“No,” Rick said. “You’re free to go.”
Later, when Rick and Cynthia were about to get into the squad car, she asked him, “Do you think she’s telling the truth? That she really didn’t know about Nigel?”
“What’s your gut tell you?”
Cynthia leaned against the door of the car. The night, crystalline and cold, was beautiful. “She didn’t know.”
“What else?” He offered her a cigarette which she took.
Cynthia bent her head for a light and took a drag. She looked up, noticing how perfectly brilliant the stars were. “Rick, this thing is a long way from being over.”
He nodded in agreement, and they finished their cigarettes in silence.
29
The big purple van with the glittering gold lettering—DALMALLY FARM on both sides and HORSES on the rear—was parked next to an earthen ramp. The loading ramps, heavy and unwieldy, could injure your back so Mim had had an earthen ramp built. The horses walked directly onto the van without hearing that thump-thump of metal underneath them. Of course, once they were at the races, the loathed ramp did have to be pulled out from the side of the van, but still, any easing of physical labor helped.
Harry loved to inspect Mim’s vans. Mim also had an aluminum gooseneck trailer for hunting. Although purple was the racing color of her mother’s family, for hunting Mim used red and gold on her three-horse slant-load Trailet. Harry coveted this trailer as well as the Dodge dually with the Cummins turbo-diesel engine that pulled it. That was red, too.
She’d stopped by the stable after work to see if Little Marilyn was around. She didn’t want to seem as though she was checking up on her peer, but she was. Little Mim had finally sent out the invitations for the wild-game dinner, but she hadn’t reported who had RSVPed and who hadn’t. As it was, Susan Tucker had had to pick up the invitations from the printer in Charlottesville.
Just as Harry climbed back into her truck, Big Mim cruised into the parking lot in her Bentley Turbo R. Mim never stinted on machines of any sort. It was an irrational thing with Mim: she couldn’t resist cars, trucks, or tractors. Fortunately, she could afford them. She probably ran the best-equipped farm in Albemarle County. She even had a rolling irrigation system, a series of pipes connected to huge wheels that ran off a generator.
“Harry.”
“Hi. I was trying to find Little Marilyn but no one’s around.”
“She’s in Washington today.” Mim opened the heavy door and slid out. “Worried about the dinner?”
“A little.”
“Me, too. Well, don’t worry overmuch. I’ll check the messages on the service and tell you who’s accepted. I’ll resort to the telephone tree, too, if necessary.” She mentioned the system wherein designated callers were each responsible for calling ten people.
“I can do that.”
“No, she’s my daughter, and as usual, she’s falling down on the job.” Mim fingered her Hermes scarf. “Marilyn hasn’t been right since her divorce was final last year. I don’t know what to do.”
Harry, forthright, said, “She isn’t going to learn much if you do it for her.”
“Do you want the game dinner to fall apart? My God, the hunt club would have our hides. I’d rather do it and get after her later.”
Harry knew that was true. Their foxhunting club, the Jefferson—which chased foxes, rather than truly hunting them—was filled with prickly personalities, big egos, and tough riders as well as those of calmer temperament. Fox-hunting by its nature attracts passionate people, which is all very well until the time comes for them to cooperate with one another. Little Marilyn would stir a hornets’ nest if the game dinner didn’t raise the anticipated revenue.
“I wish I could help you, but Marilyn has never much cared for me.”
“Now, Harry, she’s not demonstrative. She likes you well enough.”
Harry decided not to refute Mim. Instead, her attention turned toward Tucker and Mrs. Murphy chattering loudly about who had been in Orion’s stall.
“Mrs. Murphy and Tucker appear to be hungry,” Mim said.
“Mim, I wish you’d listen.” Mrs. Murphy mournfully hung out the driver’s window.
“Yeah, well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” Harry said.
“You’re part of the telephone tree.” Mim started for the stable, then turned. “Harry, what are you doing next weekend?”
“Nothing special.”
“How would you like to come to Camden this weekend to see the Colonial Cup? It would mean a lot to Adelia and Charles, I’m sure.”
