Pay Dirt

by Rita Mae Brown

  “I loved her once.”

  “You thought you did.”

  “But what if I do? I don’t know what I feel.”

  Kerry threw her arms around him and kissed him hard. He kissed her back. “What do you feel now?”

  “Confused. I still love you.” He shrugged. “Oh, God, I don’t know anything. I just want to get away for a while.”

  He reached out and kissed her again. They didn’t hear the soft crunch moving toward them.

  “Kerry, you slut.” Aysha hauled off and belted her. “A murderer and a slut.”

  Norman grabbed his wife, pulling her away. “Don’t hit her. Hit me. This is my fault.”

  “Shut up, Norman. I know this bitch inside and out. Whatever I have, she has to have it. She’s competed with me since we were tiny. It just never stops, does it, Kerry?”

  “I had him first!”

  The shouting grew louder. Harry and Miranda walked out of the house because of the shouting just as Cynthia Cooper stepped out from behind a big oak. She moved toward the trio.

  “You didn’t want him. You were going to bed with Jake Berryhill at the same time.”

  Kerry’s face was distorted in rage. “Liar.”

  “You told me yourself. You said you knew that Norman loved you and he was sweet but he was boring in bed.” Aysha relished the moment.

  Kerry screamed, “You bitch!”

  Again Norman pulled them apart with the help of Cynthia. He was mortified to see her.

  “For God’s sake, keep your voices down. The Freelys don’t deserve this!” Harry’s lips tightened as she ran over.

  “Norman, tell her you’re leaving her.”

  “I can’t.” Norman seemed to shrink before everyone’s eyes.

  Kerry’s sobs transformed into white-hot hate. “Then I hope you drop dead!”

  She twisted away from Cynthia, who caught her. “Time for a ride home until you are formally charged.” She pushed Kerry into the squad car.

  Norman meekly addressed the little group. “I apologize.”

  “Go home,” Harry said flatly.

  Aysha turned and preceded Norman to their car as her mother pushed open the front door. Ottoline called out to her daughter and son-in-law, but they avoided her.

  Miranda folded her arms across her chest and shook her head. “Norman Cramer?”

  30

  Re-inking the postage meter meant sticky red ink on her fingers, her shirt, and the counter too. No matter how hard she tried, Harry managed to spill some.

  Mrs. Hogendobber brought over a towel and wiped up the droplets. “Looks like blood.”

  Harry snapped shut the top of the meter. “Gives me the willies—what with everything that’s happened.”

  Little Marilyn came in with a brisk “Hello.” She opened her mailbox with such force, the metal and glass door clacked into the adjoining box. She removed her mail, sorted it by the wastebin, then stopped at the counter. “A letter from Steve O’Grady in Africa. Don’t you love looking at foreign stamps?”

  “Yes. It’s a miniature art form,” Miranda replied.

  “When Kerry and Aysha and I went to Europe after college, we stayed in Florence awhile, then split up. I had a Eurailpass, so I must have whisked through every country not behind the Iron Curtain. I made a point of sending them postcards and letters more so they could have the stamps than read my scrawl. We were devoted letter writers.”

  Miranda offered Little Marilyn a piece of fresh banana cake. “You three were best friends for so long. What happened?”

  “Nothing. Nothing in Europe anyway. We wanted to do different things, but no one was angry about it. Kerry came home first. She was in London and got homesick. Aysha lived in Paris and I ended up in Hamburg. Mom said either I was to get a job or marry the head of Porsche. I told her he was in Stuttgart, but she wasn’t amused. You know, I still have the letters we sent to one another over that time. Aysha wrote long ones. Kerry was more to the point. It was this business with Norman that broke up the three musketeers. Even when I was married and they were single we stayed close. Then, when Kerry was dating Norman and I was divorcing the monster, we went out together.”

  “Maybe Norman has hidden talents,” Harry mused.

  “Very hidden,” Mrs. Murphy called out from the bottom of the mail cart.

  “Kerry thought so. They always had stuff to talk about.” Marilyn laughed. “As for Aysha, she got panicky. All your friends are married and you’re not—that kind of thing. Plus, Ottoline lashed her on.”

