Rest In Pieces Page 2

  “Who’s that?” Mrs. Hogendobber’s eyebrows arched upward.

  Harry and Susan shrugged. Miranda marched into the post office. As her husband, George, had been postmaster for over forty years before his death, she felt she could do whatever she wanted. Harry was on her heels, Susan and Market bringing up the rear. The animals, finished with the chicken, scooted in.

  Standing on the other side of the counter was the handsomest man Mrs. Hogendobber had seen since Clark Gable. Susan and Harry might have chosen a more recent ideal of virility, but whatever the vintage of comparison, this guy was drop-dead gorgeous. Soft hazel eyes illuminated a chiseled face, rugged yet sensitive, and his hair was curly brown, perfectly cut. His hands were strong. Indeed, his entire impression was one of strength. On top of well-fitted jeans was a watermelon-colored sweater, the sleeves pushed up on tanned, muscular forearms.

  For a moment no one said a word. Miranda quickly punctured the silence.

  “Miranda Hogendobber.” She held out her hand.

  “Blair Bainbridge. Please call me Blair.”

  Miranda now had the upper hand and could introduce the others. “This is our postmistress, Mary Minor Haristeen. Susan Tucker, wife of Ned Tucker, a very fine lawyer should you ever need one, and Market Shiflett, who owns the store next door, which is very convenient and carries those sinful Dove bars.”

  “Hey, hey, what about us?” The chorus came from below.

  Harry picked up Mrs. Murphy. “This is Mrs. Murphy, that’s Tee Tucker, and the gray kitty is Pewter, Market’s invaluable assistant, though she’s often over here picking up the mail.”

  Blair smiled and shook Mrs. Murphy’s paw, which delighted Harry. Mrs. Murphy didn’t mind. The masculine vision then leaned over and patted Pewter’s head. Tucker held up her paw to shake, which Blair did.

  “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Me, too,” Tucker replied.

  “May I help you?” Harry asked as the others leaned forward in anticipation.

  “Yes. I’d like a post box if one is available.”

  “I have a few. Do you like odd numbers or even?” Harry smiled. She could be charming when she smiled. She was one of those fine-looking women who took few pains with herself. What you saw was what you got.

  “Even.”

  “How does forty-four sound? Or thirteen—I almost forgot I had thirteen.”

  “Don’t take thirteen.” Miranda shook her head. “Bad luck.”

  “Forty-four then.”

  “Thirty-four ninety-five, please.” Harry filled out the box slip and stamped it with pokeberry-colored ink, a kind of runny maroon.

  He handed over the check and she handed over the key.

  “Is there a Mrs. Bainbridge?” Mrs. Hogendobber brazenly asked. “The name sounds so familiar.”

  Market rolled his eyes heavenward.

  “No, I haven’t had the good fortune to find the right woman to—”

  “Harry’s single, you know. Divorced, actually.” Mrs. Hogendobber nodded in Harry’s direction.

  At that moment Harry and Susan would have gladly slit her throat.

  “Mrs. Hogendobber, I’m sure Mr. Bainbridge doesn’t need my biography on his first visit to the post office.”

  “On my second, perhaps you’ll supply it.” He put the key in his pocket, smiled, and left, climbing into a jet-black Ford F350 dually pickup. Mr. Bainbridge was prepared to do some serious hauling in that baby.

  “Miranda, how could you?” Susan exclaimed.

  “How could I what?”

  “You know what.” Market took up the chorus.

  Miranda paused. “Mention Harry’s marital status? Listen, I’m older than any of you. First impressions are important. He might not have such a good first impression of me but I bet he’ll have one of Harry, who handled the situation with her customary tact and humor. And when he goes home tonight he’ll know there’s one pretty unmarried woman in Crozet.” With that astonishing justification she swept out the back door.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Market’s jaw hung slack.

  “That’s what I say.” Pewter cackled.

  “Girls, I’m going back to work. This was all too much for me.” Market laughed and opened the front door. He paused. “Oh, come on, you little crook.”

  Pewter meowed sweetly and followed her father out the door.

  “Can you believe Rotunda could run that fast?” Tucker said to Mrs. Murphy.

  “That was a surprise.” Mrs. Murphy rolled over on the floor, revealing her pretty buff underbelly.

