Рита Браун - Furmidable Foes

“St. Luke’s must be perfect for homecoming on June second. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea—sorry, Harry—but now I see so many people have responded and truly are coming home. You were right,” Janice confessed, then added, “And it is Reverend Jones’s eightieth birthday. Aren’t you amazed that no one has spilled the beans about the party?”

“Yes.” Harry hoped the secret would hold. Then she looked down, realizing she was looking at a secret that had held for 243 years.

Pewter wandered off a bit, then leapt in the air, a grasshopper between her paws. “I have a dangerous grasshopper.”

“Are grasshoppers dangerous?” the sweet Irish wolfhound wondered.

“Only if they darken the sky,” Tucker answered.

“He spit on me!” Pewter complained.

“Spit, spit, tobacco juice and then I’ll let you go.” Mrs. Murphy chanted the old promise to the bug.

Pewter opened her paws, and the grasshopper flew to freedom.

“Well, off to pick up Kevin,” Mags said. “Car’s in the shop.”

“That new Range Rover?” Harry asked.

“Don’t get me started.” Mags grimaced.

The four stood there a moment looking at the grave, the red oak behind it, big denuded gum tree to the left, which at some point would need to come down.

“I think of her as a lost soul,” Janice said, staring at the modest tombstone.

“And I think there will be the Devil to pay,” Mags replied.

“You know, given that broken neck, I think the Devil already has been paid,” Harry thought out loud.

“Let’s hope so. It’s a centuries-old murder but it’s still murder.” Janice turned but continued. “Somewhere, someone knows.”

The two friends walked toward the parking lot up by the church. Harry and Susan stood a moment.

Harry looked up at the red oak and then to the gum tree. “Mother used to say that even a dead tree casts a shadow.”

The slight breeze, sun behind the gum tree, and a shadow was cast over the grave.

Mother was right.

2

May 23, 2019

Thursday

Fair Haristeen, DVM, drove his Ford dually vet truck down the winding farm road, parking it next to Harry’s beloved 1978 Ford half-ton. The blue on the old truck shone now, iridescent, while the silver siding surrounded by a thin bit of chrome had translucent spots that reflected the light.

Fair was worn out as this was foal delivery season for all non-Thoroughbreds and his specialty was equine reproduction. He sighed and eased his six-foot, five-inch frame down from the comfortable leather seats. As he did so, he glanced in the back of the old Ford.

“Honey,” Fair called out as he opened the kitchen door.

“Hey. I know you’re tired. Your drink is on the table and I’m making Mother’s famous potpie. Will snap you right back.”

Smiling, he dropped into a chair. “Your mother was a good cook. I often wish she could have lived to see us marry. Dad, too.”

“Fate,” Harry, not one to show emotion, responded.

Her parents were killed in a car accident her last year at Smith College. There wasn’t a day since then, and she would be forty-three in August, or was it forty-four? Funny how one fudges the years and then forgets. Wasn’t a day she didn’t think about them.

Both Harry and Fair had been raised by upright people. Fair’s parents had passed away in these last years. His father had been a radiologist and his mother ran a nonprofit organization for the hospital to raise money for those who couldn’t pay the bills. Medical costs have never been cheap, no matter the century. But both husband and wife had been raised with discipline, high expectations, and love.

“How was your day?”

He sipped his restorative scotch, three ice cubes. “Good. Two deliveries. Easy. Healthy foals. Then one of Mim’s youngsters bowed a tendon racing around the field. Low bow.”

He cited the location as a low bow, a tendon injury, proved less troublesome than a high bow, but one could always see the scar tissue.

“How is the Queen of Crozet?” Harry asked.

“Good. She’s worried about her aunt Tally, who is becoming quite frail.”

“Given that she is, what, a hundred and five, or close to it, she will eventually leave us.”

“I don’t know.” He laughed. “Aunt Tally is tough. Years ago I treated an old mare, a Thoroughbred, and she made it to thirty-nine.”

“Wow. I know some ponies make it into their forties.”

“Funny. Old age.”

“Mine starts next Tuesday.”

“Honey, you will never be old, no matter what the calendar says. How are the arrangements for Reverend Jones’s birthday going?”

“Food’s ordered. We’ve rounded up enough tables and chairs. The Dorcas Guild bought table covers, multicolored napkins, plastic cups with the date on it. And what has the St. Peter’s Guild done?”

“Prizes. A raffle. Games for the kids, plus we’re paying for the food.” He paused, took another sip. “Your truck is blossoming.”

“The small peonies I bought for us. The azaleas are for the unknown’s grave. I am determined that the homecoming will be a horticultural display”—she paused—“as much as it can be.”

“You’ll succeed.” He rose and turned on the TV, a large flat-screen on one wall of the kitchen.

Fair’s excuse for the prominent placement was that he needed to see the weather every morning. Easier to see the radar on a big screen.

Harry, who paid little attention to any media, knew better than to protest. Whenever a man buys a piece of equipment, whether a backhoe or a large TV, his reason is always how useful it will be, how much money will be saved in the long run. No man will ever admit to frivolity. To Fair’s credit, if Harry wanted to re-cover an old chair, he didn’t complain, even when she doubted he thought it necessary.

The large farm shed housed one huge John Deere tractor, a smaller 50 HP tractor, implements everywhere, more stuff hanging on the walls, everything clean. Granted she used it more than he did, but he bought every single thing in that shed that she had not inherited. And his purchases were useful, although initially expensive.

“Hey, honey, look.”

Harry did as instructed. “That’s Mags and Janice’s brewery and restaurant. Turn it up a bit.”

Fair clicked up the volume. A brewery delivery truck had been pilfered at Bottoms Up, the brewery. All cartons were missing. The theft was assumed to have happened in the night. The brewery itself had not been broken into.

“Beer must be worth more than the money in the cash register,” Fair mused.

“Having someone want your beer that badly is a good advertisement.” Harry took the remote from him, turning down the sound. “Bet the girls are upset. It’s funny—their husbands thought the whole idea a middle-aged-crisis thing when they got started but they gave in, ponied up the start-up money. What was it, three years ago? And look how successful they’ve been.” She thought a moment. “I’ll call them tomorrow. Too much chaos now.”

“They’re intelligent people. Kevin has made a success of his nursery business. Mother Nature is a tough business partner.” Harry spoke from deep experience as a farmer. “And Janice’s husband certainly is successful as a stockbroker. I don’t know how anyone can call the market trends, but he does.”

“Why is it that so many women want to start a business in their middle years?” Fair’s eyebrows rose.

“It’s the first time they’re free. His business is established. The kids are out of the house. The mom’s no longer a taxi service, and by middle age you’ve lost a few friends. You wake up.”

“I never thought of it like that,” Fair honestly replied.