Latigo always gave Nola credit for helping build the business, and he didn’t shy away from the fact that he indulged in one affair too many. Nola had wearied of it, wisely refraining from retaliatory affairs of her own. She waited until after the divorce. Nola was nobody’s fool.
Harry piped up. “Don’t you have to call on people if the car was turned into an accordion and the driver squashed to death, too?”
“We do, but usually it’s after the worst is over. By that I mean the life-insurance company has paid a call, started the paperwork, the funeral is over. Then we go. I can’t take the anguish. Now that the company’s big, I don’t need to make those calls. Sometimes I think it would be better if we’d vaporize and vanish. Less pain and drama.”
BoomBoom, having lost her husband years ago, steadily replied, “Latigo, just because you don’t see the body doesn’t mean you don’t feel the pain. It’s like getting hit in the gut with a medicine ball, but the pain doesn’t go away. Not for years, really.”
Realizing he’d forgotten about Kelly, Latigo apologized. “You’re right. I forget that you lost your husband.”
“I wasn’t offended.” She smiled at him. “Simply making a point. If I’m truthful, I think we would have eventually divorced. He was so driven by the business, morning, noon, and night. There wasn’t time for me, and I guess I’m selfish. I want to be first.”
“Oh, BoomBoom, you’re always first.” Harry shrugged. “But it’s almost always about sex.”
Latigo’s eyes bugged out. He couldn’t believe Harry said that. Sure, the women had known each other for most of their lives, but still.
BoomBoom laughed—such a clear, lovely laugh. “Leave it to you to tell the truth.”
Sheepishly, Harry said, “Boom, something happens to men when they look at you. Their brains go right out the window.”
Latigo smiled. “She’s right, BoomBoom.”
“All I ever wanted to be was loved for myself. That’s not as easy as it sounds.”
Latigo nodded. “Maybe not for anybody.”
The two women had lost count of his ex-wives. He hadn’t, since he had to pay alimony and child support.
“Let’s not talk about me.” BoomBoom stared down at the track. “I see tires smoking. Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Not really. What’s dangerous is not changing the tires when they need it. These specialized tires can run up to five hundred dollars apiece, and you go through them fast.”
“What about those expensive tires that Franny Howard sells? The Pirelli PZeroes and stuff like that?” Harry inquired.
“How do you know about PZeroes?”
“Motorhead.” BoomBoom pointed to Harry.
“Motorhead.” Harry pointed back at BoomBoom.
“Ah. Victor did tell me you two were car nuts. Not too many women are. Rare.”
“Well, those girls are missing a lot,” Harry said forcefully, since she had long ago tired of being the odd girl out among the talon-fingernailed girl set. “But I’m friends with Franny. She was so glad the next shipment of Yokohamas came in after the theft. But why not those big-name tires?”
“In drag racing, you need highly specialized tires. Simply put, you need a lot of rubber on the road. You need grip, but not the kind of tread you’d need in mud, snow, hard rain. It’s a whole different ball game. Also, these cars usually weigh less than true road vehicles. Weight is saved whenever it can be. For instance, some body repairs might be made with plastic. Not smart, but sure helps the weight problem. So, again, a driver needs a different kind of tire. People usually don’t think about vehicle weight when they buy a tire.” He waved his hand. “I’ve seen just about every kind of collision aftermath that you can imagine. Fortunately, most of them are easily repaired—well, maybe not easily, but they can be repaired. Others are scrap metal, and that’s why you need really good people in the field. But I can tell you—and this is just a rough guess, no industry statistics—that I think about twenty-five percent of accidents could have been avoided if the vehicle’s owner had checked the treads and replaced those tires. Everyone wants to get that extra thousand out of the rubber. It’s really stupid.”
“Money,” BoomBoom simply stated.
“Everything seems to come down to that, but, hey, seems to me that one’s life and the lives of your family are worth the price of four new tires.”
“You should work for Franny.” Harry liked Franny so much.
“Smart lady. Could she sell racing performance tires? I mean real racing performance tires, not just a great set of tires on a Ferrari to be driven for show. She could, but the market is so small. That woman, all by herself, has built a great business.”
