Catch as Cat Can (11 page)

18

A series of thunderstorms crackled across Crozet for twenty-four hours. A few minutes of calm would ensue, and occasionally the skies lightened, but within a half hour clouds darkened again, the rains came down, and the roar of deep thunder reverberated throughout the mountains and valleys.

Harry sorted mail amid peals of thunder. Tucker crouched under the small table in the back of the post office. Mrs. Murphy sat on the dividing counter between the public side of the room and the working side. The broad and smooth old wooden counter with a flip-up section so the postmistress could walk in and out had seen generations of Crozetians call for their mail.

The advent of the railroad, built by the engineering genius of the New World, Claudius Crozet, brought the mail and news faster to the hamlet named for him. Residents no longer waited for the stage. They could stand at the station to watch the mail sacks being tossed off the train. The mail from Crozet would be picked up as it hung from a yardarm, the sack hooked so it could be grabbed from the moving train. Trains had cars outfitted as post stations and often money would be in the post station car, the postal employee taking the precaution of wearing a pistol.

The town had built its latest post office at the turn of the nineteenth century, altering it only to make more room for parking, since cars take up more room than horses. The pleasant structure had been rewired three more times in one hundred years, the last rewiring occurring in 1998. Small though the station was, it was hooked into the national postal computer system. Miranda resisted using the computer. Harry, much younger, mastered it rapidly. Wisely, she never instructed Miranda in its use. She waited for Miranda to ask—which, finally, she did.

Technology, so beguiling in its promises, often only delivers a new set of problems. The postal computers coughed, sputtered, and took to bed quite often with virus infections. While they could weigh packages, give an instant answer on postage at home and abroad, anyone handy with a scale, an instrument thousands of years old, could give the information in about the same amount of time. And wonderful though the blinking screen may have been, letters still needed to be hand-canceled at times, postage-due markings in maroon ink required human hands, and the process of sorting the mail once it arrived at the local postal offices was done the way it had always been done—one letter at a time.

In short, the tasks of the postal worker had changed little over the last century. And the advent of the twenty-first century still hadn't altered those tasks.

Harry owned a computer from which she sent e-mail or occasionally logged on to the Internet to look up something. She spent an evening once reading about Hereford cattle on the Internet. Then she switched to the Angus site and compared notes. But mostly she thought the information revolution was more hype than reality.

And nothing could substitute for a love letter. The sensuality of the paper, the color, the ink, the contents, the privacy of it, were inviolate and perfect.

As she sorted that Monday's mail she thought about writing Diego a letter. Maybe she'd mention their kiss in the rain or how wonderful it was to dance with him on a cool spring night. Then again she could talk about grass crops. She hummed to herself as Miranda carefully pulled the striped dish towel off the orange-glazed cinnamon buns she brought to work. The fragrance of Miranda's best creation mingled with the pot of coffee brewing in the back.

“Heaven.”

Miranda glanced at the old railroad wall clock. “Heaven at seven-thirty in the morning.” A clap of thunder made her laugh. “I don't remember so many storms. One after the other. I'll get over there in a minute to help you. Oh, tea?”

“Yes, thanks. Don't rush. There's not that much mail, which is surprising. Enjoy the lull. The summer postcards will fire up soon enough. Before that we'll have the graduation notices. Never ends.” She sorted postcards as though shuffling playing cards.

Miranda brought her tea. She herself poured a bracing cup of coffee. Miranda had let Mim talk her into joining a coffee club, so each month she received another type of pricey coffee from France, Germany, Spain, Switzerland. This delicious coffee was from a famous café in Vienna.

A light rap on the door, next to the animal door, brought forth a “come in” from both women.

“Hi.” Susan quickly stepped in, for the rain had intensified. “Have you ever?”

“No,” they said in unison again.

“What are you two, a duet?” Susan laughed, shaking the raindrops from her auburn hair, cut in a sleek pageboy.

