Рита Браун - Rest In Pieces

“Mother, that’s a harsh judgment.”

“I see no need to pussyfoot.”

“He handled many of our trusts, or at least Allied did, so he knew who had what.” Fitz gobbled a brownie. “But Cabell would have had his hide if he thought for an instant that Ben was dishonest.”

“Maybe someone’s trust was running out.” Carol Jones thought out loud. “And maybe that person expected a favor from Ben. What if he didn’t deliver?”

“Or someone caught him with his hand in the till.” The Reverend Jones added his thoughts.

“I don’t think this has anything to do with Ben and sticky fingers.” Harry crossed her legs underneath her. “Ben’s death is tied to that unidentified body.”

“Oh, Harry, that’s a stretch.” Fitz reached for his Bloody Mary.

“It’s a feeling. I can’t explain it.” Harry’s quiet conviction was unsettling.

“You stick to your feelings. I’ll stick to facts,” Fitz-Gilbert jabbed.

Fair spoke up, defending Harry. “I used to think that way, too, but life with Harry taught me to listen to, well, feelings.”

“Well, what do your deeper voices tell you now?” Mim said “deeper” with an impertinent edge.

“That we don’t know much at all,” Harry said firmly. “That now one of us has been killed and we can’t feel so safe in our sleep anymore because we haven’t one clue, one single idea as to motive. Is this a nut who comes out at the full moon? Is it someone with a grudge finally settling the score? Is this a cover-up for something else? Something we can’t begin to imagine? My deeper voice tells me to keep eyes in the back of my head.”

That shut up the room for a moment.

“You’re right.” Herbie placed his plate on the coffee table. “And I am not unconvinced that there may be some satanic element to this. I’ve not spoken of it before because it’s so disturbing. But certain cults do practice ritual killings and how they dispatch their victims is part of the ritual. We have one corpse dismembered, and, well, we don’t know how Ben died.”

“Do we know how the other fellow died?” Little Marilyn asked.

“Blow to the head,” Ned Tucker informed them. “Larry Johnson performed the autopsy and I ran into him after that. I don’t believe, Herbie, that satanic cults usually bash in heads.”

“No, most don’t.”

“So, we’re back to square one.” Fitz got up for another dessert. “We’re not in danger. I bet you when the authorities examine Ben’s books they’ll find discrepancies, or another set of books.”

“Even if this is over misallocation of funds, that doesn’t tell us who killed him or who killed that other man,” Susan stated.

“These murders do have something to do with Satan.” Mrs. Hogendobber’s clear alto voice rang out. “The Devil has sunk his deep claws into someone, and forgive the old expression, but there will be hell to pay.”

35

Long shadows spilled over the graves of Grace and Cliff Minor. The sun was setting, a golden oracle sending tongues of flame up from the Blue Ridge Mountains. The scarlet streaks climbed heavenward and then changed to gold, golden pink, lavender, deep purple, and finally deep Prussian-blue, Night’s first kiss.

Harry wrapped her scarf around her neck as she watched the sun’s last shout on this day. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker sat at her feet. The aching melancholy of the sunset ripped through her with needles of sorrow. She mourned the loss of the sun; she wanted to bathe in rivers of light. Each twilight she would suspend her chores for a moment, to trust that the sun would return tomorrow like a new birth. And this evening that same hope tugged but with a sharper pull. The future is ever blind. The sun would rise but would she?

No one believes she will die; neither her mother nor her father did. Like a game of tag, Death is “it,” and around he chases, touching people who fall to earth. Surely she would get up at dawn; another day would unfold like an opening rose. But hadn’t Ben Seifert believed that also? Losing a parent, wrenching and profound, felt very different to Harry than losing a peer. Benjamin Seifert graduated from Crozet High School one year ahead of Harry. This time Death had tagged someone close to her—at least close in age.

A terrible loneliness gnawed at Harry. Those tombstones covered the two people who gave her life. She remembered their teachings, she remembered their voices, and she remembered their laughter. Who would remember them when she was gone, and who would hold the memory of her life? Century after century the human race lurched two steps forward and one step back, but always there were good people, funny people, strong people, and their memories washed away with the ages. Kings and queens received a mention in the chronicles, but what about the horse trainers, the farmers, the seamstresses? What about the postmistresses and stagecoach drivers? Who would hold the memory of their lives?

The loneliness filled her. If she could have, she would have embraced every life and cherished it. As it was, she was struggling on with her own.

Harry began to fear the coming years. Formerly, time was her ally. Now she wasn’t so sure. If death could snatch you in an instant, then life had better be lived to the fullest. The worst thing would be to go down in the grave without having lived.

The bite of the night’s air made her fingertips tingle and her toes hurt. She whistled to Tucker and Mrs. Murphy and started back for the house.

Harry was not by nature an introspective person. She liked to work. She liked to see the results of her work. Deeper thoughts and philosophic worries were for other people. But after today’s jolt Harry turned inward, if only for a brief moment, and was suffused with life’s sadness and harmony.

36

A terrible rumpus outside awoke Mrs. Murphy and Tucker. Mrs. Murphy ran to the window.

“It’s Simon and the raccoons.”

Tucker barked to wake up Harry, because now that it was cold Harry made sure to shut the back door tight, and they couldn’t get out to the screened-in porch. That door was easy to open, so if Harry would just open the back door they could get outside.

“Go away, Tucker,” Harry groaned.

“Wake up, Mom. Come on.”

“Goddammit.” Harry’s feet hit the cold floor. She thought the dog was barking at an animal or had to go to the bathroom. She tramped downstairs and opened the back door and both creatures zoomed out. “Go on out and freeze your asses. I’m not letting you back in.”

The cat and dog didn’t have time to reply. They streaked toward Simon, backed up against the barn by two masked raccoons.

“Beat it!” Tucker barked.

Mrs. Murphy, fur puffed up to the max, ears flat back, spit and howled, “I’ll rip your eyes out!”

The raccoons decided they didn’t want to fight, so they waddled off.

“Thanks,” Simon puffed, his flanks heaving.

“What was all that about?” Mrs. Murphy asked.

“Marshmallows. Blair put out marshmallows and I love them. Unfortunately, so do those creeps. They chased me all the way back here.” A trickle of blood oozed from Simon’s pink nose. His left ear was also bleeding.