  “Panic? It must have been a grand mal seizure.” Mrs. Murphy stuck her head out of the mail cart.

  Pewter pushed through the animal door. “It’s me.”

  “I know,” Murphy called back. Pewter jumped in the mail cart with her.

  “Isn’t it a miracle the way those two cats found Kerry?” Marilyn watched the two felines roll around and bat at one another in the mail cart.

  “The Lord moves in mysterious ways His wonders to perform,” Mrs. H. said.

  Mrs. Murphy and Pewter stopped.

  “You’d think they’d realize that the Almighty is a cat. Humans are lower down in the chain of beings.”

  “They’ll never get it. Too egocentric.” Pewter swatted Murphy’s tail and renewed the combat.

  “I ought to get out those old letters.” Little Marilyn headed for the door. “Be interesting to see who we were then and who we are now.”

  “Bring them in someday so I can look at the stamps.”

  “Okay.”

  Miranda cut another piece of banana bread. “Marilyn, do you believe Kerry could kill someone?”

  “Yes. I believe any of us could kill someone if we had to do it.”

  “But Hogan?”

  She breathed deeply. “Mrs. H., I just don’t know. It seems impossible, but . . .”

  “Where did Kerry work in London—if she did?”

  “At a bank. London branch of one of the big American banks. That’s when she found her vocation, at least that’s what she told me.”

  “I never heard that.” Harry’s mind raced.

  “She’s quiet. Then again, how many people are interested in banking, and you two are acquaintances at best. I mean, there’s nothing shifty in her not telling you.”

  “Yeah,” Harry weakly responded.

  “Well, this is errand day.” Marilyn pushed open the door and a blast of muggy air swept in.

  So did Rick and Cynthia.

  “May I?” Rick pointed to the low countertop door separating the lobby and mailbox area from the work area.

  “How polite to ask.” Mrs. Hogendobber flipped up the countertop.

  Cynthia followed. She placed a folder on the table and opened it. “The owner of a bar in San Francisco where Huckstep worked sent me these.” She handed newspaper articles about George Jarvis’s suicide to Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber.

  Harry finished hers first, then read over Miranda’s shoulder.

  “The real story is that this man Jarvis, a member of the Bohemian Club, pillar-of-the-community type, was homosexual. No one knew. He was being blackmailed by Mike Huckstep and his girlfriend or wife—we aren’t sure if they were really married—Malibu. She must be a cold customer, because she would hide and photograph Mike cavorting with his victims and that’s how the blackmailing would start.”

  “The wedding ring said M & M.” Harry handed the clipping back to Cynthia.

  “I’m not jumping to conclusions. We’ve checked marriage records in San Francisco for June 12, 1986. Nothing on Huckstep. It’s like finding a needle in a haystack. Checked the surrounding counties too. Given enough time, we’ll get through all the records in California.”

  “Those two could have stood before the ocean and pledged eternal troth.” Rick was sarcastic. “Or gone to Reno.”

  “We’ve sent out a bulletin to every police department in the nation and to the court of records for every county. Nothing may come of it, but we’re sloggin’ away.”

  C
ynthia pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy blow-up of a snapshot. “Mike.”

  “Looking better than when he roared up to Ash Lawn.”

  “No one has claimed the body,” Rick informed them. “We buried him in the county plot. We’ve got dental records to prove it was really him. We had to get him in the ground, obviously.”

  “Here’s another. This is all Frank Kenton found. He said he called everyone he could remember from those days when Mike tended bar.”

  A figure, blurred, her back turned, stood in the background of the photo. “Malibu?” Harry asked.

  Mrs. Hogendobber put on her glasses. “All I can see is long hair.”

  “Frank knows little about her. She worked part-time at the Anvil, the bar he owns—caters to gay men. Malibu might as well have been wallpaper as far as the patrons were concerned, plus she seemed like the retiring type. Frank said he can’t recall ever having a personal conversation with her.”

  “Did he know their scam?” Harry stared at the figure.

  “Eventually. Huckstep and Malibu left in the nick of time. I suppose they left with a carload of money. They moved to L.A., where they probably continued their ‘trade,’ although no one seems to have caught them. Easy, I guess, in such a big city.”

