“It had. Francisco brooked no interference nor laziness. He babied his wife, just babied her, so when he was killed, she was helpless except for her lady-in-waiting, a slave called Sheba. It is my thought that this woman truly controls the estate.”
Milton’s brow wrinkled. “It would not be the first time. People can exert strange power over one another, regardless of station. But did the lady not remarry with somewhat indecent haste?”
Yancy breathed deeply. “To a man almost half her age. Handsome. A carpenter’s son. Between Jeffrey Holloway and Sheba I think Mrs. Selisse, I can’t call her Holloway, will come to ruin. The man knows nothing. Perhaps he could build you a cabinet but run a large estate, no. She will be bankrupt in a few years’ time, mark my words.”
“I do hope not, Mr. Grant, but I fear this may apply to many of us if we can’t straighten out the political morass in which we find ourselves.”
“Indeed,” agreed Yancy, who himself suffered financial reverses, not that he wished anyone to know. “How do you find your beef, Sir? This chicken is excellent.”
“Wonderful. Georgina excels at pleasures.” Milton allowed himself a double-edged statement.
They finished their meal with pound cake nestled in a little pouf of raspberry sauce for dessert. As Milton took his leave, Yancy wished him success with his land transaction and hoped to see him in the future. As for himself, this storm would delay his meeting with a gentleman, Sam Udall, he hoped would extend him funds against his land holdings. He also hoped he could find a way to discredit Jeffrey Holloway and make Maureen his own.
Not only had the mistress of Big Rawly shocked him by marrying a pretty boy far beneath her station, she had sold her young mare, Serenissima, to Catherine Schuyler. Francisco bred the mare, she was not quite one year of age when sold. He had a good eye, the late Francisco. Yancy had offered Maureen a good sum. He wanted to train and race Serenissima. Instead, the lady sold the horse to Catherine for the unbelievable sum of seven thousand dollars. Seven thousand dollars. Yancy suspected Sheba was behind keeping the mare from him. She, no doubt, received some money, as well. Seven thousand dollars. Did Sheba use Jeffrey as a cat’s paw? He knew Jeffrey had called upon Catherine to discuss horses, which sounded Yancy’s alarm. Jeffrey Holloway barely knew one end of a horse from another. Jeffrey was not yet married to Maureen. What he knew was that Maureen did not sell him the mare. As for Catherine, he bore her no ill will. She was a consummate horsewoman.
Once in the room, clean, one wooden chair, one high bed, one sturdy desk, a decent woven rug on the floor, he dropped in the chair. The fireplace, though small, kept the room warm enough, a pile of cut logs near it.
The flickering lantern was needed as the sky darkened. More snow as he looked out from the second story down below to the large yard, stables. The weather vane even held inches of snow, frozen.
He would try to secure a loan when all this snow, wind, cold diminished. He had to hang on until springtime, when he knew his horses could win some races. And he had to hang on for his revenge against Jeffrey Holloway.
October 25, 2016 Tuesday
Harry stared at the case filled with original jewelry, beaded belts, handmade items, some heirlooms, gorgeous Plains Indian clothing, saddlebags, other treasures. “Liz, where do you find these things, especially the beadwork items? These bracelets and belts are incredible. The colors of the beads seem saturated.”
“South Africa and our own west. Each tribe has its own way of doing things. The Crow, the Sioux, the Flatheads, the Crees, the Cherokees. Everyone has their style just as the tribes do in South Africa. Such painstaking, beautiful work.”
Harry moved to another glass case, then stopped abruptly. “Where did you get this?”
“You know what it is?”
“I do.” Harry pointed to a brass rectangle with a large 9 in the middle and Garth in script, ornate, underneath.
“Hootie Henderson brought that in. Actually, he brought a handful. Look.” She pulled out a drawer and took out a small leather bag, emptying the passes on top of the counter. “Fabulous, aren’t they?” Hootie, an older farmer, had cleaned out his attic in a worker’s house once on Cloverfields in its prime.
“Did Hootie say how he came by these slave passes?”
“Found them in the attic wall upstairs. He put up new insulation, found this, found some old accounting books. He figured no one would pay for the accounting books but they might buy these, as they really are pretty and the history means so much.”
Harry allowed Liz to pour some of the passes into her cupped hands. “I wonder who wore them or kept them safe in a deep pocket.”
“Garth’s people. You know, I hate to see things like this stored away at a museum, only brought out for special shows. It is our history. I think more of us should be part of it. We may have different viewpoints but we share it,” Liz declared with feeling.
“Even white people? You wouldn’t be offended if I wore one?” Harry was fascinated.
“No. I have one.” Liz pulled up her necklace with the pass, Number Seven. “Lucky seven.” She paused, then continued. “It’s history—something we should never forget,” she repeated, emphasized. “I know you’d never think of it as mere ornamentation.”
“Has anyone bought one?” Harry felt her heart beating faster.
“Last week a well-dressed fellow bought one. He knew what it was.”
“And was he African American?”
“As African American as I am. We had a good talk about it all. Obviously well educated, and I got the feeling rich, rich and important.”
“Liz, I must call Coop. You read in the paper about the unidentified man found at Sugarday?”
“Yes. Strange, really, that anyone would be out there.”
“Liz, do you remember the number you sold your rich customer?”
“Number Five,” Liz answered instantly.
Harry pulled out her phone, reached Cooper, and Liz listened, mouth agape.
“I can’t believe it.”
“I can’t either, and it took a minute for it to register. She’s coming over…well, you heard, to see if you can identify him.”
“I don’t have to go to the morgue, do I?” Liz looked ashen.
“No. But try to remember everything that you can.”
The two sat quietly behind the counter. Within fifteen minutes Cooper sailed through the door, as Liz’s shop was in Barracks Road Shopping Center and the detective had been just on the county line.
Cities and counties operate separate governances as well as separate law enforcement agencies. Liz’s shop was in the city and therefore under the protection of the Charlottesville police. Cooper, a deputy in the sheriff’s department, Albemarle County, had every right to question Liz, as the body was discovered in the county. As it was, the two departments cooperated as opposed to engaging in useless competition. One would be surprised at how much needed to be covered in both jurisdictions, most of it having to do with traffic and domestic violence.
Liz stood up. “Cooper, what can I do?”
Gently, the tall blonde woman put her cellphone on the counter. “Now, Liz, this isn’t too bad. Don’t worry. He hadn’t been dead long. Do you recognize this man?”
Liz gasped. “He’s the one who bought the chit, the pass.”
“Can you tell me anything? Even the smallest detail may prove useful.”
Liz repeated what she had told Harry, who remained quiet.
“Do you remember what he wore?”