“Don’t go.” A bolt of fear shot through Mrs. Murphy and she didn’t know why.
“If Miranda will take care of my babies, I’d love to go.”
“I thought Miranda might like to attend as well. Her sister lives in Greenville. Perhaps she could drive over.”
“Let me see what I can do about the kids here, but I’d love to go.”
“It’s Adelia’s twenty-first birthday. I thought we could celebrate down there and put her troubles behind us.”
“Good idea.”
30
Gray clouds hung so low Harry felt she could reach up and grab one. Although the temperature stayed in the mid-forties, the light wind, raw, made her shiver.
She dashed out of the bank on her lunch hour just as BoomBoom dashed in.
“Harry.”
“BoomBoom.”
“I’m sorry I lost my temper in the supermarket.”
“Uh, well, an avalanche of toilet paper will do that to you.” Harry continued down the steps.
BoomBoom placed a restraining, manicured hand on her shoulder. “Miranda says you can have the next hour off.”
“Huh?”
“I was just in the post office and I asked her if I could borrow you for an hour.”
“What?”
“To go to Lifeline with me.”
“No.”
“Harry, even if you hate it, it’s an experience you can laugh about later.”
Harry wanted to bat Miranda as well as throttle BoomBoom, a vision in magenta cashmere and wool today. “No. I can’t do something like that.”
“You need to reach out to other people. Release your fears. We’re all knotted up with fear.”
Harry breathed deeply, removing BoomBoom’s hand from her shoulder. “I’m afraid to die. I’m afraid I won’t be able to pay my bills. I’m afraid of sickness, and I guess if I’m brutally honest, I’m afraid to grow old.”
“Lifeline can not only banish those fears but teach you how to transform them to life-enhancing experiences.”
“Good God.” Harry shook her head.
Mickey Townsend walked up behind her, a deposit envelope in his gloved hand. “Harry, BoomBoom. Harry, are you all right?”
“No! BoomBoom keeps pressuring me to go to Lifeline with her. I don’t want to go.”
“You’d be surprised at the number of people who do go.” BoomBoom fluttered her eyelashes. Harry assumed this was for Mickey.
“I’ve never been to Lifeline, but—” He paused. “When Marylou disappeared I went to Larry Johnson. He prescribed antidepressants, which made me feel like a bulldozer ran over me, except I could function. I hated that feeling so I went into therapy.”
“You?”
“See!” BoomBoom triumphantly bragged.
“Shut up, Boom. Lifeline isn’t therapy.”
“Did it help? I’m sure it did.” BoomBoom smiled expansively.
Mickey lowered his already low voice. “I found out I’m a real son of a bitch, and you know what else I found out?” He leaned toward BoomBoom, whispering, “I like it that way.”
Harry laughed as BoomBoom, rising above the situation, intoned, “You could benefit from Lifeline.”
“I could benefit from single malt scotch, too.” He tipped his hat. “Ladies.”
Harry, still laughing, bade her improvement-mad tormentor good-bye.
“You know what, Harry?” BoomB
oom shouted to her back. “This is about process, not just individual people. Process. The means, not the ends. There are positive processes and negative processes. Like for Mickey Townsend. Ever since the whole town turned on him for courting Marylou—negative process.”
Harry stopped and turned around. “What did you say?”
“Process!” BoomBoom shouted.
Harry held up her hands for quiet. “I hear you. I think I’m missing something.”
“A lot.”
“Go back to Marylou.”
“Not unless you come with me to Lifeline.”
“Look. I’ve got to pack now, I’m going to Camden for the weekend. I haven’t got time to go with you to Lifeline. Talk to me about process right now. I promise I’ll go when I return.”
“Set a time frame.”
“Huh?”
“You could come back and say you’ll go with me next year.”
“In a week.”
BoomBoom, thrilled, stepped closer, looming over Harry from her much greater height. “Nothing happens in isolation. All emotions are connected like links in a chain. Marylou Valiant couldn’t cope without her husband. She began to drink too much. Squander money. That set off Arthur, who loved her. He chased off that greedy movie star and what happens? She falls in love with Mickey Townsend.”
