Wish You Were Here (16 page)

Harry shrugged in answer to Mrs. Hogendobber's question. “Love or money.”

After Mrs. Hogendobber drove off, Harry returned to work with renewed vigor. Since she felt helpless about Mrs. Hogendobber, she could feel purposeful in cleaning the office. She could get one thing to work right in her life.

Then Fair walked into the post office.

“I tried to be a good husband—you know that, don't you?” Fair cleared his throat.

“Yes.” Harry held her breath.

“We never discussed what we expected from each other. Perhaps we should have.”

“What's wrong? Come out and say it. Just come out with it, for chrissake.” Harry reached out to touch him and stopped herself.

Fair stammered, “Nothing's wrong. We made our mistakes. I just wanted to say that.”

He left. He wanted to tell her about BoomBoom. The truth. He tried. He couldn't.

Harry wondered, Was he mixed up in these murders? He was acting so strange. It couldn't be. No way.

28

Mrs. Hogendobber's fears were justified. Rick Shaw seethed when Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber confessed about Xeroxing the second ledger.

By the time Harry got home she decided if this wasn't the worst day in her life, it certainly qualified as so bad she didn't want it repeated.

She called Susan, telling her about Fair's peculiar behavior. Susan declared that Fair was in the grief stage of the divorce. Harry asked her to come to the post office in the morning for a long coffee break. After she hung up she decided she'd tell Susan about the bug postcard she had received. She needed Susan's response. Anyway, if she couldn't trust her best friend, life wasn't worth living.

29

Tucker chewed a big knucklebone behind the meat counter. Market Shiflett, in a generous mood, gave her a fresh one. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter received smaller beef bones. They happily gnawed away while catching up on recent events. Ozzie, Bob Berryman's Australian shepherd, had been down at the mouth. Pewter claimed he hardly wagged his tail and barked. Mim Sanburne's snotty Afghan hound had lost his testicles yesterday. The animal news, usually rich in the summer, lagged behind the human news this year.

Tucker recounted Rick Shaw's livid explosion. Poor Mrs. Hogendobber thought she was going to jail.

Courtney paid scant attention to these three animals cracking bones and talking among themselves. Her large hoop earrings clattered.

“When did Courtney start dressing like a gypsy?”
Mrs. Murphy, conservative about attire, wanted to know.

“She's trying to attract Danny Tucker's attention. He'll be mowing Maude Bly Modena's lawn today. He'll hear her before he sees her.”
Pewter had eaten so much she lay down on one side and rested her head on her outstretched arm.

“Guess you heard what he did?”

“Mrs. Murphy told me yesterday while you were out doing potty, as Harry calls it.”
Pewter laughed.
“I don't mind Harry's expressions so much except when she tells you to go potty her voice rises half an octave. Say, not only is Courtney sticking big hoops in her ears but last night when Market was out she made herself a martini. She wants to be sophisticated and she thought drinking a martini would do it. Ha! Tastes like lighter fluid.”

“She's young.”
Mrs. Murphy tore off a slender thread of red meat.

“Tell me about it. Human beings take forty years to grow up and half of them don't do it then. We're ready for the world at six months.”

“We're not really grown up though, Pewter.”
Mrs. Murphy licked her chops.
“I'd say we're fully adult at one year. I wonder, why does it take them so long?”

“Retarded,”
came Pewter's swift reply.
“I mean, will you look at Courtney Shiflett. If she were a child of mine those earrings would be out of those ears so fast she wouldn't know what hit her.”

“At least she works. Think of all those humans who don't even earn a living until their middle twenties. She works after school and she works in the summer. She's a good kid.”
Mrs. Murphy thought most humans lazy, the young ones especially.

“If you like her so much, you live with her. If I hear her George Michael tape one more time, I'm going to shred it with these very claws.”
She flashed her impressive talons.
“Furthermore, the girl will make herself deaf—and me, too—if she doesn't turn down that boom box. Sometimes I think I'll walk out the door and never come back—live on field mice.”

“You're too fat to catch mice,”
Mrs. Murphy taunted her.

“I'll have you know that I caught one last week. I gave it to Market and he went ‘O-o-o.' He could have thanked me.”

