Pawing Through the Past

by Rita Mae Brown

  “One other thing, I ought to check the school. I know you and Susan cleaned up last night but I am the Chair, and I should double-check everything.”

  “Well, go on.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Great. Why come to me?”

  “Because Susan is at church with Ned and the kids and because—you’re not afraid of much.”

  Within ten minutes Harry, Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Tucker, BoomBoom, and Fair reached Crozet High.

  The front main entrance was open because of the class of 1950’s breakfast, the last scheduled event. The first place they checked was the gym, which was locked. BoomBoom had a set of keys. She unlocked the door. They looked around quickly. Everything was fine.

  “I’m going back upstairs,” Tucker said. “Maybe I missed something in the dark.”

  “I can see in the dark. I didn’t see anything,” Pewter said.

  “There was a lot going on.” Tucker headed up the stairs.

  Pewter followed. Mrs. Murphy stayed with Harry as the humans checked the hallways and garbage cans.

  “You all cleaned up everything. I don’t have anything to do,” BoomBoom said gratefully.

  “Murphy!” Pewter howled from the top of the stairs.

  Murphy hurried up the stairs, met Pewter and raced with her as she flew over the polished floor to the classroom next to the back stairwell.

  Tucker sat in the classroom. The window was open. The blinds, pulled all the way to the top, had the white cord, beige with age, hanging out the window. That wasn’t all that was hanging out the window.

  Mrs. Murphy jumped to the windowsill. Bob Shoaf, tongue almost touching his breastbone, hung at the end of the venetian blind cord.

  “Should I get Mom?” Pewter asked.

  “Not yet.” Mrs. Murphy coolly surveyed the situation. “The humans will track up everything. Let’s investigate first.” She asked the dog, “Anything?”

  “English Leather fading—and Dennis’s scent.”

  Pewter jumped up next to Mrs. Murphy. “His face is—I can’t describe the color.”

  “Don’t worry about him.” Murphy noted that the end classroom jutted out by the stairwell. The windows in a row could be seen from the road out front but the back window, set at a right angle to the others, was hidden from view. Bob probably wouldn’t have been found until sometime Monday if they hadn’t come upstairs. The frost preserved the body but even without a frost the humans wouldn’t have smelled him for twenty-four to forty-eight hours, depending on the warmth of the day. She also noticed that rigor had set in. Nothing lay on the ground below.

  The three animals prowled around the classroom. They walked the windowsills, checked under desks, sniffed and poked. Then they split up. Mrs. Murphy walked to the far stairwell. Tucker and Pewter checked the stairwell closest to the classroom.

  They met in the downstairs hallway. No one had found anything unusual.

  “Do you think the killer would have done this to Mom?” Tucker asked.

  “No. But I think he would have killed her if she’d gotten too close. I know he would. But he wasn’t hanging when she was attacked. Whoever did this in the wee hours of the morning hauled him back here. That’s a lot of work.” Mrs. Murphy spied the humans coming out of the cafeteria, each one eating a muffin from the class of 1950’s breakfast.

  “They’ll wish they hadn’t eaten,” Pewter sighed.

  “Well, let’s get them upstairs.” Tucker thought she’d pull on Fair’s pants leg.

  “BoomBoom is going to have a terrible time explaining that watch.” Murphy headed toward the group.

  * * *

  * * *

  49

  All hell broke loose. The media from all over Virginia, Washington, and even Baltimore played up the murders. The attention was fueled by the fact that Rex and Bob had been killed on a weekend when news was especially slow and Bob had been a big sports celebrity.

  Crozet, overrun by vans adorned with satellite dishes, pulled tight the shutters on the windows. Few chose to talk but among themselves the agreement was that the media was correct in dubbing these events the Reunion Murders.

  The reporters waited outside the various churches, trying to nab the faithful as they emerged from late-morning services.

  Public buildings were closed. The reporters were out of luck there but they hit up the convenience stores, including Market Shiflett’s. The reporter from Channel 29, having done her homework, knew that Market was a member of the class under siege. Being quite pretty, she managed to extract a comment from him, which was played on the news relentlessly.

  “The big cities have lots of nutcases. Guess it was Crozet’s turn,” Market said, looking into the camera from behind the cash register of the store.

  Since few other quotes were available, Market made the airwaves up and down the Mid-Atlantic.

  Mim Sanburne called a meeting at her house. Invited were those she considered the movers and shakers of the town. Harry and Miranda, part of the inner circle by virtue of birth and their jobs, sat with Herb Jones, Jim Sanburne, Larry Johnson, and Mim, discussing how to divert the bad publicity.

  “That problem would be solved if we could apprehend the criminal,” Harry, out of sorts, whispered, her voice still rough.

  The older people quieted, each realizing that not being members of the class of 1980, they felt safe.

