“How criminal?” Paul laughed.
“Two murders and when the lab reports come back from an exhumation, I may have three.”
“Jesus.” Paul whistled. “I'll do it myself—out of uniform.”
“I really appreciate it and, believe me, I'll return the favor if the opportunity presents itself.”
“Don't mention it.”
After hanging up the phone with Paul, Rick bounded up from his chair, striding over to his maps pinned on the corkboard on the wall. Coop followed.
“Boss, want a map of Kentucky?”
“Yeah.”
Coop buzzed Sheila. “Hey, check the metal file cabinet out there for a recent map of Kentucky.”
There was one and Sheila brought it in. Rick pulled extra pins out of the corkboard, opened and straightened out the map. He put it up as Coop, anticipating his next request, brought him a state map of Virginia. Once up they both stared at it.
“Here's what I don't get.” Cynthia stuck her finger on Newport News. “Over a million people. A huge naval base. Wouldn't there be a big drug market there? Has to be. Why fool around with Lexington?”
“Organized crime owns Newport News. A small-fry could survive for a time but they'd be squeezed out eventually. Maybe mid-South cities are more open.” He touched each of the pinheads representing the murder sites. “I'm not convinced this is about drugs, even legal ones as you've suggested.”
“Whatever they're doing, it has to be easy to transport.”
“No. Whatever they're doing simply must not call attention to itself. It doesn't have to be easy. They could be transporting stolen cars.”
“Yeah, but we'd know if the cars were stolen around here. Besides, would Don have five hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in his safe from stolen cars? These guys would have to be running one of the biggest rackets in America for that kind of money—and just for one guy. He probably wasn't even the head of it.”
“I know. I know. That doesn't quite fit either. When we went to Roger's garage I was looking for a chop shop. Not a sign. Hauling in a car, stripping and selling off the parts, hell, there'd have been junk everywhere. That place of Roger's was immaculate.”
Coop said, “His garage was cleaner than some people's houses.”
“Scratch chop shop. I've even thought about counterfeit money. Unless there's a buried bunker or another place hidden, that's not going to work either. I know that drugs are the one logical piece in what is illogical right now but, Coop, I don't think it's drugs. I don't know if Don Clatterbuck and Roger could deal without dipping and that always shows.”
“Roger liked to drink but remember Diana Robb says he did coke, too. I remember going over there to check on Mrs. Hogendobber's hubcaps and there was a line of beer cans to his shop. Never found a trace of drugs though.” Cooper crossed her arms over her chest.
Rick paced in front of the maps. “It's difficult, hey, almost impossible to imagine Don or Roger organizing some kind of criminal business. Neither one struck me as that smart. Someone has to be on top, someone much more intelligent.”
“Most murders occur within families or between people well known to one another. And most of those murders involve alcohol, drugs, or are crimes of passion. These murders are dispassionate, cool. The murder of Dwayne was opportunistic but not a crime of passion. The body wasn't mutilated, he'd been hit over the head; for whatever reason the killer couldn't finish him off with a blunt instrument so he strung him up.”
“Maybe the weapon wasn't heavy enough or the killer wasn't strong enough. That points to a woman.”
“Hoisting Dwayne over a tree couldn't have been light work.”
“Push him on the back of a truck, throw the rope over the tree, and drive off. It rained so hard nothing was left. There could have been a truck in there or even a car, slide him over the trunk. It's messy but not all that hard.”
“And Dwayne wanted more money. After Din Marks's talk with you that would appear motivation enough. If he wanted more now, he'd want more later. Or maybe he wanted promotion inside the company.” Rick shook his head. “Greed leaches out every other emotion, doesn't it?”
“Yes, it certainly seems to do that. People become bloodless.”
“I'm going to wait for the lab reports on Roger. If he was murdered then I must consider my first suspect Sean O'Bannon. He had the most to gain by his brother's murder, separate from whatever scam Roger was into. Sean inherits all of a lucrative business. Maybe he even inherits a lucrative illegal business.”
