Pawing Through the Past (10 page)

“That’s true.”
Pewter, now on the table, agreed.
“No one much cares because they think it doesn’t have anything to do with them.”

“Like I said, ‘Expect a trap where the ground is smoothest.’”

18

The dually’s motor rumbled as Harry leaned over to drop Tracy’s rent check and her deposit slip in the outdoor deposit box on the side of the bank.

The truck gobbled gas, which she could ill afford, but the thrill of driving her new truck to town on her lunch hour superseded prudence.

Susan had given her expensive sheepskin seat covers, which pleased the animals as much as it pleased Harry. They lounged on the luxurious surface, the cats “kneading bread.”

Harry flew through the morning’s chores, then drove over to Fair’s clinic at lunch.

“Hi, Ruth.” She smiled at the receptionist.

“He’s in the back.” Ruth nodded toward the back.

Harry and the animals found him studying X-rays.

“Look.” He pointed to a splint, a bone sliver detaching from a horse’s cannon bone, a bone roughly equivalent to the human forearm.

“Doesn’t look bad enough to operate.” She’d seen lots of X-rays during their marriage.

“Hope not. It should reattach. Splints are more common than not.” He switched off the light box. “Hello, kids.”

The animals greeted him eagerly.

“Here, you’re a peach.” Harry smiled on the word
peach
. She handed him a check.

“What’s this?”

“Partial payment on my old truck. Five hundred dollars a month for four months. I called Art for the real price. He told me to take anything you’d give me but I can’t—really. It’s not right.”

“I don’t want the money. That was a gift.” He frowned.

“It’s too big a gift. I can’t take it, as much as I appreciate it.”

“No strings. I owe it to you.”

“No you don’t.” She shoved back the check that he held out to her.

“Harry, you can be a real pain in the ass.”

“Who’s talking?” Her voice raised.

“I’m leaving.”
Mrs. Murphy headed for the door, only to jump sideways as Ruth rushed in.

“Doc, Sheriff Shaw has Bill Wiggins in the squad car.”

“Huh?”

Ruth, almost overwhelmed by the mass of curly gray hair atop her head, breathlessly said, “Margaret Anstein called from the station house. She’s the new receptionist at the sheriff’s office—or station house, that’s what she calls it. She just called me to say Rick was bringing in Bill Wiggins for questioning about Charlie’s murder.”

“You can’t get away with anything in this town.” Fair carefully slid the X-rays in a big heavy white envelope.

“That Marcy is a pretty girl. Just Charlie’s type.” Ruth smacked her lips.

“They were all Charlie’s type,” Harry said.

“She wasn’t at the funeral,” Ruth said.

“Why should she be? She’s new,” Fair replied, irritated that Ruth and most of Crozet had jumped to conclusions.

“The other new people were there. A funeral is a good place to meet people,” Ruth blathered.

“Unless they’re dead.”
Pewter twitched her whiskers and followed Murphy to the door.

19

Harry no sooner walked through the back door to the post office than Miranda rushed over to her.

“There’s been another one.”

“Another what?”

“Mailing. Open your mail. You’re always late in opening your mail.”

Harry picked up her pile on the little table in the back.

“This one.” Miranda pointed out a folded-over, stapled sheet.

“Who else . . . ?”

“Susan, BoomBoom, Bill, and—”

Harry exclaimed, “What a jerk!”

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter stuck their heads over the paper that Harry held in her hands.

“What is it?”
Tucker asked.

“Typed. ‘Sorry, Charlie. Who’s next?’ and a drop of red ink like a drop of blood,”
the tiger answered.

Harry flipped over the page, which allowed Tucker to see it. “22905. The Barracks Road post office again. It’s funny no one said anything this morning.”

“Because none of your classmates came in before lunch. BoomBoom was at her therapist’s and Susan spent the morning in Richmond. The only reason I know that Bill got one was that Marcy called once she got home. Guess she opens his mail. Not right to do that.” Miranda believed mail was sacrosanct, the last intimate form of communication.

