“Tucker, I hate to tell you this but you're a corgi.”
“I know that perfectly well, smart-ass.” Ready to fight, she stopped in front of a battered light green locker. “Wait a minute.” She sniffed around the base of the locker, putting her nose next to the vent. “Sugary, sticky.”
“Hey, look at that.” Pewter involuntarily lifted her paw, taking a step back.
“Dead.” Mrs. Murphy noted the line of dead ants going into the locker. She glanced up. “Number one fourteen.”
“How do we get in there? I mean, if we want to?” Pewter gingerly leapt over the ants.
“We don't.” Tucker indicated the big combination lock hanging on the locker door.
“Why go to school if you have to lock away your possessions? Kids stealing from kids. It's not right.”
“It's not right, but it's real,” Mrs. Murphy answered pragmatically. “We aren't going to get anyone into this locker. Even the janitor has burnt rubber.”
“He rides a bicycle,” Tucker said laconically, picturing Powder Hadly, thirties and simpleminded. He was so simpleminded he couldn't pass the written part of the driving test although he could drive just fine.
“You get my drift.” The tiger bumped into the corgi. Tucker bumped back, which made the cat stumble.
“Twit.”
“It's all right if you do it. If I do anything you bitch and moan and scratch.”
“What are you doing then?”
“Describing your behavior. Flat facts.”
“The flat facts are, we can't do diddly.” She halted. “Well, there is one trick if we could get everyone to open their lockers. Not that the dead-ant locker has poison in it. That would be pretty stupid, wouldn't it? But who knows what's stashed in these things.”
“Do the faculty have lockers?” Pewter asked.
“Sure.”
“How do you know the faculty lockers from the kids'?”
“I don't know. We're on the girls' side. Maybe there's a small room we've missed that's set aside for the teachers.”
They scampered down the hall and found a locker room for the female faculty. But there was nothing of interest except a bottle of Ambush perfume that had been left on the makeup counter. The men's locker room was equally barren of clues.
“This was a wasted trip, and I'm famished.”
“Not so wasted.” Murphy trotted back toward the post office.
“I'd like to know why. Roscoe's office was bare. We passed through April's office, nothing there. The sheriff has crawled over everything, fouling the scent. The gym is a tomb. And my pads are cold.”
“We found out that the killer had to have left the gym before Maury McKinchie to wait outside the front doors. They're glass so he could see Maury come out, or he waited behind one of the doors leading to the boys' locker room or the girls'. He dashed out and stabbed Maury and then either ran outside or he ran back into the gym. In costume, remember. He knew this setup.”
“Ah.” Tucker appreciated Mrs. Murphy's reasoning. “I see that, but if the killer had been outside, more people would have seen him because he was in costume—unless he changed it. No time for that, I think.” Tucker canceled her own idea.
“He was a Musketeer, if Kendrick is telling the truth. My hunch is he came from the side. From out of the locker rooms. No one had reason to go back there unless they wanted to smoke or drink, and they could easily do that outside without some chaperon or bush patrol. No, I'm sure he ran out the locker-room side.”
“You don't believe Kendrick did it?” Pewter asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear her friend's reasons.
“No.”
“But what if Maury was sleeping with Irene?” Tucker logically thought that was reason enough for some men to murder.
“Kendrick wouldn't give a damn. A business deal gone bust, or some kind of financial betrayal might provoke him to kill, but he'd be cold-blooded about it. He'd plan. This was slapdash. Not Kendrick's style.”
“No wonder Irene mopes around,” Pewter thought out loud. “If my husband thought money was more important than me, I'd want a divorce, too.”
“Could Maury have been killed by a jilted lover?”
“Sure. So could Roscoe. But it doesn't fit. Not two of them back-to-back. And April Shively wouldn't have vacuumed out the school documents if it was that.”
They reached the post office, glad to rush inside for warmth and crunchies.
“Where have you characters been?” Harry counted out change.
