Murder on the Prowl

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Where's the food?” Roger, hungry, inquired as he reached in for another dry towel.

  She announced, “Mr. Fletcher is in line! He hasn't seen me yet. I'll go as soon as he gets through the line.”

  “I'll starve by then,” Roger said.

  “He'll be cool.” Karen stuck her head in the door as Roger threw her a bottle of mag washer for aluminum hubcaps.

  “Maybe—but I don't want a lecture. I know I was wrong to hit Mr. McKinchie.” Her voice rose. “I've had about all the help I can stand. I was wrong. Okay. I apologized. Guess you don't want to see him either.” She pointed at Roger, who ignored her.

  “Well, he's past the Texaco station. You'd better hide under the desk,” Karen yelled. “Jeez, I think everyone in the world is here today.” She heard horns beeping out on Route 29. Irene Miller had pulled in behind Roscoe, then Naomi Fletcher in her blue Miata. BoomBoom Craycroft, car wafting fragrances, was just ahead of him.

  Roger waved up another car. He bent his tall frame in two as the driver rolled down the window. “What will it be?”

  “How about a wash only?”

  “Great. Put it in neutral and turn off your car radio.”

  The driver obeyed instructions while Karen and Brooks slopped the big brushes into the soapy water, working off the worst of the mud.

  “Hey, there's Father Michael.” Karen noticed the priest's black old-model Mercury. “You'd think the church would get him a better car.” She yelled so Jody, scrunched under the desk, could hear her.

  “It runs,” Brooks commented on the car.

  “How many are in the line now?” Roger wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm as Jimbo walked down to the intersection to direct drivers to form a double line. He needed to unclog the main north-south artery of Charlottesville.

  “Number twenty-two just pulled in,” Brooks replied.

  “Unreal.” Karen whistled.

  Roscoe rolled down his window, flooding the car wash with Mozart. He was three cars away from his turn.

  “You-all should learn your Mozart,” he called to them. “Greatest composer who ever lived.”

  His wife shouted from her car, “It's the weekend, Roscoe. You can't tell them what to do.”

  “Right!” Karen laughed, waving at Naomi.

  “I bet you listen to Melissa Etheridge and Sophie B. Hawkins,” Roscoe said as he offered her strawberry hard candy, which she refused.

  “Yeah.” Karen turned her attention to the car in front of her. “They're great. I like Billy Ray Cyrus and Reba McEntire, too.”

  Irene rolled her window down. “Where's Jody?”

  “She went to the deli to get our lunches, and I hope she hurries up!” Roger told a half-truth.

  “What about Bach?” Roscoe sang out, still on his music topic.

  “The Beatles,” Karen answered. “I mean, that's like rock Bach.”

  “No, Bill Haley and the Comets are like rock Bach,” Roscoe said as he sucked on the candy in his mouth. “Jerry Lee Lewis.”

  The kids took a deep breath and yelled and swung their hips in unison, “Elvis!”

  By the time Roscoe put his left tire into the groove, everyone was singing “Hound Dog,” which made him laugh. He noticed Jody peeking out of the office. The laughter, too much for her, had lured her from under the desk.

  He pointed his finger at her. “You ain't nothin' but a hound dog.”

  She laughed, but her smile disappeared when her mother yelled at her. “I thought you were at the deli.”

  “I'm on my way. We're backed up,” she said since she'd heard what Roger told her mother.

  “Mr. Fletcher, shut your window,” Karen advised as the station wagon lurched into the car wash.

  “Oh, right.” He hit the electric button, and the window slid shut with a hum.

  As the tail end of the Mercedes disappeared in a sheet of water, the yellow neon light flashed on and Karen waved Irene on. “He's so full of shit,” she said under her breath.

  BoomBoom hollered out her window, “Stress. Irene, this is too much stress. Come meet me at Ruby Tuesday's after the car wash.”

  “Okay,” Irene agreed. Her left tire was in the groove now. “I want the works.” Irene handed over fifteen dollars. Karen made change.

  Roger, at the button to engage the track, waited for Roscoe to finish. The light telling him to put through the next vehicle didn't come on. Minutes passed.

  “I'm in a hurry.” Irene tried to sound pleasant.

