Crazy, VA

by Hill, Shannon

When you have a shooting by 11 in the morning, you’re guaranteed a long afternoon. The formalities went quickly. The way everyone saw it, Brian had snapped and I’d done the right thing. I was suspended for a few days till the state police officially stamped okay on the file, and off home I went with a very skittish Boris. Brian’s arm would heal, he’d go get the appropriate psychiatric help, and life would go on. I’d be shy a deputy again, and the town would have to rely on the county boys for a few days, but no permanent damage was done.

  That was my view.

  Crazy, predictably, didn’t agree.

  By one in the afternoon, the town council had called an emergency meeting in Maury’s office. Closed doors.

  By two in the afternoon, the debate had degenerated into the usual Littlepage versus Eller farce.

  By three, they’d sent out for food, and I was fired. Which was interesting, since you can’t fire an elected sheriff.

  By four, I was re-hired, with a deputy.

  By five, I was still employed, but sans deputy again.

  To understand our town council‌—‌four elected persons plus the mayor‌—‌you have to understand that Crazy’s about the size of a neighborhood to most people. So imagine those old biddies and buzzards who appear in any neighborhood association, and spend their time squealing on neighbors whose ivy has grown over a property line or who’ve got an old toilet in the backyard that might conceivably lower someone’s property values. You know the type. Well, ours are elected. In this case, Mr. Shiflet from the hardware; Bobbi’s former mother-in-law, Ruth Campbell; Camp Brady (full name Campbell Brady), who lived off his pension and a roadside produce stand; and Matt Lincoln, Kim’s father. And the term is six years. Mine’s only two. Which means if you don’t like someone on town council, you’ve got a long wait before you can vote them out.

  By six, word oozed up to the house that I’d have a deputy. Sprawled on the bed enduring the shakes and an herbal relaxant that made my head spin, I decided not to care. Rumor had already cast me as‌—‌depending on your Littlepage-Eller affiliation‌—‌either a hero or an unstable bitch with a gun. On the Littlepage side, only Jack Littlepage expressed any support. On the Eller side, much was said about Littlepages. The Turner point of view, as stated by Aunt Marge, was that both sides were full of fecal matter and needed the spiritual equivalent of a fibrous purge.

  When I woke the next morning, it was to a room full of Maury and town council.

  “Oh crap,” I said, brain fuzzy.

  “Sorry, Lil,” said Maury, beaming. “I wanted us to give you the good news in person, first thing!”

  “Yay?” I said, raking my fingers through my hair. Why is a woman’s first instinct to fuss with her hair in these situations? Did I really think it’d make a difference?

  “You’ve got a deputy. A real one this time.”

  What had Brian been? A cardboard cutout?

  “Tom Hutchins is willing to leave county.”

  Aunt Marge, in the hallway, clapped her hands once, in undiluted glee. She liked the Hutchins clan.

  Mr. Shiflet offered a smile, eyes discreetly averted. I tend to sleep in tank tops and panties. I snatched a blanket up around my neck a bit too late to avoid Camp Brady’s roving gaze.

  “We, ah, determined you need an experienced deputy,” said Mr. Shiflet. “We figured you and Tom can work together.”

  That was way too much consideration. I raised my eyebrows. Maury read me correctly, and explained quickly, “Tom’s not happy where he is, and everyone knows him.”

  Somewhere, under the fog, I was pleased. I forced a smile to show it, hoping they couldn’t smell my breath. “Good. That’s… really good. I’m really glad. Um. Why?”

  “To avoid another shootout,” snapped Ruth Campbell. “Yesterday was an affront to decent folks.”

  Well, she’d know about an affront. She gave affront all the time. Usually with those prim little speeches that sounded like she’d ripped them off from a televangelist.

  “To give you a proper deputy,” snapped Maury in return. Morses and Campbells don’t get along. Don’t ask why. They don’t know.

  “What about Brian?” I asked. “He okay?”

  “He’s going to a VA in Richmond,” said Matt Lincoln.

