Рита Браун - Probable Claws

“That depends on the woman and what she’s wearing,” Fair posited.

Both women looked at him, then each other and shrugged.

A hum began. The lights came on.

“Hooray. The rest of my house is about fifty-two degrees, Fahrenheit,” Cooper told them.

“You’re very precise.” Fair smiled at her.

“Thermometer for outside and inside in the upstairs bedroom. Helps me know how to dress.”

“It’s fifty-two degrees. You have a fireplace up there,” Harry added.

“Yes, but I was so pooped out I slept straight through the night. It went out.”

“I do that sometimes, too,” Harry confessed. “Put a proper stove up there.”

Fair leaned back in his chair, finished the bracing coffee. “Fake driver’s license, files still in the car. Puzzling. Murder. Astonishing.”

Cooper thought, then said, “Millions of dollars are made in construction. Perhaps one of those early projects violated a code.”

“It would have to be one hell of a violation.”

“Whatever, if the files are the answer, I don’t know, but Gary was killed. We know it wasn’t for love.” Cooper shrugged.

“Millions?” Harry’s voice rose.

“If one of those buildings he worked on has a huge structural flaw and people die, it’s possible the construction company could be sued for enormous sums. The other possibility is that someone took money under the table to look the other way during construction or the company paid money under the table to get the job in the first place. Big jobs like office buildings, hotels, even converting the tobacco warehouse and apartments are usually bid. Money under the table could save a bid. Given the millions of dollars to build, the millions in profits, that’s a big incentive.”

“When I think of government I am reminded we are in this mess because government gives contracts to the lowest bidder. If that’s the case, and supposedly it is, why are we billions of dollars in debt?” Harry threw up her hands in frustration.

“Because every time money changes hands it sticks to them.” Fair’s lip curled upward slightly. “Applies to private enterprise even more than government, but it’s more shocking when government corruption is unmasked.”

“Should we be like Diogenes? Go through the streets of Athens holding a lantern looking for an honest man?” Cooper shook her head.

“Well, you see where it got him. He wound up living with the dogs,” Fair said.

“Hey,” Tucker barked.

“He was right. Dogs never lie to you. The powers that be in Athens were like the powers that be everywhere. You can’t trust them, but I can trust Tucker.”

“Me, too,” Pewter interjected.

“Pewter, you don’t care.” Mrs. Murphy flicked her tail.

“I didn’t say I cared but you can trust me.”

“True enough.” Mrs. Murphy laughed at her sidekick.

“Let me get home before it turns even darker. Thank you.” Fair got up, carried his plate, cup, and saucer to the sink.

“I’ll wash them,” Harry offered.

“No. I’ll do it. When we’ve gone through everything in the boxes, fingerprinted stuff, I’ll call you.”

“I’ll be there.” Harry checked the window over the sink. “Little snowflakes. Just started.” She put on her scarf and coat. “Coop, whatever this is it seems to be well thought out, doesn’t it?”

“Does.”

“The impulse killings are easy, aren’t they?”

“Sure are.”

“I think you’ve got your work cut out for you.” Harry kissed Coop on the cheek. “I’ll help any way I can. Happy New Year.”

10

November 15, 1786

Wednesday

Maureen Selisse Holloway determined to live life as a blonde. Catherine couldn’t help herself, she examined the middle-aged woman’s coiffure without Maureen noticing when she flounced her stunning royal blue brocade, cut low over the ample bosom with a sheer cover of Belgian lace.

One must keep up social converse and it was the turn of the Cloverfields women to invite Maureen and her young husband for an intimate dinner.

Bettina, as always, cooked a dinner of splendor. She could have cooked for any king in Europe and held her own with one of those chefs there. She’d heard there were Africans at the courts of Europe. The czar of Russia, or the czarina when a woman was in power, is guarded by two enormous ebony-skinned men, not brown, not light brown but ebony. Russia. Never. No matter what she might be paid should she ever be free, Russia was too cold. It was cold enough in Virginia.

One thing about the cold, you could cook in the house kitchen. The summer kitchen, thirty yards away, connected by a herringbone brick–patterned walkway created the problem of how to keep the food hot as the girls ran it into the house. Still better than firing up a huge stove inside in July.

Serena, twenty-five, worked closely with Bettina, observing everything the older woman did. Could she duplicate it someday? Yes. But Serena knew she would never reach Bettina’s creativity. The head cook would stare at a brisket of beef, tenderize it a little with her wooden square studded with wooden teeth, stare at it again, suddenly pull out spices, bay leaves, other things. Bettina would sing as she worked.

The ladies sipped a light sherry while the men drank port in the library. Every now and then Bettina and Serena could hear Ewing or his sons-in-law laugh, and occasionally, Jeffrey, Maureen’s husband.

As for the women, Serena would sneak down the hall to listen, tiptoe back. “Maureen swears the French court is the height of fashion. The English Queen is dowdy.”

“How does she know?” Bettina dried her hands on a dish towel woven at Cloverfields.

Cloverfields was as self-sustaining as possible.

“Guess she’s been over there. Mr. Garth visited England and France when he was young. Charles came from England.” Serena dreamed of seeing the world, a dream followed by the inconvenience of travel as well as the fact that she was a slave. But certain indispensable slaves traveled with their master or mistress.

Both women wore head rags. Bettina’s tied in the front with a square knot. Serena’s tied in the back. Neither knew why they did it that way, but it was what their kin taught them. They stuck to it.

The kitchen, everything put in place, sparkled. The fire in the small hearth gave off the odor of hardwood. Bettina tossed in two oak logs.

“Sit down, Serena. Let’s catch our breath.” The older woman sighed. “It’s been a long day.”

“You outdid yourself tonight. No wonder you’re tired.”

Bettina smiled. “I do so love to put that bitch in her place. And this new girl that attends to her, Elizabetta, isn’t much better than that damned Sheba. I hope she’s dead.” Bettina meant Sheba, who had disappeared about a month ago, along with a fabulously large pearl necklace.

“No one’s heard anything. Big Rawly’s a hard place to live. Hard.” Serena sighed. “And Marcia, you’d think she’d be sweet like her real mother. Hellion. I am tempted to hit her upside the head.”

Laughing, Bettina swatted good-naturedly at Serena. “Just wait. It’ll get worse.” She paused. “Why can’t that girl with Maureen be called Elizabeth? Elizabetta.” She twirled her hand in the air. “My, my.”

“I guess if you work close with Maureen you turn into a snot, too.” Serena laughed.

The little girl, Marcia, already an exotic beauty, was raised by Rachel as her own. Marcia was two years older than Rachel’s daughter Isabelle. Marcia’s mother was an escaped slave from Big Rawly, accused of killing Francisco Selisse. That he needed killing was never in doubt, but Ailee didn’t do it nor did her lover, Moses. He was helped to York, Pennsylvania, where he was safe. Ailee had been hidden at Cloverfields, gave birth to Marcia. When she looked at the baby, who looked white, which meant she was Francisco’s, Ailee hung herself. The slaves knew, as did Catherine, Rachel, John, and Charles. Ewing did not, nor did anyone off the estate.