Wish You Were Here

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Any idea?” Rick asked Hayden.

  “Six hours. The coroner will be more exact but no more than six, perhaps a little less.” Hayden thought his heart would break every time he looked at Ozzie. He and Bob had been inseparable in life and were now inseparable in death.

  Rick nodded and reached into his squad car. Picking up the mobile phone, he commanded the switchboard to get him Officer Cooper.

  A sleepy Cynthia Cooper soon greeted him.

  “Coop. There’s been another one. Bob Berryman. But this time the killer was in a hurry. He abandoned his usual modus operandi. No cyanide. He didn’t have time to slice and dice the body either. He just left two bullet holes and a postcard. Stick to Harry. I’ll talk to you later. Over and out.”

  40

  Mrs. Murphy and Tucker learned the news from the town crier, Pewter. The fat gray cat, asleep in the store window, heard the truck in the near distance early that morning. Pewter was accustomed to hearing cars and trucks before dawn. After all, the drunks have to come home sometime; so do the lovers, and the farmers have to be up before dawn. Ozzie’s death hit the animals like a bombshell. Was he killed protecting Berryman? Was he killed so he couldn’t lead Rick Shaw to the murderer? Or was the murderer losing his marbles and going after animals too?

  “If only I’d known, I would have jumped on the ice cream case and seen who did this,” Pewter moaned.

  “There was no way for you to know,” Tucker comforted her.

  “Poor Ozzie.” Mrs. Murphy sighed. The hyper dog had tried her patience but she didn’t wish him dead.

  Bedlam overtook the post office. Harry had time to adjust to this latest horror because Officer Cooper prepared her, but nobody was prepared for the onslaught of reporters. Even the New York Times sent down a reporter. Fortunately, Crozet had no hotels, so this swarm of media locusts had to nest in Charlottesville, rent cars, and drive west.

  Rob Collier fought his way through a traffic jam to deliver his mail.

  “Goddamn!” He chucked the bags on the floor, quickly shutting the door behind him as one reporter in a seersucker jacket tried to come through.

  “Maybe we’d better bolt the windows,” Harry remarked.

  Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter scratched at the back door. Officer Cooper let them in. “I think your children have relieved themselves. Pewter’s in tow.”

  “I refuse to stay in the market another minute!” Pewter bitched loudly. “You can’t move in there.”

  Mrs. Murphy noted, “You stayed long enought to push your mug in front of the TV cameras.”

  “I did not! They chose to highlight me.”

  “Girls, girls, calm yourselves.” Harry poured crunchies in a bowl for everyone and returned to the front.

  Rob stared out the window. “I heard on the radio that the killer leaves a mark, a momento. That’s how Rick knows it’s the same fellow. Bob Berryman . . . well, ladies, at least he exited this life with speed.”

  Officer Cooper joined him at the window. “Strange country, isn’t it?”

  “We’re more excited by bad news than by good news. Think these reporters would be here if you’d saved a child from drowning?”

  “Locals, maybe. That’s about it.” He turned to Harry. “See you this afternoon. Might be late.”

  “Take care, Rob.”

  “Yeah. You too.” He pushed open the front door and shut it quickly behind him, then sprinted for the truck.

  The phone rang.

  “Harry,” the familiar voice rang out, “I just saw the Today show. Bob Berryman!”

  “Mrs. Hogendobber, the world’s gone mad,” Harry said. “Don’t come home. Whatever you do, stay put.”

  “The times. The morals. People have abandoned God, Harry—He hasn’t abandoned us. It’s time for a New Order.”

  “I always suspect that under a New Order, women will be kept in their old place.”

  “Feminism! You can think of feminism at a time like this?” Mrs. Hogendobber was both aghast and furious at being out of the center of events.

  “I’m not talking about feminism but who runs your church. The women?” Harry would prefer to talk about anything but this latest murder. She was more frightened than she let on.

  “No—but we contribute a great deal, Harry, a great deal.”