Harry dialed Vonda, the postmistress at Barracks Road. “Hi, Vonda, Harry. How you doin’?”

Vonda, a pretty woman but not one to babble on, said, “Fine, how are you?”

“Okay, except my classmates and I have gotten another one of these mailings from your post office. Folded over, stapled. Looks to be run off from a color Xerox.”

“Bulk?”

“No. They’re too smart for a bulk rate. A regular stamp and yesterday’s postmark. Did anyone come to the counter with a handful?” Harry knew Vonda would remember, if she’d been behind the counter.

“No. Let me ask the others.” Vonda put down the phone. She returned in a minute. “They were pushed through the mail slot. Mary says they were in the bin when she started sorting at elevenish. Second full bin of the day.”

“Keep your eyes open. This is getting kind of creepy.”

“I will. But it’s very easy to walk in and out of here without attracting notice.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Vonda.” Harry hung up the phone.

“Barracks Road gets more traffic in a day than we get in a week,”
Pewter remarked.

“Second busiest post office in the county.”
Mrs. Murphy knew enough to be a postmistress herself.
“Even busier than the university station.”
The main post office on Seminole Trail was the busiest, of course.

“Does Rick know?” Harry asked.

“Yes. Susan called him the minute she picked up her mail.” Mrs. Hogendobber paused. “Did you hear that Rick hauled in Bill Wiggins for questioning?”

“Ruth told me. I stopped by Fair’s clinic.”

“Doesn’t look good, does it?” Miranda pursed her lipstick-covered lips.

“For Bill?”

“No, in general.”

“I want to know why Bill?”

“Perhaps he was Charlie’s doctor. It’s entirely possible that Charlie had cancer. He’d never tell.”

“I never thought of that.” Harry looked down at Tucker, who was looking up. “That doesn’t mean Bill will reveal anything. Aren’t doctor-patient relationships privileged?”

“I think they are. Doesn’t mean Rick won’t try.”

Mrs. Murphy batted at the paper. Harry dropped it on the table. “What a sick thing to do. Send out . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter both stared at the 8 ½″ x 11″ white page.

“Looks like a warning to me,”
Pewter said.

“What happened back then? Back when Harry graduated,”
Tucker sensibly asked.

“I don’t know. And more to the point, she doesn’t know.”
Mrs. Murphy looked up at Harry.
“If something dreadful had happened and she knew about it, she’d tell the sheriff.”
Mrs. Murphy sat on the paper.

“Yes. She would.”
Pewter shuddered.

20

Rick Shaw made drawings, flow sheets, time charts, which he color-coded, sticking them on the long cork bulletin board he installed at the station. Being a visual thinker he needed charts.

Every employee of the Farmington Country Club was questioned. Every member at the club that evening had been questioned also, which put a few noses out of joint.

He paced up and down the aisle in front of the bulletin board, eighteen feet. Although pacing was a habit he declared it burned calories. When he slid into middle age he noticed the pounds stuck to him like yellow jackets. You’d brush them off only to have them return. He’d lost fifteen pounds and was feeling better but he had another fifteen to go.

“You’re wearing me out.” Cynthia tapped her pencil on the side of her desk.

“Get up and walk with me.” He smiled at her, his hands clasped behind his back. “This is such a straightforward murder, Coop, that we ought to be able to close the case and yet we haven’t a firm suspect. Bill Wiggins is our most logical candidate but the guy has an airtight alibi. He was with a patient at Martha Jefferson Hospital.”

She plopped her pencil in a Ball jar she kept on her desk for that purpose and joined him. “The fact that Charlie was shot at such a close range implies he knew who killed him.”

“No, it doesn’t. There’s not a lot of room in the men’s locker room. A stranger could have come in as though going to a locker. Charlie wouldn’t have paid much attention.”

“Yeah.” Coop knew he was right, and it frustrated her.

