Murder on the Prowl

by Rita Mae Brown

  Irene didn't know how long Jody had had the car, but that was hardly a major worry. She'd become accustomed to her daughter's lying to her. Other parents said their children did the same, especially in the adolescent years, but Irene still felt uneasy about it. Getting used to something didn't mean one liked it.

  “If you've had this car three days, where was it?”

  “I lent it to a friend.”

  “Don't lie to me!” The veins stood out in Kendrick's neck.

  “Isn't it a little late to try and be a dad now?” she mumbled.

  He backhanded her across the face hard. Tears sprang into her eyes. “The car goes back!”

  “No way.”

  He hit her again.

  “Kendrick, please!”

  “Stay out of this.”

  “She's my daughter, too. She's made a foolish purchase, but that's how we learn, by making foolish mistakes,” Irene pleaded.

  “Where did you hide the car?” Kendrick bellowed.

  “You can beat me to a pulp. I'll never tell you.”

  He raised his hand again. Irene hung on to it as Jody ducked. He threw his wife onto the floor.

  “Go to your room.”

  Jody instantly scurried to her room.

  Kendrick checked his watch. “It's too late to take the car back now. You can follow me over tomorrow.”

  Irene scrambled to her feet. “She'll lose a lot of money, won't she?”

  “Twenty-one percent.” He turned from Irene's slightly bedraggled form to walk into the kitchen, where he turned on the television to watch CNN.

  He forgot or didn't care that Jody had a telephone in her room, which she used the second she shut her door.

  “Hello, is Sean there?”

  Moments later Sean picked up the phone.

  “It's Jody.”

  “Oh, hi.” He was wary.

  “I just found out today that I'm pregnant.”

  A gasp followed. “What are you going to do?”

  “Tell everyone it was you.”

  “You can't do that!”

  “Why not? You didn't find me that repulsive this summer.”

  A flash of anger hit him. “How do you know it was me?”

  “You asshole!” She slammed down the receiver.

  A shaken, lonely Sean Hallahan put the receiver back on the cradle.

  44

  The front-office staff at Crozet High, frazzled by parental requests to accept transfers from St. Elizabeth's, stopped answering the phone. The line in the hall took precedence.

  The middle school and grammar school suffered the same influx.

  Sandy Brashiers took out an ad in the newspaper. He had had the presence of mind to place the full-page ad the moment Maury was killed. Given lag time, it ran today.

  The ad stated that the board of directors and temporary headmaster regretted the recent incidents at St. Elizabeth's, but these involved adults, not students.

  He invited parents to come to his office at Old Main Building or to visit him at home . . . and he begged parents not to pull their children out of the school.

  A few parents read the ad as they stood in line.

  Meanwhile, the St. Elizabeth's students were thoroughly enjoying their unscheduled vacation.

  Karen Jensen had called Coach Hallvard asking that the hockey team be allowed to practice with Crozet High in the afternoon until things straightened out.

  Roger Davis used the time to work at the car wash. Jody said she needed money, so she was there, too.

  Karen borrowed her daddy's car, more reliable than her own old Volvo, and took Brooks with her to see Mary Baldwin College in Staunton. She was considering applying there but wanted to see it without her mom and dad.

  The college was only thirty-five miles from Crozet.

  “I'd rather finish out at St. Elizabeth's than go to Crozet High.” Karen cruised along, the old station wagon swaying on the highway. “Transferring now could mess up my grade-point average, and besides, we're not the ones in danger. So I'd just as soon go back.”

  “My parents are having a fit.” Brooks sighed and looked out the window as they rolled west down Waynesboro's Main Street.

  “Everybody's are. Major weird. BoomBoom Craycroft said it's karma.”

  “Karma is celestial recycling,” Brooks cracked.

  “Three points.”

  “I thought so, too.” She smiled. “It is bizarre. Do you think the killer is someone at St. Elizabeth's?”

  “Sean.” Karen giggled.

  “Hey, some people really think he did kill Mr. Fletcher. And everyone thinks Mr. Miller skewered Mr. McKinchie. He just got out of jail because he's rich. He was standing over him, sword in hand.”

