smiled. “That’s a start. Just because someone has succumbed to drink or other substances doesn’t mean they can’t be saved. Christ offers us all redemption.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Their condition takes more than prayer. It’s medical. Well, I got off the track here. I can understand your interest in Ginger, in solving this terrible murder, but Harry, you do blunder into things.”

“You have no idea,” Tucker seconded that thought.

“Lie down, sweetie.” Harry smiled at the dog. Tucker did lie down, even though she could hear, the humans couldn’t, some illicit activity at the end of the hall.

“Was there something said at the dinner party that brought you here? Not that I don’t adore your presence. After all, I’ve ministered to you since you wore colored Band-Aids on your knee.”

She blushed. “Ginger said he visited graveyards at old churches, he checked out birth rolls and death rolls, as the churches often had better records than the courthouses.”

The Reverend flared out his fingers from the steeple, then reconnected them. “True. For the seventeenth and much of the eighteenth centuries, churches sometimes kept the only records.”

“Do you have St. Luke’s records?”

“I do. Some are even on parchment. Others on heavy paper, but not as permanent as parchment. All this is stored in the big safe downstairs.”

“I’d like to look at them.” She hastily added, “Not this minute. But sometime.”

He glanced out the window. “Tell you what. I’ve been stuck in this office all morning. I need to stretch my legs. Let’s walk down to the graveyard. Maybe that will help you in your quest.”

“Really?”

He pushed up with both hands on the armrest. “You’ll see.”

They walked down the hall. Tucker knew the cats were hiding in the landing on the stairs, one flight up. The Reverend Jones opened the closet, pulled out a light jacket, closing it, but he didn’t tightly shut the door. He kept sweaters and jackets all over the office part of the church, the front vestibule of the church itself, closets upstairs. He often felt a chill. He also slept with two blankets and a down comforter. He hated the cold.

They walked out into the interior quad.