“All we have is Hunter Hughes’ testimony that he thought he saw a slender man come down from the landing. He heard the footsteps because he had left the counter in the golf shop and had walked outside for a smoke. He worked until nine that evening. He assumed the man was leaving the men’s grill, heard the footsteps and as he turned to go back into the golf shop he saw the back of an average-sized male wearing a white linen-like jacket. This was close to the time of the murder. That’s all we’ve got.”

They both stopped in front of the detailed drawing of the country club golf shop, grill, and the men’s locker room, along with a sketch of the buildings on that side of the club.

“But when we questioned the manager of the grill, he doesn’t remember anyone at the bar about that time.”

“Could have been a member passing through from the 19th Hole to the back stairway on the second floor, since it would be a faster route to the men’s locker room.”

“What if our killer came out of the pool side?” She pointed to the pool, which was behind the long brick structure containing the locker room and golf shop.

“Easy. It would have been easy to park behind the caretaker’s house. The car would have been in the dark. Walking up here behind the huge boxwoods would have made it easy to escape detection.” He pointed to the sketch. “For that matter the killer could have sat in his car. Who would notice back here? Whoever he is, he knows the routine and layout of the club. He knew no big party was planned that night. Then again, the schedule is published monthly, so it’s easily accessible. It goes to each member plus it’s posted at the front desk.”

“A member.” She nodded. “Knowing the layout points in that direction.”

“Yeah, or an employee”—Rick folded his arms across his chest—“possible but unlikely.”

“A jealous husband could have paid a professional.”

“Could have.”

She turned to face her boss. “But it smacks of a deeper connection. ‘Up close and personal,’ like they used to say during the Olympics coverage.”

“Sure does. Our killer wanted to get right in Charlie’s face.”

21

“Not so fast!” Denny Rablan called from behind the camera. He was beginning to wonder why he was doing this, even if it was for his class reunion.

Bonnie, black curls shaking with laughter, sped on her bicycle toward a short but handsome Leo Burkey, also pedaling to pick up momentum. Bonnie and Leo screamed at one another as they approached. Chris Sharpton buried her face in her hands since she thought they’d crash.

BoomBoom, standing behind Denny, appeared immobile while Harry giggled. She knew Bonnie and Leo were thoroughly enjoying discomfiting BoomBoom, who was determined to follow through on her before-and-after idea.

The two pedaled more furiously, heading straight for one another, at the last minute averting the crash.

“That’s not funny!” BoomBoom bellowed.

“Olivia, you have no sense of humor. You never did.” Bonnie called BoomBoom by her given name.

Her maiden name had been Olivia Ulrich but she’d been called BoomBoom ever since puberty. Only Boom’s mother called her Olivia, a name she loathed although it was beautiful. Once she married Kelly Craycroft she happily dumped all references to Ulrich, since the Craycrofts carried more social cachet than the Ulrichs.

Eyes narrowed, BoomBoom advanced on Bonnie, who merrily pedaled away from her. “Get serious, Baltier! This is costing us. Time is money.”

“God, what a rocket scientist.” Leo smiled, revealing huge white teeth.

“You’re a big, fat help.” BoomBoom pointed a finger at him.

“I thought dear Denny was giving us his services for free.” He innocently held up his hands, riding without them.

“I am. Almost,” Dennis growled. “A greatly reduced rate.”

“Well, Denny, my man, if you hadn’t pissed away a fortune, you could do this for free, couldn’t you?”

“Leo, shut up. It’s over and done. I live with my mistakes and I don’t throw your screwups in your face.”

Leo rode in circles around the tall, thin, attractive photographer. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I could name your screwups. They all have feminine names.”

Leo stopped the bike. He put his feet on the ground and walked the few steps to face Dennis. “So many women. So little time. Not that I’m in Charlie’s league.”

“Guess not. Charlie’s dead.”

“Did you get that asinine letter?”

“I figured you did it.” Dennis smirked.

“Sure. I drove all the way from Richmond to Charlottesville to send a mailing with fake blood drops. Get real.”

“I wouldn’t put anything past you.”

“No?” Leo’s light hazel eyes widened. “Remember this: I’m not stupid. You were stupid. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Jesus, Denny, by the time you got off the merry-go-round you were broken. How could you do that?”

