October 26, 2016 Wednesday
Harry stopped for a moment, rake in hand, at the base of the large marble statue, the grave marker for Francisco Selisse, murdered on September 11, 1784. Well-carved marble, tremendously expensive even in the eighteenth century, the Avenging Angel, flaming sword in hand, guarded the East of Eden. Francisco’s death was never avenged. Life went on as it always does.
A big pile of leaves giving off the distinct sneezy odor of fallen leaves awaited transfer to the canvas laid on the ground.
Harry leaned against the base of the huge statue, then straightened herself. “Susan.”
“What?” her best friend, also raking, replied.
“Come here a minute.”
Susan dutifully put down her rake, her pile quite large, joining Harry at the base of the impressive statue.
Putting her finger on the base, the slender Harry asked, “Do you know what these little scratched squares mean? I kind of remember them from the few times we played in the graveyard, but mostly we avoided this nasty angel.”
“He’s frightening even now.” Susan smiled, then studied the scratched squares. “I have no idea. Seven of them, some look more recent than others. Not like our time, but you know.”
“It’s an old family graveyard. Someone must know or have known.” Harry changed the subject. “Your grandmother looks well.”
Penny Holloway lost her husband, in his nineties, on August 15, 2016. A few years younger than her husband, a former Virginia governor, a dynamic man, a World War Two hero, she missed him terribly. However, Penny was not a woman to dwell on sorrows, much as she felt them. She continued her work for nonprofits, attended to her gardening and her two daughters, one being Susan’s mother. Her “girls” were in their early sixties. Time moves along at blinding speed, except when you are waiting for a check.
“She does. Thanks again for helping me plant those spring bulbs. She loves to see them pop up. Well, she loves fall, too.” Susan returned to her leaves, raking them onto her canvas.
Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, intending to be of assistance, followed them to the graveyard when they began working. All three fell asleep under a towering oak easily three centuries old. Little moats of dust spiraled into the air as they breathed out.
A half hour later, Harry and Susan finished up. The leaves now added to the big mulch pile that Sam Holloway, Susan’s deceased grandfather, had built for his wife. It was a long rectangle dug into the earth, three sides held firm by stakes and wooden boards. Each spring, Sam would back the wagon to the edge, then shovel the “cooked” mulch onto it, spreading the mulch on his adored wife’s gardens.
As they walked away from the mulch pile, the wind picked up, a twenty-mile-an-hour gust, subsiding to a steady thirteen-mile-an-hour wind.
“Boy, we got that job done in the nick of time.” Harry pulled her baseball cap lower on her head lest the wind carry it off. “My weather app didn’t say anything about a stiff wind.”
“Just comes up. You can’t really predict the weather by the mountains, maybe big storms but not the little things like this. The other day driving back from Harris Teeter,” she named a high-end supermarket, “a wind devil shot right across the intersection to Crozet. Wind devil? It really was a tiny tornado.”
“Susan, a tornado has to be one of the scariest things on earth. Just the noise alone, and I read somewhere that the average mouth of the funnel is about one hundred fifty yards, but some monsters are much bigger than that.”
“Look at Pewter. My God, she looks like a beached whale.” Susan laughed.
Harry, observing her cat under the oak, laughed, too. “Let’s go say goodbye to your grandmother and I’ll pick up these three amigos when we leave.”
“You pick up Pewter. I’m not strong enough.” Susan laughed again.
Trotting to the back door of Big Rawly, Susan crossed through the spacious enclosed porch. Her grandmother and mother busied themselves in the kitchen, easily visible from the closed-in porch.
Opening the door to the main house, Susan called out, “We’re done.”
Penny, drying her hands on a dish towel, beamed. “Thank you. Step inside. I’ve got brownies for you and Harry. If you don’t want to eat them now, don’t fret. I put them in containers.”
“Thanks.” Susan loved brownies.
Harry, on her heels, also thanked Mrs. Holloway, then asked, “Mrs. Holloway, have you ever noticed the tiny squares scratched into the base of Francisco Selisse’s big tombstone?”
Millicent Grimstead, Susan’s mother, replied, “Actually, I know what they mean.”
“You do?” Her mother was surprised.
“Mother, do you remember Cash Green, older than dirt, when I was little?”
“Cash Green.” Penny’s face broke into a big smile. “That man could talk a tin ear on you. What a good soul he was. He used to tell Sam and me he was born in 1872 right here on Big Rawly and he never left. Lord, that was back in the midforties just after the war. Sam said as long as he could remember, Cash was here.”
“He knew about the squares?” Harry asked.
