Claws and Effect (10 page)

19

“What happened to you?” Miranda practically shouted when Harry walked through the back door at work.

Harry trusted Miranda, a well-founded trust, so she told her everything as they sorted the mail, fortunately light that morning.

“Oh, honey, I hope you haven't stirred up a hornet's nest.” The older woman was quick to grasp the implications of what Harry had done.

In fact, Miranda's mind clicked along at a speedy pace. Most people upon meeting her beheld a pleasant-looking woman somewhere in her early sixties, late fifties on a good day. She used to be plump but she'd slimmed down quite a bit upon reigniting the flame with her high-school beau. She wore deep or bright colors, had a real flair for presenting herself without calling undue attention to herself, the Virginia ideal. But most people who didn't really know Mrs. George Hogendobber had slight insight into how bright she was. She always knew where the power in the room resided, a vital political and social survival tool. She was able to separate the wheat from the chaff. She also understood to the marrow of her bones that actions have consequences, a law of nature as yet unlearned by a large portion of the American population. She'd happily chat about her garden, cooking, the womanly skills at which she excelled. It was easy for people to overlook her. Over the years of working together, Harry had come to appreciate Miranda's intelligence, compassion, and concern. Without being fully conscious of it she relied on Miranda. And for Miranda's part, she had become a surrogate mother to Harry, who needed one.

Naturally, the cats and dog understood Miranda perfectly upon first introduction. In the beginning Miranda did not esteem cats but Mrs. Murphy set her right. The two became fast friends, and even Pewter, a far more self-indulgent soul, liked Miranda and vice versa.

Pewter couldn't understand why humans didn't talk more about tuna. They mostly talked about one another so she often tuned out. Or as she put it to herself, tuna-ed out.

Nobody was tuning out this morning though. The animals were worried and simultaneously furious that Harry had taken such a dumb chance. Furthermore, she had left them home. Had they been with her, the crack on the head would have never happened.

As the morning wore on, everyone who opened a postbox commented on the square shaved spot on Harry's head and the stitches. Her story was that she clunked herself in the barn. Big Mim, no slouch herself in the brain department, closely examined the wound and wondered just what could do that.

Harry fibbed, saying she'd hung a scythe over the beam closest to the hayloft ladder and when she slid down the ladder—she never climbed down, she'd put a foot on either side of the ladder and slide down—she forgot about the scythe. The story was stupid enough to be believable.

After Mim left, Miranda wryly said, “Harry, couldn't you have just said you bumped your head?”

“Yeah, but I had to bump it on something hard enough to break skin.” She touched the spot. “It hurts.”

“I'm sure it does and it's going to keep hurting, too. You promise me you won't pull a stunt like that again?”

“I didn't think it was such a stunt.”

“You wouldn't.” Miranda put her hands on her hips. “Now look here, girlie. I know you. I have known you since you came out of the womb. You don't go around that hospital by yourself. A man's been murdered there.”

“You're right. I shouldn't have gone alone.”

Right before lunch Bruce Buxton walked in. “How's my patient?”

“Okay.”

He inspected his handiwork. “A nice tight stitch if I do say so myself.”

As luck would have it, Sam Mahanes dropped in. As no one had thought to tell Bruce to keep his mouth shut, he told Sam what happened to Harry.

“You stitched her up, discharged her, and didn't inform me?” Sam was aghast, and then wondered why Rick Shaw hadn't told him immediately.

“I'm telling you now,” Bruce coolly responded, secretly delighted at Sam's distress.

“Buxton, you should have been on the phone the minute this happened. And whoever was down there”—he waited for a name to be forthcoming but Bruce was not about to finger Booty Weyman so Sam continued—“should have reported to me, too.”

“First off, I gave the order to the orderlies that carried her up, to the nurse, to shut up. I said that I'd talk to you. I'm talking to you right now. I was going to call you this morning.” He checked his watch. “In twenty minutes to be exact. Don't blow this out of proportion.”

“I don't see how it could be any worse.” Sam's jaw clapped shut.

“Oh, trust me, Sam Mahanes. It could be a lot worse.”

This comment so enraged the hospital director that he turned on his heel, didn't even say good-bye to the ladies, and strode out of the post office, slamming the door hard behind him.

20

Sam, still angry, cut off Tussie Logan as she was trying to back into a space in the parking lot reserved for staff.

He lurched into his space, slammed the door, and locked his car as she finally backed in, avoiding his eyes.

