Read Cat of the Century Online
Authors: Rita Mae Brown
Cat of the Century (29 page)
Fair laughed and said, “Certainly, but I don’t want you girls staying up all night talking.”
They all laughed at this.
“No reading under the covers with flashlights,” Harry added.
Aunt Tally roared with laughter, thrilled to be alive, thrilled that she won. Can there be a victory more clear than the death of an enemy?
Then she said wistfully, “We never will know about Ralston, will we?”
She was going to get her wish. It wasn’t over yet.
O
n Monday, April 27, Inez received a call from the bank manager of the BB&T near Manakin–Sabot.
She hung up the phone and walked out to the barn, slowly, for the wounded leg still stung. She was using a cane. Aunt Tally had kidded her that if they held hands, they could prop themselves up with their canes and dance the cancan, kicking up their legs. Harry had just finished mucking all the stalls.
“Harry, my bank manager informs me there’s little money. As my accounts are with Filmore Investments, God knows if I have any money at all there.”
“Oh, Inez!”
“It’s going to take time to find out.” Inez took a deep breath. “I may have to sell the farm. It would be great if Blanca could buy it, but I don’t think she and her husband can afford it. It’s prime real estate. But as you know, the market is dreadful for expensive country properties.”
“Inez, don’t even think about it. Stay with us. Your farm is paid off, thank God. It will all sort out, and there’s no point going back to Manakin–Sabot and being stressed. There’s been enough of that.” She checked the wall clock. “In an hour you’ll be calling the president of William Woods and the other alumnae board members for a conference call on the next step for the board. Luckily, what happened has
nothing to do with William Woods other than that Liz broke bad, Terri tagged along, and Mariah was a cheat. Harvard has produced far more rotters than that. Don’t think about the money right now. Just concentrate on William Woods.”
“I can’t impose on you two like that, but thank you for offering. That’s so very kind.” Inez smiled.
“If you don’t, Fair will be apoplectic. And you know, Inez, it’s a joy to have you around.” Harry took her by the hand and walked her into the tack room, seating her at the old school chair.
She then called Fair on his cell, explained everything, and handed the phone to Inez, who, upon listening, began to cry.
Harry put her hand on the old woman’s shoulder. Although she couldn’t hear it word for word, she knew the gist of what her husband was saying.
Inez handed Harry the phone. “Yes, honey?” Harry said to Fair.
“Thanks.”
“Fair, I’ve learned to love her as much as you do.”
This made Inez cry harder. Erno tried to lick her face.
Harry clicked off the phone. “I have a boon to ask, Inez.”
Wiping away her tears, she said, “Anything.”
“Ride with him when you can, and, Inez, please, please convince him he needs to take on a partner, or partners. He’s going to have a heart attack before he’s forty-five. Just like his father.”
“I will. I most definitely will, and I don’t know why he didn’t do it long ago.”
“He gets frustrated dealing with people. He’s not a manager. If he takes on a partner, there will be some management in the beginning.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing. I can take care of management. And, Harry, I love you, too.”
Harry leaned down and Inez kissed her on the cheek.
Tuesday at eleven, Harry and Fair drove Aunt Tally back to Rose Hill. Along with Inez, they walked her and Doodles into the house, just in case.
When Aunt Tally saw the new rug in her living room, she clapped her hands. “Beautiful. I know Mimsy did this.”
As they left her, she was happily dialing her niece.
They stopped midway down the long drive because Garvey was driving in, the XFR gleaming.
“How are you?” Fair rolled down the window.
“Good. How’s Tally?”
“She’s a tough old bird.” Fair smiled. “So’s this one. Bullet passes through her leg and she wouldn’t stay in the hospital for observation.”
“You girls.” Garvey smiled, then rolled on.
He had called ahead from his car, since he figured Aunt Tally might be wary of anyone knocking at her door.
She met him before he even put his hand on the large pineapple brass knocker, because Doodles told her someone was at the door.
“Come on in, Garvey. It’s so good of you to call. I can offer tea. It’s just about noon—a little sherry?”
“Sherry.”
She poured him a fine old sherry, contenting herself with a stiff martini. They settled on the back patio, wearing light sweaters, for the temperature was only fifty-two degrees. The colors of the sunshine provided a beautiful background, as did the barn swallows, who had finally arrived. The birds darted everywhere, calling out as they did.
“Excellent sherry.” He placed his glass on the end table by his chair, where Aunt Tally had thoughtfully provided the decanter.
