“I’m right in front of you. You don’t have to yell.”
“So you are. I don’t want to tell you this but the Harvest Ball committee has decided, wisely I think, to cancel the Headless Horseman reenactment.”
Harry, obviously disappointed, saw the logic of it. “Don’t feel bad, Mrs. H. We’ll get back to it next year.”
A sigh of relief escaped Miranda’s red lips. “I’m so glad you see the point.”
“I do and thank you for telling me. Would you like me to tell Susan?”
“No, I’ll get over there. It’s my responsibility.”
As she left, Harry watched the squared shoulders, the straight back. Miranda could be a pain—couldn’t we all—but she always knew the right thing to do and the manner in which to do it. Harry admired that.
* * *
17
Fitz-Gilbert could have used a secretary to make himself look like a functioning lawyer—which he wasn’t.
It doesn’t do for a man not to go to work, even a very wealthy man, so his office was mostly for show although it had developed into a welcome retreat from his mother-in-law and, occasionally, his wife.
He hadn’t been to the office since the torso appeared in Mim’s boathouse, two days ago.
He opened the door and beheld chaos. His chairs were overturned; papers were scattered everywhere; his file cabinet drawers sat askew.
He picked up the phone and dialed Sheriff Shaw.
* * *
18
Finding the remains of a human body, while unpleasant, wasn’t rare. Every year in the state of Virginia hunters stumble across bodies picked clean by birds and scavengers, a few tatters of clothing left clinging to the bones. Occasionally the deceased has been killed by mistake by other hunters; other times an elderly person who suffered from disease or loss of memory simply wandered off in winter and died from exposure. Then, too, there were those tortured souls who walked into the woods to end it all. Murder, however, was not that common.
In the case of this cut-up corpse, Rick Shaw figured it had to be murder. The life of a county sheriff is usually clogged with serving subpoenas, testifying in poaching cases and land disputes, chasing speeders, and hauling drunks into the pokey. Murder added excitement. Not that he thought of it that way, exactly, but as he sat at his cluttered desk his mind moved faster; he concentrated fiercely. It took an unjust death to give him life.
“All right, Cooper.” He wheeled around in his chair, pushing with the balls of his feet. “Give.”
“Give what?”
“You know what.” He stretched out his hand.
Irritated, Cynthia opened her long desk drawer, retrieved a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes, and smacked them in his hand. “You could at least smoke filtered cigarettes.”
“Then I’d smoke two packs a day instead of one. What’s the difference? And don’t think I don’t know that you’re sneaking some.”
When it was put that way, Cooper couldn’t think of a difference. The surface of her desk shone, the grain of the old oak lending solidity to the piece. Papers, neatly stacked in piles, paperweights on top, provided a contrast to Rick’s desk. Their minds contrasted too. She was logical, organized, and reserved. Rick was intuitive, disorganized, and as direct as he could be in his position. She liked the politics of the job. He didn’t. As he was a good twenty years older than she, he’d remain sheriff and she’d be deputy. In time, barring accident, Cynthia Cooper could look forward to being the first woman sheriff of Albemarle County. Rick never thought of himself as a feminist. He hadn’t wanted her in the first place but as the years rolled by her performance won him over. After a while he forgot she was a woman or maybe it didn’t matter. He saw her as his right hand, and turning the department over to her someday was as it should be, not that he was ready to retire. He was too young for that.
The cigarette calmed him. The phones jangled. The small office enjoyed a secretary and a few part-time deputies. The department needed to expand but so far the county officials had passed no funds for that to their overworked sheriff.
One reporter from the local paper had showed up yesterday, and Rick had refused to dwell on the grisly details of the case. His low-key comments had satisfied the reporter for the moment, but Rick knew he’d be back. Rick and Coop hoped they’d have enough answers to forestall a panic or a squadron of reporters showing up from other papers, not to mention the TV.
“You’ve got a feeling about this case, boss?”