“Maybe the safe full of money will lure the killer to put his foot right into the trap.”
“A poster about selling off Don's goods might help. I spoke to his parents. They agreed and we won't put their phone number on there. Just an auction date, location, and time. Ought to light a fire under his ass.” Rick's one eyebrow arched upward. He could be clever.
46
The daily sun and wind reduced the size of the puddles, the depth of the mud. Still not trusting the ground, Harry didn't drive her tractor to the creek. Large tree limbs were wedged along the banks; a few weak trees had crashed into the creek, their uprooted trunks looking like paralyzed squid tentacles. She needed to chainsaw the trunks into smaller portions, wrap heavy chains around them to drag them out. Once the wood dried she'd cut it for firewood, stacking it neatly on the porch. She'd also built a weather-tight woodshed next to the shavings shed. As spring and summer progressed she'd slowly fill the woodshed until full. That would hold throughout the next winter.
The mercury climbed to sixty-four degrees at noon, just warm enough to shed a coat but still cool enough for a midweight shirt. Harry took the opportunity before the weather shifted to hot and hotter to crimp a standing tin seam on her barn roof. The seams separate sometimes. You fold the longer piece over the shorter and squeeze them together. Her father had taught her how to do it. She wore sneakers, the rubber soles helping to give her traction on the roof pitch. Only one seam needed work, which made her happy.
Pewter and Murphy reposed under the large white lilac bush. Tucker slept under the lavender lilac bush. Both cats were awake but stretched on their sides to their full length.
“Do you like bacon?” Pewter reached out to bat at an ant, who easily avoided her.
“You know I like bacon.”
“If you had to choose between bacon and beef bits what would you choose?”
“Beef.”
Pewter rolled on her back. “What about between beef and tuna?”
“Tuna.”
“Tuna and salmon?”
“H-m-m, tuna.” Mrs. Murphy had to think about that one. “Why are you asking me? Are you hungry again? You ate a huge breakfast.”
“When I'm not eating I like to think about food. Food preferences are clues to personality.” This was said with great conviction.
“Pewter, you need sunglasses.”
“Huh?”
“You're getting West Coast.”
“Close-minded,” she sniffed. “Figures. Tuna, a most conventional cat.”
Mrs. Murphy lifted her head. “She's stopped.”
Pewter lifted her head off her outstretched paw also. “What improvement will she tackle next? She's exhausting. She needs to learn to take naps.”
Out of nowhere the blue jay screeched by them, shaking the lilacs. “Mouse breath!”
Pewter leapt up, shaking herself. “Death!”
“Don't go out. Move back. Let's see if we can draw him into the bush. Then we've got him.”
The blue jay turned, flew around the walnut tree, diving for the lilac bushes, too smart to be lured in. He screamed, “Tapeworm host.”
“That does it!” Pewter shot out of the bush but he'd already begun his climb.
To show off he flew in the center aisle of the barn and out the back side.
“If we find his nest we can climb up and kill him.” Mrs. Murphy logically suggested. “If we can't get him or his mate we can push their eggs to the ground.”
The only other excitement of the day was Diego calling Harry in the evening. He was back in Washington and looked forward to seeing her the next weekend. Since Fair was taking her to the Wrecker's Ball, he asked her to check her calendar so he could take her to the next dance, picnic, anything. Then he said they'd make their own picnic. She agreed. They'd enjoy a repast Saturday noon and if it rained, they'd eat in the barn just to be halfway outside.
She hung up the phone and began whistling.
“What an awful sound,” Pewter meowed.
“It is,” Mrs. Murphy agreed, running to Harry, begging her to stop.
“Sorry, girls, I forgot how sensitive your ears are.” Harry laughed and stopped whistling.
“Doesn't bother me,” Tucker said. “If you whistle I come running.”
“Don't brownnose, Tucker, it's such an unattractive trait,” Pewter grumbled.
“You know, Pewter, you're so fat I bet there are shock absorbers on your cat box.”
