Cat of the Century (2 page)

Aunt Tally stroked the dog’s head upon hearing the little yodel.

Tightening her cashmere scarf, she continued on.

A deep rumble alerted Doodles, who recognized the motor’s signature sound as well as the sound of the tires. Identifying a vehicle by its tire sound and motor is easy for dogs. Humans can’t do it.

Doodles wagged her tail as she bounded up to the front of the house, where Marilyn “Big Mim” Sanburne, Tally’s niece, had parked her brand-new Dodge half-ton.

The two walked to the back of the house to join Tally.

Big Mim, teasingly called “The Queen of Crozet,” was a formidable woman. However, even Big Mim could be backed off by the small, lean Tally.

“What are you doing out here? It’s 24°F.”

“Checking for my crocus. A shoot here and a shoot there and I get to thinking about the redbuds.”

Big Mim put one gloved hand on her hip. “Redbuds aren’t going to be in full flower until about April fifteenth. You know that.”

“Of course I do. That doesn’t mean I can’t check them.” She tapped her cane on the old brick. “I’m longing for spring. By this time of the year I’ve had enough.”

“You really will have enough if you don’t come in out of the cold. You’ll catch your death.”

“It’s not a baseball,” the old woman replied.

“You know what I mean,” Big Mim said, sounding tolerant. “Are you ready to go, or do you need anything from the house?”

“Just need to put up the dog.” Aunt Tally walked to the back door, opened it, and Doodles scooted in, happy for the warmth.

“Purse?” Big Mim raised an eyebrow.

“My wallet’s in my coat pocket. Purses are a pain. Even if I find one that slings just right over my shoulder, sooner or later it drops down. Hard to carry a purse with a cane.”

“Guess it is.” Big Mim walked to the passenger side of her blue truck and opened the door for Tally, who climbed in unassisted.

Once out on the road, the two chattered as only two people who have known each other all their lives can. Aunt Tally had been pushing thirty when Big Mim was born. It was a day of celebration. Aunt Tally, thanks to a disastrous love affair when young, shied away from marriage but not affairs. She treated Big Mim as her own daughter, which had occasioned some arguments with Tally’s late, loved sister. A brother to Big Mim followed later, but he died on the hideous Bataan Death March. Apart from rage and grief, the result was that no Urquhart of any succeeding generation would buy a Japanese car or any product if they could help it. As with all old Virginia families, regardless of generations of marriages on both the male and female
sides, they generally referred to themselves by the surname of the first European to settle on Virginia soil. In this case, the Urquharts.

“Speech?”

Aunt Tally, staring straight ahead, raised her voice a bit. “Oh, Mimsy, I make notes. I read them. I throw them out. I can’t bear the thought of standing up there spouting bromides and sentimental mush. I haven’t found what I want to say.”

“That’s a first.”

Aunt Tally ignored this, instead concentrating on an upcoming T-cross. Her farm, Rose Hill, reposed about four miles west of Harry Haristeen’s farm. They’d passed Harry’s place on the way to Crozet, reaching the intersection of a dirt road and the two-lane paved highway on which they traveled.

“Can never drive over this without thinking about Ralston Peavey.” Aunt Tally repositioned her cane to her left side. “Never found his murderer.”

“Someone really wanted him out of this world.” Big Mim remembered it, as well. “Fall, wasn’t it?”

Aunt Tally nodded in affirmation. “A light frost, patchy fog.”

“1964. The year sticks in my head because that was the first year Jim was elected mayor.”

Jim Sanburne, her husband, remained mayor, and their daughter, Little Mim, was now vice mayor. The joke was, father and daughter came from two different political parties. Being a small town, Crozet never bothered with term limits. Jim, a good mayor, would most likely retain his office until such day as he died.

“Jim picked up the call from Dinny Myers; wish we had him back. There was a sheriff with sense,” Aunt Tally mumbled.

“Oh, the one we have now has sense. You just think everything was better when you were younger.”

“’Twas.” Aunt Tally raised her voice. “This country is going to hell in a handbasket. Well, I’m not going off on that; it’ll ruin my day. But even you have to admit that Ralston Peavey was the best blacksmith you ever saw.”

“He was. He was.”

Pleased with her little victory, Aunt Tally recalled the details as they
rolled over the spot. “Found Ralston right here, spread-eagled in the middle of the road, facedown. Run over one way and then backed over. To make sure he was dead, I reckon.”

“Jim saw him before Dinny removed the corpse. Said the tire tracks were clear. They hoped to find the killer from the tire treads. Never happened, of course.”

“Dinny and the department really did check every set of tires in the area. He couldn’t do all of Albemarle County, but he did check Crozet. Nothing. Not one thing. Some folks thought whoever did it was not from these parts. Not me. I think it was one of us.”

Big Mim slowed for a curve. “Well, Ralston could drink. He was pretty loaded.”

“He didn’t lie down in the middle of the road because he was drunk.”

“His truck was by the side of the road.” Big Mim, who enjoyed driving her new truck, picked up speed. “I still think he’d been fooling around, and the husband found out and killed him.”

“Maybe, but we all knew who was weak that way. He’d never done it before. Two kids—what, eight and ten—and he seemed to get along with them. I wonder if it wasn’t something else. Couldn’t be drugs. That hadn’t taken off yet.”

“Can’t imagine Ralston a dealer. Although, being a blacksmith, he had the perfect job for distributing.”

“No.” Aunt Tally shook her head. “Something else.”

Big Mim paused. “Let’s just say not a stone was left unturned.”

“One was, or we’d have the killer.” Tally frowned.