Her martini glass, jumbo-size, would hold her.
After some chitchat, Garvey turned to her. “Tally, I’ve come to grant your wish. Terri’s death just reached down into my core.”
Aunt Tally stared at him, uncomprehending. “What wish?”
“You always wanted to know who killed Ralston Peavey.”
“You. You! Garvey, that can’t be. You wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“Let me explain.” He drained his glass, raised the decanter. She waved a go-ahead, and he refilled it. “I was driving home. You might remember it was a foggy night, thick. I didn’t see him until it was too late. He was standing in the middle of the road, taking a leak. He must have been loaded. I heard the sickening thump and then I didn’t see him. I braked, backed up what I thought was a little bit so I could get
out, but I ran over him again. I killed him. The only thing I could think to do was put my gloves on and zip him up. At least he’d be spared that indignity.”
“Why didn’t you go to the sheriff?”
“Ah, Tally, think. It was 1964. I was a young black man. There were already rumblings in the Deep South. I was scared. I thought I’d get railroaded.”
“Dear God.” She took a long draft herself. “I didn’t think of that. White people don’t, I guess. What did you do?”
“Daddy repaired all our tractors, so I woke him up and we worked all night, banging the big dent out of the fender. Put on touch-up paint and it looked pretty good. Then we pulled the tires off and Daddy buried them halfway up around Mama’s garden. We painted the top of the tires white. He always had a pile of old tires; everybody did. He put them on my car.”
“I see. Did anyone from the sheriff’s department check your car?”
“They came by. Looked at Daddy’s, looked at mine, those thin treads. That was that. Tally, I have carried this sin all my life. I liked Ralston. He could get loaded on the weekends, but it was a different time. Everybody drank. I guess he thought the middle of the road was as good as the side of the road, if he even knew the difference.”
“I’m sorry for both of you.” She took another sip. “What now? I won’t tell, if that’s what you wish.”
“I’ll turn myself in tomorrow to the sheriff.”
“Would you like me to be there?”
“Oh, Tally, thank you. Thank you, but, no, I have to do this myself. I’ve had since 1964 to think of this. I’m an old man. All passion spent, if you know what I mean, but I still carry guilt. It’s time to be rid of it, confess, take my punishment.”
“I see. I’ll call Ralston’s granddaughter after you’ve seen the sheriff. I admire you, Garvey. I truly do.”
He nodded in thanks, finished his sherry, helped her carry the decanter and glasses back into the house.
As she opened the door for him to leave, she asked, “Does Lila know?”
“I’ll tell her tonight.”
Garvey did go to Sheriff Shaw. The sheriff allowed him to leave on his own recognizance. The papers that week blared with a headline as big as the one days earlier about Liz Filmore’s attack on Aunt Tally and Inez.
The real miracle was that the case was hustled before the court, and Garvey hired an excellent lawyer from McGuire Woods. The Peavey family, all now in the Midwest, did not press charges.
The judge allowed that as so much time had passed, it was an accident, and Garvey had been an upstanding citizen all these decades, no jail time would be forthcoming. He did assign Garvey community service, which was right up his alley: Garvey was to mentor kids in the high school junior business program.
After it was all settled, Harry and Inez chatted in the barn, both thinking the judge’s ruling was the only correct one.
In the loft, Mrs. Murphy and Pewter filled Simon in on all of it.
“No animal was run over with Ralston, was it?”
“No, Simon, just Ralston.”
“Oh, I’m so glad. I’m still upset over Pharaoh’s horses. I wish you’d never told me that story.”
“I’ll be sure not to tell any more Bible stories.”
Mrs. Murphy rubbed against the possum.
“Murphy, I don’t know why you trouble him with that, anyway. You know the Great Spirit is a cat. A gray cat,”
Pewter announced with authority.
“Pewter,”
was all Mrs. Murphy could manage.
Saddlebred shows, most of them taking place in the summer, bring together crowds of friendly people. I bring this up because it is not true of some of the other horse disciplines. Mercifully, I shall not name them and can only hope they repent their snottiness.
Mother knew her Thoroughbreds, Standardbreds, and some Saddlebreds (we saw the great Wing Commander together, when I was five, at his second show). I’ve sustained her interest in my life, which is how I met Gayle Lampe in 1984. I can’t remember if it was at the Mercer County Fair or Shelbyville, two wonderful Kentucky shows. I remember it was hot and thunderstorms came up at night. They always do.
