Рита Браун - Rest In Pieces

The two women, accompanied by the animals, walked the limits of the possum’s turf. By the time they swept by the cemetery, both considered that it was possible, just possible, that the earring came from there.

Susan stopped by the iron fence. “How do we know the earring doesn’t belong to Blair? It could have been his girlfriend’s. There could be a woman now that we don’t know about.”

“I’ll ask him.”

“That might not be wise.”

Harry considered that. “Well, I don’t agree but I’ll do it your way.” She paused. “What’s your way?”

“To casually ask our women friends if anyone has lost an earring, and what does it look like?”

“Well, Jesus, Susan, if a woman is the killer or is in on this, that’s going to get—”

Susan held up her hands. “You’re right. You’re right. Next plan. We get into the jewelry boxes of our friends.”

“Easier said than done.”

“But it can be done.”

41

Frost coated the windowpanes, creating a crystalline kaleidoscope. The lamplight reflected off the silver swirls. Outside it was black as pitch.

Little Marilyn and Fitz-Gilbert, snug in Porthault sheets and a goose-down comforter, studied their Christmas lists.

Little Marilyn checked off Carol Jones’s name.

Fitz looked over her list. “What did you get Carol?”

“This wonderful book of photographs which create a biography of a Montana woman. What a life, and it’s pure serendipity that the old photos were saved.”

Fitz pointed to a name on her list. “Scratch that.”

Little Marilyn, Xeroxing last year’s Christmas list as a guide, had forgotten to remove Ben Seifert’s name. She grimaced.

They returned to their lists and after a bit she interrupted Fitz. “Ben had access to our records.”

“Uh-huh.” Fitz wasn’t exactly paying attention.

“Did you check our investments?”

“Yes.” Fitz remained uninterested.

She jabbed him with her elbow.

“Ow.” He turned toward her. “What?”

“And? Our investments?!”

“First of all, Ben Seifert was a banker, not a stockbroker. There’s little he could have done to our investments. Cabby double-checked our accounts just to make sure. Everything’s okay.”

“You never liked Ben, did you?”

“Did you?” Fitz’s eyebrow rose.

“No.”

“Then why are you asking me what you already know?”

“Well, it’s curious how you get feelings about people. You didn’t like him. I didn’t like him. Yet we were nice to him.”

“We’re nice to everybody.” Fitz thought that was true, although he knew his wife could sometimes be a pale imitation of her imperious mother.

They went back to work on their lists. Little Marilyn interrupted again. “What if it was Ben who ransacked your office?”

Surrendering to the interruption, Fitz put down his list. “Where on earth do you get these ideas?”

“I don’t know. Just popped into my head. But then what would you have that he wanted? Unless he was siphoning off our accounts, but both you and Cabby say all is well.”

“All is well. I don’t know who violated my office. Rick Shaw doesn’t have a clue and since the computer and Xerox machine were unmolested, he’s treating it as an unrelated vandalism. Kid stuff, most likely.”

“Like whoever is knocking over mailboxes with baseball bats in Earlysville?”

“When did that happen?” Fitz’s eyes widened in curiosity.

“Don’t you read the ‘Crime Report’ in the Sunday paper?” He shook his head, so Little Marilyn continued. “For the last six or seven months someone’s been driving around in the late afternoon, smashing up mailboxes with baseball bats.”

“You don’t miss much, do you, honey?” Fitz put his arm around her.

She smiled back. “Once things settle down around here . . .”

“You mean, once they downshift from chaos to a dull roar?”

“Yes . . . let’s go to the Homestead. I need a break from all this. And I need a break from Mother.”

“Amen.”

42

Weeks passed, and the frenzy of Christmas preparations clouded over the recent bizarre events until they were virtually obscured by holiday cheer. Virginia plunged into winter, skies alternating between steel-gray and brilliant blue. The mountains, moody with the weather, changed colors hourly. The spots of color remaining were the bright-red holly berries and the orange pyracantha berries. Fields lapsed into brown; the less well-cared-for fields waved with bright broomstraw. The ground thawed and froze, thawed and froze, so fox hunting was never a sure thing. Harry called before each scheduled meet.

The post office, awash in tons of mail, provided Harry with a slant on Christmas different from other people’s. Surely the Devil invented the Christmas card. Volume, staggering this year, caused her to call in Mrs. Hogendobber for the entire month of December, and she wangled good pay for her friend too.

So far, Susan had rummaged through BoomBoom’s jewelry, an easy task, since BoomBoom loved showing off her goodies. Harry picked over Miranda’s earrings, not such an easy task, since Miranda kept asking “Why?” and Harry lied by saying that it had to do with Christmas. The result was that she had to buy Miranda a pair of earrings to put under her Christmas tree. Biff McGuire and Pat Harlan found the perfect pair for Mrs. H., large ovals of beaten gold. They were a bit more than Harry could comfortably afford, but what the hell—Miranda had been a port in a storm at the post office. She also splurged and bought Susan a pair of big gold balls. That exhausted her budget except for presents for Mrs. Murphy and Tucker.

Fair and BoomBoom were holding and eroding. She asked Blair to accompany her to a Piedmont Environmental Council meeting under the guise of acquainting him with the area’s progressive people. This she did but she also performed at her best and Blair began to revise somewhat his opinion of BoomBoom, enough, at least, to invite her to a gala fund-raiser in New York City.

Harry and Miranda were up to their knees in Christmas cards when Fair Haristeen pushed open the front door.

“Hi,” Harry called to him. “Fair, we’re behind. I know you’ve got more mail than is in your box but I don’t know when I’ll find it. As you can see, we’re hard pressed.”

“Didn’t come in for that. Morning, Mrs. Hogendobber.”

“Morning, Fair.”

“Guess you know that BoomBoom left this morning for New York. Her Christmas shopping spree.”

“Yes.” Harry didn’t know how much Fair knew, so she kept mum.

“Guess you know, too, that Blair Bainbridge is taking her to the Knickerbocker Christmas Ball at the Waldorf. I hear princes and dukes will be there.”

So he did know. “Sounds very glamorous.”