The manure pile, contained in a pit housed by three sides of pressure-treated two-by-fours, was step one in Harry’s mulch process. Once the manure and shavings cooked for a year, she’d take the front-end loader of the tractor and move it all to the second pit. If the year had had a lot of moisture, the pile would be ready to use and sell. She made a little pin money selling a pickup-truck load for thirty dollars. If it had been a drought year, she waited another year for the mixture to properly cook.
The best fertilizer was goose, duck, or chicken manure if you could find someone to haul it and spread it. But it was expensive by Harry’s standards—sometimes as high as eighteen dollars a ton—so she used it sparingly on the few trouble spots she had in her own garden. Her pastures, lush in all but the worst droughts, displayed the effects of her management.
She’d built two such pits for her neighbor, Blair. He had cattle so his mulch/manure was pretty good, too. She tended it for him since he was on the road quite a bit. Their deal was that she could haul out six pickup loads each year which she then mixed into her own piles.
The steam climbed upward as she turned the pile. The temperature skidded with the sunset. There’d be a hard frost tonight.
Mrs. Murphy, fluffed out against the encroaching cold, sat on the corner of the pit, above it all.
“You know, the birds pick through here. You don’t need to spend money buying special feeds for them.”
“You’re a good companion, Mrs. Murphy.” Harry observed the scarlet sky deepen to a blood red with mauve tendrils snaking through the color.
“Thank you. I have other ideas on saving money. Feed Pewter less.” She could say this without an accompanying yowl because Pewter was in the kitchen consoling Tucker, utterly morose because she couldn’t help the injured human.
“Beautiful.” She scratched the cat behind the ears. “Why would anyone watch television when they can see this? The human race would rather watch something made up than something real. Sometimes I wonder why I’m human. Really, Murphy, I find my own species bizarre.”
“‘Stupid’ is closer to the mark.” The cat inhaled the peaty odor of pit mingled with the sharp tang of cooling air. A silent large figure flew out of the barn cupola. The owl began her first foray of the evening. She circled Harry and Murphy, banked, then headed toward the creek.
“Damn, she is big. She gets bigger every year.” Harry respected the predator; her huge claws, balled up, could knock a person off balance. If the claws were unleashed the owl could slice open flesh as easily as a butcher with a knife.
“And haughty.”
“Who said that?” the owl, who had keen hearing, called as she soared away from the barn. “Who-o-o. You-ou-ou, Mrs. Murphy. Groundling.”
“I cannot tell a lie. It was I.”
“You two must be talking to one another,” said Harry, who half-believed they were. She grew up in the country and knew animals could communicate. She just didn’t realize how effectively they did.
“Come on, Mom, time to close up the barn. Head to the house.”
Harry carried her pitchfork back to the toolshed. She checked the outside water troughs to make sure the heaters, built especially for that purpose, were floating. It was a great luxury not to chop ice in the morning. These small units either dropped to the bottom of the trough or floated, depending on the brand. Plugged into an electrical outlet, they could keep the water temperature above freezing. Horses appreciated that because they didn’t want to drink ice-cold water. Less water consumption meant greater chances of colic or impaction. Harry didn’t feed pellets which she thought added to winter digestive problems. She only fed lots and lots of high-quality hay—she swore by it and her horses stayed happy and healthy, no gut problems.
She walked back into the barn, closed the big sliding doors, checked everyone’s water buckets, and readjusted Tomahawk’s blanket which he’d managed to push toward the right.
Simon peered over the hayloft. “Murphy, marshmallows.”
The possum adored marshmallows. His sweet tooth caused him to rummage through the wastebasket searching for candy wrappers. He ate all the grain spilled onto the feed-room floor, too.
“I’ll do my best but she doesn’t listen,” Murphy answered Simon.
Harry checked and double-checked, then cut the lights at the switch housed at the end of the center aisle. She opened the doors enough to slip through, then shut them tight.
Back in the kitchen, she made herself a cup of hot chocolate. Tucker, ears drooping, Pewter at her side, barely lifted her head.
Harry felt the dog’s ears. Not hot. She checked her gums. Fine. “Little girl, you look so sad.”
“I am.”
“She blames herself,” Pewter explained.
“If I’d run away from Mom maybe she would have chased me. If I’d kept coming back to the closet door she might have figured it out. I just didn’t think fast enough.” Tears formed in the dog’s eyes.
“She’s a good human but she’s only human.” Mrs. Murphy joined Pewter in consoling the corgi. “She probably wouldn’t have figured it out no matter what you did. There was nothing you could do.”
Tucker was grateful for their kindness but she felt so horrible she closed her eyes. “Someone has to find whoever is in there.”
She was right. Someone was in for a nasty shock.
