Crazy, VA

by Hill, Shannon

  Like a Littlepage ever asks anything.

  All right, I mused as I stood with hands in pockets, staring at a sky full of stars without seeing it. She goes to Cynthia’s apartment to demand Cynthia keep the secret. Maybe Cynthia refuses. Maybe she whips off some BS about how no Littlepage should date a mere Raymond Gomez. Whatever is said, Cynthia decides she can’t let Lisa besmirch the family name and…

  Besmirches the family name by killing Lisa with a letter opener.

  Well, who’s to say Cynthia isn’t passionate about the Littlepage family name?

  Why would she be? She probably didn’t make much more than I did.

  Boris head-butted me, tail twitching. I scooped him up and he craned his neck, eyes dark, to watch the shadows in the trees. A bat flittered past, and Boris tensed for the attack, making a happy croon-growl. To him, a flying mouse must’ve seemed like the best of both worlds. It squeaked and flew.

  I turned toward home. Cynthia loses it, kills Lisa, dumps the body, then goes sobbing to her employer to confess.

  Now that didn’t work at all. Mrs. Littlepage would’ve called me or Rucker. Someone. And had Cynthia removed from the property like so much offal.

  Then Cynthia didn’t tell Mrs. Littlepage. Kept her dark secret, cleaned up the mess, vanished back into the background she’d always inhabited, invisible to every eye including mine.

  As for Cynthia toting the body to her car and dumping it‌—‌plausible. Lisa wasn’t very large, and in fear or rage, Cynthia could’ve done a lot without feeling any muscle strain. And the lack of defensive wounds made sense, since Lisa would’ve never expected an attack from Cynthia, and was sloshed to boot.

  It helped that at least one stab wound‌—‌probably the first‌—‌had hit Lisa in the back. Not lethal, but enough to stun her, slow her down. She would have turned, and…

  I flinched a little. That was one mental picture I didn’t want to see.

  The state police were going to handle the forensics in the matter. Now that a site on the Littlepage estate was involved, chances were the Littlepage in the state senate wouldn’t be hurrying the matter.

  As Aunt Marge had said, case solved. Over. Done.

  A pity I didn’t believe it.

  CHAPTER 13

  You ever have a scab you just have to pick? That was me. I can’t even say why. I finally had a decent deputy‌—‌heck, a nearly perfect deputy‌—‌and I had a reputation for knowing how to shoot that did wonders with jackasses like Eddie Brady. Work was humming along more easily than it ever had in my life. I was even getting credit for having correctly realized Raymond Gomez wasn’t the killer, and for being too stubborn to let go until I miraculously “broke” Cynthia Biggs. When I walked down the street, I got cheerful shouts of “Hey, Sheriff!” instead of the old grunt-and-nod routine, or that all-time favorite, the suspicious stare.

  My point being that everything had come up roses. Literally. Raymond Gomez was so glad to be out of county lockup that he sent me a couple dozen yellow roses as a thank-you. Jack Littlepage sent me a more discreet arrangement of multi-colored roses that took up half my desk. I got a congratulatory bouquet from Maury as a thanks from a grateful community. Lisa Littlepage Hunter’s friends‌—‌numbering about three‌—‌even sent me a huge floral arrangement. My office looked like a funeral parlor.

  Boris came in for his share, too, since it was widely known‌—‌thanks to Harry‌—‌that Cynthia’s fear of cats had triggered the confession. We were inundated with cat toys and cat treats for three days. Boris ate the treats, but regarded the toys with befuddlement. To him, play was what he did with his food. But we did get one gift I really liked. I still have it, in fact. Heather Shifflett, a moody teenager I’d tagged as Future Pain in My Ass, did a stunning pencil portrait of Boris based on the photo of him in the local newspaper. The photo had been good, but she’d caught that wicked glint in his eyes, and I immediately had it framed and put on the wall in the office.

  So why wasn’t I happy?

  I have no idea.

  Donny Tucker had a suggestion. It was mid-October, getting to that point where the cool weather’s really settling in and you don’t have to worry about any more 90 degree days, or even 85 degree days. After the blistering summer‌—‌we were in the 90s more than we should’ve been‌—‌it was like heaven on earth to feel that October air. Work on the shelter literally leapt ahead, now that Donny and his cousin didn’t need to take half a day off to prevent heat stroke. The roofers had been, and all that remained, according to Aunt Marge, was indoor work. I wandered down on Thursday‌—‌Tom and I agreed I’d have Thursday and Sunday off, while he’d take Wednesday and Saturday, since he didn’t have to deal with Aunt Marge’s insistence I attend church‌—‌to see how it was going.

