Whisker Of Evil

19

Can’t people just elope?” Harry grumbled as she sorted the unusually large number of envelopes Saturday morning.

Isabelle “Izzy” Stoltfus, a ripe twenty-three, worked the post office on Saturdays, but this Saturday, June 12, her first cousin was getting married over in Stuart’s Draft, so Harry filled in.

Izzy’s distant cousin, Jerome, was the animal-control officer. The two of them possessed literal temperaments. If something was written down, surely it was revealed wisdom. If it wasn’t written down, they were paralyzed by indecision.

Fortunately, post-office procedures had changed little since the postal relays of ancient Rome. You delivered the mail, simple as that. What had changed was the speed with which it could be handed to you.

Once the mail sack was dropped at the Crozet Post Office, sorting the mail took time. Harry had to place each person’s letters, magazines, and junk mail into their box. Packages too large for the box were set on industrial shelving, numbered by postbox rows. So the top shelf, since this was a small town, was one through fifty; the second shelf was fifty-one through one hundred, and so on.

“Why is she moaning about elopements? The wedding invitations went out and came in two months ago,” Pewter logically said.

“She’s not complaining about the volume of mail. She’s complaining because Izzy’s not here. She’s ready to cut hay, and you know how she gets about that first cutting.” Tucker loved the first haying, the sweet smell of the newly mown hay flat on the ground in rows that often curved as gracefully as the line on a Manet canvas.

“It really is a mess of mail.” Pewter sauntered over to the pile on the sorting desk, the rest in the cart.

Mrs. Murphy, already on the white, blue, pink, yellow, and even cerise envelopes, said, “Party time. Flag Day parties. Fourth of July parties coming up. Bastille Day parties.”

This being Virginia, there were parties for every single human endeavor or lack of same. There were fishing parties, hunt club trail-clearing parties, the usual round of birthdays, retirement parties, let’s-celebrate-death-to-chiggers parties (chiggers being a nasty little bug), and the ubiquitous informal parties. Now, these informal parties could be tricky. A lady didn’t put on white gloves and party manners, but she couldn’t show up in flip-flops, a tube top, and cutoff jeans. Despite protests to the contrary, there really were no informal parties. Dress might be relaxed, but folks pulled themselves together. Virginians take their public appearances seriously. This seriousness about personal display allows them to be wonderfully charming, funny, and entertaining at all the parties. When a person knows they are correctly turned out, even if the clothes aren’t their favorites, they relax.

Every one of those invitations that Harry flicked into the back of the mailboxes specified the dress code. Not one of them said, “Come as you are.” No one wanted to see you as you are. Much too scary. They wanted to see you at your best.

Harry, born and bred in these parts, from families that arrived here in the early seventeenth century, received almost every invitation possible. She loved parties, but the dress tortured her. Her limited funds were spent on her farm.

No one could hold a candle to Big Mim or BoomBoom in the turnout department, but Harry looked okay. Big Mim could and did pop over to Milan and Paris. She ran ahead of the fashion curve. BoomBoom preferred shopping in New York, knowing just where to find all the bargains south of Houston Street. Nor was she averse to tromping through Bergdorf Goodman.

When Harry began to look a little tatty, Susan Tucker would drag her to Tyson’s Corner—not Milan, Paris, or New York, but Nordstrom’s was at Tyson’s Corner and that was a plus. The real reason Harry allowed herself to be yanked up to Occupied Virginia—as Crozians thought of northern Virginia—was so she could then drive over to Middleburg and visit her Smith College friends, a few of whom had settled there. It should be noted, those Smithies had also married quite well.

Alone, Harry had finally popped the last letter in the box when she noticed Big Mim’s sleek Bentley Turbo R glide past the post office. Seated next to Mim was the unmistakable profile of one of the most beautiful women of her or any generation, Alicia Palmer.

Harry heard the deep motor purr as the Bentley rolled around the back of the post office. Big Mim was just as happy coming in the back door as the front. She rapped on the back door.

Federal regulations specified that this back door should be locked, but life in a small town and in a small post office challenges such restrictions. Harry usually kept the back door unlocked because Miranda came in that way. Rob Collier, if the day’s drop was large, would pull in the back alley instead of the front. If she counted all the times she would need to open the back door, it just made more sense to keep it unlocked. Since the front-door parking lot was small and often full, friends just naturally came ’round the back way.

“Harry, dear,” Big Mim cooed as she stepped through the door. “Alicia’s home for a good long stay.”

Alicia extended her hand to Harry. “It’s been a long time between visits. You look as fresh and fit as ever.”

Big Mim grumbled, “A summa cum laude from Smith sorting mail. Alicia, encourage her to better herself.”

“Don’t pay the least bit of attention to her, Harry. She always was a dictator.” Alicia squeezed Harry’s hand.

At this Mim laughed. Most people were scared to death of the powerful woman. When someone teased her as Alicia did, it actually delighted her.

“You look gorgeous, Miss Palmer. We wish you’d move back to St. James permanently.”