  “That’s not the same thing as running the show or sharing in the power.” Susan rapped on the window. Harry cradled the receiver between shoulder and ear and made a T for time sign with her hands. “Mrs. Hogendobber. I apologize. I’m so upset. The reporters have parachuted in. I’m taking it out on you. Forget everything I’ve said.”

  “Actually, I won’t. You’ve given me something to think about,” she uncharacteristically replied. Travel seemed to make Mrs. H. more liberal. “Now you watch out, hear?”

  “I hear.”

  “I’ll call tomorrow. Bye-bye.”

  Harry hung up the phone. Officer Cooper let Susan in.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. If the killer has any heart maybe he’ll fire on these reporters. What are we going to do? I had to walk over here. It’s gridlock out there.”

  “You know”—Harry shoved a mail sack in Susan’s direction; to hell with rules—“I think the killer is loving this.”

  Officer Cooper grabbed a mail bin. “I think so too.”

  “Well, I’ve got an idea.” Harry motioned for Susan and Coop to get close. She whispered: “Let’s give him a little zinger of our own. Let’s put graveyard postcards in everyone’s mailbox.”

  “You’re kidding.” Susan’s hands involuntarily flew up to her chest as though to protect herself.

  “No, I am not. No one knows about the postcards but me and you, and Rick and Coop. They know there’s some telling sign, but they don’t know what it is. Think Rick told anyone else?”

  “Not yet,” Coop answered.

  “We won’t scare anyone but the killer,” Harry said. “He won’t know who sent the postcard. But he’ll know we’re playing with him.”

  “You’d better damn well hope he doesn’t figure out who we are.” Susan folded her arms across her chest.

  “If he does, I guess we’ll fight it out,” Harry replied.

  “Harry, forget fighting. He’ll blindside you.” Coop’s voice was low.

  “Okay, okay, I shouldn’t sound so cocky. He’s killed three times. What’s another one? But I think we can rattle his chain. Dammit, it’s worth a try. Susan, will you buy the postcards? I know there are postcards of Jefferson’s grave. Maybe you can find others.”

  “I’ll do it, but I’m scared,” Susan admitted.

  41

  Rick went through the roof. A third murder on his hands, the press tearing at him like horseflies, and Mary Minor Haristeen hit him with a crackbrained idea about postcards.

  He screeched into Larry Johnson’s driveway and slammed his squad car door so hard it was a wonder it didn’t fall off. The retired doctor, tending his beloved pale yellow roses, calmly continued spraying. By the time Rick joined him he was somewhat calmed down.

  “Larry.”

  “Sheriff. Bugs will take over the world, I swear it.” The hand pump squished as the robust old man annihilated Japanese beetles. “What can I do for you? Tranquilizers?”

  “God knows I need them.” Rick exhaled. “Larry, I should have come to you before now. I hope I haven’t offended you. It was natural to interview Hayden because he’s practicing now, but you’ve known everybody and everything far longer than Hayden. I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “Hayden’s a good man.” Squish. Squish. “Ever hear that line about a new doctor means a bigger cemetery?”

  “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  “In Hayden’s case it isn’t true. He’s catching on to our ways. Not like he’s some Yankee. He was raised up in Maryland. Young man, bright future.”

  “Yes. We must be getting old, Larry, when thirty-eight seems young. Remember when it seemed ancient?”

  Larry nodded and vigoro
usly sprayed. “Banzai, you damned winged irritants! Go meet the Emperor.” He had been a career Army physician in World War II and Korea before returning home to practice. His father, Lynton Johnson, practiced in Crozet before him.

  “I’m going to ask you to break confidentiality. You don’t have to, of course, but you’re no longer practicing medicine, so perhaps it’s not so bad.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Did you ever see signs of anything unusual? Prescribe medications that might alter personality?”

  “One time, I prescribed diet pills, back in the 1960’s, to Miranda Hogendobber. My God, she talked nonstop for weeks. That was a mistake. Still only lost two pounds in two years. Mim suffers a nervous condition—”

  “What kind of nervous condition?”