  “This fall is going to be full of surprises. I feel it in my bones.” Tucker smiled and wagged her stumpy tail.

  Mrs. Murphy gave her a look. The cat was not in the mood for prophecy. Anyway, cats knew more of such things than dogs. She didn’t feel like confirming that she thought Tucker was right. Something was in the air. But what?

  Harry placed the check in the drawer under the counter. It was face up and she peered down at it again. “Yellow Mountain Farm.”

  “There is no Yellow Mountain Farm.” Susan bent over to examine the check.

  “Foxden.”

  “What? That place has been empty for over a year now. Who would buy it?”

  “A Yankee.” Harry closed the door. “Or someone from California.”

  “No.” Susan’s voice dropped.

  “There is nothing else for sale around Yellow Mountain except Foxden.”

  “But, Harry, we know everything, and we haven’t heard one word, one measly peep, about Foxden selling.”

  Harry was already dialing the phone as Susan was talking. “Jane Fogleman, please.” There was a brief pause. “Jane, why didn’t you tell me Foxden had sold?”

  Jane, from the other end of the line, replied, “Because we were instructed to keep our mouths shut until the closing, which was at nine this morning at McGuire, Woods, Battle and Boothe.”

  “I can’t believe you’d keep it from us. Susan and I just met him.”

  “Those were Mr. Bainbridge’s wishes.” Jane held her breath for a moment. “Did you ever see anything like him? I mean to tell you, girl.”

  Harry fudged and sounded unimpressed. “He’s good-looking.”

  “Good-looking? He’s to die for!” Jane exploded.

  “Let’s hope no one has to do that,” Harry remarked drily. “Well, you told me what I wanted to know. Susan says hello and we’ll be slow to forgive you.”

  “Right.” Jane laughed and hung up.

  “Foxden.” Harry put the receiver in the cradle.

  “God, we had some wonderful times at that old farm. The little six-stall barn and the gingerbread on the house and oh, don’t forget, the cemetery. Remember the one really old tombstone with the little angel playing a harp?”

  “Yeah. The MacGregors were such good people.”

  “Lived forever, too. No kids. Guess that’s why they let us run all over the place.” Susan felt old Elizabeth MacGregor’s presence in the room. An odd sensation and not rational but pleasant, since Elizabeth and Mackie, her husband, were the salt of the earth.

  “I hope Blair Bainbridge has as much happiness at Foxden as the MacGregors did.”

  “He ought to keep the name.”

  “Well, that’s his business,” Harry replied.

  “Bet Miranda gets him to do it.” Susan took a deep breath. “You’ve got yourself a new neighbor, Sistergirl. Aren’t you dying of curiosity?”

  Harry shook her head. “No.”

  “Liar.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Oh, Harry, get over the divorce.”

  “I am over the divorce and I’m not majoring in longing and desire, despite all your hectoring for the last six months.”

  “You can’t keep living like a nun.” Susan’s voice rose.

  “I’ll live the way I want to live.”

  “There they go again,” Tucker observed.

  Mrs. Murphy nodded. “Tucker, want to go over to Foxden tonight if we can get
out of the house? Let’s check out this Bainbridge guy. I mean, if everyone’s going to be pushing Mom at him we’d better get the facts.”

  “Great idea.”

  * * *

  2

  By eleven that night Harry was sound asleep. Mrs. Murphy, dexterity itself, pulled open the back door. Harry rarely locked it and tonight she hadn’t shut it tight. It required only patience for the cat, with her clever claws, to finally swing the door open. The screen door was a snap. Tucker pushed it open with her nose, popping the hook.

  For October the night was unusually warm, the last flickering of Indian summer. Harry’s old Superman-blue Ford pickup rested by the barn. Ran like a top. The animals trotted by the truck.

  “Wait a minute.” Tucker sniffed.

  Mrs. Murphy sat down and washed her face while Tucker, nose to the ground, headed for the barn. “Simon again?”

  Simon, the opossum, enjoyed rummaging around the grounds. Harry often tossed out marshmallows and table scraps for him. Simon made every effort to get these goodies before the racoons arrived. He didn’t like the raccoons and they didn’t like him.