“Must have had the world’s best face-lift,” Pewter cynically commented.

“She really is stunning,” Mrs. Murphy said. “Who cares how she does it?”

“I think Mom looks stunning.” The corgi stoutly stuck up for Harry.

“Oh, Tucker, that is so sweet, but Mom has all the fashion sense of a praying mantis.” Pewter hopped on the divider counter to be closer to the humans.

The corgi defiantly curled back her upper lip. “You say! Well, she has a wonderful face and the best body. Not an ounce of fat on her, and if she wanted to wear expensive clothes she’d look better than anyone else.” Tucker then sat next to Harry’s leg, refusing to even cast a glance at the fat gray cat.

“. . . the most extraordinary thing.” Big Mim finished her sentence on Harry finding Mary Pat’s class ring. She reached for Harry’s hand.

Harry held up her hand for Alicia, then thought it better to slip off the ring so the retired movie star could study it.

Alicia placed the gold ring in her palm. “She was so proud of her high school.” She peered inside at the inscription, M.P.R., 1945.

“Would you like the ring, Miss Palmer?” Harry spontaneously offered it.

Alicia looked into Harry’s eyes, her own violet eyes filling with tears. “You’re very kind.” She took a deep breath. “You keep it, Harry. Mary Pat bestowed upon me wealth worth a raj’s ransom—that and a wealth of wisdom. I learned so much from that woman.” She gently handed the ring back to Harry. “She died much too young.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wished her dead?” Harry inquired.

“No. I was the prime suspect. Obviously, I didn’t kill her. I never would have killed her. God, what an awful, awful time.” Alicia noticed Pewter and Mrs. Murphy on the counter. “Still working at the post office, I see.”

“Yes, couldn’t do it without them. Tucker, too,” Harry answered.

Alicia looked down at two bright eyes looking back up. “If dogs can fetch the paper, why not deliver the mail?” She laughed.

“Harry, dear, come over tonight. I’m giving an impromptu dinner party for Alicia. I browbeat her into it.”

“Now, Mim, you didn’t have to browbeat.”

“Harry, it’s a hen party.” Big Mim smiled. “Wear something cool.” The elegant small woman then said to Alicia in a stage whisper, “If Harry presses her jeans and white T-shirt, that’s formal.”

Harry laughed at her as well as at herself. “Oh, I’ll tart myself up.”

The two left by the back door just as Sugar Thierry lurched through the front door. He walked to his mailbox but kept inserting his key into the box to the left of his. “Harry, Harry, this damned key won’t work.”

Harry leaned over the counter and noticed sweat running down Sugar’s face. “One box to the right.”

He slipped his key in, turned it, and the heavy brass door with the glass front flipped open. “Right.” He pulled out his mail, dropping some of it, then he bent over, picked it up. He walked to the long table in the middle of the entry area to sort his mail. He’d study an envelope, throw it in the trash, then retrieve it.

“He’s not right,” Mrs. Murphy observed.

“Maybe he’s hung over,” Pewter opined.

“We’d smell it,” Tucker sagely noted. “I smell his scent, though. It’s heavy because he’s sweating.”

Then Sugar gave up on sorting his mail, glanced up at Harry, and realized she was staring at him. He burst into sobs. “Harry, Harry, I can’t stop thinking about Barry. There’s evil in this world. Terrible evil.” He choked back another wrenching sob. “Nureyev, Nijinsky, Fred Astaire.” He rattled off the names of three thoroughbred sires.

“Sugar, are you all right?” asked Harry, who knew perfectly well he wasn’t. “Let me get you a Coke, or how about tea?”

His eyes, glazed, widened. “No, I’m fine. I’m fine.” He bolted out the front door.

Harry hurried to the phone, dialing Dr. Hayden McIntire in the office.

The receptionist, Frances, picked up the phone. “Oh, hi, Harry.” Harry had a distinctive alto voice. Once heard it was not forgotten. “What’s up?”

“Is Doc there?”

“If you mean Hayden, no. He’s out on the golf course with David Wheeler, Cindy Chandler, and BoomBoom. He’s got Cindy as his partner. He just might keep that money in his pocket.” Frances laughed. “What do you need?”

“It’s not me. It’s Sugar Thierry. I think he’s sick. Bad sick.”

“Oh, Bill’s here. Let me page him.”

A few moments passed and Bill picked up the phone. “Hello, Harry. Frances said you were concerned about Sugar Thierry.”

“Yes. He was Barry Monteith’s business partner.” She clearly identified Sugar because Bill was new to the community. He hadn’t been in Crozet a year yet.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“He’s sweating; he must have a terrible fever. And he’s, well, I don’t know how to say this—he’s acting loopy, looney. He’s not a drinker.”

“Where is he?”

Harry looked out the front door. Sugar was trying to open the door to his truck. He slid down to his knees. “Bill, he’s out front. He’s really sick. He can’t get in his truck.”

Bill, his office just a short distance away, said, “I’ll be right there.”