Obediently, Roger continued to direct traffic onto the Greenbrier side street. He wanted to comfort Brooks for the shock she had suffered, but that would have to wait.
Rick said under his breath to Coop, "Ever tell you about the guy who died on the escalator over in Richmond? I was fresh out of school. This was my first call as a rookie. No one could get on or off until cleared, and the store didn't turn off the motor. People were running in place. Super aerobics. 'Course the stiff rolled right up to the step-off, where his hair caught in the steps. By the time I reached him, he was half scalped."
"Gross." She knew that Rick wasn't unfeeling, but a law enforcement officer sees so much that a protective shell develops over emotions.
"Let's have the boys take photos, bag the contents of the station wagon." He reached in and, with his gloves on, snapped off the stereo. "Okay, we're done," he called over his shoulder to Diana Robb and Cooper behind him.
"Sheriff, what do you think?" the paramedic asked him.
"Looks like a heart attack. He's the right age for it. I've learned over the years, though, to defer to the experts. Unless Mrs. Fletcher objects, we'll send the body to Bill Moscowitz—he's a good coroner.
"If you don't stop smoking those Chesterfields, I'll be picking you up one of these days."
"Ah, I've stopped smoking so many times." He should have taken his pack out of his pocket and left it in the unmarked car; then she wouldn't have noticed. "Drop him at the morgue. I'll stop by Naomi's, so tell Bill to hold off until he hears from me." He turned to Coop. "Anything else?"
"Yeah, Roscoe's obituary was in the paper, remember?"
He rubbed his chin, the light chestnut stubble already appearing even though he'd shaved at six this morning. "We thought it was a joke."
"Boss, let's question a few people, starting with Sean Hallahan."
He folded his arms and leaned against the green unmarked car. "Let's wait—well, let me think about it. I don't want to jump the gun."
"Maury McKinchie's obituary was stuffed in the paper as well."
"I know. I know." He swept his eyes over the distressed Irene Miller and BoomBoom. Father Michael had administered the last rites. In the corner of his eye the lumpish figure of Jimbo Anson loomed. "I'd better talk to him before he runs to Dunkin' Donuts and eats another dozen jelly rolls." Jimbo ate when distressed. He was distressed a lot.
He half whispered, "Coop, take the basics from these folks, then let them go. I think BoomBoom is going to code on us." He used the medic slang word for "die."
Rick straightened his shoulders and walked the thirty yards to Jimbo.
"Sheriff, I don't know what to do. Nothing like this has ever happened to me. I just feel awful. Poor Naomi."
"Jimbo, death always upsets the applecart. Breathe deeply." He clapped the man on the back. "That's better. Now you tell me what happened."
"He went through the car wash, well I mean, I didn't see him, the kids were up front, and when the car didn't roll off she, I mean Brooks, ran around to see if the pedal hadn't released on the belt and, well, Roscoe was gone."
"Did you see him at all?"
"No, I mean, not until I came back with Brookie. Kid had some sense, I can tell you. She didn't scream or cry. She ran to my office, told me Roscoe was dead, and I followed her to there." He pointed.
"That's fine. I may be talking to you again, but it looks like a heart attack or stroke. These things happen."
"Business was great today." A mournful note crept into his voice.
"You'll be able to reopen before long. I'm going to impound the car, just routine, Jimbo. You won't have to worry about the vehicle being parked here."
"Thanks, Sheriff."
Rick clapped him on the back again and walked into the air-conditioned office—the day had turned unusually hot—where Brooks, Jody, and Karen sat. Cooper was already there.
"Sheriff, we were establishing a time line." Coop smiled at the three young women.
"One thirty, about," Brooks said.
"Mr. Anson said you showed presence of mind," Rick complimented Brooks.
"I don't know. I feel so bad for Mr. Fletcher. He helped me get into St. Elizabeth's after the semester started."
"Well, I'm not the Reverend Jones but I do believe that Roscoe Fletcher is in a better place. Much as you'll miss him, try to think of that."
"Jody, did you notice anything?" Coop asked.
"No. He said 'hi' and that was it. Karen and Brooks scrubbed down his bumpers. I think Roger pressed the button to send him in."
"Where is Roger?" Rick said.
"Directing traffic," Karen replied.
"Good man to have around."
This startled the two girls, who had never thought of Roger as anything other than a tall boy who was quiet even in kindergarten. Brooks was beginning to appreciate Roger's special qualities.
"Was there anything unusual about Mr. Fletcher or anyone else today?"
"No." Karen twirled a golden hair around her forefinger.
"Girls, if anything comes to mind, call me." He handed around his card.
"Is something wrong, something other than the fact that Mr. Fletcher is dead?" Brooks inquired shrewdly.
"No. This is routine."
"It's weird to be questioned." Brooks was forthright.
"I'm sorry you all lost Mr. Fletcher. I know it was a shock. I have to ask questions, though. I don't mean to further upset you. My job is to collect details, facts, like little pieces of a mosaic."
"We understand," Karen said.
"We're okay," Brooks fibbed.
"Okay then." He rose and Coop also handed her card to the three girls.
As she trudged across the blacktop to motion Roger from Greenbrier Drive, she marveled at the self-possession of the three high school girls. Usually, something like this sent teenage girls into a crying jag. As far as she could tell, not one tear had fallen, but then BoomBoom, never one to pass up the opportunity to emote, was crying enough for all of them.
20
Johnny Pop, the 1958 John Deere tractor, rolled through the meadow thick with goldenrod. Tucker pouted by a fallen walnut at the creek. Mrs. Murphy sat in Harry's lap. Tucker, a trifle too big and heavy, envied the tiger her lap status.
As the tractor popped by, she turned and gazed into the creek. A pair of fishy eyes gazed right back. Startled, Tucker took a step back and barked, then sheepishly sat down again.
The baking sun and two days of light winds had dried out the wet earth. Harry, determined to get one more hay cutting before winter, fired up Johnny Pop the minute she thought she wouldn't get stuck. She couldn't hear anything, so Mrs. Hogendobber startled her when she walked out into the meadow.
Tucker, intent on her bad mood, missed observing the black Falcon rumbling down the drive.
Miranda waved her arms over her head. "Harry, stop!"
Harry immediately nipped the lever to the left, cutting off the motor. "Miranda, what's the matter? What are you doing out here on gardening day?"
"Roscoe Fletcher's dead—for real, this time."
"What happened?" Harry gasped.
Mrs. Murphy listened. Tucker, upon hearing the subject, hurried over from the creek.
Pewter was asleep in the house.
"Died at the car wash. Heart attack or stroke. That's what Mim says."
"Was she there?"
"No. I forgot to ask her how she found out. Rick Shaw told Jim Sanburne, most likely, and Jim told Mim."
"It's ironic." Harry shuddered.
"The obit?"
Harry nodded. Mrs. Murphy disagreed. "It's not ironic. It's murder. Wait and see. Cat intuition."
21
Sean Hallahan pushed a laundry cart along a hallway so polished it reflected his image.
The double doors at the other end of the corridor swung open. Karen and Jody hurried toward him.
"How'd you get in here?" he asked.
Ignoring the question, Jody solemnly said, "Mr. Fletcher's dead. He died at the car wash."