“It was a jolt.”
He swiveled to face her better but didn’t move his legs much. “Damned queer.”
“Harry is convinced this is linked to Nordy’s murder. Linked to the Virgin Mary’s bleeding eyes. In fact, she said, ‘The eyes have it.’ ”
“These inspirations spare her the legwork, don’t they?”
“She’s not averse to legwork, boss, but she isn’t a professional. She misses things. She gets to third base without touching first or second, but you have to admit, she gets a hit at bat.”
He exhaled in a sort of agreement, “Well, I guess that’s better than being born on third base and thinking you’ve hit a triple.”
His first concern was protecting the public. His next concern was procedure. If he didn’t touch each base on his way to home plate, a lawyer, not even a clever one, would blow all that hard work to smithereens. Harry worried him with her meddling because she endangered herself and others and because she could muck up a carefully built case.
They smoked in silence, then Cooper broke it. “How’s Pete holding up?”
“Good. He’s a strong man. The other on-air reporters are nervous. He’s doing a lot of hand-holding and he’s interviewing for a replacement. He said he feels ghoulish but it’s necessary. The station is understaffed as it is. I can sure appreciate that problem.”
“At least that’s a profitable business.”
“Yeah, right. We’re public servants, and some days I really feel the servant part.”
“Think there is any connection between Nordy’s death and the statue, the monastery?”
“I can’t disregard any possibility. Nordy was making a big name for himself with that story. Pete and I watched everything Nordy did up there, as well as the footage he didn’t use. He didn’t come out and say the tears were false, only that they were an unexplained phenomenon. He was respectful. I can’t disregard the Virgin Mary angle, but for the life of me, I can’t find one thing that computes.”
“I can’t, either. A man in his eighties dies while praying before a statue on a night so bitterly cold even Satan with his built-in heating unit wouldn’t be walking around. Andrew, Mark, and Prescott thaw him out, wash the body, prepare him for burial. They put him in the coffin, nail down the lid—all this is testimony.” She held up her small notebook that she kept in her purse. “He’s afforded a simple service in keeping with the order. Susan and her family attend. They throw earth on the grave and that’s that. I also talked with Brother Handle, the head honcho. He said Brother Thomas was well loved. ‘So why would someone steal his body?’ I asked.” She drew in another long drag. “He did say that the body was possibly sold to a medical school. But who would do such a thing? Surely not one of the brothers. He didn’t believe so, either, but selling to a medical school was his one idea. He’s wound tighter than a piano wire, by the way, and the whole place is overrun by people crying, praying in front of the statue. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Is she really crying blood?”
“I took a sample and sent it off to the lab. Shouldn’t take long even with all they have to do.”
Coop heard a rat-a-tat on the windowpanes outside Rick’s office. She stood up to look. “Damn. It’s going to be another long day.”
He swung his legs down, got up, peered out his office window. “Where’d that come from? I watched the Weather Channel this morning as well as the weatherman on Channel Twenty-nine.”
“Who knows.” Her voice was mournful as the ice pellets struck the window harder.
He sat back down. “If we find Brother Thomas’s body, that will tell us something.”
“The dead tell all their secrets if you know how to ask.”
26
Knowing that a woman in a position of authority might be disquieting to the Greyfriars, Rick briefly interviewed each brother.
Brother Handle agreed to this because Brothers Frank and Prescott impressed on him how bad it would look if he didn’t cooperate. It would appear that the Greyfriars had something to hide.
Rick made the questions brief. He knew from many years of experience that he had to piece together this case, each bit of evidence, each person questioned, a tiny square of information in what would become an intelligible mosaic. He had queried Brother Mark about the last time he saw Thomas’s body then switched gears, asking him about Nordy.
Brother Mark, head down, sat opposite him. “I loathed him. I tried to like him. I prayed. Still hated him.”
“Even at Michigan State?”
“Especially. He swaggered, humiliated me in front of my dates. We were in the same fraternity but he was a year ahead of me.”