“Deeper into this riddle, that's where we've been.” Mrs. Murphy watched Pewter stick her face into the crunchies shaped like little fish. She didn't feel hungry herself. “What's driving me crazy is that I'm missing something obvious.”
“Murphy, I don't see how we've overlooked anything.” Tucker was tired of thinking.
“No, it's obvious, but whatever it is, our minds don't want to see it.” The tiger dropped her ears for a moment, then pricked them back up.
“Doesn't make sense,” Pewter, thrilled to be eating, said between garbled mouthfuls.
“What is going on is too repulsive for our minds to accept. We're blanking out. It's right under our noses.”
50
The uneasiness of Crozet's residents found expression in the memorial service for Maury McKinchie.
There was a full choir and a swelling organ but precious few people in Reverend Jones's church. Darla had indeed flown the body back to Los Angeles, so no exorbitantly expensive casket rested in front of the altar. Miranda, asked to sing a solo, chose “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” because she was in a Lutheran church and because no one knew enough about Maury's spiritual life to select a more personal hymn. BoomBoom Craycroft wept in the front left row. Ed Sugarman comforted her, a full-time job. Naomi Fletcher, in mourning for Roscoe, sat next to Sandy Brashiers in the front right row. Harry, Susan, and Ned also attended. Other than that tiny crew, the church was bare. Had Darla shown her famous and famously kept face, the church would have been overflowing.
Back at the post office Harry thought about what constituted a life well lived.
At five o'clock, she gathered up April Shively's mail.
“Do you think she'll let you in?”
Harry raised her eyebrows. “Miranda, I don't much care. If not, I'll put it by her backdoor. Need anything while I'm out there? I'll pass Critzer's Nurseries.”
“No, thanks. I've put in all my spring bulbs,” came the slightly smug reply.
“Okay then—see you tomorrow.”
Ten minutes later Harry pulled into a long country lane winding up at a neat two-story frame colonial. Blair Bainbridge had lent Harry his truck until hers was fixed. When she knocked on the door, there was no answer. She waited a few minutes, then placed the mail by the backdoor. As she turned to leave, the upstairs window opened.
“I'm not afraid to come in and get my mail.”
“Your box was overflowing. Thought I'd save you a trip.”
“Anybody know if Sean's going to make it?”
“No. The hospital won't give out information, and they won't allow anyone to visit. That's all I know.”
“Boy doesn't have a brain in his head. Have you seen Sandy Brashiers or Naomi?” April half laughed. Her tone was snide.
Harry sighed impatiently. “I doubt they want to see you any more than you want to see them. Marilyn's not your biggest fan now either.”
“Who cares about her?” April waved her hand flippantly. “She's a bad imitation of a bad mother.”
“Big Mim's okay. You have to take her on her own terms.”
“Think we can get inside?” Tucker asked.
“No,” Murphy replied. “She's not budging from that window.”
“What are they saying about me?” April demanded.
“Oh—that you hate Sandy, loved Roscoe, and you're accusing Sandy to cover your own tracks. If there's missing money, you've got it or know where it is.”
“Ha!”
“But
you do know something, April. I know you do,” Murphy meowed loudly.
“That cat's got a big mouth.”
“So's your old lady,” Murphy sassed her.
“Yeah!” Pewter chimed in.
“April, I wish you'd get things right.” Harry zipped up her jacket. “The school's like a tomb. Whatever you feel about Sandy—is it worth destroying St. Elizabeth's and everything Roscoe worked so hard to build?”
“Good one, Mom.” Tucker knew Harry had struck a raw nerve.
“Me destroy St. Elizabeth's! If you want to talk destruction, let's talk about Sandy Brashiers, who wants us to commit our energies and resources to a nineteenth-century program. He's indifferent to computer education, hostile to the film-course idea, and he only tolerates athletics because he has to—if he takes over, you watch, those athletic budgets will get trimmed and trimmed each year. He'll take it slow at first, but I know him! The two-bit sneak.”
“Then come back.”
“They fired me!”
“If you give back the papers—”
“Never. Not to Brashiers.”
