“How short?” she asked, and I heard the click of a breath mint switched from one side of her mouth to the other. Bobbi gave up smoking, and took up LifeSavers as her new addiction. “I’m thinking shoulder. Any shorter and it won’t work on you.”
“That’s fine,” I said, following her to the sink room. She nudged the door half shut, got the water running hard, and muttered, “You any closer on Lisa?”
“No. Chief Rucker?”
A Rucker by birth, Bobbi snorted, “Jackass. He’s my dad’s cousin, y’know. He ain’t got nothin’, y’know he can’t keep his mouth shut. But his wife told me that he told her it was a robbery. Said Lisa went out walkin’ to sober up and…” Louder she commented, “Damn, girl, I can’t get all this hair in the sink!”
I pondered that information, hissed back, “No way it was robbery. She still had a thousand-dollar watch on her wrist.”
Bobbi’s jaw sagged. “Damn,” she murmured. “You sure?”
“Saw it. So he thinks a Crazy did it?”
Bobbi giggled as if I’d made a wonderful joke. Dropping her voice as she rinsed shampoo out of my hair, she told me, “No.”
Her assistant Melissa walked in, to ask about their supply of some dye or other. By the time she left, I was conditioned, rinsed, and ready to be shorn. Out in the main salon, Bobbi and I chatted about the usual: TV shows, weather, fashion. Once Melissa vanished into the sink room with her client, Bobbi leaned down as if adjusting my protective cape, whispered fragrantly, “Thinks a hobo or somethin’ did it.”
How would we get a hobo in Crazy? We’re not on any main road. I lifted my eyebrows at her in the mirror, and she nodded, rolling her eyes.
“Anyone got anything?” I asked hopelessly.
Bobbi shook her head, bundled my hair, and declared, “Big moment!”
Her scissors worked at my hair. Finally they got through, and she was holding a hank of hair over a foot long and three inches in diameter where she’d cut it. “Will you look at that?” she marveled, held it up for the manicurist to see as she passed by. “Now that’s some wigs.”
She set the hair aside, began attacking my hair with a razor. “Long enough to put up for work,” she assured me when I shot her a wild look. “But you gotta look pretty.”
“For the drunks?”
“For the men.”
“I’ve got a cat.”
Bobbi pulled a face. “Sweetie, I’ve got cats. I still want a man. Now stay still. I saw this in TV Guide, it’ll look great on you.”
When she’d finished, I gave her a twenty-dollar tip for the thirty-dollar wash and cut. I wasn’t sure how I looked, but my hair looked fabulous. I felt like flouncing.
Mind you, I didn’t. Women who stand nearly six-feet tall in their bare feet shouldn’t flounce. Looks like a giraffe with a medical condition.
“Gorgeous,” said Bobbi, and gave me change on the tip. I took it, and when we hugged, I slipped it into her apron pocket. It’s a ritual we have.
“So,” I told Boris, who stood on his hind legs and snuffled enthusiastically at the smells of my hair. “Rucker’s clueless, and so are we.”
Boris sneezed delicately, whuffed at my ear, then butted my chin with his head, a sign that he wanted more attention. I cuddled him for a few minutes, took comfort in his presence, and in knowing that if I was at a loss, at least Rucker was, too.
CHAPTER 5
I arrested Eddie the public nuisance the next day. Another misdemeanor in a long line of them, but this one just pissed me off.
He was torturing a cat. Oh, nothing heavy, no knives, no blood, but he had food in his hand and he’d lure the poor thing to him, then jerk the food away. It had a collar and big trusting green eyes, and I about cried to see its confusion. To that cat, pretty pampered by the look of it, this was some human game and it just wanted to know the rules. To me, it was animal cruelty, and I came up real quiet behind Eddie, thinking to scare him to Kingdom Come.
Boris got in first. Maybe Eddie had played that trick on the ferals behind the Food Mart. If he had, Boris sure didn’t appreciate it. He hit Eddie smack on the back, all claws out. Cats have five claws per front foot and four per back foot. That’s eighteen fishhooks designed to slice. Eddie screamed and whirled like a dervish, while the green-eyed cat happily ate the food he’d dropped. I ignored Eddie to check the cat’s collar and tag, gave it a stroke along the back, before I yelled, “Stand still!”
