Murder on the Prowl (22 page)

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 students 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.

“He's a good neighbor.” Harry smiled. “Little Mim's pegged him for every social occasion between now and Christmas, I swear.”

“He doesn't seem to mind.”

“What choice does he have? Piss off a Sanburne?” Her eyebrows rose.

“Point taken.” Cynthia nodded, feeling better already.

“When you girls stop chewing the fat, I'd be tickled pink to get back to business.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Spoilsport,” Harry teased him. “If we take our minds off the problem, we usually find the answer.”

“That's the biggest bunch of bull I've heard since ‘Read my lips: No new taxes,'” Rick snorted.

“Read my lips: Come to the locker room.”
The tiger cat let out a hoot.

“Was that a hiccup?” Cynthia bent down to pat Mrs. Murphy.

“Let's try the old run away–run back routine.”
Tucker ripped out of the room and ran halfway down the hall, her claws clicking on the wooden floor, then raced back.

“Let's all do it.”
Mrs. Murphy followed the dog. Pewter spun out so fast her hind legs slipped away from her.

“Nuts.” Rick watched, shaking his head.

“Playful.” Coop checked the mail. There wasn't anything that caught her eye as odd.

Halfway down the hall the animals screeched to a halt, bumping into one another.

“Idiots.”
Mrs. Murphy puffed her tail. The fur on the back of her neck stood up.

“We could try again.”
Tucker felt that repetition was the key with humans.

“No. I'll crawl up Mother's leg. That gets her attention.”

“Doesn't mean she'll follow us,”
Pewter replied pragmatically.

“Have you got a better idea?”
The tiger whirled on the gray cat.

“No, Your Highness.”

The silent animals reentered the room. Mrs. Murphy walked over to Harry, rubbed against her leg, and purred.

“Sweetie, we'll go in a minute.”

That fast Murphy climbed up Harry's legs. The jeans blunted the claws, yet enough of those sharp daggers pierced the material to make Harry yelp.

“Follow me!”
She dropped off Harry's leg and ran to the door, stopping to turn a somersault.

“Show-off,”
Pewter muttered under her breath.

“You can't do a somersault,”
Murphy taunted her.

“Oh, yes, I can.”
Pewter ran to the door and leapt into the air. Her somersault was a little wobbly and lopsided, but it was a somersault.

“You know, every now and then they get like this,” Harry explained sheepishly. “Maybe I'll see what's up.”

“I'll go with you.”

“You're both loose as ashes.” Rick grabbed the mail.

As Harry and Cynthia followed the animals, they noticed a few classrooms back in use.

“That's good, I guess,” Cynthia remarked.

“Well, once you-all decided to work out of the school to question students, some of the parents figured it would be safe to send the kids back.” Harry giggled. “Easier than having them at home, no matter what.”

“Are we on a hike?” Cynthia noticed the three animals had stopped at the backdoor to the main building and were staring at the humans with upturned faces.

When Harry opened the door, they shot out, galloping across the quad. “All right, you guys, this is a con!”

“No, it isn't.”
The tiger trotted back to reassure the two wavering humans.
“Come on. We've got an idea. It's more than any of you have.”

“I could use some fresh air.” Cynthia felt the first snow-flake of winter alight on her nose.

“Me, too. Miranda will have to wait.”

They crossed the quad, the snowflakes making a light tapping sound as they hit tree branches. The walkway was slick but not white yet. In the distance between the main building and the gymnasium, the snow thickened.

“Hurry up. It's cold,”
Pewter exhorted them.

The humans reached the front door of the gym and opened it. The animals dashed inside.

Mrs. Murphy glanced over her shoulder to see if they were behind her. She ran to the girls' gym door at one corner of the trophy hall. The other two animals marched behind her.

“This is a wild-goose chase.” Cynthia laughed.

“Who knows, but it gives you a break from Rick. He's just seething up there.”

“He gets like that until he cracks a case. He blames himself for everything.”

They walked into the locker room. All three animals sat in front of 114. The line of dead ants was still there.

Since each locker wore a combination lock like a ring hanging from a bull's nose, they couldn't get into the locker.

But it gave Cynthia an idea. She found Coach Hallvard, who checked her list. Number 114 belonged to Jody Miller. Cynthia requested that the coach call her girls in to open their lockers.

An hour later, Coach Hallvard, an engine of energy, had each field hockey player, lacrosse, basketball, track and field, anyone on junior varsity or varsity standing in front of her locker.

Harry, back at work, missed the fireworks. When 114 was opened, an open can of Coca-Cola was the source of the ant patrol. However, 117 contained a Musketeer costume. The locker belonged to Karen Jensen.

54

Rick paced, his hands behind his back. Karen sobbed that she knew nothing about the costume, which was an expensive one.

“Ask anybody. I was Artemis, and I never left the dance,” she protested. She was also feeling low because a small amount of marijuana had been found in her gym bag.

Rick got a court order to open lockers, cutting locks off if necessary. He had found a virtual pharmacy at St. Elizabeth's. These kids raided Mom and Dad's medicine chest with regularity or they had a good supplier. Valium, Percodan, Quaaludes, speed, amyl nitrate, a touch of cocaine, and a good amount of marijuana competed with handfuls of anabolic steroids in the boys' varsity lockers.

Hardened though he was, he was unprepared for the extent of drug use at the school. When he pressured one of the football players, he heard the standard argument: if you're playing football against guys who use steroids and you don't, you get creamed. If a boy wants to excel at certain sports, he's got to get into drugs sooner or later. The drug of choice was human growth hormone, but none of the kids could find it, and it was outrageously expensive. Steroids were a lot easier to cop.

The next shocker came when Cynthia checked the rental of the Musketeer costume using a label sewn into the neck of the tunic. She reached an outfitter in Washington, D.C. They reported they were missing a Musketeer costume, high quality.

It had been rented by Maury McKinchie using his MasterCard.