Wish You Were Here (21 page)

42

Rick arrested Pharamond Haristeen III. He had no alibi. He was physically strong, highly intelligent, and possessed of expert medical knowledge. He bore a grudge against Kelly and vice versa. What he had against Maude Bly Modena, Rick wasn't sure, but if he did arrest him it would be an action soothing to the press and the public. It could also ruin Fair's life if he wasn't the killer. He weighed that fact but arrested him anyway. He had to play safe. He also said yes to Harry's plan. What did he have to lose, unless it was Harry? He issued her a revolver and no one except Cynthia Cooper knew Harry was now armed.

Mrs. Murphy sprawled on the butcher block in Harry's kitchen. Rhythmically, her tail flicked up and down. Tucker sat by Harry at the kitchen table. Harry, Susan, and Officer Cooper hunched over their postcards, writing again and again, “Wish you were here.”

The phone rang. It was Danny for his mother. Susan grabbed the phone. “What is it this time?” She listened as he groaned that Dad had clicked off the TV in order to make him clean his room. Susan knew as she soaked up the litany of woes that having a teenaged child was aging her rapidly. Having a middle-aged husband sped up the process too. “Do as your father says.” This was followed by a renewed outburst. “Danny, if I have to come home and negotiate between you and your father you are going to be grounded until Christmas!” Another howl. “I'll ground him, too, then. Go clean your room and don't bother me. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important. Goodbye.” Bang, she slammed the receiver down.

“Happy families,” Harry said.

“Having a teenaged son isn't difficult. It's the combination of father and son that's difficult. Sometimes I think that Ned resents Danny growing stronger. He's already two inches taller than Ned.”

“An old story.” Cooper reached for another postcard. Dolley Madison's tombstone graced the front. “How many more of these to go?”

“About one hundred twenty-five. There are four hundred and two post boxes and we're on the home stretch.”

“Why so few?” Susan asked.

“You want more?” Cooper was incredulous.

“No, I don't want more, but there are three thousand residents of Crozet, by my count.”

“Rest of them didn't buy post boxes. Most of my people are right in town itself.” Harry's index and middle fingers began to hurt.

As the three women continued to scribble Mrs. Murphy opened a cupboard and crawled in.

Tucker hated that she couldn't climb around like the cat.
“Don't go in there. I can't see you if you do.”

Mrs. Murphy stuck her head out.
“I like to smell the spices. There's an aromatic tea in here that reminds me of catnip.”

“Nothing up there that smells like a beef bone, I guess?”

“Bouillon cubes. They're in a package. I'll get them out.”
She examined the package.
“I'm sorry we couldn't sniff Bob Berryman. Wonder if that smell was on him?”

“I doubt it. Bullet did him in. I've checked out everyone that comes into the post office just in case that smell would be on them—you know, like something in their work. Rob smells like gas and sweat. Market smells delicious. Mim drenches herself in that noxious perfume. Fair reeks of horses and medicine. Little Marilyn's hairspray makes my eyes water. Josiah smells like furniture wax plus his after-shave. Kelly smelled like concrete dust. Their smells are like their voices, individual.”

“What does Harry smell like to you?”

“Us. Our scent covers her but she doesn't know it. I make sure to rub up against her and sit in her lap and so do you. Keeps other animals from getting ideas.”

Harry glanced up and beheld Mrs. Murphy chewing the bouillon package. “Stop that.” The cat jumped out of the cupboard before Harry reached her.

“Bet you get a bouillon cube.”
Mrs. Murphy winked.

“Well, this is useless,” Harry fumed. She opened the package and gave Tucker one of the cubes Mrs. Murphy chewed. Brazenly, the tiger kitty sat on the counter. “Oh, here, dammit, you worked hard enough for it, but your manners are going to hell.” Mrs. Murphy delicately took the cube from Harry's fingers.

“Last one!” Officer Cooper rejoiced.

“Now we'll see if the other shoe drops.” Harry's eyes narrowed.

What dropped was Harry's jaw when she turned on the TV and saw Fair being led to jail. Damn Rick Shaw. He'd told nobody. Just let it come out on the eleven o'clock news.

She put on her shoes and dragged Cooper to the jail. Too late. Fair had been released. An alibi had been established, an alibi as upsetting to Harry as it was to Fair.

43

Ned puffed his pipe. At Harry's request, Officer Cooper waited in the living room with Susan. The murders were ghastly but this was painful.

Upon learning that BoomBoom freed Fair by confessing that he was with her on the night of Kelly's murder, as well as on the night of Maude's murder, Harry called Susan.

Logically, she knew it was absurd to be shaken. Her husband had been unfaithful. Millions of husbands are unfaithful. She knew, too, in her heart that this affair must have flourished before the separation. She would be divorcing him, affair or no affair, but when she learned the details at the jail she burst out crying. She couldn't help herself.

She called Ned. He told her to come right over.

“. . . irreconcilable differences. You can change that, of course, and now sue on grounds of adultery. You see, Harry, Virginia divorce law is, well, let's just say this isn't California. If you sue on grounds of adultery and the court finds in your favor, you won't have to divide up the monies you've acquired during the marriage.”