Eddie danced to a halt, groping for Boris, whose weight was pulling the neck of Eddie’s t-shirt tight against the punk’s windpipe. He wheezed.
“Boris,” I said calmly, “down.”
Boris jumped down reluctantly. Stiff-legged, bushy-tailed, he circled Eddie with his eyes narrow and a snarl bubbling in his throat. For a cat I didn’t even try to train, he certainly obeyed when I wanted him to.
“Good kitty,” I said, and while Eddie cursed, I handcuffed him. “You’re under arrest.”
“What for?!” squalled Eddie. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’!”
So much for Mrs. Perkins the English teacher at Littlepage Elementary. All those years of grammar down the drain.
“Animal cruelty.”
“Fuckin’ animal nearly killed me!”
I glanced at his back. He was bleeding a little. “I’ve got band-aids. C’mon.”
“You can’t…”
I shoved him into the backseat with a sharp, “I can. C’mon, we’re going to County.”
Eddie opened his mouth, but Boris leapt in my door and bounced happily into his seat. Eddie shut up, whimpered a little, “County?”
“Yeah. They’ll hold you until the arraignment, and since nobody’s gonna bail you out, you’ll do your time there.”
Wide-eyed, Eddie subsided. Boris watched him curiously, the way cats will watch a mouse when they aren’t hungry or bored enough to pounce. It kept Eddie quiet the whole way to the county building, where I deposited Eddie and spent a fruitless hour doing paperwork and trying to overhear anything good about the murder. Boris sniffed around a little, disappeared back outside. I’d left the car windows open for him, and he’d probably sack out to enjoy the sunshine and fresh air. Lucky cat.
“Eddie, huh?” said Tom Hutchins when he spotted me. “What’d he do?”
“Pissed me off.”
Tom nodded sagely. “Yeah, I know the feeling. Seriously, what’s the charge?”
“Animal cruelty, public nuisance, resisting arrest.”
Tom’s open face expressed astonishment. “Him? Bradys ain’t usually that stupid. Mean, but not stupid.”
I predicted confidently, “His lawyer’ll get it all dropped, but I want him to have a night in lockup.”
Tom grinned. “Gotcha. You okay, Lil?”
“I need a deputy.”
Tom glanced quickly at Chief Rucker’s office, dropped his voice. “Listen, can you use two?”
I scowled at the paperwork some more. “Dunno, the budget’s tight.”
“Yeah, well, keep me in mind,” said Tom, shifted his eyes alone toward Rucker’s office. Even his eyelids remained stationary. Cool trick. “I might need the job.”
“Trouble?”
“There’s gonna be,” said Tom and I did a quick reappraisal. Something was wrong under the usual chatter and jangle of nerves and phones and radio calls. These were what you’d call good ole boys, but the banter had gone missing, and it wasn’t just the average frustration. Something darker that told me I’d hate to be a DUI or a smart-ass today.
Tom quirked his eyebrows, left me to the last few bits of paperwork. I pondered what he’d helped me see, and wondered if Littlepage was behind it. He had to be breathing down Rucker’s fat red neck. So why was Rucker sitting at a desk, playing solitaire on the computer, instead of up in Charlottesville tracking down the victim’s party pals? Or studying the medical examiner’s report? Or knocking on every door in Crazy to see if anyone had witnessed anything?
Uncle Littlepage.
I found Boris sprawled
on my seat, sound asleep with paws twitching in happy dream. I woke him gently, and he gave me a look of foozly adoration before yawning and stretching his way onto his seat. I petted him a while, happy to see his happiness, finally gave a sigh. Yeah, Rucker had no more clue than I did, but he had Littlepage on him. It was almost enough to make me pity him.
***^***
My favorite that day was the call to the Taylors on Sixth. Both in their 70s, and having another domestic dispute over the remote control. I’ve told them I’d buy them a second damn TV, but they always refused it. This time, I swore, they’d take it if I had to pay them to do it.
We showed up to find Mrs. Taylor in her housecoat out on the lawn, waving skinny liver-spotted arms as if I could possibly miss their house. Not likely. I get called there twice a week, and the damn house is sided in Pepto-Bismol pink, with neon green shutters. At sight of her, Boris perked up. She’s a cat-lover, and cats always know a sucker when they smell one.