* * *
20
Billy Satterfield, a student, worked as a janitor. He was a sandy-haired, slight boy with clean features, a regular kid who fit in with the rest of the student body when in the jeans and flannel shirts he wore to classes. On the weekends when he wore coveralls, though, students never looked his way. He was invisible, a member of the working class. People’s responses to him as a broom pusher taught him a lot. He never wanted to be a negligible person, a grunt. He made good grades if for no other reason than because he was determined to graduate and make money.
A long, loopy key chain hung from his belt, the keys tucked in his right pocket. He walked to the broom closet, pulled out the keys, found the right one, and opened the door.
The sight of a youngish woman, bound and gagged, scared him half to death. Her glassy eyes stared right through him. He wanted to scream, to run down the hall, but he had enough presence of mind to make certain she was truly dead. Gingerly he touched her shoulder. Cold. Stiff.
His knees shaking, his stomach churning, he backed out of the closet, shutting the door. He leaned his head against the door for a minute fighting for his composure. It was seven-thirty in the morning. No other custodial person was on duty. As there was a basketball game tonight, other men would show up later at nine if he was lucky. He breathed deeply.
He pulled out his cell phone, a tiny folding one, and dialed 911. Within seconds he was connected to the Sheriff’s Department and grateful.
Coop, working the weekend, spoke to Billy, did her best to soothe him. She was by his side within fifteen minutes, calling Rick on the way.
She heard Rick open the door, the squeaking of his rubber-soled shoes. He wore a dark charcoal suit, as he was on his way to the early service at church.
“What have we got?”
“Knife wound, bled to death internally. Let’s just say our killer wasn’t skillful. It was a slow death, I would think. Oh sorry, Sheriff Shaw, this is Billy Satterfield. He found the body about thirty minutes ago.”
Rick extended his hand. “Sorry, Mr. Satterfield. Do you mind telling me what you saw?”
“Billy, call me Billy.” He took a breath and did not look at the corpse. “I usually come in early on Saturdays and Sundays. I got here right at seven-thirty so I opened the door to the closet probably seven thirty-five and that’s what I saw. I touched her shoulder—to make sure.” He shivered.
Cooper reassured him. “Most people have the same reaction.”
“Really?”
“They do.”
Rick pulled on thin latex gloves, bent down on one knee, and carefully examined the body. He didn’t mo
ve it. No sign of struggle. No other cuts. Bruising on the neck. He shook his head. “Is this your rope?”
“No, sir.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean yours personally. Was this rope in the closet?”
“No, sir.”
“Clothesline.” Rick stood up. “I’ll call the boys,” he said, referring to his crime lab team. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and come up with prints or at least fibers or something.” He exhaled. “She wasn’t winning any popularity contests but this—”
“You know her?” Billy was amazed at their professional detachment.
“Yes. She works for the county. She’s a building inspector.”
* * *
21
The wind, out of the west, carried a sharp edge. Tree branches swayed against a still blue sky. Harry walked out of St. Luke’s at nine-thirty. She liked to attend the earliest service, matins, which was at eight-thirty on Sunday morning since the eleven o’clock service was packed. Vespers, at seven P.M., also pleased her. The eventide service exuded a cozy, quiet quality, especially in winter.
She didn’t know how Herb preached three sermons each Sunday, but he did. He needed an assistant, a young pastor, but so far the diocese couldn’t find their way to sending him one, saying there weren’t that many to go around. Although overburdened, Reverend Jones thoroughly enjoyed his labors.
Tazio Chappars also liked matins. She hurried along to catch Harry.
“Sorry, Tazio, I didn’t know you wanted company.” Harry pulled her cashmere scarf, a present from Miranda, tighter around her neck.
“Isn’t it funny how the seasons remind you of people, past events?”
“Yes, it is.”
“This time of year makes me think of my mother. She hated winter and complained nonstop from the first frost to the last. But right about the third week of January she’d say, ‘A little more light. Definitely.’ Then every day after that we’d have to read the newspapers together, myself and my brothers, to find the exact number of daylight hours versus nighttime hours.”
“You know, I’ve never met your brothers. I’d like to.”
Tazio quickly put her hand on top of her hat, for the wind kicked up. “Jordan and Naylor, twins. Can you imagine growing up with twin brothers? They were horrid. Anyway, they about died when I moved here. Like a lot of people they have visions of po’ black folk being oppressed each and every day. I tell them it’s not like that and in many ways it’s as sophisticated here as back home in St. Louis, but I’m talking to a brick wall. If I’m going to see them I have to go to them.”
“Gee, I’m sorry. If they ever do come, though, let me know.”
“I will. It’s hard to believe the creeps who put tadpoles in my Kool-Aid are now doctors. Dad’s an oncologist, Jordan followed Dad. Naylor specializes in hip replacements. I’m the oddball who didn’t go into medicine.”
“I couldn’t do it.” Harry shook her head. “You picked the right career for you.” She turned her back on the wind. “Boreas.”
