Over the last years of working together she and Rick had grown close. As he was a happily married man, not a hint of impropriety tainted their relationship. She relied on his friendship, hard won because when she joined the force as the first woman Rick was less than thrilled.
The one man she truly liked, Blair Bainbridge, set many hearts on fire. She felt she didn't have a chance.
Rick liked to work from flow charts. He'd started three, ultimately throwing out each of them.
“What time is it?”
“Five thirty.”
“It's always darkest before the dawn.” Rick quoted the old saw. He swung his feet onto his desktop. “I hate to admit that I'm stumped, but I am.”
“We've got Kendrick Miller in custody.”
“Not for long. He'll get a big-money lawyer, and that will be that. And it had occurred to me that Kendrick isn't the kind of man to get caught committing a murder. Standing over a writhing victim doesn't compute.”
“Could have lost his head.” She emptied her cup. She couldn't face another swig of coffee. “But you're not buying, are you?”
“No.” He paused. “We deal in the facts. The facts are, he had a bloody sword in his hand.”
“And there were two other partyers wearing swords. One of whom vanished into thin air.”
“Or knew where to hide.”
“Not one kid there knew who the Musketeer was or had heard him speak.” Cooper leaned against the small sink in the corner of the old room. She held her fingers to her temples, which throbbed. “Boss, let's back up. Let's start with Roscoe Fletcher.”
“I'm listening.”
“Sandy Brashiers coveted Roscoe's job. They never saw eye to eye.”
He held up his hand. “Granted, but killing to become headmaster of St. Elizabeth's—is the game worth the candle?”
“People have killed for less.”
“You're right. You're right.” He folded his hands over his chest and made a mental note to dig into Sandy's past.
“Anyone could have poisoned Roscoe. He left his car unlocked, his office unlocked. It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to put a hard candy drenched in poison in his car or in his pocket or to hand it to him. Anyone could do it.”
“Who would want to do it, though?” She put her hands behind her head. “Not one trace of poison was found in the tin of strawberry hard candies in his car. And the way he handed out candy, half the county would be dead. So we know the killer had a conscience, sort of.”
“That's a quaint way of looking at it.”
“I have a hunch Roscoe was sleeping with Irene Miller.” Cynthia shook her feet, which were falling asleep in her regulation shoes. “That would be a motive for the first murder.”
“We have no proof that he was carrying on an extramarital affair.”
Cynthia smirked. “This is Albemarle County.”
Rick half laughed, then stood up to stretch. “Everyone's got secrets, Coop. The longer I work this show, the more I realize that every single person harbors secrets.”
“What about that money in the Jiffy bag?” Cynthia said.
“Too many prints on the bag and not a single one on the money.” Rick sighed. “I am flat running into walls. The obvious conclusion is drug money, but we haven't got one scrap of evidence.”
Cynthia shot a rubber band in the air. It landed with a flop on Rick's desk. “These murders are tied together, I'll bet my badge on that, but what I can't figure out is what an expensive school like St. Elizabeth's has to do with it. All roads lead back to that school.”
“Roscoe's murder was premeditated. Maury's was not—or so it appears. Kendrick Miller has a tie to St. Elizabeth's, but—” He shrugged.
“But”—Cooper shot another rubber band straight in the air—“while we're just postulating—”
“Postulating? I'm pissing in the wind.”
“You do that.” She caught the rubber band as it fell back. “Listen to me. St. Elizabeth's is the tie. What if Fletcher and McKinchie were filching alumni contributions?”
“Kendrick Miller isn't going to kill over alumni misappropriations.” He batted down her line of thought.
The phone rang. The on-duty operator, Joyce Thomson, picked it up.
Cynthia said, “I've always wanted to pick up the phone and say, ‘Cops and Robbers.'”
Rick's line buzzed. He punched in the button so Cynthia could listen. “Yo.”
“Sheriff,” Joyce Thomson said, “it's John Aurieano. Mrs. Berryhill's cows are on his land, and he's going to shoot them if you don't remove them.”