“Mrs. Taylor,” I said, slamming the door behind Boris. His little tin-star ID tag glinted as he trotted importantly up to her, tail up. “Boris and I are glad to see you’re not hurt.”
“Ohh, the kitty!” she cooed, dropping into a squat that showed the world her Depends. “Hi, kitty!”
Boris head-butted her very gently, and allowed her to stroke him. Very rare honor. I think Boris somehow understood she feeds a thriving colony of twenty or so feral cats, and bullied Mr. Taylor into building them a shelter against the weather.
Speak of ferals: a tom fluffed and hissed at Boris from behind a straggly boxwood. On duty, Boris eyed him disdainfully and favored him with a growl. The tom shadowed us all the way into the house, where Mr. Taylor was watching the Weather Channel at top volume. I wish he’d just wear his hearing aids.
“Mr. Taylor!” I bellowed, while Boris sniffed noses with the Taylor’s old beagle. “Mr. Taylor!”
He hit the mute button. I winced at the sudden silence. “Mr. Taylor,” I said sternly, “you have to learn to share the remote.”
“Tries to make me deafer than him!” shrilled Mrs. Taylor. “I don’t gotta take that!”
That’s it, I decided. I was getting them a second TV. I’d even pay to have it hooked up. We don’t get cable out this far, so Maury decided a few years ago to raise funds for a giant satellite dish, and nearly everyone subscribes now.
Mr. Taylor gummed nastily at her. “I ain’t puttin’ no uranium in my ear!”
Boris stood in front of Mrs. Taylor and mrowed sharply at Mr. Taylor. Plain as words, he’d told Mr. Taylor to watch his tone.
“Your hearin’ aids ain’t got uranium!” cried Mrs. Taylor. “Lil, talk to that man, I can’t take it!”
She teetered angrily out of the room. Boris followed. The beagle weighed his options and stayed put. Mr. Taylor reached for the remote, and I put my hand on it. I leaned close to his ears and said very loudly, very slowly, “Mr. Taylor! Do not make me come back here this week!”
His old wrinkled face fell into lines of fear and outrage. “You can’t…”
“I am buying your wife her own TV. With its own remote control. Find something else to fight about.” Shifting into my voice-of-God mode, I concluded at a roar, “AND USE YOUR HEARING AIDS!”
He rocked back in his recliner, jaw working sullenly. Finally he nodded. He shoved the little plastic things into his ears, turned down the volume on the TV, and snorted. “Got no respect for the elderly,” he whined.
“Thank you, Mr. Taylor,” I sighed gratefully, and called, “Boris!”
The cat came out of the kitchen licking his lips. That brat. Mrs. Taylor’d given him a treat. Milk, by the look of it. Figures. She doesn’t have to clean his litterbox.
I’d gotten to the door when a phrase caught my attention. I twisted to see the forecaster describing a tropical system. Something in my gut twinged. The projected long-term path was pretty vague, but if it took that jog…
My gut clenched. I hurried out, sped to town hall. I found Maury outside, shooting the breeze with his brother. At sight of me, he stepped away from Delbert, gave Boris a dignified, “Deputy. Sheriff Lil. What’s wrong?”
“We might get a hurricane next week.”
He blanched. “Shee-it. How bad?”
“Just named it. Fiona. Might take a turn and come right to us.”
“Shee-it,” he breathed. “A’right. I’ll keep an eye out.” He ran a hand over his balding head. “You’re too young to remember Camille.”
I’d say I was, by several years. But I knew the stories. Hurricane Camille is famous for devastating the Gulf Coast. Around here, and in Nelson County, it’s known for becoming a tropical system that dumped over 20 inches of rain in a matter of hours. Dozens of people died when whole chunks of mountain gave way. Mudslides, flash floods, rockslides, you name it, it happened. Maury and Delbert lost an aunt and uncle. Aunt Marge lost her brother. Crazy lost everything on the Eller side of Main Street, except the churches—built on high foundations—and the old Eller mill. People still point out where Piedmont Road used to run, and the site of the old drive-in, which got buried when part of Elk Hill gave way.