  “You’re quite right.” Mim smoothed her hair.

  * * *

  50

  Dennis Rablan was nowhere to be found. Rick Shaw scoured the photo shop and Rablan’s house, called his parents and his friends. No one had seen or heard from him—at least, that’s what they told Rick and Cynthia. He had stationed patrol cars at Dennis’s home, his parents’ home, and his ex-wife’s home.

  Standing next to the coroner, Rick hoped Dennis would open the doors to his business on Monday morning. He was sure Dennis knew something that he wasn’t telling—assuming he was alive.

  “This man died from a bullet to the brain. Apart from broken fingers, smashed knees, and both sides of his collarbone broken—the results of twelve years of pro football—this was a man in good health.” The coroner shook his head. “I’d like to take every high-school football hero and show them what happens to people who continue to play this game throughout college and the pros. They get money and maybe fame but that’s all they get.”

  “How long was he dead before he was found this morning?”

  “I’d say the time of death occurred about four in the morning. You examined the site, of course.”

  “No sign of struggle.” Rick hoped the embalmer at the fu-neral home would be able to get the dark color from Bob’s face and he asked the coroner if that was possible.

  “Usually. Once the blood drains out it will drain from the face, too, but I’m a coroner, not a funeral director.” He smiled, perfectly at home with dead bodies. “If that doesn’t work, I’d suggest a closed casket. There’s the problem of the deep crease in the neck but if he staples the collar to the skin at the back of the neck it should stay up and not distress the family. I remember Bob’s glory days at Crozet High.” He peered over his half-moon glasses. “And beyond.”

  “Me, too.” Cynthia finally spoke. Autopsies put her considerable composure to the test.

  “Those days are over now,” Rick simply stated. “Funny how an entire life reduces to that final moment. Bob probably thought he could get out of it, whatever or whoever. Self-confidence was never his problem.”

  “Same M.O.?” The coroner pulled the sheet up over Bob’s discolored face.

  “Yes. More than likely he wasn’t shot at the school. His body was carried to the high school and up the steps. He’s no feather either.”

  “One hundred and eighty-eight pounds, a good weight for a cornerback. Your killer will have sore legs unless he’s a weight lifter.”

  When Rick and Cynthia drove away, Cynthia said, “Harry, Boom, and Fair certainly had a shock. They didn’t know he’d been shot betw
een the eyes until we hauled up the body. There’s that moment when you see the corpse, the physical damage—it never leaves you.”

  “I was surprised that BoomBoom didn’t swoon. She rarely misses an opportunity to give vent to her innermost feelings,” Rick wryly commented.

  “Remarkably restrained.” Cynthia sighed. “Considering she’d slept with the man not six or seven hours before that.”

  “We’ve got her statement. She didn’t waffle. I give her credit.” Rick headed back toward the department, then turned toward Crozet.

  “School?”

  “No. BoomBoom’s.”

  They pulled into the driveway of the beautiful white brick home. BoomBoom’s deceased husband had made a lot of money in the gravel and concrete business, a business she still owned although she did not attend to day-to-day operations. Flakey as Boom could be, she could read an accounting report with the best of them, and she made a point of dropping in at the quarry once or twice a week. She intended to profit handsomely from the building boom in Albemarle County.

  A Toyota Camry was parked next to her BMW.

  If anything, BoomBoom seemed relieved to see them again. Her eyes, red from crying, were anxious.

  Chris Sharpton and Bitsy Valenzuela rose when Rick and Cynthia walked into the lavish living room.

  “Should we leave?”

  “Not yet,” Rick said.

  Boom offered refreshments, which they declined.

  “Ladies, what are you doing here?” the sheriff asked.

  “I called them,” Boom said.

  “That’s fine but I didn’t ask you.” Rick smiled, as he’d known Olivia Ulrich Craycroft since she was tiny, and no offense was taken on her part.

  “Like she said, she called me, she was crying and I drove over,” Chris said. “I’m afraid I haven’t been much comfort. I told her to take a vacation. In fact, everyone from her class should take a vacation.”

  “She called me, too.” Bitsy confirmed BoomBoom’s statement. “I asked E.R. if I could come over. He’s worried about all this but he relented since Chris and I were driving over to-gether.”

  “The victims are men.” Cynthia leaned forward as Rick settled into his chair. “BoomBoom doesn’t appear to be in danger.”

  “I’d hate to be the exception that proves the rule,” BoomBoom said.

  Rick waited, resting his head on his hand.

  First she sat still, then she fidgeted. Finally she spoke. “I know you think I know something, sheriff, but I don’t.” Suddenly she got up and walked upstairs to her bedroom, returning with Bob’s gold Rolex watch. She dropped it into Rick’s upturned hand. “I didn’t steal it. He left it here last night. Can you return it to his widow? I mean, you don’t have to tell. Why should she know?”

