“Yes. These two patients are way past a second notice.”
“Money troubles.” Margaret had seen and heard it all.
“Perhaps they could pay over time.” Benita’s eyebrows lifted a little.
“Worth a try. This one”—she pointed to Star Gurdrun—“is seventeen, and her parents—who agreed, mind you—are punishing us.”
“Well, give it a try. You know, with a name like Star, that kid doesn’t have a chance.”
“I know.” Margaret grinned.
Kylie came back in. “What is this? Found it on an examining table.”
Margaret slipped on her glasses, which hung from a chain around her neck. “Banamine.”
A voice called from the back. “Mine. Left it on the table when I heard Benita’s voice.”
“Since when are you taking Banamine, Sophie?”
“Since I grew four legs and ate hay.” She appeared and snatched the bottle from Kylie, but with humor. “Duke is a little ouchy. He’s getting on, you know.”
“I know the feeling.” Benita smiled. “I haven’t seen Duke in forever.”
Sophie reached into her smock pocket, withdrawing a photo of a sleek chestnut Thoroughbred. “My baby. You know, Dr. Haristeen said he is the youngest sixteen-year-old he has ever examined.”
Benita eyed the large bottle. “I might try some of that myself.”
She stayed another hour at the office, going over items with Margaret, who, as her job demanded, was on top of every little detail.
Before leaving, Benita asked, “Margaret, do you and the girls know who has had procedures and who has not?”
Margaret answered, “We do. We don’t tell tales out of school. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know.”
“Fear?”
Margaret shook her head vigorously. “No. The nuts will go after the doctors, not us, until we get organized enough to go after them.” Anger filled her voice, but then she quelled it. “When I see someone come in for their third termination, it makes my blood boil. Termination is not birth control. It’s a last resort. There are women out there who are so flagrantly irresponsible I want to slap their faces. Like to slap their boyfriends and husbands, too.”
“It’s an imperfect world, Margaret, filled with imperfect people. I’m one of them, although my imperfections aren’t centered around sexual irresponsibility.”
Margaret changed the subject. “Isn’t it just awful about Tazio?”
“Rather incomprehensible. She’s such a nice girl.”
“Nice girls can do terrible things.”
27
Neither Harry nor Fair ate big suppers. A big breakfast sent them on their way and then a good lunch kept them rolling. All a big supper did was turn to fat because you couldn’t work it off.
She’d thrown together a nice salad with small bits of the leftover grilled chicken that was Fair’s triumph over the weekend. The scent of grilled chicken sent Pewter into a frenzy.
“Me! Me!” She stood on her hind legs, petting Harry’s calves.
“Oink. Oink,” Tucker grunted.
“Shut up, tailless wonder.” Pewter dropped back on her haunches and swiped at the corgi, who ducked in time.
“Dear God, give me patience, but hurry,” Harry grumbled, putting some chicken in three separate bowls on the floor.
Pewter whirled toward the bowl, her hind legs skidding out.
Once she gained traction, she sped past Mrs. Murphy and Tucker.
“Amazing how fast that fat cat can move when food’s the temptation.” Harry put her hands on her hips just as the big vet truck rumbled down the long dirt drive.
As Fair walked through the door, she set a glass of tonic water with a wedge of lime and four ice cubes by his plate; one for her, too. Both of them swore the quinine in the tonic kept them from getting leg cramps. Lately, medical researchers doubted this, but Harry doubted that medical researchers ever put in a full day’s work on a farm, especially in punishing heat.
Although it was almost October, the days could simmer but the nights brought relief. Then it would turn in a heartbeat, the mercury hanging in the low sixties, soon to drop into the fifties, and with November the plunge would continue. Nature always granted Virginia a respite with Indian summer, though, a few days or even a week of a return to temperatures in the mid-sixties to seventies. Indian summer, beautiful as it was with the fall foliage, tinged hearts with melancholy. It would soon vanish, to be followed by the hard frosts of winter, denuded trees, and a palette of beige, gray, black, silver, and, finally, white.
