“Animal! I take offense.” Tucker whined, got mad, and padded out to the aisle. She saw Mrs. Murphy and walked over to her friend. She touched her with her nose. “Wake up.”
“I’m not asleep.”
“You always say that. You’re missing some good stuff.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, you think they’ll go to bed?”
“I don’t know. Not tonight anyway.”
Back in the tack room Blair and Harry cleaned up. She packed the uneaten items back in the basket.
“Basket’s yours too.”
“You’re being awfully good to me.”
“I like you.”
“I like you too.”
He pulled her to him and kissed her on the cheek. “I don’t know what will happen between us, but one thing you can count on, I’ll be your friend.”
Harry kissed him back, hugged him, and then let go. “That’s a deal.”
15
The Crozet National Bank, a squat brick building erected in 1910, sat on the corner of Railroad Avenue in a row of buildings that included the old Rexall’s drugstore. The woodwork was white, the effect unadorned and businesslike, which suited its purpose.
Thanks to the frugality of a succession of good presidents over the decades, little money had been squandered on the interior. The same old hanging lights swayed overhead. Green-shaded bankers’ lamps sat in the middle of heavy wooden desks. The tellers worked at a marble counter behind bronze bars. The austerity lent substance to the bank. The only intrusions of modernity were the computer terminals at each teller station and on each administrative desk.
The office of the bank president, Hogan Freely, was on the second floor. Mrs. Murphy, accompanying Harry, wandered up the back stairs. She thought she would generously distribute her personality. However, when she strolled into Norman Cramer’s office at the far end of the small second story, she decided to hide behind the curtain. Hogan was pitching a major hissy.
“You’re telling me you don’t know? What in the goddamned hell am I paying you for, Norman?”
“Mr. Freely, please, the situation is highly abnormal.”
“Abnormal, it’s probably criminal! I’m calling Rick Shaw.”
“Let’s take this a step at a time.” Norman, not the most masculine of men, sounded more masterful than Mrs. Murphy had ever heard him. “If you call in the authorities before I can run a skintight audit, you risk bad publicity, you risk outside auditors being called in. The abnormality in funds may be a glitch in the system. Then we’d be crying wolf. We’d look foolish. Crozet National has built its reputation on conservative investment, protecting our customers’ assets and good old common sense. I will work day and night if I have to, but give me some time to comb through our records.”
Hogan tapped the floor with his right foot. Mrs. Murphy could see his wing tips as she peered from under the curtain. “How many people do you need and how long?” He paused. “And don’t ask Kerry to work on this. The tension between you two is disruptive to everyone.”
“Give me the whole accounting department and the tellers as well,” Norman replied, his ears red from embarrassment.
“How long?”
“Two days and nights, and we’ll have to order in food, lots of food.”
A long silence followed, then a forceful reply. “All right. You’ve got until Wednesday closing time or I’m calling the sheriff. I’ve got to know why the screen comes up blank when I ask for our assets. And I’m bringing in computer specialists. You work on the books. They’ll work on the terminals.”
As he started for the door, Norman called to him, “Mr. Freely, I’m head of this department. The buck stops here. If I can’t locate the funds or if the technical experts can’t find the computer malfunction, which I really believe this to be, then I will face the press. This is my responsibility.”
“Norman, I’m sorry I blew up at you. I know you’ll do your best—I’m jangled. What if the Threadneedle virus did hit us? I have no way of knowing how much money we have. I can’t even keep track of simple daily transactions! How can I cover losses if we’ve had them? The future of this bank depends on your work. We’ll be sitting ducks for a takeover.” His voice cracked. “And how can I face my board of directors?”
“Mim Sanburne most particularly,” Norman drawled. “We’ll find it. Put it out of your mind if you can.”
“Out of my mind—?” Hogan left before finishing his sentence.
Mrs. Murphy waited, then slipped out the door, jumping the stairs two at a time. She glided over to Harry, who was withdrawing one hundred and fifty dollars. The truck needed a new battery and she hadn’t bought groceries in over two weeks.