  “This and that and who shot the cat. That woman had a list of complaints when she was still in the womb. Once through the vaginal portals, she was ready to proclaim them. What put her over the top was Stafford marrying that colored girl.”

  “Black, Larry.”

  “When I was a child that was a trash word. It’s awful hard to change eighty years of training, you know, but all right, I stand corrected. That pretty thing was the best, the best thing that coulda happened to Stafford. She made a man out of him. Mim teetered perilously close to a nervous breakdown. I gave her Valium, of course.”

  “Could she be unstable enough to commit murder?” It occurred to Rick that Mim could have slashed her pontoon boat herself, so as to appear a target.

  “Anyone could be if circumstances were right—or maybe I should say wrong—but no, I think not. Mim has settled down since then. Oh, she can be as mean as a snake shedding its skin but she’s no longer dependent on Valium. Now the rest of us need it.”

  “Did you treat Kelly Craycroft?”

  “I checked Kelly into the drug rehabilitation center.”

  “Well?”

  “Kelly Craycroft was a fascinating son of a bitch. He recognized no law but his own, yet the man made sense. He had an addictive personality. Runs in the family.”

  “What about hereditary insanity? What family does that run in?”

  “’Bout ninety percent of the First Families of Virginia, I should say.” A wicked grin crossed his face. The spraying slowed down.

  “Gimme that. I’d like to knock off a couple.” Rick attacked the beetles, their iridescent wings becoming wet with poison. A buzz, then a sputter, and then the bugs fell onto the ground, hard-backed shells making a light clinking noise. “What about Harry? Ever sick? Unstable?”

  “Pulled out her back playing lacrosse in college. When it flared up I used to give her Motrin. I think Hayden still does. Harry’s a bright girl who never found her profession. She seems happy enough. You don’t think she’s the killer, do you?”

  “No.” Rick rubbed his nose. The spray smelled disagreeable. “What do you think, Larry?”

  “I don’t think the person is insane.”

  “Fair Haristeen doesn’t have an alibi for the nights of any of the killings . . . and he has a motive as regards Kelly. Since he lives alone now, he says there’s no one to vouch for him.”

  Larry rubbed his brow. “I was afraid of that.”

  “What about cyanide? How hard is it to produce?” Rick pressed.

  “Extremely hard, but a man with a medical background would have no trouble at all.”

  “Or a vet?”

  “Or a vet. But any intelligent person who took a course in college chemistry can figure it out. Cyanide is a simple compound, cyanogen with a metal radical or an organic radical. Potassium cyanide shuts off your lights before you have time to blink. Painters, furniture strippers, even garage mechanics have access to chemicals that, properly distilled, could yield deadly results. You can do it in your kitchen sink.” Larry watched the rain of dying beetles with satisfaction. “You know what this is all about, don’t you?”

  “No.” Rick’s voice rose high with curiosity.

  “It’s something right under our noses. Something we’re used to seeing or passing every day, as well as someone we’re used to seeing or passing. It’s so much a part of our lives we no longer notice it. We’ve got to look at our community with new eyes. Not just the people, Rick, but the physical setup. Bob Berryman did. That’s why he’s dead.”

  42

  Rick arrested Pharamond Haristeen III. He had no alibi. He was physically strong, highly intelligent, and possessed of expert medical knowledge. He bore a grudge against Kelly and vice versa. What he had against Maude Bly Modena, Rick wasn’t sure, but if he did arrest him it would be an action soothing to the press and the public. It could also ruin Fair’s life if he wasn’t the killer. He weighed that fact but arrested him anyway. He had to play safe. He also said yes to Harry’s plan. What did he have to lose, unless it was Harry? He issued her a revolver and no one except Cynthia Cooper knew Harry was now armed.

  Mrs. Murphy sprawled on the butcher block in Harry’s kitchen. Rhythmically, her tail flicked up and down. Tucker sat by Harry at the kitchen table. Harry, Susan, and Officer Cooper hunched over their postcards, writing again and again, “Wish you were here.”