  It was all still too much consideration. It took twenty years to get rid Junior Sims out of the sheriff’s office, but even Junior didn’t irritate people like I did. He rarely enforced traffic laws, and spent most of his time bullshitting and playing the good old boy, and engaging in low-level corruption, like free meals or winking at certain activities because he liked them himself. I was female‌—‌strike one. I ran a tight office‌—‌strike two. I shot my deputy‌—‌strike three. I should’ve been out with a capital O.

  As town council filed downstairs for the fruit salad Aunt Marge insisted they have, Matt Lincoln lingered.

  “Mrs. Littlepage sends her best,” he said.

  Lincolns are hereditary Littlepage partisans.

  Why would Mary Littlepage send her best? To let me know I owed her.

  I looked at Boris, who was cuddling up for more sleep. “Yeah, right,” I said. “Like I’m gonna be bought.”

  I was half-asleep when the thought finally occurred.

  Why would she want to buy me?

  I didn’t get any more sleep.

  CHAPTER 11

  We got a write-up in the Charlottesville papers. I read one without any amusement, though the reporter seemed to find something about the story somehow comical. There hadn’t been a police shooting in Crazy since the 1960s, and debate still rages if a shooting counts when the victim was a, and I quote, “long-haired America-hatin’ pot-smokin’ hippie”. (For the record, I say it does. Junior, my predecessor, did not.)

  I tossed the paper away, returning to the puzzle of Mary Littlepage’s best wishes. If, as Donny Tucker claimed, the woman was under a shrink’s care, then maybe her “best” was just a manifestation of that need for psychiatric help. My gut, however, told me she wanted me bought. Obliged. The way the whole town was going to be obliged to Uncle Eller for the new bridge over Elk Creek. The state would take years to get to us, but Uncle Eller knew the value of immediate gratification; he’d already released a statement to the effect we’d have a new bridge by Christmas. For years to come, we’d have to thank him when we drove up Madison Pike. And we’d hate it just like I hated the idea of owing Mary Littlepage.

  The big question, the one that kept me on edge, remained the one I couldn’t answer: Why did she want me bought?

  I went walking that afternoon, trying to unknot my brain. I let my mind drift as I headed down the road to the shelter site to see if I could find Aunt Marge, bounce some ideas off her. I barely paid attention to my surroundings until I tripped over a stake. I swore to myself, glared at the arrangement of string and stakes until I recognized it as the future paved walk to the front door. I stepped back to look at the shelter, whistled my amazement. Donny had erected the exterior walls and the interior support walls. Somehow it looked larger than I remembered, and I walked between some studs, went exploring with Boris eagerly slinking ahead, his nose working overtime. He rolled over and over on the concrete subfloor, scratched some two-by-fours, raced up a support beam to trot importantly along the rafters. I grinned at him, turned, and bumped against Donny Tucker.

  We both turned red. Then I shook myself, hard. Thirty-five is no age to go getting crushes. “Hey,” I said lamely. “It looks great. I thought you had the week off?”

  “I do,” said Donny, hefted a toolbox. “I wanted to make sure my cousin got all my tools. He missed a few.”

  I commented, brilliantly, “Oh.”

  Donny also watched Boris scamper from rafter to rafter. “He’s made himself at home.”

  Boris made himself at home everywhere. The world was his litterbox.

  “You don’t see too many strays get that attached to someone. Not that fast, I mean,” he amended, as if he’d committed a major faux pas. “You must
have a way with animals.”

  “Aunt Marge says so. I think Boris just knew a sucker when he saw one.”

  “They’re good at that. Finding the softies.”

  I hadn’t heard the term softie in years, smiled involuntarily. I hated the way some unseen part of me vibrated happily around Donny. It was dangerous. Made me vulnerable, and clouded my thinking. Two things I don’t like. Impatient with myself, I made an indecisive gesture. “I’ll let you get on with it. C’mon, Boris.”

  Boris, perched atop a beam, was sniffing raptly at its surface, swaying gently with eyes closed. “Boris?”

  “He must smell all the barn cats who marked it,” said Donny pleasantly. “I’ve got a wife.”

  As conversational bombshells go, that was a multi-warhead nuke. “What?”

  He did not meet my gaze. Just as well. I didn’t want to be seen. “I’ve got a wife.” As if I’d asked, he answered, “We met in Richmond. I worked there a while after I left the service.”