“Mom, take it all out,” the cat advised.
Harry felt a familiar rub on her legs. “Visiting done? Let’s go back to work.”
“Mom, this bank is in deep doo-doo. You’d better pay attention to me.”
Of course, Harry didn’t. She walked back to the post office, Mrs. Murphy glumly following at her heels.
Pewter waited for them outside the market. “Murphy, is it true that the boys got into a fight over Harry?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Murphy evidenced no interest in the subject.
“Who won?”
“Nobody.”
“You’re a sourpuss.” Pewter fell in alongside her friend.
“Pewts, I was upstairs at the bank and I heard Hogan Freely say that they can’t get the computers to report transactions or the amount of money in the bank.”
“Humans put too much faith in money.”
“Maybe so . . . I tried to tell Mom, but you know how that goes. She ought to get her money out of there.”
“Money. You can’t eat it, it doesn’t keep you warm. It’s pieces of paper. Weird, when you think about it. I believe in the barter system myself.”
Mrs. Murphy, lost in thought, missed her friend’s comment. “What’d you say?”
“Money’s just paper. Not even good enough to shred for a dirt box. But I want to know about the fight.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“Did she say anything about it?”
“No, but Blair came over to apologize.”
“Was he horribly contrite?” Pewter wanted the details.
“He bought her an expensive coffeemaking machine. And he brought a big wicker basket full of fancy food.”
“What kind of food?” Pewter’s mouth watered.
“Uh—liver pâté, crackers, jellies, scones. Stuff.”
“Oh, I wish I’d been there. Liver pâté. My favorite.”
“Any food is your favorite.”
“Strawberries. I hate strawberries,” Pewter contradicted her.
“You know, Mom was on the phone with Susan over the weekend, and then this morning she talked to Mrs. Hogendobber about Fair and Blair, in particular; men, in general. She likes them both, but she’s . . .” Mrs. Murphy shrugged.
“Burned her fingers. What’s that expression? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Guess it haunts her.”
“Here comes Coop. She already picked up her mail.”
Cooper pulled into the lot and saw the cats. “Hot outside, girls. Let’s go in.”
“Okay.” The two cats scooted inside when she opened the door.
Miranda glanced up. “Forget something?”
“No. Just a question for you and Harry.”
Harry walked up to the counter. “Shoot.”
“Oh, Harry, don’t say that.” Cynthia grinned. “What I want to know is did you notice anyone paying special attention to the bike when it was parked here?”
“Every man that walked by except for Larry Johnson.” Larry was the old doctor in town. He hardly ever used his car. He hated machines, walked everywhere, did his own wood chopping and other chores, and enjoyed robust health.
“Names.”
“Gee, Cynthia, everyone. Rob Collier, Ned Tucker, Jim Sanburne. Hogan Freely, Fair, Market, Blair—D
anny Tucker about died over it and, uh, did I forget anyone?”
Miranda piped up. “Herbie and, let’s see, oh, yes, Norman Cramer.”
Cynthia furiously scribbled away. “Women?”
“Barely a glance except for me, of course.” Harry added, “Why are you asking?”
“I went over that machine with a fine-toothed comb. Then I decided to go over the saddlebags. I was so busy worrying about what was in them—nothing—that I didn’t scrutinize the outsides. Couldn’t see much anyway since they’re black, but I sent them to our little lab, just in case.”
Tucker and Mrs. Murphy pricked their ears. Pewter was playing with a cricket in the corner.
“There was a small quantity of blood on one of the bags.”
“I told you!” the cat yowled.
“Mrs. Murphy, get a grip,” Harry chided her.
“Considering how the man was shot,” Mrs. Hogendobber said, “wouldn’t blood have splattered everywhere?”
“We know how he was killed, Miranda, but we don’t really know where he was killed. We only know where the body was found. And the blood isn’t his. The tests came back on the corpse. He had a rare type, AB negative. The blood on the bag was O positive.”
