“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Pewter asked.
“Someone killed this little thing.” Mrs. Murphy sighed. “Tucker, do you think we can pull the suitcase out of this rubble?”
“No.”
“The rats will get at it, or raccoons.” Pewter felt quite sad. “Can you cover it again?”
“Yes. It wasn't very deep. If you two help it won't take long.”
Tucker pushed the suitcase back, then turned around, throwing dirt on their discovery with her hind legs.
The cats threw dirt on it as well.
Once it was covered they took a breather, then crawled back out.
“Let's go home,” a subdued Pewter requested. “We won't find Tommy Van Allen.”
26
At the eastern end of Crozet, on Route 240, the large food plant, which had been through successive corporate owners, dominated the skyline. On the south side of the white buildings ran the railroad tracks, a convenience should they need carloads of grain shunted off onto sidings. These days huge trailers pulled in and out of the parking lot, a sea of macadam. Each time a driver shifted gears a squelch of diesel smoke would shoot straight upward, a smoke signal from the internal-combustion engine.
The giant refrigerator trucks hauled the frozen foods to refrigerated warehouses from whence the product made it directly to the freezer sections of supermarkets.
Loading the behemoths in the docking area plunged men from cavernous freezers into the baking temperature outside and then into the long, cold trailers. This was not the most desirable job in the United States and many a Crozet High School graduate working on that platform rued the day he had decided not to try for college.
While a lot of the town's residents worked in the food factory, just as many did not. It was odd, really, how little social impact the big corporation had on the town except for creating traffic in the morning and then again at quitting time.
For a manager on the way up, Crozet was a good stop. Most deplored the small town, calling it Podunk or some other putdown. For those who weren't southern, the jolt of Virginia life came like unexpected turbulence at twenty thousand feet. Charlottesville, offering some cultural delights, was disdained because it wasn't Chicago, a fact that Charlottesvillians were keen to perpetuate.
Wilson C. McGaughey, thirty-two, ambitious, organized, and a student of time-management schemes, daily outraged those people working in his unit. Bad enough that he mocked their speech, called them slow and inefficient; now he'd taken to putting up flow charts for the workers' edification. Next to the flow chart and the weekly productivity quota McGaughey had what his underlings dubbed the Weenie List—workers who had excelled. Two were chosen each week. Next to that was the Shit List, the names of those who did the poorest work. If your name made the Shit List three times in one year Wilson fired you. Simple as that.
The huge refrigerated units were part of Wilson McGaughey's responsibility. The freezers housed the raw foods that would be processed into turkey dinners or roast beef or linguini. Occasionally a bottle of shine or store-bought alcohol would be secreted in a back corner far from Wilson's eyes.
Dabney Shiflett, cousin to Market, didn't have a drinking problem as much as he had a specific thirst. A good worker, he nimbly sidestepped Wilson. Chewing Fisherman's Friend lozenges helped.
Dabney slipped away from the loading dock, telling his buddy he was heading to the bathroom. Instead he made straight for the meat locker in the back. He walked in and turned on the lights, revealing sides of beef hanging overhead. The back corner had a joist, slightly separated, providing the perfect place to wedge a slender flask of shine. He needed only a nip to feel wondrous warmth, a general flow of well-being. He hurried to the back, unscrewed the cap, and knocked back a healthy swallow. He opened his eyes, midpull. His mouth fell open, grain alcohol spilling onto his shirt. He dropped the flask, running flat out for the door.
27
“You won't mention the company? We aren't responsible.” Wilson McGaughey pressured Rick Shaw. “Nobody could blame us.”
“Facts are facts, Mr. McGaughey. The body was found in a Good Foods refrigerator.”
Wilson, revulsion turning to anger, wheeled on Dabney. “Do you have something to do with this? It's bad enough you were drinking on company time—”
Rick interrupted, motioning for Dabney to follow him. “If you don't mind, Mr. McGaughey, I'd like to question Mr. Shiflett alone.”
Wilson did mind but he held his tongue.
Rick took Dabney away from the corner where the corpse of Tommy Van Allen hung, by handcuffs dangling from a meathook. He'd been shot once in the temple, a neat job, very little mess. His Schauffenhausen watch remained on his wrist, his signet ring was on his finger, and $523, cash, was in his pants pocket along with his keys.
His glazed eyes were staring; his mouth hung open. But he was perfectly preserved, being frozen stiff.
“Now Dabney, pay that Yankee son of a bitch no mind.”
“He's gonna fire me.”
“He can try. Man can't be fired for finding a corpse.”
At the mention of the word corpse, Dabney paled and began shaking. “I feel bad, Sheriff.”
“It's a terrible shock.”
“I didn't kill him.”
“Didn't think you did.” He clapped Dabney on the back. “How often is this meat locker checked?”
“Daily.” He lowered his voice. “In theory. Maybe someone sticks their head in once a day. But, you know, probably no one has walked all the way back here since Tommy's been missing.”
“Unless they're in on it.”
“Hadn't thought of that.” Dabney was feeling better, as long as he didn't look at the body.
“Do you know anyone who might bear a grudge, who—”
“No. He didn't have anything to do with the company, Sheriff, other than building the new office wing, and that was eleven years back.”
“I know you came back for a swig, Dabney. Why hadn't you come in here before?”
Dabney looked away from Rick. “Used up the rest of my stash. This was my last bottle until I refilled the others and started all over again.” He lifted his head, his smile weak.
“And Wilson knew nothing?”
Dabney shook his head. “No.”
“How long ago did you put your flask back here?”
“Uh . . . three weeks, I reckon. I dunno.”
Rick wrinkled his forehead. “Go on, Dabney. I'm sorry you had to go through this. I might want to talk to you later.”
Wilson McGaughey sidled up. “You have influence with the press—”
“McGaughey, you haven't lived here long enough to feel anything for that slab of human beef hanging back there, but let me tell you, as men go, he was a good man, not a perfect man, not always an even-tempered man, but a decent man.” He stopped for breath. “I can't keep this out of the news. If you obstruct justice in any way, I'll have your ass. Am I clear?”
“Yes.”
“You sounded like a New Yorker for a minute.” Cynthia had been standing behind her boss.
He turned around. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Depends.”
“Mr. McGaughey, did you know the victim?”
“Only in passing.” He clipped his words.
“Did you like him?” Rick felt his nose get colder by the minute.
“What little I knew of him, yes. He was a pleasant fellow.”
“All right. You can go.” Rick paused. “One last thing. Don't fire Dabney Shiflett.”
“Man's got a problem.” Wilson was furious that the redneck had put one over on him.
“He performs his duties.”