Рита Браун - Whisker Of Evil

When Harry began to look a little tatty, Susan Tucker would drag her to Tyson’s Corner—not Milan, Paris, or New York, but Nordstrom’s was at Tyson’s Corner and that was a plus. The real reason Harry allowed herself to be yanked up to Occupied Virginia—as Crozians thought of northern Virginia—was so she could then drive over to Middleburg and visit her Smith College friends, a few of whom had settled there. It should be noted, those Smithies had also married quite well.

Alone, Harry had finally popped the last letter in the box when she noticed Big Mim’s sleek Bentley Turbo R glide past the post office. Seated next to Mim was the unmistakable profile of one of the most beautiful women of her or any generation, Alicia Palmer.

Harry heard the deep motor purr as the Bentley rolled around the back of the post office. Big Mim was just as happy coming in the back door as the front. She rapped on the back door.

Federal regulations specified that this back door should be locked, but life in a small town and in a small post office challenges such restrictions. Harry usually kept the back door unlocked because Miranda came in that way. Rob Collier, if the day’s drop was large, would pull in the back alley instead of the front. If she counted all the times she would need to open the back door, it just made more sense to keep it unlocked. Since the front-door parking lot was small and often full, friends just naturally came ’round the back way.

“Harry, dear,” Big Mim cooed as she stepped through the door. “Alicia’s home for a good long stay.”

Alicia extended her hand to Harry. “It’s been a long time between visits. You look as fresh and fit as ever.”

Big Mim grumbled, “A summa cum laude from Smith sorting mail. Alicia, encourage her to better herself.”

“Don’t pay the least bit of attention to her, Harry. She always was a dictator.” Alicia squeezed Harry’s hand.

At this Mim laughed. Most people were scared to death of the powerful woman. When someone teased her as Alicia did, it actually delighted her.

“You look gorgeous, Miss Palmer. We wish you’d move back to St. James permanently.”

“Must have had the world’s best face-lift,” Pewter cynically commented.

“She really is stunning,” Mrs. Murphy said. “Who cares how she does it?”

“I think Mom looks stunning.” The corgi stoutly stuck up for Harry.

“Oh, Tucker, that is so sweet, but Mom has all the fashion sense of a praying mantis.” Pewter hopped on the divider counter to be closer to the humans.

The corgi defiantly curled back her upper lip. “You say! Well, she has a wonderful face and the best body. Not an ounce of fat on her, and if she wanted to wear expensive clothes she’d look better than anyone else.” Tucker then sat next to Harry’s leg, refusing to even cast a glance at the fat gray cat.

“. . . the most extraordinary thing.” Big Mim finished her sentence on Harry finding Mary Pat’s class ring. She reached for Harry’s hand.

Harry held up her hand for Alicia, then thought it better to slip off the ring so the retired movie star could study it.

Alicia placed the gold ring in her palm. “She was so proud of her high school.” She peered inside at the inscription, M.P.R., 1945.

“Would you like the ring, Miss Palmer?” Harry spontaneously offered it.

Alicia looked into Harry’s eyes, her own violet eyes filling with tears. “You’re very kind.” She took a deep breath. “You keep it, Harry. Mary Pat bestowed upon me wealth worth a raj’s ransom—that and a wealth of wisdom. I learned so much from that woman.” She gently handed the ring back to Harry. “She died much too young.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wished her dead?” Harry inquired.

“No. I was the prime suspect. Obviously, I didn’t kill her. I never would have killed her. God, what an awful, awful time.” Alicia noticed Pewter and Mrs. Murphy on the counter. “Still working at the post office, I see.”

“Yes, couldn’t do it without them. Tucker, too,” Harry answered.

Alicia looked down at two bright eyes looking back up. “If dogs can fetch the paper, why not deliver the mail?” She laughed.

“Harry, dear, come over tonight. I’m giving an impromptu dinner party for Alicia. I browbeat her into it.”

“Now, Mim, you didn’t have to browbeat.”

“Harry, it’s a hen party.” Big Mim smiled. “Wear something cool.” The elegant small woman then said to Alicia in a stage whisper, “If Harry presses her jeans and white T-shirt, that’s formal.”

Harry laughed at her as well as at herself. “Oh, I’ll tart myself up.”

The two left by the back door just as Sugar Thierry lurched through the front door. He walked to his mailbox but kept inserting his key into the box to the left of his. “Harry, Harry, this damned key won’t work.”

Harry leaned over the counter and noticed sweat running down Sugar’s face. “One box to the right.”

He slipped his key in, turned it, and the heavy brass door with the glass front flipped open. “Right.” He pulled out his mail, dropping some of it, then he bent over, picked it up. He walked to the long table in the middle of the entry area to sort his mail. He’d study an envelope, throw it in the trash, then retrieve it.

“He’s not right,” Mrs. Murphy observed.

“Maybe he’s hung over,” Pewter opined.

“We’d smell it,” Tucker sagely noted. “I smell his scent, though. It’s heavy because he’s sweating.”

Then Sugar gave up on sorting his mail, glanced up at Harry, and realized she was staring at him. He burst into sobs. “Harry, Harry, I can’t stop thinking about Barry. There’s evil in this world. Terrible evil.” He choked back another wrenching sob. “Nureyev, Nijinsky, Fred Astaire.” He rattled off the names of three thoroughbred sires.

“Sugar, are you all right?” asked Harry, who knew perfectly well he wasn’t. “Let me get you a Coke, or how about tea?”

His eyes, glazed, widened. “No, I’m fine. I’m fine.” He bolted out the front door.

Harry hurried to the phone, dialing Dr. Hayden McIntire in the office.

The receptionist, Frances, picked up the phone. “Oh, hi, Harry.” Harry had a distinctive alto voice. Once heard it was not forgotten. “What’s up?”

“Is Doc there?”

“If you mean Hayden, no. He’s out on the golf course with David Wheeler, Cindy Chandler, and BoomBoom. He’s got Cindy as his partner. He just might keep that money in his pocket.” Frances laughed. “What do you need?”

“It’s not me. It’s Sugar Thierry. I think he’s sick. Bad sick.”

“Oh, Bill’s here. Let me page him.”

A few moments passed and Bill picked up the phone. “Hello, Harry. Frances said you were concerned about Sugar Thierry.”

“Yes. He was Barry Monteith’s business partner.” She clearly identified Sugar because Bill was new to the community. He hadn’t been in Crozet a year yet.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“He’s sweating; he must have a terrible fever. And he’s, well, I don’t know how to say this—he’s acting loopy, looney. He’s not a drinker.”

“Where is he?”

Harry looked out the front door. Sugar was trying to open the door to his truck. He slid down to his knees. “Bill, he’s out front. He’s really sick. He can’t get in his truck.”

Bill, his office just a short distance away, said, “I’ll be right there.”

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