“Beautiful girl.” He kissed her on the cheek, washed his hands at the sink, and sat down.
Harry took her seat and they ate their salad, caught up on the day’s doings. They’d talked about the cigarette butt on the floor of the building adjacent to Will Wylde’s, so she told him she’d called Cooper about Folly smoking Virginia Slims. She didn’t tell of her conversation with Folly. A secret was a secret with Harry.
“Doesn’t it look barren without the sunflowers?” he said after he’d registered her report.
“You know, it really does, but those boys did a good job.”
The original plan was for Harry, Fair, and their friends to harvest the sunflowers. Eventually Harry realized that, while they could do the labor, this was only her first crop. Fearing she’d damage those big, rich heads, she broke down and hired a crew recommended to her by Waynesboro Nurseries, the same company that had put in Benita’s maples. Granted, labor cut into the profit, but there was very little waste. They got it all up in two days, Monday and today.
“I thought I’d make more.” She put down her fork for a minute. “I mean, I would have, but—”
“Harry, you did the right thing. If nothing else, you saved Miranda’s back. Our friends are very good to us, but sometimes it’s best not to ask for favors.”
“You’re right, but she’s on her hands and knees in her garden, remember. As it is, we made three thousand dollars.”
“Whenever you balance the books, if you wind up in the black, that’s good.” The slightly bitter taste of mesclun burst on his tongue. “These greens are so crisp.”
“Fresh out of the garden. The battle with the bugs.” She grinned. “I won this year.”
“You won because we policed the garden.” Pewter lifted her head from her bowl.
“What a liar you are.” Tucker laughed. “All you did was sleep under the walnut tree with your face pointed in the direction of the garden.”
“The barn swallows, tree swallows, and purple martins ate the bugs,” Mrs. Murphy reported. “Maybe even the blue jay ate a few, worthless though he is.”
“He’s funny. He imitates the call of a red-shouldered hawk, scares the other birds, then swoops down to eat, undisturbed. They figure it out, come back, and remonstrate with him.” Tucker studied birds, although in a different fashion from the cats, whose motives were murderous.
“People, a lot of them, don’t realize that blue jays will mimic other birds. They know that mockingbirds do it, but they forget about the jays. With his versatile voice, he can get close to the hawk notes.”
“Voice isn’t as smooth. You know, their throats are different from ours. They can make two different sounds at the same time. We can’t,” Tucker mused.
“Humans can talk out of both sides of their mouth at the same time,” Pewter added sarcastically, then looked at Mrs. Murphy’s empty bowl. “You sure ate in a hurry.”
“So you couldn’t steal my food,” Mrs. Murphy forthrightly replied.
“What is this, assassinate Pewter’s reputation day? Tucker calls me a liar, you say I steal food. I ought to box both your ears.”
Neither animal took the bait, remaining silent. Miffed, Pewter stuck her face back in her ceramic bowl to lick it since she’d gobbled up everything.
Harry and Fair finished their light supper. As he did the dishes, she turned on the TV in the living room.
“Thought I’d look at the weather before finishing the
rest of the chores. Less light now.”
“I’ve been so busy I haven’t heard the weather or the news.”
“No candidate yet for office manager, chief factotum?”
“No. You know who I’d like to hire is Margaret Westlake. Don’t know what will happen to Will’s practice, so I thought I’d wait a bit to talk to her.”
“Don’t you think she’ll go with another human doctor?”
“I don’t know.”
“What about Kylie Kraft?”
“She’s a nurse. Might know some office management. Anyway, Kylie goes through boyfriends liked toothpicks. Too much drama and you don’t need that in the office.”
“That she does.” Harry patiently waited for the weather.
“She done them wrong.” Fair wiped his hands dry and walked into the living room.
Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker also watched the news.
“She’s in her late twenties.” Harry lukewarmly defended Kylie.
