Рита Браун: Tail Gait

“Millions of dollars seem like a powerful motive to me.”

—

Driving back from dropping off Snoop, Harry checked in with her husband. Fair was enjoying the conference, happy to see colleagues and even a few people who were at Auburn when he was. He rattled on about how high-tech veterinary medicine is now and he had to run to catch up. She told him everyone felt that way. He also said Denver was as great as he remembered and he even had a little time to tour the state house.

Pressing the phone’s off button, she considered how good it was to be married to a man who wanted to learn and who loved what he did. They were both lucky that way.

It was three o’clock as she turned on the two-lane highway to the farm, then abruptly turned around. She called ahead to Trudy and then she looked out for anyone from the sheriff’s department because she was speeding.

Parking in the driveway, Harry sprinted to the door.

Opening it, Trudy couldn’t help but notice Harry’s flushed face. “Are you all right?”

“Trudy, forgive me. Remember our dinner at Reverend Jones’s?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you remember Ginger speaking about a professor, a don, I don’t know, a research person at Cambridge who was going to call him before his golf round the next day?”

“Yes.”

“Did that person call?”

“Oh, yes. Ginger took the call in his office and later he came out smiling like the Cheshire cat.”

“Did he tell you what it was about?”

“No, Ginger was on the phone so long he was afraid he’d be late for his tee time. He hurried out of here.”

“Again, forgive me, do you have that person’s number?”

“Let’s look. I know where he would keep it.”

They hurried into the office, late-afternoon light flooding the room. Trudy pulled an old Rolodex from the deep drawer.

“He liked this best. Never put numbers on his computer or his phone. Ginger always said, ‘What do you do when the power goes out or the battery dies?’ ” She smiled.

“Do you know the person’s name?”

“No, we can figure it out. I know how his mind worked. He would have this under three categories: the person’s name, Cambridge, and the research itself, which I would assume would be either under The Barracks or something close by.” She flipped first to CAMBRIDGE, where a list of names, neatly written, were listed in alphabetical order, fortunately with the project behind it. “This has to be the one.”

“A woman?” Harry exclaimed, as her vision of Cambridge was crusty dons in flowing robes teaching hard-partying male toffs.

“Harry, Ginger would want you to know some of the best academic work in England is being done by women, many of them young. The world has changed, well, North America and Europe. I don’t know about the rest of it.”

“Brazil, Argentina, for starters. Women presidents.”

Trudy smiled. “Sooner or later I expect we’ll catch up, but here she is, Sarah Lincoln.”

Harry scribbled down the number. “Let me hurry home and call her. I just might make it because it’s nine-thirty there. Hopefully this second number is the home number.”

“Don’t wait until tomorrow.” Trudy grasped the significance of this as well as the danger, which Harry ignored. “Call her from here.”

Harry dialed 011, then the number. Waited. To her joy, a lovely voice answered the call. “Hello, Sarah here.”

“Miss Lincoln, forgive me for calling you in the evening. I am Harry Haristeen, a friend of the late Professor Greg McConnell.”

A sharp intake of breath told Harry that Sarah didn’t know Ginger was dead. “Oh, no. Oh, I am so very sorry. He was so helpful to me in my work on Lord Cornwallis, and I even had the good fortune to meet him when he was visiting Cambridge. I am so sorry.”

“We all are, Miss Lincoln. It was a profound shock. And recent, so his obituary will most likely be in next month’s various academic publications. It’s probably on the Internet, too, but let me tell you why I am calling. This will further upset you. He was murdered.”

“What! I can’t believe it.”

“We can’t either, but I’m wondering if you can help me. I’m looking into some of the professor’s research when he died.”

“Of course, anything.” The young woman was terribly upset.

“You called him on Saturday morning, April eleventh. Do you recall the conversation?”

“Vividly. In my work over the last few years I have discovered many Loyalists who returned to England, some of whom flourished, some not.”

“Were any of these families from Albemarle County?”

“Yes, there were a few fearing increased hostility and even violence, as Albemarle was considered one of the hotbeds of sedition. One of these men had connections to Lord Cornwallis through his wife. She died early in 1779. Cornwallis had rushed back to England to be with her. It was a true love match. Peter Ashcombe, the Loyalist related to Lady Cornwallis, gave the general some trinkets from his wife’s childhood. He appears to have been a decent man, Ashcombe, and he left behind thousands of acres under care of a farm manager.”

“And it was this that Professor McConnell was interested in?”

“Yes, and it is a great curiosity. You see the bill of sale, I assume it’s called that there, but the purchase of those thousands of acres was made, according to Professor McConnell, on February first, 1782. A Mr. Garth purchased Peter Ashcombe’s land for twenty thousand pounds.”

“Yes, he did. I’ve seen the sale papers and the subsequent deed in the records at the county offices here.”

“But Peter Ashcombe had died January twenty-second, 1782,” said Sarah. “Sailing the North Atlantic in winter takes longer than in summer, and even then you must figure two or three weeks.”

This time it was Harry’s turn to sharply breathe in. “Miss Lincoln, this is almost as much of a shock as Professor McConnell’s death.”

“I doubt a man can sell property from the grave, and Ashcombe had no heirs.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. When we get to the bottom of this, either myself or Mrs. McConnell will call you.”

“I’m glad to be helpful. He was one of the most delightful men I have ever met.” Then she added with a light laugh, “It was hard to believe he was a professor.”

After bidding goodbye, Harry turned to Trudy. She had heard most of it, but to be certain, Harry repeated the dates.

Trudy’s face flushed for a moment. “My God. But why kill Ginger?”

“If Ginger told Marshall, Paul, or Rudy, I would narrow it down to those three. A lot of money could be lost, and as Continental Estates is owned by Marshall’s company, well—”

Trudy protested in disbelief. “But it’s been centuries.”

“Has, but think, Trudy. Who really owns the Ashcombe land? Probably the state of Virginia, once this all comes out.”

—

Harry hopped in the truck, heading back to the farm, calling Cooper on the way. She didn’t like talking and driving, but she felt she had abused Trudy’s hospitality enough. Best to call Coop from her cell.

After telling her everything, Harry added, “You’re almost off duty. Stop by. Maybe we can figure this out.”

“Be there.”

As Harry pulled up to the barn, out rushed Tucker.

“There’s an intruder in the hayloft!”

Bending over, Harry smiled. “You’re excited.”

Poor Tucker did all she could. She’d run a few paces ahead, stop, turn, bark, but her warnings were useless.

When Harry walked into the barn, the cats in the hayloft leaned over. “Run!”

“Aren’t you two the busybodies?”

“She is abysmally stupid,” Pewter wailed.