Harry held up her hands. “Give them to Sheriff Shaw.”
“Fat lot of good that will do. He'll turn them over to St. Elizabeth's.”
“He can impound them as evidence.”
“Are you that dumb, or do you think I am?” April yelled. “Little Mim will whine, and Mommy will light the fires of hell under Rick Shaw's butt. Those papers will go to the Sanburne house if not St. Elizabeth's.”
“How else can you clear your name?”
“When the time comes, I will. You just wait and see.”
“I guess I'll have to.” Harry gave up, walking back to the truck. She heard the window slam shut.
“Time has a funny way of running out,” Mrs. Murphy noted dryly.
51
Driving back into Crozet, Harry stopped and cajoled Mrs. Hogendobber to drive her through the car wash in her Falcon. Pewter, hysterical at the thought, hid under the seat. Harry filled Miranda in on the conversation with April, a belligerent April.
As they pulled right off Route 29, coasting past the Texaco station, Harry observed the distance between the gas pumps and the port of the car wash. It was a quick sprint away, perhaps fifty yards at the most. The Texaco station building blocked the view of the car wash.
“Go slow.”
“I am.” Miranda scanned the setup, then coasted to a stop before the port.
Jimbo Anson rolled out, the collar of his jacket turned up against the wind. “Welcome, Mrs. Hogendobber. I don't believe you've ever been here.”
“No, I haven't. I wash the car by hand. It's small enough that I can do it, but Harry wants me to become modern.” She smiled as Harry reached across her and paid the rate for “the works.”
“Come forward . . . there you go.” He watched as Miranda's left wheel rolled onto the track. “Put her in neutral, and no radio.” Jimbo punched the big button hanging on a thick electrical cord, and the car rolled into the mists.
A buzzer sounded, the yellow neon light flashed, and Miranda exclaimed, “My word.”
Harry carefully noted the time it took to complete the cycle as well as how the machinery swung out from the side or dropped from above. The last bump of the track alerted them to put the car in drive. Harry mumbled, “No way.”
“No way what?”
“I was thinking maybe the killer came into the car wash, gave Roscoe the poisoned candy, and ran out. I know it's loony, but the sight of someone soaking wet in the car wash, someone he knew, would make him roll down the window or open a door if he could. It was a thought. If you run up here from the Texaco station, which takes less than a minute, no one could see you if you ducked in the car wash exit. But it's impossible. And besides, nobody noticed anyone being all wet.”
“‘Cain said to Abel, his brother, “Let us go out to the field.” And when they were in the field, Cain rose up against his brother Abel, and killed him. Then the Lord said to Cain, “Where is Abel your brother?” He said, “I do not know; am I my brother's keeper?” And the Lord said, “What have you done? The voice of your brother's blood is crying to me from the ground.” '” Mrs. Hogendobber quoted Genesis. “The first murder of all time. Cain didn't get away with it. Neither will this murderer.”
“Rick Shaw is working overtime to tie Kendrick to both murders. Cynthia called me last night. She said it's like trying to stick a square peg in a round hole. It's not working, and Rick is tearing his hair out.”
“He can ill afford that.” Mrs. Hogendobber turned south on Route 29.
“I keep coming back to cowardice. Poison is the coward's tool.”
“Whoever killed McKinchie wasn't a coward. A bold run-through with a sword shows imagination.”
“McKinchie was unarmed, though,” Harry said. “The killer jumped out and skewered him. Imagination, yes, but cowardice, yes. It's one thing to plan a murder and carry it out, a kind of cold brilliance, if you will. It's another thing to sneak up on people.”
“It is possible that these deaths are unrelated,” Miranda said tentatively. “But I don't think so; that's what worries me.” She braked for a red light.
She couldn't have been more worried than Father Michael, who, dozing in the confession booth, was awakened by the murmur of that familiar muffled voice, taking pains to disguise itself.
“Father, I have sinned.”
“Go on, my child.”
“I have killed more than once. I like killing, Father. It makes me feel powerful.”
