"Couldn't agree more, Ms. Valeria," I said. "It's certainly not my idea of a joke. In fact, I can't see exactly what it is."
She looked at me for a second and then understood. "Oh," she said. "Forgive me. It's a slave collar, of course. For runaway slaves. The pursuers would chain a group of them together to prevent further escapes."
That explained the hank of rusty chain hanging down my back. "I came to see if Cubby here could get this thing off."
Cubby had by now climbed out from under the tractor. He was clearly embarrassed by all this talk of runaway slaves but very much interested in the collar, especially the latch on the back. "Yass'm," he said to Ms. Valeria. "I do believe I can fix this," he said. "Hold on a minute."
I saw a cutting torch rig in one corner and was about to protest, but instead he left the shop and headed down between the outbuildings toward what looked like an old log cabin. Valeria stepped closer to examine the collar, and once again I detected the scent of lilacs and perhaps something more subtle in the way of perfume. She stood right in front of me, and her complexion was flawless, as was her makeup. The major might be in his sixties, but she was early forties, tops. I bent my neck so that she could look at the latch, and this had me staring down her bodice. She was amply endowed, and I was suddenly aware of her. I think she detected that sudden awareness, as mature women always do, and shifted herself slightly to my left side.
"Where did Cubby go?" I asked as her fingers lingered on my neck near the sharp edges of the collar latch.
"To the collection," she replied, then let go of the collar and stepped back. She had dark brown eyes and a long straight nose, and her lips were parted just ever so slightly. She was wearing another one of those period dresses that draped down to the floor, and I would have sworn I heard the creak of whalebone stays when she moved. "Cubby keeps a collection of relics he has discovered on the plantation over time. I believe he has gone to find a key."
Now that was interesting. A black man who had not only recognized a slave collar but who also thought he knew where a key might be. "This is somewhat embarrassing," I said.
"I should think so," she said with just the barest hint of a smile. She held her hands together in front of her, and I noticed how square her shoulders were. "It's a good thing you did not encounter the major wearing that device."
I nodded and hurt my jaw. "He calls me the overseer," I said. "This would have confused him even, um, well, I mean…"
She gave me a droll look. "Even more than he already is?"
I let out a deep breath. "It is pretty surreal when he appears out of the woods in that getup and goes on about Sherman and the inbound Yankee hordes."
"Surreal," she said. "What a charming way to put it."
I think she was going to say something further, but Cubby came back into the shop bearing a large, rusty iron key. "Yass'm, I believe this'll do it," he announced. He wasn't bowing and scraping, but he was definitely laying on some Uncle Tom.
The key was a cylindrical affair with what looked like a corkscrew on the end. He stood behind me, put it to the latch, and rotated the cylinder a couple of times until the collar suddenly dropped away and hit the floor with a surprisingly loud clang. Cubby picked it up and handed it to Valeria, who turned it over in her hands with visible distaste. The thing looked handmade, as did the chain.
I rubbed my neck and looked at Cubby, who was studiously looking at the ground. I thanked him and asked if he wanted the collar for his collection.
"Got three just like it," he said. "I'll hang it out there, though, you don't want it."
"I definitely don't want it."
Valeria handed it back to Cubby and turned to me. "I assume you will want to deal harshly with the individual who put that hateful thing on your neck, Mr. Richter?" she asked.
"Harshly being the operative word, Ms. Valeria."
"I should think so," she said. "Mr. Richter, will you be so kind as to join us for tea this evening? At five, if that's convenient?"
"Yes, I can do that," I said, looking at my watch. First I needed to make some calls.
"Thank you," she said. She turned away in a swish of skirts and headed back up the walk to the big house.
"Yass'm?" I said to Cubby once she'd gone.
He sighed. "Got's to get in character when the main players come down to the barn," he said, tugging an imaginary forelock. "It's a job, Lieutenant."
"Thanks for getting that damned iron collar off me."
Cubby hefted the black metal object. "This thing here?" he said. "This isn't a real one. It's a new one."
"A fake, you mean?"
"Well, yes and no. It's handmade, and the smith knows his business. Cast iron, hammered true. The chain, handmade, too. The iron's too light, though. This here's modern metal." He handed it back to me.
"And you know this how?"
He smiled. "I'm a fair hand with a forge," he said. "Got to be, working here. Who you messin' with over there on that place?"
"A ghost," I said. "A bad one, too. Wears a white plastic mask and has dead eyes. I think I will keep this, after all. Maybe I can put it back on him one day."
"Somebody tryin' t' tell you somethin'."
"Perhaps," I said. "Or just a passing ghost, bored with life in the country."
"Ghosts," he said. "On the other hand, what's one more, I guess."
I started to leave and then turned around. "Yass'm?"
"Go on now," he said. "Don't make me sic Devil on you."
"This is a no-brainer," Horace said. "Just get your ass out of there. Learn Spanish, then go to Argentina. There's lots of Germans down there. They'll love the dogs."
I had the gang of three on a speakerphone downtown at H amp;S. I'd told them what had happened. None of them could make a connection with my killing someone's wife.
"Horace is right," Pardee said. "This guy's been watching and planning for some time. You go one on one with him, he'll take you down, especially out there in the bushes of Rockwell County."
"He did pretty well in Summerfield, too," I said. "But I see your point."
"Exactly," Horace said, "and he's a killer. I'll bet he's the guy who took out Billie Ray. Has to be, which means he's got it in him."
"So what was all that shooting through the windows shit? And why a barrio bang stick instead of doing it himself?"
"Who knows with these psychos?" Pardee said. "The point is, he's a sick bastard, and you need to get out of his line of fire."
"Well, supposedly whatever's going down is about to start. I'm not disposed to run, just yet. I just got here, remember?"
"Okay, boss," he replied, "but shouldn't some of us be out there? You bring a crowd, it may slow him down some. Complicate his planning."
"He mentioned that," I said. "Bring help, he said, and they'll get to play."
"Well, shit," Tony piped up. "You're not the only one bored with all this paperwork. Be fun to shoot somebody again."
"You brief the Rockwell County sheriff yet?" Horace asked.
"Very next call," I said. "Although he'll probably invite my young ass to get out of Dodge, too, especially if the Lee ladies weigh in and want me gone. I guess I wouldn't blame 'em."
"You need to listen to all those folks telling you to boogie," Horace said. "That's the best near-term option. Give us time to find out what he's mad about, regroup, and go chase his ass."
"I'll think about it," I said. "Lemme call the sheriff here, see what he says, and then I'll get back to you. First, though, I have to go to tea up at the big house with my Auntie Bellums."
"Tea?"
"Personal invitation. The hell of it is, I've got nothing to wear."
"Simplify your life," Tony said. "Go nekkid."
Sheriff Walker echoed the consensus from downtown. He still sounded friendly, but naturally he was concerned with the impact my stalker problem might have on his little county kingdom.