“Well, you have, too,” Harry complimented him.
“The insurance industry has changed so much. It’s a lot harder now—regulations, being demonized by the media.” He shrugged. “Well, we aren’t the only business unfairly singled out for censure.” He laughed. “Could be a bank.”
Victor, perspiring, rejoined them.
“How’s Bobby?” Latigo reached into the small backpack cooler and handed Victor a much-needed beer.
He offered drinks to the ladies, who passed.
“Pumped up.”
“Good heat,” Latigo commented.
“He’s improving. My only worry about Bobby is he wants to tear the engine apart and bore out the cylinder a tiny bit more. He’s going to wind up with cylinders thin as paper.”
“He’ll get a bigger blast,” Harry laconically said.
Victor, who knew by reputation of Harry’s fascination with vehicles, thought a moment, then encouraged her. “I expect Nick’s WRX STI at his mother’s isn’t a welcome sight. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want it. If you like, since I’m in constant contact with her, I can gently suggest she might want to sell it. She’s probably already thought of it.”
“Really?” Harry felt her heart beat a tiny bit faster. “I’m sure it’s too expensive.”
BoomBoom giggled. “Harry thinks a loaf of bread is too expensive.”
“Hateful.” Harry closed her eyes for a moment, but she was smiling.
“The book value for that year and model”—Latigo knew so many of these figures by heart—“is about $30,500.”
“More, buddy. Nick put so much into that car.” Victor looked at his friend.
“He did, but his mother will get that back only if another racer buys it, and the group that races here just doesn’t have that kind of money to go buy another car or a second car. They’ve got all the car they can handle. If Mrs. Ashby needs the money or just wants to not look at it—too vivid a reminder—she’ll go with regular retail.”
“The loan should be about in the $24,500 figure.” Latigo folded his arms across his chest.
Harry’s face fell. “We’ve got a 2750 John Deere to repair.”
“Don’t give up just yet.” BoomBoom touched Harry’s hand. “Put it in your back pocket, unless,” she turned to Victor, “you think the car will sell quickly.”
“No. Mrs. Ashby’s dealing with so much right now. The poor woman is grief-stricken. Leave it to me. Okay?”
“Now, Victor, I’m not making a commitment.” Harry felt a tug of panic.
“I know.”
Cooper envied so many things about Miranda: her garden, her green thumb, her gift with color. On Saturday, June 9, the Blue Ridge Mountains were so clear that Coop felt she could see every leaf on every tree. The fine weather lifted her spirits, which surely needed lifting. So far the investigation into the deaths of the two ReNu employees had yielded nothing.
On her hands and knees pulling out burdock root—a miserable job, since the root surely went all the way to China—Coop reviewed the case.
Over and over again she returned to the identical statements of the mechanics: Bobby Foltz; Lawrence Pingrey, called Lodi; Jason Brundige; and Sammy Collona. You’d think the shock of seeing their co-worker with his brains bashed out would provoke an emotional torrent, if not
of loss then of fear. Not so.
After Nick was found shot, Cooper had returned to ReNu. The mechanics’ statements were again, while not identical, disquietingly neutral—somber, yes, but still neutral. Nick was liked. While perceived as Walt’s protégé because of his talent, he still got along great with the other guys. They all raced and, besides, Nick had an infectious charm.
The four remaining mechanics knew a bit about one another’s personal lives, but their real connection was cars. They all mentioned what a looker Hilary Larson was as well as the highly appealing fact that she liked cars. None of them knew Nick was making payments on an engagement ring. Given the short duration of their relationship, Nick was impulsive—not always a bad thing when it comes to romantic love.
The mechanics at the garage knew Nick’s mother, whom they liked. Victor and all the body-shop men had called upon her, and they all attended Nick’s funeral.
Coop had also questioned the body-shop men. The mechanics and the body-shop fellows worked in different buildings. Each group kept to their own peers. As the work was constant, sometimes pressured, this made sense. The body-shop guys liked Nick. He was easygoing. Seemed everyone liked the fellow.