  “Oh,” I said, and fought myself into shrugging carelessly. “Okay.”

  Now he did look at me, with shadows behind his eyes I hadn’t seen before. “We were only married a few months, I noticed she had… problems. Then she had a miscarriage, and…” Those graceful, gnarled craftsman’s hands traced a sad shape in the air. “She started talking to people who don’t exist. In some world she made up inside her head. They gave her medication but it made her sick, and in the end, she just… drifted away.”

  I didn’t know whether to pity him or just cringe.

  “The doctors have four or fives names for it. Schizophrenic catatonia, dissociative disorder…” Another twitch of the hands. “She’s over at Sunrise.”

  Sunrise is a care center. Small. Exclusive. Unobtrusive. Those who work there also live there, on the grounds, and it’s generally thought to be a drug rehab center for the wealthy. Maybe a hundred people outside its fences know the truth. Sunrise treats wealthy people whose minds have, for whatever reason, taken a permanent holiday from reality. It has maybe twenty residents, and it costs six figures a year to keep someone there. That doesn’t count doctors’ visits, medications, or extras, like a room with a view, or a private companion, or a television or radio. I know about it because Aunt Marge once worked there, as the dietitian.

  “It’s…”

  “I know,” I said hastily. “I’m sorry.”

  Donny gave a small irritated grumble.

  My inner cop had to know. “If you don’t mind my asking, how do you afford it?”

  “I do their maintenance. And I pay the rest.”

  That explained the mystery of why he stayed busy with only a three-room shack to show for it.

  “How long,” I started, and stopped, ashamed of myself.

  “Just about ten years.” He smiled without humor. “I can’t divorce her. I won’t. There’s nobody to take care of her if I do. Except the state.”

  And we all know how well the state takes care of its wards.

  “I wanted you to know,” he said, studying Boris again. “And… that’s where Mrs. Littlepage goes. For her visits.” He shifted his toolbox to the other hand. “I’ll see you around, Lil.”

  “See you,” I echoed, but I felt like I’d been blind. I knew why he’d wanted me to know, and I felt a little pang for the might-have-been of it all. Then I boxed that up in some mental closet, to go back to what mattered.

  Mary Littlepage had problems. Secrets, maybe.

  You ever have one of those revelations that, after the fact, seems so stupidly obvious you can’t believe you didn’t get it sooner?

  Mary Littlepage had a secretary.

  I spun around, caught Donny before he’d pulled away. I panted, “Her secretary. What’s her secretary’s name?”

  He looked as puzzled as I felt. “I dunno. She lives with them,” replied Donny, somewhat baffled. “I fitted up the space over the garage as an apartment a few years ago.”

  I thanked him, started jogging back to the house. This was not an interview I could conduct in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. This would take a uniform. There’s something about the navy blue with the ironed-in creases on the sleeves and slacks, and the utility belt with the gun and cuffs and mace and air horn.

  Yes, an air horn. It’s good for getting attention during domestic disputes.

  I heard a merow. Boris was trotting to catch up, disgruntled, and I scooped him up, carried him the rest of the way. I wanted Boris in a good mood. I might need a lie detector.

  ***^***

  First off, yes, I know, I was suspended. But that was a token suspension, as the state police made clear. Kim and Marti had confirmed my version of events and it was all over but the paperwork.

  Second of all, that wasn’t a garage. A garage is a box with a roof, and it holds cars. This was a damn stable for thoroughbreds that just happened to have wheels. It was as big as Aunt Marge’s house.

  I drove my cruiser up to the garage and was stopped by a brisk young man in an LP Inc polo with khaki trousers. I showed my badge, and he hesitated, a garbage bag of leaves in one hand. How he did yard work without getting grimy was beyond me. I get dirty if I look at a rake.

  He eventually decided I could be there, and I pulled in under an oak rumored to have been there since Old Littlepage set foot in the valley the first time. I doubted it. From what I knew of the original Ellers and Littlepages, trees had been seen as a source of income, and an old oak like that came to a lot of feet of timber. In fairness, though, I have to say there are some old chestnuts in Eller Hollow. Between timbering and blight, chestnuts are scarce; only God knows how they survived. Then again, you can say the same for a lot of things.