  “It's been like this all day, Mrs. Miller.” Karen smiled tightly.

  Brooks looked down the line. “Maybe Mr. Fletcher's out but the light didn't come on. I'll go see.”

  Brooks loped alongside the car wash, arriving at the end where the brown station wagon, nose out, squatted. The tail of the vehicle remained on the track. The little metal cleats in the track kept pushing the car.

  Brooks knocked on the window. Roscoe, sitting upright, eyes straight ahead, didn't reply.

  “Mr. Fletcher, you need to move out.”

  No reply. She knocked harder. Still no reply.

  “Mr. Fletcher, please drive out.” She waited, then opened the door. The first thing she noticed was that Mr. Fletcher had wet his pants, which shocked her. Then she realized he was dead.

  19

  It wasn't funny, but Rick Shaw wanted to laugh. Mozart blared through the speakers, and the car's rear end shone like diamonds after endless washings.

  Naomi Fletcher, in shock, had been taken home by an officer.

  Diana Robb, a paramedic with the rescue squad, patiently waited while Sheriff Shaw and Deputy Cooper painstakingly examined the car.

  Jimbo Anson turned off the water when Rick told him it was okay.

  Roget Davis directed traffic around the waiting line. He was relieved when a young officer pulled up in a squad car.

  “Don't go yet,” Tom Kline told Roger. “I'll need your help.”

  Obediently, Roger continued to direct traffic onto the Greenbrier side street. He wanted to comfort Brooks for the shock she had suffered, but that would have to wait.

  Rick said under his breath to Coop, “Ever tell you about the guy who died on the escalator over in Richmond? I was fresh out of school. This was my first call as a rookie. No one could get on or off until cleared, and the store didn't turn off the motor. People were running in place. Super aerobics. 'Course the stiff rolled right up to the step-off, where his hair caught in the steps. By the time I reached him, he was half scalped.”

  “Gross.” She knew that Rick wasn't unfeeling, but a law enforcement officer sees so much that a protective shell develops over emotions.

  “Let's have the boys take photos, bag the contents of the station wagon.” He reached in and, with his gloves on, snapped off the stereo. “Okay, we're done,” he called over his shoulder to Diana Robb and Cooper behind him.

  “Sheriff, what do you think?” the paramedic asked him.

  “Looks like a heart attack. He's the right age for it. I've learned over the years, though, to defer to the experts. Unless Mrs. Fletcher objects, we'll send the body to Bill Moscowitz—he's a good coroner.”

  “If you don't stop smoking those Chesterfields, I'll be picking you up one of these days.”

  “Ah, I've stopped smoking so many times.” He should have taken his pack out of his pocket and left it in the unmarked car; then she wouldn't have noticed. “Drop him at the morgue. I'll stop by Naomi's, so tell Bill to hold off until he hears from me.” He turned to Coop. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, Roscoe's obituary was in the paper, remember?”

  He rubbed his chin, the light chestnut stubble already appearing even though he'd shaved at six this morning. “We thought it was a joke.”

  “Boss, let's question a few people, starting with Sean Hallahan.”

  He folded his arms and leaned against the green unmarked car. “Let's wait—well, let me think about it. I don't want to jump the gun.”

  “Maury McK
inchie's obituary was stuffed in the paper as well.”

  “I know. I know.” He swept his eyes over the distressed Irene Miller and BoomBoom. Father Michael had administered the last rites. In the corner of his eye the lumpish figure of Jimbo Anson loomed. “I'd better talk to him before he runs to Dunkin' Donuts and eats another dozen jelly rolls.” Jimbo ate when distressed. He was distressed a lot.

  He half whispered, “Coop, take the basics from these folks, then let them go. I think BoomBoom is going to code on us.” He used the medic slang word for “die.”

  Rick straightened his shoulders and walked the thirty yards to Jimbo.

  “Sheriff, I don't know what to do. Nothing like this has ever happened to me. I just feel awful. Poor Naomi.”

  “Jimbo, death always upsets the applecart. Breathe deeply.” He clapped the man on the back. “That's better. Now you tell me what happened.”

