Рита Браун: Rest In Pieces

Those extraordinarily beautiful October days and nights would come back to haunt Harry and her animal friends. Everything seemed so perfect. No one is ever prepared for evil in the face of beauty.

3

“He has not only the absence of fear but of all scruple.” Mrs. Hogendobber’s alto voice vibrated with the importance of her story. “Well, I was shocked completely when I discovered that Ben Seifert, branch manager of our local bank, indulges in sharp business practices. He tried to get me to take out a loan on my house, which is paid for, Mr. Bainbridge. He said he was sure I needed renovations. ‘Renovate what?’ I said, and he said wouldn’t I be thrilled with a modern kitchen and a microwave? I don’t want a microwave. They give people cancer. Then Cabby Hall, the president, walked into the bank and I made a beeline for him. Told him everything and he took Ben to task. I only tell you this so you’ll be on your guard. This may be a small town but our bankers try to sell money just like those big city boys do, Mr. Bainbridge. Be on your toes!” Miranda had to stop and catch her breath.

“Please do call me Blair.”

“Then to top it off, the choir director of my church walked into the bank to inform me that he thought BoomBoom Craycroft had asked Fair Haristeen to marry her, or perhaps it was vice versa.”

“His vice was her versa.” Blair smiled, his bright white teeth making him even more attractive.

“Yes, quite. As it turned out, no proposal had taken place.” Mrs. Hogendobber folded her hands. She didn’t cotton to having her stories interrupted but she was blossoming under the attention of Blair Bainbridge—doubly sweet, since Susan Tucker and Harry could see his black truck parked alongside Mrs. Hogendobber’s house. Of course she was going to walk him through her garden, shower him with hints on how to achieve gargantuan pumpkins, and then bestow upon him the gifts of her green thumb. She might even find out something about him in the process. Some time ago Mrs. Hogendobber had borrowed some copies of New York magazine from Ned Tucker, for the crossword puzzles. After meeting Blair the other day, she had realized why his name was familiar: She had read about him in one of those magazines. There was an article about high-fashion romance. When he introduced himself, the name had seemed vaguely familiar. She was hoping to find out more today about his link to the article, his ill-fated relationship with a beautiful model named Robin Mangione.

The doorbell rang, destroying her plan. The Reverend Herbert Jones marched through the door when Mrs. Hogendobber opened it.

Now this curdled the milk in her excellent coffee. Mrs. Hogendobber felt competitive toward all rival prophets of Christianity. The Right Reverend Jones was minister of the Lutheran Church. His congregation, larger than hers at the Church of the Holy Light, served only to increase her efforts at conversion. The church used to be called The Holy Light Church, but two months ago Miranda had prevailed upon the preacher and the congregation to rename it the Church of the Holy Light. Her reasons, while serviceable, proved less convincing than her exhausting enthusiasm, hence the change.

A cup of coffee and fresh scones were served to Reverend Jones, and the three settled down for more conversation.

“Mr. Bainbridge, I want to welcome you to our small community and to thank you for fixing up my family’s cemetery. Due to disc problems, I have been unable to discharge my obligations to my forebears as they deserve.”

“It was my pleasure, Reverend.”

“Now, Herbie”—Miranda lapsed into familiarity—“you can’t lure Mr. Bainbridge into your fold until I’ve had a full opportunity to tell him about our Church of the Holy Light.”

Blair stared at his scone. A whiff of brimstone emanated from Mrs. Hogendobber’s sentence.

“This young man will find his own way. All paths lead to God, Miranda.”

“Don’t try to sidetrack me with tolerance,” she snapped.

“I’d never do that.” Reverend Jones slipped in that dig.

“I can appreciate your concern for my soul.” Blair’s baritone caressed Mrs. Hogendobber’s ears. “But I’m sorry to disappoint you both. The fact is I’m a Catholic, and while I can’t say I agree with or practice my faith as strictly as the Pope would wish, I occasionally go to Mass.”

The Reverend laid down his scone, dripping with orange marmalade made by Mrs. Hogendobber’s skilled hands. “A Lutheran is just a Catholic without the incense.”

This made both Blair and his hostess laugh. The Reverend was never one to allow dogma to stand in the way of affection and often, in the dead of night, he himself found little solace in the rigors of doctrine. Reverend Jones was a true shepherd to his flock. Let the intellectuals worry about transubstantiation and the Virgin Birth—he had babies to baptize, couples to counsel, the sick to succor, and burials to perform. He hated that latter part of his calling but he prayed to himself that the souls of his flock would go to God, even the most miserable wretches.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Reverend, how did you find out about the cemetery being mowed?” Blair wondered.

“Oh, Harry told me this morning as she walked in to work. Said her little doggie dashed over there as she was doing her chores and she caught her in the cemetery.”

“She walks to work?” Blair was incredulous. “It has to be two miles at least, one way.”

“Oh, yes. She likes the exercise. By the time she gets to the post office she’s already put in a good two to three hours of farm chores. A born farmer, Harry. In the bones. She’ll make a good neighbor.”

“Which brings me to the subject of your renaming your place Yellow Mountain Farm.” Mrs. Hogendobber composed herself for what she thought would be a siege of argument.

“It’s at the base of Yellow Mountain and so I naturally—”

She interrupted him. “It’s been Foxden since the beginning of the eighteenth century and I’m surprised Jane Fogleman did not inform you, as she is normally a fountain of information.”

The Reverend shrewdly took a pass on this one, even though the land in question was part of his heritage. He hadn’t the money to buy it nor the inclination to farm it, so he thought he had little right to tell the man what to call his purchase.

“That long?” Blair thought a moment. “Maybe Jane did mention it.”

“Did you read your deed?” Mrs. Hogendobber demanded.

“No, I let the lawyers do that. I’ve tried to wrestle some order out of the place though.”

“Pokeweeds,” the Reverend calmly said as he downed another scone.

“Is that what you call them?”

“In polite company.” Herbie laughed.

“Herbert, you are deliberately sidetracking this discussion, which, for the sake of the Historical Society of Greater Crozet, I must conduct.”

“Mrs. Hogendobber, if it means that much to you and the Historical Society, I will of course keep the name of Foxden.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Hogendobber hadn’t expected to win so easily. It rather disappointed her.

The Reverend Jones chuckled to himself that the Crozet Historical Society sometimes became the Crozet Hysterical Society but he was glad the old farm would keep its name.