“You know that Diane Long raised that or maybe a bit more for the Boys and Girls Club? Her husband, Howie, and Terry Bradshaw were the auctioneers. We should send that woman to Washington. She’d get things done.”
Harry smiled, for she’d met Mrs. Long, a great beauty, only once and was deeply impressed by the fact that she’d been a classics major. “Hampton, she’s too good for Washington.”
He laughed. “What can I do for you?”
“BoomBoom told me you were buying crops before harvesting. I don’t want to take up a lot of your time, but I found that concept unusual and intriguing.”
“And I know you’re growing sunflowers and grapes. I even heard you’ve got a plot of ginseng down by the creek there.”
Harry wasn’t surprised. Everybody knew everything in the county. Then again, she thought, maybe not. There was a dead man at the ReNu shop ready to disprove that theory.
She cleared her throat, for she’d paused a bit long to answer. “I’m trying to find niche crops. I don’t have the implements for my tractor to grow corn. Ethanol has sure made that an attractive proposition, but I’m old-fashioned. If I did grow corn, it wouldn’t be for fuel.”
Yancy leaned back, folding his hands and putting them behind his head. “Scam. That’s all I’ll say about that. Anyway, you know I’m dedicated to locally grown products whenever possible and to products grown as naturally as possible. You are what you eat.”
Harry almost said, “And you are what you do,” but she halted, instead saying, “How can you buy before harvest? Mother Nature is a temperamental partner.”
“I go out, look at the crop, make a bid based on past costs per bushel or per chicken, let’s say, based on the prior five years of purchase price wholesale. I also have to figure in gas costs, since everything is trucked in. That means I’m getting an average. Now, the harvest might be excellent and the prices go down a bit. Or it may be the opposite and prices rise. The market giveth and the market taketh away. But you get what I bid no matter what, so you’re taking your chances, as am I.”
“What if the crop is destroyed?”
He frowned a moment, as that was not a happy thought. “Obviously, the deal is void. That’s in the contract.”
Removing his hands from behind his head, he picked up a folder, a bright lime green, and slid it across to Harry.
She rose, picked it up, placed it in her lap as she sat down. “Beautiful folder.”
He beamed. “I have a weakness for office supplies. If I hadn’t become a grocer, I’d have opened an office-supply store, a high-end one.” He sat up straight. “You know, there’s a woman in Richmond who prints on a hand press, invitations and the like. The more our economy shifts to the big box stores, the more room there is for quality and individuality.”
“Yes, I think so, too. I’ll read this thoroughly.”
“Well, if you decide to sign on, I’ll come out three times before harvest to inspect your crops. Heard you had a banner year with the sunflowers last year.”
“I sure did. And this is the first year I can harvest my grapes. It really will take another four years or so before they’ll be as they should.”
“You were prudent to only put in a quarter acre, if for no other reason than to see how the soil affects the taste. Every vineyard, even if only two miles apart, creates its own terroir.”
“Fascinating. Thank you for the compliment, but I know I can’t become a big vintner. I’m learning so much with the help of others, but I think my real drive is toward the sunflowers, the ginseng. I’m also growing asparagus, though it won’t be ready until next year.”
“You staggered the planting, of course.” He leaned forward, brown eyes bright.
“Had to. You can only pick edible asparagus every other year. That’s one of the reasons it costs more.”
“I’m interested in that, Harry. I can’t keep fresh asparagus on the shelves. Doesn’t matter if it’s the type most people know around here or the large white ones, the European varieties.”
She stood up. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“My pleasure.”
She left, took two steps from the office as she closed the door behind her, and ran smack into Franny Howard, owner of a large tire store.
“Harry, I’m so sorry.” Franny’s hand flew to her lips, pink with color.
Harry laughed. “Hey, I’m just glad you weren’t behind the wheel of your car.”
“I do a little better there. Not so many distractions. Isn’t your checkup next Wednesday?”
“Is.”
“Want me to go with you?” Franny had also survived cancer, before Harry was diagnosed.
Franny had brought Harry into the cancer support group.
“Oh, thanks, Franny. I know I’m going to be fine.”