Rick punched the line and listened to the torrent of outrage. “Mrs. Berryhill's a small woman, Mr. Aurieano. She can't round up her cattle without help, and it will take me hours to send someone over to help. We're shorthanded.”
More explosions.
“Tell you what, I'll send someone to move them, but let me give you some friendly advice. . . . This is the country. Cows are part of the country, and I'll let you in on something quite shocking—they can't read ‘No Trespassing' signs. You shoot the cows, Mr. Aurieano, and you're going to be in a lot more trouble than you can imagine. If you don't like the way things are, then move back to the city!” He put the phone down. “You know, there are days when this job is a real pain in the ass.”
40
A subdued congregation received early-morning mass. Jody Miller and her mother, Irene, sat in a middle pew. The entire Hallahan family occupied a pew on the left. Samson Coles made a point of sitting beside Jody. Lucinda squeezed next to Irene. Whatever Kendrick Miller may or may not have done, the opprobrium shouldn't attach to his wife and child.
Still, parishioners couldn't help staring.
Rick and Cooper knelt in the back row. Rick's head bobbed as he started to drift off, and his forehead touched his hand. He jerked his head up. “Sorry,” he whispered.
He and Cynthia waited in the vestibule while people shuffled out after the service. Curious looks passed among the churchgoers as everyone watched to see if the police would stop Irene. She and Jody passed Rick without looking right or left. The Hallahans nodded a greeting but kept moving.
Finally, disappointed, the rest of the congregation walked into the brisk air, started their cars, and drove away.
Rick checked his watch, then knocked on the door at the left of the vestibule.
“Who's there?” Father Michael called out, hearing the knock.
“Rick Shaw and Deputy Cooper.”
Father Michael, wearing his robe and surplice, opened the door. “Come in, Sheriff, Deputy.”
“I don't mean to disturb you on Sunday. I have a few quick questions, Father.”
He motioned. “Come in. Sit down for a minute.”
“Thanks.” They stepped inside, collapsing on the old leather sofa. “We're beat. No sleep.”
“I didn't sleep much myself. . . .”
“Have you been threatened, Father?” Rick's voice cracked from fatigue.
“No.”
“In your capacity as chaplain to St. Elizabeth's, have you noticed anything unusual, say, within the faculty? Arguments with Roscoe? Problems with the alumni committee?”
Father Michael paused a long time, his narrow but attractive face solemn. “Roscoe and Sandy Brashiers were inclined to go at it. Nothing that intense, though. They never learned to agree to disagree, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do.” Rick nodded. “Apart from the inviolate nature of the confessional, do you know or have you heard of any sexual improprieties involving Roscoe?”
“Uh—” The middle-aged man paused a long time again. “There was talk. But that's part and parcel of a small community.”
“Any names mentioned?” Cynthia said. “Like Irene Miller, maybe?”
“No.”
“What about Sandy Brashiers and Naomi Fletcher?”
“I'd heard that one. The version goes something like, Naomi tires of Roscoe's infidelities and enlists his enemy, or shall we say riva
l, to dispose of him.”
Rick stood up. “Father, thank you for your time. If anything occurs to you or you want to talk, call me or Coop.”
“Sheriff”—Father Michael weighed his words—“am I in danger?”
“I hope not,” Rick answered honestly.
41
April Shively was arrested Monday morning at the school. She was charged with obstructing justice since she had consistently refused to hand over the school records, first to Sandy, then to the police. As she and Roscoe had worked hand in glove, not even Naomi knew how much April had removed and hidden.
Sandy Brashiers wasted no time in terminating her employment. On her way out of the school, April turned and slapped his face. Cynthia Cooper hustled her to the squad car.
St. Elizabeth's, deserted save for faculty, stood forlorn in the strong early November winds. Sandy and Naomi convened an emergency meeting of faculty and interested parties. Neither could answer the most important question: What was happening at St. Elizabeth's?
