She silently reached over, slipping a cigarette out of his pack, lit it, and spoke. "We searched his motel room. Blair said the biker told him he was staying at the Best Western. The manager, the night manager, and the maids haven't seen Mike Huckstep, the name under which he registered, in days. They don't pay much attention to people coming and going, I guess. No one agrees when they last saw him, but he seemed to be respectful and quiet when he checked in—and he paid in advance for a week."
"Anything in the room?"
"Three T-shirts and a clean pair of jeans. Not another thing. Not a notepad, a pencil, not even socks and underwear. No paperbacks or magazines. Nada!'
"I've been reading over the transcripts of your questioning of the Ash Lawn staff as well as Harry and Blair. You know"—he tipped back in his chair and swung his feet onto the folders on the desktop—"this doesn't compute."
"You mean dieir testimony?"
"No, no, that's fine. I mean the murder. It leads nowhere. Maybe it was a busted deal and the killer took his revenge and the money. There was no money in the pockets of the dead man's jeans."
"Could be…" Her voice trailed off, then strengthened again. "But you don't believe it was a busted drug deal, do you?"
"You've been around me too long. You and my wife see right through me." He put his hands behind his head. "No, Coop, I don't believe it. Murder offends me. I can't stand the thought of anyone getting away with it. The rules for getting along in this world are very simple. Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal— seems reasonable to me. Oh, sure, there are times when I could brain my wife and vice versa—but I don't and she doesn't. I count to ten, sometimes I count to twenty. If I can act with a little restraint I figure others can too."
"Yes, but I think murder has to do with something deeper. Something infantile. Underneath it all a killer is saying 'I want my way.' Simple as that. They don't, they can't, even conceive that other people have legitimate needs that might be different and in conflict with their own. It's all me, me, me. Oh, they might dress it up and look mature, concerned, or whatever, but underneath they're infants in a violent, quivering rage."
Rick ran his hands over his receding hairline. "You been reading psychology books on me, Coop?"
"Nah."
The phone rang. Outside Rick's office an officer picked it up, then called out, "Cynthia, Motor Vehicles in California. Want to take it in Rick's office?"
"Sure." She reached over and punched a button. "Deputy Cooper here." She paused, listening. "I'd appreciate that." She gave the station's fax number. "Thank you very much." She hung up the phone. "Mike Huckstep. They're faxing his registration papers and drivers license to us. At least we'll have a physical description."
He grunted. "Who in the hell is Mike Huckstep?"
13
Valet parking set the tone for Mim's party. On the invitations she had written that it was a western theme party, complete with square dancing and barbecue. The valet parkers, Susan Tucker's son, Danny, and his high school friends, were dressed in plaid shirts with pointed yokes, jeans, and cowboy boots.
Mim sported beautiful ostrich cowboy boots the color of peanut brittle. Her white leather jeans had been custom made for her, fitting like a glove. She wore a white shirt with a turquoise yoke. Her scarf was Hermes and her Stetson was a 20X beaver. The hat alone must have cost more than $300, since most cowboy hats are only 2X or 4X at most, X being the grade of beaver. The hat, of course, was pure white.
Her husband had donned an old pair of jeans, well-worn boots, and a nicely pressed Wrangler brushpopper shirt. His belt buckle hinted at the family pocketbook. It was a large, beautifully worked silver oval with gold initials in the center.
All of Crozet attended the hoedown, as it was billed.
Harry borrowed a deerskin shirt with fringe on the yoke, front and back, as well as long fringe on the sleeves. She wore her one pair of Tony Lama boots that Susan had given her for her birthday three years ago. Blair looked like a younger, more handsome Marlboro man, right down to the chaps. Fair fried when he beheld his competition. Not that Fair was bad-looking, he wasn't, but somehow he could never quite synchronize his clothes. Cowboy attire suited his tall frame though, so he looked better than usual.
Mrs. Hogendobber, dangling loads of costume jewelry, swayed in a big red skirt and a Mexican blouse. Her blue cowboy hat hung on her back, the little silken thread like a necklace setting off her throat.
Reverend Jones dug out an old cavalry uniform. He wouldn't tell anyone where he found it. He could have ridden in from 1880.
The music, the food, the ever-flowing liquor, put the group in a wonderful mood.
Kerry McCray arrived early and alone. She said her date, the singer from the light Opera series, would join them after his show at Ash Lawn. This didn't prevent her from sashaying over to Norman Cramer while Aysha jumped around the dance floor with another partner.
"Norman."
He turned at the sound of the familiar and once-beloved voice. "Kerry."
"Let me ask you something."
"Sure." His tone was hesitant.
"Are you happy?"
A long, long pause followed. He locked his long-lashed blue eyes into hers. "There are days when I think I am and there are days when I think I've made the biggest mistake of my life. What about you?"
"No. I'm not happy at all." She half smiled. "If nothing else, Norman, we can still be honest with one another."
An agonized expression crossed his features, and then he glanced over Kerry's shoulder, since the music had stopped. "Christ, here comes Aysha." He whispered, "I'll see you at work. Maybe we can have lunch—somewhere, you know."
She watched as he scurried to take his wife by the elbow and hustle her back out onto the dance floor. Tears sprang into Kerry's eyes. Little Marilyn had observed the exchange, although she'd not heard it. She came over.
"He's not worth it."
Kerry sniffed and fought back more tears. "It's not a question of worth, Marilyn. You either love a man or you don't."
Marilyn put her arm around Kerry's waist, walking her away from the dance floor.
Fair and Susan Tucker swung one another around on the floor while the voluptuous widow BoomBoom Craycroft, fabulously dressed, ensnared Blair. He didn't seem to mind. Harry danced widi Reverend Jones. She dearly loved the rev and barely noticed the dramas around her. In fact, Harry often shut out those tempests of emotion. Sometimes that was a great idea. Sometimes it wasn't.
After the song ended, the band took a break. The stampede for the bar left the women at the tables as the men jostled for drinks to carry back to "the girls."
Both Blair and Fair arrived at Harry and Susan's table. Mrs. Hogendobber sat at the next table with Herbie and Bob and Sally Taylor, friends from church. Ned was off politicking with the other lawyers.
"Coca-Cola, darling." Fair placed a glass in front of Harry.
Before she could respond, Blair smacked down a gin and tonic. "Harry, you need a real drink."
"She doesn't drink." Fair smiled, baring his fangs.
"She does now." Blair bared his fangs in return.
"Are you trying to get Harry drunk? Pretty crude, Blair."
"Get over it. You divorced her, buddy. I happen to think she's a fascinating woman. Your loss is my gain."
By now the whole party was pretending to be talking with one another, but every ear was cocked in the direction of this exchange.
"She's not a raffle ticket. I haven't lost her and you haven't gained her." Fair squared his massive shoulders.
Blair turned around to sit down. "Cut the crap."
That fast Fair pulled Blairs chair out from under him. Blair sprawled on the ground with a thud.
Blair sprang up. "You stupid redneck."