Pawing Through the Past (15 page)

30

Harry, tape measure around Tomahawk, heard the phone ring in the tackroom. She ignored it, then gave in.

“Hello.”

“Marcy Wiggins has shot herself.” Susan Tucker’s voice had none of its customary lilt.

“What?”

“Shot herself in the temple with a .38. Bitsy Valenzuela found her when she stopped by to pick up a picnic hamper she’d lent Marcy.”

“When?”

“About an hour ago. Maybe longer. Bill Wiggins called Ned asking for legal representation in case it isn’t a suicide. Bill was the first person Rick questioned, too. That’s all I know.”

“Is she dead?”

“Yes.”

“That poor woman.” Harry put her hand to her tem-ple. “She was definitely strange at the post office yester-day. Chris and BoomBoom took her home. She said everyone was talking about her and she couldn’t stand it. Stuff like that. I should have paid more attention. Did she leave a note?”

“I don’t know. Ned left the instant he hung up the phone. I believe this has something to do with Charlie.”

“Yeah,” Harry weakly replied. “What a September this has turned out to be.”

31

Marcy’s autopsy report revealed she had been HIV-positive. This, of course, was kept confidential. Leo Burkey’s autopsy revealed him to be robustly healthy.

But the real shocker was when ballistics tests proved the gun that Marcy used to kill herself was the same one used to kill Charlie and Leo.

People assumed Marcy had been having an affair with Charlie. He tired of her. She snapped. Others said Bill killed Charlie but there was no evidence to link Bill to her demise. Rick and Cooper had been thorough on that count. She couldn’t live with her guilt for betraying her husband. No one could figure out why she wanted to do in Leo but the scientific fact remained: it was her gun.

She did leave a suicide note which simply said, “I can’t stand it anymore. Forgive me. Marcy.”

The rest of September passed with no more murders. People breathed a sigh of relief.

The plans for the reunion remained in full swing. Dennis Rablan dated Chris Sharpton, which set tongues wagging. Some people thought she was wasting her time. Others thought he was dating her in hopes of getting her to wisely invest what little he had left. A few thought they made a cute couple. Dennis was happy again. Market asked her out once but she gracefully declined, saying she was focusing on Dennis. Blair Bainbridge dated Little Mim under the glare of a silently disapproving Big Mim. Everyone remarked how well they danced together but not in front of Big Mim, of course. The speculation on Blair and Little Mim was even hotter than the gossip concerning Dennis and Chris.

Harry went to the movies every Wednesday night with Fair, Tracy, and Miranda. However, she was in no hurry to get closer to her ex, but she did draw closer to Tracy—closer than she could have imagined. Theirs was a father-daughter sort of relationship. He, wisely, never asked about her romantic status with Fair, figuring sooner or later she would discuss it.

Once the sirocco of gossip died down, Crozet returned to normal. Mim bossed everyone about—but she was gaining more support for her gardening project. BoomBoom obsessed about the reunion. Harry was doing a great job on publicity. Susan had the caterers lined up. One for breakfast and lunch, a different one for dinner only because two of the participants ran catering businesses.

The horses gained weight on the alfalfa cubes. Harry had to cut back on the amount she was feeding them.

Pewter actually lost some weight during the September heat wave. Everyone commented on how good she looked.

Tucker endured a flea bath once a week.

Mrs. Murphy refused to accept that Marcy Wiggins had killed two men. No one paid any attention to her, so she finally shut up. Murphy kept repeating that she
“wasn’t the type.”
It was Leo Burkey’s murder that kept Murphy on alert.

She crouched in the tackroom just to the side of a mouse hole on this beautiful early-October day. Pewter walked in, as did Tucker.

“Hear anything?”
Pewter inquired.

“They’re singing again.”

Tucker cocked her head.
“‘The Old Gray Mare’—where do they get these old songs?”

“Beats me.”
Mrs. Murphy, disgusted, shook her head.
“I’ll figure that out just about the time I figure out the murders.”

“Oh, Murph, don’t start that again. It’s over and done.”
Tucker put her head flat on the tackroom floor as she tried to peer into the mouse hole.

“All right, but I’m telling you, something is coming out of left field. Just wait.”

Pewter, opinionated, said,
“Why would a murderer jeopardize himself after getting off scot-free? I mean, if it wasn’t Marcy, why would that person kill again?”

“Because the job isn’t finished.”

Tucker gave up on seeing the mice.
“Murphy, you always say that murders are committed over love or money. Marcy had the love angle.”