“After all this time, maybe he’s dead himself.”

“Mimsy, I’ve seen a lot. One of these days, might be 2050, the truth will wriggle out. Always does.”

“Talk to Inez?” Big Mim mentioned Aunt Tally’s best friend, who had graduated from William Woods University—then known as William Woods College—two years behind Aunt Tally. The lovely school, located in Fulton, Missouri, had provided Aunt Tally with her first taste of life outside Virginia.

“She’s flying in two days before, because of the alumnae board meeting.”

“Good. Harry’s driving.”

Mary Minor “Harry” Haristeen was not a William Woods graduate. She had graduated from Smith College. Age forty, best described as an attractive tomboy, she now put all her attentions to farming, her true love, as she’d quit her job at the post office two years earlier. Harry would be going to the celebration at Aunt Tally’s alma mater because she loved the old lady and knew the event was not to be missed, especially since the salty woman would give a speech. “Be good for Harry to get away,” Aunt Tally said.

At that moment, Harry had her hands full with a William Woods alumna, no less.

T
hat pot was made in Italy. Of course you’ll replace it.” Terri Kincaid, barricaded behind the counter, leveled a harsh gaze at Harry.

Only three years apart in age, Terri being thirty-seven, the women had known each other for a long time. Harry, a country girl with natural good looks, couldn’t be bothered with the accoutrements of femininity. Terri lived for them. These two were oil and water.

Observing Harry’s predicament was Liz Filmore from Richmond, a friend of Terri’s and another William Woods alumna.

Also present, his arms crossed over his chest with lips pursed, was Garvey Watson. A tall, elegant African American, he owned the successful men’s clothing store next door. Garvey had a gift for retail.

Harry thought his pursed lips might be because he was upset the pot was broken.

Tucker, Harry’s corgi, sat mournfully at her feet. The dog, jostled by a customer leaving, had knocked over the pot, which was sitting on a low wrought-iron table. It wasn’t Tucker’s fault, but what could Harry say?

The shards of pottery, picked up by Harry, rested on the counter, the deep layers of green and yellow glaze quite pretty.

“How much?” Harry, tight with the buck, winced.

“Two hundred forty-nine dollars, plus five percent sales tax,” Terri announced.

Harry fetched her checkbook and a pen from the inside of her Carhartt Detroit jacket.

As Harry wrote the check, Terri nattered on, “I’m so excited. We’ve already raised twenty thousand dollars from local alumnae, and I haven’t even started yet. Liz is going to video the entire speech to use for future fund-raisers.” Liz and Terri were thick as thieves. “I really wish I could be there, but we’ll throw another birthday party as a fund-raiser back here. I can’t afford to leave the store, especially if good weather comes in. People spend more if they have spring fever.”

“Let’s hope so,” Garvey said. “Bad economy. People are pulling back.”

Liz spoke up. “Garvey, people always need clothes. Terri’s business might be down, but she’ll weather the storm. So will you, unless men want to go naked—a scary thought. Eljo’s is your only competition.”

She cited a lovely men’s clothing store on Elliewood Avenue by the University of Virginia.

“I certainly hope you’re right,” Garvey murmured, not sounding at all convinced.

Terri smiled broadly as she took Harry’s check. “I won’t ask for ID,” she joked.

“Good.” Harry put a good face on it, but she always thought Terri was a pain in the neck, her screech over the broken pot further confirming that opinion.

“Do you know that all the alumnae over eighty will attend? There are forty of them. Isn’t that wonderful? Our alumnae fund is paying for those who can’t afford the airfare, and the motels in and around Fulton are giving us a special rate.”

“Wonderful,” Harry replied tensely.

Forking over two hundred fifty dollars plus tax was eating at her.

Terri, not one to keep her woes to herself, would fan the flames of any discontent if Harry had balked at payment. Harry loathed that in a man or woman. But she hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck. She’d learned to keep her opinion to herself unless speaking with her husband or best friends. Keep it level, keep it smooth. She tried.

Terri, young for such a task, headed Charlottesville’s William Woods Alumnae Association. Once men were admitted to William Woods in
1996, an argument arose over the word “alumnae.” Should they change it to “alumni”? The Old Girls fought that one. For most of their lives they had lived under male honorifics or terms. Let the men grapple with “alumnae.” Surely their parts wouldn’t shrivel.

So alumnae it was, at least in the eyes of the female graduates.

Such battles never interested Harry, but she did understand one great fundamental of life: Men had to prove they were men. Women did not have to prove they were women. This anxiety could make weak men either silly or downright dangerous. Strong men sailed right through.

Harry focused on the basics: animal behavior, food, clothing, shelter. She zeroed right to the core of an issue, which made people who couldn’t accept brute reality nervous. Harry knew the human animal had set the natural order on its head, that among humans the weak devoured the strong. As her mother used to put it, “The squeakiest wheel gets the oil.”

No reason to burden Terri with reality, for Terri was one of those benighted souls who believed laws were the answer. You have a problem? Pass another law.

Liz lightened the moment. “Harry, your corgi has good taste. That was a beautiful vase.”

Harry smiled. “Tucker has better taste than I do.”

“Thank you,”
the dog replied.

Garvey joked, “Bring her in my store. If she tears up an item or chews shoes, I’ll know to order more.”

“Garvey, you crack me up.” Harry laughed at him.

Terri, a clotheshorse, asked Harry, “Do you know what you’re going to wear?”

“Uh, well, it will probably be cold. That long wraparound wool skirt, the one I wear with the big gold pin on the front. I thought that.”