“Hogendobber and Haristeen. Has a ring to it. How about H and H?” Harry laughed.

“That sounds like a candy.” Susan breathed in the moist aroma.

“Vienna.” Miranda poured her a cup.

“You'll be our expert. Next thing we know, Miranda, you'll open one of those upscale coffee shops where a cup costs three bucks.”

“It is outrageous but a good cup of coffee is special, especially that first cup.” A louder boom lifted all eyes to heaven. Miranda cast hers down first. “Oh, Tucker, poor baby, it's all right.” She knelt down to pet the shivering corgi.

Pewter, deep in the mail cart, said in a high-pitched voice,
“I don't like it either.”

Harry walked over to give love to the rotund gray kitty.

“Chicken,”
Mrs. Murphy tersely criticized them.

“Hateful bitch,”
Pewter promptly replied.

“I'm glad I don't know what they're saying.” Harry laughed. “Hey, we all went coon hunting last night with Jack and Joyce Ragland. Got soaked. Hunted until the storm really hit, but it was a great night anyway. The voices on those Ragland hounds are something special. Goose bumps. I didn't get home until one this morning.”

“You didn't shoot any, did you?” Miranda hated the thought of shooting animals.

“No.”

“Well, while you were coon hunting, I took my two cherubs to see their grandparents. Danny”—Susan mentioned her son—“wanted to see the new Audi sports car that Mamaw bought for herself. He told her she looked like a teenager in her TT. I think that's what it's called. Anyway, it's a fabulous design and drives nicely. There's my mother, seventy-one, driving a high-tech sports car. I love it! What'd you do, Miranda?” Susan asked.

“Sewed curtains for Tracy's apartment. He fixed my washing machine. Romantic. Actually, it was. We'd spent the weekend doing all the Dogwood Festival things. It was kind of nice to be home doing chores. You girls will have to see his apartment, right over the old pharmacy. He's got the entire floor for three fifty a month. It needs a lot of work but Eddie Griswald couldn't give it away. Everyone in Crozet wants their own house. Tracy's very happy for now.”

“I can paint,” Harry offered.

“He'd like that.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Look what I found last night.” Harry walked over to her bag, an old Danish schoolbag, worn through in spots. She fished around in the bottom, retrieving the Mercedes star.

Susan took it from her. “Remember there was a fad in the eighties and early nineties? City kids would snap these off and wear them.”

“Before my time,” Harry joked.

“Oh, puh-lease.” Susan's eyebrow shot upward as she dragged out the syllables.

“Where'd you find it?” Susan asked.

“Near Durant Creek, where we were hunting.”

“That's what that boy had around his neck.” Miranda reached for her first and only orange-glazed cinnamon bun, an act of discipline. Last year she would have had three eaten by this time but she'd cut back dramatically on sweets and had lost over thirty-five pounds in the past year. She could have worn her high-school clothes if she'd kept them.

“It might not be his,” Susan volunteered. “Then again, how many disembodied Mercedes stars are there?”

“Here comes another one,”
Mrs. Murphy warned Tucker and Pewter as a bright flash of lightning presaged a mighty rumble.

“So,” Susan's voice rose merrily, “when do you see Diego again?”

“Uh—I don't know. If not next weekend maybe the weekend after. I like him.”

“That's obvious.” Susan smiled. “And he likes you.”

“Seems to.”

“What man wouldn't?” Miranda thought of Harry as her own daughter in ways.

“What a nice thing to say.” Harry blushed.

“Was Fair at the coon hunt?” Susan's curiosity bubbled over.

“He was.”

“And?”

“Pretty much as you'd expect,” Harry said, tossing a package onto the A–B section of the package shelf.

Miranda and Susan looked at one another, then back to Harry.

“Jealous.”
Mrs. Murphy stated the obvious, something she usually didn't do but among humans it was often a necessity.

Little Mim drove up to the front of the post office. The rain poured. She sat in her $83,000 Mercedes waiting for the rain to lighten, but it didn't. It only rained harder.