“The obvious. Destroying the identity of the corpse was paramount in the killer’s mind. No fingerprints. No clothes on the torso. No head. Whoever this poor guy was, he knew too much. And we’d know too much if we knew who he was.”
“I can’t figure out why the killer would take the trouble to divide up the body. Lot of work. Then he or she would have to bag it so it wouldn’t bleed all over everything, and then drive the parts around to dump them.”
“Could be an undertaker, or someone with mortuary experience. Could have drained the body and then chopped it.”
“Or a doctor,” Cynthia added.
“Even a vet.”
“Not Fair Haristeen. Poor guy, he was a suspect for a bit in Kelly Craycroft’s murder.”
“Well, he did wind up with BoomBoom, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, poor sod.” Cynthia burst out laughing.
Rick laughed too. “That woman, she’s like to run him crazy. Pretty though.”
“Men always say that.” Cynthia smiled.
“Well, I don’t see how you women can swoon over Mel Gibson. What’s so special about him?” Rick stubbed out his cigarette.
“If you knew, you and I would have a lot more to talk about,” Cynthia cracked.
“Very funny.” He reached in the pack to pull out another coffin nail.
“Come on, you just finished one!”
“Did I?” He picked up the ashtray and counted the butts. “Guess I did. This one’s still smoking.” He crushed it again.
“You’re suffering one of your hunches. I know it. Come on, tell.”
He lifted a shoulder and let it fall. He felt a little foolish when he had these hunches because he couldn’t explain or defend them. Men are taught to back up what they say. He couldn’t do that in this case but over time he had learned not to dismiss odd sensations or strange ideas. Often they led him to valuable evidence, valuable insights.
“Come on, boss. I can tell when you’re catching the scent,” Cynthia prodded.
He folded his hands on his desk. “Just this. Dividing up a body makes sense. That doesn’t throw me. The hard rains worked against our killer. That and little Tucker. But really, the odds were that those legs and hands would never have been found. It’s the boathouse that doesn’t compute.”
“He could have tossed the torso in the lake and, when it came up, gaffed it or something and dragged it into the boathouse.” Cynthia stopped to think. “But everyone would have seen this person, male or female, unless it was the dead of night, and you can’t schedule the appearance of waterlogged bodies, now can you?”
“Nope. That’s why it doesn’t compute. That piece of meat was put in the boathouse. No other explanation.”
“Well, if the killer knows the community he would know or see Mim’s pontoon boat at the dock. Nobody goes into the boathouse much unless she has one of her naval sorties planned. It’s as good a place to hide a body as any other.”
“Is it?”
They stared at each other. Then Cynthia spoke. “You think that head’s going to show up?”
“I kinda hope it does and I kinda hope it doesn’t.” He couldn’t fight temptation. He grabbed another cigarette but delayed lighting it. “See if there’s a record for Blair Bainbridge in New York.”
“Okay. Anyone else?”
“We know everyone else. Or we think we do.”
* * *
19
The light frost crunched underfoot even though Mrs. Murphy trod lightly. The rain had finally stopped last night a
nd she had risen early to hunt field mice. Tucker, flopped on her side on Harry’s bed, was still sound asleep.
Although the cat’s undercoat was thickening, the stiff wind sent a chill throughout her body. Another month and her coat would be more prepared for the cold. The prospect of running top speed after a rabbit or a mouse thrilled Mrs. Murphy, so what was a little cold? The mice ducked into their holes, which ended the chase, but the rabbits often ran across meadows and through woods. Occasionally she caught a rabbit, but more often a mouse. She’d come alongside and reach over to grab it at the base of the neck if she could. If not she’d bump and roll it. Mrs. Murphy dispatched her conquests rapidly; not for her the torture of batting her prey around until it was torn up and punch-drunk. A swift broken neck ended the business in a split second. Usually she brought the quarry back to Harry.
