Blair inhaled sharply. “Archie is a hidden partner.”
“Arch doesn't have that kind of money. You other boys put up big bucks.”
“He put in work.” Blair left it at that.
Rick whistled. “He's using public office for private gain. And H. Vane-Tempest risks nothing. Archie risks everything.”
“H. Vane risks the start-up money.”
“That's nothing to him and you know it.” Rick turned to face Blair. “This changes everything.”
“I don't know. I mean, yes, it compromises Archie politically but people's attention span is two minutes. Look at all the crap politicians get away with, Rick.”
“I'd say Archie Ingram has more motivation to kill than any of you. He'd be sitting atop a fountain of profits.”
“It doesn't seem possible.”
“A lot of things don't seem possible but they happen anyway. Blair, I'd be careful if I were you.”
48
Mrs. Murphy slept on the divider counter, her tail hanging down. Pewter, on her back on the small table, meowed in her sleep. Tucker snored under the big canvas mail cart.
Harry felt like sleeping herself. A low-pressure system was moving in.
The front door swung open as her head nodded. She blinked. Dr. Larry Johnson waved.
“I'm ready for a nap, too, Harry. Where's Miranda?”
“Next door. She's planning a menu for Market. He wants to sell complete meals. It's a good idea.”
“And Miranda will cook them?”
“Part of them. She works hard enough as it is, and the garden comes first.”
Larry eyed Murphy's tail. “Tempting.”
Harry stood on her tiptoes, leaning over the counter. “She's proud of that tail.”
Mrs. Hogendobber entered through the back door. “Hello,” she sang out.
Mrs. Murphy opened one eye. “Keep your voices down.”
Sarah and Sir H. Vane-Tempest came in with Herb right behind them.
“Glad I ran into you,” Larry said. He walked back outside and returned, handing Vane-Tempest his Confederate tunic top. “Is this genuine homespun?”
Vane-Tempest examined the material in his hands.
Miranda flipped up the countertop and walked out to the front. “I can tell you.”
“I wish everyone would shut up.” Mrs. Murphy opened both eyes.
Tucker lifted her head. “They complain when I bark.”
Miranda held the material in her hands, rubbing it between forefinger and thumb. “Machine.”
“How can you tell?” Vane-Tempest held the other sleeve.
“If this were spun on a home loom there'd be more slubs and the color dye wouldn't be as even. Also, the boys in gray were often called butternut. Dyes weren't colorfast, you see, and dyeing could be an expensive process. A foot soldier would wear homespun for so long that the color would go from a sort of light brown to a gray-white over time.”
Harry joined them. “Bet that stuff itches to high heaven.”
“Your shirt would be spun from cotton. Probably better cotton than what you buy today,” Miranda noted. “So you wouldn't feel your tunic so much.”
Harry took the jacket from Vane-Tempest, slipping it on.
Herb laughed. “You'll drown in that.”
Mrs. Murphy sat bolt upright. She soared from the counter into the mail bin. “Wake up.”
“Dammit!” Pewter, surprised and therefore scared, spit at Murphy.
Tally and Big Mim dropped by to pick up their mail.
“You know what I don't understand?” Tally put one hand on her hip. “If a man dresses as a woman, everybody laughs. They'll pay money to see him. If a woman dresses as a man, stone silence.”
By now Pewter had hopped onto the divider counter and Murphy roused Tucker, who padded out front to the people.
“Want to try?” Harry handed the tunic to Big Mim.
“I'll leave that to the boys.”
“That's it!” Murphy crowed.
Pewter blinked, thought, then she got it. So did Tucker.
That same afternoon, as Sarah fed the domestic ducks on her pond, private investigator Tareq Said discreetly delivered county-commission tapes to her husband, as he did once a week. He'd bugged Archie's office along with the others. Vane-Tempest did not fully trust Arch and wanted to make certain he was getting his money's worth. Also, this way he could keep tabs on the other commissioners. Surprisingly, Arch had not disappointed him. He really was working for Teotan's acceptance. He was all business.
However, this week's tape proved substantially different. Tareq handed over the legal-sized folder, then swiftly left.
49
The brass buttons rolled around in the palm of her hand with a dull clank. Harry pushed them with her forefinger.
“First Virginia.” Blair leaned against his 110 HP John Deere tractor—new, of course, like everything on his farm. “They're genuine. Cost five hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Wonder who wore them and if he survived the war?”
Blair shrugged. “I don't know.”
The warm sun skidded over Mrs. Murphy's coat; she glistened as she lounged on the hood of the 911 Turbo. Neither human had yet noticed her chosen place to display her glories.
Pewter prowled around Blair's equipment shed with Tucker. She was on a blue-jay kick. Determined to find and bait the raucous bird wherever she could, she had sharpened her claws on the side of the shed. Pewter could perform surgery with those claws.
“Looks like you're throwing yourself whole hog into reenacting,” Harry said.
“I kind of thought it was silly at first. But I felt something at Oak Ridge, and, Harry, that wasn't even a true reenactment. We weren't on sacred ground, if you will. I want to go to the Seven Days, Sharpsburg.” He looked sober at the word; Sharpsburg was the scene of the worst carnage in that bloodiest of wars. “I can't explain what I felt, just—just that I have to do this.”
“Have you ever noticed that all the reenactors are white?”
“The combatants were mostly white.”
“I'll feel a little better about this when someone resurrects the 54th Massachusetts.” Harry cited the all-black regiment renowned for its courage.
“Harry, I'm sure someone is already doing that. Really, I don't think this is a racist program.” His warm hazel eyes flickered.
“Maybe you're right.” She sighed. “Maybe it's me. Maybe I don't like being reminded of a war of supreme foolishness, a foolishness that soaked this state in blood. So many battles have been fought here in Virginia since the Revolutionary War. All that blood has soaked into our soil. Makes me sick, kinda. I think I fail to see the romance of it.”
“Maybe it's a guy thing.” He smiled.
“Guess so.” She paused, then swung up into the cab of the elegant, expensive, coveted John Deere. “Blair, I've been thinking. A guy thing?” she said, louder than she intended. “What if Sarah was in uniform? What if she shot H. Vane?”
“What?”
The animals stopped in the shed. Mrs. Murphy, on the Porsche, pricked her ears.
“I know it sounds crazy but today in the post office when I tried on the jacket, it occurred to me—she could have worn the trousers under her hoop skirt, stepped out of it. . . . Of course, she'd have to run back like mad, get out of the uniform, stash it, and get back into her dress—but it's not impossible. Heavy smoke covered everything. You couldn't see the hand in front of your face sometimes. And it was pandemonium. Who would notice one person sneaking off? And besides, nobody noticed H. had been shot for quite a while. She'd have had time.”
He blinked. “I don't know. Never thought of it.”
“Mrs. Woo made lots of the uniforms—too many to remember. But she probably kept receipts, if not records. So what happens? Her store gets burned down.”
Blair wondered if Sarah was capable of murder. “Harry, that's pretty extreme.”