Crazy, VA

by Hill, Shannon

  The rest of my bad mood had to do solely with the fate of Cynthia Biggs. I could not shake the feeling that a murder victim’s mother should not be funding the murderer’s defense. It smelled like the rotten eggs some punk had lobbed at the sign for the Littlepage Eller Animal Shelter, giving my morning jog a charming reek of sulfur.

  And then my cell phone, with exquisite timing, rang just as I was trying to avoid a dead possum. I missed the possum, and my footing, and landed hard, with a yelp that was half-curse and all pain.

  The phone kept warbling. I made a mental note to change the ring tone to something less annoying, and answered, “What?”

  “You seen the news?”

  It was Tom. At seven in the morning. I snapped, “No,” and started examining my leg. I couldn’t really feel anything from the knee down, and I had a suspicion I’d prefer it that way. “Why?”

  “Cynthia Biggs died.”

  I forgot my leg, and let me assure you, that was not easy. “She what? How?”

  “Cut her wrists.”

  Granted, jails are a good place to find sharp and/or pointy objects‌—‌in fact, prisons are the best education a criminal can get‌—‌but I still couldn’t quite believe it. I tried to stand up, and regretted it. I staggered a few steps so I didn’t land on the possum, and flopped down the guard rail at what’s informally down as Dumb-Ass Bend. So named for the number of dumb-asses who try to take it at high speed and suddenly meet the naked rock of the mountain about ten feet past the guard rail.

  “With what?”

  “News didn’t say.”

  I thanked him and hung up. At this point, some people might have wanted to know what the guards had been doing, and why hadn’t anyone called for help‌—‌for instance, Cynthia’s cellmate‌—‌but I know better. You don’t end up in prison for your kindness to suffering creatures, and guards are a mixed bag to say the least. Some are marking time, some just need a job, and the rest range from clichéd incompetence to equally clichéd brutality. A sharp object wouldn’t be hard to get or hard to hide.

  So, Cynthia Biggs was dead. I mused on that a few minutes, decided I wanted a shower, and started for home. I got about ten steps on that leg before I opted for discretion over valor, called Aunt Marge, and got a ride to the Emergi-care.

  CHAPTER 15

  Halloween fell in mid-week that year, and the town council had decreed the parade and festivities would be held the Saturday before. That meant Friday night was pure chaos, last-minute tweaks to costumes and floats for the parade the next morning, scrambling to buy candy to toss to the crowd, a mysterious run on toilet paper that Marti Green told me about, and some drunks trying to smash pumpkins all down Main Street. Tom and I arrested Eddie Brady and his buddies‌—‌Todd Shifflett, Norm Spivey, and two Campbells‌—‌before we called it a night.

  Tom headed home to grab some sleep. I drove around town one last time. Boris was restless, squirming in his seat, trying to sniff everything at once, ears perked to catch the least rustle in the fallen leaves.

  As I pulled into the parking lot of my office, Donny Tucker’s pickup truck pulled in behind me. I couldn’t imagine what he would have to say to me, and on some level it creeped me out that he was seeking me out. He was married, he should know better, and if he didn’t, I certainly did.

  “Good evening, Sheriff,” he called. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  I ushered him into my office. I offered him coffee, which he refused, and for at least one minute by the clock, we stood in awkward silence. At last, Donny said, “I’ve been working up at the Littlepages.”

  I nodded very slightly to indicate he should continue.

  “They hired me to clear out Cynthia Biggs’s apartment. The state police told them they didn’t need to keep it restricted anymore.”

  I replied, “Yeah, I heard that. They’ve collected all the evidence they can.”

  Donny fidgeted. It wasn’t something that seemed natural to him. Just when I was about to lose my patience, he blurted out, “I know it may not mean anything, but when I was cleaning out the furniture, I found this piece of jewelry.”

  I shrugged expansively. I didn’t know what else to do. “Okay, so turn it over to the state police. They’ll get it to her loved ones.”