“Too loaded to care, man.” Dennis’s mouth clamped like a vise.

“I think you broke bad in high school.”

“Leo, I don’t give a damn what you think.” Dennis turned his back on the shorter but more powerfully built man.

The others glanced over at the two men, then glanced away. Dennis and Leo were oil and water. Always had been.

“Shiny nose,” Bitsy Valenzuela, in charge of makeup, called out.

Bonnie, ignoring BoomBoom—something she had perfected throughout high school—glided over to Bitsy.

Chris Sharpton picked up the orange cone she’d dropped when she thought the two were going to crash at high speed. Stationed at the entrance to the high-school parking lot, she put the cone upright. If anyone drove in they’d see the blaze-orange cone, see her and stop. She could direct them toward the rear. She stood there forlorn since no one drove through this early September afternoon. Many of the kids were behind the school at football practice.

“Listen, you two, we haven’t got all day. Just get in position. Put the bikes down.”

Finally obeying, both Bonnie and Leo approached one an-other and screeched to a halt.

“Put that bike down carefully, Leo, it’s an antique,” BoomBoom again commanded.

“No one is going to know if this bike is twenty years old or not. You’re getting carried away with this,” Leo said, but he did restrain himself from saying other, less pleasant things.

Bonnie laid her bike down, turning the wheel up just as it was in the original photograph. Leo’s bike took more work. It stood on its front wheel in the original photograph as though the wreck had just happened. Harry, Susan Tucker, and a very subdued Marcy Wiggins set two blocks on either side of the front wheel. Since Leo would be sprawled on the ground his body would cover the blocks. They then braced the back side of the bicycle with a thin iron pole. As this was a balancing act, the two principals lay on the ground. The first time the shot had been taken, in 1979, the bike kept falling on Leo. The next day he was covered with bruises. Harry, Susan, and Marcy hoped they had secured the bicycle better than that but they also held their breath, hoping Nature would do likewise.

“Hurry up, Denny, this asphalt is hot!” Leo barked.

“Stay still, idiot.” Denny said “idiot” under his breath. He shot the whole roll in record time.

Bonnie, thinking ahead, had taped bits of moleskin and padding on her one elbow and knee. She was on them as though she’d just hit the ground on her side. Still, the heat came through the padding.

Leo got up. “That’s enough.”

“We just started!” BoomBoom exploded.

The propped bicycle wobbled, falling with a metallic crash, spinning spokes throwing off sunlight.

Harry ran over, picked it up. Luckily there were no scratches.

“If that bike is broken, I’ll kill you,” BoomBoom, often the butt of Leo’s high-school pranks, hissed.

“Don’t get your ovaries in an uproar, Boom. If the damned bicycle is scratched I’ll fix it. You know, here it is twenty years later and you still haven’t learned how to lighten up.”

“Here it is twenty years later and you still haven’t grown up,” she fired back.

Chris left her cone. This was too good to miss.

Bonnie, ever the pragmatist, walked over to Denny. “Think you got it?”

“Yeah, that asphalt really is too hot to shoot this picture. The first time we did this it was later in the fall, remember?”

“October.” Harry rolled the bike over to the two of them. “We voted on senior superlatives mid-October.”

“What a good memory.” Denny couldn’t remember what he’d eaten for supper the night before but then, given his past, a bad memory was a blessing.

“Remember when Leo made a crack to Ron Brindell in the cafeteria the day after the results were announced? Remember? Ron won Most Popular and Leo said they should shoot his picture in the locker room.” Harry continued to wipe down the bike.

Leo had joined them. “Yeah.”

Chris innocently asked, “Why’d you say that?”

“Ron was such a limp-wristed wimp. I said they should shoot him in the showers bent over with the naked guys behind him. He took a swing at me, that skinny little twit. I decked him and got a month of detention.”

“Was he gay?” Chris wondered.

“He moved to San Francisco.” Leo laughed as though that proved his point.