  Rick jumped in when Cynthia finished. “We believe she was in the Charlottesville area when Mike arrived. We don’t know if she’s still around. Oh, one other sidelight. We’ve pieced together bits of Mike’s background. His social security number helped us there. Frank Kenton had the number in his records. Mike was raised in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Majored in computer science at Northwestern University, where he made straight A’s.”

  “The Threadneedle virus!” Harry clapped her hands.

  “That’s a long shot, Harry,” Rick admonished, then thought a minute. “Puts Kerry right in the perfect place to call in.”

  Harry folded a mail sack. “If she was smart enough to create their scam or to link up with the computer genius, she sure was dumb to get caught. Somehow it doesn’t fit.”

  “The murder weapon sure fits.” Cynthia took a piece of banana bread offered by Miranda.

  “Now, you two”—Miranda’s voice was laced with humor—“you’re not here to show us a photograph of someone’s back. I know you have two murders to solve. You’d put most of your effort into finding Hogan’s killer, not the stranger’s killer. So you must believe they are connected and you must need us in some fashion.”

  Rick’s jaw froze in mid-chew. Mrs. Hogendobber was smarter than he gave her credit for being. “Well—”

  “We’re trustworthy.” Miranda offered him another piece of banana bread.

  He gulped. “No question of that. It’s just—”

  Cynthia interrupted. “We’d better tell them.”

  A silence followed.

  “All right,” Rick reluctantly agreed. “You tell them, I’ll eat.”

  Cynthia grabbed a piece of bread before he could devour the whole loaf.

  “We’ve had our people working on Crozet National’s computers. It’s frustrating, obviously, because the thief has covered his tracks. But we did find one interesting item. An account opened in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Michael Huckstep.”

  Harry whistled.

  Miranda said, “Mr. and Mrs.?”

  Cynthia continued. “We pulled the signature cards. But we can’t really verify his signature or hers.”

  “Can’t you match it to the signature on his driver’s license?” Harry asked.

  “Superficially, yes. They match. But to verify it we need a handwriting expert. We’ve got a lady coming down from Washington.” She paused for breath. “As for Mrs. Huckstep’s signature . . . it doesn’t match, superficially again, anyone’s handwriting in the bank.”

  “When did he or she open the account?” Harry asked.

  “July thirtieth. He deposited $4,218.64 in cash.” Rick wiped his mouth with a napkin supplied by Miranda. “The bank officer in charge of opening the account was Kerry McCray.”

  “Not so good.” Harry exhaled.

  “What if . . .” Mrs. Hogendobber pressed her fingers together. “Oh, forget it.”

  “No, go on,” Rick encouraged her.

  “What if Kerry did open the account? That doesn’t mean she knew him.”

  “Kerry declares she never opened an account for Mr. and Mrs. Huckstep even though she was on the floor all of July thirtieth,” Rick said heavily. “There’s a number on each new account, an identifying employee number. Kerry’s is on Huckstep’s.”

  “Is the missing money in his account?” Harry queried.

  “No,” both answered.

  Cynthia spoke. “We can’t find a nickel.”

  “Well, I hate to even ask this. Was it in Hogan Freely’s account?” Harry winced under Miranda’s scornful reaction.

  “No,” Rick replied.

  “For all we know, the money that disappeared on August first or second could be sitting in an account whose code we can’t crack, to be called out at some later, safer date,” Cynthia added.

  “Maybe the money is in another bank or even another country,” Miranda said.

  “If two million or more dollars showed up in a personal account, we’d know it by now.”

  “Rick, what about a corporate account?”

  “Harry, that’s a bit more difficult because the big companies routinely shift around substantial sums. Sooner or later I think we’d catch it, but the thief and most likely the murderer, one and the same, would have to have someone on the inside of one or more Fortune 500 firms,” Rick explained.

  “Or someone inside another bank.” Harry couldn’t figure this out. She didn’t even have a hunch.

  “Possible.” Cynthia cracked her knuckles. “Sorry.”

  “What can we do?” Miranda wanted to help.

  “Everybody tromps through here. Keep your eyes and ears open,” Rick requested.

