Ottoline sarcastically said, “With a name like Malibu, I suggest we look for someone in a tube top, high heels, short shorts, and with voluminous hair—bleached, of course.”
n
The sheriff’s office, drab but functional, suited Rick Shaw. He disliked ostentation. His desk was usually neat since he spent most of his time in his squad car. He disliked desk work as much as he disliked ostentation. Mostly he hated being stuck inside.
Today files cluttered his desk, cigarette butts overflowed in the large, deep ashtray and the phone rang off the hook. He’d been interviewed by the local television station, the local newspaper, and the big one from Richmond. Those duties he performed as a necessity. He wasn’t a sheriff who loved seeing his face on the eleven o’clock news. Sometimes he’d make Cynthia juggle the interviews.
The coroner worked late into the night taking tissue samples.
No driver’s license or identifying papers were found on the body. Cynthia knew the plates were registered to Michael Huckstep. But was the body that of Michael Huckstep? They could assume it was, but until they had a positive ID, they wouldn’t know for certain. After all, someone could have killed Huckstep and posed as him.
Rick asked for a list of missing persons as well as stolen motorcycles to be made available to him. They were. Nothing on either California list matched the abandoned Harley or the dead man.
Cynthia scraped into the office. He held up his hand for her to wait. He dispensed with his phone call as soon as he could.
“Mim,” he said.
Cynthia emptied the ashtray into the wastebasket. “She wants to be the first to know.” She replaced the ashtray. “We went over the bike. Nothing there. No prints. Whoever drove it to the post office wore gloves.”
“Bikers usually wear gloves.”
“Wonder what he was doing in Sugar Hollow?”
Rick held up his hands as he twirled around in his swivel chair. “Sightseeing?” He twirled in the opposite direction, then stopped. “Makes me dizzy.”
“If it weren’t for drugs, we’d be out of work,” she joked. “I bet he went in there to make a deal. Sugar Hollow is pretty but not exactly a tourist attraction. He was in there with someone who knows the county—I betcha.”
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 Tshirts 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 hellis 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.”