“In other words, this is his punishment for fooling around.” Harry's eyes got moist again.

“The law doesn't state punishment—”

“But that's what it is, isn't it? Suing on the grounds of adultery is an instrument of revenge.” She sank back in the chair. Her head ached. Her heart ached.

Ned's words were measured. “In the hands of some lawyers and people, you might say it's an instrument of revenge.”

After a long, deep pause Harry spoke with resolution and clarity. “Ned, it's bad enough that divorce in this town becomes public spectacle. This . . . this adultery suit, well, that would turn spectacle into nightmare for me and a real three-ring circus for the Mim Sanburnes of the world. You know”—she glanced at the ceiling—“I can't even say that he's wrong. She has something I don't.”

The friend in Ned overcame the lawyer. “She can't hold a candle to you, Harry. You're the best.”

That made Harry cry again. “Thank you.” When she'd regained her composure she continued. “What do I have to gain by hurting him because I'm hurt? I can't see anything in this but more money if I win, and my divorce isn't about money—it really
is
about irreconcilable differences. I'll stick with that. Sometimes, Ned, even with the best of intentions and the best people”—she smiled—“things just don't work out.”

“You've got class, honey.” Ned came over, sat on the edge of the chair, and patted her back.

“Maybe.” She half laughed. “On the odd occasion, I'm capable of acting like a reasonable adult. I want to put this behind me. I want to go on with my life.”

44

Like clockwork, Mrs. Hogendobber called for her gossip bulletin at seven forty-five the next morning. Pewter visited from next door. The post boxes, filled, awaited their owners, and when the door opened at 8:00
A
.
M
., Harry and Officer Cooper acted normal. Well, they thought they were normal but Officer Cooper positioned herself so she could see the boxes. Harry burned off energy in giving Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and even Tucker rides in the mail bin.

Danny Tucker arrived first, scooped out the mail, and didn't go through it. “Sorry I didn't get to see you last night. Mom said you had business with Dad.”

“Yeah. We got things straightened out.”

Just then Ned Tucker bounded up the steps. “Hello, everyone.” He gave Harry a big smile, then noticed the mail in his son's hands. “I'll take that.” He rapidly flipped through it, blinked when he saw the postcard, read it, and said aloud, “That's Susan's handwriting. What's she up to now?”

Harry hadn't thought of that. They should have assigned names. She wondered who else would recognize their handwriting.

“Dad, I've been really good and there's a party tonight—”

“The answer is no.”

“Ah, come on. I could be dead by Halloween.”

“That's not funny, Dan.” Ned opened the door. “Harry, I will relieve you of our presence.” Ned unceremoniously ushered his protesting son outside.

“Are you a regular letter writer?” Harry asked Coop.

“No. What about you?”

“Not much. We bombed that one.”

“Let's hope he doesn't say anything except to Susan. Wonder what she'll tell him.”

Market was next. He sorted out his mail and tossed the junk mail, including the postcard, into the trash. “Damn crap.”

“Doesn't sound like you, Market.” Harry forced her voice to be light.

“Business is booming but I'd rather make less and have peace of mind. If one more reporter or sadistic tourist tramps into my store, I think I'll paste them away. One newspaper creep leered at my daughter and had the gall to invite her to dinner. She's fourteen years old!”

“Remember
Lolita
,” Harry said.

“I don't know anyone named Lolita and if I did I'd tell her to change her name.” He stalked out.

“I'm not going home until he's in a better mood,”
Pewter remarked to her companions.

“So far, Harry's idea has been a bust.”
Mrs. Murphy licked her paw.

Fair sheepishly came in. “Ladies.”

“Fair,” they replied in tandem.

“Uh, Harry—”

“Later, Fair. I haven't got the strength to hear it now.” Harry cut him off.

He went to his post box and yanked out the mail.

“What the hell is this?” He walked over to Harry and handed her the postcard.

“A pretty picture of Jefferson's marker.”

“‘Wish you were here,' ” Fair read aloud. “Maybe Tom thinks I should join him. Well, plenty of others do now; I guess I've made a mess of it.” He skidded the card down the counter. “If T.J. returned to Albemarle County today, he'd die to get away from it.”

“Why do you say that?” Officer Cooper asked.

“People come to worship at the shrine. I mean, the man stood for progressive thought, politically, architecturally. We haven't progressed since he died.”

“You sound like Maude Bly Modena,” Harry observed.

“Do I? I guess I do.”

“Guess you'll be dating BoomBoom out in the open now.”

Fair glared at Harry. “That was a low blow.” He stormed out.

“Jesus, it isn't even ten in the morning. Wonder who else we can offend?” Officer Cooper laughed.

“It's the tension, and all those reporters keep rubbing the wound raw. And . . . I don't know. The air feels heavy, like before a storm.”

Reverend Jones, Clai Cordle, Diana Farrell, and Donna Eicher picked up their mail. Nothing much came of that. Donna also got Linda Berryman's mail for her.

Once the post office was empty again, Harry remarked, “We were probably tasteless to put a card in Linda Berryman's box.”

