Blair spun around in front of the barn when he tried to get his dually down the driveway. He grabbed his skis and poles and slid cross-country to the creek between his property and Harry’s. The edges of the creek were caked with ice; icicles hung down from bushes, and tree branches sparkled even in the gray light and the continued snow. Blair removed his skis, threw them to the other side of the creek, and then used his poles to help him get across. Any stepping stone he could find was slick as a cue ball. What normally took a minute or two took fifteen. By the time he arrived at Harry’s back door he was panting and red in the face. The waffles returned his vigor.
When Harry and Blair reached the tack room it was warm enough to paint, because Harry had set up a space heater in the middle of the room. They painted all day. Blair cooked his pork roast as promised. Over dessert they sat talking. He borrowed a strong flashlight, strapped on his skis, and left for home early, at 8:30 P.M. He called Harry at close to 9:00 P.M. to let her know he’d finally made it. They agreed it had been a great day and then they hung up.
47
The snow continued to fall off and on through Sunday. Monday morning Susan Tucker slowly chugged out to Harry’s to pick her up for work. The ancient Jeep, sporting chains, was packed with Harry, Mrs. Murphy, and Tucker. As they drove back to town Harry was astonished at the number of vehicles left by the side of the road or that had slipped off and now reposed at the bottom of an embankment. She knew the owners of most of the cars too.
“What a boon to the body shop,” Harry remarked.
“And what a boon to Art Bushey. Most of those people will be so furious they’ll tow the car out as soon as possible and take it over to him for a trade. Four-wheel drive is more expensive to run but you gotta have it in these parts.”
“I know.” Harry sounded mournful.
Susan, well-acquainted with her best friend’s impecunious state, smiled. “A friend with four-wheel drive is as good as owning it yourself.”
Harry shifted Tucker’s weight on her lap as the little dog’s hind foot dug into her bladder. “I need to come up with a sideline. Really. I can’t make it on the post office salary.”
“Bad time to start a business.”
“Do you think we’re on the verge of a depression? Forget this recession garbage. Politicians create a euphemism for everything.”
“You can always tell when a politician is lying. It’s whenever his mouth is moving.” Susan slowed down even more as they reached the outskirts of town. Although the roads had been plowed and plowed again, the ice underneath would not yield. “Yes, I think we’re in for it. We’re going to pay for the scandals on Wall Street, and even worse, we’re going to pay for the savings and loan disaster for the rest of our natural lives. The party’s over.”
“Then I’d better come up with a party clean-up business.” Harry was glum.
Susan slowly slid into the wooden guard rails in front of the post office when she applied her brakes. The Jeep was four-wheel drive but not four-wheel stop. She could see Miranda already at work. “I’ve got to get back home. Oh, here, I almost forgot.” She reached into her purse and retrieved a large gold earring.
“This isn’t real gold, is it? I can’t take it if it is.”
“Gold plate. And I go on record as being opposed to your plan.”
“I hear you but I’m not listening.” Harry opened the door. Tucker leapt out and sank into the snow over her head.
Mrs. Murphy laughed. “Swim, Tucker.”
“Very funny.” Tucker pushed through the snow, leaping upward every step to get her head above the white froth.
The cat remained on Harry’s shoulder. Harry helped Tucker along and Mrs. Hogendobber opened the door.
“I’ve got something to show you.” Mrs. Hogendobber shut the door and locked it again. “Come here.”
As Harry removed her coat and extra layers, Miranda plunked a handful of cards on the counter. They appeared to be sale postcards sent out at regular intervals by businesses wanting to save the additional postage on a regular letter. Until Harry read one.
“‘Don’t stick your nose where it don’t belong,’ ” she read aloud. “What is this?”
“I don’t know what it is, apart from incorrect grammar, but Herbie and Carol have received one. So have the Sanburnes, the Hamiltons, Fair Haristeen, BoomBoom, Cabby and Taxi—in fact, nearly everyone we know.”
“Who hasn’t received one?”
“Blair Bainbridge.”
Harry held up the card to the light. “Nice print job. Did you call Sheriff Shaw?”
“Yes. And I called Charlottesville Press, Papercraft, Kaminer and Thompson, King Lindsay, every printer in Charlottesville. No one has any record of such an order.”
“Could a computer with a graphics package do something like this?”
“You’re asking me? That’s what children are for, to play with computers.” Mrs. Hogendobber put her hands on her hips.
“Well, here come Rick and Cynthia. Maybe they’ll know.”
The officers thought the postcards could have been printed with an expensive laser printer but they’d check with computer experts in town.
As they drove slowly away Cynthia watched new storm clouds approaching from the west. “Boss?”
“What?”
“Why would a killer do something like this? It’s stupid.”
“On the one hand, yes; on the other hand . . . well, I don’t know.” Rick gripped the wheel tighter and slowed to a crawl. “We have next to nothing. He or she knows that, but there’s something inside this person, something that wants to show off. He doesn’t want to get caught but he wants us and everyone else to know he’s smarter than the rest of us put together. Kind of a classic conflict.”
“He needs to reaffirm his power, yet stay hidden.” She waved to Fair, stuck in the snow. “We’d better stop. I think we can get him out.”
Rick rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “Look, I know this is illegal so I won’t ask you directly but wouldn’t it be odd if these postcards were misplaced for a day—just a day?” He paused. “We got someone smart, incredibly smart, and someone who likes to play cat and mouse. Dammit. Christmas!”
“Huh?”
“I’m afraid for every Christmas present under every tree right now.”
48
A stupendous Douglas fir scraped the high ceiling in Mim Sanburne’s lovely mansion. The heart-pine floors glowed with the reflection of tree lights. Presents were piled under the tree, on the sideboard in the hall, everywhere—gaily colored packages in green, gold, red, and silver foil wrapping paper topped off with huge multicolored bows.
Approximately 150 guests filled the seven downstairs rooms of the old house. Zion Hill, as the house was named, originated as a chinked log cabin, one room, in 1769. Indians swooped down to kill whites, and Zion Hill had no neighbors until after the Revolutionary War. There were rifle slits in the wall where the pioneers retreated to shoot attacking Indians. The Urquharts, Mim’s mother’s family, prospered and added to the house in the Federal style. Boom times covered the United States in a glow in the 1820’s. After all, the country had won another war against Great Britain, the West was opening up, and all things seemed possible. Captain Urquhart, the third generation to live at Zion Hill, invested in the pippin apple, which people said was brought into the county from New York State by Dr. Thomas Walker, physician to Thomas Jefferson. The Captain bought up mountain land dirt-cheap and created miles of orchards. Fortunately for the Captain, Americans loved apple pie, apple cider, applesauce, apple tarts, apple popovers, apples. Horses liked them too.