Cooper thought silently for a time. “I think you're right. What next?” She ran her fingers through Pewter's fur.
“I don't know but I can help.”
“No,” Tucker said from under the table.
“Oh, Tucker, don't be a poopface. This will liven up the spring,” Mrs. Murphy chided her.
“You're the one who always counsels prudence,” the dog reminded her.
“Maybe I'm bored.” The tiger placed her paw on Harry's forearm. “I'm ready for a little action.”
“Be careful what you ask for.” Pewter turned her head so she could see Murphy from under the table.
“And what would you ask for?” the tiger replied.
“Steak tartare garnished with braised mouse tails.”
24
Tucked on the west side of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the Shenandoah Valley sat the modest city of Waynesboro. While not wealthy like its eastern neighbor, Charlottesville, Waynesboro evidenced its own character, which was up-front, hardworking, and ready for a good time.
Cynthia Cooper liked the town, which was economically dominated by a DuPont chemical plant. Virginia Metalcrafters was also based in Waynesboro, and she enjoyed stopping by to watch the men create the beautiful brass door locks and other items for which the firm was justly famous.
She turned right past the Burger King and McDonald's, heading west. Then she turned onto Randolph Street, filled with neat, well-kept houses.
She parked in front of a brick rancher painted white with navy-blue shutters on the windows. The front door, red, had a large polished brass knocker, no doubt made at Virginia Metalcrafters.
She rapped on the knocker. Within seconds the door opened, revealing a careworn woman perhaps in her mid-forties but appearing older at the moment. Glued to her side was a pretty golden retriever.
“Mrs. Partlow?”
The woman involuntarily took a step back. “You're the second policeman to come here. My son is not dead.”
“Yes, ma'am, I know that and I'm sorry to bother you. I'm Deputy Cynthia Cooper from the Albemarle County Sheriff's Department. Is your son at home?”
“As a matter of fact, he is. He works the night shift at the DuPont plant. He's asleep.”
“I see.” Cooper smiled at the golden retriever. “Beautiful dog.”
“That's Rolex. Wesley gave her to me on my birthday. He said he couldn't afford a Rolex but the puppy would make me happier than any watch. He was right, wasn't he, Rolex?” She patted the silky head as Rolex thumped her tail.
Reaching inside her chest pocket, Cooper pulled out a license, which she handed to Mrs. Partlow. “Is this your son?”
Her eyebrows darted upward. “No. Who is this?”
“We don't know.”
Mrs. Partlow studied the rest of the license. “The rest of it is correct.”
“We're hoping your son will know who the man is in the photograph. Do you mind waking him?”
“No, not at all. It's about time for him to get up anyway. Please come in, Deputy—”
“Cooper.” She walked through the door.
The parquet floor in the entrance hall gleamed.
“Come on in the living room. I'll go wake Wesley.” Mrs. Partlow disappeared down the hall, Rolex at her heels.
Cooper heard a few grunts and groans.
Mrs. Partlow returned. “He'll be out in a minute. May I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you, ma'am.”
Wesley soon appeared, wearing a blue T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers without socks. “Hi.”
Cooper stood up to shake his hand. “I'm sorry to disturb you.”
“That's okay.” The slight, curly-haired young man smiled.
“Here's your driver's license.”
He took the stiff card from her hand. “I have my license. I think. Let me check.” He hurried back to his room.
Cooper could hear metal clothes hangers sliding on a metal closet pole. Rolex cocked her head. “Good ears, Rolex.”
Wesley, perplexed, stepped back into the living room. “It's gone! I keep my license in the pocket of my bomber jacket except for when it's really hot, then I just stick it in the visor of my truck.”
“Do you have any idea how long you've been missing your license?”
He thought a moment. “I remember getting gas. Had it then. Last week. I—” He paused. “You know, it's kind of hard to remember. I just never think about my license.”
“Do you recognize the man in the photo?”
He peered intently at the likeness. “Kinda. I've seen him around but I don't know his name.”
“Whoever he is, he can sure doctor a driver's license or he knows someone who can.” Cooper smiled.
“Yeah. Looks valid to me.”
“Me, too,” Mrs. Partlow chimed in.
“Mr. Partlow, think. Any guidance you can give me will be a big help.”
“He's dead, right? Mom said the Augusta cop came by to tell her I was dead.”
“I think I surprised him more than he surprised me.” Mrs. Partlow smiled tightly.
“Yes, he's dead. Could you have seen him at the gas station?”
“Uh, no.” Wesley cupped his chin in his hand as he took a seat. “Might have seen him at Danny's, the bar behind the post office downtown.” He furrowed his brow. “Yeah.”
“And when you go to Danny's, what do you do with your coat?”
“Hang it up or put it over the back of the chair.”
After a few more questions, Cooper left, driving over to Danny's. The bartender, Louis Seidlitz, was just setting up, preparing for the evening's traffic.
Louis recognized the face but couldn't recall a name to go with it.
As she drove back toward Charlottesville, climbing up over Afton Mountain, she thought how quick-eyed and light-fingered the false Wesley Partlow had been. Quick enough to pilfer a driver's license. How many pockets did he touch before finding pay dirt? Apparently he rifled them without drawing attention to himself. She was reminded of that expression, “Opportunity makes a poet as well as a thief.”
25
Although the ground remained soggy, the next day the sky, a robin's-egg blue, presaged a spectacular spring day. The late-blooming dogwoods covered the mountainside. Earlier blooms had their petals knocked off by the storms but fire stars still dotted banks with their brilliant red.
Tucker inhaled the heady fragrances of spring as she sat on the back step of the post office.
Harry often walked the four miles to work but given the rains of the past week she drove. On the way to work she'd swung by the small lumberyard outside of town. Luckily, there was enough sawdust to shovel into the truck bed. Usually by Wednesday or Thursday there was enough sawdust for the horsemen to drive down and load up. She'd filled up her truck, pulled a tarp over it, and arrived at work by seven-thirty A.M.
Tucker told the cats, once they arrived at work, that she was going on a jaunt alone.
“Suits me,” Pewter declared.
Murphy, a little miffed, said, “Why alone?”
“Want to check in with my dog friends. Not all of them like cats.”
“Get new friends.” The tiger turned her back to her.
With anticipation and a heady sense of freedom, Tucker took another deep breath, then trotted merrily down the alleyway behind the post office. She turned north, which meant she would swing past private homes, past the new grade school, and then she'd be in the open countryside. Despite her short legs, the corgi moved at a fast clip. In fact, she could run very fast, and on occasion she enjoyed the delicious victory of outrunning a hound, a spaniel, or once even a Great Dane. It should be noted that the Great Dane had a splinter in its paw. Still, Tucker was a confident, cheerful dog. She edged along well-manicured lawns, dogs in the houses barking empty warnings. In no time she was in farmland.