“They don't like mice.”
Tucker slurped at her bone.

“Try giving them a bird.”
Mrs. Murphy rolled her eyes.
“The worst. Harry hollers and then buries the bird. She likes the moles and mice I bring her. I break their necks clean. No blood, no fuss. A neat job, if I do say so myself.”

Pewter burped.
“Excuse me. A neat job . . . Mrs. Murphy, the human murders were messy,”
she thought out loud.

“Why?”
Tucker sat up but put her paw on her bone just in case. Pewter was known to steal food.
“It's not efficient to kill a person that way. Throw one in a cement mixer and tie another one to the railroad track. Originally, it was a neat job. After they were dead the killer ground them into hamburger.”

Pewter lifted her head.
“The killer's not a vegetarian.”
Then she dropped her head back and laughed.

Mrs. Murphy pushed Pewter with her paw.
“Very funny.”

“I thought so.”

Tucker said,
“The police aren't revealing how Kelly and Maude died—if they know. The mess has to be to cover up something inside the bodies or to divert us from what the people were doing before they died.”

“That's right, Tucker.”
Mrs. Murphy got excited.
“What were they doing in the middle of the night? Kelly was at the concrete plant. Working? Maybe. And Maude willingly went out to the railroad tracks west of town. Humans sleep at night. If they were awake it had to be important, or”
—she paused—
“it had to be something they were used to doing.”

30

“Mrs. Murphy and Tucker are at the back door.” Susan interrupted Harry, who was sorting the mail and telling all simultaneously.

“Will you let them in?”

Susan opened the back door and the two friends raced through, meowing and barking. “They're glad to see you.”

“And in a good mood too. Market handed out bones today.”

“We think we've got part of the puzzle,”
Mrs. Murphy announced.

“They were in cahoots, Kelly and Maude, with something—”
Tucker shouted.

“In the nighttime when no one could see,”
Mrs. Murphy interrupted.

“All right, girls, calm down.” Harry smiled and petted them.

Mrs. Murphy, discouraged, hopped into the mail bin.
“I give up! She's so dense.”

Tucker replied,
“Find another way to tell her.”

Mrs. Murphy stuck her head over the bin.
“Let's go outside.”
She jumped out.

Tucker and the cat dashed to the back door. Tucker barked and whined a little.

“Don't tell me you have to go to the bathroom. You just came in,” Harry chided.

Tucker barked some more.
“What are we going to do when we get out?”

“I don't know, yet.”

Harry, exasperated, opened the door and Tucker nearly knocked her over.

“Corgis are a lot faster than you think,” Susan observed.

After replaying yesterday's conversation with Fair one more time, both Susan and Harry were depressed. Harry shook out the last mailbag, three-quarters full. Susan made a beeline for the postcards. They both held their breath. A series of Italian postcards scared them but there were no graveyards on the front, and when turned over they revealed a number in the right-hand corner and the signature of their traveling friend, Lindsay Astrove. They exhaled simultaneously.

“I'll read you Lindsay's cards while you finish stuffing the mailboxes.” Susan sat on a stool, crossed her legs, put the postcards in order, and began.

“‘Being abroad is not what it's cracked up to be. I took a train across the Alps and when it pulled into Venice my heart stopped. It was beautiful. From there, everything went downhill.

“‘The Venetians are about as rude as anyone could imagine. They live to take the tourists for all they can. No one smiles, not even at each other. However, I was determined to transcend these mortal coils, so to speak, and drink in the beauty of the place. Blistered and exhausted, I tramped from place to place, seeing the Lord in painting after painting. I saw Jesus on the cross, off the cross, in a robe, in a loincloth, with nails, without nails, bleeding, not bleeding, hair up, hair down. You name it. I saw it. Along with the paintings were various other art forms of the Lord and his closest friends and family.

“‘Naturally, there were many, many, many pieces of the Virgin Mother. (A slight contradiction in terms.) In all of Venice, however, I was not able to find a snapshot of Joseph and the donkey. I could only conclude that they are ashamed of his stupidity for believing Mary's story about her and God and the conception thing and they only bring him out for Christmas.

