The good reverend expounded on this theme. How do we nurture one another, comfort one another, walk through life together?
She hoped she could remember not just what he said but also how he said it in his deep, resonant voice, because she wanted to repeat it word for word to Miranda. He would return to the sentence from Mark as a refrain. She was pretty sure she could remember that.
As the service ended and the choir sang, the parishioners marched out to where Herb, as was his custom, stood at the front door, shaking everyone’s hand, inquiring as to their health and welfare before sending them on their way. Such a simple act—putting his hand upon them—bound them all closer together. When she felt his warm hand shake hers, his left hand touch her shoulder, she realized with a thud that Herb had been practicing what he had been preaching for decades.
She left him, warmed as well as wondering how she could miss something so obvious. She determined to try to be more like Herb. Given her focus on task, this would be a challenge.
“Honey, give me a minute. I have to catch up on Zenaida.”
As Fair nodded, turning to talk to other congregants, she raced over to the woman in charge of food for the October 25 St. Luke’s reunion. Harry promised four bushels of Silver Queen corn, harvested in August and put in cold storage. She worried it might not be enough and that the corn might not be as tasty as she’d hoped. Silver Queen should be eaten the second it’s plucked off the stalk. However, good yellow corn was still being harvested in the southernmost counties of Virginia, and she wondered if she should purchase some as a backup.
Harry noticed while she and Zenaida spoke that Fair, lively and laughing, was talking with Susan and Ned. His countenance changed for a moment, becoming concerned.
He is the most empathetic man, she thought to herself, then returned to corn. “If it has to be Silver Queen, I expect I can get it sent up from Georgia. Florida? Want me to call around?”
“That gets pricey.” Zenaida furrowed her gray brows. “Yellow will do.”
“I’ll pick up a couple of ears from the refrigeration plant and do a test run. With any luck, we might be okay.”
“Good. Do that first.” Zenaida, easy to work with, smiled underneath her burgundy velvet hat.
Ladies still wore hats to service at St. Luke’s. Harry usually plucked whatever complemented her outfit, but if she felt like spiting whoever sat behind her—an un-Christian action—in summer she’d wear a broad-brimmed hat with flowers. Since she spent most of her day wearing a baseball hat, she felt denuded without something on her head.
When she rejoined Fair and they walked back to his truck, she asked, “How are Susan and Ned?”
“Fine. Susan told me how badly our two little girls behaved yesterday.”
“They still aren’t speaking.”
“Ned said they’ve made bail. Big Mim will have all the money together. He’ll go down Tuesday.”
“Oh, thank God.” Harry’s right hand flew to her breast. “Does Paul know?”
“Ned called him this morning before Mass. The paperwork this takes.” He furrowed his brow. “Ned was telling me and all I could dunk of is that it doesn’t matter what profession one’s in, we’re drowning in paperwork.”
“Wasteful.” She wrinkled her nose.
“It is that, but on the other hand, it creates a lot of paper-pushing jobs, which means fewer people are unemployed, more people are paying mortgages and have a stake in the system, hence political stability.”
“Aren’t you smart.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it.
“Just realistic. He said Little Mim has come through the firestorm and he thinks, although she’s lost the support of groups like Love of Life, she’s gained more from others. He thinks she can run for governor maybe in six or eight years.”
“He wants it first.”
“He did, but this first year down in Richmond has been a real eye-opener for him. I would guess any first-timer to politics faces entrenched interests and even more entrenched egos. Given his touch of idealism, it’s hard for him.”
“There’s where Little Mim shines. She inherited her mother’s hardness. But Big Mim does have a vision, and I suppose it’s progressive. Just no illusions about how you get things done.”
“She’s an honorable woman, but she knows you crack eggs to make an omelet.” He smiled.
“I’m proud of Little Mim.” Harry waited as he opened the door for her. “Any word on Penny Lattimore?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Ned called Rick, who said they hadn’t heard from her.”
“I hope she’s not dead. This scares me. When someone like Penny disappears, it’s…” She didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Events were spinning out of control, and apart from Tazio’s bail, she perceived little progress.
“I don’t know how much more of this our little community can stand.” He echoed her worry.
32
Monday felt like the freight train that pulls all those cars behind it. Harry stoked the engine. She’d whipped through her basic farm chores like the proverbial tornado and then she gathered up her buddies—the cats still on the outs with each other—cranked up the F-150 enhanced by a new alternator, and drove to Woolen Mills.
At two-thirty in the afternoon, she figured Mike would be on a job site, Noddy would be at the office, and she could sneak into his shed.
Mike could come and go as he pleased, as long as he got to the job sites on his list for that week. She didn’t factor his flexible schedule into her plans.
She parked the truck down the street. Most of the neighbors worked. A few dogs barked, but quiet reigned.
She carefully walked up the front walk, flanked by those beautiful English boxwoods, then ducked between them. As she did, the peculiar odor of the plant rubbed on her. The cats and dogs scooted through, as well.
She walked around the shed, hoping there’d be a door in the back, but there wasn’t. She tried the only door. Locked. No surprise.
However, she had a thin file, a cigarette lighter, and a pocketknife. She kept the lighter in the truck, because she’d learned that sometimes you need to light a candle, burn off the end of a rope.
Given that the house sat at the end of the road and the shed reposed on the back of the lawn, she didn’t worry about anyone seeing her.
The lock, although simple, resisted her clumsy attempts at picking with the file. Exasperated, she opened the long blade from the pocketknife, wedged it in, and began slowly urging the tongue of the lock to move it back. Sweating, cursing, she finally managed to press it back after fifteen minutes, and she swung open the door, closing it behind her.
“Wow,” she exclaimed as she admired the organized work space, tools hung up on Peg-Board, nails in jars, all marked in a row. The gun parts fascinated her. He’d know how to procure a silencer, she was certain, but a hunch wasn’t hard evidence. Still, it spurred her on. At the back of the work space rested a large red metal toolbox, about four feet high. She pulled open one drawer. Again, every implement was clean, carefully laid in place.
She walked around the space. Nothing indicated wrongdoing. She tried the door to the office. Fortunately, it was unlocked. The cats scooted in first. Once inside the room, she unlocked the window, in case she needed to make a quick escape.
“She’s more curious than we are,” Pewter grumbled. “And not as smart.”
Tucker sat inside by the office door, which Harry had closed, watching, listening with those marvelous ears.
Harry opened Mike’s desk drawers, checked the shelves. She checked her watch. Three forty-five. The trip to Woolen Mills from Crozet had taken forty minutes, thanks to traffic. She picked up the pace. She rapped on the walls. She located the studs, but nothing sounded as though it was filled with treasure. She hoped to hear that thunk.
She rolled the chair away and pulled back the heavy rubber mat. The trapdoor ring, black, caught her eye. Eagerly, she pulled it upright, tugged, and the door swung up, a musty smell rising with it.