Wish You Were Here (11 page)

20

Ned Tucker was informed by Barbara Apperton at Citizen's National Bank that the withdrawal from his account was correct and had been made with his credit card after hours. Ned fulminated. Barbara said she'd get a copy of the videotape, since these transactions were recorded. That way they'd both find out who used the credit card. Mrs. Apperton asked if the credit card was missing and Ned said no. He said he'd be down at the bank tomorrow.

The missing five hundred dollars wouldn't break the Tucker family but it was unwelcome news when Ned was paying the bills.

Troubled by this small mystery on top of the grotesque ones, Susan entered the post office only to witness Rick Shaw grilling Harry.

“You can't prove where you were Friday night or in the wee hours Saturday morning?” The sheriff stuck his thumbs in his Sam Browne belt.

“No.” Harry patted Mrs. Murphy, who watched Rick with her golden eyes.

Susan came alongside the counter. Rick kept at it. “No one was with you on the nights of the two murders?”

“No. Not after eleven
P
.
M
. on the night of Maude's murder. I live alone now.”

“This doesn't look good, with your animals in Maude Bly Modena's shop. Just what are you up to and what are you hiding?”

“Nothing.” This wasn't exactly true, because under the counter, neatly placed in a large manila envelope, were the Claudius Crozet letters. Mrs. Hogendobber had smuggled the copies of the accounting books to her home.

“You're telling me your cat and dog entered the shop without your opening the door?” Rick's voice dripped disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Bob Berryman let us in,”
Mrs. Murphy said but no one listened to her.

“Buzz off, Shaw,”
Tucker growled.

“You don't leave town without telling me, Miz Haristeen.” Rick slapped the counter with his right palm.

Susan intruded. “Rick, you can't possibly believe that Harry's a murderer. The only people who can prove where they were in the middle of the night are the married ones faithful to their spouses.”

“That leaves out much of Crozet,” Harry wryly noted.

“And the ones who are together can lie for each other. Maybe this isn't the work of one person. Maybe it's a team.” Susan hoisted herself up on the counter.

“That possibility hasn't escaped me.”

Harry put her mouth next to Mrs. Murphy's ear. “What were you doing in Maude's shop, you devil?”

“I told you.”
Mrs. Murphy touched Harry's nose.

“She's telling you something,” Susan observed.

“That she wants some kitty crunchies, I bet.” Harry smiled.

“Don't take this so lightly,” Rick warned.

“I'm not.” Harry's face darkened. “But I don't know what to do about this, any more than you do. We're not stupid, Rick. We know the murderer is someone close to home, someone we know and trust. No one's sleeping soundly anymore in Crozet.”

“Neither am I.” Rick's voice softened. He rather liked Harry. “Look, I'm not paid to be nice. I'm paid to get results.”

“We know.” Susan crossed her legs under her. “We want you to and we'll help you in any way that we can.”

“Thanks.” Rick patted Mrs. Murphy. “What were you doing in there, kitty cat?”

“I told you,”
Mrs. Murphy moaned.

After Rick left, Susan whispered, “How did they get in the shop?”

Harry sighed. “I wish I knew.”

 

That night, after a supper of cottage cheese on a bed of lettuce sprinkled with sunflower seeds, Harry pulled out the postcards and her mother's huge magnifying glass. She shone a bright light over the card to Kelly and placed the card Rob lent her next to it. The inks were different colors. The true Paris postmark was a slightly darker shade. Also, the lettering of the cancellation stamp on Kelly's postcard was not precisely flush. This was also the case for the lettering on Maude's postcard. The “A” in Asheville was out of line the tiniest bit. She switched off the light.

The postcards were a signal. She remembered when Maude received hers. She didn't act like a woman under the threat of death. She was irritated that the sender hadn't signed his or her name.

