Catch as Cat Can

by Rita Mae Brown

  “What are you two doing?”

  “Nothing,” both said unconvincingly.

  She walked to the open backs of the postboxes, peering inside, shutting one eye for a better view. The torn ends of envelopes presented themselves. Irritated, Harry pulled them out. “Great, Big Mim and Fair. You would have to claw those two.”

  “We were just playing,” Pewter replied. “No real harm done.”

  “For now.” Tucker rolled over on her back.

  “You're supposed to be on our side.” Mrs. Murphy pushed the mail cart into the recumbent dog.

  Before a first-class fight could erupt, Cynthia Cooper opened the front door.

  “Hey, I thought I'd see you at the funeral,” Harry said.

  “I was picking up the coroner's report on Wesley Partlow.”

  “And?”

  “Murdered.”

  Harry grimaced. “By hanging?”

  “Ultimately. Apparently he was a hard bugger to kill. Given the rains and the condition of the body when we found him, we shipped him right off to the cooler. But on close examination, small hunks of hair were torn from his head, there were bruises on his torso. He put up a fight. He can't be exactly sure but Marshall Wells is ninety percent certain that Wesley wasn't dead when the rope was put around his neck. Unconscious, maybe, but not dead.”

  “That's gruesome.”

  “Yep. I was quite happy not to have to attend this coroner's exam.”

  “I don't think I could get through one with a body in good condition.”

  “You get used to it. Think of the body as a book. You open it up and read.” The tall blonde pointed toward the divider.

  Harry nodded, so Cooper flipped it up and walked toward the back.

  “Coffee, tea, Coke. Susan's bringing me a sandwich. You're welcome to half.”

  “Actually, I just ate.” She sat down in the chair. “No sign of the GMC truck either. I don't know if he stole it and returned it before the owner knew it, stole it and the owner didn't report it, or the owner lent it to him. I keep thinking the truck will get me on the rails.

  “The other thing that bothers me is I can't find a police record. We sent out his dental information. That's often the easiest way to get something, that and the name. But Wesley Partlow isn't his real name.”

  “What?” Harry exclaimed as Cooper filled her in on the false photo on the driver's license.

  “I'm going over the mountain to Waynesboro later today.”

  Harry sat down opposite Cooper as Murphy jumped in her lap and Pewter nestled in Cooper's. “It's almost as if he were a ghost, isn't it? A nameless, unknown person who”—she paused—“left no trace.”

  “Except for the Falcon hubcaps.” Cynthia Cooper sucked in air between her teeth. “A kid like that collects bad marks, a real bad report card. I'll find it in time.”

  “Does that mean you have to keep the remains?”

  “No. We've got photographs of the corpse. And we took mug shots and fingerprints when we booked him. There's not much point in keeping him in the cooler. A lot of times when a corpse is disfigured or decayed, people can't recognize it. Odd though, some corpses retain their features for a long time, the eyes can be gone, the lips, too, but they are still very identifiable.

  “You know, I have this theory that fake boobs, plastic hips, the whole march of medicine will mean that corpses stay around longer. We don't just live longer, we die longer—sort of.”

  “You're punchy,” Harry replied.

  “A little.”

  “How's Rick?” Harry stroked under Mrs. Murphy's chin.

  “You know how he gets when he has an unsolved crime. He's pieced together all the area topo maps and pinned them on the wall. Then he uses colored pins for the day. Day one, all the known movements of the victim are in blue. Day two, green and so on. It's a good system because Rick thinks better if he can visualize.”

  “He's a good sheriff.”

  “Yes, not that the county knows or cares.” Coop sighed. “People take things for granted.”

  “In every endeavor.” Harry started to reach across the table but it squeezed Murphy so she stopped. “The only reason to kill someone like Wesley is because he was caught red-handed stealing again or”—she stopped a second—“because he knew something.”

  “Revenge.”

  Harry thought a moment. “Maybe.”

  “Suppose he insulted someone on a deep level? You know, tried to seduce a man's wife or, worse, an underage daughter. Something like that can set a normal person right off. Murder is normal. That's why we don't want to look at it. The media is fascinated with serial killers, a fairly rare aberration, but most murders are run-of-the-mill affairs committed by run-of-the-mill people.”