Tussie knew the director's rages only too well. She didn't want to cross him and she didn't want her new Volkswagen Passat station wagon scratched.

Larry Johnson, who had been driving behind Sam at a distance, observed the incident.

Sam strode toward the hospital without a hello or wave of acknowledgment.

After parking, Larry stepped out of his car as Tussie reached into hers, retrieving her worn leather satchel.

“Good morning, Dr. Johnson.” She put her arm through the leather strap while closing her car door.

“Morning, Tussie. He damn near knocked you out of the box.”

“One of his funks.”

“I don't remember Sam being such a moody man.” The older doctor fell into step next to Tussie.

“The last month, I don't know, maybe it's been longer. He's tense, critical, nothing we do is right. Maybe he's having problems at home.”

“Perhaps, but Sally seems happy enough. I've always prided myself on being able to read people but Sam eludes me.”

“I know what you mean.” She turned up the collar of her coat, an expensive Jaeger three-quarter-length that flowed when she walked. “I guess you've seen everything and everybody in this burg.”

“Oh—some,” he modestly replied. “But you still get surprised. Hank Brevard. I wouldn't think he could have aroused enough passion in another person to kill him.”

“Maybe he got the better of someone in a car deal.” She said this with little conviction.

Hank had put his mechanical skills to work in fixing up old cars and trucks. His hobby became an obsession and occasionally a source of income, as he'd repair and sell a DeSoto or Morgan.

“God knows, he had his own car lot. This last year he must have gone on a buying spree. I don't remember him having so many cars. I'd love to buy the 1938 Plymouth. No such luck.” Larry laughed.

“I bet once the dust settles, Lisa will sell his collection.”

“Ah, Tussie, even if she did, I couldn't afford the Plymouth.”

“Maybe you could. You've got to treat yourself every now and then. And what we do is draining. There are days when I love it as much as my first day out of nursing school and there are other days when I'm tired of being on my feet.”

“Tussie, you're a wonderful nurse.”

“Why, thank you, Doctor.”

He smiled. “Here we are.” He opened the front door. “Into the fray.” He paused a moment, then said, “If you see anything off track, please tell me. In confidence. If there is something wrong here we've got to get to the bottom of it. This is too good of a hospital to be smeared with mud.”

Surprised, she shrank back a moment, caught herself, and relaxed. “I agree. I'm a little touchy right now. A little watchful.”

“We all are, Tussie. We all are.”

21

Four medium-sized smooth river stones anchored the corners of the large blueprint that covered Sheriff Shaw's desk. He leaned over with a magnifying glass, puffing away like a furnace on his cigarette. The smoke stung his eyes as he took the cigarette out, peered closely, then stuck the weed back in his mouth.

Cynthia, also smoking, stood next to him. She told herself she was smoking in self-defense but she was smoking because that little hit of nicotine coated her frayed nerve endings.

He pointed a stubby finger at the boiler room, put down the magnifying glass, and placed his left forefinger on the incinerator room. This meant his cigarette dangled from his mouth, a pillar of smoke rising into his eyes.

Coop took the cigarette out of his mouth, putting it in an ashtray.

“Thanks.” He breathed deeply. “The two easiest spots to destroy evidence.”

“Right but I don't think that's our problem.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows arched upward. “I wouldn't mind finding the damned knife.”

She shook her head. “That's not what I mean. We aren't going to find the knife. It's burned to a crisp or he could have taken it right back up to where those things are steamed or boiled or whatever they do. Fruitless.”

“I like that word, fruitless.” He reached for his cigarette again with his right hand but kept his left forefinger square on the incinerator room. “What's cooking in your brain?”

“You know, Harry had some good ideas last night.”

“Oh.” He snorted. “This I've got to hear.”

“She thought maybe someone is pirating body parts, organs.”

He paused a long time, lifted up his left finger. “Uh-huh.”

“Or stealing drugs.”

He stubbed out his cigarette, which he'd smoked to a nub. “The other angle is that his killer was an enemy and knew this would be the best place to find him. The killer knew his habits but then most killers do know the habits of their victims. Until Harry got clunked on the head I was not convinced the crime was tied to the hospital. Now I am.”

“Me, too,” Cooper agreed. “Now the trick is to find out what is at the hospital. What doesn't add up for me about Hank is—if he were in on a crooked deal, wouldn't he have lived higher on the hog? He didn't appear to live beyond his means.”