  Donny cleared his throat. “Well, um, all the other personal stuff was gone. I mean, there weren’t any clothes, or shoes. It seemed strange, you know what I mean? That they’d leave jewelry behind.” With that, he pulled a sandwich baggie out of his jeans and thrust it at me.

  I examined the items with interest. None of them looked at all like jewelry Cynthia Biggs would have worn. They were loud, gaudy, clunky.

  They were all wristwatches from Fifi’s. There were six of them.

  I went to my desk and pulled out a pair of vinyl gloves. I snapped them on and took the watches out of the baggie. I turned each one over. There were no special markings, and I took out a magnifying glass that Aunt Marge had given me as a nod to my Sherlock Holmes phase. On the back of each watch, in tiny letters, were engraved the words “day of the week collection”.

  I called Lieutenant Breeden of the state police. His mother and Aunt Marge were part of the same network of women who really run things. More accurately, they are part of the same network that Aunt Marge runs. I asked him if the watch found near the crime scene was part of the Fifi’s day of the week watch collection. While we waited for his return call, Donny and I pretended to be busy. I shuffled the paperwork on my desk and he flipped through a pocket calendar. Boris, like any intelligent animal, thought we were idiots and let us know this by sneering at us from the top of his cat condo.

  Breeden called back with the information that not only was the watch found near the crime scene part of that collection, but also the medical examiner’s report on Cynthia Biggs noted a pale band around her left wrist indicating she frequently wore a watch. I told him he could pick up the other six watches from my office. Then, feeling like a real cop again, I took Donny’s statement about how he had found them. They had been neatly hung from pegs on the back of the door of the bedroom closet. There had been seven pegs.

  Circumstantially speaking, this was putting Cynthia Biggs where the body was found. With one problem: if she wore a watch every day of the week, why hadn’t she been wearing one when I interviewed her? Had she simply decided she couldn’t wear her watch of the day unless she had the entire seven in the collection? Or had wearing those watches been too painful a reminder of her crime?

  Had someone at the Littlepage estate left them there deliberately, after packing up every other single item?

  After Donny signed his statement, I thanked him and bid him good night. I sat at my desk for a long time, thinking about too many things at once. When I finally got up to go home, I felt very old, worn out by all questions I’d never get answers to.

  ***^***

  I received a hell of a surprise the next morning when Aunt Marge informed me she would be going to lunch with Roger Campbell at the Old Mill restaurant. Roger, she said, was proving an invaluable asset to the animal shelter, and she wanted a chance to repay him. The way she blushed, I knew repayment was not her real motive. Aunt Marge had a thing for Roger Campbell.

  I called Bobbi to tell her about this development, and she chortled. “Honey, I’ve got news for you, he has a thing for Aunt Marge. He moved out of his house a week ago and filed for divorce. He’s living at the Country Rose Bed and Breakfast now, or at least until he finds another place. I bet you anything his next stop is the Turner family mansion!”

  A lifetime of my godmother the stern feminist spinster had not prepared me for any such thing, not even in theory. I yelped. “No way!”

  Bobbi giggled. “Didn’t you wonder why there were so many meetings of the animal shelter board?”

  I hadn’t, but I was wondering now. My emotions didn’t know which way to jump. Part of me was elated; part of me was confused; and part of me pitched a fit. I needed serious chocolate. The more choco
late, the better. I dove into the stash I keep in my desk drawer, and pulled out a bag of truffles. It was a variety assortment from a fancy store in Charlottesville. I usually saved them for emergencies. I decided my godmother having a love life qualified.

  I was sucking down my seventh chocolate and starting to regain a sense of humor about the situation, when my cousin Jack Littlepage came into the office. His complexion was horrible, a blotchy combination of pallor and rage. Even worse was the expression in his cold blue eyes.

  “Cousin,” I said calmly. “Have a seat. Have a truffle.”

  Cousin Jack grabbed a handful of truffles and started unwrapping them. He popped two in his mouth at once. I winced. One of them was peppermint, and the other was butter rum. I couldn’t imagine what the combination tasted like. Hopefully, a mint julep.

  “What’s wrong?”