In exasperation, Coop got up, bent over, and grabbed the burdock in both hands, after having loosened the soil. She pulled with all her might. The tall, strong officer sweated, cursed, wiggled the stubborn plant, and cursed some more—louder, too. Finally the root gave way, emerging from the ground like a dirty giant worm. She tumbled backward.
Coop had to laugh. There she was, flat on her back, just as Harry came down the driveway. Rolling over and getting up, she held up her hands in surrender as Harry and Susan disembarked from Susan’s lime green Wrangler, her fun second vehicle. The two cats, Tucker, and Owen—Susan’s corgi and Tucker’s brother—disembarked, too.
“Are you okay?” Tucker, a sweet animal, licked Coop’s hand.
Cooper leaned over, patted the glossy head, then picked up the long, giant root, holding it aloft. “Killed in the line of duty.”
Harry took the root from Coop’s hand. “What a monster.”
Susan’s eyes gazed west at the huge timber tract abutting the back of the old Jones place before returning to the vanquished invasive root. “You should save that for Miranda. Maybe the two of you could bronze it for posterity.”
“Dropped by to give you something.” Harry returned to the wagon, brought out a Mason jar filled with clear liquid. “Good for what ails you.”
“Illegal, no doubt.” Coop smiled, taking the moonshine, called “country waters” in these parts.
“Perhaps there are too many restrictions on enjoyment and profit,” Susan added.
“Tell that to your husband,” Harry jabbed.
“Ned has never introduced any bills against any activities bringing income into our county,” Susan countered.
“Honey, Ned hasn’t introduced many bills yet.” Harry’s eyebrows shot up.
“Who cares?” said Susan. “Come on. Let’s have a sip under the hickory.”
The humans walked to the Adirondack chairs under the two-hundred-year-old hickory. Coop ran into her kitchen, came back with a pitcher of lemonade and a box of shortbread cookies.
“I could eat a cookie.” Pewter noticed the box.
“We’re obligate carnivores,” Mrs. Murphy noted.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t eat a cookie.”
Murphy and Tucker ignored Pewter, taking up key positions by the chairs just in case a human wished to throw a cookie to them.
“Lemonade for a long drink. Ladies, I’m about out of food and I can’t face the supermarket, so we’ll make do with cookies.”
“Hey, sounds good.”
The three sat, passing around the Mason jar and taking tiny sips. They knew better than to take a swig.
“Smooth.” Cooper closed her eyes in appreciation.
Harry nodded. “Those old boys know what they’re doing.”
“Where’d you get this?” Cooper asked.
“I’m not telling.”
“All right.” The blonde shrugged.
“I won’t tell, either, except to say the waters were all clear mountain runoff,” Susan added. “That’s the thing about Virginia country waters—they really are country waters. Of course, some people throw in peaches, others plums, cherries, kind of like a signature, I suppose. But if I’m going to take a sip, I like it clear, clear, clear, just like the runoff from the Blue Ridge.”
“Susan, I didn’t know you were such a fan.” Cooper used the lemonade as a chaser, quite refreshing.
“I’m full of surprises, although not as many as I’d like.”
“Guess that could apply to us all. I turn on the TV and see the misdeeds of politicians, TV stars, movie stars, and realize I’m plain old white bread.” Harry laughed at herself.
“You know, those people can’t be happy. To act out like that, to sleep with battalions of men or women, to send photos of your genitals—I can’t believe anyone who acts that way is truly happy,” Susan mused.
“I’ll never know.” Cooper grinned.
“Hey, girls, there’s still time,” Harry said cheerfully.
They laughed, gossiped, talked about what was left to be done for the Flag Day celebration at St. Luke’s, which would be held next Saturday, June 16, starting early, at ten, in case the heat came up. Harry told them the T-shirts looked great.
“Coop, you need a hobby other than pulling out burdock root. I’d be happy to take you out on the driving range at the club,” Susan offered. “Golf can take you away from the world.”
“That’s what you say. Wasn’t there a book written about golf entitled A Good Walk Spoiled?” Harry took her last little sip from the Mason jar.
