“Most murders occur within families or between people well known to one another. And most of those murders involve alcohol, drugs, or are crimes of passion. These murders are dispassionate, cool. The murder of Dwayne was opportunistic but not a crime of passion. The body wasn't mutilated, he'd been hit over the head; for whatever reason the killer couldn't finish him off with a blunt instrument so he strung him up.”
“Maybe the weapon wasn't heavy enough or the killer wasn't strong enough. That points to a woman.”
“Hoisting Dwayne over a tree couldn't have been light work.”
“Push him on the back of a truck, throw the rope over the tree, and drive off. It rained so hard nothing was left. There could have been a truck in there or even a car, slide him over the trunk. It's messy but not all that hard.”
“And Dwayne wanted more money. After Din Marks's talk with you that would appear motivation enough. If he wanted more now, he'd want more later. Or maybe he wanted promotion inside the company.” Rick shook his head. “Greed leaches out every other emotion, doesn't it?”
“Yes, it certainly seems to do that. People become bloodless.”
“I'm going to wait for the lab reports on Roger. If he was murdered then I must consider my first suspect Sean O'Bannon. He had the most to gain by his brother's murder, separate from whatever scam Roger was into. Sean inherits all of a lucrative business. Maybe he even inherits a lucrative illegal business.”
“Maybe the safe full of money will lure the killer to put his foot right into the trap.”
“A poster about selling off Don's goods might help. I spoke to his parents. They agreed and we won't put their phone number on there. Just an auction date, location, and time. Ought to light a fire under his ass.” Rick's one eyebrow arched upward. He could be clever.
46
The daily sun and wind reduced the size of the puddles, the depth of the mud. Still not trusting the ground, Harry didn't drive her tractor to the creek. Large tree limbs were wedged along the banks; a few weak trees had crashed into the creek, their uprooted trunks looking like paralyzed squid tentacles. She needed to chainsaw the trunks into smaller portions, wrap heavy chains around them to drag them out. Once the wood dried she'd cut it for firewood, stacking it neatly on the porch. She'd also built a weather-tight woodshed next to the shavings shed. As spring and summer progressed she'd slowly fill the woodshed until full. That would hold throughout the next winter.
The mercury climbed to sixty-four degrees at noon, just warm enough to shed a coat but still cool enough for a midweight shirt. Harry took the opportunity before the weather shifted to hot and hotter to crimp a standing tin seam on her barn roof. The seams separate sometimes. You fold the longer piece over the shorter and squeeze them together. Her father had taught her how to do it. She wore sneakers, the rubber soles helping to give her traction on the roof pitch. Only one seam needed work, which made her happy.
Pewter and Murphy reposed under the large white lilac bush. Tucker slept under the lavender lilac bush. Both cats were awake but stretched on their sides to their full length.
“Do you like bacon?” Pewter reached out to bat at an ant, who easily avoided her.
“You know I like bacon.”
“If you had to choose between bacon and beef bits what would you choose?”
“Beef.”
Pewter rolled on her back. “What about between beef and tuna?”
“Tuna.”
“Tuna and salmon?”
“H-m-m, tuna.” Mrs. Murphy had to think about that one. “Why are you asking me? Are you hungry again? You ate a huge breakfast.”
“When I'm not eating I like to think about food. Food preferences are clues to personality.” This was said with great conviction.
“Pewter, you need sunglasses.”
“Huh?”
“You're getting West Coast.”
“Close-minded,” she sniffed. “Figures. Tuna, a most conventional cat.”
Mrs. Murphy lifted her head. “She's stopped.”
Pewter lifted her head off her outstretched paw also. “What improvement will she tackle next? She's exhausting. She needs to learn to take naps.”
Out of nowhere the blue jay screeched by them, shaking the lilacs. “Mouse breath!”
Pewter leapt up, shaking herself. “Death!”
“Don't go out. Move back. Let's see if we can draw him into the bush. Then we've got him.”
The blue jay turned, flew around the walnut tree, diving for the lilac bushes, too smart to be lured in. He screamed, “Tapeworm host.”
“That does it!” Pewter shot out of the bush but he'd already begun his climb.
To show off he flew in the center aisle of the barn and out the back side.
“If we find his nest we can climb up and kill him.” Mrs. Murphy logically suggested. “If we can't get him or his mate we can push their eggs to the ground.”
“I'd love to hear them splat, little tiny splats since they're little tiny eggs. Death to the next generation.” Pewter's pupils enlarged in excitement.
The only other excitement of the day was Diego calling Harry in the evening. He was back in Washington and looked forward to seeing her the next weekend. Since Fair was taking her to the Wrecker's Ball, he asked her to check her calendar so he could take her to the next dance, picnic, anything. Then he said they'd make their own picnic. She agreed. They'd enjoy a repast Saturday noon and if it rained, they'd eat in the barn just to be halfway outside.
She hung up the phone and began whistling.
“What an awful sound,” Pewter meowed.
“It is,” Mrs. Murphy agreed, running to Harry, begging her to stop.
“Sorry, girls, I forgot how sensitive your ears are.” Harry laughed and stopped whistling.
“Doesn't bother me,” Tucker said. “If you whistle I come running.”
“Don't brownnose, Tucker, it's such an unattractive trait,” Pewter grumbled.
“You know, Pewter, you're so fat I bet there are shock absorbers on your cat box.”
That made Murphy laugh so hard she rolled off the sofa, hitting the floor with a thud.
“Murphy, you're supposed to land on your feet.” Harry picked her up, kissing her forehead while Pewter, enraged, thumped down the hall into the bedroom.
The phone rang again. Harry walked into the kitchen to pick it up. On hearing BoomBoom's voice she squeezed her eyes shut for an instant.
“What worthy cause are you roping me into now?”
“Well—the Special Olympics need volunteers. They're going to be held at Wintergreen”—she named a local resort—“and we need people who know sports. I thought maybe you could be the starter for the races.”
“Oh. Sure.”
“That was easy.”
“I like the Special Olympics.” Harry smiled, then changed the subject. “Think our little trap will catch a mouse?”
“I hope so.”
“I keep forgetting to ask you, how did you meet Thomas?”
“Big party at Vin Mattacia's.” Mattacia had been Ambassador to Spain in the late 1970s. An urbane, outgoing man, he was at the hub of those people retired from the diplomatic corps who lived in the area.
“Oh.”
“Great party. A Valentine's party. I enjoy him but I don't think the relationship will go anywhere. It's just—fun.”