Daffodils survived the snow, peeking up everywhere. Forsythias threatened to bloom as DoRe drove the splendid coach-in-four toward the stable, the sides of the carriage gleaming.
The boys ran out as he stopped, dismounted. “Miss Catherine, Mr. John. Miss Selisse returns your carriage with thanks. She had us draw every single thing about this piece of fine work, including the bud vase inside the carriage.” He grinned.
“That was fast,” John remarked.
“The Missus is determined to be seen in the best carriage in the country. She can’t steal yours so she’s going to have one built.”
“In Philadelphia?” John wondered.
“No.” DoRe paused for dramatic effect. “Mr. Holloway and his father will build it.”
The dramatic effect produced dropped jaws, wide eyes, and a moment of silence.
Catherine then said, “Well, DoRe, that is some news.” Thinking of Bettina’s hopes she smiled at the genial man. “Why don’t you go on up to the house and tell Bettina? I’ll be up shortly. Jeddie can drive you back to Big Rawly and I’ll send Bettina with him so he doesn’t have to drive back alone.”
“Thank you.” DoRe thought this an excellent idea.
As he walked up to the big house, his characteristic limp not slowing him down, Catherine put her hand on Jeddie’s shoulder. “Take the carriage back so they can sit inside. Tie his horses to the back. Wait. Don’t. This way DoRe has to come back for Maureen’s carriage horses.”
“Miss Catherine, how can I drive when DoRe’s along? He’s near as good as Barker O.”
Barker O., pleased with the compliment, chuckled. “Son, I think DoRe will be just fine.”
“Barker O., why don’t you sit up with Jeddie and if he needs a lesson, well, there you are. Then the two of you can drive back.”
“Thank you.”
She reached in her pocket and pulled out some chits. “Here, Jeddie, Number Eleven. Barker O., Number Two. I don’t think anyone’s going to fuss but just in case.”
They took their passes and Catherine took Jeddie’s hand in hers. “Happy, happy birthday.”
Then she and John started back up to the house, running into Charles, who walked out from the carriage barn, plans under his arm.
“Think I’ve got a way to store grain and reduce spoilage.”
Piglet murmured, “He never stops. He gets up in the middle of the night to make changes to St. Luke’s and now this. I just wish he’d sleep through the night.”
“Piglet, you’re talkative.” Catherine adored the corgi.
John told Charles the news about the potential duel.
Charles shook his head, red-gold hair catching the light. “I’d hoped those words would be forgotten.”
“When a man accuses you of consorting with, well, you know, and your wife is in the next room and her lady-in-waiting is literally waiting down below, I don’t know.” John sighed. “He has asked me to be his second.”
“Good Lord, John.” Charles stopped walking for a moment.
“I agreed. If Yancy accepts the duel, and we all think he will, then I will give Jeffrey some shooting lessons using your pistol.”
A wry grin played over Charles’s lips. “The spoils of war. One of these days you’ll return my pistol to me.”
“Maybe.”
“You won the war, John, you don’t need my pistol.”
“You were my captive. Fair’s fair.” John enjoyed bedeviling his brother-in-law just a bit.
“You two.” Catherine slipped her hand in John’s. “Let’s return to the problem at hand. Yancy left for Richmond. Surely he will be there tomorrow if he’s on horseback. If he went down to Scottsville, boarded a boat, maybe tonight. We can hope his business there will take him two or three days, then two or three days to return. That gives us time.”
“Time for what?” Charles appreciated Catherine’s sharp mind.
“To see if there isn’t a way out where each man saves face.” Catherine watched chimney smoke rise straight up from the big house, a sign of good weather.
“My love, that would be a miracle.” John squeezed her hand.
“Miracles do happen and, don’t forget, Father’s birthday is Sunday.”
November 19, 2016 Saturday
“How can people let themselves get like that?” Harry blurted out, looking out the window of Liz’s Barracks Road shop.
Susan chided her. “Harry, you can’t say things like that.”
“Why not? Fat is fat and if you’re fat you’re courting lots of sickness, plus you don’t walk, you waddle,” she shot back.
“Just don’t say it,” Susan replied.
Liz moved a bracelet on the counter. “Isn’t that part of the problem? No one can say anything anymore? You hurt someone’s feelings and you’re a monster. Now, I don’t think Harry should push open the door and tell that lady that she’s one step closer to the grave for being fat, but she can say it to us. Which reminds me, I need to lose fifteen pounds.”
“Liz, baloney,” Harry said.
“Not baloney. Fat.” Liz pinched her waist and a small roll of flesh did indeed stay between her fingers.
“If you want to lose that little bit of weight come on out to the farm and work with me for a week. Poof. That will be the end of that,” Harry promised.
“She’s got a point there,” Susan agreed. “When I was young I don’t remember so many overweight people, but then a lot of people worked outside jobs, physical labor. And housework qualified as physical labor. Our mothers had it easier than our grandmothers, but doing the wash, cleaning the floors, polishing furniture, keeping the fires going in the fireplace, women carried, toted, bent over, or got down on their hands and knees and scrubbed.”
“We’re spoiled.” Liz nodded. “Now, Harry, what have you found out about the bullet in your Volvo?”
“The bullet in my Volvo. Same gun that killed Pierre Rice,” Harry matter-of-factly reported.
Liz had not heard this so she froze for a moment. “Harry, that’s—”
“Frightening.” Susan spoke for her. “And you said you didn’t see anything or anyone when you left the meeting.”
“No, I didn’t. The rain poured down.” Liz looked behind her. “Someone stole that expensive dress. You are shot at. A man, successful, is killed. For what?”
“Don’t forget the tombstones at St. Luke’s,” Harry added.
“What has that got to do with you, the Tahoe, all that stuff?” Susan leaned on the counter, taking the weight off her feet.
“I don’t know. All I know is there’s a string of weird stuff, murder, and that’s weird, too. And you all can’t point the finger at me and say I’ve stuck my nose in all this. I did not. But I’m in it somehow so I want to get to the bottom of it.”
They both turned to her then, shut up as the door opened, and MaryJo Cranston pushed through it.
“Hey, what’s up?” MaryJo smiled.
“The bullet in Harry’s Volvo came from the same gun as the one that killed Pierre Rice,” Liz stated.
“No!” MaryJo’s hand came up to her heart. “No, it can’t be.”
Harry simply replied, “It is.”
“I drove out that driveway before you did. I’m telling you there wasn’t a car there or a lurking person. Nothing.”
“Even if there were could you have seen it?” Susan exhaled.
“Maybe. A glint of light on a fender, movement behind a tree. I mean it was raining cats and dogs but I might have seen something. Nada. Nothing. Zero,” MaryJo emphasized.
“Well, we aren’t going to solve this here.” Harry’s voice carried an edge. “Anyway, we popped in here to see if you really are selling out, Liz.”
MaryJo half laughed. “Me, too. Hard to shove away from the desk during the week, so here I am. Liz, are you?”