The Reverend Herbert C. Jones received an infuriating phone call from Darla McKinchie. No, she would not be returning to Albemarle County for a funeral service. She would be shipping her late husband's body to Los Angeles immediately. Would the Reverend please handle the arrangements with Dale and Delaney Funeral Home? She would make a handsome contribution to the church. Naturally, he agreed, but was upset by her high-handed manner and the fact that she cared so little for Maury's local friends, but then again, she seemed to care little for Maury himself.
Blue Monday yielded surprises every hour on the hour, it seemed. Jody Miller learned that yes, she was pregnant. She begged Dr. Larry Johnson not to call her mother. He wouldn't agree since she was under twenty-one, so she pitched a hissy fit right there in the examining room. Hayden McIntire, the doctor's much younger partner, and two nurses rushed in to restrain Jody.
The odd thing was that when Irene Miller arrived it was she who cried, not Jody. The shame of an out-of-wedlock pregnancy cut Irene to the core. She was fragile enough, thanks to the tensions inside her house and now outside it as well. As for Jody, she had no shame about her condition, she simply didn't want to be pregnant. Larry advised mother and daughter to have a heart-to-heart but not in his examining room.
At twelve noon Kendrick Miller was released on $250,000 bail into the custody of his lawyer, Ned Tucker. At one in the afternoon, he told his divorce lawyer not to serve papers on Irene. She didn't need that crisis on top of this one, he said. What he really wanted was for Irene to stand beside him, but Kendrick being Kendrick, he had to make it sound as though he were doing his wife a big favor.
At two thirty he blasted Sandy Brashiers on the phone and said he was taking his daughter out of that sorry excuse for a school until things got straightened out over there. By three thirty the situation was so volatile that Kendrick picked up the phone and asked Father Michael for help. For him to admit he needed help was a step in the right direction.
By four forty-five the last surprise of the day occurred when BoomBoom Craycroft lost control of her shiny brand-new 7 series BMW. She had roared up the alleyway behind the post office where she spun in a 360-degree turn, smashing into Harry's blue Ford.
Hearing the crash, the animals rushed out of the post office. BoomBoom, without a scratch herself, opened the door to her metallic green machine, put one foot on the ground, and started to wail.
“Is she hurt?” Tucker ran over.
Mrs. Murphy, moving at a possum trot, declared, “Her essences are shaken.”
In the collision the plastic case in which BoomBoom kept her potions slammed up against the dash, cracking and spilling out a concoction of rose, sage, and comfrey.
Harry opened the backdoor. “Oh, no!”
“I couldn't help it! My heel got stuck in the mat.” BoomBoom wept.
Mrs. Hogendobber stuck her head out the door. Her body immediately followed. “Are you all right?”
“My neck hurts.”
“Do you want me to call the rescue squad?” Harry asked, dubious but giving BoomBoom the benefit of the doubt.
“No. I'll go over to Larry's. It's probably whiplash.” She viewed the caved-in side of the truck. “I'm insured, Harry, don't worry.”
Harry sighed. Her poor truck. Tucker ran underneath to inspect the frame, which was undamaged. The BMW had suffered one little dent in the right fender.
Pewter, moving at a slower pace, walked around the truck. “We can still drive home in it. It's only the side that's bashed in.”
“I'll call the sheriff's department.” Miranda, satisfied that BoomBoom was fine, walked back into the post office.
Market Shiflett opened his backdoor. “I thought I heard something.” He surveyed the situation.
Before he could speak, BoomBoom said, “No bones broken.”
“Good.” He heard the front door ring and ducked back into his store.
“Come inside.” Harry helped her former rival out of the car. “It's cold out here.”
“My heel stuck in that brand-new mat I bought.” She pointed to a fuzzy mat with the BMW logo on it.
“BoomBoom, why wear high heels to run your errands?”
“Oh—well—” Her hand fluttered.