“Yes, you will. Say, I read in the papers where you, Reverend Jones, and Susan found that body at ReNu Auto Works. Must have been a shock.”
“Was. No suspects yet. The guy seems to have led a quiet life.”
“Those are the tough ones. You peel away the layers. There’s always something bubbling at the center, I swear. ReNu undercuts everyone’s prices. I guess if the killer were one of their competitors, they’d have brained Vic Gatzembizi instead.” She named the owner.
“Have to catch him. He’s on the move between his shops. People like you and Vic have so much ambition.” Harry’s lips curled upward, a wry half smile.
“Thank you.” Franny nodded. “Victor, you know, just in passing recommends people to me who are looking for new tires. Obviously vehicles in his shop for repair will have to use what the insurance company will pay for. But Victor is good to me, steering—shall we say—non-smacked-up customers?” She lowered her voice. “Hear he’s got ladies in all his shop sites. Bet his wife would kill him if she knew. On the other hand, he gives her everything. Whatever she’s doing, I need to learn. Need to develop those skills.”
“Honey, I think you have skill enough in that department.” Harry laughed.
On the way home, with Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker all crammed in the front seat, Harry laughed again at Franny. Thinking about cars and tires reminded her she needed to check in with Miranda and that she’d promised to wax Miranda’s Falcon. Given the backlog at ReNu, Miranda would need a loaner. Safe & Sound should supply her with one, but just in case, Harry would offer her the station wagon.
Harry drove onto the bypass as she headed for Route 250 west. Taking the bypass, she’d avoid a lot of local traffic.
That plan came to a halt, literally. Flashing lights, policemen, and firemen stopped the flow of cars, trucks, delivery trucks. The line looked to be long.
“Dammit,” Harry cussed, then read her gas gauge.
Half a tank. She’d be fine, even if the wait dragged on. She saw Rick Shaw and Coop up ahead, in a heated discussion with a state trooper. He had his hands on his hips, then walked to his cruiser, got in, and called.
Seeing Harry’s Volvo, Coop walked down to her.
“Hey, what’s going on?” asked Harry.
“Milk truck overturned.”
“So.”
“Federal law: The butterfat in milk is oil. We have to treat this as an environmental hazard. I’ve just been read the EPA guidelines. Rick and I are trying to convince Johnny Jump Up”—Coop called all state troopers this—“to allow us to create a single lane, since the spill has flowed over the far right lane and into the runoff. But, hey, milk is a danger.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“Believe it.” Coop dealt with the endless costly mandates that spewed forth from D.C. every single day.
Coop turned as Rick called for her, slapping the side of the station wagon as she did so.
“Mom is boiling hot,” Mrs. Murphy warned.
The traffic, directed into a single lane, began moving. As Harry passed the overturned milk truck, Coop winked at her.
Once finally home, she hurried to her little office in the tack room and turned on
her MacBook Pro computer, bought for her by her husband, as she didn’t want to spend the money. He said they needed it for his work. But he really hoped she’d learn to use it. Fair carried his own high-powered laptop. He’d go through one a year, but it was invaluable for veterinary medicine.
Harry, peering into the seventeen-inch screen, called out to her friends, “The EPA, after direction by the White House, proposed in 2009 to exempt spilled milk from being treated the same as oil and fuel spills. That was years ago.” She slapped the desk in frustration. She’d made up her mind to snoop at ReNu tomorrow and wanted to avoid a slowdown in case the milk had soaked into the road on the one lane. It really was absurd.
Simon, the possum, leaned over the side of the hayloft. “Is she one step ahead of a running fit?”
Tucker, upset because Harry was upset, sat looking upward, the center aisle cool underneath her butt. “She’s pretty hot.”
Mrs. Murphy, on a tack trunk, added, “She has her breast checkup Wednesday. She’s more irritable than usual.”
“Mom isn’t very irritable.” Tucker quickly defended Harry.
Pewter, next to Mrs. Murphy, smiled sweetly. “True, but you are.”
“I am not.” Tucker growled.
“The truth hurts.” Pewter puffed out her chest.