“The north wind.” Tazio remembered her mythology. “I loved those stories. And the Norse sagas. In college I read the African myths, went on to Native American myths. And you know, all those stories are filled with wisdom. Not that I learned to be wise. I’m afraid that only comes the hard way.”
They reached their respective trucks, each one carrying their animals. Brinkley stood up, tail wagging, when he saw Tazio.
“I wish I could take my cats and dog to church,” Harry mused. “It would do them a world of good.”
“Mrs. Murphy on the organ? Think again, Harry.”
“You do have a point, but she is a musical kitty.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee? I’ll treat. I’m beginning to worry about repairs to the rectory and maybe we could have our own meeting before the meeting.” Tazio’s lipstick, a shiny burgundy gloss, accentuated her nice teeth when she smiled.
“Sure.”
They walked into the coffee shop, quiet on Sunday morning. Harry ordered a cappuccino with mountains of frothy milk. The animals, pleased to be allowed in, actually sat by the table without making a fuss.
“Brinkley, you’re looking better,” Tucker complimented the young Lab.
“She’s feeding me a high-protein diet because I’m still growing. And last night she put chicken gravy on it. The most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“I killed a live chicken once,” Pewter boasted. “A Rhode Island Red and she was huge. Laid huge eggs, too.”
“Brinkley, don’t listen to her. She is such a storyteller.” Mrs. Murphy rubbed against the Lab’s light yellow chest.
“I did so kill a chicken. She walked out in front of the barn. The biggest chicken in the universe and she tried to chase me but I jumped on her back.” The gray cat drew herself up to her full height, becoming more impressive.
“Now for the real story.” Tucker chuckled. “She really did jump on the back of the chicken and it was a most plump chicken. But Pewter scared the dumb bird so much she dropped dead of a heart attack. It wasn’t exactly a life-and-death struggle.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that I killed the chicken. Brinkley, they never want to give me credit for anything. They’ve never killed a chicken.”
“No.” Tucker clamped her long jaws shut. “Harry would throw me out of the house if I did. And you were lucky she was in the barn watching you or you would really have gotten into trouble. She knew the bird had had a coronary.”
“How many chickens do you have?” Brinkley asked.
“Not a single one.” Mrs. Murphy laughed.
Brinkley put his nose down to touch Pewter’s. “Did you kill them all?”
This went straight to Pewter’s head. She puffed out her chest, she swished her tail, she tipped up her chin. It was the Mighty Puss pose. “I did not but I could have if I wanted to.”
“Then what happened to the chickens?” The younger fellow was puzzled.
“Well, first you have to understand that our human is the practical sort. But every now and then she gets an idea that doesn’t exactly work out. The money-saving venture actually loses and, well, she goes through three pencils doing her sums trying to figure it out. The chickens were one of those kind of things.” Tucker smiled.
“At first things were okay.” Mrs. Murphy picked up the story. “She bought peepies, put them under an infrared light. Well, Brinkley, you won’t get one little egg for six months. But finally the great day arrived and a puny egg appeared. In time more eggs appeared from these twenty hens and the eggs got bigger and bigger as the hens got bigger. Finally, when the chickens became ever so plump, the red fox down the lane would just yank one out of the chicken coop. Locked doors, screened top, nothing stopped him except that one big Rhode Island Red. He never could kill that chicken until heart disease did her in. Too much corn, I reckon.”
The front door opened and Cynthia Cooper came in and sat down. “Herb told me you all left church together. I checked around and here you are.”
Harry knew Cooper fairly well. “What’s the matter?”
“Another killing at the Clam.” She motioned and the waitress brought her a cup of double latte.
“You’re kidding!” Harry sat up straight, as did the animals.
“Mychelle Burns stuffed in the broom closet.”
“What?” Tazio’s hands shook for a moment.
“If I were the kind of person who jumped to conclusions, I’d say someone was trying to spook the team.” Harry slapped her napkin next to her fork.
“At this point no theory seems far-fetched.” Cooper took a deep draught of the restorative coffee. “But H.H. and Mychelle?” She turned to Tazio. “Harry told me that Mychelle was unpleasant to you at the Mountain View Grille?”
“She said she wanted to see me. It was important. Usually when she wanted to see me it was about one of my buildings. We never discussed anything but work.”
“But wouldn’t she give you a hint, something like, ‘The copper pi
pes at the new house are crooked’?” Harry shrugged. “I know I’m not using terminology correctly but you know what I mean. To kind of get you thinking about the problem, real or made-up.”
“Made-up is closer to the mark. You know, being a sister, I wanted to like her but I couldn’t stand her. Not that I wished her dead. We had nothing in common and I felt she singled me out for particular abuse.”
“At lunch the other day when she nabbed you, what did she say?” Harry jumped right in whether she had any business asking these questions or not.
The Tail of the Tip-Off Page 13