  “That theory would place Wesley's killer in his own social class. Wouldn't it? People like Wesley don't have a lot of contact with people higher up on the scale.”

  “My, what a pretty gray tummy and so much of it, too.” Cooper laughed as Pewter rolled over in her lap. “Uh— I don't know. What if he did odd jobs on a big farm, made a pass at the lady of the manor?” She shrugged. “Who the hell knows?”

  “He knew enough to sell hubcaps.”

  “And to park cars.”

  “My guess is he knew someone in Crozet. He wasn't just passing through. I mean, you don't just pass through Crozet. Charlottesville, yes, but not Crozet. We're a little off the beaten track.” Harry's features brightened. She liked figuring things out.

  “Route 64's not that far away, nor is Route 250.”

  “Yeah, but if you come to Crozet you usually have a purpose or a person in mind. We're a little bit nondescript, you know.”

  Cooper thought silently for a time. “I think you're right. What next?” She ran her fingers through Pewter's fur.

  “I don't know but I can help.”

  “No,” Tucker said from under the table.

  “Oh, Tucker, don't be a poopface. This will liven up the spring,” Mrs. Murphy chided her.

  “You're the one who always counsels prudence,” the dog reminded her.

  “Maybe I'm bored.” The tiger placed her paw on Harry's forearm. “I'm ready for a little action.”

  “Be careful what you ask for.” Pewter turned her head so she could see Murphy from under the table.

  “And what would you ask for?” the tiger replied.

  “Steak tartare garnished with braised mouse tails.”

  24

  Tucked on the west side of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the Shenandoah Valley sat the modest city of Waynesboro. While not wealthy like its eastern neighbor, Charlottesville, Waynesboro evidenced its own character, which was up-front, hardworking, and ready for a good time.

  Cynthia Cooper liked the town, which was economically dominated by a DuPont chemical plant. Virginia Metalcrafters was also based in Waynesboro, and she enjoyed stopping by to watch the men create the beautiful brass door locks and other items for which the firm was justly famous.

  She turned right past the Burger King and McDonald's, heading west. Then she turned onto Randolph Street, filled with neat, well-kept houses.

  She parked in front of a brick rancher painted white with navy-blue shutters on the windows. The front door, red, had a large polished brass knocker, no doubt made at Virginia Metalcrafters.

  She rapped on the knocker. Within seconds the door opened, revealing a careworn woman perhaps in her mid-forties but appearing older at the moment. Glued to her side was a pretty golden retriever.

  “Mrs. Partlow?”

  The woman involuntarily took a step back. “You're the second policeman to come here. My son is not dead.”

  “Yes, ma'am, I know that and I'm sorry to bother you. I'm Deputy Cynthia Cooper from the Albemarle County Sheriff's Department. Is your son at home?”

  “As a matter of fact, he is. He works the night shift at the DuPont plant. He's asleep.”

  “I see.” Cooper smiled at the golden retriever. “Beautiful dog.”

 
“That's Rolex. Wesley gave her to me on my birthday. He said he couldn't afford a Rolex but the puppy would make me happier than any watch. He was right, wasn't he, Rolex?” She patted the silky head as Rolex thumped her tail.

  Reaching inside her chest pocket, Cooper pulled out a license, which she handed to Mrs. Partlow. “Is this your son?”

  Her eyebrows darted upward. “No. Who is this?”

  “We don't know.”

  Mrs. Partlow studied the rest of the license. “The rest of it is correct.”

  “We're hoping your son will know who the man is in the photograph. Do you mind waking him?”

  “No, not at all. It's about time for him to get up anyway. Please come in, Deputy—”

  “Cooper.” She walked through the door.

  The parquet floor in the entrance hall gleamed.

  “Come on in the living room. I'll go wake Wesley.” Mrs. Partlow disappeared down the hall, Rolex at her heels.

  Cooper heard a few grunts and groans.

  Mrs. Partlow returned. “He'll be out in a minute. May I get you something to drink?”