“That doesn’t mean he was gay,” Harry piped up. “I liked him.”

“Yeah, you aren’t a guy.” Leo smoothed back his light brown hair.

“Speak no ill of the dead,” Susan Tucker admonished as she picked up Bonnie’s bike.

“Three of the superlatives are dead.” Leo slipped his hands in his back pants pockets. “Maybe it’s a bad omen.” Then he imi-tated the
Twilight Zone
music.

“Ron and Aurora died long before now,” BoomBoom, tired of Leo, said. Her alto voice carried over the parking lot. “As for Charlie, bad karma.”

“He should have gone into pornographic films. Charlie Ashcraft, porn star. He would have been happier than as a stockbroker,” Leo laughed.

“Funny thing is, he was a good stockbroker.” Bonnie peeled off the moleskin.

“He was?” Leo was surprised.

“Prudent. He made a lot of money for people.” Susan added, “Odd, how a person can be so reckless in one aspect of his life and so shrewd in another.”

Marcy and Bitsy had joined them, Marcy adding to the conversation, “My husband says that men can compartmentalize better than women. There’s a compartment for work, for family, for sex. It’s easy for them.” She’d taken to talking more fondly of Bill lately, perhaps to ward off gossip about her alleged relationship with Charlie. She was too late, of course.

Denny shrugged. “I don’t know. Charlie must have had some thick walls between those compartments.”

Harry took one of the bicycles, rolling it over to her red truck. She’d placed blankets on the floor of the truck bed so neither the bicycle nor the truck would get scratched. She wanted to buy a bedliner for the truck but hadn’t had time to get one installed. She lifted the bike onto the dropped tailgate.

Chris came over. “Let me help.”

“Okay, I’ll hop in here and if you hop in on the other side we can lift it to the back. I’ve got ties to keep it from slipping.”

“Who’s taking the other bike?” Chris asked.

“Susan. It’s her son’s. Good thing. I’d hate to stack the bikes on one another. I think the first scratch to this truck will be a blow to my heart.” She smiled. “Silly.”

“Human.” Chris wrapped yellow rope under the bike frame.

Bonnie and Susan walked over. “Are you going to dinner?”

“No,” Harry responded.

“What about you, Chris?”

She turned to Susan. “BoomBoom told me she’d promised dinner to Bonnie and Leo since they had to drive a bit to get here. I don’t want to intrude.”

Susan said, “We’ve decided on Dutch treat. Come on. It will be fun. If for no other reason than to watch Leo torment Boom. Sure you don’t want to come, Harry?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got chores to do.” She tried to tolerate BoomBoom better these days but she’d not volunteer to spend time with her.

As she opened the door to the truck, Chris asked, “Denny asked me to dinner this Saturday. I don’t know much about him. Is he an okay guy?”

Susan replied, “He’s made a lot of bad decisions but, yeah, he’s okay. At least he has learned from his messes.”

Chris looked to Harry, who shrugged. “Go.”

“He’s divorced?”

“Years ago. I don’t know why he married in the first place. They had nothing in common,” Susan said.

“Date a lot of men, it helps refine your standards.” Harry laughed. “Advice I should have taken myself.”

“Thanks.” Chris smiled, then walked back to Dennis, who was putting away his equipment. He smiled as she approached him.

When Harry arrived home she found that the washer in the kitchen faucet had been replaced, the weather stripping on the door was replaced, a blackboard hung next to the kitchen door, a box of colored chalk was suspended by a chain attached to the blackboard. Written in green on the blackboard was the message, “Taking Cuddles to the movies. See you in the morning. Pewter has something to show you.”

“Pewts,” Harry called.

A little voice answered from the living room. Harry walked in to find Pewter proudly guarding a skink that she’d dispatched. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker flanked the gray cat.

“I caught him all by myself,”
Pewter crowed.

“Sort of,”
Mrs. Murphy added.

“Pewter, what a good kitty.” Harry petted her. She went outside to check the horses, finished up her chores with fading light, and went to bed, glad she wasn’t forced to relive old times at dinner.