The floorboards creaked as Harry paced over them. What did she know? She knew the killer was close at hand. She knew the killer had a sense of humor and was perhaps even sporting, since he or she had fired a warning shot, so to speak. She knew the mangling of the bodies was designed to throw people off the scent. Just why, she wasn't sure. The mess might have been to disguise the method of murder or it might have been to keep people from looking elsewhere, but why and for what? Or worse, it could have been a sick joke.

The other thing she knew was that Claudius Crozet was important to Maude. Tomorrow she was determined to call Marie, the secretary at the concrete plant, to find out if Kelly ever mentioned the famous engineer. She fixed a stiff cup of coffee—a spoon could stand up in the liquid—and sat down at the kitchen table to read the letters.

By one in the morning she was ravenous and wished that someone would figure out a way to fax a pizza. She ate more cottage cheese and kept reading. Crozet wrote in detail about the process of cutting the tunnels. The boring for the tunnels proceeded around the clock in three eight-hour shifts for eight solid years. The Brooksville tunnel proved extremely dangerous. The rock, seemingly sound, was soft as the men bit deeper into the mountain. Cave-ins and rockslides dumped on their heads like hard rain.

The physical difficulties occasionally paled beside the human ones. The tunnel rats were men of Ireland, but from two different parts of the Emerald Isle. The men of Cork disdained the Fardowners, the men of Northern Ireland. One bitter night, on February 2, 1850, a riot shook Augusta County. The militia was called out to separate the warring factions and the jail burst at the seams with bloodied Irishmen. By the next morning both sides agreed that they'd only desired a little fight and the authorities accepted that explanation. After breaking a few bones and sitting out the night in jail, the men got along just fine.

The Blue Ridge Railroad Company ran out of money with alarming frequency. The state of Virginia wasn't much help. The general contractor, John Kelly, paid the men out of his own pocket and accepted paper from the state—a brave man indeed.

When Claudius Crozet described the mail train rolling through the last completed tunnel on April 13, 1858, Harry was almost as excited as he must have been.

She finished the letters, eyes burning, and hauled herself into bed. She sensed that the tunnels meant something, but why? And which one? The Greenwood and Brooksville had been sealed since after 1944. She was going to have to go out there. She finally fell into a troubled slumber.

21

A full moon radiated silvery light over the back meadows, making the cornflowers glow a deep purple. Bats darted in and out of the towering conifers and in and out of the eaves of Harry's house.

Mrs. Murphy sat on the back porch. Tucker's snoring could be heard in the background. The cat was restless but she knew in the morning she'd blame it on Tucker, telling her that she'd kept her awake. Tucker accused Mrs. Murphy of making up stories about her snoring.

What was really keeping Mrs. Murphy awake was Harry. She wished her friend lacked curiosity. Curiosity rarely killed the cat but it certainly got humans in trouble. She feared Harry might trigger a response in the killer if she got too close. Mrs. Murphy had great pride where Harry was concerned, and if any human was smart enough to put the pieces of this ragged puzzle together it would be her Harry. But putting together a puzzle and protecting yourself were two different things. Because Harry couldn't conceive of killing another human being, she couldn't believe anyone would want to kill her.

Humans fascinated Mrs. Murphy. Their time was squandered in pursuing nonessential objects. Food, clothing, and shelter weren't enough for them, and they drove themselves and everyone around them crazy, including animals, for their toys. Mrs. Murphy thought cars, a motor toy, absurd. That's why horses were born. What's the big hurry, anyway? But if people wanted speed she could accept that—after all, it was a physical pleasure. What she couldn't accept was that these creatures worked and worked and then didn't enjoy what they worked for; they were too busy paying for things they couldn't afford. By the time they paid for the toy it was worn out and they wanted another one. Worse, they weren't satisfied with themselves. They were always on some self-improvement jag. This astonished Mrs. Murphy. Why couldn't people just be? But they couldn't just
be
—they had to be the best. Poor sick things. No wonder they died from diseases they brought on themselves.