  My cousin was not disheveled, yet he somehow gave the impression of it. “I have to ask you a question, and I want an honest answer. Do you think Cynthia could have premeditated my sister’s murder?”

  “I don’t think so, but then, she wasn’t on my suspect list to begin with. Talk to me, Jack.” I leaned over my desk and pushed more truffles in his direction. “You look like you’re going to blow a gasket.”

  “Is there any chance you can subpoena my mother’s financial records?”

  This was heading in a very scary, interesting direction. I had to tell him the truth, and I did. “Not without cause. And I don’t have cause.”

  My cousin sagged. It’s a terrible thing to see a patrician from an old family slumped down like that. You can tell it offends their DNA.

  “What would you do if I told you my mother paid off the mortgage for Cynthia’s mother? In the amount of $167,000?”

  My mouth dried up. Despite my distrust of Mary Littlepage and my problems with the case, I had trouble absorbing the concept of Mary Littlepage rewarding her daughter’s murderer’s family. “You have a check stub? Any kind of paper trail?”

  Jack shook his head decisively. “All I have is what I overheard this morning. My parents do not argue, Lil. It isn’t genteel.” He managed a self-mocking smile. “This morning, my father was yelling at the top of his lungs. About my mother paying off the mortgage for Cynthia’s mother. He yelled so loud I could hear him outside, I was just so grateful the employees weren’t in earshot. Father gave them the morning off, I didn’t know why until I heard them arguing in his study.” His hands opened and closed over and over again. “I wouldn’t have heard anything, either, but I came back because I forgot my favorite putter.”

  That explained the ugly shoes, and silly pants. I have never understood why golfers so often wear clothing they would otherwise not be caught dead in.

  I tried to be gentle. “What exactly did you overhear?”

  My cousin stared down at his hands, smeared with chocolate from the last truffle. “I couldn’t hear what Mother said, I have no idea how she justified herself to him. I will testify to what I did hear, anything to help.”

  That kind of cooperation is a blessing, but in this case, it wouldn’t be enough. Not against Littlepage money and influence. Not even if Littlepage money and influence was on my side. I think Jack knew it without being told. He slouched deeper into his chair and fell into a black silence.

  “I would love to know when she wrote that check,” I said aloud without meaning to.

  My cousin’s head jerked up. His face twisted malignantly. “So would I,” he said.

  ***^***

  I woke up early, with Boris sprawled asleep on my pillow, his tail draped over my throat. I had to meet Tom at nine to barricade Main Street for the parade, at ten. Then judge the person-pet costume contest at eleven, with prizes for floats and costumes handed out at eleven-thirty. Then the town cook-out behind Town Hall. At one-thirty, there would be pie and preserve judging at town hall, while the kids kept busy with carnival games behind my office. Silly stuff, like throwing darts at balloons, ring tossing, that sort of thing. At three, athletic contests like footraces, wheelbarrow races, until four, when there’d be a pot luck supper at the elementary school. At five-thirty, official trick-or-treating, followed by a hay ride at six-thirty, and a round of campfire ghost stories to finish off the day.

  I gulped down three handfuls of granola, a glass of apple-pear juice that frankly made my tongue curl, and got to the office by six-thirty. I dug through the filing cabinet while Boris sharpened his claws, made sure all the corners were full of cat hair, and settled in for a morning wash. I kicked my feet up, careful of my knee, and reread the file on my cousin’s murder.

  A letter opener was consistent with the wounds. I frowned, studying the photograph of it. The edges looked nicely sharp, and it was definitely pointy. If viewed point on, the blade was diamond-shaped, exactly in keeping with the stab wounds.

  I looked at the photo for half an hour, and got nothing out of it but a headache. Sighing, I tossed the photograph aside, and shuffled through the rest. The ones of Cynthia’s office brought a grimace to my face. The treatment rooms at the Emergi-care weren’t as sterile-looking as that office. All chrome, steel, black plastic, granite….