Tucker, now on her hind legs, lunged after Pewter, who easily eluded the corgi.
A frightened Simon scurried to his nest filled with treasures, in the back of the hayloft.
Pewter climbed up the side of the ladder, Tucker snapping at her heels.
Harry thumped out of the office. “That’s enough. Do you all hear me? Enough!” Then she turned again, glaring at Tucker. “Tucker.”
Dropping her ears, Tucker plopped down but continued to bare her teeth at the gloating cat overhead.
Tired of tormenting the dog, Pewter found Simon in his den, a big hollowed-out space in a hay bale. Harry knew the location of his den and never disturbed it.
Mrs. Murphy, having heard enough of Tucker’s complaint of disrespect, no matter how well founded, climbed up the ladder to join Simon and Pewter.
“Look at this.” Simon, dexterous, picked up a shiny pen with metallic lime-green dots on the surface.
“Very pretty.” Pewter complimented his taste.
“And how about this? It’s kind of snaky.” Simon held up a narrow-gauge rubber hose, which had been reinforced with fiber put into the various layers. “It wiggles.”
“Smells like oil,” Mrs. Murphy, nose keen, noted. “Not burning oil, gear kind of oil.”
As it came off the big John Deere tractor, it indeed smelled of gear oil.
The mention of oil provoked Pewter to recount to Simon the saga of the spilled milk.
Dear little Simon believed every word of Pewter’s embellished story, and Mrs. Murphy had the wisdom not to contradict her.
She’s mental.” Pewter fastidiously stepped over a grease spot that had permanently soaked into the concrete floors at ReNu.
Asking permission from no one, Harry had driven to town to examine the garage. She’d bribed her way past the front desk.
Mrs. Murphy, also avoiding the grease, replied, “She’s never going to change. We’re accused of being curious, but she’s worse than any cat could ever be.”
“Curiosity killed the cat. I hate that phrase. She’s come closer to death because of it than we have. If it weren’t for us, Harry would be dead.” Pewter was most certainly right about that, too.
Over the years, Harry’s desire to solve any puzzle had put her, the cats and dog, even her friends, in jeopardy. The animals, thanks to their superior senses, always knew the hammer was dropping long before their human did. Sometimes they could nudge her out of harm’s way. Other times she was knocked down with a thump. She never seemed to learn. Her husband had accepted this irritating personality trait. The animals were less flexible about it, although Pewter could always be brought around with fresh tuna.
“What nearly killed her was giving that slug at the front desk twenty dollars to let us in here at lunchtime.” Tucker laughed. “Twenty dollars. She’s out of control.”
“Out of control” may have been too strong a description of Harry’s behavior, but at the very least she was intrusive and foolhardy.
Nose to the ground, the corgi shot straight over to where Walt’s body once sprawled. “Mmm. Old blood. Old brains. Nothing left, but the aroma is heaven.”
The two cats, not carrion eaters, appreciated the canine stomach nonetheless. Even Pewter, now interested, passed up this opportunity to criticize the dog.
After the forensics team left, Victor Gatzembizi had called in a special crew to clean up the mess before the next day’s work. The husband-and-wife duo couldn’t lift the bloodstains out of the concrete, but they’d managed to clean up all the tiny bits of hair and skull. The forensics team had collected most of it, but there were always tiny fragments left or stuck under a cabinet. It’s amazing what flies out of and off a body that has been dramatically violated.
Good as the cleanup job had been, those kitty noses and that corgi nose could still detect information.
“I think his head was here.” Tucker stood on a spot.
“Well, something was here.” Pewter found the place where the tire iron had been.
Harry saw where her animals were, once again reminded of how keen their senses were. “That’s the place. He didn’t have a chance.”
She drew in a notebook. The garage, spotless as a matter of course, shone even more now after an incredible cleaning. Each of the four hydraulic lifts had a vehicle on it. Every workstation had a tall red toolbox with many pullout doors. Taped across the front drawer was the name of the mechanic. The boxes, on casters, could be moved about. Having each man responsible for his tools was another of Victor’s prudent decisions. Victor bought all the tools, but every man was held accountable for his toolbox. If anyone was fired, the contents of his red toolbox were immediately inventoried. Victor knew all about the old game of someone bringing tools to work but when the employee left claiming others. This way, Victor paid for tools but he paid only once.