“No one was robbed. Nix the money,”
Pewter chipped in.

“Remember the humans thought there might be an insurance payoff, but Leo left no insurance and Marcy’s policy was quite small. No trust funds either,”
Tucker said.

“‘. . . she ain’t what she used to be, ain’t what she used to be . . .’”
The mice boomed out the chorus.

“I hate them.”
Mrs. Murphy’s striped tail lashed back and forth.

“Let’s go outside. Then we don’t have to listen,”
Pewter sensibly suggested, and the three animals trotted to the roses at the back of the house.

“Great year for roses.”
Pewter sniffed the huge blooms.

“Silly refrain, ‘ain’t what she used to be many long years ago,’”
Murphy sang the chorus. Much as she scorned the song, she couldn’t get it out of her head.

32

Crozet’s citizens walked with a snap in their step. They were two days from a big weekend.

Crozet High would play Western Albemarle for Homecoming. The class of 1950 was having its fiftieth reunion and the class of 1980 was celebrating its twentieth.

The Apple Harvest Festival would follow that, filling up the following week.

Fall had arrived with its spectacular display of color and perfect sixty-degree days, followed by nights of light frost.

Everyone was in a good mood.

Harry sorted the mail. She liked the sound the paper made when she slipped envelopes into the metal post office boxes. She tossed her own mail over her shoulder. It scattered all over the floor.

Miranda glanced at the old railroad clock hanging on the wall. “Another fifteen minutes and Big Mim will be at the door.” She pointed to Harry’s mail on the floor. “Better get that up.”

“Not yet!”
Pewter meowed as she skidded onto the papers.

Mrs. Murphy followed.

“Copycat,”
Tucker smirked.

“If this were a dead chicken you’d be rolling in it.”
Murphy bit into a brown manila envelope.

“Of course.”
Tucker put her nose to the floor so her eyes would be even with Murphy, now on a maniacal destruction mission.

“Dead chickens!”
Pewter pushed a white envelope with a cellophane window deeper into the small pile of increasingly tattered paper.

Harry knelt down. Two pairs of eyes, pupils huge, stared back at her. “Crazy cats.”

“Sorry human,”
Pewter replied.

“You can’t say that.”
Tucker defended Harry.

“All humans are sorry. Doesn’t mean I don’t love her. Oh, this sounds divine.”
Pewter sank her fangs into the clear address panel and it crackled.

“Tucker, you take life too seriously.”
Murphy had stretched to her full width over the mail.

“Enough.” Harry started pulling papers from underneath the cats, who would smack down on the moving paper with their paws. “Let go.”

“No,”
Pewter sassed.

“She’s a strong little booger.” Harry finally pulled out a triple-folded piece of paper, stapled shut. Four claw rips shredded the top part. The staple popped off as she pulled on a small piece of paper attached to it.

Harry opened what was left. A small black ball, no message, was in the middle of the page. She checked the postmark: 22901, the main post office in Charlottesville. “Looks like another one.”

“Oh, no.” Miranda hurried over. “Well, I don’t know.”

“I’ll check the other boxes.”

Her classmates each had a letter, too.

Miranda was already dialing Rick Shaw.

Big Mim knocked at the front door. Harry unlocked it, letting her in at eight
A.M
. on the dot.

“Good morning, Harry.”

Miranda hung up. “Morning, Mim.”

“Look.” Harry showed Big Mim the mailing.

“Not very original, is he?” Mim sniffed, as she held the torn paper in her gloved hands.

“No.” Harry sighed. “But each murder occurred after each mailing.”

“Call Rick?”

“Just did,” Miranda said.

“Whoever this is seems determined to spoil your reunion.” Mim tapped the countertop.

“He already has, in a way. We won’t be talking about what we’ve learned in twenty years or remembering the dumb things we did in high school. We’ll be talking about the murders.” Harry was angry.

“‘Enter by the narrow gate; for the gate is wide and the way is easy, that leads to destruction, and those who enter it are many.’” Miranda quoted Matthew. Chapter seven, Verse thirteen. “I don’t know why that just popped into my head.”

33

Streamers dangled from clumps of shiny metallic balloons, hanging like bunches of grapes. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter raced around the gym, leaping upwards to bat the strings. Tucker sat under a ladder watching the reunion crew frantically hanging the blown-up photo posters of the senior superlatives.

A light frost covered the ground with a silvery glaze. The gym, large and unheated for decorating, proved chilly. Fortunately, it would be heated in the morning.