  “Fine.” Rick slipped the heavy watch in his pocket.

  “Were you two together in high school?” Cynthia asked.

  “No. We just looked at one another at the supper and there it was. People told me these things happen at reunions but it wasn’t a case of some old wish being fulfilled.”

  “Who did you date in high school? Any of the deceased?”

  “Coop, I told you all this. No. My senior year I dated college guys mostly. The dances, let’s see, I went with Bittner if my boyfriend at the time couldn’t come.”

  “And where is this boyfriend?” Cynthia scribbled.

  “A vice president at Coca-Cola in Atlanta. I think he’ll be president someday. As you know, I married a hometown boy, although he was eight years older than I.”

  “Chris, sometimes outsiders can see more than insiders. What do you think?” Cynthia asked the blonde woman, who had been listening intently.

  “That I’m glad I’m not part of this.” She nervously glanced at BoomBoom. “Even if you are a woman and therefore probably safe, I’d be frightened.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual when you worked on the reunion?” Coop turned to Bitsy.

  “Uh . . . well, they picked on one another. No one held much back.” She smiled nervously. “But there wasn’t enough hostility for murder.”

  “Did anyone ever discuss Charlie’s illegitimate child from high school?”

  Bitsy replied, “Not until Dennis lost his composure.”

  Chris looked Cynthia straight in the eye. “No. I didn’t hear about that until later.”

  “You know that Dennis Rablan accused me of having Charlie’s baby, but I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.” BoomBoom frowned.

  “But you know who did?” Rick quietly cornered her.

  Boom’s face turned red, then the color washed right out. “Oh God, I swore never to tell.”

  “You couldn’t have foreseen this, and the information might have a bearing on the case.” Rick remained calm and quiet.

  Agitated, BoomBoom jumped from her chair. “No! I won’t tell. She wouldn’t have killed Charlie. She wouldn’t. As for Leo and the others: Why? What could the motive possibly be? It makes no sense. I don’t care what happened back then, if anything did happen. The murders make no sense.”

  “That’s our job. To find out.” Coop was now perched on the edge of her seat. “What may seem like no connection to you . . . well, there could be all kinds of reasons.”

  “But I thought these murders sprang from the supposed rape of Ron Brindell.” Boom paced back and forth. “Isn’t that what everyone’s saying?”

  “That’s just it. No one admits to being there. Market Shiflett heard about it at school. Bittner says he wasn’t there and the same for Dennis Rablan.”

  “What do you think?” BoomBoom asked Cynthia.

  “It’s not my job to point the finger until I have sufficient evidence. Right now what I think is immaterial.”

  “It’s not immaterial to me.” BoomBoom pouted, pacing faster. “You’re asking me to betray a lifelong trust and I know in my heart that this woman has nothing to do with these awful murders.” She sat down abruptly. “I know what you all think of me. You think I’m a dilettante. I have, as Mrs. Hogendobber so politely puts it, ‘enthusiasms.’ I sleep with men when I feel like it. That makes me a tramp, to some. I guess to most. You all think I take a new lover every night. I don’t, of course. You think I’m overemotional, oversexed, and underpowered.” She tapped her skull. “Think what you will, I still have honor. I refuse to tell.”

  “This could get you in a lot of trouble,” Rick softly replied.

  “Trouble on the outside, not trouble on the inside.” She pointed to her heart.

  * * *

  51

  Rick had been on the phone for fifteen minutes. On a hunch he had Cynthia call the San Francisco Police Department.

  He decided he wanted to talk to the officers on the scene that night. Luckily, Tony Minton, now a captain, remembered the case.

  “—you’re sure the note was his handwriting?”

  Captain Minton replied, “Yes. We searched his apartment after the suicide and the handwriting was his. Our graphologist confirmed.”

  “Enough is enough.” Rick quoted Ron’s suicide note.

  “That was it.”

  “There were three reliable witnesses.”

  “And others who didn’t stop. They reported a young man climbing on the Golden Gate Bridge, waving good-bye and leaping. We never found the body.”

  “And the witnesses could describe the victim?”

  “Medium height. Thin build. Young. Dark hair.”

  “Yes.” Rick covered his eyes with his palm for a moment. “Did he have a police record?”

  “No.”

  “Captain Minton, thank you for going over this again. If you think of anything at all, please call me.”

  “I will.”

  Rick hung up the phone. He stood up, clapped his hat on his head, crooked his finger at Cynthia, who was again studying lab reports. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Silently, she followed him. Within twenty minutes they were at Dede Rablan’s front door.

  She answered the door and allowe
d them to come inside. She then sent the two children, aged eight and ten, to their rooms and asked them not to interrupt them.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you again, Mrs. Rablan.”

  “Sheriff, I want an answer to this as well as you do. Dennis wouldn’t kill anyone. I know him.”