  Brooks stared at the sumac, reddening, by the side of the road as they passed the outskirts of Waynesboro. “Did you hear April Shively's in jail? Maybe she did it.”

  “Women don't kill,” Karen said.

  “Of course they do.”

  “Not like men. Ninety-five percent of all murders are committed by men, so the odds are it's a man.”

  “Karen, women are smarter. They don't get caught.”

  They both laughed as they rolled into Staunton on Route 250.

  45

  November can be a tricky month. Delightful warm interludes cast a soft golden glow on tree limbs, a few still sporting colorful leaves. The temperature hovers in the high fifties or low sixties for a few glorious days, then cold air knifes in, a potent reminder that winter truly is around the corner.

  This was one of those coppery, warm days, and Harry sat out back of the post office eating a ham sandwich. Sitting in a semicircle at her feet, rapturous in their attentions, were Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker.

  Mrs. Hogendobber stuck her head out the backdoor. “Take your time with lunch. Nothing much is going on.”

  Harry swallowed so she wouldn't be talking with her mouth full. “It's a perfect, perfect day. Push the door open and sit out here with me.”

  “Bring a sandwich,” Pewter requested.

  “Later. I am determined to reorganize the back shelves. Looks like a storm hit them.”

  “Save it for a rainy day. Come on,” Harry cajoled.

  “Well, it is awfully pretty, isn't it?” She disappeared quickly, returning with a sandwich and two orange-glazed buns, her specialty.

  Although Mrs. Hogendobber's house was right across the alley from the post office, she liked to bring her lunch and pastries to work with her. A small refrigerator and a hot plate in the back allowed the two women to operate Chez Post, as they sometimes called it.

  “The last of my mums.” Miranda pointed out the deep russet-colored flowers bordering her fall gardens. “What is there about fall that makes one melancholy?”

  “Loss of the light.” Harry enjoyed the sharp mustard she'd put on her sandwich.

  “And color, although I battle that with pyracantha, the December-blooming camellias, and lots of holly in strategic places. Still, I miss the fragrance of summer.”

  “Hummingbirds.”

  “Baby snakes.” Mrs. Murphy offered her delectables.

  “Baby mice,” Pewter chimed in.

  “You have yet to kill a mouse.” Mrs. Murphy leaned close to Harry just in case her mother felt like sharing.

  Pewter, preferring the direct approach, sat in front of Harry, chartreuse eyes lifted upward in appeal. “Look who's talking. The barn is turning into Mouse Manhattan.”

  Tucker drooled. Mrs. Hogendobber handed her a tidbit of ham, to the fury of the two cats. She tore off two small pieces for them, too.

  “Mine has mustard on it,” Mrs. Murphy complained.

  “I'll eat it,” Tucker gallantly volunteered.

  “In a pig's eye.”

  “Aren't we lucky that Miranda makes all these goodies?” Pewter nibbled. “She's the best cook in Crozet.”

  Cynthia Cooper slowly rolled down the alleyway, pulling in next to BoomBoom's BMW. “Great day.”

  “Join u
s.”

  She checked her watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Make it thirty, and leave your radio on.” Harry smiled.

  “Good idea.” Cynthia cut off the ignition, then turned the volume up on the two-way radio. “Mrs. H., did you make sandwiches for Market today?”

  “Indeed, I did.”

  Cynthia sprinted down the narrow alley between the post office and the market. Within minutes she returned with a smoked turkey sandwich slathered in tarragon mayonnaise, Boston lettuce peeping out from the sides of the whole wheat bread.

  The three sat on the back stoop. Every now and then the radio squawked, but no calls for Coop.

  “Why did you paint your fingernails?” Harry noticed the raspberry polish.

  “Got bored.”

  “Isn't it funny how Little Mim changes her hairdo? Each time it's a new style or color, you know something is up,” Miranda noted.

  Sean Hallahan ambled down the alleyway.

  “You look like the dogs got at you under the porch.” Harry laughed at his disheveled appearance.

  “Oh”—he glanced down at his wrinkled clothes—“guess I do.”

  “Is the football team going to practice at Crozet High? Field hockey is,” Harry said.

  “Nobody's called me. I don't know what we're going to do. I don't even know if I'm going back to St. Elizabeth's.”

