Like all animals, she kept a hunting radius and defended it. Any other blacksnake found herself at the end of a hiss and big fangs. Matilda did allow a male to visit during mating season, but her interest in the opposite sex faded rapidly soon after. Some years she laid eggs, others she did not. As for most females of any species, motherhood could pluck one’s last nerve. Then again, you had to love those little things as they wriggled around.
Hanging from a branch in the walnut, Matilda focused intently on Pewter, who had been insulting her for years. All the large snake had to do was wait. Scaring the cat the other day made her very happy. Not that she’d bite Pewter. The fat gray cannonball deserved a big fright, not a fearsome bite.
Matilda’s glittering eyes missed nothing, and her sense of smell was far better than humans could imagine. As for flicking her forked tongue, she gathered information that way, but, again, humans didn’t get that, nor did Pewter, who complained that Matilda lacked respect because she’d stick out her tongue. Matilda could gauge temperature and the oncoming weather, and her taste buds worked just fine, too.
She arced up halfway as Harry, who’d been on her eighty-horsepower John Deere, walked back to the barn. The attractive human wasn’t happy. Matilda observed it in her demeanor, but she could smell the frustration, too. Humans stank. Their unmistakable scent could be mollified by cleanliness and even perfume, which Matilda didn’t like much. But when a human was angry, frightened, or getting peevish, they stank. The funny thing was, they couldn’t smell it.
Matilda watched as Harry, hands in pockets, stomped into the barn. The human had come home from her checkup in such a good mood. Obviously, it had evaporated. Then the snake, muscles so powerful, formed a big “U,” wrapped her upper body around the branch, dropped her tail, and climbed up on the branch. She now lay flat out, quite an impressive sight.
Pewter, dead to the world, heard nothing. Tucker also was out cold. They’d chased birds, butterflies, and even a big groundhog, until they’d worn themselves out. Mrs. Murphy, who’d been prowling the barn, was less tired and awoke when she heard her human’s footsteps. She roused herself, stretched, trotted to the barn, and ducked into the tack room as she heard Harry on the phone.
“Yeah, I know.” Harry sat down in the director’s chair. “Just sprayed oil all over the place. It’s hydraulic fluid.” A long pause followed. “Yes, you did tell me the whole gearbox and hoses needed a complete overhaul. You also told me it would cost ten thousand dollars.” Another long pause followed. “Let me talk to my husband. I’ll get back to you by tomorrow.”
“Mom, don’t fret. Take a deep breath.” The tiger cat rubbed against Harry’s leg; the hay dust covering the thin old denim now dotted the cat’s coat, as well.
Harry reached down to rub Mrs. Murphy’s head. “I knew this would happen sooner or later, but I thought I could get the first cutting done. The hay is perfect, just perfect. Dammit. Dammit to hell.” She dialed Fair’s cell number. “Honey.”
“Hey, beautiful. What’s wrong?” He recognized the distress in his wife’s voice. “I thought this was a great day.”
“Well, it was. But the gearbox is shot in the John Deere. The dealer told me it would take ten thousand dollars to replace it, plus I have to replace all the hoses. Dammit, Fair. They did say, however, they could pick up the tractor Friday, May twenty-fifth. That’s a miracle.”
“Yeah.”
Friday was day after tomorrow.
“We can’t afford ten thousand dollars.”
A deep sigh, then Fair said, “Let me go to the bank.”
“Honey, they aren’t making loans. If they do, it’s big ones. It’s just as much work to make a small one as a big one. We’re screwed.”
“Who told you about the loans?”
“Big Mim, at Little Mim’s baby shower last night. We had a little bit of time together.”
“If anyone would know, she would. God knows, the woman owns enough bank stock. Look, don’t get het up.” He used the old Virginia term for “hot.” “Give me a little time to think.”
She calmed down. “I don’t know why I let stuff like this get to me. This really has been a day of good news.”
“Oh, babydoll, some days are just like that: a roller coaster.”
She smiled. “You’re right. Okay, honey, I’ll wait until you get home.” She hung up the phone, looked down at her friend. “I don’t know why he puts up with me.”