“Where have you been? You always come down to pick up your mail.”
“I've been under the weather. These murders upset me.”
Once inside, Mrs. Hogendobber brewed a strong cup of tea while they waited for someone to appear from the sheriff's department.
“I think it's dreadful that Darla McKinchie, that self-centered nothing of an actress, isn't having the service here.” BoomBoom, revived by the tea, told them about Herb's phone call. She'd seen Herbie Jones at the florist.
“That is pretty cold-blooded.” Harry bent down to tie her shoelaces. Mrs. Murphy helped.
“Someone should sponsor a service here.”
“That would be lovely, BoomBoom, why don't you do it?” Miranda smiled, knowing she'd told BoomBoom to do what she wanted to do anyway.
After the officer left, having asked questions about the accident and taken pictures, the insurance agent showed up and did the same. Then he was gone, and finally BoomBoom herself left, which greatly relieved Harry, who strained to be civil to a woman she disliked. BoomBoom said she was too rattled to drive her car, so Lucinda Coles picked her up. BoomBoom left her car at the post office, keys in the ignition.
42
“April, cooperate, for Christ's sake.” Cooper, exasperated, rapped her knuckles on the table.
“No, I'll stay here and live off the county for a while. My taxes paid for this jail.” She pushed back a stray forelock.
“Removing documents pertinent to the murder of Roscoe Fletcher—”
April interrupted. “But they're not! They're pertinent to the operations of St. Elizabeth's, and that's none of your business.”
Cooper slapped her hand hard on the table. “Embezzlement is my business!”
April, not one to be shaken by an accusation, pursed her lips. “Prove it.”
Cynthia stretched her long legs, took a deep breath, counted to ten, and started anew. “You have an important place in this community. Don't throw it away to protect a dead man.”
Folding her arms across her chest, April withdrew into hostile silence.
Cooper did likewise.
Twenty minutes later April piped up, “You can't prove I had an affair with him either. That's what everyone thinks. Don't give me this baloney about having an important place in the community.”
“But you do. You're important to St. Elizabeth's.”
April leaned forward, both elbows on the table. “I'm a secretary. That's nothing”—she made a gesture of dismissal with her hand—“to people around here. But I'm a damned good secretary.”
“I'm sure you are.”
“And”—she lurched forward a bit more—“Sandy Brashiers will ruin everything we worked for, I guarantee it. That man lives in a dream world, and he's sneak
y. Well, he may be temporary headmaster, but headmaster of what! No one was at school today.”
“You were.”
“That's my job. Besides, no one is going to kill me—I'm too low on the totem pole.”
“If you know why Roscoe was killed, they might.”
“I don't know.”
“If you did, would you tell me?”
A brief silence followed this question as a clap of thunder follows lightning.
Looking Cynthia square in the eye, April answered resolutely. “Yes. And I'll tell you something else. Roscoe had something on Sandy Brashiers. He never told me what it was, but it helped him keep Sandy in line.”
“Any ideas—any ideas at all?”
“No.” She gulped air. “I wish I knew. I really do.”
43
Kendrick stared at Jody's red BMW as she exploded. “No! I paid for it with Grandpa K's money. He left the money to me, not you.”
“He left it to pay for college, and you promised to keep it in savings.” His face reddened.
Irene, attempting to defuse a full-scale blowup, stepped in. “We're all tired. Let's discuss this tomorrow.” She knew perfectly well this was not the time to bring up the much larger issue of Jody's pregnancy.
“Stop protecting her,” Kendrick ordered.
“You know, Dad, we're not employees. You can't order us around.”
He slammed the side door of the kitchen, returning inside with the BMW keys in his hand. He dangled them under his daughter's nose. “You're not going anywhere.”
She shrugged since she'd stashed away the second set of keys.
Kendrick calmed down for a moment. “Did you pick the car up today?”
“Uh—”
“No, she's had it for a few days.”
“Three days.”
Murder on the Prowl Page 15