Moments later Sean picked up the phone.
“It’s Jody.”
“Oh, hi.” He was wary.
“I just found out today that I’m pregnant.”
A gasp followed. “What are you going to do?”
“Tell everyone it was you.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Why not? You didn’t find me that repulsive this summer.”
A flash of anger hit him. “How do you know it was me?”
“You asshole!” She slammed down the receiver.
A shaken, lonely Sean Hallahan put the receiver back on the cradle.
44
The front-office staff at Crozet High, frazzled by parental requests to accept transfers from St. Elizabeth’s, stopped answering the phone. The line in the hall took precedence.
The middle school and grammar school suffered the same influx.
Sandy Brashiers took out an ad in the newspaper. He had had the presence of mind to place the full-page ad the moment Maury was killed. Given lag time, it ran today.
The ad stated that the board of directors and temporary headmaster regretted the recent incidents at St. Elizabeth’s, but these involved adults, not students.
He invited parents to come to his office at Old Main Building or to visit him at home … and he begged parents not to pull their children out of the school.
A few parents read the ad as they stood in line.
Meanwhile, the St. Elizabeth’s students were thoroughly enjoying their unscheduled vacation.
Karen Jensen had called Coach Hallvard asking that the hockey team be allowed to practice with Crozet High in the afternoon until things straightened out.
Roger Davis used the time to work at the car wash. Jody said she needed money, so she was there, too.
Karen borrowed her daddy’s car, more reliable than her own old Volvo, and took Brooks with her to see Mary Baldwin College in Staunton . She was considering applying there but wanted to see it without her mom and dad.
The college was only thirty-five miles from Crozet.
“I’d rather finish out at St. Elizabeth’s than go to Crozet High.” Karen cruised along, the old station wagon swaying on the highway. “Transferring now could mess up my grade-point average, and besides, we’re not the ones in danger. So I’d just as soon go back.”
‘ ‘My parents are having a fit.” Brooks sighed and looked out the window as they rolled west down Waynesboro’sMain Street.
“Everybody’s are. Major weird. BoomBoom Craycroft said it’s karma.
“Karma is celestial recycling,” Brooks cracked.
“Three points.”
“I thought so, too.” She smiled. “It is bizarre. Do you think the killer is someone at St. Elizabeth’s?”
“Sean.” Karen giggled.
“Hey, some people really think he did kill Mr. Fletcher. And everyone thinks Mr. Miller skewered Mr. McKinchie. He just got out of jail because he’s rich. He was standing over him, sword in hand.”
Brooks stared at the sumac, reddening, by the side of the road as they passed the outskirts of Waynesboro. “Did you hear April Shively’s in jail? Maybe she did it.”
“Women don’t kill,” Karen said.
“Of course they do.”
“Not like men. Ninety-five percent of all murders are committed by men, so the odds are it’s a man.”
“Karen, women are smarter. They don’t get caught.”
They both laughed as they rolled into Staunton on Route 250.
45
November can be a tricky month. Delightful warm interludes cast a soft golden glow on tree limbs, a few still sporting colorful leaves. The temperature hovers in the high fifties or low sixties for a few glorious days, then cold air knifes in, a potent reminder that winter truly is around the corner.
This was one of those coppery, warm days, and Harry sat out back of the post office eating a ham sandwich. Sitting in a semicircle at her feet, rapturous in their attentions, were Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker.
Mrs. Hogendobber stuck her head out the backdoor. “Take your time with lunch. Nothing much is going on.”
Harry swallowed so she wouldn’t be talking with her mouth full. “It’s a perfect, perfect day. Push the door open and sit out here with me.”
“Bring a sandwich,” Pewter requested.
“Later. I am determined to reorganize the back shelves. Looks like a storm hit them.”
“Save it for a rainy day. Come on,” Harry cajoled.
“Well, it is awfully pretty, isn’t it?” She disappeared quickly, returning with a sandwich and two orange-glazed buns, her specialty.
Although Mrs. Hogendobber’s house was right across the alley from the post office, she liked to bring her lunch and pastries to work with her. A small refrigerator and a hot plate in the back allowed the two women to operate Chez Post, as they sometimes called it.
“The last of my mums.” Miranda pointed out the deep russet-colored flowers bordering her fall gardens. “What is there about fall that makes one melancholy?”
“Loss of the light.” Harry enjoyed the sharp mustard she’d put on her sandwich.
‘ ‘And color, although I battle that with pyracantha, the December-blooming camellias, and lots of holly in strategic places. Still, I miss the fragrance of summer.” Hummingbirds.”
“Baby snakes.” Mrs. Murphy offered her delectables.
“Baby mice,” Pewter chimed in.
“You have yet to kill a mouse.” Mrs. Murphy leaned close to Harry just in case her mother felt like sharing.
Pewter, preferring the direct approach, sat in front of Harry, chartreuse eyes lifted upward in appeal. “Look who’s talking. The barn is turning into Mouse Manhattan.”
Tucker drooled. Mrs. Hogendobber handed her a tidbit of ham, to the fury of the two cats. She tore off two small pieces for them, too.
“Mine has mustard on it,” Mrs. Murphy complained.
“I’ll eat it,” Tucker gallantly volunteered.
“In a pig’s eye.”
“Aren’t we lucky that Miranda makes all these goodies?” Pewter nibbled. “She’s the best cook in Crozet.”
Cynthia Cooper slowly rolled down the alleyway, pulling in next to BoomBoom’s BMW. “Great day.”
“Join us.”
She checked her watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
“Make it thirty, and leave your radio on.” Harry smiled.
“Good idea.” Cynthia cut off the ignition, then turned the volume up on the two-way radio. “Mrs. H., did you make sandwiches for Market today?”
“Indeed, I did.”
Cynthia sprinted down the narrow alley between the post office and the market. Within minutes she returned with a smoked turkey sandwich slathered in tarragon mayonnaise, Boston lettuce peeping out from the sides of the whole wheat bread.
The three sat on the back stoop. Every now and then the radio squawked, but no calls for Coop.
“Why did you paint your fingernails?” Harry noticed the raspberry polish.
“Got bored.”
“Isn’t it funny how Little Mim changes her hairdo? Each time it’s a new style or color, you know something is up,” Miranda noted.
Sean Hallahan ambled down the alleyway.
“You look like the dogs got at you under the porch.” Harry laughed at his disheveled appearance.
“Oh”—he glanced down at his wrinkled clothes—“guess I do.”
“Is the football team going to practice at Crozet High? Field hockey is,” Harry said.
“Nobody’s called me. I don’t know what we’re going to do. I don’t even know if I’m going back to St. Elizabeth’s.”
“Do you want to?” Cynthia asked.
“Yeah, we’ve got a good team this year. And it’s my senior year. I don’t want to go anywhere else.”
“That makes sense,” Mrs. Hogendobber said.
He ran his finger over the hood of the BMW. “Cool.”
“Ultra,” Harry replied.
“Just a car.” Pewter remained unimpressed by machines.
He bent over, shading his eyes, and peered inside. “Leather. Sure stinks, though.”
“She spilled her essences,” Harry said.
“Don’t be squirrelly,” Mrs. Murphy advised.
Sean opened the door, and the competing scents rolled out like a wave. “I hope I get rich.”