Pewter thundered out the front door when it was opened, the flab on her belly swaying from side to side. She and Mrs. Murphy immediately ran around the back of the buildings. Tucker was torn whether to join them or stay. She finally followed the cats.
“Where’s the biker?”
“The what?” Market wiped his hands on his apron and walked toward Harry behind the counter.
“The Hell’s Angel who owns the Harley. If he’d been in your store, you would have noticed.”
“Nobody like that this morning. Of course, it’s just seven-thirty, so maybe he’s out for his morning constitutional and I’ll yet have the pleasure.” Market offered her a sticky bun. “Is he really a Hell’s Angel?”
“Sure looks like one.”
“Well, then, Miss Priss, how do you know him? You been hanging around biker bars?” Market teased her.
“He roared up to Ash Lawn the other day when I was giving Blair the tour.”
“A cultural Hell’s Angel. Harry, you’re pulling my leg.”
“No, honestly.” Harry’s inflection rose with her innocence.
“Maybe it’s a surprise from Fair.”
“Sure, sure.”
“Blair?”
“Market, what is this? You’re getting as bad as the biddies around here, trying to get me tied down again.”
“Better than being tied up.” He paused. “Then again . . .”
“Have you been talking to Art Bushey?”
As Art was famed for his sense of humor, dwelling mostly on sexual topics, this was not a long-shot question.
“Oh, I’m pricing a new Ford truck over at Art’s. I’d like to move up to a three-quarter ton.”
“Better sell a lot of potato chips.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“This roll is delicious. Are you using a new bakery?”
“Miranda. She’s decided she needs pin money, as she puts it, and she’s going to be bringing in whatever she whips up. She’s such a good baker, I think this arrangement might work.”
“Put in a Weight Watchers clinic down the street, and you’ll have all your bases covered. There’s no way you can eat her concoctions without carrying extra freight.”
Aysha and Norman Cramer pushed open the door. Harry stepped aside.
“Hi.” Aysha bubbled over. “Sweet’n Low, please. I’m manning, I mean womanning, the phones over at the Junior League charity roundup today. We’ll be drinking lots of coffee.”
“Norman, what about you?” Market pointed to a sticky bun.
Norman blinked. He blinked a lot, actually, Harry observed.
“I, uh, yeah, I’ll try one,” he said.
“Now, honey, I don’t want any love handles.” Aysha pinched him.
“Lovegirl, just a little eensy bite.” He smiled. He had beautiful big white teeth.
Laura Freely and Mim entered.
Laura went over to the headache remedies while Mim asked Harry, “And why aren’t you in the post office? You’re five minutes late.”
“Waylaid by a Miranda Hogendobber sticky bun,” Harry replied.
Norman swallowed. “They’re delicious.”
“Don’t tempt me!” Laura instructed. “And don’t take any to my husband over there at the bank.” She nodded in the direction of National Crozet across the street. “Hogan looks at sweets and he gains weight.”
Mim hovered over the buns. The odor enticed even her considerable willpower. The swirls in the buns resembled tantalizing pinwheels. “What the heck?” She plunked down a dollar and grabbed two buns. “Does she bring these to work?”
Harry nodded. “She’s been baking a lot these last few weeks. She didn’t tell me she was going into business though. Guess I was the guinea pig.”
“And you don’t have an extra pound on your frame,” Aysha complimented her.
“Oh, thanks.”
Laura pushed her BC Powders on the counter. “If you did all the farm chores, you wouldn’t have to worry either. Harry can probably eat three thousand calories a day and not gain an ounce.”
“Speaking of fat, where’s Pewter?” Norman, who liked cats, leaned over the counter to look for her.
“Walked out the front door to have a chat with Mrs. Murphy. Well, gang, time to sort your mail.”
“Throw out my bills, will you?” Aysha laughed.
“I’m going to give you mine.” Harry grinned and left.
She unlocked the front door. Mrs. Hogendobber hadn’t come in the back yet. Rob Collier pulled into the front parking space before Harry closed the door. She let it hang open and joined him.
“Only one big bag today.”