  “Do you want to?” Cynthia asked.

  “Yeah, we've got a good team this year. And it's my senior year. I don't want to go anywhere else.”

  “That makes sense,” Mrs. Hogendobber said.

  He ran his finger over the hood of the BMW. “Cool.”

  “Ultra,” Harry replied.

  “Just a car.” Pewter remained unimpressed by machines.

  He bent over, shading his eyes, and peered inside. “Leather. Sure stinks, though.”

  “She spilled her essences,” Harry said.

  “Don't be squirrelly,” Mrs. Murphy advised.

  Sean opened the door, and the competing scents rolled out like a wave. “I hope I get rich.”

  “Hope you do, too.” Harry gave the last of her sandwich to the animals.

  He turned on the ignition, rolled down the windows, and clicked on the radio. “Too cool. This is just too cool.”

  “Where is BoomBoom, anyway?” Cynthia drank iced tea out of a can.

  “Who knows? She needs someone to follow her to the BMW dealer. She slightly dented her bumper, not even a dent actually—she rubbed off some of the finish.” Harry indicated the spot.

  Sean, paying no attention to the conversation, leaned his head back and turned up the radio a bit. He was surrounded by speakers. Then he let off the emergency brake, popped her in reverse, and backed out into the alleyway. He waved at the three women and three animals and carefully rolled forward.

  “Should I yank his chain?” Cynthia craned her neck.

  “Nah.”

  They waited a few moments, expecting him to go around the block and reappear. Then they heard the squeal of rubber.

  Cooper put down what was left of her sandwich. She stood up. The car was pulling away.

  Mrs. Hogendobber listened. “He's not coming back.”

  “I don't believe this!” Cooper hurried to the squad car as Tucker scarfed down the sandwich remains. She pulled out the speaker, telling the dispatcher where she was and what she was doing. She didn't ask for assistance yet because she thought he was taking a joyride. She hoped to catch him and turn him back before he got into more trouble—he was in enough as it was.

  “Can I come?” Harry asked.

  “Hop in.”

  Harry opened the door. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker jumped in with her. “Miranda, do you care?”

  “Go on.” She waved her off, then glanced down. “Pewter, are you staying with me?”

  “Yes, I am.” The gray cat followed her back into the post office.

  Cynthia turned left, heading toward Route 250. “Sounded like he was heading this way.”

  “Don't you think he'll make a big circle and come back?”

  “Yeah, I do. Right under my nose. . . . Jeez, what a dumb thing to do.” She shook her head.

  “He hasn't shown the best judgment lately.”

  Mrs. Murphy settled in Harry's lap while Tucker sat between the humans.

  As they reached Route 250, they noticed a lumber truck pulling off to the right side of the road. Cynthia slowed, putting on her flashers. “Stay here.” She stepped out. Harry watched as the driver spoke to her and pointed toward the west. A few choice words escaped his tobacco-stained lips. Coop dashed back to the car.

  She hit the accelerator and the sirens.

  “Trouble?”

  “Yep.”

  Other cars pulled off to the right as Cynthia's car screeched down Route 250 to the base of Afton Mountain. Then they started the climb to the summit, some 1,850 feet.

  “You think he got on Sixty-four?”

  “Yeah. A great big four-lane highway. He's gonna bury the speedometer.”

  “Shit, Cooper, he's going to bury himself.”

  “That thought has occurred to me.”

  Mrs. Murphy leaned over Harry and said to Tucker, “Fasten your seat belt.”

  “Yeah,” the dog replied, wishing there were seat belts made for animals.

  Cynthia hurtled past the Howard Johnson's at the top of the mountain, turning left, then turning right to get onto Interstate 64. Vehicles jerked to the right as best they could but in some places on the entrance ramp the shoulder was inadequate. She swerved to avoid the cars.

  The Rockfish Valley left behind was supplanted by the Shenandoah Valley. There was a glimpse of Waynesboro off to the right as they got onto I 64.

  Remnants of fall foliage blurred. Cynthia negotiated the large sweeping curves on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  “What if he took the Skyline Drive?” Harry asked.

