Pay Dirt

by Rita Mae Brown

  “Is the Anvil a straight or gay bar?”

  “Gay.”

  “Was Mike gay?”

  “No. I didn’t know that, or I wouldn’t have hired him. At first I didn’t notice anything. He was good at his job, good with people. He flirted with the customers, made a haul in tips.”

  “You mean you didn’t notice that he wasn’t gay?”

  “Lady, it was worse than that. He brought in his girlfriend, this flat-chested chick named Malibu. Where in the hell he found her, I’ll never know. Anyway, he convinced me to let her help out here. Now, I’ll never put a chick behind the bar. That’s where we need action. But she fit in, worked hard, so I put her at the door. She could screen customers and handle admission.”

  “You charge for the bar?”

  “On weekends. Always have a live band on weekends.”

  “Did they steal from you?”

  “Not a penny. No, what they did was this. Mike would pick out someone rich. Actually, I think Malibu did the grunt work. Nobody took her seriously. Just another fruit fly, you know what I mean?”

  Cynthia understood the term for a woman who hung around gay men. “I know.”

  “So she’d ask questions, cruise by people’s houses if she could track down an address or if they gave it to Mike. Then Mike would trick with the rich guy and Malibu would take pictures.”

  “Like a threesome?”

  “No,” he bellowed, “she hid and took pictures and then they’d shake the poor sucker down.”

  “I thought San Francisco was a mecca for gay America.”

  “If you work in the financial district, it’s not any more of a mecca than Des Moines. And some of the older men—well, they have a different outlook. They have a lot of fear, even here.”

  “So what happened?”

  “One of my regulars, a good man, old San Francisco family, member of the Bohemian Club, wife, kids, the whole nine yards, Mike and Malibu nailed him. He shot himself in the head. A couple of friends told me they suspected maybe Mike was behind it. I finally put the pieces together. He got wind of it, or she did. He never came back to work. I haven’t seen him since the day after George Jarvis killed himself, January 28, 1989.”

  “What about her?”

  “Haven’t seen her either.”

  “Were they married?”

  “I don’t know. They certainly deserved each other.”

  “One other question, Mr. Kenton, and I can’t thank you enough for your help. Did they deal?”

  Frank paused to light a cigarette. “Deputy Cooper, back in the seventies and eighties everyone dealt. Your own mother dealt drugs.” He laughed. “Okay, maybe not your mother.”

  “I see.”

  “Now, can I ask you a favor?”

  “You can try.”

  “If you’ve got a photograph of that rotten scumbag, you send it out here to me. I know a lot of people who will want to see Mike dead.”

  “It’s pretty gruesome, Mr. Kenton.”

  “So was what he did. Send me the pictures.”

  “Well. . . . Thank you again, Mr. Kenton.”

  “Next time call after one.” He hung up the phone.

  Cynthia drummed her fingers on the tabletop. There was no shortage of people who wanted to kill Mike Huckstep. But would they follow him here after years had elapsed? What did Huckstep do between 1989 and now? Was Malibu with him? Where was she?

  She called the San Francisco Police Department and spoke to the officer in charge of community liaison. He promised to co-operate. He knew the Anvil, knew Kenton. He’d put someone on the case to ask questions of anyone who might remember Huckstep. It wouldn’t be his first priority, but he wouldn’t forget.

  Then she called the LAPD again. She had asked them to go over to Huckstep’s apartment. Yolanda Delgreco was the officer in charge.

  “Find anything?” Coop asked when Yolanda picked up the line.

  “Funny you should call. I just got back. It’s been crazy here. Anyway, I’m sorry I’m late. Place was cleaned out. Even the refrigerator was cleaned out. He wasn’t planning on coming back.”

  “Did the landlord or neighbors know anything about him?”

  “His landlord said he didn’t work. Had a girlfriend. She dumped him. Huckstep told him he lived off his investments, so I ran a check through the banks. No bank account. No credit cards. Whatever he did was cash and carry.”

  “Or he had the money laundered.”

  “Yeah, I thought of that too. When my money’s laundered it’s because I forgot to clean out my pockets before putting my stuff in the washing machine.” Yolanda laughed.