“I see. What about printing and selling fake I.D.s?” Rick surprised him with this information.
Mark raised his head. “His idea. I was weak and went along with it.”
“Made a lot of money?”
“Yes.” He brightened, although wary of the Sheriff. He wondered just why Rick had dug so deep into his own past. “We made over fifteen thousand dollars in one semester. One semester!”
“And you got busted. He didn’t.”
“Nordy’s father could pull strings. Mine could only pull on the bottle,” he said with rancor.
“That’s when you, uh, took a nosedive.”
“Puree.” Mark used an expression for a total loss.
“That’s a good one. Puree is worse than toast?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me what happened next.”
“Drugs. Couldn’t hold a job. If I hadn’t found God I’d be in jail or dead. I was this far”—he held up his thumb and forefinger close together—“from becoming a career criminal.”
“What happened?”
“I woke up in the middle of Beverly Street in Staunton on a cold night. A doctor was dragging me out of the road and she said, ‘Son, you can go into rehab or you can find God. I’ll help you either way.’ ”
“And she did?”
“I went to a clinic in North Carolina, not expensive or anything. I detoxed. I found God and I found the Greyfriars. But every day I have to work on myself.”
“Could you have killed Nordy?”
Mark half-smiled. “The thought occurred to me. I suppose I could have, but even though I couldn’t stand him, nah.” He shrugged. “I pray harder.”
Rick checked his watch. “You’ve been helpful. One last question. Do you fit in here? Is this the place for you?”
“Yeah. I’m surrounded by dinosaurs. I know they make fun of me behind my back, but,” he shrugged again, “I ignore them. I miss Brother Thomas. He taught me stuff. I could talk to him, and even though he was eighty-two he could use the computer as easily as I can. He said if he made it to eighty-three he was going to build his own computer. He even knew he could specify what he wanted from ASUS, the company in California.”
“You lost me.” Rick closed his notebook.
“ASUS. They build motherboards. Brother Thomas really was going to build his own computer with a motherboard he helped design.”
“I can see why you miss him.”
“No one here even knows what a motherboard is.”
“Bet Nordy did.”
“Yeah, but he’d kind of have to know. Every now and then I’d use one of the computers here and fire him an e-mail.” He cupped his chin in his hand. “Funny, he really pissed me off, but I’m going to miss him. I never thought someone my age would die, you know?”
“Well, Brother Mark, you’ve had the great good fortune not to be in a war. Your generation has been spared. If it were 1943 or 1970, a lot of your running buddies would be dead. You might be dead. When you say your prayers, pray for them, for those that went before.”
Mark blinked. “I will. And I know the Blessed Virgin Mother weeps for them.”
27
Harry remarked to Susan as they drove the rig back from a foxhunt, “I am in the best mood. The best mood.”
“Good, because when you get home you know those
two cats will have shredded something.” Susan smiled. The bracing day had improved her spirits, too.
She was right. When Susan dropped her off she walked inside to behold two silk lamp shades slit open, shredded. Then Harry went down to the basement to fetch a jar of orange marmalade and found the birdseed bags that Mrs. Murphy and Pewter had ripped open when she last left them alone in the house.
Tucker, quick to defend herself, told Harry in no uncertain terms that she would never shred silk lamp shades, nor would she spill seed upon the ground like the Biblical Onan although Onan wasn’t spilling birdseed.
“Brownnoser,” Mrs. Murphy growled at the dog.
“No impulse control.” Tucker walked away from the cat, her claws clicking on the kitchen heart-pine boards.
“Why are you so happy? You got left behind today, too,” Pewter complained.
“We are not supposed to go to foxhunts. Sometimes Mom will let me sleep in the cab of the truck but we really aren’t supposed to go. You know that.”
“Tucker, I might know it but I don’t agree with it.” The tiger cat swatted at the corgi.
The phone rang. Miranda informed Harry that Big Mim had just been told by her daughter that Blair Bainbridge proposed to her on Thanksgiving Day. Big Mim had mixed emotions but put a good face on it. Mim called Miranda to talk it out.
