“Pity. He is the most divine-looking animal.” Susan shrugged.
“Handsome is as handsome does.”
“Tell that to my hormones,” Susan countered.
They both laughed and Harry drove home feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders. She wasn’t sure why. Was it because she had erupted at BoomBoom? At Charlie? Or because she had gotten tired and left, instead of standing there feeling like a resentful martyr? She decided she wasn’t going to help with any other senior superlative photographs and she wasn’t even sure she’d go through with her own. Then she thought better of it. After all, it would be really mean-spirited not to cooperate. They were all in this together. Still, the thought of BoomBoom hovering around . . . Of course, knowing Boom, she’d put off Harry’s shot until last and then photograph her in the worst light. Harry thought she’d better call Denny at the studio tomorrow.
After the chores, she played with Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker. They loved to play hide ’n’ seek.
The phone rang at nine P.M.
“Har?”
“Susan, don’t tell me you just got home.”
“No. I just heard this instant—Charlie Ashcraft was shot dead in the men’s locker room at the Farmington Country Club.”
“What?”
“Right between the eyes with a .38.”
“Who did it?”
“Nobody knows.”
“I can think of a dozen who’d fight for the chance.”
“Me, too. Queer, though. After just seeing him.”
“Bet BoomBoom’s glad she got the photograph first,” Harry shot from the hip.
“You’re awful.”
“No, I’m your best friend. I’m supposed to say anything in the world to you, ’member?”
“Then let me say this to you. Don’t be too jolly. Think about what you said this afternoon. We have no idea of who he’s slept with recently. That’s for starters. He was gifted at hiding his amours for a time, anyway. I’m all for your cleansing inside but a little repression will go a long way right now.”
“You’re right.”
After she hung up the phone she told Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker, who listened with interest.
“A jilted husband finally did what everyone else has wanted to do,” Tucker said.
“Tucker, you have the sweetest eyes.” Harry stroked the soft head.
“Weren’t there any witnesses?” Mrs. Murphy asked.
“Right between the eyes.” Pewter shook her head.
* * *
8
Farmington Country Club glowed with the patina of years. The handmade bricks lent a soft paprika glow to the Georgian buildings in the long summer twilight. As the oldest country club in Albemarle County, Farmington counted among its members the movers and shakers of the region as well as the totally worthless whose only distinguishing feature was that they had inherited enough money to stay current on their dues. The median age of members was sixty-two, which didn’t bode well for Farmington’s future. However, Farmington rested secure in its old golf course with long, classic fairways. The modern golf courses employed far too many sharp doglegs and par 3’s because land was so expensive.
Charlie Ashcraft, a good golfer, had divided his skills between Farmington and its challengers, Keswick and Glenmore. At a seven handicap he was much in demand as a partner, carrying pounds of silver from tournaments. He also carried away Belinda Harrier when he was only seventeen and she was thirty and had won the ladies’ championship. That was the first clue that Charlie possessed unusual powers of persuasion. Charlie’s parents fetched him from the Richmond motel to which they had fled and Belinda’s husband promptly divorced her. Her golf game went to pot as did Belinda.
Rick Shaw, sheriff of Albemarle County, and his deputy, the young and very attractive Cynthia Cooper, knew all this. They had done their homework. Cynthia was about twenty years younger than Rick. The age difference enhanced their teamwork.
The men’s locker room had been cordoned off with shiny plastic yellow tape. The employees of the club, all of whom had seen enough wild stuff to write a novel, had to admit this was the weirdest of the weird.
The locker room, recently remodeled, had a general sitting room with the lockers and showers beyond that. The exterior door faced out to the parking lot. An interior door was about thirty feet from the golf shop with a stairway in between which first rose to a landing and continued into the men’s grill, forbidden to women. If a man walked through the grill he would wind up in the 19th Hole, the typical sort of restaurant most clubs provide at the golf course.
Getting in and out of the men’s locker room would have been easy for Charlie’s killer. As the golfers had come and gone, the only people around would have been those who’d been dressing for dinner in the main dining room or down in the tavern way at the other end of the huge structure. There would be little traffic in and out of the locker room. The housekeeping staff cleaned at about eleven at night, checking again at eight in the morning since the locker rooms never closed.
Charlie Ashcraft had been found by a local attorney, Mark DiBlasi. The body remained as Mark had found him, sitting upright, slumped against locker 13. Blood was smeared on the locker. Charlie’s head hadn’t slumped to the side; blood trickled out of his ears but none came from his eyes or his mouth. It was a clean shot at very close range; a circle of powder burn at the entry point signified that. The bullet exited the back of his head, tore into the locker door, and lodged in the opposite wall.