“In this case, the end justifies the means and the meanness.”

Hayden McIntire dropped by. He, too, left without examining his mail.

BoomBoom Craycroft, however, caught the meaning immediately as she put her mail into three piles: personal, business, junk. “This is attractive.” She handed the postcard to Harry. “Is this what you wish for me now?”

“I got one too,” fibbed Harry.

“Sick humor.” BoomBoom's lips curled. “These murders flush out every weirdo we've got. Sometimes I think all of Crozet is weird. What are we doing festering here like a pimple on the butt of the Blue Ridge Mountains? Poor Claudius Crozet. He deserved better.” She paused and then said to Harry: “Well, I guess you deserve better, too, but I can't bring myself to apologize. I don't feel guilty.”

As she walked out an astonished Harry noticed Mrs. Murphy heading for the stamp pads. Quickly she sped toward them and snapped them shut. Mrs. Murphy trotted right by them as though they were of no concern to her, and wasn't Harry silly? This upheaval over BoomBoom and Fair had upset the cat too. She hated seeing Harry suffer.

The name Crozet fired a nerve in Harry's brain. “Cooper, if I found the buried treasure would I have to pay income tax on it?”

“We even pay death duties in this country. Of course you'd have to pay.”

“She may be getting it at last.”
Mrs. Murphy pranced.

“Getting what?”
Pewter hated being left out of things, so Tucker filled her in.

“The profits in Maude's ledger. Maybe they involved selling the treasure in bits and pieces.”

“You're soft as a grape.” Cooper smiled. “But it's as good an explanation as any other. This doesn't address the small, trifling fact that the tunnels are sealed shut. Rock, debris, concrete. Poor Claudius. I'd be more worried about him returning than Thomas Jefferson. Imagine coming back and seeing your life's work, a world-class engineering feat, sealed up and forgotten.”

“Let's go up there after work.”

“Yeah—okay.”

Just then Mim, Little Marilyn, and bodyguard entered the building. Josiah, like a well-groomed terrier, was at their heels.

Mother and daughter, strained with each other, cast a pall over the room. Josiah discreetly sorted his mail at the counter while the two women spoke in low tones.

The low tone erupted as Mim yanked the mail from Little Marilyn's hands. “I'll do it.”

“I can sort the mail as easily as you can.”

“You're too slow.” Mim frantically flipped through the mail. The postcard barely dented her consciousness. She was looking for something else.

“Mother, give me my mail!”

Josiah read his postcard, Dolley Madison's tomb. He smiled at Harry. “Is this one of your jokes?”

“I'll give you your mail in a moment.” The cords stood out on Mim's neck.

Little Marilyn, face empurpled, backhanded her mother's hands, and the mail flew everywhere. Mrs. Murphy leaped on the counter to watch, as did Pewter. Tucker, behind the counter, begged to go into the front and Harry opened the door for her. She sat by the stamp machine and watched.

“I know what you're looking for, Mother, and you won't find it.”

Mim pretended to be in control and bent down to pick up wedding invitation replies. Josiah, leaving his mail on the counter, joined her. “Why don't you get some fresh air, Mim? I'll do this.”

“I don't need fresh air. I need a new daughter.”

“Fine. Then you won't have
any
children,” Little Marilyn screamed at her. “You're looking for a letter from Stafford. You won't find one, Mother, because I didn't write him.” Little Marilyn paused for breath and dramatic effect. “I called him.”

“You what?” Mim leaped up so quickly the blood rushed from her head.

“Mim, darling—” Josiah attempted to calm her. She pushed him off.

“You heard me. I called him. He's my brother and I love him and if he's not coming to my wedding, then you aren't coming either. I'm the one getting married. Not you.”

“Don't you dare speak to me like that.”

“I'll speak to you any way I like. I've done everything you've ever asked of me. I attended the right schools. I played the appropriately feminine sports—you know, Mother, the ones where you don't sweat. Excuse me—glow. I made the right friends. I don't even like them! They're boring. But they're socially correct. I'm marrying the right man. We'll have two blond children and they'll go to the right schools, play the right sports
ad nauseam
. I am getting off the merry-go-round.
Now
. If you want to stay on, fine. You won't know you aren't going anywhere until you're dead.” Little Marilyn shook with fury, which was slowly subsiding into relief and even happiness. She was doing it at long last. She was fighting back.

Harry, hardly breathing, wanted to cheer. Officer Cooper's eyes about popped out of her head. So this was the way the upper class behaved? The public display would eventually upset Mim more than the raw emotions.

“Darling, let's discuss this elsewhere. Please.” Josiah gently cupped Mim's elbow. She allowed him to guide her this time.

“Little Marilyn, we'll talk about this later.”

“No. There's nothing to talk about. I am marrying Fitz-Gilbert Hamilton. Excitement is not his middle name, but he's a good man and I honestly hope we make it, Mother. I would like to be happy even if only for one day in my life. You are invited to my wedding. My brother's wife will be my matron of honor.”

“Oh, my
Gawd
!” Mim fainted.