“Susan, thank you,” said Coop in her dark soprano. “I don’t see how I would ever get the time. As it is, we’re working overtime because we can’t hire any new recruits. The only way the sheriff’s department can hire is if someone retires. I’m not faulting the county. The financial crisis has impacted law enforcement and fire departments all over. I was lucky to get today off, but I’ve worked two weeks straight. And Rick is working too hard, way too hard. I’m worried about him. The constant prodding from the media about the two murders isn’t helping. My boss is a good sheriff and a good man. He wants to find the perp, as do we all, but this is quite an odd case. Like most cases, sooner or later it will crack.”
“I hope so,” Susan forthrightly said. “But Ned declares murder is the easiest crime to commit if you plan carefully.”
“Yes and no.” The deputy stretched out her long legs. “Nine times out of ten the perp is right in front of you. Most murders aren’t premeditated. Sloppy jobs. Well, maybe I shouldn’t say that, but there are professionals, like in every other human activity. Those people really know how to take someone out. People with big egos can plan a murder, but if they aren’t professionals, they’ll likely slip up.”
“Think the ReNu murders bear that stamp?” Harry asked. “Professional?”
“No. No.” Cooper sat up straight. “But they were committed by someone intelligent.”
“So you believe the two deaths are connected?” Susan ate a cookie, crumbs falling on her thin summer camp shirt.
“I find it unlikely that two mechanics from the same company were killed without a connection.”
“BoomBoom and I went to the drag races last night. I mean, I’ve always wanted to see them, but I was also kind of curious,” Harry confessed.
“Kind of?” Susan’s perfectly plucked eyebrows arched upward.
“We are gearheads.” Harry’s lower lip protruded slightly. “Have you been over to see them?” Harry turned her attention to Coop.
“Rick and I drove over, talked to the owner, walked the track the day after Nick was killed. We haven’t found a link there, either.”
“Well, why would any murders be linked to drag racing?” Susan wondered.
“Endorsements. Someone wants Castrol oil
and someone is their competitor?” Harry threw that out.
“Harry, not at this level of racing. Granted, there can always be some sort of personal hatred, and I remind you that Walt didn’t even actually race. The one thought that’s crossed my mind and Rick’s is the possibility of a gambling ring.”
“Among the racers?” Susan found this pretty interesting.
“Perhaps. Or the ring could be tied to larger drag races or NASCAR. Gambling makes millions, just not for the gamblers.”
“Even at the level of Central Virginia Hot Rod Track?” Susan furrowed her brow.
“Depends on how wide the clientele. Yes, even in Waynesboro, a gambling ring could be netting six or seven figures. Once you pay your workers and the setup costs, illegal activity is one hundred percent pure profit.” Coop held up the Mason jar.
“So it is.” Harry sat silently for a long time.
Rosebushes, pink, white, and yellow, filled half of Harry’s truck bed. This Wednesday, June 13, pyracanthas filled the rest of the space. Once these were in the ground at St. Luke’s, she’d return, filling hers and everyone else’s truck bed with hydrangeas in full flower.
She parked near the graveyard at St. Luke’s. Wearing her kid gardening gloves, she quickly unloaded the bushes.
Dee Phillips, Ph.D., had designed the plantings for the peaceful, beautiful grounds. Harry and friends provided the grunt work, which Harry liked okay.
Miranda Hogendobber, using a tape measure, had carefully marked out the proper distance between the plants. Usually Miranda would eyeball it, but since these roses and pyracanthas would go in at the church, she wanted the plantings to be just so.
Susan, BoomBoom, and Alicia were digging the holes. A bag of Miracle-Gro, three watering buckets, and three measuring cups lay on the clipped grass. The hose from Herb’s garage had been stretched to the max.
Tucker dashed to the graveyard. The cats jumped on the stone walls to watch the dog sniff tombstones.
“And?” Pewter asked.
“No one’s been here.” By this, Tucker meant no dogs had peed on the tombstones.
“Good. Best to respect the dead.” Mrs. Murphy looked as Elocution, Cazenovia, and Lucy Fur bounded across the emerald green, the colors of their shiny fur made even more vivid by the grass carpet.
The Big Cat Nap Page 12