“You mean—” Harry didn’t finish her sentence.
“There might be another body.” Miranda finished it for her.
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Cynthia warned. “We’ve got a team up in Sugar Hollow. If there’s anything there, they’ll find it. Especially if it’s . . .” She delicately left off.
“Flesh and blood,” Tucker barked.
16
Harry, Miranda, and Susan combed the forest in the early evening light, the pale golden shafts illuminating spots here and there, the scent of moss and fallen leaves rising around them.
Although Cynthia had told them to keep out of it, they’d do more harm than good, once the sheriff’s team left Sugar Hollow, the three women zipped in.
Mrs. Murphy somersaulted as she tried to catch a grasshopper. “Spit, spit tobacco juice and then I’ll let you go.”
“Gotta catch him first.” Tucker thought grasshoppers beneath her attention.
“I will, O ye of little faith, and when I do I’ll say, ‘Spit, spit tobacco juice and then I’ll let you go.’ ”
“Grasshoppers don’t understand English.” Tucker put her nose to the ground again. She wanted to assist the humans, but any trace of scent other than the smell of rot still hanging on the ground was gone. The humans could no longer smell the decay. “There’s nothing here. We’ve been walking in circles for an hour and I don’t know why they want to stick their noses in it anyway,” growled Tucker, who stuck her nose in everything.
“A dull summer. Besides, when has Mother ever been able to sit still?”
“I sure can.” And with that Tucker plopped down.
The grasshopper or a close relative flipped by Murphy again, and she shot straight up in the air, came down with the insect between her paws, and rolled on the ground.
“Gotcha!”
However, she opened one paw slightly for a close look at her quarry and the grasshopper pushed off with its hind legs, squirting free. Murphy pounced, but the grasshopper jumped high and opened its wings to freedom. In a rage Murphy clawed at the leaves on the ground.
“Ha-ha,” Tucker tormented her.
“Oh, shut up, stumpy.” She batted the leaves once more in disgust. “Tucker—”
“What now?”
“Look.”
The corgi reluctantly rose and walked over to the cat’s side. She looked at the small clearing Mrs. Murphy made. “A ring.”
“More than that. A wedding ring.” Murphy touched it with one claw. “There’s an inscription inside. You stay here. I’ll get Mom.”
“Good luck.”
“I’m going straight for the leg. No meowing and brushing by.”
“Like I said, good luck.”
The leaves crunched underfoot, a fallen tree trunk emanating a dry and powdery aroma blocked her path. The cat soared right over it. She blasted into the middle of the humans.
“Busy bee.” Mrs. Hogendobber noticed Murphy’s antics.
“‘You ain’t seen nothing yet.’ ” Mrs. Murphy parodied Al Jolson’s line. She fixed her gaze on Harry, then turned, ran straight for her leg, and bit it.
“Ouch! What’s the matter with you?” Harry swatted at her. Murphy expertly avoided the clumsy hand and bit the other leg.
“Rabies! That cat has rabies.” Mrs. Hogendobber stepped backward into a vine and fell right on her large behind.
“Miranda, are you all right?” Susan hurried over to help up the older lady.
“Fortunately, yes. I have ample padding,” she grumbled as she brushed off her bottom.
“Come on.” Mrs. Murphy ran around in a tight circle, then sat still in front of Harry. “Okay, Tucker, how about the National Anthem?”
“‘O say can you see—’ ” Tucker warbled.
“What an awful racket.” Miranda held her hands over her ears.
Susan laughed. “She doesn’t think so.”
“Come on. Follow me. Come on. You’ll get it. Watch the pussycat.” Mrs. Murphy backed up a few steps.
“She’s yakking away as well.” Susan watched Murphy.
“Might as well see what it is.” Harry got the message. “For all I know, Tucker has her foot caught in a root or something. I never know what these two will get into.”
“As long as it’s not a skunk.” Mrs. Hogendobber wrinkled her nose.
“We’d know by now.” Susan crawled over the rotted trunk, which Murphy again cleared in one bound.