  “We do that anyway.” Harry laughed. “You know, Big Marilyn asked us to watch for registered letters. Could be stock certificates. Nothing.”

  “Thank you for the information about Threadneedle.” Rick stood up. “I don’t think Kerry could pull this off alone.”

  Miranda swallowed.

  As if reading her thoughts, Harry whispered, “Norman?”

  “We’re keeping an eye on him.” Rick shrugged. “We’ve got nothing on him at all. But we’re scrutinizing everyone in that bank down to the janitor.”

  “Keep your eyes open.” Rick flipped up the Dutch door countertop and Cooper followed.

  “If people will kill for a thousand bucks, think what they’ll do for two million.” Cynthia patted Harry on the back. “Remember, we said watch. We didn’t say get involved.”

  As they left, both Miranda and Harry started talking at once.

  “Telling those two to stay out of it is like telling a dog not to wag her tail,” Mrs. Murphy said to Pewter.

  “’Cept for Tucker,” Pewter teased.

  Tucker replied from her spot under the table, “I resent that.”

  31

  “Where does this stuff come from?” Dismayed, Harry surveyed her junk room.

  Calling it the junk room wasn’t fair to the room, a board-and-batten, half-screened back porch complete with Shaker pegs upon which to hang coats, a heavy wrought iron boot scraper, and big standing bootjack and a long, massive oak table. Dark green and ochre painted squares of equal size brightened the floor. The last line at catching the mud was a heavy welcome mat at the door into the kitchen.

  Twice a year the mood would strike Harry and she’d organize the porch. The tools were easy to hang on the walls or take back out to the barn depending on their original home. The boxes of magazines, letters, and old clothes demanded sorting.

  Mrs. Murphy scratched in the magazine box. The sound of claws over shiny, expensive paper delighted her. Tucker contented herself with nosing through the old clothes. If Harry tossed a sweatshirt or a pair of jeans in a carton, they really were old.
She was raised in the use-it-up wear-it-out make-it-do-or-do-without school. The clothes would be cut into square pieces of cloth for barn rags. Whatever remained afterward, Harry would toss out, although she swore one day she would learn to make hooked rugs so she could utilize the scraps.

  “Find anything?” Tucker asked Mrs. Murphy.

  “Lot of old New Yorker magazines. She sees an article she wants to read, doesn’t have time to read it then, and saves the magazine. Now, I’ll bet you a Milk-Bone she’ll sit on the floor, go through these magazines, and tear out the articles she wants to save so she’ll still have a pile of stuff to read but not as huge a one as if she’d saved the magazines intact. If she didn’t work in the post office, Gossip Central, she’d work in the library like her mother did.”

  “My bet is the broken bridle will get her attention first. She needs to replace the headstall. She’s going to pick it up, mumble, then put it in the trunk to take to Sam Kimball.”

  “Maybe so. At least that will go quickly. Once she buries her nose in a book or magazine, she takes forever.”

  “Think she’ll forget supper?”

  “Tucker, you’re as bad as Pewter.”

  “She fooled us both,” the dog exclaimed.

  Harry, armed with a pair of scissors, began cutting up the old clothes. “Mrs. Murphy, don’t rip apart the magazines. I need to go through them first.”

  “Give me some catnip. I can be bought off.” Mrs. Murphy scratched and tore with increased vigor.

  Harry stopped snipping and picked up the magazine box. It was heavier than she anticipated, so she put it back down. “I was going to shake you up.”

  “Catnip.” Murphy’s eyes enlarged, she performed a somersault in the box.

  “Aren’t you the acrobat?” Harry put the box on the oak table. She looked at the hanging herbs placed inside to dry. A large clutch of catnip, leaves down, emitted a sweet, enticing odor. Murphy shot out of the box, straight up, and swatted the tip of the catnip. A little higher and she could have had a slam dunk.

  “Catnip!”

  “Druggie.” Harry smiled and snapped off a sprig.

  “Yahoo.” Mrs. Murphy snatched the catnip from Harry’s hands, threw it on the table, chewed it a little, rolled on it, tossed it up in the air, caught it, rolled some more. Her antics escalated.