Harry was re-inking her stamp pads and cleaning the clogged ink out of the letters on the rubber stamps. She’d gotten to the point where she had maroon ink on her forehead as well as all over her fingers when Big Marilyn Sanburne, “Mim,” marched in. Marilyn belonged to that steel-jawed set of women who were honorary men. She was called Big Marilyn or Mim to distinguish her from her daughter, Little Marilyn. At fifty-four she retained a cold beauty that turned heads. Burdened with immense hours of leisure, she stuck her finger in every civic pie, and her undeniable energy sent other volunteers to the bar or into fits.
“Mrs. Haristeen”—Mim observed the mess—“have you committed a murder?”
“No—just thinking about it.” Harry slyly smiled.
“First on my list is the State Planning Commission. They’ll never put a western bypass through this country. I’ll fight to my last breath! I’d like to hire an F-14 and bomb them over there in Richmond.”
“You’ll have plenty of volunteers to help you, me included.” Harry wiped, but the ink was stubborn.
Mim enjoyed the opportunity to lord it over someone, anyone. Jim Sanburne, her husband, had started out life on a dirt farm, and fought and scratched his way to about sixty million dollars. Despite Jim’s wealth, Mim knew she had married beneath her and she was a woman who needed external proof of her social status. She needed her name in the Social Register. Jim thought it foolish. Her marriage was a constant trial. It was to Jim, too. He ran his empire, ran Crozet because he was mayor, but he couldn’t run Mim.
“Well, have you reconsidered your divorce?” Mim sounded like a teacher.
“No.” Harry blushed from anger.
“Fair’s no better or worse than any other man. Put a paper bag over their heads and they’re all the same. It’s the bank account that’s important. A woman alone has trouble, you know.”
Harry wanted to say, “Yes, with snobs like you,” but she shut up.
“Do you have gloves?”
“Why?”
“To help me carry in Little Marilyn’s wedding invitations. I don’t want to befoul them. Tiffany stationery, dear.”
“Wait a minute, here.” Harry rooted around.
“You put them next to the bin,” Tucker informed her.
“I’ll take you to the bathroom in a minute, Tucker,” Harry told the dog.
“I’ll knock them on the floor. See if she gets it.” Mrs. Murphy nimbly trotted the length of the counter, carefully sidestepping the ink and stamps, and with one gorgeous leap landed on the shelf, where she pushed off the gloves.
“The cat knocked your gloves off the shelf.”
Harry turned as the gloves hit the floor. “So she has. She must know what we’re saying.” Harry smiled, then followed Big Marilyn out to her copen-blue Volvo.
“Sometimes I wonder why I put up with her,” Mrs. Murphy complained.
“Don’t start. You’d be lost without Harry.”
“She is good-hearted, I will admit, but Lord, she’s slow.”
“They all are,” Tucker agreed.
Harry and Mim returned carrying two cardboard boxes filled with pale cream invitations.
“Well, Harry, you will know who is invited and who isn’t before anyone else.”
“I usually do.”
“You, of course, are invited, despite your current, uh, problem. Little Marilyn adores you.”
Little Marilyn did no such thing but no one dared not invite Harry, because it would be so rude. She really did know every guest list in town. Because she knew everything and everybody, it was shrewd to keep on Harry’s good side. Big Marilyn considered her a “resource person.”
“Everything is divided up by zip code and tied.” Mim tapped the counter. “And don’t pick them up without your gloves on, Harry. You’re never going to get that ink off your fingers.”
“Promise.”
“I’ll leave it to you, then.”
No sooner had she relieved Harry of her presence than Josiah DeWitt appeared, tipping his hat and chatting outside to Mim for a moment. He wore white pants and a white shirt and a snappy boater on his head, the very image of summer. He pushed open the door, touched the brim of his hat, and smiled broadly at the postmistress.
“I have affixed yet another date with the wellborn Mrs. Sanburne. Tea at the club.” His eyes twinkled. “I don’t mind that she gossips. I mind that she does it so badly.”
“Josiah—” Harry never knew what he would say next. She slapped his hand as he reached into one of the wedding invitation boxes. “Government property now.”
“That government governs best which governs least, and this one has its tentacles into every aspect of life, every aspect. Terrifying. Why, they even want to tell us what to do in bed.” He grinned. “Ah, but I forgot you wear a halo on that subject now that you’re separated. Of course, you wouldn’t want to be accused of adultery in your divorce proceeding, so I shall assume yours is virtue by necessity.”
“And lack of opportunity.”
“Don’t despair, Harry, don’t despair. Anyway, you got a great nickname out of ten years of marriage . . . although Mary suits you now, because of the halo.”
“You’re awful sometimes.”
“Rely on it.” Josiah flipped through his mail and moaned, “Ned has given me the compliment of an invoice. Lawyers get a cut of everything, don’t they?”
“Kelly Craycroft calls you Moldy Money.” Harry liked Josiah because she could devil him. Some people you could and others you couldn’t. “Don’t you want to know why he calls you Moldy Money?”
“I already know. He says I’ve got the first dollar I ever made and it’s moldering in my wallet. I prefer to think that capital, that offspring of business, is respected by myself and squandered by others, Kelly Craycroft in particular. I mean, how many paving contractors do you know who drive a Ferrari Mondial? And here, of all places.” He shook his head.
Harry had to agree that owning a Ferrari, much less driving one, was on the tacky side. That’s what people did in big cities to impress strangers. “He’s got the money—I guess he can spend it the way he chooses.”
“There’s no such thing as a poor paving contractor, so perhaps you’re right. Still”—his voice lowered—“so hopelessly flashy. At least Jim Sanburne drives a pickup.” He absentmindedly slapped his mail on his thigh. “You will tell me, of course, who is and who isn’t invited to Child Marilyn’s wedding. I especially want to know if Stafford is invited.”
“We all want to know that.”
“What’s your bet?”
“That he isn’t.”
“A safe bet. They were so close as children, too. Really devoted, that brother and sister. A pity. Well, I’m off. See you tomorrow.”
Through the glass door Harry watched Susan Tucker and Josiah engage in animated conversation. So animated that when finished, Susan leaped up the three stairs in a single bound and flung open the door.
“Well! Josiah just told me you’ve got Little Marilyn’s wedding invitations.”
“I haven’t looked.”
“But you will and no time like the present.” Susan opened the door by the counter and came around behind it.
“You can’t touch that.” Harry removed her gloves as Tucker joyfully jumped on Susan, who hugged and kissed her. Mrs. Murphy watched from her shelf. Tucker was laying it on pretty thick.
“Wonderful doggie. Beautiful doggie. Gimme a kiss.” Susan saw Harry’s hands. “Well, you can’t touch the envelopes either, so for the next fifteen minutes I’ll do your job.”
“Do it in the back room, Susan. If anyone sees you we’re both in trouble. Stafford will be in the one-double-oh zip codes and I think he’s in one-double-oh two three, west of Central Park.”
Susan called over her shoulder on her way to the back room: “If you can’t live on the East Side of Manhattan, stay home.”