Herb was holding Lucy Fur, more to comfort himself than anything.
“Now, Herb, who used this truck last?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“A week ago.” He sheepishly continued. “I've been meaning to fix the flat but it's always one thing or another.”
Cynthia Cooper pulled up to join them. Rick held out the bomber jacket. He wore gloves. “T.V.A.” Coop read aloud the initials embroidered on the inside map pocket.
“So the truck has been in the garage for one week,” Rick went on. He turned back to Herb. “Have you checked it? You know, come on out to get something from the glove compartment? Anything?”
“No.”
“How many people—” Rick stopped himself. Everyone knew where the garage was. In fact, everyone knew everything—almost.
“Do you have any idea why this jacket is in your truck?”
“Sheriff, that's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.” Herb betrayed his age when he used that phrase.
“Maybe Tommy put it in there himself.” Lucy Fur posited her idea.
“No.” Mrs. Murphy concentrated fiercely on the jacket.
“You know, when H. Vane was hauled away in the ambulance, I established the range for muzzle-loaders. About one hundred yards. That meant anyone in either of the two companies could have fired on him. I met the doctor the second she walked out of surgery. I did everything by the book. Three bullet wounds can't be an accident but I have no complaint filed by the victim. Isn't that odd?”
“Yes.” Herb crossed his arms over his chest.
“And I have a missing person I am treating as, shall we say, an unfriendly disappearance. We find the airplane. Nothing, except it's covered with pussycat paw prints.” He cast an eye at Mrs. Murphy, even though he didn't realize those were her prints. “I've combed through Tommy's house and his office with his housekeeper. Nothing has been taken. The only things missing are what he was wearing—the clothes on his back, a signet ring, and his forty-five-thousand-dollar Schauffenhausen watch.”
Herb whistled at the price.
“We've alerted pawnshops across the country. We've sent out photographs to every law-enforcement agency. Not a trace. What I'm driving at is—things are just too damned curious.” Rick slapped his thigh in disgust. “I'll check this for prints, fibers, you name it.” He sighed audibly. “But I can't put it together.”
“Nobody can, boss.” Coop brightened. “At least we've got another clue.”
“There is that.” He smiled.
“Do you think the killer is trying to implicate me?” Herb reached for his rod as though the touch of it would make everything all right.
“No, I don't.” Rick smiled. “And I have a suspicious mind. There are so many places to dispose of a jacket. . . . Whoever put it here is in effect giving us the finger—begging your pardon, Reverend.”
“Van Allen was probably wearing this jacket when he disappeared,” Cynthia said. “Herb, if you don't mind, leave the truck here for a day. We need to check it for prints.”
“We've got a portable compressor. I'll fill your tire. Once we're finished tomorrow you can take it down to the garage.”
“Thanks, that would be a big help.”
Lucy Fur rubbed his leg. “Don't worry, Poppy. Everything will be all right.”
“Tommy Van Allen was wearing a trench coat, collar turned up, when I saw him at Tally Urquhart's.”
“You saw him?” Lucy Fur stopped midrub.
“I couldn't see his face but how many six-foot-five men are there? I was far away, it was getting foggy with a hard rain. But he wasn't wearing that bomber jacket.”
“Maybe he left it in his car and grabbed the trench coat because it was raining?” Pewter said.
“It doesn't matter whether he was wearing it, left it in a car, or whether this jacket was in someone else's car or someone else's house. That's really irrelevant at this point.” Murphy's words were clipped.
Pewter disagreed. “I think it's relevant. The killer or accomplice wanted to get rid of evidence. Maybe he forgot this jacket was in his car or trunk or something?”
“No way.” The tiger stood up. “He's putting down bad scent.”
“Deliberately misleading us?” Lucy Fur sat on Herb's sturdy walking shoe.
“You'd better believe it—and enjoying himself in the bargain.” Mrs. Murphy felt the whole complexion of the events had changed, like a lighting-change during a play. The mood shifts with the light. It can suddenly become treacherous.
24
Tubes invaded H. Vane-Tempest's body. Alert but in pain, he lay in the hospital bed counting the minutes until the next shot would bring him relief. What hurt most was his reset shoulder blade.
“Honey, drink a little water. You'll get dehydrated.” Sarah held a plastic water cup with a big plastic bent straw in it.
Dutifully he drank. “Where's that goddamn nurse?”
“She'll be here in a minute.” Sarah checked her watch.
The heavyset nurse appeared, right on time. “How are you feeling?”
“I've felt better.”
She checked his chart and took his pulse.
“He's very uncomfortable. Can't you increase his dosage?”
“No. Only the doctor can do that.” The nurse gently removed her fingers from his wrist. “This will help for now. I know it wears off sooner than you'd like, but Dr. Svarski is a firm believer in getting people up and out of here as soon as possible. If you become dependent on painkillers it's that much harder.”
H. Vane glared at her as she stuck the needle into his left arm.
“What about his sleep? If you give him a higher dosage at night he'll at least be able to sleep right through. As it is now, he wakes up.”
“Mrs. Tempest—”
“Lady Vane-Tempest.” Sarah was testy.
“Ma'am, you'll have to discuss this with Dr. Svarski. I cannot increase your husband's dosage.” She abruptly left the room.
“I hate nurses.” Sarah closed the door, then sat next to him. “Would you like me to read to you?”
He smiled at her. “Thank you, but I can't seem to stay focused on anything. My mind wanders. I couldn't even answer Shaw's questions.”
“He understands.” She lowered her voice. “Henry, it's just us. No repercussions. I understand you don't want to make accusations you can't support. You're exceedingly fair that way. But between us, who would want to shoot you? Is there something I don't know?”
He looked into his wife's imploring eyes. “Sarah, the only person I can think of is Archie.”
“Yes, of course.” She put her hand on his.
“Lately I'd have gladly shot him.” He laughed but it hurt so badly he stopped.
She shook her head. “He's snapped, I suppose. The sheriff can't arrest him until they have more proof. . . . How are you holding up, honey, you look done in.”
“Tired.”
“Sleep. You need lots of sleep.”
“Yes, but it's so boring.” He squeezed her hand and promptly fell asleep.
25
News of the bomber jacket appeared in the Daily Progress. A storm of speculation followed and a plethora of leads—all dead ends.
This Saturday, Harry was determined to wax her Barbour coat. If she didn't do it now she'd regret it in about two days, when more rain was predicted.
She warmed the wax as she brushed the coat, inspected the seams, emptied the pockets. An old movie ticket fell out.
“I can't even remember the last time I went to the movies.”
“You need to get out more often,” Tucker advised.
Mrs. Murphy, grooming her tail, listened to the blue jay squawking outside the barn door. Birds excited her senses. Blue jays were saucy, fearless, and expert dive-bombers.