“So?”
“Process. No one directly confronts and releases their emotions. Arthur becomes embittered. He wins over Chark. Mickey wins over Addie. The men fight over Marylou through her children.”
Harry, silent for a long time, said, “This is Act Two.”
“Yes—until everyone involved stops hanging on to hardened, dead patterns. But people’s egos get hung up in their anger and their pain. So they pass it along.”
“What goes around comes around,” Harry said, thinking out loud.
“Not exactly. This is about breaking patterns.”
“I understand. I think.” She rubbed her temples. “Didn’t mean to be, uh, reductive.”
“You will go with me?”
“I said I would.”
“Shake on it.”
Harry extended her hand. She ran back to the post office, pushed the door open. “Miranda, how could you?”
Miranda, glasses down on her neck, said to Herb Jones, “Ignore her.”
Harry strode up to the counter, Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker watching her every move. “You told BoomBoom you’d relieve me for an hour so I could go to Lifeline. How could you?”
“I did no such thing. I told her if you wanted to go you could. It’s a slow day.”
“Damn. I should have known.” Harry propped her elbow on the smooth, worn counter. “Well, I am going.” She held up her hand for stop. “Not today. Next week.”
“Harry, I’m proud of you.” The reverend beamed.
“Why?”
“You’re showing the first signs of forgiveness.”
“I am?”
“You are.” He slapped her on the back, reaching over the counter. “You girls enjoy the races.”
As he left, Harry repeated to Miranda her entire conversation with BoomBoom Craycroft.
“She wasn’t talking about the murders—she was just talking.” Miranda pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose.
“Yeah, but it made me wonder if Nigel and Coty’s murders aren’t part of a process—something started before drugs . . . or during drugs. Fixing races. Betting. That was everyone’s first thought, remember?”
“Yes. It proved unfounded.”
“Well, Mrs. H., they weren’t just killed because someone didn’t like them. They were links in a chain.”
“She surprises me.” Pewter lay down crossing her paws in front of her. “Humans can reason.”
31
Since no one claimed Nigel Danforth’s body, he was buried in a potter’s grave at the expense of the taxpayers of Ablemarle County.
His belongings were in his tack trunk back in the overcrowded locker room at the station.
Cynthia Cooper called Mickey Townsend to pick them up. The department had tagged and photographed each item.
He followed her back to the locker room.
“I was going to turn this over to Adelia since he had no next of kin. But the more I thought about it, the more I decided against it. It could upset her too much, and the big race is this weekend. You were his employer. You’ll have to stand in for next of kin.”
“May I open it?”
“Sure.”
He knelt down, lifting the brass hasp on the small wooden trunk. A riding helmet rested on top of folded lightweight racing breeches. He placed it on the ground with the breeches beside it. Two old heavy wool sweaters and a short winter down jacket were next. Assorted bats and whips rested on the bottom along with a shaving kit.
“Feel that.” Mickey handed her a whip, pointed to the leather square at the end.
“It’s heavy. What’s in there?”
“A quarter. It’s illegal but nothing says he can’t use it during workouts. A crack with that smarts, I promise.”
“Not much to show for a life, is it?” she said.
“He had some beautiful handmade clothes from London. Turnbull & Asser shirts. That kind of thing. He made money somewhere.”
“Yeah. I remember when we went through the cottage. Still, not much other than a few good clothes. The only reason we kept the tack trunk so long is he was sitting on it. We dusted it inside and out.”
Mickey slid his hands into the pockets of the down jacket. He checked the inside pocket. Empty.
It wasn’t until he got home and hung the jacket on a tack hook, wondering to whom he should give the clothing—maybe some poor, lean kid struggling to make it in the steeplechasing world—that he noticed a folded-over zipper where the collar met the yoke of the down jacket. Nigel had worn the jacket so much that the collar squinched down, covering the zipper. The tack hook straightened out the collar. A hood would be inside, another aid against foul weather.
