She started calling. Since all the catalog companies had twenty-four-hour 800 numbers, she knew she'd get someone on the end of the line.
An hour later she had found Case XX Bowie knives for over $200, replicas of sabers, double-edged swords, saracens, and even stilettos, but not the kind she wanted. She'd spoken to college kids moonlighting, crusty old men who wanted to discuss the relative merits of government-issue bayonets, and even one aggressive man who asked her for a long-distance date.
The two cats nestled into the mail cart, since there wasn't anything they could do to help. Tucker fell asleep.
Having exhausted her supply of catalogs, Harry had hit a dead end. She couldn't think what to do next. She'd even called a uniform supply company on the outside chance someone there might be a cutlery enthusiast, as she put it.
"Call L.L. Bean. They know everything," Mrs. Murphy called out from the bottom of the mail cart.
Harry made herself a cup of tea. She checked the clock. "If I don't get over to the Church of the Holy Light in about twenty minutes Mrs. H. will fry me for breakfast."
"I told you, call L.L. Bean."
Harry sat down, sipped her tea. She felt more awake now. She kept an L.L. Bean catalog, her own, stacked next to the sugar bowl.
"Tucker, has she got it yet?"
"No." The dog lifted her head. "Forget it."
"Sometimes people drive me around the bend!" the sleek cat complained, leaping out of the mail bin.
"Why bother?" Pewter stretched out in the bottom. "She won't listen about Linda's body. She won't listen now either."
Mrs. Murphy jumped onto the table, rubbed Harry's shoulder then stuck out her claws and pulled the L.L. Bean catalog toward Harry.
"Murph—" Harry reached out and put her hand on the catalogue, fearful the cat would shred it. "Hmm." She flipped open the pages, filled with merchandise photographed as accurately as possible.
She gulped down a hot swallow, jumped up, and dialed the 800 number.
"Could I talk to your supervisor, please?"
"Certainly." The woman's voice on the other end was friendly.
Harry waited a few moments and then heard, "Hello, L.L. Bean, how may I help you?"
"Ma'am, pardon me for disturbing you. This has nothing to do with L.L. Bean, but do you know of any mail-order company that specializes in knives?"
"Let me think a minute," the voice said, that of a middle-aged woman. "Joe, what's the name of that company in Tennessee specializing in hunting knives?" A faint voice could be heard in the background. "Smoky Mountain Knife Works in Sieverville, Tennessee."
"Thank you." Harry scribbled down the information, "You've been great. May I make one suggestion about your duck boots? I mean, I always call them duck boots."
"Sure. We want to hear from our customers."
"You know the Bean Boot you all started making in 1912? Well, I love the boot. I've had mine resoled twice."
"I'm glad to hear that."
"But women's sizes don't carry a twelve-inch upper. Ours only go to nine inches, and I work on a farm. I would sure like to have a twelve-inch upper."
"What's your shoe size?"
"Seven B."
"You wear a seven and a half in this—you know, a little bigger for heavy socks."
"Yes, thank you for reminding me."
"Tell you what, can you call me back tomorrow and I'll see what we can do? The sales force is twenty-four hours, but I'll have to wait until regular hours tomorrow to see if I can accommodate your request. What's your name?"
"Mary Minor Haristeen."
"Okay then, Miss Haristeen, you call me tomorrow afternoon and ask for Glenda Carpenter."
"Thank you, I will."
Harry pressed the disconnect button and got the phone number for the Sieverville company. Hurriedly she punched in the phone number.
A man answered, "Smoky Mountain."
"Sir, hello, this is Mary Minor Haristeen from the Crozet post office in central Virginia. I am trying to trace back orders for folks here. A resident says he had the knives sent to my post office, and I swear they must have gone to the main post office in Charlottesville instead. It's no mistake on your part, by the way— just one of those things."
"Gee—that could be a lot of orders."
"Maybe I can help you. It would either be repeat orders or a bulk order for that beautiful stiletto, uh, I forget the name, but the handle is wrapped in wire and it's about a foot long."
The voice filled with pride. "You mean the Gil Hibben Silver Shadow. That's some piece of hardware, sister."
"Yes, yes, it is." Harry tried not to shudder since she knew the use to which it had been put.
"Let me pull it up on the computer here." He hummed. "Yeah, I got one order to Charlottesville. Three knives. Ordered for Albemarle Cutlery. Nice store, huh?"
"Yes. By the way, is there a person's name on that?" Harry didn't tell him there was no Albemarle Cutlery. The name had to be a front.
"No. Just the store and a credit card. I can't read off the number, of course."
"No, no, I understand, but at least I know where the shipment has gone."
"Went out two months ago. Hasn't been returned. I hope everything is okay."
"It will be. You're a lifesaver."
She bid her good-byes and then called down to the central post office on Seminole Road.
"Carl?" She recognized the voice that answered.
"Harry, what's doing, girl?"
"It only gets worse. Between now and December twenty-fifth we might as well forget sleep. Will you do me a favor?"
"Sure."
' 'Do you have a large post office box registered to Albemarle Cutlery?"
"Hold on." He put the phone down.
Harry heard his footsteps as he walked away, then silence. Finally the footsteps returned. "Albemarle Cutlery. C. de Bergerac.
"Damn!"
"What?"
"Sorry, Carl, it's not you. That's a phony name. Cyrano de Bergerac was a famous swordsman in the seventeenth century. The subject of a famous romance."
"Steve Martin. I know," Carl confidently replied.
"Yes, well, that's one way to remember." Harry laughed and wondered what Rostand, the playwright, would make of Steve Martin as his hero. "Listen, would you fax me his signature from the receipt?"
"Yeah, sure. You up to something?"
"Well—yes."
"Okay, I'll keep my mouth shut. I'll pull the record and fax it right over. Good enough?"
"More than good enough. Thanks."
"Mother, calm down," Mrs. Murphy told her. "The fax will come through in a minute."
Harry froze when she heard the whirr and wheeze of the fax. Her hands trembled as she pulled the paper out. Mrs. Murphy hopped on her shoulder.
"It can't be!" Harry's hands shook harder when she saw the left-leaning, bold script.
"Well, who is it?" Pewter called from the mail bin.
"I don't know," Murphy called back. "I don't see the handwriting of people like Mother does. I mean, I know Mom's, Fair's, Mim's, and Mrs. Hogendobber's, but I don't know this one."
Tucker scrambled to her feet. "Mother, call Rick Shaw. Please!"
But Harry, dazed by what she now knew, wasn't thinking straight. Shaken, she folded the paper, slipping it into the back pocket of her jeans.
"Come on, gang, we've got to get to church before Mrs. Hogendobber pitches a hissy."
"Don't worry about Mrs. Hogendobber," Pewter sagely advised. "Call the sheriff."
"Everyone will be at the choirfest, so she can see him there," Tucker added.
"That's what I'm afraid of." Mrs. Murphy fluffed out her fur and jumped off Harry's shoulder.
"What do you mean?" Pewter asked as she crawled out of the mail bin. She was too lazy to jump.
"Everybody will be there—including the killer."
The heater, slow in working, sent off a faint aroma in Harry's blue truck. She gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. Puffs of breath lazed out into the air as she sped along, a big puff from her, a medium puff from Tucker, and two small puffs from Mrs. Murphy and Pewter.