“Thank God. You about killed us last week.”
He noticed the motorcycle. “Who owns that?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“California plates. A long way from home.” Rob hopped out of the truck, bag over his shoulder, and began reminiscing about motorcycles. Motorcycles engendered male nostalgia. “Did I ever tell you about the little Vespa I had? No bigger than a sigh. I wanted to learn to ride a bike, a real bike. I was fourteen, so I gave Jake Berryhill fifty bucks for his brother’s old Vespa. Still ran. I didn’t get out of second gear for the first month. Then I got the hang of it, so I traded the Vespa in on a 250cc Honda. I thought I was macho man, and I rode that thing on the back roads ’cause I didn’t have a license and I didn’t have plates.”
“How’d you get away with it?”
“Hell, Harry, there weren’t but two deputies for the whole of Albemarle County then. They couldn’t be bothered with a kid on a Honda.” He continued. “Got my license on my sixteenth birthday. Delivered the paper. Saved up and traded up—500cc Honda.” He dumped the bag behind the counter, waved to Miranda, and wistfully gazed at the Harley. “You know, I just might have to get me one. Yeah. Slid on your machine, cranked it, and the crank would always fly up and bark your shin. Roll that right wrist in, let out the clutch with your left hand, just nice and easy, pick up your feet and roll—just roll on to freedom.”
“Why, Rob, that’s poetic,” Miranda said.
He blushed. “Happy times.” Then he sighed. “What happens? I mean, when is the moment when we get old? Maybe for me it was when I sold that 500cc.”
“Honda dealer’s in town. There’s Harley dealers in Orange and Waynesboro,” Harry said.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m going to think about it—seriously.”
“While you’re thinking, go next door and buy one of Miranda’s sticky buns. She’s entered the baking business.”
“I’ll do that.” He backed out the door and walked over to Market’s.
Miranda beamed. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”
“Uh-huh.” Harry’s tone was positive.
Out back, Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter craned their necks upward at the post office drain spout. Little cheeps reverberated from inside.
“Heard it this morning,” Pewter solemnly noted. “Haven’t seen anyone fly in or out. Of course, I would have caught anyone if they’d tried.”
“Dream on, Pewter.” Tucker giggled.
“I can catch a bird. I most certainly can,” she huffed.
“We aren’t catching this one.” Mrs. Murphy’s whiskers pointed forward, then relaxed. “Come on, time to sort the mail.”
“Is there any food in there?” Pewter inquired.
“You work in a market. Why do you always want to know if we have food at the post office?” Tucker’s tongue hung out. The day was already heating up.
“Curious. Don’t you know anything, Tucker? Cats are by nature curious.”
“Brother.” The dog pushed open the animal door and entered the post office.
By noon the biker still had not appeared. Harry couldn’t stand it anymore. She went out front and sat on the Harley. It did feel great, nice and lowdown. She checked around to make sure the Hell’s Angel wouldn’t charge out of a building and scream at her for touching his precious bike.
By thr
ee, still no sign of the owner.
“Harry, I’m calling Rick Shaw.” Miranda picked up the phone.
Harry considered this a moment. “Wait a second. Let me go get the license plate number.” She ran outside and scribbled the number on a scrap of paper.
Miranda dialed the sheriff’s department. Cynthia Cooper picked up the phone. “Why aren’t you in the squad car?”
Miranda’s voice was distinctive. Cynthia knew the caller at once. “I was. What can I do you for?”
“A black Harley-Davidson motorcycle has been parked in front of the post office all day and the owner doesn’t seem to be around.”
“Do you know the owner?”
“No, but Harry does. Hold on a minute.” Miranda handed the phone to Harry.
“Hi, Cynthia. Actually, I don’t know the owner but I saw him at Ash Lawn last week.”
“Do you suspect anything?”
“Uh, no, I guess we’re just wondering why the bike has been here all day. Maybe he copped a ride in a car or something, but we’re not a public parking lot. Want the license number?”
“Yeah, okay.”
She read off the number. “California plates. Pretty ones.”