Out of curiosity, Mickey unzipped it, unfurling the hood. A dull clink drew his eyes to the soft loam of the barn aisle.
He bent over, picking up a St. Christopher’s medal. He started to shake so hard he steadied himself against the stall.
Beautifully wrought, the gold medal was the size of a half-dollar. Over the detailed relief of St. Christopher carrying the Christ child was layer after layer of exquisite blue enamel. The engraving in perfect small script on the gold non-enameled back read: He’s my stand-in. Love, Charley.
Mickey burst into tears, clutching the medal to his chest. “St. Christopher, you failed her.”
That medal had hung around Marylou Valiant’s neck on a twisted thick gold chain.
Once he regained control of himself, Mickey stood up. He started for the phone in the tack room to call Deputy Cooper. His instinct told him it would have been easy to miss the hood in the collar. If he hadn’t hung up the coat, he would have missed it himself.
He sat down behind the old school desk and picked up the receiver.
He thought to himself, What if they did see it and photograph it? Maybe they’re trying to bait me. I’m a suspect. He put the receiver back in the cradle. No, no they missed it. He held the beautiful medal in both palms. Marylou, this medal will lead me to your killer, and I swear by all that’s holy I’ll take him out. If Nigel killed you, then may he fry in Hell for eternity.
He stood up abruptly and slipped the St. Christopher’s medal in his pocket.
32
“She’s got Susan to take care of us and the horses,” Tucker moaned. “She’s packing her bags. What are we going to do?”
“I can hide under the seat of the Ford and then jump into the racing van.” Mrs. Murphy lay on her side. She’d worried about this so much she was tired.
“But I can’t fit under the seat,” Tucker wailed. “And you need me. Mother needs me, she just doesn’t know it.”
“I’m thinking.”
Tucker dropped her head betwe
en her white paws so that her face was in front of Mrs. Murphy’s. “There will be more murders! Everyone will die!”
“Don’t get carried away. Anyway, be quiet for a minute. I’m still thinking.” Five long minutes passed. “I have an idea.”
“What?” Tucker jumped up.
Mrs. Murphy also sat up. She didn’t like to have Tucker hanging over her. “Go into her bedroom and beg, plead, cry. Make her take you.”
“What about you?” Tucker’s soft brown eyes filled with worry.
“She won’t take me. We both know that. I can travel as well as you, but Mother has it in her head that cats don’t like to travel.”
“It’s because you—”
“I only did that once!” Mrs. Murphy flared. “I wish you’d forget it.”
“Mother doesn’t. I’m trying to think like she does,” Tucker hedged.
“The day we think like a human we’re in trouble. We outthink them, that’s the key. She won’t take me. If she’ll take you, one of us will be there at least. She needs a keeper, you know. If she blunders into something she could make a real mess. I’m a lot more worried about Mim, actually.”
“Mim?” Tucker’s tongue flicked out for a minute, a pink exclamation point.
“Marylou Valiant is buried in her barn. Coty Lamont and someone called Sargent put the body there five years ago. Right? Well, Mim may be safe and sound but the fact remains that a murdered woman, a dear friend of hers, is buried on her property. What if she finds out?”
Tucker, knowing her friend well, picked up her train of thought. “It’s a small circle, these ’chaser people. Mim’s important in that world.”
“One thing is for sure.”
“What?”
“The murderer carries a deck of cards.”
“So does half of America.” Murphy brushed against Tucker’s chest, tickling the dog’s sensitive nose with her tail.
“Here’s what really bothers me. Once a murder is committed, the last thing a murderer would want to do is dig up the corpse. It’s the corpse that incriminates them.”
“Maybe they forgot to take off her jewelry or there was money buried with her.”
“Possible, if the murderer or murderers were rattled. Yes, it’s possible but Coty had enough time to collect his wits. He would have stripped her of anything valuable. I’d bet on that. Then, too, we don’t know for sure if Coty or the other guy killed her.”
Murder, She Meowed Page 16