  The sign at the end of the drive read: Littlepage Eller Animal Sanctuary. Above the door, in bronze letters, it read the same. Aunt Marge swore there’d be an explanatory plaque inside, just in case the story of my giving up three million dollars hadn’t reached someone. Boris at my side, I clomped up the steps with a nagging sense of embarrassment, and through the front door.

  It looked awful. All drywall dust and wires hanging out and I can’t even tell you what-all. I cringed a second, before remembering what the kitchen had looked like in the middle of Aunt Marge’s renovations. A project never looks worse than right before it’s done.

  I walked into the back, where the animals would live, and grinned. Aunt Marge’s hand was plain. Cats had airy enclosures about six by ten feet, and like the dogs, they got access to outdoor areas. She’d sworn there’d be no itty-bitty wire cages, and it looked like she’d pulled it off. I picked up Boris mid-investigation, cuddling him with shining eyes. “Look at that, Boris,” I whispered, caressing his ears. “Look at that.”

  “About all that’s left is the acrylic.”

  I jumped about a yard, came down clutching Boris hard. Donny Tucker apologized. “I thought you heard me.”

  “Thought wrong,” I snarled, backing up a pace. I don’t trust people who walk that quietly in boots. It’s not natural. “What acrylic?”

  Donny gestured economically at the nearest enclosure. “Instead of glass. Lots of air-holes and such. We’re putting in the vinyl this afternoon, and we start primer and paint Monday.”

  I meant to reply politely, but Boris wanted to explore more and let me know by squirming till he clawed. I set him down, kept an eye on him in case he joined the ranks of those cats who think it’s fun to play with wires. I’m told it tends to be a very brief interest.

  Donny gave me a shy, small smile. “Congratulations on finding out who killed your cousin.”

  I didn’t think of it as a matter for congratulations. “Thanks.”

  “Your aunt’s got a good eye for detail,” he remarked as he gave me the grand tour. “She called up some plant expert to make sure the landscapers don’t put in anything bad for cats or dogs.”

  I knew this but pretended not to. Polite fictions and all that. I nodded thoughtfully as he took me into the lobby again, half my mind in a pleasant state of relaxation, the rest wound tight with unnamed anxiety. Donny paused mid-description of the carpentry to ask, “You all right, Sheriff?”

  “Thinking,” I said.

  “About what?”

  He wasn’t a friend, but he wasn’t an enemy, and I succumbed to weakness. “The murder. I’m not convinced.”

  That rocked him. “Everyone else is.”

  I shrugged. “I know. And it’s not the craziest thing I’ve run into. But I just don’t buy it.”

  For Donny, as for everyone else, confession sufficed. “Why would she confess if she didn’t do it?”

  “I don’t know,” I snapped, beginning to pace. Where the hell was Boris, anyway? I began peering into the half-finished rooms. “Boris? C’mon, time to get some tuna.”

  Boris knows a lot of human words. Salmon, chicken, tuna, treat, bed, brush, vet… the list is pretty long. But tuna didn’t work the
usual magic. I started to get a little alarmed, and hurried back to the enclosures. “Boris?”

  I found him almost immediately, trying to see what was behind the untaped crack where two sheets of drywall met. Sighing in relief, I hefted him with a brisk, “Time for tuna.”

  Boris growled at me in relatively gentle rebuke. His tail lashed as he struggled to get down. Donny chuckled, slow and sincere, got a glare out of me for it.

  “Maybe you’re like your cat,” he said. “You just gotta keep poking around till you’re sure you’ve seen it all, even if it’s nothing new.”

  As insights go, not the worst. I thought about it all the way home, Boris quite content to be carried, with that smug look cats get when humans do their bidding. Maybe Donny was right. Maybe I should just let it slide, not be so stubborn I got stupid.

  That ended when I sat bolt upright in bed at some unholy hour, as my subconscious finally let my consciousness know what was going on.

  I didn’t believe Cynthia’s confession because I didn’t believe her motive.