He shook his head. “She’s got a mean streak where men are concerned.” He dropped his arm over her shoulder. “You crack me up.”
“Why?”
“You are out of the gossip loop. By the time I hear it, it’s old news, but I hear it.”
“I hear some things—but not too much.” She watched the world news; a picture of car-bomb debris in Baghdad, bodies everywhere, flashed before their eyes. “They can all kill one another for all I care.”
“Harry,” he chided her gently.
“I mean it. For thousands of years those tribes and religious factions have hated one another. We aren’t going to solve it. It’s civil war. They’ll kill one another until they can’t stand it anymore, just like what happened in the English Civil War and just like what happened here. When people become that irrational, only overwhelming pain brings them back to their senses.”
He sighed. “I wish you were wrong.”
“I wish I were, too.” She slipped her arm around his waist. “Hell, we’re killing one another, too. Even though I didn’t see her, the vision of Carla with blood all over her gown—ugh.”
“Isn’t it odd that humans will kill over an idea or for money?” Tucker cocked her head to one side.
“They don’t,” Pewter swiftly replied. “That’s the cover for the real reason.”
“Which is?” Tucker queried.
“The pantry. All wars start in the pantry.”
Conversation stopped as the local news came on and there was Little Mim, mikes thrust in front of her.
“My opposition to abortion came from my own experience. I don’t regret not sharing that experience. We are all entitled to a private life. Now that mine has been so vilely exposed, I want to go on the record to tell you all, this outing, if you will, and the murder of Dr. Wylde has changed my mind. I will support reproductive control. I will fight this violent fanaticism with all I have in me as Crozet’s vice mayor, and I know I can count on the support of the mayor. I want to say to every woman out there who may be considering a termination, think it over. It’s one of the biggest decisions you will ever make. If there’s any way you can keep the baby, do.”
She fielded a few more questions, said, “Thank you,” and walked back toward the small city offices to the waiting arms of her husband.
Big Mim stood next to Jim.
The newscaster, Dinny Suga, turned to face the camera, then read from a paper handed to her. She looked into the lens and, rephrasing the bulletin, said, “We have a missing-persons report. Mrs. Penelope Lattimore is reported missing by her husband—”
“What in the hell is going on?” Fair exploded, his voice overriding Suga’s report.
“I saw Penny this morning. How can she be missing?”
Fair turned to her. “This morning?”
“Keswick Country Club. I stopped by.”
“Harry, usually an adult, unless impaired, has to be missing for at least twenty-four hours before a report is filed. Something is very wrong here.”
“You mean if Penny’s disappearance made the news, they fear the worst?”
“Yes. Obviously, we’re supposed to be on the lookout for her, but she’s more than missing, I’m afraid.”
28
Harry was shocked at Tazio’s appearance when she walked into the area reserved for prison visitors. Unlike big prisons, where people sat on either side of glass, speaking through phones, they sat opposite each other, with a low table between them and a guard at the door.
“Harry.” Tazio reached across the table and the two women touched hands.
“Are you all right?”
“I don’t know. I can’t eat and I can’t sleep.”
“Is the food that bad?”
“Too much starch, sugar, and salt. I just can’t stomach it.”
“Brinkley is fine, but he misses you.”
Tazio wiped away a tear. “You don’t realize how much you love a dog until you’re separated from him. Brinkley and I are together all day, every day. He’s my shadow, my friend, my best friend, corny as that sounds.”
“Not to me it doesn’t. Miranda baked gingerbread. The other guard is cutting it up to make sure it doesn’t have a saw in it.” Harry smiled ruefully. “God knows if you’ll get any of it. Smelled so delicious that I almost tore into it myself on the way down here, and you can imagine how undisciplined Pewter was.”
“I miss them, too.”
“Out in the truck with the windows cracked, although it’s coolish today, finally. October is one of my favorite months, but Friday isn’t my favorite day.” Harry folded her hands, placing them on top of the table.