  “Hey, thanks a lot. If you ever come to Virginia, stop by. We’ve got some good women in the department. It will take a while longer here than there probably, but we’re working on it.”

  “Thanks. If I do find myself in Virginia, I’ll visit. You have many murders there?”

  Cynthia said, “No, it’s pretty quiet that way.”

  “If anything turns up on Mike Huckstep, I’ll buzz.”

  Cynthia hung up the phone. Most of her job on a case like this was footwork, research, asking a lot of questions. Over time and with a bit of luck a pattern usually emerged. So far, no pattern.

  18

  At seven-thirty in the morning the mercury hovered at a refreshing 63 degrees. Harry intended to jog to work, which took twenty minutes and gave Mrs. Murphy and Tucker exercise too. But she fell behind in her farm chores and hopped in the truck instead. The animals climbed in with her.

  “Ready, steady, go.” She cut on the ignition. The Superman-blue truck chugged a moment, coughed, and then turned over. “Better let it run a minute or two.”

  Mrs. Murphy’s golden, intelligent eyes were merry. “Mother, it’s not the battery that’s the problem. This truck is tired.”

  “Yeah, we need reliable transportation,” Tucker carped.

  Harry hummed, then pushed in the clutch, popped it in first, and rolled down the driveway. She reached for the knob on the radio. A country music station blared.

  “I hate that stuff.” The cat slapped at the knob, making the reception fuzzy.

  “Three points.” Tucker encouraged her.

  The tiger’s paw shot out again and she moved the dial even more.

  “Bless our nation’s leaders in this time of moral peril, give them the courage to root out the evil of Satanism masquerading as liberalism, and lest we—”

  “Gross.” Murphy blasted the radio. “Humans are weird beyond belief.”

  The strains of a popular tune greeted her kitty ears.

  “Better.” Tucker’s pink tongue hung out. “Wrinkle music, you know.”

  “What do you mean, wrinkle music?” The cat cocked her head at the soothing music.

  “For old people. Haven’t you noticed that no one wants to admit they’re old? So radio stations advertise that they play hits from the fifties, sixties, seventies up to today. That’s bunk. It’s wrinkle music, but the listener can pretend he’s hip or whatever word they used when they were young.”

  “I never thought of that.” Mrs. Murphy admired her friend’s insight. “So how come we don’t hear Benny Goodman?”

  “The Big Band generation is so old, they’re going deaf.”

  “Savage, Tucker. Wait until you get old and I make fun of you.” The cat laughed.

  “You’ll be old right along with me.”

  “Cats don’t age like dogs do.”

  “Oh, bull!”

  The news crackled over the radio. Harry leaned forward to turn up the sound. “Pipe down, you two. I want to hear the news and thank you, Mrs. Murphy, for manning the stations. Catting the radio? Doesn’t sound right.”

  “You’re welcome.” Mrs. Murphy put her paws on the dash so she could see through the windshield.

  “The state’s largest banks are reporting computer breakdowns. For the last week technicians have been working to restore full function to the computer systems of Richmond Norfolk United, Blue Ridg
e Bank, and Federated Investments, all of which are reporting the same problem. Smaller banks are also experiencing problems. Roland Gibson, president of United Trust in Roanoke, counsels people to have patience. He believes this is fallout from the Threadneedle virus, which hit businesses and banks on August first but caused no serious damage, so it was believed. Don’t withdraw your money—”

  “What do you think of that?” Harry whistled.

  “I think I’d call my banker.” Murphy arched a silky eyebrow.

  “Yeah, me too,” the dog echoed.

  Harry pulled up behind the post office. When she opened the door the tantalizing aroma of orange-glazed muffins greeted her. Miranda, in a house-cleaning mood, put a checkered tablecloth on the little table. She was measuring the chairs for seat-cover fabric.

  “Morning.”

  Harry’s nostrils flared to better capture the scent. “Been reading House and Garden again?”

  “Threadbare.” She pointed to the chair seats. “Couldn’t stand another minute of it. Have an orange muffin. My latest.”