  And I didn’t believe her motive because she’d never given one. In fact, she hadn’t really told us anything about what led to her picking up a letter opener and sticking it in Lisa’s back. Only that Lisa had said things‌—‌nasty things‌—‌about her own mother. Could Cynthia really be that devoted to Mrs. Littlepage? Was that her motive? Saving Mrs. Littlepage from the pain of her daughter dating a man of non-Anglo descent, by killing aforementioned daughter?

  My subconscious said no way.

  On the other hand, there might be some other motive behind the murder.

  There might even be a reasonable motive behind Mrs. Littlepage paying for the defense. I don’t care she was a Littlepage by marriage. That sort of thing is contagious. She could’ve been Gandhi when she married Uncle Littlepage, and turned out Scrooge. There was no way she was paying the bill out of sheer generosity.

  “Damn it,” I muttered, as Boris flopped onto his back to sleep with hind legs splayed and forepaws folded over his nose. “I need more information.”

  ***^***

  My cousin courteously agreed to meet me at Old Mill for lunch. The food’s good, but the menu’s a little boring. Lunch is always soups and sandwiches, and the soups are always chicken noodle, french onion, and chili. The sandwiches aren’t much more creative. There’s burgers, cheeseburgers, tuna salad for the dieters in the crowd, and BLTs. After Thanksgiving, there’s even turkey. Fortunately, they have the best ever home-made baked potatoes in the universe. Seth being sort of a relative, he gave me the secret a year or two ago: he rubs them with garlic-imbued olive oil, and he cooks them at a low temperature. No microwaves, no sitting under heat lights getting weird. And Seth knows I’m just about as vegetarian as can be without giving up omelets and milk, so he makes sure to send out extra chives, lots of fresh parsley, and‌—‌pure bliss‌—‌real butter.

  Cousin Jack regarded my lunch with curiosity. He’d settled for french onion soup, smothered in melted cheese, and a BLT. The idea of two baked potatoes for lunch had, apparently, never occurred to him. “You’re quite sure…” he indicated delicately.

  “Very,” I said. I filched a bit of butter and let Boris lick it off my fingertip. Yeah, I know, but you try keeping Boris out. Besides, Jack had his late sister’s ridiculous purse pooch with him. The dog sat in the booth next to him, silky ears decorated with tiny twin pink bows. I petted Boris smugly. You’d never catch a cat letting that happen to him. Or, I amended, any self-respecting dog. As for Boris, he found Benito fascinating. To him, Benito was a dog-scented rat, and he eyed Benito with an expression he usually reserved for canned cat food.

  “How’re your parents?” I asked with real compassion for once. I knew how Aunt Marge had reacted to me going away to college. I can’t imagine how parents cope with the death of a child.

  Jack made a suitably long face. “It’s difficult. Father especially. Lisa was his pet, you know.”

  I hadn’t, but murmured nonsense syllables as if I had.

  Peering uncertainly at the soup under the thick bubbly mass of cheese, Jack continued, “It’s eased his mind considerably, to know that Lisa’s… killer… is in prison. But…”

  “It must be hard, to know it was someone he trusted.”

  At that, my cousin surprised the socks off me. “Cousin Littlepage,” he chortled, “what makes you think Father ever trusted Miss Biggs? She was Mother’s creature. Her secretaries always are.”

  Now I thought about it, Cynthia Biggs hadn’t been wearing an LP Inc uniform.

  “I’ve never liked them myself. Any of them,” he clarified before I could ask, and while my mouth was full of heavenly potato. “She’d set them to spy on us when we were young.” He shuddered with tasteful if theatrical disgust, then sobered. After a tentative bite of his sandwich, he remarked, “You know, I pity them, really. Mother’s quite demanding.”

  Undertones galore to that, which I followed up after we’d eaten and were waiting for, respectively, coffee and a very large water with whatever passed for lemon. Aunt Marge taught me not to interrogate while eating.

  “I’m surprised your mother’s funding the defense.” I sipped at the water, wrinkled my nose. Fake lemon juice. What’s the point? “It’s very…”

  Jack flushed. That’s intimidating on a Littlepage, though I can’t even say why. “It’s hurting Father. And she’s given us no explanation. No satisfactory one, at least.”

  If words were knives, his mother’d be skewered.

  “She may feel responsible,” I suggested carefully. “That’s the rumor…”

  For once, Cousin Jack spoke like a normal person and not someone with a cedar up his hind end. “For hiring a psycho?” He snorted. “Yeah, she might, but I think Mother just wants to make sure no one has any reason to criticize her.”