“‘I did arrive at one possible conclusion. Since all of this artwork looks exactly alike, maybe one man is to blame. I find it plausible that one man did all of it and used many names. Or maybe all the little Italian boys born between 1300 and 1799, if their last name ended in “i” or “o,” were given a paint-by-number kit. I am sure there is a logical explanation for all this.

“‘One closing thought and I will move on to my visit to Rome. I am grateful that Jesus was Italian and not Spanish. All of that art would have been Day-Glo on velvet instead of oil on canvas.

“‘On to Rome—the Infernal City.

“‘Rome combines the worst of New York and Los Angeles. The one thing the Romans do well is blow their horns. The noisiest city in the world. The Romans rival the Venetians for rudeness. The food in both cities is not nearly as good as the worst Italian restaurant in San Francisco.

“‘As you can probably guess, I got to go to the Vatican Museums. I also got to leave the Vatican Museums because I proclaimed in an audible voice that it is just disgusting to see the wealth the church is hoarding. On the interest alone, they could cure cancer, AIDS, hunger, and homelessness in less than a year. All of a sudden the people who did not speak English were fluent in the language. I was ushered out. I didn't even get to see the Pope in his satin dresses.

“‘The rest of Rome was no big deal either. The Colosseum was in shambles, the Spanish steps were littered with addicts and drunks, and the Trevi fountain was like any cruise bar.

“‘The designer shops were a delight. A designer outfit is one that does not fit, does not match, and does not cost less than your permanent residence. Did not shop in that city.

“‘I left Rome wondering why the Visigoths bothered to conquer it. However, Monaco was fabulous. The people, the food, the attitude, the absence of Renaissance culture!

“‘I'll see you all in September when I will have soaked up about as much of the Old World as I can possibly stand. I'm beginning to think that Mim, Little Marilyn, Josiah, and company are gilded sheep to rave on about Europe, furniture, and a face-lift in Switzerland. Oh, well, as you know, I think Mim impersonates the human condition. And don't show this to Mrs. Hogendobber! Do show Susan.

“‘Love, Lindsay' ”

Susan and Harry laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks. Once they finally got hold of themselves they realized they hadn't laughed, true laughter, since Kelly's murder. Stress was exacting its toll.

“How many postcards did that take?”

Susan shuffled them like playing cards. “Twenty-one.”

“Who are they addressed to?”

“You. You're the only one she could write this to.”

Harry smiled and took the postcards. “I'll be glad when Lindsay comes home. Maybe this will be over by September.”

“I hope so.”

 

“Shred it up, like this.”
Mrs. Murphy ripped into the sparrow corpse, and feathers flew everywhere. A squeamish expression passed over Tucker's pretty face.
“Oh, come on, Welsh corgis are supposed to be tough as nails. Tear that mole I caught into three pieces.”

“She's going to hate this.”

“So she hates it. Our message might sink in subliminally.”

“She's smart for a person. She knows there's a connection between Kelly and Maude.”

“Tucker, stop shilly-shallying. I want her to know we know. Maybe she'll start to listen to us for a change.”

Tucker, with singular lack of enthusiasm, tore the still-warm mole into three pieces. If that wasn't bad enough, Mrs. Murphy made her carry the hunks to the back door of the post office.

The cat reared up on her hind legs and beat on the door. A soft rattle echoed in the post office.

Harry opened the door. Neither animal budged. Instead they sat next to their kill, carefully placed together by Mrs. Murphy.

“How revolting,” Harry exclaimed.

“I told you she'd hate it,”
Tucker snapped to the tiger cat.

“That's not the point.”

“What?” Susan called out.

“The cat and dog brought back the remains of a mole and what must have been a bird only a short time ago.” Harry peered for a closer look. “Ugh. The mole's in three pieces.”

Susan stuck her head out the back door. “Like Maude.”

“That's horrible. How could you say that?”

“Well—it's not hard to think of those things.” Susan petted Tucker on the head. “Anyway, they're doing what comes naturally and they brought these pathetic corpses back to you as a present. You should be properly grateful.”

“I'll be properly grateful after I clean them up.”

Whether or not the bird and mole corpses inspired Harry, the animals couldn't say, but she did drive her blue truck to Kelly's concrete plant, leaving them outside while she went in for a chat.