  “He went through the car wash, well I mean, I didn't see him, the kids were up front, and when the car didn't roll off she, I mean Brooks, ran around to see if the pedal hadn't released on the belt and, well, Roscoe was gone.”

  “Did you see him at all?”

  “No, I mean, not until I came back with Brookie. Kid had some sense, I can tell you. She didn't scream or cry. She ran to my office, told me Roscoe was dead, and I followed her to there.” He pointed.

  “That's fine. I may be talking to you again, but it looks like a heart attack or stroke. These things happen.”

  “Business was great today.” A mournful note crept into his voice.

  “You'll be able to reopen before long. I'm going to impound the car, just routine, Jimbo. You won't have to worry about the vehicle being parked here.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff.”

  Rick clapped him on the back again and walked into the air-conditioned office—the day had turned unusually hot—where Brooks, Jody, and Karen sat. Cooper was already there.

  “Sheriff, we were establishing a time line.” Coop smiled at the three young women.

  “One thirty, about,” Brooks said.

  “Mr. Anson said you showed presence of mind,” Rick complimented Brooks.

  “I don't know. I feel so bad for Mr. Fletcher. He helped me get into St. Elizabeth's after the semester started.”

  “Well, I'm not the Reverend Jones but I do believe that Roscoe Fletcher is in a better place. Much as you'll miss him, try to think of that.”

  “Jody, did you notice anything?” Coop asked.

  “No. He said ‘hi' and that was it. Karen and Brooks scrubbed down his bumpers. I think Roger pressed the button to send him in.”

  “Where is Roger?” Rick said.

  “Directing traffic,” Karen replied.

  “Good man to have around.”

  This startled the two girls, who had never thought of Roger as anything other than a tall boy who was quiet even in kindergarten. Brooks was beginning to appreciate Roger's special qualities.

  “Was there anything unusual about Mr. Fletcher or anyone else today?”

  “No.” Karen twirled a golden hair around her fore-finger.

  “Girls, if anything comes to mind, call me.” He handed around his card.

  “Is something wrong, something other than the fact that Mr. Fletcher is dead?” Brooks inquired shrewdly.

  “No. This is routine.”

  “It's weird to be questioned.” Brooks was forthright.

  “I'm sorry you all lost Mr. Fletcher. I know it was a shock. I have to ask questions, though. I don't mean to further upset you. My job is to collect details, facts, like little pieces of a mosaic.”

  “We understand,” Karen said.

  “We're okay,” Brooks fibbed.

  “Okay then.” He rose and Coop also handed her card to the three girls.

  As she trudged across the blacktop to motion Roger from Greenbrier Drive, she marveled at the self-possession of the three high school girls. Usually, something like this sent teenage girls into a crying jag. As far as she could tell, not one tear had fallen, but then BoomBoom, never one to pass up the opportunity to emote, was crying enough for all of them.

  20

  Johnny Pop, the 1958 John Deere tractor, rolled through the meadow thick with goldenrod. Tucker pouted by a fallen walnut at the creek. Mrs. Murphy sat in Harry's lap. Tucker, a trifle too big and heavy, envied the tiger her lap status.

  As the tractor popped by, she turned and gazed into the creek. A pair of fishy eyes gazed right back. Startled, Tucker took a step back and barked, then sheepishly sat down again.

  The baking sun and two days of light winds had dried out the wet earth. Harry, determined to get in one more hay cutting before winter, fired up Johnny Pop the minute she thought she wouldn't get stuck. She couldn't hear anything, so Mrs. Hogendobber startled her when she walked out into the meadow.

  Tucker, intent on her bad mood, missed observing the black Falcon rumbling down the drive.

  Miranda waved her arms over her head. “Harry, stop!”

  Harry immediately flipped the lever to the left, cutting off the motor. “Miranda, what's the matter? What are you doing out here on gardening day?”

  “Roscoe Fletcher's dead—for real, this time.”

  “What happened?” Harry gasped.

  Mrs. Murphy listened. Tucker, upon hearing the subject, hurried over from the creek.

  Pewter was asleep in the house.

  “Died at the car wash. Heart attack or stroke. That's what Mim says.”

  “Was she there?”

