Rita Brown - Whiskers in the Dark

“That is why I am here.”

“I suggest, each partner spend a month at the other partner’s place. Now most times, as our plantations are close, they can travel back and forth daily. During inclement times, there will be difficulties.”

“I had also considered that.” He tried not to appear nervous. “What if I planted your apple orchard? My men would prepare the ground with the help from yours. I would bring you the trees and would manage the orchard for the first three years, teaching whoever you deem best how to keep an orchard. Pests, harvests, checking roots if a tree droops. There is quite a bit to it. And if you would, I would pay you for DoRe and he would come to Cloverfields.”

This stunned her momentarily. “I don’t see how I can do without DoRe. That worthless William ran off with the equally worthless Sulli, having stolen some funds and bits of everyday jewelry. There is no one who can train or handle horses.”

“There might be another way. What if we come to terms but set DoRe’s move to Cloverfields after one year of marriage? That should give him time to train someone.”

“I must discuss this with my husband. It is a thorny issue.”

“It is.” He agreed, as he knew the dance between two good businessmen was truly beginning.

“DoRe is extremely valuable.”

“I agree.”

“At least twenty thousand dollars. At the very least.”

“An apple orchard is extremely valuable. One must recognize that, and an apple orchard will eventually yield profits. Keeping DoRe will not.”

Ewing left, kissing his hostess on the cheek, knowing this would be a long siege, praying that Jeffrey would be of some use. As he rode his sweet, bombproof, Chief, back to Cloverfields, he believed this would eventually work out, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

The sun hung low in the sky. He looked up, seeing a splash of color like a rainbow.

“How beautiful,” he muttered as Chief flicked his ears. “Miracles do happen.”

37

May 5, 2018

Saturday

Robins hopped along the ground, mockingbirds taunted everyone from their perches, goldfinches flew about—it was an avian party. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter walked with Harry as the birds complained about their intrusion into the birds’ territory.

“ I have every right to be at St. Luke’s, ” Pewter huffed.

“ Oh, ignore them. They have to make a big show of it,” Mrs. Murphy advised as Tucker and Pirate ambled along.

In just one month from the spring equinox, the grass had turned emerald green and the buds had opened so the color of spring green floated above the grass. Some trees, like willows, fully opened. Others took their time, but the spring green would soon turn to darker green until fall, when the leaves reached their fullest amount of chlorophyll. That’s what Harry thought, anyway.

Harry passed through the quads, reaching the lone tree with the single grave. A simple wooden cross stood at the head, with no birth date or death date, as no one knew.

“Forlorn,” Harry muttered.

She didn’t know that the blackball on paper that had been slipped into her St. Luke’s mailbox was about this grave. Given all that was happening at Aldie, she pushed the unknown murder victim to the back of her mind as best she could.

A car door closed at Reverend Jones’s house. Pamela Bartlett, seeing Harry, headed in her direction, as the grave rested beyond the formal graveyard. In her late seventies, Pamela regularly attended her yoga classes four times a week. She moved with suppleness and ease, her shape that of a much younger woman. Only her shining silver hair hinted at a longer life.

Turning to see who shut the car door, Harry smiled when she beheld Pamela. She’d always liked the lady, but working with her on the Dorcas Guild enlarged that emotion.

“Mrs. Bartlett.” Harry walked toward her.

“And what is our building and grounds woman doing?” Pamela extended her hand for Harry to lightly shake, then walked with her a few paces to the grave.

As Virginia women they needed to touch each other. Southerners tend to be more demonstrative physically and otherwise than, say, those north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Touch provided a reassurance that words never did.

“I wanted to see if the grass was growing on the grave.”

“Doing nicely,” the older woman replied. “I see you have brought your team.”

“I’m the smart one.” Pewter rubbed on Mrs. Bartlett’s stockinged leg.

Tucker looked upward at the lovely face, deciding not to tell Pewter what she thought of her. Pirate did what Tucker did. The half-grown puppy really was learning the ropes.

“You know, they really are my team.” Harry’s attention returned to the grave. “This wooden cross won’t last but so long given the weather. Maybe a few years. I was wondering if I could convince someone in the men’s guild to perhaps carve a cross on a large stone.”

“What a good idea.” She looked upward as a mockingbird flew tantalizingly close. “I do hope this will prove a quiet grave.”

“Me, too,” Harry responded.

“ I’ll break your neck, ” Pewter threatened as the daring fellow swooped low.

As if hearing her cat, Harry enfolded Pamela in her thoughts, for she trusted her completely. “Whoever lies here had a broken neck. The Taylors’ grave, as you know, was somewhat disturbed. All these two centuries later, who knows about this murder? Pamela, it’s on my mind because of the two deaths at Aldie, and it was my misfortune to see both bodies. I can’t shake it. I mean, I’m not horrified. I have seen bodies before, and the deaths were fresh. But why? Why Aldie? I’m being drawn in. I can’t help myself.”

“Well,” the silver-haired lady said, “you’d be an odd duck if you weren’t affected.”

“Affected. She’s obsessed. I have to live with this.” Pewter complained loudly.

“Pewter.” Harry bent over to scratch the cat’s ears, which irritated the others so Harry petted them for a moment.

“She’s not shy.” Pamela laughed.

“What would you do?”

“I wouldn’t try to block the feelings. Never works. I’m sure you’ve considered why those two people died, husband and wife, at Aldie, one murdered. It’s in the papers and is odd, to say the least. This murder, even though long, long ago, also casts a spell. The pearls alone would cast a spell. Janice Childe and Mags Nielsen seem under their spell.”

“I wonder if either of them knows something?”

Pamela’s eyes crinkled. “Do you think Mags could keep from spilling the beans?”

Harry laughed. “Well, Janice is drawn to the jewelry. Then again, who wouldn’t be?”

“The killer was not.”

“True, but had to be a man.”

“Now what does that explain? A man would surmise the value of that necklace and the earrings. He wouldn’t wish to wear them but he’d surely wish to sell them. Yet he did not.”

“It’s something, isn’t it, to think that they lay under the ground—fabulous, fabulous jewelry—for centuries, since 1786 or so? I take the Taylors’ death date as the date close to when she was tossed on their caskets.”

“Why?”

“Ground would have been soft. Turned up. So digging in, throwing her down, covering up the body, tamping it down wouldn’t arouse suspicion.”

Pamela crossed her arms across her pale peach cashmere sweater. “You have thought about it. What have you thought about Aldie?”

“Strange that you should ask. Although they were married and business partners, I think this has nothing to do with that profitable car dealership.”