After delicately dancing around the subject in Kelly's office, now taken over by his wife, Harry felt the time was right. She quietly leaned toward BoomBoom and asked, “Did Kelly ever do business with Maude?”

A wave of relief swept over the sultry woman's features. “Oh—sure. She packed up his Christmas business mailing for him. Is that what you mean?”

“No.” Harry noticed the photos of Kelly with the county commissioners, the president of the University of Virginia, the state representatives. “What about business on a larger scale?”

“There's no record of it.” Just to make certain, BoomBoom jangled Marie on the intercom and Marie confirmed the negative.

“What about a more intimate connection?” Harry whispered, and waited for the reaction.

Extramarital sex, shocking to many, barely dented BoomBoom's psyche. She expected it, even from her husband. “No. Maude wasn't Kelly's type, although she seems to have been Bob Berryman's.”

“All over town?” Harry asked, knowing it was.

“Linda's given to fainting spells. Next come the faith healers, I guess. Hard to believe either Linda or Maude loved him, but then you really never know, do you?” Her long eyelashes, which reached into next week, fluttered for an instant.

“No.”

BoomBoom's face flushed. “Kelly wasn't a saint and our marriage was far from perfect. If he strayed off the reservation, so to speak, he'd never have done it close to home. What do you think? You obviously believe something was going on between my husband and Maude.”

“I don't know. My hunch is they were in business together. Illegal.”

BoomBoom stiffened slightly. “He made tons of money legally.”

“Kelly loved to screw the system. An enormous untaxable profit would have been a siren call to his rebellious self—if they were shipping drugs, I mean.”

Realistic about Kelly, BoomBoom hesitated. It was not as if the thought hadn't occurred to her once or twice since his murder. “I don't know, but I sure hope you keep these thoughts to yourself. He's dead. Don't go about ruining his name.”

“I won't, but I have to get to the bottom of this. Do you think Kelly's murder and Maude's murder are connected?”

“Well, at first I didn't think, period. The shock left me empty, and into the emptiness rushed anger. I just want to kill this son of a bitch. Barehanded.” She put her hands together in a choking motion. “As the days have gone by—seems like years, in a funny way—I go over it and over it. I don't know why but yes, I believe they are connected.”

“Shipping something—that's what I come up with no matter how I examine this.”

“Contrary to what the public has been told by government types, drugs are easy to ship. It's possible. God knows they're also easy to hide. They don't take up that much space. You could cram two million dollars' worth of cocaine into these desk drawers.”

“Whatever they did, they fell afoul of a partner or partners.” Harry said this, realizing as the words were out of her mouth that BoomBoom could be one of those partners. She'd be committed to profit, but Harry couldn't imagine BoomBoom at her hardest doing business with Kelly's killer.

“If you find out, Mary Minor Haristeen, tell me twenty minutes before you tell Rick Shaw. I'll pay you ten thousand dollars for that information.”

Harry choked. Ten thousand dollars. God, how she needed it.

A silence wrapped around them, an air of static antagonism. BoomBoom broke it: “Think it over.”

Harry swallowed. “I will.” She paused. “Why do I feel like you're holding out on me?”

BoomBoom's face became suddenly still. “I'm telling you everything I know about Kelly. If he had a secret, then he kept it from me too.”

“What about Fair?” Harry's lips were white.

“I don't know what you mean.” BoomBoom's eyes darted around the room. “Did you come here looking for clues about Kelly or clues about Fair? I mean, you threw him out, Harry. What do you care what he does?”

“I'll always care what he does. I just can't live with him.” Harry's face flushed. “He just wasn't . . . there.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wasn't there emotionally.” She sighed. “It's one thing to lose your marriage, but it's just as bad to lose your friends. Everyone's taking sides.”

“What did you expect?” No sympathy from BoomBoom.

That put the match to the tinderbox. “More of you!” Harry clenched her teeth. “He and Kelly were never the same after Fair made that pass at you, but we stayed friends.”

“That was last year. Everyone was drunk! Look, Harry, people don't want to look at themselves. Let me give you some advice about Crozet.”

Harry interrupted. “I've lived here all my life. What do you know that I don't?”