Rick rubbed his chin. “Maybe not. Maybe not. Wait for retirement and then whoosh.” He put his hands together and fluttered his fingers like a flyaway bird.

“He was in a position to take kickbacks from the fuel company, the electrical supply company, from everybody. For instance, those low-wattage lightbulbs. I noticed that when we answered Bobby Minifee's call. How do we know he didn't charge for a hundred watts but put in sixty? Now I went over those records and know that he didn't but I mean, for example. He was in the perfect position to skim.”

“Wouldn't have been killed for that, I wouldn't reckon. But if he was corrupt it would have been damned hard to pin down. Those records, he could have falsified them, tossed the originals in the incinerator.” He rubbed his palms together. “Right now, Coop, we're grasping at straws. We've got a hundred theories and not one hard piece of evidence.”

“Let's go back to the basement. Don't tell Sam Mahanes when we're there. Call and tell him our people will be there next Tuesday. Then you and I go in Monday night. Someone might be tempted to move something out. But even if that isn't the case we'd be down there without Sam or anyone knowing except for the maintenance man on duty and we can take care of him.”

“That's not a bad idea.”

“A light hammer might help. To tap walls.”

Rick smiled. She was good. She was good.

22

The sunset over the Blue Ridge Mountains arced out like a pinwheel of fire, oriflamme radiating from the mountaintops, an edge of pink gold on each spoke.

Harry paused at the creek dividing her property from the property of her neighbor, Blair Bainbridge. The sky overhead deepened from robin's-egg blue to a blue-gray shot through with orange. She never tired of nature's palette.

As she watched the display, so did Rick Shaw and Cynthia Cooper. They had parked an unmarked car along the railroad tracks near the hospital just below the old switching station, a smallish stone house, finally abandoned by the C & O Railroad in the 1930s.

“Something,” Rick murmured.

“Yeah.” Coop watched the sky darken to velvety Prussian blue, one of her favorite colors.

One by one lights switched on, dots of life. Drivers turned on their headlights and Crozet's residents hurried home for supper.

“When's the last time you went to a movie?” Rick asked.

“Uh—I don't know.”

“Me, too. I think I'll surprise the wife tomorrow night and take her to a movie. Dinner.”

“She'll like that.”

He smiled. “I will, too. I don't know how I had the sense to pick her and I don't know why she married me. Really.”

“You're a—well, you know, you're a butch kind of guy. Women like that.”

He smiled even bigger. “You think?”

“I think.”

He pulled out a Camel, offered her one, then lit up for both of them. “Coop, when you going to find what you're looking for? You still thinking about Blair Bainbridge?”

She avoided the question. “I meant to ask you the other day, when did you switch to Camels? You used to smoke Chesterfields.”

“Oh,” he exhaled. “I thought if I tried different brands”—he inhaled—“I might learn to hate the taste.”

“Marlboro.”

“Merit.” He grimaced.

“Kool.”

“I hate menthol.”

“Dunhill. Red pack.”

“Do you know any cop can afford Dunhills?”

“No. Shepheard's Hotel. Another good but real expensive weed.”

“You must be hanging out with rich folk.”

“Nah—every now and then someone will offer me a cigarette. That's how I smoked a Shepheard's Hotel.”

“M-m-m, what's the name of that brand, all natural, kind of thirties look to the pack, an Indian logo. Where did I see those?” he pondered.

She shrugged. “I don't know.” A beat. “Viceroy.”

“Pall Mall. You're too young to remember.”

“No, I'm not. Winstons.”

He waited, took a deep drag. “I go to the convenience store. I ask for cigarettes, I see all those brands stacked up and now I can't think of any more.”

“Foreign ones. Gauloises. French. Those Turkish cigarettes. They'll knock your socks off.”

He grunted, then brightened. “Virginia Slims.”

“Lucky Strike.”

“Good one. And I note you haven't answered my question about Blair Bainbridge.”

Blair Bainbridge worked as a model, flying all over the world for photo shoots. Little Mim Sanburne more or less claimed him but he was maddeningly noncommittal. Many people thought he was the right man for Harry, being tall and handsome, but Blair and Harry, while recognizing one another's attractiveness, had evolved into friends.

“Well, he is drop-dead gorgeous,” she sighed.

“Have I ever spoken to you about your personal life?” He turned toward her, his eyebrows quizzically raised.

“No.” She laughed. “Because I don't have a personal life.”