“Sure puts everyone else in a good mood, because at five, they’re off. The weekend starts the minute they leave the job.”
“You and I don’t have those kind of jobs.”
“Miss that, too.” She tried to make general conversation. “Why don’t you like Fridays?”
“Execution day for the better part of European history. Considered the devil’s day.” Harry noted the expression on Tazio’s thinning features. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I am accused of murder.” She expelled air with force. “I feel like I’m in a bad dream.”
“Big Mim is raising your bail from friends.”
She ruefully snorted. “Guess I know what I’m worth.”
“A lot, apparently.” Harry’s voice was soft, then she continued, “Are you being treated okay? Are the other prisoners okay?”
“Harry, they are exactly what you think they are: drug addicts supporting their habits by prostitution. There’s no one in here for big crimes, other than myself. And you know what’s really weird? I guess it’s not so weird, since people always form a pecking order, but the top of the top is considered armed robbery. I’m accused of murder so I’m lower on the totem pole, but the poor girls in there who are strung out on smack, coke, crank, you name it, they’re on the bottom. They don’t have much to do with me, but they aren’t ugly.”
“That’s a relief.”
“I even like some of the women. Poor things, if they didn’t have bad luck they wouldn’t have any luck at all.”
“Good luck will be coming your way. We’re working on it.”
“Harry, I have replayed that night in my mind over and over again. I can’t think of any detail I neglected to report. Ned keeps counseling me to relax, dream a little. He says sometimes stray bits of information might float up. He thinks because of the shock I’ve blocked things.”
“Possible. In fact, I bet he’s right.”
She shook her head. “I still can’t think of anything except that I heard a footfall, steps away from me, but…” She shrugged.
“What about odors? Perfume, cologne, liquor, I don’t know…uh, cigar smoke?”
“The smell of blood was overpowering.”
“Plus everything else that comes out of the body.”
“That, too. I have thought of one thing, though—not a memory but a note, like a missing note in a l
ine of music.” As Harry leaned forward, Tazio said, “The sheriff said that the way Carla’s throat was slashed would indicate a right-handed person.”
“Uh-huh.”
“If the killer came up behind her, grabbed her by the chin, pulled her head back, and exposed her neck, that cut would be left to right. They’d be right-handed.” She sighed. “I’m grasping at straws. It really doesn’t make any difference.”
“Ned said the coroner’s report from Bedford County indicated she was slashed from the front and she had made no attempt to defend herself.”
“Harry, when someone’s throat is cut, the blood shoots out like a fountain. Wouldn’t whoever did it be drenched in blood? They couldn’t jump aside until the job was done. Blood had to spray over something—clothing, their face, depending on their height.”
Harry sat upright. “God.”
“So I think whoever approached her—someone she knew or someone innocent-looking—had the knife hidden, perhaps in a towel, a bag, even an instrument case like for a trumpet. If he had a towel, he could have used it to wipe himself off.”
“I don’t know if it will make a difference, but who knows. Details finally add up to a picture. Have you told Ned?”
“No. I won’t see him until tomorrow, Saturday.”
“Do you mind if I tell him?”
“No.”
“May I tell Coop? She knows more about these things than either of us.”
“No, I don’t mind. It’s curious, isn’t it?”
“The men wore white tie, and the blood would be noticeable on the pique front and the tie. Most of the women wore bright dresses; it would show. Might not show on a black dress.”
“But you’d smell it.”
“I don’t know. A lot of folks have lost their sense of smell, thanks to the ragweed and goldenrod plus smoking and pollution, but surely one of us would have gotten a whiff. You’re right, Taz, whoever killed Carla had a way to either avoid the blood or clean up.”
“Could have gone into a Porta-John.”
“Hard to change in there. Not impossible, but the killer would have had to stash his clothes somewhere. He couldn’t carry a bundle of clothing under his arm and kill her, go to a john, and hope there wasn’t a line. Not likely.”
The Purrfect Murder Page 19