Logically, she knew it was absurd to be shaken. Her husband had been unfaithful. Millions of husbands are unfaithful. She knew, too, in her heart that this affair must have flourished before the separation. She would be divorcing him, affair or no affair, but when she learned the details at the jail she burst out crying. She couldn’t help herself.
She called Ned. He told her to come right over.
“. . . irreconcilable differences. You can change that, of course, and now sue on grounds of adultery. You see, Harry, Virginia divorce law is, well, let’s just say this isn’t California. If you sue on grounds of adultery and the court finds in your favor, you won’t have to divide up the monies you’ve acquired during the marriage.”
“In other words, this is his punishment for fooling around.” Harry’s eyes got moist again.
“The law doesn’t state punishment—”
“But that’s what it is, isn’t it? Suing on the grounds of adultery is an instrument of revenge.” She sank back in the chair. Her head ached. Her heart ached.
Ned’s words were measured. “In the hands of some lawyers and people, you might say it’s an instrument of revenge.”
After a long, deep pause Harry spoke with resolution and clarity. “Ned, it’s bad enough that divorce in this town becomes public spectacle. This . . . this adultery suit, well, that would turn spectacle into nightmare for me and a real three-ring circus for the Mim Sanburnes of the world. You know”—she glanced at the ceiling—“I can’t even say that he’s wrong. She has something I don’t.”
The friend in Ned overcame the lawyer. “She can’t hold a candle to you, Harry. You’re the best.”
That made Harry cry again. “Thank you.” When she’d regained her composure she continued. “What do I have to gain by hurting him because I’m hurt? I can’t see anything in this but more money if I win, and my divorce isn’t about money—it really is about irreconcilable differences. I’ll stick with that. Sometimes, Ned, even with the best of intentions and the best people”—she smiled—“things just don’t work out.”
“You’ve got class, honey.” Ned came over, sat on the edge of the chair, and patted her back.
“Maybe.” She half laughed. “On the odd occasion, I’m capable of acting like a reasonable adult. I want to put this behind me. I want to go on with my life.”
44
Like clockwork, Mrs. Hogendobber called for her gossip bulletin at seven forty-five the next morning. Pewter visited from next door. The post boxes, filled, awaited their owners, and when the door opened at 8:00 A.M., Harry and Officer Cooper acted normal. Well, they thought they were normal but Officer Cooper positioned herself so she could see the boxes. Harry burned off energy in giving Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and even Tucker rides in the mail bin.
Danny Tucker arrived first, scooped out the mail, and didn’t go through it. “Sorry I didn’t get to see you last night. Mom said you had business with Dad.”
“Yeah. We got things straightened out.”
Just then Ned Tucker bounded up the steps. “Hello, everyone.” He gave Harry a big smile, then noticed the mail in his son’s hands. “I’ll take that.” He rapidly flipped through it, blinked when he saw the postcard, read it, and said aloud, “That’s Susan’s handwriting. What’s she up to now?”
Harry hadn’t thought of that. They should have assigned names. She wondered who else would recognize their handwriting.
“Dad, I’ve been really good and there’s a party tonight—”
“The answer is no.”
“Ah, come on. I could be dead by Halloween.”
“That’s not funny, Dan.” Ned opened the door. “Harry, I will relieve you of our presence.” Ned unceremoniously ushered his protesting son outside.
“Are you a regular letter writer?” Harry asked Coop.
“No. What about you?”
“Not much. We bombed that one.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t say anything except to Susan. Wonder what she’ll tell him.”
Market was next. He sorted out his mail and tossed the junk mail, including the postcard, into the trash. “Damn crap.”
“Doesn’t sound like you, Market.” Harry forced her voice to be light.
“Business is booming but I’d rather make less and have peace of mind. If one more reporter or sadistic tourist tramps into my store, I think I’ll paste them away. One newspaper creep leered at my daughter and had the gall to invite her to dinner. She’s fourteen years old!”
“Remember Lolita,” Harry said.
“I don’t know anyone named Lolita and if I did I’d tell her to change her name.” He stalked out.
“I’m not going home until he’s in a better mood,” Pewter remarked to her companions.
“So far, Harry’s idea has been a bust.” Mrs. Murphy licked her paw.
Fair sheepishly came in. “Ladies.”
“Fair,” they replied in tandem.
“Uh, Harry—”
“Later, Fair. I haven’t got the strength to hear it now.” Harry cut him off.
He went to his post box and yanked out the mail.
“What the hell is this?” He walked over to Harry and handed her the postcard.
“A pretty picture of Jefferson’s marker.”
“‘Wish you were here,’ ” Fair read aloud. “Maybe Tom thinks I should join him. Well, plenty of others do now; I guess I’ve made a mess of it.” He skidded the card down the counter. “If T.J. returned to Albemarle County today, he’d die to get away from it.”
“Why do you say that?” Officer Cooper asked.
“People come to worship at the shrine. I mean, the man stood for progressive thought, politically, architecturally. We haven’t progressed since he died.”
“You sound like Maude Bly Modena,” Harry observed.
“Do I? I guess I do.”
“Guess you’ll be dating BoomBoom out in the open now.”
Fair glared at Harry. “That was a low blow.” He stormed out.
“Jesus, it isn’t even ten in the morning. Wonder who else we can offend?” Officer Cooper laughed.
“It’s the tension, and all those reporters keep rubbing the wound raw. And . . . I don’t know. The air feels heavy, like before a storm.”
Reverend Jones, Clai Cordle, Diana Farrell, and Donna Eicher picked up their mail. Nothing much came of that. Donna also got Linda Berryman’s mail for her.
Once the post office was empty again, Harry remarked, “We were probably tasteless to put a card in Linda Berryman’s box.”
“In this case, the end justifies the means and the meanness.”
Hayden McIntire dropped by. He, too, left without examining his mail.
BoomBoom Craycroft, however, caught the meaning immediately as she put her mail into three piles: personal, business, junk. “This is attractive.” She handed the postcard to Harry. “Is this what you wish for me now?”
“I got one too,” fibbed Harry.
“Sick humor.” BoomBoom’s lips curled. “These murders flush out every weirdo we’ve got. Sometimes I think all of Crozet is weird. What are we doing festering here like a pimple on the butt of the Blue Ridge Mountains? Poor Claudius Crozet. He deserved better.” She paused and then said to Harry: “Well, I guess you deserve better, too, but I can’t bring myself to apologize. I don’t feel guilty.”
As she walked out an astonished Harry noticed Mrs. Murphy heading for the stamp pads. Quickly she sped toward them and snapped them shut. Mrs. Murphy trotted right by them as though they were of no concern to her, and wasn’t Harry silly? This upheaval over BoomBoom and Fair had upset the cat too. She hated seeing Harry suffer.
The name Crozet fired a nerve in Harry’s brain. “Cooper, if I found the buried treasure would I have to pay income tax on it?”
“We even pay death duties in this country. Of course you’d have to pay.”
“She may be getting it at last.” Mrs. Murphy pranced.