  “No. I forgot to ask her how she found out. Rick Shaw told Jim Sanburne, most likely, and Jim told Mim.”

  “It's ironic.” Harry shuddered.

  “The obit?”

  Harry nodded. Mrs. Murphy disagreed. “It's not ironic. It's murder. Wait and see. Cat intuition.”

  21

  Sean Hallahan pushed a laundry cart along a hallway so polished it reflected his image.

  The double doors at the other end of the corridor swung open. Karen and Jody hurried toward him.

  “How'd you get in here?” he asked.

  Ignoring the question, Jody solemnly said, “Mr. Fletcher's dead. He died at the car wash.”

  “What?” Sean stopped the cart from rolling into them.

  Karen tossed her ponytail. “He went in and never came out.”

  “Went in what?” Sean appeared stricken, his face white.

  “The car wash,” Jody said impatiently. “He went in the car wash, but at the other end, he just sat. Looks like he died of a heart attack.”

  “Are you making this up?” He smiled feebly.

  “No. We were there. It was awful. Brooks Tucker found him.”

  “For real,” he whispered.

  “For real.” Jody put her arm around his waist. “No one's going to think anything. Really.”

  “If only I hadn't put that phony obituary in the paper.” He gulped.

  “Yeah,” the girls chimed in unison.

  “Wait until my dad hears about this. He's going to kill me.” He paused. “Who knows?”

  “Depends on who gets to the phone first, I guess.” Karen hadn't expected Sean to be this upset. She felt sorry for him.

  “We came here first before going home. We thought you should know before your dad picks you up.”

  “Thanks,” he replied, tears welling in his eyes.

  22

  Father Michael led the assembled upper and lower schools of St. Elizabeth's in a memorial service. Naomi Fletcher, wearing a veil, was supported by Sandy Brashiers with Florence Rubicon, the Latin teacher, on her left side. Ed Sugarman, the chemistry teacher, escorted a devastated April Shively.

  Many of the younger children cried because they were supposed to or because they saw older kids crying. In the upper school some of the girls carried on, whipping through boxes of tissues. A few of the boys were red-eyed as well, including, to everyone's surprise, Sean Hallahan, captain of the football team.

  Brooks reported all this to Susan, who
told Harry and Miranda when they joined her at home for lunch.

  “Well, he ate too much, he drank too much, and who knows what else he did—too much.” Susan summed up Roscoe's life.

  “How's Brooks handling it?” Harry inquired.

  “Okay. She knows people die; after all, she watched her grandma die by inches with cancer. In fact, she said, ‘When it's my time I want to go fast like Mr. Fletcher.'”

  “I don't remember thinking about dying at all at her age,” Harry wondered out loud.

  “You didn't think of anything much at her age,” Susan replied.

  “Thanks.”

  “Children think of death often; they are haunted by it because they can't understand it.” Miranda rested her elbows on the table to lean forward. “That's why they go to horror movies—it's a safe way to approach death, scary but safe.”

  Harry stared at Miranda's elbows on the table. “I never thought of that.”

  “I know I'm not supposed to have my elbows on the table, Harry, but I can't always be perfect.”

  Harry blinked. “It's not that at all—it's just that you usually are—perfect.”

  “Aren't you sweet.”

  “Harry puts her feet on the table, she's so imperfect.”

  “Susan, I do not.”

  “You know what was rather odd, though?” Susan reached for the sugar bowl. “Brooks told me Jody said she was glad Roscoe was dead. That she didn't like him anyway. Now that's a bit extreme even for a teenager.”

  “Yeah, but Jody's been extreme lately.” Harry got up when the phone rang. Force of habit.

  “Sit down. I'll answer it.” Susan walked over to the counter and lifted the receiver.

  “Yes. Of course, I understand. Marilyn, it could have an impact on your fund-raising campaign. I do suggest that you appoint an interim headmaster immediately.” Susan paused and held the phone away from her ear so the others could hear Little Mim's voice. Then she spoke again. “Sandy Brashiers. Who else? No, no, and no,” she said after listening to three questions. “Do you want me to call anyone? Don't fret, doesn't solve a thing.”

  “She'll turn into her mother,” Miranda predicted as Susan hung up the receiver.