  “No, thank you, ma'am.”

  Wesley soon appeared, wearing a blue T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers without socks. “Hi.”

  Cooper stood up to shake his hand. “I'm sorry to disturb you.”

  “That's okay.” The slight, curly-haired young man smiled.

  “Here's your driver's license.”

  He took the stiff card from her hand. “I have my license. I think. Let me check.” He hurried back to his room.

  Cooper could hear metal clothes hangers sliding on a metal closet pole. Rolex cocked her head. “Good ears, Rolex.”

  Wesley, perplexed, stepped back into the living room. “It's gone! I keep my license in the pocket of my bomber jacket except for when it's really hot, then I just stick it in the visor of my truck.”

  “Do you have any idea how long you've been missing your license?”

  He thought a moment. “I remember getting gas. Had it then. Last week. I—” He paused. “You know, it's kind of hard to remember. I just never think about my license.”

  “Do you recognize the man in the photo?”

  He peered intently at the likeness. “Kinda. I've seen him around but I don't know his name.”

  “Whoever he is, he can sure doctor a driver's license or he knows someone who can.” Cooper smiled.

  “Yeah. Looks valid to me.”

  “Me, too,” Mrs. Partlow chimed in.

  “Mr. Partlow, think. Any guidance you can give me will be a big help.”

  “He's dead, right? Mom said the Augusta cop came by to tell her I was dead.”

  “I think I surprised him more than he surprised me.” Mrs. Partlow smiled tightly.

  “Yes, he's dead. Could you have seen him at the gas station?”

  “Uh, no.” Wesley cupped his chin in his hand as he took a seat. “Might have seen him at Danny's, the bar behind the post office downtown.” He furrowed his brow. “Yeah.”

  “And when you go to Danny's, what do you do with your coat?”

  “Hang it up or put it over the back of the chair.”

  After a few more questions, Cooper left, driving over to Danny's. The bartender, Louis Seidlitz, was just setting up, preparing for the evening's traffic.

  Louis recognized the face but couldn't recall a name to go with it.

  As she drove back toward Charlottesville, climbing up over Afton Mountain, she thought how quick-eyed and light-fingered the false Wesley Partlow had been. Quick enough to pilfer a driver's license. How many pockets did he touch before finding pay dirt? Apparently he rifled them without drawing attention to himself. She was reminded of that expression, “Opportunity makes a poet as well as a thief.”

  25

  Although the ground remained soggy, the next day the sky, a robin's-egg blue, presaged a spectacular spring day. The late-blooming dogwoods covered the mountainside. Earlier blooms had their petals knocked off by the storms but fire stars still dotted banks with their brilliant red.

  Tucker inhaled the heady fragrances of spring as she sat on the back step of the post office.

  Harry often walked the four miles to work but given the rains of the past week she drove. On the way to work she'd swung by the small lumberyard outside of town. Luckily, there was enough sawdust to shovel into the truck bed. Usually by Wednesday or Thursday there was enough sawdust for the horsemen to drive down and load up. She'd filled up her truck, pulled a tarp over it, and arrived at work by seven-thirty A.M.

  Tucker told the cats, once they arrived at work, that she was going on a jaunt alone.

  “Suits me,” Pewter declared.

  Murphy, a little miffed, said, “Why alone?”

  “Want to check in with my dog friends. Not all of them like cats.”

  “Get new friends.” The tiger turned her back to her.

  With anticipation and a heady sense of freedom, Tucker took another deep breath, then trotted merrily down the alleyway behind the post office. She turned north, which meant she would swing past private homes, past the new grade school, and then she'd be in the open countryside. Despite her short legs, the corgi moved at a fast clip. In fact, she could run very fast, and on occasion she enjoyed the delicious victory of outrunning a hound, a spaniel, or once even a Great Dane. It should be noted that the Great Dane had a splinter in its paw. Still, Tucker was a confident, cheerful dog. She edged along well-manicured lawns, dogs in the houses barking empty warnings. In no time she was in farmland.