Murphy, eyes sharp, noticed the star was missing from Little Mim's exquisite car.
“Aha.”

“What are you aha-ing about?”
Pewter grumbled from the bottom of the mail cart.

“The star is missing from Little Mim's silver-mist Mercedes.”

“Really?”
Pewter clambered out of the mail cart, sending it rolling about a foot in the opposite direction of her progress. She jumped up next to Murphy.
“It is.”

The humans noticed the cats staring out at Little Mim so they looked, too.

“Oh, my gosh, the star is missing from her car!” Miranda noticed first.

“You're right.” Susan giggled.

“Boy, Wesley Partlow will be sliced and diced.” Harry sighed. “Guess I'd better give her this when she comes in.”

“Well, what would you do with it?” Susan wondered.

“Mount it on a block of wood and put it on my bookcase. It's the closest I'll ever come to a Mercedes.” Harry reached for an umbrella in the stand by the front door. “I'll go out and walk her in. You know, that kid must be dumber than snot.”

“Harry, what a vulgar thing to say.”

“Sorry, Miranda.” She opened the door a crack. “I wouldn't want to be in his shoes.”

Truer words were never spoken.

19

Cut him down,” Rick Shaw ordered one of his men.

The photographs had been taken, the body dusted for fingerprints, the ground under the corpse inspected.

Two kids crossing in the rough patch of land behind Crozet Elder Care, a home for the aged, had found Wesley Partlow dangling from a fiddle oak. His tongue hung down on his chest, his face was purple-black, his eyes bugged out, and his feet and hands were swollen from the fluids collecting there. The storms hadn't improved his appearance but they probably saved his eyes from the birds.

Naturally, the gruesome sight scared the bejesus out of the kids, but they had the presence of mind to call the sheriff. Although Rick and Cynthia Cooper had witnessed plenty of unpleasant sights over the years, it didn't mean they liked seeing it.

The body was lowered carefully onto the gurney. If Wesley'd been cut down with a thud the corpse might have been even more damaged. The coroner couldn't save anyone, that's for sure, but he usually had the right answer about someone's health a day late.

As Diana Robb rolled away the mortal remains of a wasted life, Coop examined the bark of the tree. “If he shimmied up the tree, he didn't slough off bark.”

“He would have made a long skid mark. The rains would have taken care of little marks, don't you think?” Rick looked skyward. “And here comes some more.”

“I don't know, boss. He was light. He could have climbed up without much effort, without a lot of scraping and slipping. I looked for tire tracks.”

“Yeah.” Rick, too, had wondered if he'd been hoisted up on a truck bed. “Washed out.”

Wesley Partlow didn't seem like the suicide type.

“I don't get it.”

“Let's find Din Marks.”

They drove out sloshing through ever-deepening mud holes. As they turned onto Route 240 the raindrops fell, fat ones making big splashes on the windshield.

By the time they reached Fashion Mall, some thirty minutes later, it was again pouring. They parked by the side door and made a run for the Sears store. Din Marks worked in the lawnmower section. He blanched when he saw them.

Rick spoke to the other man behind the counter. “Can you hold the fort? I need a minute or two with Mr. Marks.”

“Sure.” The middle-aged man nodded.

Rick motioned for Din to follow him. Together with Cynthia they walked into the center concourse of the mall. Few shoppers milled about, weekday mornings being sparsely populated.

“Would you like to sit?” Rick pointed to a bench.

“No.”

“When you were locked up with Wesley Partlow, did he say anything to you? He was mad at someone or someone was mad at him? Anything?”

Din shook his head. “No.”

“Did he seem depressed?” Cynthia asked.

“Not him.” Din ruefully smiled. “I was drunk but I remember his smart mouth.”

“Did he mention cars, hubcaps?”

“No. Said he didn't do anything. He didn't belong there and he'd get out. I said I slugged a cop and he laughed. I didn't mean to hit Yancy. Didn't mean to—well, I was drunk.”