Mrs. Hogendobber negotiated the obstacle at a slower pace. By the time she was over, Harry had reached Tucker, who didn’t budge.
“‘—at twilight’s last gleaming, whose broad stripes and—’ ”
“Tucker,” Mrs. Murphy interrupted this outburst of patriotism, “you can stop now.”
“I was just warming up.”
“I know.” The cat reached down and touched the ring. “How long do you give them?”
“A minute. There’s three of them, and unless one of them steps on it, someone will see it.”
Harry knelt down to pat Tucker. “You okay, girl?”
“Will you look here!” Mrs. Murphy fussed.
Susan did. “Jeez O Pete. Look.”
Miranda bent over. “A wedding ring.” She reached for it, then withdrew her hand. “Better not.”
Harry snapped off a twig from a low branch, slipped it through the ring, and brought it up to her eyes. “M & M 6/12/86.”
17
Coop decided not to gripe at Harry, Susan, and Miranda. After all, they did find the wedding ring, about fifty yards from where the body was found. She’d sent it out for prints, although she figured that was hopeless.
It wasn’t even noon, but the day was getting away from her. Two accidents during rush hour and both on Route 29, which snarled up traffic. She’d sent out one officer, but with summer vacations depleting the staff, she covered the other one herself.
As soon as Cynthia had received the information from the Department of Motor Vehicles in California, she called the Los Angeles Police Department. She wondered if Huckstep had a criminal record. Sure enough, the answer came back positive for offenses in San Francisco.
The San Francisco Police Department told her Mike Huckstep had a record for minor offenses: assault and battery, traffic violations, and one charge of indecent exposure. The officer on duty suggested she call Frank Kenton, the owner of the Anvil, a San Francisco bar where Huckstep had worked. When Cynthia asked why, the officer said that they always believed Huckstep was involved in more than minor crime, but they could never nail him.
Cynthia picked up the phone. It would be eight in the morning in San Francisco. She’d gotten the phone number of the Anvil as well as the owner’s name and number.
“Hello, Mr. Kenton, this is Deputy Cynthia Cooper of the
Albemarle County Sheriff’s Department.”
A sleepy, gruff voice said, “Who?”
“Deputy Cooper, Albemarle County Sheriff’s Department—”
“Where in the hell is Albemarle County?”
“In central Virginia. Around Charlottesville.”
“Well, what in the hell do you want with me? It’s early in the morning, lady, and I work till late at night.”
“I know. I’m sorry. You are the owner of the Anvil, are you not?”
“If you know that, then you should have known not to call me until after one my time.”
“I regret disturbing you, but we’re investigating a murder and I think you can help us.”
“Huh?” A note of interest crept into the heavy voice.
“We found a body which we’ve finally identified as Michael Huckstep.”
“Good!”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Good, I’m glad somebody killed that son of a bitch. I’ve wanted to do it myself. How’d he get it?” Frank Kenton, wide awake now, was eager for details.
“Three shots at close range to the chest with a .357 Magnum.”
“Ha, he must have looked like a blown tire.”
“Actually, he looked worse than that. He’d been out in the woods in the July heat for at least three days. Anything you can tell me, anything at all, might help us apprehend the killer.”
“Shit, lady, I think you should give the killer a medal.”
“Mr. Kenton, I’ve got a job to do. Maybe he deserved this, maybe he didn’t. That’s not mine to judge.”
“He deserved it all right. I’ll tell you why. He used to bartend for me. Mike had that look. Big broad shoulders, narrow waist, tight little buns. Good strong face and he’d let his beard go a few days. He was perfect for the Anvil. Think of him as gorgeous rough trade.”
Cynthia knew that “rough trade” was a term originated by homosexuals that had passed into heterosexual parlance. It meant someone out of the class system, someone with the whiff of an outlaw, like a Hell’s Angel. The term had devolved to mean anyone with whom one slept who was of a lower class than oneself. However, Cynthia assumed that Mike Huckstep was the real deal.
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