“They are. Pretty state taxes too. If I paid that much, I’d want gold-plated tags. Okay, Skeezits, I’ll run a check and get back to you,” she said, calling Harry by her childhood nickname.
The phone rang in fifteen minutes. It was Cynthia.
“The bike belongs to Michael Huckstep, Los Angeles, California. He’s a Caucasian—thirty-four years old.”
“That was fast.” Harry was impressed.
“Computers. If the bike is still there tomorrow, call me. Actually, I’ll swing by tonight and check on it anyway, but call me in the morning. Sometimes people do take advantage of federal facilities. It will probably be gone tomorrow.”
8
But it wasn’t. The next morning, Tuesday, the Harley was right there.
Cynthia cruised on over and inspected the bike while Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber hurried to finish their morning sorting. Mrs. Hogendobber kept running in and out of the office, she was so afraid she’d miss something.
On her last pass into the post office she breathlessly informed Harry, “She’s going to have them dust for prints—you know, in case it’s stolen.”
“Well, if it were stolen, don’t you think he’d know it and report it?”
“Not if he’s the thief.”
Harry cocked her head. “Do criminals have legitimate driver’s licenses?”
“Little Marilyn does. The way she drives is a crime.” Miranda laughed at her own joke.
Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, Mrs. Murphy strolled out the front door on yet another pass by Miranda. Tucker, lying on her back, legs straight up in the air, was dead to the world. The cat chose not to wake her.
Cynthia, tall and slender, knelt down on the left side of the machine and wrote down the serial number.
Mrs. Murphy jumped on the seat of the motorcycle. She quickly jumped off since it was boiling hot. “Ouch! Don’t they make sheepskin seat covers for bikes?”
The humans forgot the task at hand for a moment to gossip about Little Marilyn’s latest beau—a man both Mrs. Hogendobber and Cynthia considered unsuitable. They moved on to BoomBoom Craycroft’s summer vacation, their hope that Kerry McCray would find a decent guy following her loss of Norman, and the delightful fact that Miranda’s baked goods were sold out by eight-thirty that morning.
The tiger, her coat shiny as patent leather in the sunlight, sniffed around the motorcycle. She was careful not to get too close, as the metal would be hot as well. A familiar whiff on the right saddlebag, jet black like the rest of the bike, made her stop. She stood on her hind legs, perfectly balanced, and sniffed deeper. Then she got as close as she dared and inhaled. “Cynthia, Cynthia, there’s blood on the saddlebag.”
“—Blair Bainbridge, but you know if BoomBoom lays siege to him again, he might give in. Men find her sexy.” Cynthia couldn’t help indulging in a light gossip.
“She won’t turn his head.” Mrs. Hogendobber crossed her arms over her large bosoms.
“They all look at BoomBoom.” Cynthia never could understand why a good makeup job and big tits made idiots out of supposedly intelligent men.
“Hey, hey, will someone listen to me!”
“Aren’t you a Chatty Cathy?” Miranda reached down to stroke the cat’s pretty head.
“There’s blood on the saddlebag. Want me to spell it for you?” The cat yowled. She vented her frustrations concerning human stupidity.
“My, she is out of sorts.” Cynthia brushed her hands on her pants.
“You’re about as smart as a pig’s blister.” Mrs. Murphy spat in disgust.
“I’ve never seen Mrs. Murphy spit like that.” Miranda involuntarily took a step backward.
The cat whirled around and thumped to the front door. She called over her shoulder, “It’s not chicken blood. It’s human blood, and it’s a couple of days old. If you all would use those pathetic senses of yours, you might even find it yourselves.” She banged on the door. “Let me in, dammit. It’s hot out here.”
Since Harry failed to rush right over, Mrs. Murphy, now in a towering rage, shot around to the back of the post office. She smacked open the kitty door, walked in, and whapped Tucker right on the nose.
“Wake up!”
“Ow.” The dog raised her head, then dropped it. “You are hateful mean.”
“Come outside with me. Now, Tucker. It’s important.”
“More important than sleeping in the air-conditioning?”