A hard lump lodged in Father Michael's thin throat. “All power belongs to God, my child.” His voice grew stronger. “And who did you kill?”
“Rats.” The disguised voice burst into laughter.
He heard the swish of the heavy black fabric, the light, quick footfall. He bolted out of the other side of the confession booth in time to see a swirl of black, a cloak, at the side door, which quickly closed. He ran to the door and flung it open. No one was there, only a blue jay squawking on the head of the Avenging Angel.
52
“Nobody?”
Lucinda Payne Coles, her heavy skirt draped around her legs to ward off the persistent draft in the old office room, said again, “Nobody. I'm at the back of the church, Sheriff. The only way I'll see who comes in and out of the front is if I walk out there or they park back here.”
Cynthia, also feeling the chill, moved closer to the silver-painted radiator. “Have you noticed anyone visiting Father Michael lately, anyone unusual?”
“No. If anything it's quieter than normal for this time of year.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Coles. Call me any time of the day or night if anything occurs to you.”
Rick and Cynthia walked outside. A clammy mist enshrouded them in the graveyard. They bent down at the side door. Depressions on leaves could be seen, a slight smear on the moisture that they tracked into the cemetery.
“Smart enough to cover his tracks,” Cynthia said.
“Or hers. That applies to every country person in the county,” Rick replied. “Or anyone who's watched a lot of crime shows.” He sat on a tombstone for a moment. “Any ideas?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither.”
“We know one thing. The killer likes to confess.”
“No, Coop, the killer likes to brag. We've got exactly one hope in hell.”
“Which is?” She told herself she wasn't really a smoker as she reached into her pocket for a pack.
“I'll take one of those.” Rick reached out.
They lit up, inhaling.
“Wonder how many people buried here died of emphysema?”
“Don't know.” He laughed. “I might be one of them someday.”
“What's your one hope, boss?”
“Pride goeth before a fall.”
53
Rick Shaw set up a temporary command post in April Shively's office. Little Mim and Sandy Brashiers requested over the radio and in the newspaper that stud
ents return to St. Elizabeth's for questioning.
Every hand Rick could spare was placed at the school. Little Mim organized and Sandy assisted.
“—the year started out great. Practice started out great—” Karen Jensen smiled at the sheriff. “Our class had a special film week. We wrote a story, broke it down into shots, and then Friday, we filmed it. Mr. McKinchie and Miss Thalman from New York directed us. That was great. I can't think of anything weird.”
“Sean?”
“Oh, you know Sean, he likes playing the bad boy, but he seemed okay.” She was relaxed, wanting to be helpful.
“If you think of anything, come on back or give me a call.” Rick smiled reflexively. When Karen had left, he said to Cooper, “No running nose, no red eyes or dilated pupils or pupils the size of a pin. No signs of drug abuse. We're halfway through the class—if only Sean would regain consciousness.”
“If he is going to be a father, that explains a lot.”
“Not enough,” Rick grumbled.
Cynthia flipped through her notes. “He used to run errands for April Shively. Jody Miller said Sean had a permanent pink pass.” She flipped the notebook shut.
A bark outside the door confused them for a moment, then Cynthia opened the door.
Fur ruffled, Tucker bounded in. “We can help!”
With less obvious enthusiasm Mrs. Murphy and Pewter followed.
“Where's Harry?”
As if to answer Coop's question, Harry walked through the door carrying a white square plastic container overflowing with mail. “Roscoe's and Maury's mail.” She plopped the box on the table. “I put Naomi's mail in her mailbox.”
“Anything unusual?” Rick inquired.
“No. Personal letters and bills, no Jiffy bags or anything suspicious.”
“Has she been coming to pick up her mail?”
“Naomi comes in each day. But not today. At least not before I left.”
Cynthia asked, “Does she ever say anything at all?”
“She's downcast. We exchange pleasantries and that's it.”
“Good of Blair to lend you his Dually.” Coop hoped her severe crush on the handsome man wouldn't show. It did.
Murder on the Prowl Page 19