Рита Браун - Pay Dirt

Little Marilyn waved her hand. "She got over it. Well, I've finished the last. Might as well put these back in order."

Big Marilyn knocked on the door. Her daughter lived on a dependency on her mother's estate. Dependency, although the correct word, hardly described the lovely frame house, a chaste Federal with a tin roof and green-black shutters. "Hello, girls. Find anything?"

"No, Mother. We were just putting the letters back in place."

"You tried, that's the important thing." She breathed deeply. "What an inviting aroma."

"Cherry pie. You need to sample it. I'm branching into pies now. Market sells out of my doughnuts, muffins, and buns by eight-thirty every morning. He says he needs something for the after-work trade, so I'm experimenting with pies. Don't think of this as calories, think of this as market research."

"Bad pun," Harry teased her.

"Just a tad." Mim held her fingers close together as Miranda blithely ignored her and cut out a full portion. As she did so, a drop of cherry sauce plopped on a letter.

"Clumsy me."

"Don't worry about it," Little Marilyn instructed her.

Mrs. Hogendobber placed the knife on the pie plate, then bent over. She carefully wiped the letter with a napkin. "Hmm."

"Really, Mrs. Hogendobber, don't worry about it."

"I'm not, actually." Miranda handed the letter to Harry. Queer.

Harry studied the airmail envelope from France, postmarked St. Tropez, 1988. "Always wanted to go there."

"Where?" Mim inquired.

"St. Tropez."

"One of Aysha's. I don't think she missed a city in France."

"Look closer." Mrs. Hogendobber pointed to the postmark.

Harry squinted. "The ink."

"Precisely." Mrs. Hogendobber folded her hands, as happy in Harry's progress as if she'd been a star pupil.

"What are you two talking about?" Mim was nosy.

Harry walked over and placed the letter in the elder Marilyn's lap. Mim pulled out her half-moon glasses and held the letter under her nose.

"Look at the color of the ink." Harry cast her eyes around the piles of letters for another one from France. "Ah, here's one. Paris. Look at the color here. This one is from Kerry."

"Different, slightly but different." Mim removed her glasses. "Aren't inks like dye lots? This letter is from Paris. That one from St. Tropez."

"Yes, but postal inks are remarkably consistent." Harry was now on her hands and knees. She pulled out letters. "The letters from 1986 are genuine. But here, here's one from Florence, December 1987." Harry handed that letter to Little Marilyn while giving her one from Italy the year before.

"There really is a shade of difference." Little Marilyn was surprised.

Within seconds Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber were on their hands and knees tossing the letters into piles segregated by year.

"You two are fast. Let me help." Little Marilyn joined them.

"Want to work in the P.O.?" Harry joked.

Mim stayed in the chair. Her knees hurt and she didn't want to admit it. Finally they had all the piles sorted out.

"There's no doubt about this. Kerry's postmarks are authentic. Aysha's are authentic until 1987. Then the inks change." Harry rubbed her chin. "This is strange."

"Surely, there's a mistake." Mim was confused by the implication.

"Mim, I've worked in the post office since George took over in 1958. This postmark is forged. Any good stationer can create a round stamp. That's simple. Aysha nearly matched the inks, probably from the postmarks on letters she'd received from Little Marilyn and Kerry in Europe, but different countries have different formulas. Well, now, think of stationery itself. Haven't you noticed how the paper of a personal letter from England is a bit different from our own?"

"Then how did the letters get here?" Big Marilyn asked the key question.

"That's easy if you have a friend in Crozet." Harry crossed her legs like an Indian. "All she had to do was mail these letters in a manila envelope and have her friend distribute them."

"Much as I hate to admit it, when George was postmaster, he let a lot of people behind the counter. We do too, to tell the truth, as you well know. It wouldn't take much to slip tbese letters into the appropriate boxes when one's back was turned. Some of the letters are addressed to Little Marilyn in care of Ottoline Gill."

"Well, I guess we know who her friend was," Harry said.

"Why would her mother participate in such subterfuge?" Mim was astounded. But then, Mim was also secure in her social position.

"Because she didn't want anyone to know what Aysha was really doing. Maybe it didn't fit the program," Harry answered.

"Then where was she and what was she doing?" Little Marilyn, eyes wide, asked.

43

Little Marilyn turned over the letters to Rick Shaw that night. He emphatically swore everyone to secrecy when he arrived. Mim demanded to know what he was going to do about it, where it might lead, and he finally said, "I don't know exactly, but I will do everything I can to find out why. I won't set this aside—just trust me."

"I have no choice." She pursed her lips.

After he left, the group broke up to go home. Quietly pulling aside Harry, Little Marilyn nervously asked, "Would you mind terribly—and believe me I understand if you do—but if not, would you mind if I asked Blair to drive over to Richmond with me for the symphony?"

"No, not at all."

"You see, I'm not sure of your status—that's not how I meant to say it, but—"

"I understand. I'm not sure either."

"Do you care for him?" She didn't realize she was holding her hands tightly. Another minute, and she'd be wringing them.

Harry took a deep breath. "He's one of the best-looking men I've ever laid eyes on, and I like him. I know you like his curly hair." She smiled. "But Blair's diffident, for lack of a better word. He likes me fine, but I don't think he's in love with me."

"What about that fight at the party?"

"Two dogs with a bone. I'm not sure it was as much about me as about property rights."

"Oh, Harry, that's cynical. I think they both care for you very much."

"Tell me, Marilyn, what does it mean for a man to care for a woman?"

"I know what they say when they want something—" Little Marilyn paused. "And they buy presents, they work hard, they'll do anything to get your attention. But I'm not an expert on love."

"Is anybody?" Harry smiled. "Miranda, maybe."

"She certainly had George wrapped around her little finger." Then Little Marilyn brightened. "Because she knew the way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

They both laughed, which caused Mim and Mrs. Hogen-dobber to turn to them.

"How can you laugh at a time like this?" Mim snapped.

"Releasing tension, Mother."

"Find another way to do it."

Little Marilyn whispered to Harry, "I could bash her. That would do it for sure."

Harry whispered back, "You'd have help."

"Mother means well, but she can't stop telling everyone what to do and how to do it."

"Will you two speak up?" Mim demanded.

"We were discussing the high heel as a weapon," Harry lied.

"Oh."

Little Marilyn picked up the thread. "With all this violence— guns, strangling—we were talking about what we would do if someone attacked us. Well, take off your heels and hit him in the eye. Just as hard as you can."

"Gruesome. Or hit him on the back of the head when he runs," Harry added.

"Harry." Mim stared hard at her feet. "You only wear sneakers."

"Do you remember Delphine Falkenroth?" Miranda asked Mim.

"Yes, she got that modeling job in New York City right after the war."

"Once she hailed a cab and a man ran right in front of her and hopped in it. Delphine said she held on to the door and hit him so many times over the head with her high heel that he swore like a fishmonger, but he surrendered the cab." She waited a beat. "She married him, of course."