Gayle was and remains unforgettable. She mentioned William Woods University. I asked Larry Hodge and Joan Hamilton about the school. Larry and Joan own Kalarama Farm, which I explain to people is like old Calumet Farm was to Thoroughbreds, when Mrs. Gene Markey was at the helm. Kalarama’s great rival, Callaway Hills Stable, was in the very county that is home to this university. I knew the late Mrs. Weldon in passing, for she lived in Charlottesville briefly. She, too, confirmed what Joan and Larry said, which is that WWU’s graduates fill the Saddlebred world. They couldn’t comment on dressage, hunt seat, or Western seat, which are also taught at WWU, as those are not their disciplines.
The next year I was at Shelbyville, a show I try to attend on the odd years; the even years I head to Saratoga, if I can. Sometimes the money is tight or there’s too much to do on the farm. If you’ve never been to either Shelbyville or Saratoga, go.
Anyway, Joan and I were sitting in the bleachers at the warm-up
ring, the night lights blazing, moths flying in squadrons, when from the west, heading toward us from the Ohio River, we heard thunder. Joan pointed out all those in the ring, the trainers, the assistant trainers, and many of the riders who had graduated from William Woods. Not only was the number impressive, but so was the skill.
Gayle and I would run into each other and exchange letters, and Joan and Larry would report on Gayle’s progress and vice versa. You might say I was on the outermost ring of William Woods’s Saturn.
Then out of the blue in the mid-nineties I received a letter inviting me to be the commencement speaker. I really adore giving commencement speeches, but this one was to stay with me forever, not because of anything I said but because of the magic of this community. First off, no one fussed over me in a sickening sweet way. Those whom I met were just who they are. How delightful.
The campus is pretty and I liked all the ducks who appear to have quite a high opinion of themselves whether walking down the middle of the road or swimming about.
Staying at Fairchild Alumni House felt like visiting your aunt. Gayle, knowing of my addiction, stocked the fridge with Classic Coke in cans, high test.
The faculty that I met were down-to-earth, yet very accomplished. The conversations, if only I could have chatted forever, were truly stimulating. My God, people who thought for themselves! Well, I was in the middle of Missouri; I should have expected that. It’s not called the “Show Me” state for nothing.
Having dinner at the president’s house, I felt as if I had known these people before I’d met them. Eddie—Jahnae’s husband—played football for Ole Miss, and it’s easy to see why they are together. The other guests—including a sophisticated couple from India—made this an evening I so often remember, realizing how lucky I was to be there. Then there was the standard poodle, who completed the gathering.
Before dinner the horses had welcomed me, too. I met the Saddlebreds, some Thoroughbreds, quarter horses, and I think some TB/QH crosses. So many of these horses were beautiful that I couldn’t believe they had been donated. All of the horses’ coats gleamed, all were
happy. You can tell when a horse is not if you know horses. The barns were clean and smelled clean, too. And this was late spring.
Gayle indulged me while I checked feed—I’m always curious about that—and picked up a hoof here and there. A few William Woods horses evidenced a convivial streak so we got to know one another.
The graduation ceremony itself was dignified without being stiff. A moment I carry, a moment that seemed to me to distill this unusual institution, was when Melissa Smith and her Seeing Eye dog, Brinkley, came forward to receive her diploma. President Barnett gave Brinkley one, too, for he had attended all Miss Smith’s classes. He carried his diploma off the stage.
And so I came to love this place far more than my own alma mater, Washington Square College at New York University. It’s a great school and I studied under the incomparable Bluma Trell, who tried to teach me Greek. When she died on June 10, 1997, at age ninety-four,
The Economist
ran a full-page obituary on June 28, 1997.
But great as NYU is, it’s no William Woods University. Apart from Professor Trell, I could have sunk like a stone. No one would have noticed or cared. Here in central Missouri exists an institution that puts the student first. I’m not saying they coddle the students nor do not demand intellectual rigor, but they actually care and the faculty knows those students. The president knows the students.
Lacking funds, most of my money goes toward abandoned animals, and my wardrobe proves it. I find the only gift I can give William Woods University is to introduce this institution to you. Perhaps you or one of your children will someday attend.
And there you have it, maybe more than you ever wanted to know. The cat will take credit for all of it but really setting this mystery in Fulton, Missouri, was my idea.
The one thing I can say though is I look older yet Dr. Barnett looks just like she did when I first met her. This is desperately unfair.