Then the phone rang again.
“Susan, you must have just gotten to the house. What’s up?”
“Harry, you and I are both country girls. Today’s hunt pulled me out of my torpor. My mind’s working again and I’m ready to fight the world.”
“I’m ready, too.” Harry liked hearing the energy in Susan’s voice.
“Here’s what I think. G-Uncle Thomas is laid in the coffin, three brothers see him. According to Brother Mark, the lid was nailed down, he’s buried. Right?”
“Right.”
“All the brothers attend the brief entombment, as do I.”
“Right.”
“The coffin is heavy. No suspicions. Still with me?”
“Always and ever.”
“All right, then. Either Brother Andrew and Mark are lying through their teeth, which I don’t discount, or someone removes the body before everyone gets to the cemetery, putting in three bags of potting soil. Something was in his coffin.”
“You’re right.” Harry had already considered this.
“So what do they do with him? None of the brothers left the grounds that night. At least not that anyone knows. No car was taken, and only a few brothers have access to the keys. G-Uncle Thomas was taken somewhere and dumped or reburied. It would be a hard job to rebury him. I figure all this happened within one night, in darkness. He can’t be far. How far can you drag a body in bitter cold and snow? I’m willing to bet my great-uncle is within a mile’s radius of his grave, or should I say his intended grave.”
“Susan, you’re on to something.” Harry encouraged her, glad that her friend didn’t sound as anxious or troubled as she had been in the last few weeks.
“If we find him, maybe we can find out what happened to him.”
“We’re country girls. If anyone can find him, we can. The cats and dogs can help. We have to be careful. We can’t blow through the joint, know what I mean? We’ll have to work up from the ravines.”
“Thought of that, too. I say we go in from behind the Inn at Afton Mountain just before dawn. Work up to within sight of the Virgin Mary, then work around in a southwest arc. Since it’s Sunday the brothers will be in service and prayer, at least early in the morning. We have a shot at it, and we can be out of there before attracting notice. We’ll have to work in sections. We can’t do it all in one day.”
“Great idea.” Harry paused a moment. “But, Susan, if we do find him, do you really want to see old Uncle Thomas like, well, like however we find him?”
“I tell myself the soul has left the body. Whatever we find is a husk. And I tell myself that he deserves better. He deserves a decent Christian burial after a lifetime of service to the best of Jesus’ teachings.”
“You’re right,” Harry agreed.
“I feel this foreboding. Harry, I feel like he’s calling to me. I have a debt to clear, but I don’t know what it is.”
28
Looking east from the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains, a thin gray line separated the horizon from the frozen earth. The band expanded until the faintest touch of rose diffused the bottom to cast a pinkish glow on the dark earth.
Harry, Susan, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Tucker, and Owen, Susan’s corgi, paused to watch the blush of dawn before they plunged into the ravine behind the monastery.
The early morning, still as the tomb and clear, promised a cold day but a bright one. The winter solstice, ten days ahead, brought soft light.
Harry marveled at how the light changed with each season. Winter’s light, soft and alluring, offered a contrast to the cold.
The two dogs scrambled down the ravine. The cats picked their way over the fallen branches and the jutting rocks. Pewter, never one for vigorous exercise, grumbled with each obstacle.
“You could have stayed in the car up at Afton Inn.” Mrs. Murphy tired of the stream of complaints.
“And miss everything! If we find Brother Thomas you’ll need my powers of observation.”
“If we find Brother Thomas, you’ll throw up. It will be like one big hairball,” Mrs. Murphy said as she leapt over a large oak branch, the place where it had torn from the tree a different color.
“I will not.” Pewter elected to go around the tree branch. “I don’t rejoice in these things. Not like the dogs. Carrion eaters. They love it.”
“Dogs can be gross.” Mrs. Murphy couldn’t imagine eating anything decayed or rolling in it.
“And Tucker brags about her nose.” Pewter wrinkled hers.