  “I'm going to have to call in the state police and Augusta County's police, too. Damn!”

  “He asked for it,” Harry replied sensibly.

  “Yes, he did.” Cooper called the dispatcher, gave her location, and requested assistance as well as help on the Skyline Drive.

  “Doesn't compute.” Mrs. Murphy snuggled as Harry held her in the curves.

  “That he stole the car?”

  “That he did it right in front of them. He wants to get caught.” Her eyes widened as they hung another curve. “He's in on it, or he knows something.”

  “Then why steal a car in front of Coop?” Tucker asked the obvious question.

  “That's what I mean—something doesn't compute,” Murphy replied.

  Up ahead they caught sight of Sean. Cynthia checked her speedometer. She was hitting ninety, and this was not the safest stretch of road in the state of Virginia.

  She slowed a bit. “He's not only going to hurt himself, he's going to hurt someone else.” She clicked on the black two-way radio button. “Subject in sight. Just past Ninety-nine on the guardrail.” She repeated a number posted on a small metal sign. “Damn, he's going one hundred.” She shook her head.

  As good as the BMW was, Sean was not accustomed to driving a high-performance machine in challenging circumstances. The blue flashing lights behind him didn't scare him as much as the blue flashing lights he saw in the near distance, coming from the opposite direction. He took his eyes off the road for a split second, but a split second at 100 miles an hour is a fraction too long. He spun out, steered hard in the other direction, and did a 360, blasting through the guardrail and taking the metal with him as he soared over the ravine.

  “Oh, my God!” Harry exclaimed.

  Cynthia screeched to a stop. The BMW seemed airborne for an eternity, then finally crashed deep into the mountain laurels below.

  Both Cynthia and Harry were out of the squad car when it stopped. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker could run down the mountainside much better than the two humans could as they stumbled, rolled, and got up again.

  “
We've got to get him before the car blows up!” Mrs. Murphy shouted to the corgi, who realized the situation also.

  The BMW had landed upside down. The animals reached it, and Tucker tried to open the door by standing on her hind legs.

  “Impossible.”

  The tiger raced around the car, hoping windows would have been smashed to bits on the other side.

  Harry and Cooper, both covered in mud, scratched, and torn, reached the car. Cooper opened the door. Sean was held in place upside down by the safety belt. She reached in and clicked the belt. Both she and Harry dragged him out.

  “Haul,” Cynthia commanded.

  Harry grabbed his left arm, Cynthia his right, and Tucker grabbed the back of his collar. They struggled and strained but managed to get the unconscious, bloodied boy fifty yards up the mountainside. Mrs. Murphy scampered ahead.

  The BMW made a definite clicking sound and then boom, the beautiful machine was engulfed in flames.

  The two women sat for a moment, holding Sean so he wouldn't slide back down. Mrs. Murphy walked ahead, searching for the easiest path up. Tucker, panting, sat for a moment, too.

  They heard more sirens and a voice at the lip of the ravine.

  Tucker barked. “We're down here!”

  Harry, still holding Sean, turned around to see rescue workers scrambling down to help. She felt for the vein in his neck; a faint pulse rippled underneath her fingertips. “He's alive.”

  Mrs. Murphy said under her breath, “For how long?”

  46

  The cherry wood in the fireplace crackled, releasing the heavy aroma of the wood. Tucker, asleep in front of the fire, occasionally chattered, dreaming of squirrels.

  Mrs. Murphy curled up in Harry's lap as she sat on the sofa while Pewter sprawled over Fair's bigger lap in the other wing chair. Exhausted from the trauma as well as the climb back up the deep ravine, Harry pulled the worn afghan around her legs, her feet resting on a hassock.

  Fair broke the stillness. “I know Rick told you not to reveal Sean's condition, but you can tell me.”

  “Fair, the sheriff has put a guard in his hospital room. And to tell the truth, I don't know his condition.”

  “He was mixed up in whatever is going on over at St. Elizabeth's?”

  “I guess he is.” She leaned her head against a needlepoint pillow. “In your teens you think you know everything. Your parents are out of it. You're invincible. Especially Sean, the football star. I wonder how he got mixed up in this mess, and I wonder what's really behind it.”