  I went up the stairs behind the garage and knocked on the door. I didn’t expect the woman to be home, but she answered my knock promptly. Dressed, to my surprise, in a tasteful suit from a high-end clothing store. In a beige designed to be invisible. “Ma’am,” I said. “I’m…”

  “Come in, Sheriff, of course,” she said, and ushered me into what I expected to be a living room. Instead, antiseptic office space, all chrome and faux granite, with black vinyl on the chairs. A real set-up, too, I saw with envy. Fax, scanner, modem, a printer that cost what I make in a month, and a desktop as well as a laptop. On a huge white easy-erase board like mine, someone had printed a series of lists and notes in painfully angular capital letters. The calendar was also filled in. By the look of it, Mary Littlepage didn’t have time to go to the bathroom.

  “We’ve never met,” said the secretary. Even her voice was discreet, low and unaccented, lacking all color. “I’m Cynthia Biggs.”

  Not Cindy‌—‌Cynthia. I found that intriguing, and nearly jumped out of my skin when she uttered a shriek. “Cat!”

  Boris, caught, stopped with his front paws on a chair and his hind legs bunched for the leap.

  “Sorry,” I flustered, “you allergic?”

  “No,” she said, staring at Boris with undisguised loathing. Or terror. Hard to tell. “I can’t stand cats.”

  That inner imp of the perverse consequently demanded Boris be permitted to stay. “Sorry,” I lied. “He won’t do harm, he just likes to come with me.”

  She jittered a little. Her fingernails were torn to the quick, yet had a sheen that bespoke frequent manicures. “Please have a seat.”

  I chose to stand. She came up to my chin. I liked having that advantage.

  “I wanted to ask you a few quick questions. I assume Chief Rucker’s done that already, but I like to double-check these things.”

  She shook her head. Little-girl face on her, but you had to study her to see her. Mousy hair, nondescript complexion in that beige suit, hazel eyes. She gave off very little aura. Vibe. Whatever it is you call it.

  “Chief Rucker,” she said, “hasn’t spoken to me.”

  I’d figured as much.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Lisa was involved with Raymond Gomez.”

  She nodded. She had oddly heavy-lidded ey
es. Make-up barely detectable. All in neutrals. “Yes. The Littlepages are quite upset.” She jumped a little as Boris entered her field of vision. “I’m sorry to be a problem, Sheriff, but I really can’t stand cats.”

  I called Boris to me and picked him up. Now the cat and I were both looming over her. Hey, no one said I was nice.

  “I’d heard the Littlepages were upset,” I said in my least threatening voice. “Mrs. Littlepage, that is, Mrs. David Littlepage, is seeing a counselor, I understand. Out at Sunrise.”

  She flinched. I love when that happens. “That… is not common knowledge.”

  I came up with the most meaningless explanation in history. “Sheriffs have to know all sorts of things. I understand that it’s a private matter.”

  Finally, a trace of color in her face. White. Lots of it, under the foundation. And when she turned her head, I saw the telltale sign of heavy concealer under her eyes.

  “Miss Biggs, you don’t sleep well, do you?”

  She flinched again. “Um. No. Um.”

  “You should try chamomile tea before bed. I find it very relaxing.”

  By her reaction, I’d suggested poison hemlock. “I don’t… like… Can you make him stop looking at me?”

  I switched Boris from one arm to the other. He decided he’d had enough and slithered to the floor. I wandered to the windows with him, pretending to be fascinated by the view: the sheer forested face of Elk Hill to one side, the guesthouse to the other. “Miss Biggs, you have a pretty clear view of Lisa’s house from here. Did you notice anything the night she died?”

  The silence lasted a second too long, was followed by her answer and the hard thwack of Boris’s tail lashing. “No.”

  “Let me rephrase that,” I said gently. “Did you notice anything unusual that night?”

  “No,” she replied, and Boris’s tail gave another swish. He’d narrowed that mismatched glare of his on her, and it must have felt like lasers in her brain by the way she twitched.

  I changed the subject. “It’s nice up here. I suppose Mrs. Littlepage wants you to enjoy your work.”

  Finally, a tiny indication of thaw. “Mrs. Littlepage is very kind.”