“He did. He said little squares on the tomb of someone hated called down a curse. Little crosses on the tomb of someone loved called down blessings. He used to add that this came from remembered spirits from Africa. He’d lean toward me and whisper, ‘It’s the old power of my people.’ What stories he could tell!” Millicent grinned and wished she’d had the wit to write them all down, but she had been only a child then.
No one mentioned that Big Rawly had witnessed its share of hard luck over the many decades.
Millicent picked up the conversation after that brief pause. “I bet Cash told the same stories to Father when he was little. Mother, did you ever hear the one about buried treasure?”
“No, I missed that one.” She folded the blue-striped hand towel. “I seem to have missed a lot.”
“According to Cash, and this was relayed with long pauses, drama.” Millicent grinned. “There is buried treasure on Big Rawly. Jewelry and cash. There’s buried treasure at St. Luke’s and at Ebenezer Baptist Church. Tons of treasure. That’s all he ever said.”
“I expect every old estate in Virginia has its buried-treasure story.” Susan took the containers. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if they were all true and people found them?”
“Sure, then there could be lawsuits about who does the treasure really belong to and why.” Harry shrugged.
“No. If you own property, you own its history as well,” Penny firmly stated. “So if you girls find the jewelry, it’s mine. I could use a new pair of earrings.”
Laughing, the two friends left to pick up the three animals, still sound asleep.
Harry placed her hand on Susan’s forearm. “Wait. Let’s get in the car and start the motor. That will get them moving.”
Turning toward the front of the house, they slipped into Susan’s Audi A7, cut on the motor. Tucker lifted her head, blinked, then ran like the Devil for the station wagon.
“Wait. Wait for me!”
Mrs. Murphy, hearing her friend, quickly followed suit.
Pewter opened one eye. Then two popped open. “Don’t you dare leave without me! I’ll get even!”
As the large gray cat hurried toward the car, her belly flab swung from side to side, which made the humans laugh. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker shot into the car when Harry got out to open the back door.
“Hurry, Pewts,” Mrs. Murphy encouraged.
Pewter reached the opened door. “If you left me, you’d fall apart. Humans can’t think for themselves. You need me.”
Susan, hand on the shifter knob, remarked, “She’s saying a mouthful.”
“Better we don’t know what she’s saying.” Harry got back in, closing the door. “I doubt it’s praise. Hey, before you drop me back home, let’s go down to Barracks Road.”
“I am not taking you to Keller and George.” Susan named a high-end jewelry store. “You’ve mooned over that pearl necklace for years. You are never going to buy it. It costs thousands and thousands of dollars. And we all know how tight you are.” She paused. “But it really is beautiful, and given that it’s Mikimoto, every time they sell the one you want they order a new one.”
Exhaling loudly, Harry confessed, “It’s so beautiful. But no, I want to go to Liz Potter’s.”
“Don’t you dare get involved in a murder case. That’s another thing you can’t resist.” Susan had been at the beagling plus she knew about the brass chit since it was reported in the paper.
“I am not getting involved.”
“Liar, liar, your pants are on fire,” Pewter helpfully called out from the back.
The parking lot, enormous, made it easy to find a spot, except for Christmastime. The two walked to Liz Potter’s attractive store, inviting display window, near Barnes & Noble, which always enjoyed a lot of foot traffic.
When they pushed the door open, Liz looked up. “How are you two?”
Susan offered, “Good. We just cleaned up the family graveyard at Big Rawly.”
“Your ancestors thank you.” Liz came out from behind the counter to give each woman a hug. “I’ve been in contact with the Wildlife Center of Virginia. Got more brochures and stuff for our next meeting. You know the real problem is the state’s restriction on veterinary treatment of wildlife. Oh, and MaryJo wants to finally report on her research about contraband animals.”
“We know about the vet issues,” the two said in tandem.
“That has got to be changed. We can help so many more animals and relieve suffering. It’s just bloody stupid.” Liz grimaced. “Besides, why shouldn’t a young veterinarian like Jessica Ligon be able to branch out?”
She was referring to the Virginia state regulations that prohibited a veterinarian from treating injured wildlife. If one finds a harmed raccoon, say, it was necessary to drive all the way to a veterinarian certified to treat same. By the time you drive the fifty miles or whatever it is, the poor animal has died in pain more often than not.
“This is an issue that will take people in every county leaning on their delegates.” Harry knew the drill. “We’ve got to educate the public, then mobilize them. Usually an elected official is smart enough to know what side his bread is buttered on. And, of course, there are always those jerks who try to make a splash by arguing against anything no matter what it is. Has it ever occurred to anyone that democracy is an expensive, inconclusive system that just drags out suffering on every level?”