Harry and Chris had set up three long tables by the entrance. These they covered with white tablecloths. Sitting on the tablecloths were beautifully marked stand-up cards for each letter of the alphabet. In neat piles in front of the alphabet cards were the identification badges for each returning class member. Each badge, on the upper left-hand side, carried a small photograph of the individual from high-school days. This had proved costly, causing another row between Harry and BoomBoom, but even Boom admitted, once she saw the badges, that it was effective. Some people change so much that the high-school photograph would be the only way to recognize them.

Susan brought sandwiches. Always organized, she had arranged the food for the two-day celebration but she’d even thought of the hard work the night before. They only had Friday night in which to prepare, since Crozet High was in use throughout the week.

BoomBoom surprised everyone by having the photo frames built weeks before. Every balsa-wood frame was numbered, as were the low baskets in the shape of a running horse, the centerpieces on the table.

T-shirts were rolled and wrapped with blue and gold raffia. Disposable cameras, one for each participant, were also in the baskets, along with items from local merchants. Art Bushey threw in Ford key chains. Blue Ridge Graphics gave a deep discount on the T-shirts. The baseball caps, on the other hand, were on sale to raise money to pay for cost overruns. The T-shirts were meant to be money raisers but Bob Shoaf, who’d made a bundle in pro football, contributed the money for them so no one would be left out in case they hadn’t enough money for mementos.

Harry’s job was over. She’d stepped up publicity with each succeeding week. She’d done radio spots, appeared on Channel 29 Nightly News—along with BoomBoom, who never could resist a camera. She’d created clever newspaper ads using the mascot and pictures from 1980.

Local bed-and-breakfasts, as well as one hotel chain, offered discounts for returning members of the class of 1980 as well as the class of 1950.

Out of one hundred and thirty-two surviving classmates, seventy-four had sent in their deposits, as well as complaints about the strange mailings.

For Mrs. Hogendobber the return rate was one hundred percent. A fiftieth high-school reunion was too special to miss.

“Looks good.” Harry admired the entrance tables. “It’s simple. There’s nothing to knock over. No centerpiece. They can pick up their badges and go.”

“Now, where’s the pile of badges for people you couldn’t think of, I mean, you couldn’t think of anything to say. You’ll have to think fast,” Chris said.

“They’re here in this paper bag on my seat.” Harry nervously pointed to the bag. “But I don’t know if I’ll be able to think of anything.”

“Well, since I have no preconceived notions, I’ll pop over from time to time and whisper in your ear—things like ‘He looks like a warthog!’” She smiled. “Got your dress?”

“Yes. Miranda and Susan hauled me to town. Only have to wear it to the dance. I’m not wearing it the rest of the time.”

A whoop from the hallway diverted their attention.

“Harry! You owe me ten dollars,” Miranda’s voice rang out.

Harry, along with the animals, hurried out into the long, polished hallway to behold Miranda on a skateboard, Tracy just behind her.

“I don’t believe it!”

“Ten dollars.” Miranda triumphantly held out her hand.

“Did I say ten dollars?” She grinned, then fished in her pocket. She’d forgotten the bet but vaguely remembered a crack about Miranda not being able to skateboard.

“She can do wheelies,”
Pewter remarked.

“Frightening, isn’t it?”
Tucker guffawed.
“That’s a lot of lady to hit the ground.”

As though she understood the corgi, Miranda pushed off with her right foot and headed directly for the dog, who had the presence of mind to jump out of the way.

Mrs. Murphy said,
“She’s lost a lot of weight, Tucker. There’s not so much lady to hit the ground. But still . . .”

“Sweetest ten dollars I ever made.” Miranda held up the green bill after stopping.

Tracy stepped off his skateboard to put his arm around Miranda. “This girl practiced. She can even go down hills now.”

“Mrs. H., you’re something else.” Harry laughed.

“Never underestimate the power of a woman.” Miranda again waved the ten dollars in the air as Susan, BoomBoom, and Chris entered the hallway to see what was going on.

“Hee hee.”
Mrs. Murphy, eyes gleaming, hopped on Miranda’s skateboard, rolling a few yards down the hallway.

“Human. That cat is human,” Chris marveled.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”
Mrs. Murphy got off, made a circle at a trot, then hopped on again, picking up a little speed.

Miranda finally took the skateboard from her, putting it behind the door of the cafeteria. Murphy would have pushed it out to play some more but Harry scooped her up to take her home. She was tired, even though the name-tag display hadn’t been that trying. It was the anticipation that was exhausting her, that and a tiny ripple of dread.