That made Murphy laugh so hard she rolled off the sofa, hitting the floor with a thud.
“Murphy, you're supposed to land on your feet.” Harry picked her up, kissing her forehead while Pewter, enraged, thumped down the hall into the bedroom.
The phone rang again. Harry walked into the kitchen to pick it up. On hearing BoomBoom's voice she squeezed her eyes shut for an instant.
“What worthy cause are you roping me into now?”
“Well—the Special Olympics need volunteers. They're going to be held at Wintergreen”—she named a local resort—“and we need people who know sports. I thought maybe you could be the starter for the races.”
“Oh. Sure.”
“That was easy.”
“I like the Special Olympics.” Harry smiled, then changed the subject. “Think our little trap will catch a mouse?”
“I hope so.”
“I keep forgetting to ask you, how did you meet Thomas?”
“Big party at Vin Mattacia's.” Mattacia had been Ambassador to Spain in the late 1970s. An urbane, outgoing man, he was at the hub of those people retired from the diplomatic corps who lived in the area.
“Oh.”
“Great party. A Valentine's party. I enjoy him but I don't think the relationship will go anywhere. It's just—fun.”
“Oh.”
“I don't know if I ever want to marry again. Some days I think I do and some days I don't.”
“It's a quandary.”
After a bit more chitchat Harry hung up the phone, realized it was getting late, and took a shower.
Pewter, on the bed, ignored both Murphy and Tucker, who sat on the hooked rug by the bed.
“Can you imagine standing in a shower? It's like standing in the rain,” Mrs. Murphy asked the dog, settling down for a good night's sleep.
“It's a human thing.” Tucker half closed her eyes. “It's right up there with using a knife and fork.”
47
Coop breezed in the back door of the post office at seven-thirty in the morning. She tacked up the bogus auction poster on the bulletin board in the front part of the building.
Miranda and Tracy both knew what was afoot. Every single person who came into the post office commented on it that day.
Lottie wondered if the Clatterbucks were that hard up. She then sarcastically said she thought Harry would be in the first row of the attendees since Harry couldn't resist sticking her nose in other people's business.
Mim, just returned from New York, thought it much too soon. One needed time before sorting and selling.
Little Mim questioned who would want to buy bears' paws and the like.
Jim Sanburne merely shrugged. He accepted a broader range of behavior than did the women in his life.
The Reverend Herb Jones thought the whole thing was too sad.
Sean O'Bannon read the notice without comment.
At the end of the day, Rick Shaw listened to Marshall Wells on the phone. The lab report had come back with all due speed. Roger O'Bannon had been poisoned with quinidine, a drug which, taken in excess of one gram, kills within fifteen to twenty minutes. It can be administered in pill or powder form. Unlike most other poisons, this one kills without producing horrible convulsions. It is sometimes given to heart patients to suppress acute arrhythmias.
Coop, standing next to him when he hung up the phone, simply said, “Do we arrest Lottie Pearson?”
“She handed him the coffee. Can you prove she poisoned him? Intentionally?” He emphasized the word.
“Not just yet. She's not going anywhere.”
At three o'clock that night, a car, lights off, glided down Don Clatterbuck's short driveway. The driver emerged, noiselessly closed the door, and walked to Don's shop. What no one had noticed when they left Don's shop after re-installing the lock was that the tiny red light on the video camera was reflected in the windowpane. The thief noticed and left.
48
The week roared by in a welter of chores, seemingly so important at the time yet quickly forgotten. Fortunately, mail volume was light, so Harry skipped out Friday morning to do her grocery shopping. Miranda, whose refrigerator remained full, gladly gave her the time. Tracy kept Miranda company at work.
“Have you decided what color dress you're wearing?”
“The magenta, the color of my peonies.”
“You'll be the prettiest girl there.” He smiled, deciding that either a white or pink corsage would complement her dress. “I don't remember Tim O'Bannon being so interested in charitable pursuits.”