“We know,” Rick replied. “Did you notice anything unusual about Wesley himself?”

“No.”

“Did Wesley mention doing business with anyone in town?”

“No.”

“Did he mention a truck?”

“No.”

Cooper spoke again. “Would you say he was calm, agitated, surly, afraid?”

“Uh. Watchful. We didn't say too much to one another. He told me if I puked he'd kill me. When I woke up he was gone.”

“By the way,” Rick said, “how'd you get to work this morning?”

“Walked.”

“In the rain?” Coop inquired.

“I'll be walking in the rain for a long time. I'm gonna lose my license for three years.”

“Maybe you should stop drinking.” She handed him an AA number. “Can't hurt to try.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

“Call the number, Din,” Coop urged him. “The next time we pick you up it could be in a body bag or you'll have killed someone else.”

“It'll be three years from now. I won't drive.”

“Don't drink. You can't handle it,” she flatly stated.

“Go on back to work,” Rick told him.

Din turned to go, then stopped. “What happened to that kid?”

“Found him hanging from a tree.”

Din blinked. “Shit.”

“If you think of anything, call us.”

“That asshole would have never hung himself,” Din blurted out.

“That's our assessment of the situation, too,” Rick said.

Back in the squad car, Rick and Coop wiped their faces, damp again from the rain.

Rick pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Never received a report for a stolen truck.”

“The eighty-seven GMC.” She lit up as well. “Maybe it wasn't stolen.”

“That has occurred to me.”

“Who'd lend him a truck?”

“Someone stupid.” Rick inhaled. “Or someone who's a fence.”

“O'Bannons?”

“Thought of that. Tim O'Bannon would have killed his kids if they'd ever pulled a stunt like that. He was as honest as the day is long. He'd never take stolen goods.”

“The old man's dead.”

Rick paused. “Sean's not that stupid. Make a couple of thousand tax-free dollars but jeopardize your whole business by selling stolen goods? He wouldn't do it.”

“Who knows?” Cooper opened the window a crack to let the smoke out but the rain snuck through the crack. Even though she quickly put the window up, her right thigh was wet. “Damn.”

“No point driving until I can see where I'm going.” He sighed. “Coop, apart from drugs, what could bring in big bucks? Moonshine can still make you rich if you're careful,” he noted.

Neither one had to tell the other that they were treating the demise of Wesley Partlow as murder. It's true that people can harbor deep pain and secret losses and finally do themselves in. And sometimes a surly façade covers pain; but both officers of the law felt that wasn't the case. Someone threw a rope over that fiddle tree and strung up Wesley Partlow just like in the Wild West.

“I searched the computer for a criminal record. Wesley Partlow managed to keep his nose clean. He was smarter than I gave him credit for. I thought he was just a dumb punk.”

“He goes in the ground after that autopsy.” Rick squinted, the rain had let up a little. “How's your appetite?”

“Why?”

“Haven't lost it after this morning?”

“No. Have you lost yours?”

“Takes more than a hanged man to do that. Let's go to the Riverside Café.”

“I'll call Big Mim on the way. The news will be spreading all over Crozet. You know those two kids will tell. They'll have nightmares for months.”

“Yep.” He turned right out of the parking lot, heading for the intersection of High Street and Free Bridge. “Wait a second before calling the Queen of Crozet. Did you check out the number of 1987 GMC half-ton trucks in Virginia?”

“Over twenty thousand, four-wheel drive and two-wheel, still on the road.”

“How about in Albemarle County?”

“Yancy's on that since he has to sit around. Guess he'll be sitting around for a while.”

“Okay.”

“We don't know if the truck is registered here. Could be out of state.”

“I know.”

“Like a jigsaw puzzle,” she said, “all the pieces have been dumped on the table in a heap.”

He turned toward her. “Maybe all the pieces aren't on the table.”