Mark DiBlasi had been dining with his mother and wife when he left the main dining room to fetch his wallet from his locker. He’d played golf, finished at six-thirty, showered, and closed his locker, but forgot his wallet, which was still in his golf shorts. The moment he saw Charlie he called the sheriff. He then called the club manager. After that he sat down and shook like a leaf.
“Mark, forgive me. I know this is trying.” Cooper sat next to him on a bench. “You think you came back here at eight?”
“Yes.” Mark struggled for composure.
“You noticed no one.”
“Nobody.”
She flipped through her notebook. “I think I’ve gotten everything. If I have other questions I’ll call you at the office. I’m sorry your dinner was disturbed.” She called to Rick, “Any questions?”
Rick wheeled around. “Mark, who was Charlie’s latest conquest?”
Mark blushed and stammered a moment. “Uh—anyone new and pretty?”
Rick nodded. “Go on. I know where to find you. If you think of anything, call me.”
“Will do.” Mark straightened his tie as he hurried out.
“He’ll have nightmares,” Cynthia remarked.
“H-m-m.” Rick changed the subject. “Charlie’s four ex-wives. We’ll start there.”
“They all moved away, didn’t they?”
“Yeah.” He whistled as he walked through the men’s locker room to fix the layout in his mind.
A knock on the door revealed Diana Robb, head of the Crozet Rescue Squad. “Ready?”
“I didn’t hear the siren,” Cynthia said.
“Didn’t hit it. I was coming back from the hospital when you called, not more than a mile away.” She looked at Charlie as she walked back into the lockers. “Neat as a pin. Even his tie is straight.”
“Mark DiBlasi found him.”
Diana called over her shoulder, “Hey guys, bring in the gurney and the body bag.” Her two assistants scurried back out for the equipment.
“Mark said he was warm when he found him,” Rick informed her.
“Fresh kill.”
“We’ve already dusted. He’s ready to go.” Cynthia watched as the gurney was rolled in; the quarters were a bit tight.
“Put on your gloves and let’s lift him up, carry him out to the sitting room,” Diana directed. “Sucker’s going to be heavy.”
“Any ideas?” Cynthia asked Diana.
“Too many.”
“I do know this.” Diana wiggled her fingers in the thin rubber gloves over which she pulled on a pair of heavier gloves. “Charlie always was a snob. If you didn’t have money you had to have great bloodlines. There were no poor people involved.”
* * *
9
The post office buzzed the next morning. As it was the central meeting point in town, each person arrived hopeful that someone would have more news than they had. Everyone had an opinion, that much was certain.
“Can’t go sleeping with other men’s wives without expecting trouble,” Jim Sanburne, mayor of Crozet and husband of Mim, announced.
As Jim, in his youth, had indulged in affairs, the elegant Mim eyed him coldly. “Well said.”
“This is getting good.” Mrs. Murphy, whiskers vibrating, perched on the counter between the mailroom and the public room.
Pewter, next to her, licked her paw, then absentmindedly forgot to wash herself. Tucker, mingling out with the people, believed she could smell guilt and anger.
“Will even one person lament his death?” Mim asked.
Jim Sanburne rubbed his chin. “Whoever he was carrying on with at the time, I reckon.”
The Reverend Herb Jones growled, “He was a rascal, no doubt. But, then again, he was a young man in his prime—never forget redemption.”
Miranda nodded her head in agreement with the Reverend.
“Something wrong with that boy.” The massive Jim leaned over the counter so close that Pewter decided to rub against his arm to make him feel loved.
“Male version of nymphomania,” Big Mim said as her daughter, Little Mim, blinked, surprised at her mother’s bold-ness.
Fair, who’d walked in the door, picked up the word “nymphomania.” “I came just in time.”
Marcy Wiggins and Chris Sharpton also pushed open the door. Fair stepped aside. The small space was getting crowded.
Chris shyly blinked. “It’s so shocking. I mean, we were all watching the superlative shoot and then this.”
“Chris, don’t waste your time feeling sorry for that s.o.b.,” Susan Tucker told her. “You didn’t know him well enough to be one of his victims—yet. He would have tried.”
“Charlie should have been shot years ago,” Fair laconically said, then turned solemn. “But still you never think something like this would happen to someone you know.”
Noticing the look on Marcy’s face, Harry added, “We’re not as cold as you might think, Marcy. But ask E.R. about Charlie’s past. He upset too many applecarts without giving a thought to what he was doing to people’s lives. He remained unacquainted with responsibility for his entire life.”
“Oh,” Marcy replied, looking not at all comforted.
“‘The way of a fool is right in his own eyes, but a wise man listens to advice.’ Proverbs. Twelfth chapter, fifteenth verse,” Mrs. Hogendobber quoted. “Charlie Ashcraft was told many times in many ways by many people that he had to change his habits. He didn’t. Someone changed them for him; not that that’s right. No one has the right to take a life. That power belongs only to God.”
