Рита Браун - Tail Gait

Sliding behind the wheel, Harry glanced into the rearview mirror. The two cats, eyes wide open, observed everything she and Susan did.

Harry thought to change the subject. “Hell of a shot you made back there off the tee.”

Susan cried all the harder, so Harry drove her the rest of the way home in silence. She tried to remember everything from the last three holes. They’d been told that Ginger was on the eleventh hole, close to where they were when they heard gunfire. The eleventh hole is catty-cornered from where? A variety of ideas flitted through her mind, which she carefully did not share with Susan, whom she walked to her door.

“Want me to stay with you?” Harry asked.

Sniffling, Susan said, “No, no. Ned will be home soon. I expect he was called. If Sheriff Shaw ever needs any state support, he knows Ned is right here and will see he gets what he needs.”

“All right, then.” Harry handed Susan the keys to the Audi and returned to her truck, which she had left at Susan’s house.

Lifting the cats in, although they could climb in themselves, she stepped on the foot rail to swing herself up. Harry didn’t cry until she got home.

April 13, 2015

Bumping along, the old John Deere tractor called Johnny Pop emitted the noise from its exhaust pipe that gave it its name. Harry could always think better when she was outside doing a chore. The crevices on the east side of the Blue Ridge Mountains had not yet escaped winter, but the sides flashed the first blush of red in the swelling leaf buds. She often wondered about that color when the sun hit the buds just before they opened. Why the red color and not green? She made a note to look that up when she returned to the farmhouse.

Red, the color of blood, dark if flowing from a vein, gorgeous red if spurting from an artery. One can’t grow up in the country and not have seen cuts, wounds, or even worse. She wondered if Ginger had been covered in blood.

Turning the tractor around, she headed back toward the barn, a quarter of a mile away. She saw Cooper stepping out of a squad car, by the barn.

Tucker, the corgi, sat at the tall officer’s feet. The intrepid dog trusted the deputy because Cooper always smelled safe.

The cats were sprawled in the tack room office. They paid no attention to the crunch of tires, the closing of a door, or the pop-pop of the tractor pulling up outside. Harry cut the motor. The John Deere let one last loud report, almost like gunfire.

Harry climbed down as Tucker walked over to her.

“Hey, what are you doing out here at this time of day?”

Cooper leaned against the door. “Aunt Tally called. She said her sidesaddle was missing, and she proceeded to inform me of the value.”

“So Rick sent you out here?” asked Harry, mentioning the sheriff.

“Aunt Tally’s important,” Cooper simply answered. “They’ve got a team on Saturday’s murder. I could be spared, the reason being that I can get along with Aunt Tally. Few can. Also, she knows everybody, their parents, their grandparents, their great-grandparents.”

“That’s a fact.” Harry nodded, as Aunt Tally was now 102. Surely, she’d be the first human to reach two hundred years.

“Turns out that her great-niece took the saddle to her house to clean it up. One problem solved.” Cooper brushed her hands together. “And Aunt Tally had no idea why Professor Ginger McConnell would be shot.”

“Come on and have a cup of tea with me,” Harry invited Cooper. “I could use a pickup.”

“You know, I could use one too.”

So different in backgrounds, the two women walked up the old brick path across the lawn to the screened-in porch door. Tucker hurried in to accompany them. The cats would miss extra treats, plus the chat between the humans. Already Tucker relished dispensing information only she had. That would irritate Pewter to no end.

In the kitchen, Harry asked, “Constant Comment? A green tea? I even have white teas, and if you want a real bomb wake-up I have my Yorkshire Gold.”

“Yorkshire. I don’t know why I’m sleepy today.”

“Low pressure. Be raining mid-afternoon, one of those soaking, steady April rains.” Harry pulled out two small silver tea balls, into which she put the correct amount of leaves. If you’re going to make a cup of tea, do it properly. She then opened a cabinet door with a squeak, lifted out an old Brown Betty teapot, beloved of her mother.

A few minutes later, cup finally in hand, Cooper sipped the restorative beverage. “You’ve known the professor since childhood?”

Sitting opposite her, Harry remarked, “And I thought this was a social call.”

“It is. You, Fair, Miranda, Aunt Tally, all of you born and bred around these parts, you know everyone and sometimes have insights I don’t.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is until you think you can be an amateur detective.”

“Me? I wouldn’t think of it!”

They both let that fat fib sit on the table. Below the table, even Tucker stifled a small bark.

“You didn’t study with him,” said Susan. “You were at Smith. Can you think of anyone who would want to kill Ginger McConnell?”

Harry leaned forward. “No, but Ginger bore the brunt of displeasure, that’s the only way I know how to describe it, when the push for clarity about Thomas Jefferson’s relationship with the slave Sally Hemings began to make news. The debate grew fiercer. I remember the uproar beginning in the eighties. Might be off a year or two, but the controversy kept going until DNA settled it, more or less.”

“And?”

“Well, Ginger publicly said and was quoted in papers—even national papers—saying what any true historian would say, ‘No line of inquiry should be shut down for ulterior considerations.’ It was that word ulterior that was the match in the tinderbox.”

“You mean for those who denied the possibility of a relationship between the two?” Cooper’s eyebrows raised.

“No, both sides. The racists, naturally, blew a fuse. Maybe racists is the wrong word. They didn’t think of themselves that way, they thought of themselves as defending the honor of a great man, while others didn’t want to think about it. The descendants of Jefferson’s liaison with Hemings thought they were being accused of seeking monetary gain. It was such a mess, but Ginger kept his hand on the tiller. He wouldn’t cave to pressure from either side. He kept insisting we must collect and study all the evidence. Personally, he believed Hemings was Jefferson’s mistress, but he never publicly said this. He truly believed no line of inquiry should be shut down.” Harry added, “Today is Jefferson’s birthday, by the way. April thirteenth, 1743.”

Cooper held up her cup to clink Harry’s, a toast of tea.

“Did he ever explain to you what he meant by ulterior ?”

“He did. To Ginger, anything other than seeking the truth meant an ulterior motive. He was quite strict that way. Maybe a little too strict.” She drained her cup, thought for a moment. “Do you think someone killed the professor over that? Now?”

“No. Well, let me back up a minute. Could a nutcase become inflamed reviewing that old issue? Sure. A nutcase can find a reason to kill you if you wear cargo pants. You never know.”

“How was he killed?”

“High-caliber handgun. Two shots. Chest.”

“Dear God!” Harry’s hand covered her own heart. “Fair and I were going to go see Trudy, but Reverend Jones said to wait. He would tell us when she was ready. In the meantime, I know Trudy’s friends and her daughters are doing all that can be done. The house has to be opened, and people have to come by, you know.”