One of the reasons she loved Harry was that Harry was more animal-like than other people. She loved the outdoors. She wasn't driven to own a lot of toys. She was happy with what she had. She wished that Harry didn't have to go to the post office every day but it was fun to see the other people, so if the woman had to work, this wasn't so bad. However, people disregarded Harry because she wasn't driven. Mrs. Murphy thought they were foolish. Harry was better than any of them.

Good as Harry was, she displayed the weaknesses of her breed. Mating was complicated for her. Divorce, a human invention, further complicated the simplicity of biology. Also, Harry missed communication from Mrs. Murphy. Although Harry wasn't afraid of the night, she was vulnerable in it. Perhaps because their eyes are bad, humans feel like prey in the darkness.

Night animals are associated with evil by humans. Bats especially scared them, which Mrs. Murphy thought silly. Humans didn't know enough about the chain of life to go about killing animals that offended them. They killed bats, coyotes, foxes—the night hunters. Their fears and their inability to comprehend how animals are connected, including themselves, would bring everyone to a sorry state. Mrs. Murphy, semidomesticated and enjoying her closeness to Harry, had no desire to see the nondomesticated animals killed. She understood why the wild animals hated people. Sometimes she hated them, too, except for Harry.

A shadowy movement caught her eye. Her ears moved forward. She inhaled deeply. What was he doing here?

A sleek, handsome Paddy moved toward the back porch.

“Hello, Paddy.”

“Hello, my sweet.”
Paddy's deep purr was hypnotic.
“How are you on this fine, soft night?”

“Thinking long thoughts and watching the clouds swirl around the moon. Were you hunting?”

“A little of this and a little of that. I'm out for the medicinal powers of the velvety night air. And what were your long thoughts?”
His whiskers sparkled against his black face.

“That the so-called bad animals like coyotes, bats, and snakes are more useful to earth than human drug addicts.”

“I don't like snakes.”

“But they are useful.”

“Yes. They can be useful far away from me.”
He licked his paw and then rubbed his face.
“Why don't you come out and play?”

He was tempting, even though she knew how worthless he was. He was still the best-looking tom in Crozet.
“I've got to watch over Harry.”

“It's the middle of the night and she's safe.”

“I hope so, Paddy. I'm worried about this killer.”

“Oh, that. What's that got to do with Harry?”

“She's sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. Miss Amateur Detective.”

“Does the killer know?”

“That's just it, isn't it? We don't know who it is, only that it's someone we know.”

“Summer's a strange time to kill anyone,”
Paddy reflected.
“I can understand it in the winter when the food supply is low—not that I approve of it. But in the summer there's enough for everyone.”

“They don't kill over food.”

“True enough.”
Humans bored Paddy.
“See those fireflies dancing? That's what I want to do: dance in the moonlight, sing to the stars, jump straight up at the moon.”
He turned a somersault.

“I'm staying inside.”

“Oh, Mrs. Murphy, you've become much too serious. I remember you when you would chase sunbeams. You even chased me.”

“I did not. You chased me.”
Her fur ruffled.

“Ha, all the girls chased me. I thought it was wonderful to be chased by a bright tiger lass whose name, of all things, was Mrs. Murphy. Humans give us the silliest names.”

“Paddy, you're full of catnip and moonshine.”

“Not Muffy or Skippy or Snowball or Scooter or even Rambette, but Mrs. Murphy.”
He shook his head.

“I was named for Harry's maternal grandmother and well you know it.”

“I thought they named their children after their grandparents, not their cats. Oh, come on out here. For old times' sake.”

“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,”
Mrs. Murphy said with firmness but without rancor.

He sighed.
“I'm faithful in my fashion. I'm here tonight, aren't I?”

“And you can keep on going.”

“You're a hard girl, M.M.”
He was the only animal that called her M.M.

“No, just a wise one. But you can do me a favor.”

“What?”
He grinned.

“If you hear or see or smell anything that seems suspicious, tell me.”

“I will. Now stop worrying about it. Time will do justice all around.”
He flicked his luxurious tail to the vertical and trotted off.