“Walked out the front door to have a chat with Mrs. Murphy. Well, gang, time to sort your mail.”
“Throw out my bills, will you?” Aysha laughed.
“I’m going to give you mine.” Harry grinned and left.
She unlocked the front door. Mrs. Hogendobber hadn’t come in the back yet. Rob Collier pulled into the front parking space before Harry closed the door. She let it hang open and joined him.
“Only one big bag today.”
“Thank God. You about killed us last week.”
He noticed the motorcycle. “Who owns diat?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“California plates. A long way from home.” Rob hopped out of the truck, bag over his shoulder, and began reminiscing about motorcycles. Motorcycles engendered male nostalgia. “Did I ever tell you about the little Vespa I had? No bigger than a sigh. I wanted to learn to ride a bike, a real bike. I was fourteen, so I gave Jake Berryhill fifty bucks for his brothers old Vespa. Still ran. I didn’t get out of second gear for the first month. Then I got the hang of it, so I traded the Vespa in on a 250cc Honda. I thought I was macho man, and I rode that thing on the back roads ‘cause I didn’t have a license and I didn’t have plates.”
“How’d you get away with it?”
“Hell, Harry, there weren’t but two deputies for the whole of Albemarle County then. They couldn’t be bothered with a kid on a Honda.” He continued. “Got my license on my sixteenth birthday. Delivered the paper. Saved up and traded up—500cc Honda.” He dumped the bag behind the counter, waved to Miranda, and wistfully gazed at the Harley. “You know, I just might have to get me one. Yeah. Slid on your machine, cranked it, and the crank would always fly up and bark your shin. Roll that right wrist in, let out the clutch with your left hand, just nice and easy, pick up your feet and roll—just roll on to freedom.”
“Why, Rob, that’s poetic,” Miranda said.
He blushed. “Happy times.” Then he sighed. “What happens? I mean, when is the moment when we get old? Maybe for me it was when I sold that 500cc.”
“Honda dealer’s in town. There’s Harley dealers in Orange and Waynesboro,” Harry said.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m going to think about it—seriously.”
“While you’re thinking, go next door and buy one of Miranda’s sticky buns. She’s entered the baking business.”
“I’ll do that.” He backed out the door and walked over to Market’s.
Miranda beamed. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”
“Uh-huh.” Harry’s tone was positive.
Out back, Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter craned their necks upward at the post office drain spout. Little cheeps reverberated from inside.
“Heard it this morning,” Pewter solemnly noted. “Haven’t seen anyone fly in or out. Of course, I would have caught anyone if they’d tried.”
“Dream on, Pewter. “Tucker giggled.
“/can catch a bird. I most certainly can, “she huffed.
“We aren’t catching this one.” Mrs. Murphy’s whiskers pointed forward, then relaxed. “Come on, time to sort the mail.”
“Is there any food in there?” Pewter inquired.
“You work in a market. Why do you always want to know if we have food at the post office?“T’tids?ts tongue hung out. The day was already heating up.
“Curious. Don’t you know anything, Tucker? Cats are by nature curious.”
“Brother. “The dog pushed open the animal door and entered the post office.
•••
By noon the biker still had not appeared. Harry couldn’t stand it anymore. She went out front and sat on the Harley. It did feel great, nice and lowdown. She checked around to make sure the Hell’s Angel wouldn’t charge out of a building and scream at her for touching his precious bike.
By three, still no sign of the owner.
“Harry, I’m calling Rick Shaw.” Miranda picked up the phone.
Harry considered this a moment. “Wait a second. Let me go get the license plate number.” She ran outside and scribbled the number on a scrap of paper.
Miranda dialed the sheriff’s department. Cynthia Cooper picked up the phone. “Why aren’t you in the squad car?”
Miranda’s voice was distinctive. Cynthia knew the caller at once. “I was. What can I do you for?”
“A black Harley-Davidson motorcycle has been parked in front of the post office all day and the owner doesn’t seem to be around.”
“Do you know the owner?”
“No, but Harry does. Hold on a minute.” Miranda handed the phone to Harry.
“Hi, Cynthia. Actually, I don’t know the owner but I saw him at Ash Lawn last week.”
“Do you suspect anything?”
“Uh, no, I guess we’re just wondering why the bike has been here all day. Maybe he copped a ride in a car or something, but we’re not a public parking lot. Want the license number?”
“Yeah, okay.”
She read off the number. “California plates. Pretty ones.”
“They are. Pretty state taxes too. If I paid that much, I’d want gold-plated tags. Okay, Skeezits, I’ll run a check and get back to you,” she said, calling Harry by her childhood nickname.
The phone rang in fifteen minutes. It was Cynthia.
“The bike belongs to Michael Huckstep, Los Angeles, California. He’s a Caucasian—thirty-four years old.”
“That was fast.” Harry was impressed.
“Computers. If the bike is still there tomorrow, call me. Actually, I’ll swing by tonight and check on it anyway, but call me in the morning. Sometimes people do take advantage of federal facilities. It will probably be gone tomorrow.”
8
But it wasn’t. The next morning, Tuesday, the Harley was right there.
Cynthia cruised on over and inspected the bike while Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber hurried to finish their morning sorting. Mrs. Hogendobber kept running in and out of the office, she was so afraid she’d miss something.
On her last pass into the post office she breathlessly informed Harry, “She’s going to have them dust for prints—you know, in case its stolen.”
“Well, if it were stolen, don’t you think he’d know it and report it?”
“Not if he’s the thief.”
Harry cocked her head. “Do criminals have legitimate driver’s licenses?”
“Little Marilyn does. The way she drives is a crime.” Miranda laughed at her own joke.
Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, Mrs. Murphy strolled out the front door on yet another pass by Miranda. Tucker, lying on her back, legs straight up in the air, was dead to the world. The cat chose not to wake her.
Cynthia, tall and slender, knelt down on the left side of the machine and wrote down the serial number.
Mrs. Murphy jumped on the seat of the motorcycle. She quickly jumped off since it was boiling hot. “Ouch! Don’t they make sheepskin seat covers for bikes?”
The humans forgot the task at hand for a moment to gossip about Little Marilyn’s latest beau—a man both Mrs. Hogendobber and Cynthia considered unsuitable. They moved on to BoomBoom Craycroft’s summer vacation, their hope that Kerry McCray would find a decent guy following her loss of Norman, and the delightful fact that Miranda’s baked goods were sold out by eight-thirty that morning.
The tiger, her coat shiny as patent leather in the sunlight, sniffed around the motorcycle. She was careful not to get too close, as the metal would be hot as well. A familiar whiff on the right saddlebag, jet black like the rest of the bike, made her stop. She stood on her hind legs, perfectly balanced, and sniffed deeper. Then she got as close as she dared and inhaled. “Cynthia, Cynthia, there’s blood on the saddlebag.”
“—Blair Bainbridge, but you know if BoomBoom lays siege to him again, he might give in. Men find her sexy.” Cynthia couldn’t help indulging in a light gossip.
“She won’t turn his head.” Mrs. Hogendobber crossed her arms over her large bosoms.
“They all look at BoomBoom.” Cynthia never could understand why a good makeup job and big tits made idiots out of supposedly intelligent men.