“She has a good nose. Rot smells like an enticing dinner to her. I don’t get it, either. I mean, you and I have good noses, but that’s one scent we don’t like. Humans, either. I guess buzzards like it, though.”
“Ever notice how birds who tear flesh have upper beaks that curve down—sort of? Think of Flatface, not just buzzards.” Pewter mentioned the large horned owl living in the barn at home.
“Yes. Ever notice how buzzards don’t have feathers on their necks?” Mrs. Murphy answered her own question. “They can stick their entire head inside some really dead animal, but their necks won’t get sticky, weighted down. They can keep clean that way, I suppose, and they can fly, too. If a buzzard was pasted over with goo, it’d be harder to fly.”
“Practical. Crabs are carrion eaters, too. So why do they have eyes on stalks?” Pewter liked crabmeat, so long as she didn’t think about what the crab had eaten.
“To look goofy.” The tiger laughed.
Harry’s eyes followed the dogs. On the one hand, she hoped they did find Brother Thomas. On the other, she didn’t. She had a strong stomach, but still.
Susan, silent, trudged along. The snow shone deep blue in the boulder cracks and fissures. The rim of the sun crested the horizon, but down in the deepest part of the ravine neither she nor Harry could see it.
“How upset is she?” Tucker asked her brother.
“Pretty upset, but once she made up her mind to do something about it, she settled down,” Owen replied. “She can’t understand why he would disappear. She fears the worst, too.”
“Murder,” Tucker flatly said, as she slid down an icy bank, then nimbly jumped over a narrow rivulet feeding into a strong running creek.
“Ever notice how humans have to find reasons for things? They can’t relax unless they invent a reason. Susan couldn’t accept that one human kills another just to kill. Has to be a reason.”
“Usually is. In civilian life. War’s different. A human gets used to killing then, I guess.” Tucker hoped she’d never face a war. “They get used to killing and it doesn’t matter. If it’s a religious war, then they really want to kill one another.” She sighed. “If this thinne
d the herd it might be good, but all they do is turn around and breed in more and more numbers. They don’t learn much.”
“Don’t learn much from their own history and don’t learn doodley-squat from us.”
“I don’t care. I care about Harry, but since there’s nothing I can do for the rest of them, they’ll hang on their own hook.”
“It’s strange to love an animal that’s so stupid, isn’t it?” Owen stopped, lifting his nose. “Mmm.”
“Could be deer. Far away.” Tucker, too, inhaled the faint, very faint, sweet odor of decay.
The cats joined them as Mrs. Murphy, feeling full of herself, dashed along, zigzagging, leaning over anything in her path, sending ground-nester birds and little finches in bushes skyward.
Pewter, not to be outdone, also hurried down the slopes. She jumped over the rivulet and bounded up the steep side of the ravine.
Within minutes the four animals reached the top.
Tucker lifted her head, her nose skyward, then dropped it, facing southeast. “Down there.”
Owen repeated his sister’s motions. “Stronger now.”
Pewter hesitated a moment, looked at Mrs. Murphy, who giggled at her. Without one peep, she followed the dogs. Damned if she was going to be called a wimp.
The two humans lagged a quarter of a mile behind, the rough terrain more difficult for them to negotiate. Both women sweated although the mercury clung to twenty-eight degrees in the ravines, nudging upward on the ridges as the sun was climbing. The eastern horizon was a flare of pink, peach, and scarlet, quickly fanning out westward. The colors of sunrise never seemed to linger as did those of sunset, or so Harry thought.
As Harry and Susan reached the top of the ridge, they heard the two dogs barking. Startled buzzards flew overhead.
“Hope no one hears that,” Susan fretted.
“We’re far enough away from the monastery,” Harry reassured her. “And they’re in services, so hopefully they’ll be chanting or singing or doing whatever monks do.” Harry swept her eyes along the line of the ridge, then down. The sight of Tucker and Owen gleefully pulling on a dismembered arm stopped her cold. “Susan, you might want to stay up here.”
Cat's Eyewitness Page 17