  Tucker didn’t reply to Mrs. Murphy’s question but ducked into the barn instead. The smell of timothy hay, sweet feed, and bran swirled around her delicate nostrils. The horses stayed out in the evenings and were brought inside during the heat of the day. That system would only continue for about another week because soon enough the deep frosts of fall would turn the meadows silver, and the horses would need to be in during the night, secure in their stalls and warmed by their Triple Crown blankets.

  A sharp little nose stuck out from the feed room. “Tucker.”

  “Simon, you’re not supposed to be in the feed room.” Tucker’s low growl was censorious.

  “The raccoons came early, so I ran in here.” The raccoons’ litter proved Simon’s truthfulness. “Hello, Mrs. Murphy.” Simon greeted the sleek feline as she entered the barn.

  “Hello. Say, have you been over to Foxden?” Mrs. Murphy swept her whiskers forward.

  “Last night. No food over there yet.” Simon focused on his main concern.

  “We’re going over for a look.”

  “Not much to see ’ceptin for the big truck that new fellow has. That and the gooseneck trailer. Looks like he means to buy some horses because there aren’t any over there now.” Simon laughed because he knew that within a matter of weeks the horse dealers would be trying to stick a vacuum cleaner hose in Blair Bainbridge’s pockets. “Know what I miss? Old Mrs. MacGregor used to pour hot maple syrup in the snow to make candy and she’d always leave some for me. Can’t you get Harry to do that when it snows?”

  “Simon, you’re lucky to get table scraps. Harry’s not much of a cook. Well, we’re going over to Foxden to see what’s cooking.” Tucker smiled at her little joke.

  Mrs. Murphy stared at Tucker. She loved Tucker but sometimes she thought dogs were really dumb.

  They left Simon munching away on a bread crust. As they crossed the twenty acres on the west side of Harry’s farm they called out to Harry’s horses, Tomahawk and Gin Fizz, who neighed in reply.

  Harry had inherited her parents’ farm when her father died years ago. Like her parents, she kept everything tiptop. Most of the fence lines were in good repair, although come spring she would need to replace the fence along the creek between her property and Foxden. Her barn had received a fresh coat of red paint with white trim this year. The hay crop flourished. The bales, rolled up like giant shredded wheat, were lined up against the eastern fence line. All totaled, Harry kept 120 acres. She never tired of the farm chores and probably was at her happiest on the ancient Ford tractor, some thirty-five years old, pulling along a harrow or a plow.

  Getting up at five-thirty in the morning appealed to her except in darkest winter, when she did it anyway. The outdoor chores took so much of Harry’s free time that she wasn’t always able to keep up with the house. The outside needed some fresh paint. She and Susan had painted the inside last winter. Mrs. Hogendobber even came out to help for a day. Harry’s sofa and chairs, oversized, needed to be reupholstered. They were pieces her mother and father had bought at an auction in 1949 shortly after they were married. They figured the furniture had been built in the 1930’s. Harry didn’t much care how old the furniture was but it was the most comfortable stuff she’d ever sat in. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker could lounge unrestricted on the sofa, so it had their approval.

  A small, strong creek divided Harry’s land from Foxden. Tucker scrambled down the bank and plunged in. The water was low. Mrs. Murphy, not overfond of water, circled around, revved her motors, and took a running leap, clearing the creek and Tucker as well.

  From there they raced to the house, passing the small cemetery on its knoll. A light shone out from a second-story window into the darkness. Huge sweet gum trees, walnuts, and oaks sheltered the frame dwelling, built in 1837 with a 1904 addition. Mrs. Murphy climbed up the big walnut tree and casually walked out onto a branch to peer into the lighted room. Tucker bitched and moaned at the base of the tree.

  “Shut up, Tucker. You’ll get us both chased out of here.”

  “Tell me what you see.”

  “Once I crawl back down, I will. How do we know this human doesn’t have good ears? Some do, you know.”

  Inside the lighted room Blair Bainbridge was engaged in the dirty job of steaming off wallpaper. Nasty strips of peony paper, the blossoms a startling pink, hung down. Every now and then Blair would put down the steamer and pull on the paper. He wore a T-shirt, and little bits of wallpaper stuck to his arms. A portable CD player, on the other side of the room, provided some solace with Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number One. No furniture or boxes cluttered the room.