“Tucker, smell anything?” Murphy called down.
“No, although Jim Sanburne has dog pee on his shoe. Bet Mim’s dog got him and he doesn’t even know it,” the corgi gleefully reported. “Of course, I haven’t sniffed everyone yet. There’s too much coming and going.”
BoomBoom flounced through the door, breathlessly put her tiny hand to her heart. “Can you believe it? Right after our superlative shoot.”
“Aren’t you glad you shot yours first?” Harry dryly commented. “As it is we’ll have two people missing in our shoots. This way you would have had three.”
“Harry, I can’t believe you said that.” BoomBoom folded her arms across her chest. “Do you really think I would be more concerned about our senior superlative photographs than a man’s life?”
“In a word, yes.” Harry also folded her arms across her chest.
“This is getting good,” Pewter purred with excitement.
“Our classmate is dead,” BoomBoom nearly shrieked. “After that damned letter you sent.”
“I didn’t send that stupid letter!” Harry lowered her voice instead of raising it.
“Harry would never do anything like that,” Fair curtly said.
“She likes to stir the pot.”
“Look who’s talking.” Harry squared off at BoomBoom.
“Pipe down,” Big Mim commanded. “You aren’t solving anything. This is about Charlie’s murder, not your history with one another.” She turned to her ex-husband. “If every man in Crozet were shot for infidelity, who would be left?”
“Now, honey, let sleeping dogs lie.” His basso profundo voice rumbled.
“It’s not sleeping dogs we’re talking about,” Mim snapped.
Little Marilyn tugged at the ends of her white linen jacket and suppressed a smile.
“We’re all upset.” Herb smoothed the waters. “After all, every one of us here, with the exception of the two lovely young additions to our community”—he nodded toward Chris and Marcy—“has known Charlie since childhood. Yes, he was flawed, but is there anyone standing here who is perfect?”
A subdued quiet fell over the room.
“I’m perfect,” Pewter warbled as the humans looked at her.
“Oh la!” Mrs. Murphy laughed.
“Girls, this is serious.” The corgi frowned. “You know sooner or later the murderer will pop up and what if he pops up here?!”
“You’ve got a point,” Mrs. Murphy, stretching fore and aft, agreed.
“Doesn’t change the fact that I am perfect.”
“Harry, what do you feed them?” Chris lightheartedly said, which broke the tension in the room.
The chatter again filled the room but the acrimony level died down.
Herb leaned over to Harry. “What’s this letter business?”
“I’ll show you.” She walked back to the small table where she’d left three days’ worth of mail. She returned, handing it over the counter.
He read it. “Could mean a lot of things.”
“Exactly,” Harry agreed.
“But it is creepy,” BoomBoom intruded.
“Now it is, but we’re viewing it through the lens of Charlie’s death,” Herb sensibly replied.
Fair put one elbow on the counter divider. “I wouldn’t make too much of this unless something else happens—something, uh, dark.”
Chris joined in as Marcy was tongue-tied and uncomfortable. “I agree, but reunions are such loaded situations. All those memories.”
“My memories are pretty wonderful.” Fair winked at Harry, who blushed.
“You were the class ahead. Our memories might be different.” BoomBoom sighed.
“I thought you had a great time—a great senior year,” Harry said.
“I did.”
“Well, then, Boom, what are you talking about?”
Mrs. H., fearing another spat, left the Sanburnes and Marcy Wiggins to go back behind the divider. “Let me tell you about memory. It plays tricks on you. The further I get from my youth the better it looks and then some sharp memory will startle me, like stepping on a nail. It might be a fragrance or a ring around the moon at midnight, but then I remember the swirling emotions—the confusion—and you know, I’m quite glad to be old.”
“You’re not old,” Fair gallantly said.
Jim, overhearing, agreed. “We’re holding up pretty good, Miranda, and of course, my bride”—he smiled broadly—“is as beautiful as the day I married her.”
As the friends and neighbors applauded, Marcy slipped outside.
“Odd.” Tucker noticed as did Chris, who also walked outside.
“Marcy?” Mrs. Murphy knew her friend’s mind.
“Yes . . . such a little person with such a heavy burden.” The dog put her paws on the windowsill.
Jim checked his gold watch. “Me
eting at town hall.” He kissed Mim on the cheek. “Home for dinner.”
One by one the old friends left the post office.
“When’s the next shoot?” Harry asked BoomBoom as she slipped the key into her mailbox. She was beginning to regret her anger at the high-school shoot and she really regretted saying she’d outlive Charlie even though she loathed him.
Pawing Through the Past Page 6