  Harry shoved the muffin in her mouth and said thank you after she ate it. “I sure hope you took some of these next door. These are the best. The best ever.” She gulped. “Threadbare. Threadneedle.”

  “What?” Miranda’s lipstick was pearly pink.

  A knock on the door diverted Harry’s attention from her musing. Susan pushed through the back door. “Where’s Rob?”

  “Late. Why, are you offering to sort the mail?”

  “No.” Susan sniffed. “What is that divine smell?”

  Harry pointed to the plate of muffins.

  Mrs. Hogendobber nodded and Susan’s hand darted into the pile. “Oh, oh—” was all she could manage. Swallowing, Susan licked her lips. “I have never tasted anything so delicious in my entire life.”

  “Now, now, base flattery. You know what the Good Book says about flatterers.”

  Susan held up her hand for stop. “I don’t know what the Good Book says, but I am not flattering you. These are absolutely out of this world!”

  “Well, I want one!” Tucker yelped.

  Mrs. Hogendobber gave the dog a morsel.

  “What’s up, Susan? It must be pretty good if you’re here this early.”

  “I get up early.” She brushed crumbs off her magenta T-shirt. “However, the buzz is that Mim is fit to be tied—in a total, complete, and obliterating rage.”

  “Why?”

  “She owns a large, as in thirty-seven percent, chunk of Crozet National.”

  “So?” Harry reached for another orange delight.

  “Two million dollars is missing from the bank.”

  “What!” Miranda shouted.

  “Two million smackers.” Susan ran her fingers through her blond curls. “Ned’s on the board and Hogan called him last night to tell him that he has given Norman Cramer until Wednesday night to finish his audit. He’s also called in computer whizzes, since that’s where the mess seems to have started, but he believes the money is gone. He wants to prepare everyone before he gives a press statement Friday morning. He’s not one hundred percent sure about the sum, but that’s what the computer types are telling him as they piece the system back together.”

  “Good Lord.” Mrs. Hogendobber shook her head. “What is—”

  “It’s the Threadneedle virus. Oops, sorry, Miranda, I interrupted you.”

  Mrs. Hogendobber waved her hand, no matter.

  “I changed the station. That’s how she found out,” the cat bragged.

  “But Crozet National?” Susan continued. “It’s small beer compared to United Trust. Of course, they aren’t reporting missing funds—yet.”

  “The Soviets.” Miranda smacked the table and scared Tucker, who barked.

  “There aren’t any more Soviets,” Harry reminded her.

  “Wrong.” Miranda’s chin jutted out. “There is no longer a USSR, but there are still Soviets. They’re bad losers and they’d love to throw a clinker into capitalist enterprise.”

  “At Crozet National?” Harry had to fight not to laugh.

  “Banks are symbols of the West.”

  “That’s neither here nor there. I want to make sure my money is safe. So I called Hogan myself. Ned could have killed me. Hogan assured me that our money is safe, and even though two million is a terrible loss for the bank, it can absorb it. And the money may yet be found.”

  “Is Norman Cramer up to the job? I know he’s head accountant over there, but—”

  “Harry, what does he have to do but punch numbers into a computer? An audit’s an audit. It’s time consuming, but it doesn’t take a lot of gray matter.” Miranda, a good bookkeeper, still thought an adding machine could do the job.

  The back door swung open. A depressed Mim came in, then brightened. “What is that marvelous—” She spied the muffins. “May I?”

  “Indeed.” Miranda held out her hand as if bestowing an orange muffin on her old acquaintance.

  “Mmm.” Mim brushed off her fingers after making short work of the delicious treat. “Susan tell you?”

  “Uh—” Harry stalled.

  “Yes.”

  “We can’t do much until tomorrow afternoon, when the audit is complete. Worrying won’t help.” She poured herself a cup of coffee. “Anyone?”

  “Any more caffeine and I’ll be—”

  “A bitch.” Tucker finished her mother’s sentence.

  “Hello!” Pewter arrived through the animal door. “What a beautiful day.”

  “Hello, gray kitty.” Susan stroked Pewter’s round head. “What do you know that’s good?”

  “I just saw Kerry McCray tell Aysha Cramer to go to bloody hell.”