  Mrs. Murphy backed down the tree and told Tucker that there wasn’t much going on. They circled the house. The bushes had been trimmed back, the gardens mulched, the dead limbs pruned off trees. Mrs. Murphy opened the back screen door. The back porch had two director’s chairs and an orange crate for a coffee table. The old cast-iron boot scraper shaped like a dachshund still stood just to the left of the door. Neither cat nor dog could get up to see in the back door window.

  “Let’s go to the barn,” Tucker suggested.

  The barn, a six-stall shed row with a little office in the middle, presented nothing unusual. The stall floors, looking like moon craters, needed to be filled in and evened out. Blair Bainbridge would sweat bullets with that task. Tamping down the stalls was worse than hauling wheelbarrows loaded with clay and rock dust. Cobwebs hung everywhere and a few spiders were finishing up their winter preparations. Mice cleaned out what grain remained in the feed room. Mrs. Murphy regretted that she didn’t have more time to play catch.

  They left the barn and inspected the dually truck and the gooseneck, both brand-new. Who could afford a new truck and trailer at the same time? Mr. Bainbridge wasn’t living on food stamps.

  “We didn’t find out very much,” Tucker sighed. “Other than the fact that he has some money.”

  “We know more than that.” Mrs. Murphy felt a bite on her shoulder. She dug ferociously. “He’s independent and he’s hard-working. He wants the place to look good and he wants horses. And there’s no woman around, nor does there seem to be one in the picture.”

  “You don’t know that.” Tucker shook her head.

  “There’s no woman. We’d smell her.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t know that one might not visit. Maybe he’s fixing up the place to impress her.”

  “No. I can’t prove it but I feel it. He wants to be alone. He listens to thoughtful music. I think he’s getting away from somebody or something.”

  Tucker thought Mrs. Murphy was jumping to conclusions, but she kept her mouth shut or she’d have to endure a lecture about how cats are mysterious and how cats know things that dogs don’t, ad nauseam.

  As the two walked home they passed the cemetery, the wrought-iron fence topped with spearheads marking off the area. One side
had fallen down.

  “Let’s go in.” Tucker ran over.

  The graveyard had been in use by Joneses and MacGregors for nearly two hundred years. The oldest tombstone read: CAPTAIN FRANCIS EGBERT JONES, BORN 1730, DIED 1802. A small log cabin once stood near the creek, but as the Jones family’s fortunes increased they built the frame house. The foundation of the log cabin still stood by the creek. The various headstones, small ones for children, two of whom were carried off by scarlet fever right after the War Between the States, sported carvings and sayings. After that terrible war a Jones daughter, Estella Lynch Jones, married a MacGregor, which was how MacGregors came to be buried here, including the last occupants of Foxden.

  The graveyard had been untended since Mrs. MacGregor’s death. Ned Tucker, Susan’s husband and the executor of the estate, rented out the acres to Mr. Stuart Tapscott for his own use. He had to maintain what he used, which he did. The cemetery, however, contained the remains of the Jones family and the MacGregor family, and the survivors, not Mr. Tapscott, were to care for the grounds. The lone descendant, the Reverend Herbert Jones, besieged by ecclesiastical duties and a bad back, was unable to keep up the plot.

  It appeared things were going to change with Blair Bainbridge’s arrival. The tombstones that had been overturned were righted, the grass was clipped, and a small camellia bush was planted next to Elizabeth MacGregor’s headstone. The iron fence would take more than one person to right and repair.

  “Guess Mr. Bainbridge went to work in here too,” Mrs. Murphy remarked.

  “Here’s my favorite.” Tucker stood by the marker of Colonel Ezekiel Abram Jones, born in 1812 and died in 1861, killed at First Manassas. The inscription read: BETTER TO DIE ON YOUR FEET THAN LIVE ON YOUR KNEES. A fitting sentiment for a fallen Confederate who paid for his conviction, yet ironic in its unintentional parallel to the injustice of slavery.

  “I like this one.” Mrs. Murphy leapt on top of a square tombstone with an angel playing a harp carved on it. This belonged to Ezekiel’s wife, Martha Selena, who lived thirty years beyond her husband’s demise. The inscription read: SHE PLAYS WITH ANGELS.

  The animals headed back home, neither one discussing the small graveyard at Harry’s farm. Not that it wasn’t lovely and well kept, containing her ancestors, but it also contained little tombstones for the beloved family pets. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker found that a sobering possibility on which they refused to dwell.