You can understand why we were a little nervous. I left Maury to fret—that’s what he’s mayor for—and drove carefully up and down every single street in town. Those on the southeast side of Main would be okay; they’re up a bit more from Elk Creek. But Main Street, and the short stubs of cross-streets that backed to the creek? I didn’t know. Only a dozen or so families lived on that side, but… And if we got mudslides, one could block the creek, create a real problem. And Elk Branch runs down Elk Hill, right between Third and Fourth. In dry years, it’s a rocky trickle. In a normal year, it’s a nice stream. During Hurricane Isabel a few years back, it rose six feet, and cut a whole new bed for itself.
I was paying minimal attention to the traffic, almost missed the middle-aged guy waving me down in Dr. Mitchell’s parking lot. I rolled down the window, said, “How can I help you?”
After a moment, I recognized Roger Campbell. A veteran of the military, he lived quietly with his very unquiet wife Eileen, and as far as I knew was an upstanding citizen. At that moment, he didn’t look upstanding. He looked upset.
“I need some help, Sheriff,” Roger said urgently. “Can you arrest someone for tormenting animals?”
As a matter of fact, I could. I did. “Who do you have in mind?”
Roger hesitated. I realized he suddenly didn’t want to turn that person in. Roger’s face wasn’t easy to read but a career in law enforcement gives you an education. Reluctance to rat out family members has a stink all its own. “Never mind,” he said. “I just had to bring in a feral cat. I think it’s dying.”
I thought over what I knew about Roger and his family. Chances were, Roger wasn’t going to tell me who had put the cat in a dying condition, but based on the local gossip I would put my money on Eileen. She was notorious for being a dog person in the strictest, cruelest sense. I took a shot in the dark. “She put out antifreeze, didn’t she?”
Roger is probably the most inscrutable person I have ever met, but his face shifted enough for me to see enraged acknowledgment.
“Who do I talk to about helping the other feral cats?” asked Roger.
I didn’t have to think twice. “My godmother. Marge Turner.” I scribbled down her phone number on the back of my business card and handed it to Roger. I was about to drive away one another thought occurred to me. “People who do bad things to animals don’t stop doing them, as a rule. If it’s not something a person can live with, it’s best to get out of the situation.”
Roger hadn’t really been retired from the military very long, which meant he’d only spent a few years in full-time company of his wife. I was guessing those few years were proving horrifyingly enlightening. He stared at me then nodded. I watched him walk into the veterinary clinic, then leaned over to pet Boris. “You can tell the good ones,” I informed my cat. “That is one of the good ones.�
�
For a moment, I wished Roger was a little closer to my age. Good men really are hard to find.
CHAPTER 6
The next night, I sat on the porch sipping one of Aunt Marge’s herbal teas, while Boris stalked Natasha, and Aunt Marge enthused about the new shelter. “We’ll have it all built by Christmas,” she told me. “I’ve got Donny on it.”
Donny Tucker. Wiry guy, about my height, kept to himself. Raised a few animals, did home repair and construction. Lived up behind Dr. Mitchell’s, on the road to the Country Rose. A few years ahead of me at school. He’d done okay. Most of the Tuckers drank, but not Donny. He’d learned building from his grandfather, a real old-fashioned master craftsman. I approved. Donny might work slow but he’d do it right the first time.
“He’s got some wonderful barn beams to use.”
I’d heard he did salvage. “Good.”
“Oh, and that nice Mr. Campbell has agreed to volunteer to help out. Isn’t that wonderful? He seems very caring.”
I admit, my ears perked up. Aunt Marge is a longtime bachelorette. A confirmed spinster. Her idea of complimenting men typically runs along the lines of “bless his heart” and “he could be worse”. For her to say something like “wonderful, caring” was equivalent to Gloria Steinem putting on a frilly kitchen apron and announcing she had taken Betty Crocker as her patron saint.
“Did you hear what his wife did?”
Thanks to Aunt Marge and Bobbi, I hear darn near everything, but I had not heard about Eileen Campbell.
“She has been setting out antifreeze!”
For some reason, cats will drink antifreeze, which invariably kills them. Unfortunately, at that time, there were no laws to protect feral cats from that kind of cruelty. Unless someone’s pet was killed, my hands were metaphorically tied.
Crazy, VA Page 5