  The phone rang. It was Danny for his mother. Susan grabbed the phone. “What is it this time?” She listened as he groaned that Dad had clicked off the TV in order to make him clean his room. Susan knew as she soaked up the litany of woes that having a teenaged child was aging her rapidly. Having a middle-aged husband sped up the process too. “Do as your father says.” This was followed by a renewed outburst. “Danny, if I have to come home and negotiate between you and your father you are going to be grounded until Christmas!” Another howl. “I’ll ground him, too, then. Go clean your room and don’t bother me. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. Goodbye.” Bang, she slammed the receiver down.

  “Happy families,” Harry said.

  “Having a teenaged son isn’t difficult. It’s the combination of father and son that’s difficult. Sometimes I think that Ned resents Danny growing stronger. He’s already two inches taller than Ned.”

  “An old story.” Cooper reached for another postcard. Dolley Madison’s tombstone graced the front. “How many more of these to go?”

  “About one hundred twenty-five. There are four hundred and two post boxes and we’re on the home stretch.”

  “Why so few?” Susan asked.

  “You want more?” Cooper was incredulous.

  “No, I don’t want more, but there are three thousand residents of Crozet, by my count.”

  “Rest of them didn’t buy post boxes. Most of my people are right in town itself.” Harry’s index and middle fingers began to hurt.

  As the three women continued to scribble Mrs. Murphy opened a cupboard and crawled in.

  Tucker hated that she couldn’t climb around like the cat. “Don’t go in there. I can’t see you if you do.”

  Mrs. Murphy stuck her head out. “I like to smell the spices. There’s an aromatic tea in here that reminds me of catnip.”

  “Nothing up there that smells like a beef bone, I guess?”

  “Bouillon cubes. They’re in a package. I’ll get them out.” She examined the package. “I’m sorry we couldn’t sniff Bob Berryman. Wonder if that smell was on him?”

  “I doubt it. Bullet did him in. I’ve checked out everyone that comes into the post office just in case that smell would be on them—you know, like something in their work. Rob smells like gas and sweat. Market smells delicious. Mim drenches herself in that noxious perfume. Fair reeks of horses and medicine. Little Marilyn’s hairspray makes my eyes water. Josiah smells like furniture wax plus his after-shave. Kelly smelled like concrete dust. Their smells are like their voices, individual.”

  “What does Harry smell like to you?”

  “Us. Our scent covers her but she doesn’t know it. I make sure to rub up against her and sit in her lap and so do you. Keeps other animals from getting ideas.”

  Harry glanced up and beheld Mrs. Murphy chewi
ng the bouillon package. “Stop that.” The cat jumped out of the cupboard before Harry reached her.

  “Bet you get a bouillon cube.” Mrs. Murphy winked.

  “Well, this is useless,” Harry fumed. She opened the package and gave Tucker one of the cubes Mrs. Murphy chewed. Brazenly, the tiger kitty sat on the counter. “Oh, here, dammit, you worked hard enough for it, but your manners are going to hell.” Mrs. Murphy delicately took the cube from Harry’s fingers.

  “Last one!” Officer Cooper rejoiced.

  “Now we’ll see if the other shoe drops.” Harry’s eyes narrowed.

  What dropped was Harry’s jaw when she turned on the TV and saw Fair being led to jail. Damn Rick Shaw. He’d told nobody. Just let it come out on the eleven o’clock news.

  She put on her shoes and dragged Cooper to the jail. Too late. Fair had been released. An alibi had been established, an alibi as upsetting to Harry as it was to Fair.

  43

  Ned puffed his pipe. At Harry’s request, Officer Cooper waited in the living room with Susan. The murders were ghastly but this was painful.

  Upon learning that BoomBoom freed Fair by confessing that he was with her on the night of Kelly’s murder, as well as on the night of Maude’s murder, Harry called Susan.

  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.”