He rested a moment, then continued:“You know, I see people in crisis often. And over the years I have found that one of two things happens. Either people open up and grow, the pain allowing them to have compassion for others, to gain perspective on themselves, to feel God’s love, if you will, or they shut down either through drink, drugs, promiscuity, or bitterness. Bitterness is an affront to God, as is any form of self-destructive behavior. Life is a gift, to be enjoyed and shared.” He fell into silence.
Ella purred as she listened. She loved Herbie’s voice, its deep, manly rumble, but she loved what he said too. Humans had such difficulty figuring out that life is a frolic as long as you have enough to eat, a warm bed, and plenty of catnip. She was very happy that Herb realized life was mostly wonderful.
For a long time the two men sat side by side in the quiet of understanding.
Blair spoke at last.“Herbie, I’m trying to open up. I don’t have much practice.”
Sensing that Blair would get around to telling his story sometime in the future, when he felt secure, Herb wisely didn’t probe. Instead he reassured him with what he himself truly believed. “Trust in God. He will show you the way.”
15
Although the sheriff and Officer Cooper knew little about the pieces of body that had been found, they did know that a vagrant, not an old man either, had been in town not long ago.
Relentless legwork, telephone calls, and questioning led the two to the Allied National Bank.
Marion Molnar remembered the bearded fellow vividly. His baseball jacket, royal blue, had an orange METS embroidered on it. As a devout Orioles fan, this upset Marion as much as the man’s behavior.
She led Rick and Cynthia into Ben Seifert’s office.
Beaming, shaking hands, Ben bade them sit down.
“Oh, yes, walked into my office big as day. Had some cockamamie story about his investments. Said he wanted to meet Cabell Hall right then and there.”
“Did you call your president?” Rick asked.
“No. I said I’d take him down to our branch office at the downtown mall in Charlottesville. It was the only way I knew to get him out of here.” Ben cracked his knuckles.
“Then what happened?” Cynthia inquired.
“I drove him to the outskirts of town on the east side. Finally talked him out of this crazy idea and he got out willingly. Last I saw of him.”
“Thanks, Ben. We’ll call you if we need you,” Rick said.
“Glad to help.” Ben accompanied them to the front door.
Once the squad car drove out of sight he shut his office door and picked up his phone.“Listen, asshole, the cops were here about that bum. I don’t like it!” Ben, a country boy, had transformed himself over time, smoothing off his rough edges. Now he was a sleek glad-hander and a big deal in the Chamber of Commerce. There was scarcely any of the old Ben left in his oily new incarnation, but worry was resurrecting it.
16
The Harvest Fair committee, under the command of Miranda Hogendobber, met hastily to discuss their plans for the fair and the ball that immediately followed it. The glorious events of the Harvest Fair and Ball, crammed into Halloween day and night, were eagerly awaited by young and old. Everybody went to the Harvest Fair. The children competed for having the best costume and scariest costume, as well as in bobbing for apples, running races in costume, and other events that unfolded over the early evening hours. The advantage of this was that it kept the children off the streets, sparing everyone the trick-or-treat candy syndrome that caused adults to eat as much as the kids did. The children, gorged on good food as well as their treats, fell asleep at the Harvest Ball while the adults danced. There were as many sleeping bags as pumpkins.
The crisis confronting Mrs. Hogendobber, Taxi Hall, and their charges involved Harry Haristeen and Susan Tucker. Oh, not that the two had done anything wrong, but each year they appeared as Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman, Harry being the Horseman. Harry’s Tomahawk was seal-brown but looked black at night, and his nostrils were always painted red. He was a fearsome sight. Harry struggled every year to see through the slits in her cape once the pumpkin head was hurled at the fleeing Ichabod. One year she lost her bearings and fell off, to the amusement of everyone but herself, although she did laugh about it later.
What could they do? This cherished tradition, ongoing in Crozet since Washington Irving first published his immortal tale, seemed in questionable taste this year. After all, a headless body had just been found.
After an agonizing debate the committee of worthies decided to cancel Ichabod Crane. As the ball was in a few days, they hadn’t time to create another show. The librarian suggested she could find a story which could be read to the children. It wasn’t perfect but it was something.
On her way to the post office, Miranda’s steps dragged slower and slower. She reached the door. She stood there for a moment. She breathed deeply. She opened the front door.
“Harry!” she boomed.
“I’m right in front of you. You don’t have to yell.”
“So you are. I don’t want to tell you this but the Harvest Ball committee has decided, wisely I think, to cancel the Headless Horseman reenactment.”
Harry, obviously disappointed, saw the logic of it.“Don’t feel bad, Mrs. H. We’ll get back to it next year.”
A sigh of relief escaped Miranda’s red lips. “I’m so glad you see the point.”
“I do and thank you for telling me. Would you like me to tell Susan?”
“No, I’ll get over there. It’s my responsibility.”
As she left, Harry watched the squared shoulders, the straight back. Miranda could be a pain—couldn’t we all—but she always knew the right thing to do and the manner in which to do it. Harry admired that.
17
Fitz-Gilbert could have used a secretary to make himself look like a functioning lawyer—which he wasn’t.
It doesn’t do for a man not to go to work, even a very wealthy man, so his office was mostly for show although it had developed into a welcome retreat from his mother-in-law and, occasionally, his wife.
He hadn’t been to the office since the torso appeared in Mim’s boathouse, two days ago.
He opened the door and beheld chaos. His chairs were overturned; papers were scattered everywhere; his file cabinet drawers sat askew.
He picked up the phone and dialed Sheriff Shaw.
18
Finding the remains of a human body, while unpleasant, wasn’t rare. Every year in the state of Virginia hunters stumble across bodies picked clean by birds and scavengers, a few tatters of clothing left clinging to the bones. Occasionally the deceased has been killed by mistake by other hunters; other times an elderly person who suffered from disease or loss of memory simply wandered off in winter and died from exposure. Then, too, there were those tortured souls who walked into the woods to end it all. Murder, however, was not that common.
In the case of this cut-up corpse, Rick Shaw figured it had to be murder. The life of a county sheriff is usually clogged with serving subpoenas, testifying in poaching cases and land disputes, chasing speeders, and hauling drunks into the pokey. Murder added excitement. Not that he thought of it that way, exactly, but as he sat at his cluttered desk his mind moved faster; he concentrated fiercely. It took an unjust death to give him life.