Рита Браун - Rest In Pieces

Neither Rick nor Cynthia felt the need to rehash those details.

“Don’t you find it curious that—”

“Curious?!” Blair erupted, cutting off Rick. “It’s sick!”

“Do you have any enemies?” Cynthia inquired.

Blair lapsed into silence. “My agent, occasionally.”

“What’s his name?” Rick had a pencil and pad out.

“Her name. Gwendolyn Blackwell. She’s not my enemy but she broods if I don’t take every job that comes down the pike. That woman would work me into an early grave if I let her.”

“That’s it? No irate husbands? No jilted ladies? No jealous competitor?”

“Sheriff, modeling isn’t as glamorous as you might suppose.”

“I thought all you guys were gay,” Rick blurted out.

“Fifty-fifty, I’d say.” Blair had heard this so many times it didn’t rock his boat.

“Is there anyone you can think of—the wildest connection doesn’t matter— anyone who would know enough to duplicate what happened to Robin?”

Blair cast his deep eyes on Cynthia. It made her heart flutter. “Not one person. I really do think this is a grim coincidence.”

Rick and Cynthia left as baffled as they were when they arrived. They’d keep an eye on Blair, but then they’d keep an eye on everyone.

27

The western half of Albemarle County would soon feel the blade of the bulldozer. The great state of Virginia and its Department of Highways, a little fiefdom, decided to create a bypass through much of the best land in the county. Businesses would be obliterated, pastures uprooted, property values crunched, and dreams strangled. The western bypass, as it came to be known, had the distinction of being outmoded before it was even begun. That and the fact that it imperiled the watershed meant little to the highway department. They wanted the western bypass and they were going to have it no matter who they displaced and no matter how they scarred the environment.

The uproar caused by this high-handed tactic obscured the follow-up story about the head in the pumpkin. Since no one could identify the corpse, interest fizzled. It would remain a good story for Halloweens to come.

The respite was appreciated by Jim Sanburne, mayor, and the civic worthies of Crozet. Big Marilyn refused to discuss the subject, so it withered in her social circle, which was to say the six or seven ladies as snobbish as herself.

Little Marilyn recovered sufficiently to call her brother, Stafford, and invite him home for a weekend. This upset Mim more than the sum of the body parts. It meant she’d have to be sociable with his wife, Brenda.

This projected discomfort, awarded to Little Marilyn in lavish proportions by her mother, almost made the young woman back down and uninvite her brother and his wife. But it was opening hunt, such a pretty sight, and Stafford loved to photograph such events. She kept her nerve. Stafford would be home next weekend.

Weary of the swirl of tempestuous egos, Fitz-Gilbert decided to stay out late that night. First he stopped at Charley’s, where he bumped into Ben Seifert on his way out. Fitz tossed back one beer and then hit the road again. He ran into Fair Haristeen at Sloan’s and pulled up the barstool next to the vet.

“A night of freedom?”

Fair signaled for a beer for Fitz. “You might call it that. What about you?”

“It’s been a hell of a week. You know my office was ransacked. Doesn’t appear to have anything to do with the . . . murder . . . but it was upsetting on top of everything else. The sheriff and his deputy came out, took notes and so forth. Some money was missing, and a CD player, but obviously it’s not at the top of their list. Then Cabell Hall called me to tell me to watch my stock market investments, since the market is on a oneway trip these days—down—and my mother-in-law—oh, well, why talk about her? Oh, I just ran into Ben Seifert at Charley’s. He’s an okay guy, but he’s just burning to succeed Cabell some day. The thought of Ben Seifert running Allied National gives me pause. And then of course there’s my father-in-law. He wants to call out the National Guard.

“Those are my problems. What are yours?” Fitz asked.

“I don’t know.” Fair was puzzled. “BoomBoom’s out with that model guy. She says he asked her to the Cancer Fund Ball but I don’t know. He didn’t seem that interested in her when I met him. I kind of thought he liked Harry.”

“Here’s to women.” Fitz-Gilbert smiled. “I don’t know anything about them but I’ve got one.” He clinked glasses with Fair.

Fair laughed. “My daddy used to say, ‘You can’t live with them and you can’t live without them.’ I didn’t know what he was talking about. I do now.”

“Marilyn is great by herself. It’s when she’s in the company of her mother . . .” Fitz-Gilbert wiped froth off his lips. “My mother-in-law can be a whistling bitch. I feel guilty just being here . . . like I slipped my leash. But I’m glad I didn’t get dragged to the Cancer Ball. Marilyn says she can only do but so many a year, and she wanted to get things ready for Stafford and Brenda. Thank God. I need the break.”

Fair changed the subject. “Do you think this new guy likes Harry? I thought guys like that wanted leggy blondes or other guys.”

“Can’t speak for his preferences, but Harry’s a good-looking woman. Natural. Outdoorsy. I’ll never know why you guys broke up, buddy.”

Fair, unaccustomed to exchanging much personal information, sat quietly and then signaled for another beer. “She’s a good person. We grew up together. We dated in high school. We, well, she was more like my sister than my wife.”

“Yeah, but you knew BoomBoom since you were yay-high,” Fitz countered.

“Not the same.”

“That’s the truth.”

“Just what do you mean by that?” Fair felt prickly anxiety creeping up his spine.

“Uh . . . well, I mean that they are so totally different from one another. One’s a quarter horse and the other’s a racehorse.” What he wanted to say was, “One’s a quarter horse and the other’s a jackass,” but he didn’t. “BoomBoom puts lead in your pencil. I’ve seen her start motors that have been stalled for years.”

Fair smiled broadly. “She is attractive.”

“Dynamite, buddy, dynamite.” Fitz, less inhibited than usual, kept on. “But I’d take Harry any day of the week. She’s funny. She’s a partner. She’s a friend. That other stuff—hey, Fair, it gets old.”

“You’re certainly forthcoming,” came the dry reply.

“Nothing’s preventing you from telling me to keep my mouth shut.”

“While we’re on the subject, tell me what you see in Little Marilyn. She’s a miniature of her mother, on her way to being as cold as a wedge, and near as I can tell she’s even slacking off on the charity work. What’s the—”

“Attraction?” Fitz decided not to take offense. After all, he was handing it out so he’d better take it. “The truth? The truth is that I married her because it was the thing to do. Two respectable family fortunes. Two great family names. My parents, had they lived, would have been proud. Superficial stuff, when you get right down to it. And I was kind of wild as a kid. I was ready to settle down. I needed to settle down. What’s strange is that I’ve come to love Marilyn. You don’t know the real Marilyn. When she’s not knocking herself out trying to be superior she’s pretty wonderful. She’s a shy little bug and underneath it there’s a good heart. And what’s so funny is that I think she likes me too. I don’t think she married me for love, any more than I married her for it. She went along with the merger orchestrated by that harridan ”—he sputtered the word—“of a mother. Maybe Mim knew more than we did. Whatever the reason, I have learned to love my wife. And someday I hope I can tear her away from this place. We’ll go someplace where the names Sanburne and Hamilton don’t mean diddly.”