  Cynthia’s office did not reflect the personality associated with crimes of passion. Yet the woman herself, so carefully camouflaged, probably had plenty of passion under her layers of beige. It was the little details that gave it away. The watches Donny Tucker had found. The extravagant, colorful embroidery on the comforter in Cynthia’s bedroom, shown in a photograph taken because the state police were very thorough, unlike Chief Rucker. Even the emotion in Cynthia’s confession indicated that she was very capable of the passion required to stab someone seven times. The fact a letter opener had been used was another hint that this was not a premeditated crime.

  We already knew Mary Littlepage was giving no reason for paying Cynthia’s defense lawyer. What we didn’t know was if she had a reason for paying off Mrs. Biggs’s mortgage. Had she written that check before Lisa’s murder? Had it simply been a loan or a gift to a loyal, treasured employee? Or, as I suspected, was it payment for services rendered?

  I scoured the file until my eyes crossed. I could find nothing to give me cause for subpoena of Mary Littlepage’s financial records.

  I called my cousin to ask if he could simply hand over the family’s financial records. It was a long shot, and it missed. Jack did not have access to his parents’ personal accounts, and he did not expect his father to volunteer them. More specifically, Jack told me, “My father has already said it’s none of my business or anyone else’s business. And don’t ask me why he’s protecting her, I don’t understand it, not one bit.”

  That made two of us. I put the file back into the cabinet, picked up Boris, and went out to enjoy Halloween.

  ***^***

  The parade went off with a minor hitch, namely the float depicting Gone With the Wind imitating the burning of Atlanta when Rhett Butler’s cigar dropped hot ash on tissue paper. Scarlett and Melanie nearly lost their petticoats jumping for safety, but the only casualty was a fake magnolia, and their pride.

  After the VFD doused the float, it was on to the pet-person costume. I had Boris with me, atop the three steps at Town Hall, and the little monster turned shy and coy on me. He huddled up like he’d never heard of claws, staring in amazement at the twenty-three people who’d shown up in costume with their pets. I disqualified all the pink-tutu-clad pets on principle, admired a couple of good choices where the person dressed to suit the pet instead of costuming the pet to suit themselves, and handed the first prize ribbon to a Morse who wore cotton tie-dyed to look like her tortoiseshell cat’s coat. I was sweating before I was done, thinking I’d have trouble with someone, but no one took it badly. There’d been too much applause, and too many people looking forward to the cook-out.

  Munching sandwiches, Tom and I strolled around during the judging of various pies and preserves. Aunt Marge won for her wild berry jam, and her apple pie. I was clapping when Tom gestured to me.
“Checked messages.”

  I listened to the one he’d saved for me. Jack, letting me know again how upset he was, and how he wished he could help.

  It was, frankly, too nice a day to be worried about the Littlepages one minute more. One of those days when there’s sun and clouds and wind and warmth in exactly the right proportions to make you happy it’s fall. Crisp but soft. Like one of Aunt Marge’s sugar cookies with colored sprinkles on top.

  By the time we got to the hayride, I was exhausted, and so was Boris. I found him curled up in his car seat, a paw over his nose, whole body limp. He’d begged treats, sniffed costumes and floats, been stared at, seen a dozen cats squirming to get away from costumed owners, growled at dogs, and patrolled next to me all day. That’s a big day for a cat. I gave him a kiss between the ears before I ate a cinnamon roll and rolled out to wait for the usual DUIs. Boris made happy little snores, and over the mountains, the stars painted the sky with diamonds. I couldn’t have been happier if I’d tried.

  Around twilight, I was rolling past WCZY’s little cinder-block building, window down, breathing in the sweet cool air, when I spotted a car in the ditch. I pulled over, Boris twitching awake long enough to glare at me, and hit my spotlight. No one in the car. A Lexus. Only two Lexuses in town, and one of them belonged to the Littlepages. The other belonged to Dr. Mitchell’s wife. This one didn’t have any bumper stickers, so I knew it was the Littlepage Lexus. I eased along until I spotted my cousin stumbling up Piedmont Road.

  “Trouble?” I asked him casually, and pulled to a stop in front of him. He bumped against my cruiser, hair slightly disheveled, golf shirt half-untucked. “Oh,” he said. “Cousin Li‌…‌Li…”