“Because you put up with him.” The cat laughed. “And he loves you. We all love you.”
With that, the cat leapt onto Harry’s lap.
Harry picked up the phone, dialing Franny Howard. “Hey, I know you’re at work. I won’t keep you.”
“Business is good right now. I’m happy, except for the theft, of course. Victor Gatzembizi came by to tell me he’d be on the lookout if any expensive tires showed up in his shops. Given what he’s going through, that was nice.”
“Any leads?”
“No, but Coop said it would take a while. She had to check on other thefts to see what merchandise was taken and if the M.O. was similar. She said there’s just a huge black market.”
“Who would have thought about a black market for expensive tires?” Harry changed the subject. “Well, I called to tell you I sailed through my checkup. Thank you for keeping after me about my mammograms at our support group. I really am grateful.”
“Oh, Harry, we girls have to stick together on this one. I’ve passed my five-year mark, but I take nothing for granted. You look wonderful.”
“Thanks. Need anything? My asparagus is up. Lettuce, too. All the early plantings.”
“I’ll take whatever you’ve got.” Franny’s voice was warm. “You know I have totally, totally changed my eating habits, and I think that’s one of the reasons I’m alive. I am convinced, absolutely convinced, that sugar feeds cancer cells.”
“You may be right. I’ve cut way back on the sugar. Missed it for the first month and now I don’t. I mean, I’ll still drink a cold Co-Cola, but no cookies, sweets, all that stuff.”
“You stick to it, girl.”
“Franny, I’ll drop off the greens tomorrow.”
Just as Harry hung up the phone, Tucker barked a warning. She hurried out of the tack room, Mrs. Murphy following her.
Tucker stopped, because the intruder was Cooper in the squad car. Tucker adored Coop.
“Hey.” Harry walked out, determined not to bitch and moan about the John Deere. It was more than thirty years old, so how much could she complain?
“I want to show you something.” Cooper pulled out her laptop and headed toward the screened-in porch.
Within minutes, she and Harry sat at the kitchen table, cold drinks in hand, as Cooper brought up pictures on the screen. Harry had told her about her clean mammogram, which made Cooper happy for her friend.
“Look at these. You’re a motorhead.”
Startled, Harry demurred, “Yeah, but not like that.”
“Bear with me.” Cooper scrolled up photo after photo of naked women in old cars.
The women, quite lovely, might wear a tool belt or have a wrench in their hands. A few bent over engines, their bottoms exposed.
One photo showed a truly beautiful woman leaning over the opened hood, her breasts falling just over an impressive twelve-cylinder engine, which had been chromed.
“Sure hope the engine’s not hot,” Harry quipped. “Why are you showing me naked women?”
“Okay. This was on Walt’s home computer. No hard-core porn or anything like that. A lot of mechanical information showed up—no surprise there; he kept up with his profession. But then we found these pictures. Can you tell me anything about them? Here, I’ll go through them again. Forget the women. Look at the machines.”
Harry, hands folded, tried to block out the naked beauties. Fortunately, easier for her than for a man.
A mint-colored DeSoto, resplendent with white leather interior, passed, then a restored 1939 Buick. Image after image of b
eautiful women and beautiful cars filled the screen.
“Hmm.” Harry unfolded her hands. “Go back one.” She pointed to a golden Studebaker Avanti, a design way ahead of its time. “Most of these cars are orphan cars.”
“What’s that mean?”
“No longer in production. The companies are dead. Packards. Nashes. Franklins. Well, now Pontiacs and Oldsmobiles, but most of these pictures are of old grand cars. You know, like Packard. The other thing is, all the cars are roadworthy. Also, no trucks, no sports cars, and what I’ve seen runs from after World War One up to the mid-fifties. There was one more-recent car, again good design, and not an orphan car: the Buick Riviera from the early 1960s. But this is quite a collection of marvelous restorations and some awfully good bosoms and bottoms.” She laughed.
“A car is out of production. What happens?”