The frost held the scent. Even so it wasn’t a good day for hunting. She growled once when she smelled a red vixen. Mrs. Murphy and fox competed for the same food, so the cat resented her rival. She also hotly resented that a fox had gotten into the henhouse years ago when she was a kitten and had killed every hen on the property. Feathers fluttered like snowflakes and the images of the pathetic bodies of ten hens and one rooster stayed in her mind. She couldn’t have warned off the predator anyway, because of her youth, but Harry’s dismay at the sight unnerved Mrs. Murphy. After that, Harry no longer kept chickens, which was a pity because, as a kitten, Mrs. Murphy had loved to flatten herself in the grass and watch the yellow chicks peep and run all over the place.
If Tucker wouldn’t be so fussy, Harry could get a big dog, a dog that would live outside, to chase off foxes and those pesky raccoons. A puppy with big paws from the SPCA would grow up to fill the bill. The mere mention of it would send Tucker into a hissy fit.
“Would you tolerate another cat, I ask you?” Tucker would shriek.
“If we had a surplus of mice I guess I’d have to,” Mrs. Murphy would usually reply.
Tucker declared that she could handle a fox. This was a patent lie. She could not. If a fox went to ground she might be able to dig it out but then what would she do with it? Tucker wasn’t a good killer. Corgis were brave dogs—Mrs. Murphy had seen ample proof of that—but Tucker, at least, wasn’t the hunter type. Corgis, bred to herd cattle, were low to the ground so that when a cow kicked, the small dog could easily duck the blow. Tough, resilient, and accustomed to animals much bigger than themselves, corgis could work with just about any large domesticated animal. But hunting wasn’t in their blood, so Mrs. Murphy usually hunted alone.
A meow, deep and mellow in the distance, attracted Mrs. Murphy’s attention. She tensed, and then relaxed when the splendidly handsome figure of her ex-husband slipped out of the woods. Paddy, as always, wore his black tuxedo; his white shirtfront was immaculate but the white spats were dirty. His gorgeous eyes glittered and he bounded up with unbridled enthusiasm to see his ex.
* * *
* * *
“Hunting, Sugar? Let’s do it together.”
“Thanks, Paddy. I’m better at it alone.”
He sat down and flicked his tail. “That’s what you always say. You know, Murph, you won’t be young and beautiful forever.”
“Neither will you,” came the tart reply. “Still hanging around that silver slut?”
“Oh, her? She got very boring.” Paddy referred to one of his many inamoratas, this one a silver Maine coon cat of extraordinary beauty. “I hate it when they want to know where you’ve been every moment, as well as what you’re thinking at every turn. Give it a rest.” His pink tongue accentuated his white fangs. “You never did that.”
“I was too busy myself to worry about what you were doing.” She changed the subject. “Find anything?”
“Hunting’s not good. Let them get a little hungrier and then we’ll catch a few. The field mice are fat and happy right now.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Yellow Mountain. I left home in the middle of the night. I’ve got that door, you know—don’t know why Harry doesn’t put one in for you. Anyway, I was going to head toward the first railroad tunnel but it was too far away and the promise of hunting was already dim, so I trotted up the mountain instead.”
“Not much there either?”
“No,” he replied.
“Did you hear, Paddy, about those body parts in the graveyard?”
“Who cares? Humans kill one another and then pretend it’s awful. If it’s so awful, then why do they do it so much?”
“I don’t know.”
“And think about it, Murphy. If the new guy is in his house, why would the killer drag those pieces of body down the driveway? Too risky.”
“Maybe he didn’t know the new man had moved in.”
“In Crozet? You sneeze and your neighbor says God bless you. I think he, or she, parked somewhere within a mile—two legs and two hands aren’t that heavy to carry. Came in off Yellow Mountain Road, up to the old logging road, and walked back through the woods into the pastures up to the cemetery. You wouldn’t have seen the person from your place unless you were in the west meadows. You’re usually out of the west meadows by sunset though, because the horses have been brought in, and this new guy, well, he was a risk but the cemetery is far enough away from the house that he might see someone up there but I doubt if he could have heard anything. Of course, the new guy could have done it himself.”
