“Still is. There’re roots all over here. Smells like parsnip.” Grace could only smell the odor of thawing earth as the scent from the tubers had vanished.“This is where Agamemnon died.”
Agamemnon, Clytemnestra’s mate, had died two and a half years ago.
“Bet that was a mess.”Inky wasn’t out and about yet at that time since it had been spring and she had still been a cub.
“Yes, had to get the tractor, the big eighty-horsepowerone, put the chains on him and drag him out. Couldn’tbury him here because of the flooding. What I don’t understand is how could he miss it? I mean, the stems were up,the little umbrella clusters ready to open. We all knowwhat cowbane looks and smells like.”
“Cows just pull up hunks by the roots. Maybe he didn’tknow until it was too late,”Inky said thoughtfully.
“Every part of that plant is poisonous but the roots arethe most lethal. Even a big bull like Agamemnon takes only a few little bites of a tuber and that’s it. Gone.”Grace’s voice carried the note of finality.
“Kill you in fifteen minutes. If you eat a big enough dose.It can kill any of us. I guess that’s why all this is fenced off,and even Clytemnestra is smart enough not to come downhere and eat.”
“That Cly,”Grace shook her head,“she is so dumb. Iknow she can’t help it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if sheforgot. You know when Cindy started to plow the roads inthe snow, Cly ran out and stood in the road, then shecharged the tractor. She’s got a screw loose.”
“Yeah, but she’s not dumb enough to eat what killedAgamemnon,”Inky replied.“I’m surprised Cindy hasn’tput plant poison on this stuff.”
“She does, but it comes back. It’s all over. I guess mosthumans know what it looks like. It’s pretty when it flowers, you know. All these city people and suburban peoplemoving into the country, they don’t know. They think thewhite flowers are pretty.”
“They use ‘country’ as a put-down, those folks. Theydon’t realize how much you have to know to live in thecountry, to hunt, to farm.”Inky shrugged.“I try to look onthe bright side. I mean, they can learn, I guess.”
“Inky, who would dig this up?”Grace’s slender, elegant ears with the black tips swept forward.
“Not an animal. We all know better.”
“Well, someone dug up the cowbane roots.”Grace again examined the shallow holes, moist with the melting snow.
“Had to have done it before the snow. Maybe some human wanted it. You know, some herbalist. Better hopethey wore gloves. Cowbane can make you sick just fromthe stuff that rubs off on your hands.”
The two walked through the culvert to the other side of the road and were now on Roughneck Farm, the high Hangman’s Ridge to their right. They wondered about the little holes a bit more, but soon forgot it as they hurried to the stable where, sure enough, those little sweet fruit candies awaited.
Cowbane is the country term forConium maculatum: hemlock.
CHAPTER 12
The hard freeze forced the graveyard manager, Burke Ismond, to bring out the heavy equipment early in the morning to dig a grave for Anthony Tolliver.
As he’d known Anthony, he mused that, even in death, the town drunk was a pain in the ass.
The Episcopal service was attended by Sister Jane, Tedi and Edward Bancroft, Betty and Bobby Franklin, and Donnie Sweigert and Clay Berry, the latter two feeling they ought to show up because Anthony did, from time to time, work for Berry Storage.
The sky, a hauntingly brilliant blue, only intensified the cold at the gravesite. The temperature, at nineteen degrees Fahrenheit, underscored the coldness of death.
After the simple, dignified service, the mourners walked together back to their respective cars.
“He had a good sense of humor, even when his whole life fell apart,” Bobby spoke. “These things take over a person.” Bobby knew whereof he spoke because of his eldest daughter, Cody.
“Some are born strong; some are born weak. That’s as near as I can figure.” Sister inhaled the bitingly cold air. “Once upon a time he was handsome, full of energy, and a good dancer.”
“Janie, I expect you and I are the only ones left who remember Anthony like that. By the time Edward and I married and we moved back here, Anthony was a lost cause.”
“Must be terrible to die alone and unloved.” Betty thought of his fate.
“Millions do. What was it Hobbes wrote, ‘The life of man is brutish, nasty and short,’ ” Bobby quoted. “Not that I like the idea, mind you. But Anthony didn’t live in Beirut or Sarajevo. He lived right here in central Virginia. I can’t help but think he had more chances than millions of others in devastated places. We’ll never understand what goes on in a brain like his.”
“Just as well.” Donnie Sweigert finally said something.
“Why?” Betty asked.
“ ’Cause if you know how they think, maybe you start to think like they do.” He put his ungloved hands in his pockets. “He was okay. I didn’t have any problems with him. He knew if he was on the job that day, he was sober that day. What he did at night with his paycheck was his business.”
“What surprises me is how long he lived, considering how much he drank. He probably didn’t have any liver left.” Clay remembered how rail thin Anthony was in the last years of his life. “Man must have had an iron constitution to keep going.”
“Guess he did,” Bobby replied.
Clay shook his head.“This sounds awful, but maybe it’s just as well he drank what he drank. He would have died of cirrhosis, no doubt, and it’s an awful death. At least he didn’t linger, and we might take comfort in that.”
“I’d take comfort in it if it had been his idea.” Sister’s voice was firm. “Yes, he was a falling-down drunk much of the time, but he still had a spark of life in him. I know he didn’t commit suicide.”
“Maybe he just grabbed the wrong bottle.” Donnie shrugged. “I feel sorry for him.”
“We all do, and I thank you all for coming here. At least he had a few people to mark his passing.” Sister met each person’s eyes. “Thank you.”
As people gratefully slipped into their vehicles to start their motors and the heaters, Clay remained behind.“Sister, allow me to pay for this. I should have thought of it in the first place, and I apologize.”
“He was an old friend.”
“Well, he worked for me when he could work. Why don’t we split it? I really should do something. I’ve had too much on my mind. I apologize again for not seeing to this when he died.”
“All right. We’ll share.”
Clay bent down and kissed her on the cheek.“You’re the best.”
“Best what?” Her eyes brightened.
“Best master, best person. Best.”
“I don’t know about that, but every now and then the Good Lord gives you a chance to do something for someone else. I wish I could have done for him while he lived but …” Her voice trailed off.
“Yeah. Thing with the Anthonys of this world is you’ve got to cut them loose before they take you down.”
“That’s true.”
“I’ll call Carl Haslip, send half the cost directly to them.” He kissed her again and opened the door of her truck. “Crazy world, isn’t it?”
She smiled.“Sometimes. Mostly, I think it’s us who are crazy. The foxes seem to do all right. Never heard of a fox drunk or at a psychiatrist’s office.”
Clay laughed, shut her door, and then headed for his SUV.
CHAPTER 13
Failure haunted Sam Lorillard. Turning around, he’d constantly bump into ghosts from his past. Hauling a mare up to Middleburg to be bred, he’d pass through graceful brick gates, drive to the breeding shed, and unload the mare. He’d notice that the stable colors were green and yellow, and that would remind him of a stable at the track. Or he’d drive down to the feed store to pick up a small item, passing estates along the way where he’d once worked, disgraced himself, and been canned.