Mrs. Murphy whapped her again. Harry noticed. “Murphy, retrieve your patience.”
“You can just shut up too. None of you know bugjuice. You rely on your eyes far too much, and they aren’t that good anyway. Humans are weak, vain, and smelly!”
By now Tucker was on her feet and had shaken herself awake. “Humans can’t help being what they are any more than we can.”
“Come on.” She vanished out the door.
Tucker joined her at the motorcycle. Both Miranda and Cynthia had ducked into the market.
“Here.” The cat pointed.
Tucker lifted her nose. “Oh, yes.”
“Don’t touch the bike, Tucker, it’s scorching.”
“Okay.” The corgi moved closer. Her head was tilted back, her eyes bright and clear, her ears forward. “Human. Definitely human and fading.”
“I say four days.”
“Hard to tell in this heat, but it sure has been a couple of days. It’s only a drop or two. If the saddlebag were soaked, even they’d notice it. The aroma of blood is powerful.”
“They don’t like the smell, assuming they can smell it.”
“If there’s enough of it, even they can pick it up. I don’t know why they don’t like it. They eat meat just like we do.”
“Yeah, but they eat broccoli and tomatoes too. Their systems are fussier.” Mrs. Murphy brushed by Tucker. “I trust your nose. I’m glad you came out with me.”
“Have you tried pointing this out to them?”
“Yes.” The cat shrugged. “Same old same old. They’ll never get it.”
“Well, it’s a few drops of blood. No big deal—is it?”
“Tucker, a Hell’s Angel shows up at Ash Lawn, makes a scene asking for a woman named after a town. Blair gets him out of there. Right?”
“Right.”
“Then he sideswipes us as he flies out of Sugar Hollow. And now his motorcycle has been parked in front of the post office for two days.”
Tucker scratched her ear. “Something’s rotten in Denmark.”
9
Actually, something was rotten in Sugar Hollow. A platoon of grade-school hikers on a Wednesday nature trail excursion stumbled upon the remains of a human being. In the high heat the body shimmied with worms.
The stench made the kids’ eyes water and some threw up. Then they ran like the dickens down t
he hollow to the nearest telephone.
Cynthia Cooper picked up the call. She met Sheriff Rick Shaw at the Sugar Hollow parking lot. The nature camp counselor, a handsome nineteen-year-old named Calvin Lewis, led the sheriff and his deputy to the grisly site.
Cynthia pulled out a handkerchief and put it over her mouth and nose. Rick offered one to Calvin. The young man gratefully took it.
“What will you use?” he asked.
“I’ll hold my nose. Besides, I’ve seen more of this than you’ll ever want to know.” Rick walked over to the corpse.
Cynthia, careful not to touch the body or disturb the scene around it, scanned the blackened mess from end to end.
Then she and Rick walked away from the stench to join Calvin, who wisely had remained at a distance.
“Did you notice anything else when you found the body?” Rick asked.
“No.”
Cynthia scribbled in her notebook. “Mr. Lewis, what about broken branches or a path made by the feet of the body if it was dragged through the underbrush?”
“Nothing like that at all. If we hadn’t been looking for mushrooms—the class is identifying different kinds of mushrooms—I don’t think we would have, uh, found . . . that. I smelled it and, uh, followed my nose. It was so strong everywhere that at first I couldn’t pinpoint the smell. If I’d known, I would have made the kids stay back. Unfortunately some of them saw him. I didn’t mean them to see it—I would have told them it was a dead deer.”
Rick put his arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Quite a shock. I’m sorry.”
“The kids who saw it—I don’t know what to tell them. They’ll have nightmares for weeks.”
Cynthia spoke, “There are a lot of good therapists in the area, people experienced with helping children through trauma.” What she didn’t say was that most therapists never got this close to raw life or rather, raw death.
After cordoning off the corpse, Rick and Cynthia waited for their team. Calvin rejoined his campers way down at the parking lot.
Rick leaned against a big fiddle oak and lit a cigarette. “Been a long time since I’ve seen something like this. A real worm’s hamburger.”
Pay Dirt Page 5