Harry, picking up on Cooper’s intensity, responded, “At first, nothing. People run them until they become outdated. We’re primed to buy new things in America. So they sell the cars, which often wind up in the hands of kids, who can only afford an aging Hudson as their first car. Then they get wrecked or are sold for scrap, and a lucky few wind up sitting in garages. There are beautiful cars left to rust. Cars that had marvelous engines for the times. Or design, like the Auburn.”
“If you find one, how do you fix it?”
“Oh, gee.” Harry flopped back in the kitchen chair. “Well, you can’t get parts. Although large companies are supposed to always keep in stock the parts for anything they have manufactured, they don’t. A carmaker that no longer exists means spare parts that no longer exist. Think what it takes to bring back a 1959 Edsel Corsair.”
“Wasn’t that a bad car?”
“Not really. The Corsair was a pretty good design, but Ford misread the market. So it only lasted about three years before it tanked.” She leaned forward again. “Murphy, don’t.”
The cat was patting the screen.
“She’s okay.” Cooper petted the cat.
“There are special companies that deal in parts for orphaned cars. There are others that specialize in one brand only—say, Chevy, which of course isn’t orphaned, but just try to get a steering wheel for a 1957 Bel Air.”
“I see. Can these parts be built?”
“Someone would really have to be good. You can build engines, carburetors, the heavy-duty stuff, but one would need access to a … I don’t know, small foundry, plus you’d have to have the specs—another problem.”
“But with computers, surely that has to be easier. I mean, to create images and blueprints.” Cooper could use a computer with the best of them.
“Yeah, but you’d still need the engineering knowledge. You can’t be off more than one one-thousandth of an inch. As for interiors, easier, but it’s all hideously expensive.”
“So if someone like Walt were involved in this, profits could be made?”
“Oh, sure. He’d be moonlighting, but, Coop, it’s a big jump from naked women to a side business restoring old engines. Then again, if you throw in the naked women, big profits.” Harry laughed.
“I can’t imagine making love to anyone wearing a tool belt.” Cooper laughed loudly.
“People have their ways. As long as they don’t hurt anyone.”
“I knew you’d see things I didn’t. Could be the guy was just turned on by the, uh, mechanics. We’re hitting a wall in this investigation. I’m trying to think of all kinds of things. Like I told Rick, I have yet to question anyone who mourns him. Walt was a loner. Not that that’s a bad thing, but clearly he wasn’t a person with highly developed social skills. Everyone says he was a crack mechanic, and Victor Gatzembizi swore he was incredible.”
“Victor’s a drag-racing nut. That can be as expensive as restoration. A top fuel dragster can cost about two hundred thousand dollars. Has to do the quarter mile in 4.9 seconds. Close to two hundred miles per hour.”
“What do you think of Victor?”
Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. Another rich guy with the trophy wife, big cars, big ego. He’s very generous to charities. Gave thirty thousand dollars for our five-K run to raise money for breast-cancer research. He’s always been nice to me, probably because I love cars.”
Cooper turned off her computer. “My job is to not jump to conclusions. To keep an open mind and maybe, just maybe, to always remain a little suspicious.”
“And?”
“My instincts tell me Walt threatened somebody. Yes, the crime was especially violent, so a degree of passion may have been involved, but this guy set off a trip wire.”
The odor of soil reached Harry as she walked down the alleyway behind Fresh! Fresh! Fresh! Ahead of her, three trucks unloaded produce. Vegetables were carefully arranged in sturdy wooden boxes covered by thin balsam tops with air slats—the source of the dirt smell.
Box after box of unshelled peas, early kale, and lettuce that had survived the hard rains was placed on a conveyor belt taking the food straight into the back of the food market.
One backed-up truck carried oranges, their startling color leaping out from the boxes’ slats. Harry couldn’t believe that was the natural color. The distinctive aroma of oranges reached her—not as strong as orange blossoms in the grove, but there was still a hint of that delightful citrus odor.
No way were oranges ready to be plucked from the trees at this time of the year. Watching the boxes roll down the conveyor belt made Harry wonder where Yancy Hampton procured fresh oranges in May. She admitted to herself that just because they were out of season in the United States didn’t mean they weren’t organically grown in South America or wherever they might have been harvested.