One large box, four feet high, had been rolled against the wall. The name “Richardson” was still on the top drawer, black Magic Marker ink on masking tape.
The walls were covered by steel industrial shelving, with ladders attached at the top so they, too, could roll. On the shelves were air filters, fan belts, items easily stored. Ford, General Motors, Chrysler, Toyota, Subaru, Nissan parts filled boxes, all numbered to indicate the model and year.
Harry knew that most jobs required a wait while the particular engine parts were shipped to the collision repair shop. No one had the space for the inventory required when repairing all makes and models. But the basic easy stuff was there: batteries, windshield wipers. No tires, however. This puzzled her.
Wrapped up in her drawings, she lost track of time.
Jason Brundige, a young mechanic, walked in from lunch. His buddy Nick Ashby walked next to him. “Who are you? Weren’t you the woman who found Walt?”
“I am.”
The animals stared at the medium-size fellow.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Don’t talk to my mother that way.” Tucker curled back her upper lip.
“You’re right.” Feeling the hostility, Harry headed for the open bay.
As she strode past Nick Ashby, the young man smiled, happy to see a good-looking woman, whether she belonged there or not.
As Harry walked out, with Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker at her heels, the other mechanics—Bobby Foltz, Lodi Pingrey, and Sammy Collona—returned from lunch.
Sammy knew her slightly. “Harry, I’ve heard of criminals returning to the scene of the crime, but not witnesses.”
Chagrined at being caught, Harry said, “I … I couldn’t stay away. I don’t know why; I had to see it again.”
“Once should be enough, lady,” Lodi snapped.
With that, Harry cl
imbed into the F-150, after lifting in Tucker. The cats were already inside.
As Harry cranked the motor, Nick Ashby trotted out, Jason Brundige glaring after him.
Making the time-out sign with his hands, the cute young Ashby said, “The guys aren’t as bad as they sound. Everyone’s upset, jumpy.”
“Well, I was kind of trespassing.”
“It’s okay. Next time you want to come around, call me. Nick Ashby.” He reached through the open truck window with his right hand to shake hers.
“Thanks, Nick. I will.” Releasing his hand, she looked into his eyes. “I am sorry about what you all have been through. Something that shocking doesn’t fade away quickly in one’s mind.”
He shrugged. “Things happen. You just gotta accept them and keep going. I learned a lot from Walt. He was hard on me, but he made me a better mechanic. I’ll miss him, but I won’t miss getting cussed out.” He smiled.
“Guess for some people it’s the stick, not the carrot, if that makes sense.”
“Does. I’m really a carrot guy.” He flashed a megawatt smile.
“I’ll bring you some bunnies.” Harry laughed as he patted the truck windowsill, bidding her goodbye.
She drove to Franny’s shop. She left the vehicle’s windows cracked and ran in. The ever-busy Franny, on her phone at her desk, waved in Harry.
Hanging up the phone, she said, “And?”
“You okay?”
“Of course I’m okay.”
Harry briefly recounted where she’d been, the response of the returning mechanics, and then she said, “No tires. Not one. Strange.”
“Not really.” Franny stood up, smoothed her skirt, and sat down again. “Tires take up a lot of room. Most people don’t know too much about tires, so a shop like ReNu will generally just put on what the manufacturer originally had on the vehicle, unless the customer asks for something else.”
“Does Victor ever buy tires from you?”
“Rarely. He calls in orders from the various wholesalers or tire manufacturers, if possible. And as you may know, the whole piece comes: It’s an entire wheel, tire already on it. In the old days, you’d pry the tire off with a tire iron. You can still change a tire if you get a flat, but for ReNu’s purposes, it’s easier to pop on an entire wheel. I think all this is economically generated, because the customer has to buy so much more than, say, in the 1950s or 1960s. Though it’s true you do get your car back faster.”
The Big Cat Nap Page 4