  Who on God’s green earth would criticize a woman for letting her daughter’s killer hang?

  “You know,” Jack said after a moment of my obvious confusion. “The newspapers will make up anything they can to fill space. This way no one can say Mother being a bad employer led to…”

  Who would say that?

  I thought about the local media. The Gazetteer was an Eller enterprise. Yeah, they’d say it.

  Did I mention yet that it’s no joy being half a Littlepage and half an Eller?

  “I do want to know why you’re curious, Cousin Littlepage.”

  I blushed. Caught. “Honestly? I can’t see why Cynthia Biggs would do it.”

  His grin twisted. “What, Sheriff, you don’t believe my mother capable of inspiring great loyalty?”

  Well, no, but I couldn’t say that out loud. I studied Boris, who was contemplating Benito, his tail quivering like it does when he’s planning mischief.

  Cousin Jack reached out and tapped the table to recapture my attention. “Cousin to cousin? Sub rosa?”

  There is no such thing as sub rosa‌—‌that means confidential in Renaissance‌—‌with cops. I nodded anyway.

  “I don’t like my mother very much, and I never have. Neither did Lisa. We gave her love and respect, because Father asked it of us. You know, of course, she absolutely hated your mother.”

  I hadn’t, actually. I didn’t know they’d met. “Really?”

  “Oh yes,” said Jack, dropping a fifty on the table that would cover lunch three times over. He scooped up Benito, who growled in resignation, and slid out of the booth. “Your mother rebelled, you see. Mother hates rebels. If she’d been alive during the Revolution, she’d have been a Tory.”

  Boris turned to watch Benito the rat-dog bob away in Jack’s arm. I put my head in my hands a minute. So Mary Palmer Littlepage hates rebels. Well, she’d just loved Lisa, then. First leaving a suitable husband, then taking up with Raymond Gomez. Of course, Mary Littlepage hadn’t known about Raymond Gomez, but that might explain why she was paying for Cynthia’s defense attorney. It was probably her way of thanking Cynthia for sparing her the trouble of killing her daug
hter herself.

  I’d settled into the cruiser with Boris contentedly snacking on a bit of hamburger the server had given us in a little styrofoam container, when that facetious thought of mine rose up and hit me between the eyes.

  What if it was her way of thanking Cynthia?

  “Oh gross,” I said, and Boris, surprised, stopped slurping long enough to regard me with purely feline affront.

  I stroked his back. “Sorry, baby. Not you.”

  He gave me a huffy glare, then wolfed down the rest of the hamburger. Funny that the server hadn’t given any to Benito. Poor thing looked like he could use a treat or two. I knew Jack would care for Benito for Lisa’s sake, but it’s not the same as being spoiled by a dedicated doormat of a human. As Boris began his post-treat ritual of wetting his right forepaw and swiping it fastidiously over his face, I wondered idly what it must be like to be a cat. Five squares a day, cushy places to sleep, and someone else cleaned your toilet. And you never had to wonder if paying for your daughter’s murderer’s attorney could qualify as a crime.

  ***^***

  That afternoon, I got a call from the Littlepage estate. True, the part of it in town was only a couple of acres, but the whole thing encompasses a big chunk of Elk Hill, and it definitely qualified as an estate. There were walking trails and so forth, and their groundskeepers‌—‌yeah, I know, groundskeepers in what is essentially forest‌—‌ride golf carts. Someone had stolen one of those golf carts. I stared at my uncle with Boris sniffing eagerly around for signs of Benito the rat-dog. “Someone left the key in it?”

  He nodded austerely. “I’d say nothing but it is a problem with the company we rent them from, you see.”

  I did see. Those places charge you a couple hundred bucks a month to rent the cart, but when it goes missing, suddenly it’s worth sixty grand. “Any ideas?”

  “Perhaps our vandal.”

  With Boris entranced by all these alien odors‌—‌the Littlepages were going to host a fox hunt that weekend, and there were horses everywhere, along with what horses leave behind‌—‌we marched out to the garage. Spray painted in gigantic white letters on the old brick were the words Killer. More accurately, iller. An LP Inc employee was hard at work scrubbing it into oblivion. Someone else raced around after the horses with a shovel and a garbage bag, while more someones tried to convince a bunch of overbred, over-nervy equine idiots to go into the new stable around back. Since no horses had lived in it to my knowledge since Lisa outgrew her horsey phase, I can’t blame them. It smelled of bat guano.