"Ruth told me. I stopped by Fair's clinic."
"Doesn't look good, does it?" Miranda pursed her lipstick-covered lips.
"For Bill?"
"No, in general."
"I want to know why Bill?"
"Perhaps he was Charlie's doctor. It's entirely possible that Charlie had cancer. He'd never tell."
"I never thought of that." Harry looked down at Tucker, who was looking up. "That doesn't mean Bill will reveal anything. Aren't doctor-patient relationships privileged?"
"I think they are. Doesn't mean Rick won't try."
Mrs. Murphy batted at the paper. Harry dropped it on the table. "What a sick thing to do. Send out . . ." She didn't finish her sentence.
Mrs. Murphy and Pewter both stared at the 81/2¢¢ x 11¢¢ white page.
"Looks like a warning to me," Pewter said.
"What happened back then? Back when Harry graduated," Tucker sensibly asked.
"I don't know. And more to the point, she doesn't know." Mrs. Murphy looked up at Harry. "If something dreadful had happened and she knew about it, she'd tell the sheriff." Mrs. Murphy sat on the paper.
"Yes. She would." Pewter shuddered.
20
Rick Shaw made drawings, flow sheets, time charts, which he color-coded, sticking them on the long cork bulletin board he installed at the station. Being a visual thinker he needed charts.
Every employee of the Farmington Country Club was questioned. Every member at the club that evening had been questioned also, which put a few noses out of joint.
He paced up and down the aisle in front of the bulletin board, eighteen feet. Although pacing was a habit he declared it burned calories. When he slid into middle age he noticed the pounds stuck to him like yellow jackets. You'd brush them off only to have them return. He'd lost fifteen pounds and was feeling better but he had another fifteen to go.
"You're wearing me out." Cynthia tapped her pencil on the side of her desk.
"Get up and walk with me." He smiled at her, his hands clasped behind his back. "This is such a straightforward murder, Coop, that we ought to be able to close the case and yet we haven't a firm suspect. Bill Wiggins is our most logical candidate but the guy has an airtight alibi. He was with a patient at Martha Jefferson Hospital."
She plopped her pencil in a Ball jar she kept on her desk for that purpose and joined him. "The fact that Charlie was shot at such a close range implies he knew who killed him."
"No, it doesn't. There's not a lot of room in the men's locker room. A stranger could have come in as though going to a locker. Charlie wouldn't have paid much attention."
"Yeah." Coop knew he was right, and it frustrated her.
"All we have is Hunter Hughes' testimony that he thought he saw a slender man come down from the landing. He heard the footsteps because he had left the counter in the golf shop and had walked outside for a smoke. He worked until nine that evening. He assumed the man was leaving the men's grill, heard the footsteps and as he turned to go back into the golf shop he saw the back of an average-sized male wearing a white linen-like jacket. This was close to the time of the murder. That's all we've got."
They both stopped in front of the detailed drawing of the country club golf shop, grill, and the men's locker room, along with a sketch of the buildings on that side of the club.
"But when we questioned the manager of the grill, he doesn't remember anyone at the bar about that time."
"Could have been a member passing through from the 19th Hole to the back stairway on the second floor, since it would be a faster route to the men's locker room."
"What if our killer came out of the pool side?" She pointed to the pool, which was behind the long brick structure containing the locker room and golf shop.
"Easy. It would have been easy to park behind the caretaker's house. The car would have been in the dark. Walking up here behind the huge boxwoods would have made it easy to escape detection." He pointed to the sketch. "For that matter the killer could have sat in his car. Who would notice back here? Whoever he is, he knows the routine and layout of the club. He knew no big party was planned that night. Then again, the schedule is published monthly, so it's easily accessible. It goes to each member plus it's posted at the front desk."
"A member." She nodded. "Knowing the layout points in that direction."
"Yeah, or an employee"-Rick folded his arms across his chest-"possible but unlikely."
"A jealous husband could have paid a professional."
"Could have."
She turned to face her boss. "But it smacks of a deeper connection. 'Up close and personal,' like they used to say during the Olympics coverage."
"Sure does. Our killer wanted to get right in Charlie's face."
21
"Not so fast!" Denny Rablan called from behind the camera. He was beginning to wonder why he was doing this, even if it was for his class reunion.
Bonnie, black curls shaking with laughter, sped on her bicycle toward a short but handsome Leo Burkey, also pedaling to pick up momentum. Bonnie and Leo screamed at one another as they approached. Chris Sharpton buried her face in her hands since she thought they'd crash.
BoomBoom, standing behind Denny, appeared immobile while Harry giggled. She knew Bonnie and Leo were thoroughly enjoying discomfiting BoomBoom, who was determined to follow through on her before-and-after idea.
The two pedaled more furiously, heading straight for one another, at the last minute averting the crash.
"That's not funny!" BoomBoom bellowed.
"Olivia, you have no sense of humor. You never did." Bonnie called BoomBoom by her given name.
Her maiden name had been Olivia Ulrich but she'd been called BoomBoom ever since puberty. Only Boom's mother called her Olivia, a name she loathed although it was beautiful. Once she married Kelly Craycroft she happily dumped all references to Ulrich, since the Craycrofts carried more social cachet than the Ulrichs.
Eyes narrowed, BoomBoom advanced on Bonnie, who merrily pedaled away from her. "Get serious, Baltier! This is costing us. Time is money."
"God, what a rocket scientist." Leo smiled, revealing huge white teeth.
"You're a big, fat help." BoomBoom pointed a finger at him.
"I thought dear Denny was giving us his services for free." He innocently held up his hands, riding without them.
"I am. Almost," Dennis growled. "A greatly reduced rate."
"Well, Denny, my man, if you hadn't pissed away a fortune, you could do this for free, couldn't you?"
"Leo, shut up. It's over and done. I live with my mistakes and I don't throw your screwups in your face."
Leo rode in circles around the tall, thin, attractive photographer. "Maybe you're right."
"I could name your screwups. They all have feminine names."
Leo stopped the bike. He put his feet on the ground and walked the few steps to face Dennis. "So many women. So little time. Not that I'm in Charlie's league."
"Guess not. Charlie's dead."
"Did you get that asinine letter?"
"I figured you did it." Dennis smirked.
"Sure. I drove all the way from Richmond to Charlottesville to send a mailing with fake blood drops. Get real."
"I wouldn't put anything past you."
"No?" Leo's light hazel eyes widened. "Remember this: I'm not stupid. You were stupid. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Jesus, Denny, by the time you got off the merry-go-round you were broken. How could you do that?"
"Too loaded to care, man." Dennis's mouth clamped like a vise.
"I think you broke bad in high school."
"Leo, I don't give a damn what you think." Dennis turned his back on the shorter but more powerfully built man.
The others glanced over at the two men, then glanced away. Dennis and Leo were oil and water. Always had been.
"Shiny nose," Bitsy Valenzuela, in charge of makeup, called out.
Bonnie, ignoring BoomBoom-something she had perfected throughout high school-glided over to Bitsy.