Still …
She watched Evan Gruber, a distant acquaintance, back a new refrigerated truck to the second large open door.
Evan waved as he caught sight of her. She waved back, then turned, retracing her steps down the alleyway. Everything she saw pointed to clean produce carefully handled. As to exactly the source of Yancy’s purchases, she had no idea, but watching his operation gave her a sense of how her own sunflower seeds and ginseng might be treated. Of course, she’d be the one unloading her produce. Why waste money having a middleman deliver it when she could do it herself? Now that she no longer ran the post office, Harry had the time.
She missed that regular paycheck. As to the benefits of being a federal employee, she doubted she’d ever see them. Harry believed there was no money in the till. Her generation would be the one to truly find out that sorry fact. Anyway, once upon a time she had known just about everything going on in Crozet.
On the bright side, now she could farm full time, her true love. And there were no bosses or rules or regulations to tell her and her animals how to get their work done.
What troubled Harry now was that she received countless mailings from the Department of Agriculture, all with long forms to fill out. The State of Virginia also sent their share of paperwork. Her attitude was, she could either spend her time filling out forms or farming, and she’d rather farm.
Watching the food being handled, she wondered what hoops Yancy had to jump through to keep his store running. While for the most part Harry trusted people, for some reason she couldn’t put her finger on, she didn’t trust Yancy. Maybe it was because he presented himself as so squeaky-clean.
As she reached her old truck in the parking lot, she realized she didn’t want to live without trusting others, even in the face of murder. She should be alert, pay attention to character, but she didn’t want to become a cynic, even as she knew she was living in cynical times.
To perk herself up, she drove down to Keller & George, the elegant jewelry store that had been in Charlottesville since 1875.
She pushed open the glass door. Gayle Lowe looked up, as did Bill Liebenrood.
“Hey, I came to visit my pearls,” Harry greeted them.
Bill smiled. “I bought my granddaughter her first pearls before she was one week old. You need to catch up, girl.”
>
Gayle walked behind the lit case wherein resided the 9mm double strand of pearls that Harry had been coveting for more than two decades. Each time the pearls would be sold, Bill would call to relay the sad news. Then in about six weeks another double strand of beauties would arrive.
“Your pearls came in today. They’re awesome,” Gayle would tease her with a phone call.
Elbows on the case, Harry lovingly stared down at her self-adornment dream. Gorgeous, quiet, those pearls reminded her of her mother’s dictum: “Wear the best that you can afford and don’t draw attention to yourself. Flash is always new money.”
Fat chance Harry would ever be new money or old money, but her mother’s urging to not show off had stuck.
Before Bill could come over to tell Harry she should just try on the pearls, the door opened.
“Harry,” Victor Gatzembizi greeted her, smiling. “I’m giving way to temptation.”
“Oh,” came her weak reply.
Bill momentarily disappeared into his small office, returning with a package. He opened a green Keller & George box, removed a necklace that could blind one, and placed it on an unfolded black velvet cloth.
Victor beamed. “Harry, come here and be my model.”
Harry walked over, looked down at the pear-shaped diamond on the platinum chain, and gasped. “Oh, my God. I’ve never seen a diamond so big.”
Bill came around from behind the counter, artfully putting the necklace on Harry. “Divine.”
Victor, hand on chin, murmured, “Even with your T-shirt, Harry, a diamond becomes you. I can’t wait to give it to my wife and see it just above her cleavage.”
Gayle, Harry, and Bill smiled without a word. Of course the diamond would be spectacular, and of course that’s where a woman would wish it to fall, but best to keep that to yourself.
Victor wasn’t worrying about such niceties. He was so thrilled with the diamond that he became ever more expansive. “I told myself that when she reached her fortieth birthday, I would make it the best birthday of her life. ‘You’re beautiful,’ I tell her. ‘Forty is nothing.’ ” He looked again at the necklace, nodded, and Bill removed it from Harry, whose hand flew to her neck.
The Big Cat Nap Page 7