“Yeah, well, anyway, you and I have been on this force a good long time. You're in your thirties now. You're a good-looking woman.”

“Thanks, boss.” She blushed.

He held up his hand, palm facing her. “Don't waste your time on a pretty man. They're always trouble. Find a guy who works hard and who loves you for you. Okay, maybe he won't be the best-looking guy in the world or the most exciting but you know, for the long run you want a doer, not a looker.”

She gazed out the window, touched that he had thought about her life away from work. “You're right.”

“That's all I have to say on the subject except for one more little thing. He has to meet my approval.”

They both laughed as the darkness gathered around them. They got out of the car and walked up the railroad tracks to the hospital, slipping down over the embankment at the track.

They opened the back door. Each carried a flashlight and a small hammer. Both had memorized the blueprints.

Wordlessly, they walked down the main corridor to the boiler room. The boiler room sat smack in the middle of the basement. The thick back wall of the room was almost two and a half feet of solid rock, an effective barrier should the boiler ever blow up. The other three walls each had corridors coming into the boiler room.

The only other hallway not connecting into the boiler room was one along the east side of the building at the elevator pool. But in the middle of that east hallway, intersecting it perpendicularly, the east corridor ran into the boiler room.

Offices and storage rooms were off of each of these corridors. The incinerator room was not far from the boiler room.

Coop tapped the solid wall behind the boiler. No empty sound hinted at a hidden storage vault. The two prowled each corridor, noted the doors that were locked, and checked every open room.

The silence downstairs was eerie. Every now and then they could hear the elevator doors open and close, the bell ringing as the doors shut. They heard a footfall and then nothing.

The opened rooms contained maintenance items for the most part. Each corridor had mops, pails, and waxers strategically placed so they could be easily carried to the elevators. A few rooms, dark green walls adding to the gloom, contained banks of ancient file cabinets.

As they quietly walked along, the linoleum under their feet squeaked. Back at the oldest part of the building, the floors were cut stone.

“Three locked doors. Let's find Bobby Minifee.” Rick checked his watch. They'd been in there for two and a half hours.

Bobby hadn't taken over Hank Brevard's old office until that morning. The Sheriff's Department had crawled over every inch, every record. Satisfied that nothing had escaped the department's attention, the office was released for use.

“Bobby.” Rick knocked on the open door.

Startled, he looked up and blinked. “Sheriff.”

“We need your help.”

“Sure.” He put down the scheduling sheet he was working on.

“Bring all your keys.”

“Yes, sir.” Minifee lifted a huge ring full of keys.

The three walked to the first locked door, which was between Hank's office and a storage room full of paper towels and toilet paper.

After fumbling with keys, Bobby found the right one. The door swung open and he switched on the light. Shelves were jammed with every kind of lightbulb imaginable.

“Hank made us keep this locked because he said people would lift the bulbs. They're expensive, you know, especially the ones used in the operating room.”

“People would steal them.”

Bobby nodded yes. “Hank used to say they'd steal a hot stove and come back for the smoke. I never saw much of it myself.” He politely waited while Rick and Cooper double-checked the long room, tapping on walls.

“Okay. Next one,” Rick commanded.

The second locked room contained stationery and office supplies.

“Other hot items?” Coop asked.

“Yep. It's funny but people think taking a notebook isn't stealing.”

“Everyone's got that problem, I think.” The sheriff flipped up a dozen bound legal pads. “If I had a dollar for every pen that's walked off my desk I'd have my car paid for.”

The third room, much larger than the others and quite well lit, contained a few pieces of equipment—one blood-infusion pump, one oscillator, two EEG units.

“Expensive stuff.” Rick whistled.

“Yes. Usually it's shipped out within forty-eight hours to the manufacturer or the repair company. For a hospital this size, though, we have few repairs. We're lucky that way.” Bobby walked through the room with Rick and Cynthia. “Hank took care of that. He was very conscientious about the big stuff. He'd call the manufacturer, he'd describe the problem, he'd arrange for the shipping. He'd be at the door for the receiving. You couldn't fault him that way.”

“Huh,” was all Rick said.

“Where do you keep the organ transplants?”

Bobby's eyes widened. “Not here.”

“You don't receive them at the shipping door?” Coop asked.

“Oh, no. The organ transplants are hand-walked right into the front door, the deliverer checks in at the front desk, and then they are delivered immediately to the physician. They know almost to the minute when something like that is coming in. Most of the time the patient is ready for the transplant. They'd
never
let us handle something like that.”