Mrs. Murphy batted a soggy leaf. “Got a point there, Paddy.”
“You know, people only kill for two reasons.”
“What are they?”
“Love or money.” His white whiskers shook with mirth. Both reasons seemed absurd to Paddy.
“Drugs.”
“Still gets back to money,” Paddy countered. “Whatever this is, it will come to love or money. Harry’s safe, since it hasn’t a thing to do with her. You get so worried about Harry. She’s pretty tough, you know.”
“You’re right. I just wish her senses were sharper. She misses so much. You know, it takes her sometimes ten or twenty seconds longer to hear something and even then she can’t recognize the difference in tire treads as they come down the driveway. She recognizes engine differences though. Her eyes are pretty good but I tell you she can’t tell a field mouse five hundred yards away. Even though her eyes are better in daylight, she still misses the movement. It’s so easy to hear if you just listen and let your eyes follow. At night, of course, she can’t see that well and none of them can smell worth a damn. I just worry how she can function with such weak senses.”
“If Harry were being stalked by a tiger, then I’d worry. Since one human’s senses are about as bad as another’s, they’re equal. And since they seem to be their own worst enemies, they’re well equipped to fight one another. Besides which, she has you and Tucker and you can give her the jump, if she’ll listen.”
“She listens to me—most of the time. She can be quite stubborn though. Selective hearing.”
“They’re all like that.” Paddy nodded gravely. “Hey, want to race across the front pasture, climb up the walnut by the creek, run across the limb, and then jump out to the other side? We can be at your back door in no time. Bet I get there first.”
“Deal!”
They ran like maniacs, arriving at the back porch door. Harry, coffeepot in hand and still sleepy, opened the back door. They both charged into the kitchen.
“Catting around?” She smiled and scratched Mrs. Murphy’s head, and Paddy’s too.
* * *
20
A crisp night dotted with bright stars like chunks of diamonds created the perfect Halloween. Each year the Harvest Fair was held at Crozet High. Before the high school was built in 1892, the fair was held in an open meadow across from the train station. The high school displayed the excesses of Victorian architecture. One either loved it or hated it. Since most everyone attending the Harvest Ball had graduated from Crozet High, they loved it.
Not Mim Sanburne, as she had g
raduated from Madeira, nor Little Marilyn, who had followed in her mother’s spiked-heel steps. No, Crozet High smacked of the vulgate, the hoi polloi, the herd. Jim Sanburne, mayor of Crozet, had graduated from CHS in 1939. He carefully walked up and down rows of tables placed on the football field. Corn, squash, potatoes, wheat sheaves, and enormous pumpkins crowded the tables.
The mayor and his son-in-law had been cataloguing contestant entries that morning. In order to be impartial, Fitz wrote down all the produce entries. Since Jim was judging that category, it wouldn’t do for him to see them early.
The crafts filled the halls inside the school. Mrs. Hogendobber would take a step or two, stop, study, rub her hand on her chin, remove her glasses, put them back on, and say, “Hmmn.” This process was repeated for each display. Miranda took judging the crafts to new levels of seriousness.
The gym, decorated as a witches’ lair, would welcome everyone after the awards. The dance attracted even the lame and the halt. If you breathed you showed up. Rick Shaw and Cynthia Cooper sat in the gym judging costumes. Children scampered about as Ninja Turtles, angels, devils, cowboys, and one little girl whose parents were dairy farmers came as a milk carton. The teenagers, also in costume, tended to stick together, but as the task of decorating for the Harvest Ball fell upon CHS’s students, they heaped glory upon themselves. Every senior class was determined to top the class preceding it. The freshman, sophomore, and junior classes were pledged to help, and on Halloween Day classes were suspended so the decorating could proceed.
As Harry, Susan, and Blair strolled through the displays they admired the little flying witches overhead. The electronics wizards at the school had built intricate systems of wires, operating the witches by remote control. Ghosts and goblins also flew. The excitement mounted because if this was the warm-up, what would the dance be like? That was always the payoff.
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