“Harry.” Liz’s bejeweled hand flew to her breast. “I’ve never heard you speak like that.”
“Oh, Liz, I didn’t mean to upset you. Sometimes our foolishness, the corruption, just gets to me,” Harry said quietly.
“Who was it that said democracy is a terrible system but better than anything else?” Susan wondered.
“Good thought.” Liz walked behind the counter. “Anything tempting?”
“Everything.” Susan admired a gorgeous beaded bracelet from South Africa.
“I want to buy Number Eleven.” Harry pulled her checkbook from her rear jeans pocket.
Rarely using credit cards, Harry paid by cash or check. She figured given how often credit card information was stolen, and the time it took to rectify matters, it was best not to use them except in those cases where it is much easier, like buying an airline ticket.
Susan, now herself surprised at her best friend, asked, “And what are you going to do with Number Eleven?”
The bag of chits, on the counter now, had the contents emptied out as Liz sifted through the beautifully engraved pieces with the Garth name for Number Eleven.
Susan quickly added for Liz’s comfort, “I’m not trying to kill a sale, but we all know Harry probably has tucked away the first dollar she ever earned.”
Liz laughed. “Harry, you’re no doubt smarter than the rest of us, but I operate on the principle that you can’t take it with you.”
“Hear. Hear,” Susan chimed in.
“Ah.” Liz held up Number Eleven.
Susan examined it closely. “The script is gorgeous.” Then she checked out many of the other brass rectangles. “They’re really lovely, and when you think that they conferred temporary freedom of movement, I wonder about the important errands a slave must have carried out to be given one of these. Delivering goods, news, reporting emergencies, reaching people who needed things.”
Harry held Number Eleven in her palm, turned it over. “Looks like a little mark.” She flipped over other chits, also marked. “Hmm, maybe the engraver was testing his tools before actually engraving Garth and the number.”
The door opened.
“Ladies,” Panto Noyes greeted them. “Susan, I just came from a meeting with your husband about the old schoolhouses. He’s behind us and I’ve contacted all the tribes, recognized and not, to write their state legislators.”
“Great,” Susan exclaimed. “You have more contacts than anyone.”
“Helps that I’ve been dancing in powwows since I was a kid. I do know everybody.”
“Big plus for a lawyer, too.” Liz smiled. “What can I do for you?”
“As always, I came in to admire that Sioux deerskin. The red-and-white quills, the design, well, it inspires me.”
“Me, too,” Liz agreed.
“And I came in to see if you would donate an item to our tribal fund-raiser. It’s for scholarships.” He saw the chits but didn’t comment.
“Of course.”
“The best year we ever had for the fund-raiser was 2007. Fifty-two thousand dollars.” He beamed. “Then came the crash. We were lucky to clear ten thousand, but bless MaryJo. She invests for the tribe, nonprofit, and she does a hell of a job. Before she came on board I did the investments. No one else would do it. But she’s a star.”
“She must read tea leaves,” Harry joked.
He smiled. “I wonder about that myself, but, you know, some people just have a knack.”
“Like Warren Buffett.” Liz nodded.
“That’s the top of the top. But around here think of guys like Mark Catron, Derwood Chase. There’s a small club of shrewd investors.”
“Men?” Harry lifted her eyebrows.
“Mostly. Marge Connolly, although she retired. No, there are women,” Panto quickly replied. “And younger women are moving into finance.”
Harry paid for Number Eleven, chatted a bit more, and the two returned to the station wagon where three crabby animals awaited, the windows cracked for the cool, fresh air.
“You should have taken us,” Pewter complained.
None of the three thought about the wisdom of running about a busy parking lot.
“Home,” Harry cheerily said to the three in the back.
“Tuna better be there,” Pewter grumbled.
“Steak.” Mrs. Murphy felt like red meat.
Tucker, uninterested in the food discussion, leapt into the front seat by scrambling over the divider between the two front seats.
“Tucker. You’re bigger than you look.” Harry grasped her small sun-yellow shopping bag from Liz, the interior tissue an azure blue.
“Now that it’s the two of us, why did you buy Number Eleven?” Susan inquired.
“I don’t know. It’s…it’s almost a compulsion. I’m putting it on a gold box chain I have and will wear it under my sweaters and shirts. I don’t know why and I paid one hundred dollars, so you know it’s a compulsion.”
Someone else shared that compulsion, more or less. They sat in the parking lot, computer at hand in their lap in the dead of night and disabled Liz Potter’s shop alarm system. Whoever it was went in, took all the beaded bracelets, short jackets with beaded shoulder stripes, as well as the $25,000 western Sioux dress, and other things.