  Early corn, tiny shoots just breaking the furrows, gave the red clay fields a green cast. The hay in other fields already swayed over her head. She pushed through a field of rye and timothy mix. Tucker could identify any grass crop by its odor. She reached a rutted farm road and thought she'd go down to the old Mawyer place. Booty Mawyer, seventy-seven, farmed his three hundred acres pretty much as he always had. A shrewd fellow, he sank no money into large purchases like tractors, manure spreaders, hay balers, and the like. He kept four Belgian horses and worked them in teams of two. The cost of feeding and shoeing his horses proved far less than tractor payments. And he managed to get everything done. His grandson, Don Clatterbuck, helped him in the evenings, and during hay-cutting time, Don worked full-time with him.

  Tucker could hear the old man and his horses in the distance. A faint whiff of onion grass floated across the light southerly breeze. Tucker stopped and sniffed. Wind from the south usually meant moisture and lots of it, yet the day was achingly clear. Still, the dog trusted her senses. She figured she'd better get back to the post office by lunchtime.

  She hurried down the road, eager to visit anyone at all, first coming to the old tobacco-curing sheds. Booty Mawyer, like many central Virginia farmers, once upon a time made a good profit from his tobacco allotments. After World War II the business slacked off, the cost of labor zoomed upward, and many farmers allowed their allotments to fall into disuse. But the accoutrements of a lively tobacco trade still stood—curing sheds, storing sheds, and in town, the old auction house.

  Foxes especially like curing sheds. Just why, Tucker couldn't understand, except that having a burrow under a nice structure was always a plus. There were lots of sturdy outbuildings, yet the tobacco-curing sheds held a fascination for Vulpes vulpes. Tucker didn't mind foxes. Mrs. Murphy hated them and hissed with the mention of a fox's name. From time to time the cat would declare a truce, but the real reason Murphy loathed them was that they competed for the same game.

  The milk butterflies flitted upward along with Tucker's thoughts as she reached the shed. She walked around the side of it and stopped. Sitting right in front of her was the 1987 GMC pickup, the faded Cowboys football team jacket jammed up on the top of the seat.

  26

  Tucker blasted through the animal door at the post office with such velocity that her feet skidded sideways and she fell over, sliding. A bump into the mail cart stopped her unusual progress.

  Scrambling to her feet she
shouted, “I found it! I found the truck.”

  Mrs. Murphy, who watched the dog's slide with mirth, hopped off the table. “Where?”

  “At Booty Mawyer's.”

  “What?” The cat couldn't believe her ears.

  Pewter, roused from yet another slumber, shook herself, stuck her head up from the mail cart in which she was sleeping. “Tucker, what are you talking about? And you woke me up.”

  “I'm telling you that the GMC truck is parked at the old tobacco-curing shed at Booty Mawyer's place.”

  “How do you know it's the right truck?” Pewter, skeptical, asked.

  “Has the Cowboys jacket on the seat. Like Sean said. Remember?” The dog's eyes shone with intelligence.

  “He did say that, didn't he?” The gray cat pulled herself up and out of the mail cart using her front paws.

  “What's the commotion here?” Harry smiled down at her friends.

  “Oh, Mom, I wish you could understand me.” The corgi's ears drooped a bit, then perked back up.

  Harry handed the dog a Milk-Bone. For good measure she gave the cats a few bits of Haute Feline, then returned to her task of reorganizing the carton shelves.

  “I think we'd better check this out. This just doesn't sound right.” Mrs. Murphy brushed her whiskers with her paws. “For one thing, Tucker, Rick Shaw and Coop could have traced the truck to Booty Mawyer easily enough. License plates alone would do that and even though Sean didn't get the number all they would have to do is tap into the Department of Motor Vehicle computers for 1987 GMC trucks in the county. So something's amiss.”

  “That's just it, Murphy, there are no license plates. ‘Farm Use' is painted where the plates should go. This truck is long off the records.”

  “Well, why didn't you say that in the first place?” The cat was already heading for the door.

  “You didn't give me the chance. And you know, Murphy, ‘Farm Use' trucks aren't supposed to go out on the roads. Who would remember this old truck?”