“Tim was tight as the bark on a tree. He used to embarrass Ida. When the boys took over the business they became involved in community affairs. I think they did it out of the goodness of their hearts but I don't expect it hurt business either. ‘Each one must do as he has made up his mind, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.' Second Corinthians, Chapter Nine, Verse Seven.”
“What a memory.”
“We're back!” Tucker announced gaily.
“Mom drove home, put stuff in the fridge, gave us a treat, and now I'm ready for the mail cart.” Pewter hopped in, causing the cart to roll a bit.
“I bought pork chops.” Harry sounded triumphant, up to the challenge. “I'm going to make stuffed pork chops according to your recipe. The only thing is, does Diego like pork? Some people don't.”
“Feed him a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, et cetera. . . .” Tracy slapped her on the back.
“You men. All alike.” She teased him for quoting the Rubaiyat because the next line was “and thou.” Tracy assumed all Diego needed was Harry.
“Gender wars!” Pewter called out from the bottom of the mail cart. “I pick women to win.”
“Of course you'll pick women, you twit. You're female.” Mrs. Murphy jumped in the cart, too.
A loud discussion followed, after which Mrs. Murphy jumped right out, hit the floor front paws apart, and pretended to chase a mouse into an opened mail sack.
Tucker stuck her nose in the sack. Murphy batted at the dog, who snapped her jaws, appearing quite ferocious.
“Oh, to be a cat or dog.” Harry admired their untrammeled joy.
“Your cat or dog.” Tracy waved as Coop passed by in the squad car.
Within minutes she came through the back door. “Hi. Didn't want to park out front. I'll only be here a minute.”
“More news, I hope?” Miranda offered her a cookie, which she took.
They knew about Roger. Rick had allowed Cynthia Cooper to tell them. After all, they were in on this mess. They'd helped with the safe and they'd not gotten in his way. He couldn't decide if he was mellowing or if he was too tired to bitch and moan.
“The sheriff from Washington County, Paul Carter, called. Two people at Boojum's recognized Dwayne Fuqua. Said he dropped off cars regularly. They also recognized Rog
er, of course, but what was interesting is that Roger would pick up Dwayne from Boojum's. Bill Boojum had to know.”
“Hi.” Susan popped through the front door followed by her youngest, Brooks.
“And why aren't you in school, young lady?” Miranda pointed her finger playfully at the high-school girl.
“Teachers' conference day.” Brooks smiled.
“They didn't have those when I was in school.” Miranda frowned. “I remember George Washington was good at math.” She broke into a tinkling giggle.
“Oh, Miranda.” Harry rolled her eyes.
“Brooks, I'm glad you're here. I was going to come over tonight and ask you some more questions. I wish they'd occur to me all at once but they don't.” Coop leaned over the dividing counter as Brooks came up to lean on the other side.
“Will you stop running around,” Harry commanded Mrs. Murphy, who had abandoned the mail sack to play tag with Tucker.
“Spoilsport.” Murphy did sit down, though, as Tucker crashed into her, rolling them both over.
“Sorry, my brakes don't work.” The dog licked Murphy's cheek to make up for the block.
“Ha, a likely story,” Pewter called out from the mail cart.
“When you brought sugar to the table, who handed you the sugar bowl?” Coop pulled out her small notepad.
“Chef Ted.”
“Did anyone stop you on the way to the table?”
“No.”
“And it was a bowl of raw sugar?”
“Uh-huh.” Brooks folded her hands, leaning harder on the divider. “I put it next to the silver creamer at the end of the table.”
“The broken sugar bowl was china.” Mrs. Murphy jumped up with a start. “China. Oh, now why didn't I notice that at the time?”
“And you weren't called in to clean up the sugar on the floor?”
“No. Someone cleaned it up. One of the guests, I guess.”
“Thomas Steinmetz. Lottie backed into him.” Coop had several eyewitnesses who corroborated that fact. “When you put the sugar bowl on the table, did you see who reached for it first?”
“Uh—Daddy. He was fixing a cup of coffee for Aunt Tally.”
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