“I see.” Rick ran his forefinger over the darkened screen of an oscilloscope.

“Let's say someone has a leg amputated. What happens to the leg?” Coop asked.

Bobby grimaced slightly. “Hank said in the old days the body parts were burned in the middle of the night in the incinerator. Now stuff like that is wrapped up, sealed off, and picked up daily by a company that handles hazardous biological material. They burn it somewhere else.”

“In the middle of nowhere, I'd guess, because of the smell,” Coop said.

“No.” Rick shook his head. “They use high heat like a crematorium. It's fast.” He smiled smugly, having done his homework.

“I'm glad. I wouldn't throw arms and legs into the incinerator.” Bobby shuddered.

“People were tougher in the old days.” Rick wanted another cigarette. “Well, thank you, Bobby. Keep it to yourself that we were here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rick clapped him on the back. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged.

“Notice any change in the routine here?” Coop clicked off her flashlight as Bobby walked them to the back door by the railroad tracks.

“No. Not down here. I'm duplicating Hank's routine. He'll be hard to replace. We're not as efficient right now. At least, that's what I think.”

“Anyone coming down here who usually doesn't come down?”

“Sam and Jordan made separate appearances. But now that things have settled a little it's business as usual—no one cares much about our work. If something isn't done we hear about it but we don't receive compliments for doing a good job. We're kind of invisible.” A slight smirk played on Bobby's lips.

“Has anyone ever offered you drugs? Uppers. Downers. Cocaine?”

“No. I haven't even been offered a beer.” The corners of his mouth turned up. Dimples showed when he smiled.

Rick opened the back door. “Well, if anything pops into your head, no matter how small it seems, you call me or Coop.”

“I will.”

The temperature had dropped below freezing. They climbed up the bank to the tracks.

“Ideas?”

“No, boss. Wish I had even one.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

It had never occurred to them to tap the floors in the basement.

         

That same Monday evening, Big Mim and Larry Johnson dined at Dalmally. Jim Sanburne was at a county commissioners' meeting in Old Lane High School, now the county offices, in Charlottesville. Little Mim was ensconced in her cottage.

The two dear friends chatted over fresh lobster, rice, vegetables, a crisp arugula salad, and a very expensive white Chilean wine.

“—his face.” Larry laughed.

“I haven't thought of that in years.” Mim laughed, remembering a gentleman enamored of her Aunt Tally.

He had tried to impress the independent lady by his skill at golf. They were playing in a foursome during a club tournament. He was in the rough just off the green, which was surrounded by spectators. The day being sultry, ladies wore halter tops or camp shirts and shorts. The men wore shorts and short-sleeved shirts, straw hats with bright ribbon bands.

The poor fellow hit a high shot off the rough which landed right in the ample bosom of Florence Taliaferro. She screamed, fell down, but the golf ball was not dislodged from its creamy resting place.

No one knew of a rule to cover such an eventuality. He couldn't play the ball but he was loath to drop a ball and take a penalty shot. His contentious attitude so soured the caustic Tally that the moment they turned in their cards, she never spoke to him again.

Larry cracked a lobster claw. “I'm amazed at what flutters through my mind. An event from 1950 seems as real as what's happening this moment.”

“Y-e-s.” She drew out the word as the candlelight reflected off her beautiful pearls.

Larry knew Mim always dined by candlelight; the loveliness of the setting proved that Mim needed luxury, beauty, perfect proportion.

Gretchen glided in to remove one course and bring out another. She and Big Mim had been together since girlhood. Gretchen's family had worked for Mim's parents.

“What do you think about my daughter opposing my husband?”

“Ah-ha! I knew you had an agenda.”

“She shouldn't do it,” Gretchen piped up.

“Did I ask you?”

“No, Miss Mim, that's why I'm telling you. I have to get a word in edgewise.”

“You poor benighted creature,” Big Mim mocked.

“Don't you forget it.” Gretchen disappeared.

Larry smiled. “You two would make a great sitcom. Hollywood needs you.”

“You're too kind,” Mim replied, a hint of acid in her tone.

“What do I think? I think it's good for Marilyn but it creates stress for the residents of Crozet. No one ever wants to offend a Sanburne.”

“There is that,” Mim thoughtfully considered. “Although Jim has been quite clear that he doesn't mind.”