  “What?” the cat and dog asked.

  “Isn’t she cute?” Mrs. Hogendobber pinched off some muffin for the cat.

  Rob Collier tossed the mail bag in the front door as Market Shiflett hustled in the back. Everyone yelled hi at everyone else.

  “What a goddamned morning!” Market cursed. “I’m sorry, ladies. Even my cat had to get out of the store.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Cynthia Cooper drove in the minute I opened. She was joking, her usual self, bought coffee and an orange muffin, ah, you brought some here too, Miranda. I’m sold out and it’s not even eight. Anyway, Aysha zipped in, and as luck would have it, Kerry followed. They avoided each other just as you’d expect, but they both came to the counter at the same time. Cynthia was leaning against the counter, facing the door. I don’t know what kicked it off, but Kerry told Aysha to move her fat butt. Aysha refused to move and called Kerry a cretin. The insults escalated. I never knew women could talk like that—”

  “Like what?” Mim’s eyes widened.

  “Kerry called Aysha a slut. Aysha told Kerry if she’d kept Norman happy he’d have never left her. Well, Kerry said she wasn’t a cocksucker, that she would leave that work to Aysha. Before I knew it, Aysha slapped Kerry and Kerry kicked Aysha in the shins. Doughnuts were flying and Cynthia put her coffee on the cake display and separated the two, who were by that point screaming. I just—” He shook his head.

  “What despicable language!” Miranda picked up Pewter and held her hand over the cat’s ears, realized what she’d done, and quickly removed her hand.

  “Kerry told Aysha she was a fake. She doesn’t come from an old family.” Pewter relished the gossip.

  Mrs. Hogendobber stroked the cat, oblivious of the details.

  “It’s true.” Mrs. Murphy sat down and curled her tail around her. “The Gills are no more first family of Virginia than Blair Bainbridge. The great thing about Blair is he couldn’t care less.”

  Market caught his breath. “Aysha scratched Cynthia, by mistake she said. I rushed over to pull Kerry back, since Cynthia was trapped between them, keeping them apart—I was sure they were gonna wreck my store. As we pulled them away from each other, Kerry noticed a wedding ring on the floor. She scooped down to pick it up, I had only one arm on her,
you know, and she threw it in Aysha’s face. ‘You lost your wedding ring. That’s bad luck, and I wish you a ton of it.’ Aysha checked her left hand. She still had her ring on. But she picked up the ring and said, ‘This isn’t mine.’ She held up her ring finger and that set Kerry off again. She lunged for Aysha. I thought I would never get Kerry out of the store. She apologized profusely once I did and then she burst into tears.” He threw up his hands. “I feel bad for her.

  “The ring had fallen out of Cynthia’s pocket when she jumped into action, so to speak. Actually, I shouldn’t make light of it. They were out of control and someone could have been hurt. Aysha handed the ring back to Cynthia. ‘Married?’ she asked. Cynthia said no, she had no secret life. The ring was found near the corpse in Sugar Hollow. She was a little sheepish about it, but she said if she carried it around, now that it was back from the lab, she was hoping it would give off a vibration and give her an idea.”

  He shook his head again. “Crazy morning. Oh, and Laura Freely came in just looking like death. What’s the matter with her? Hogan running around or something?”

  “Hogan doesn’t run around,” Mim said frostily.

  “Kerry’s got to get over Norman,” Susan jumped in.

  “Either that or kill Aysha,” Market said.

  19

  Dark circles under Norman Cramer’s eyes made him look like a raccoon. He stood before Hogan Freely, whose office was adorned with golf mementos.

  “—the staff was great, but we couldn’t find what does appear to be a two-million-dollar deficit. We keep coming up short, but we can’t find the location of the loss, so to speak. We’ve gone over everything and I feel responsible for this—”

  Hogan interrupted him. “Don’t blame yourself.”

  “I was hoping this was an isolated accounting error.”

  “This must be what the Threadneedle virus was really about.”

  “I don’t know, sir. Other banks aren’t reporting losses. They’re reporting downed computers.”

  “Norman, go home and get some sleep. I’ll face the music.”