“No.”
“But what if Maury was sleeping with Irene?” Tucker logically thought that was reason enough for some men to murder.
“Kendrick wouldn’t give a damn. A business deal gone bust, or some kind of financial betrayal might provoke him to kill, but he’d be cold-blooded about it. He’d plan. Thiswasslapdash. Not Kendrick’s style.”
“No wonder Irene mopes around,” Pewter thought out loud. “If my husband thought money was more important than me, I’d want a divorce, too.”
“Could Maury have been killed by a jilted lover?”
“Sure. So could Roscoe. But it doesn’t fit. Not two of them back-to-back. And April Shively wouldn’t have vacuumed out the school documents if itwasthat.”
They reached the post office, glad to rush inside for warmth and crunchies.
“Where have you characters been?” Harry counted out change.
“Deeper into this riddle, that’s where we’ve been.” Mrs. Murphy watched Pewter stick her face into the crunchies shaped like little fish. She didn’t feel hungry herself. “What’s driving me crazy is that I’m missing something obvious.”
“Murphy, I don’t see how we’ve overlooked anything.” Tucker was tired of thinking.
“No, it’s obvious, but whatever it is, our minds don’t want to see it.” The tiger dropped her ears for a moment, then pricked them back up.
“Doesn’t make sense,” Pewter, thrilled to be eating, said between garbled mouthfuls.
“What is going on is too repulsive for our minds to accept. We’re blanking out. It’s right under our noses.”
50
The uneasiness of Crozet’s residents found expression in the memorial service for Maury McKinchie.
There was a full choir and a swelling organ but precious few people in Reverend Jones’s church. Darla had indeed flown the body back to Los
Angeles, so no exorbitantly expensive casket rested in front of the altar. Miranda, asked to sing a solo, chose “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” because she was in a Lutheran church and because no one knew enough about Maury’s spiritual life to select a more personal hymn. BoomBoom Craycroft wept in the front left row. Ed Sugarman comforted her, a full-time job. Naomi Fletcher, in mourning for Roscoe, sat next to Sandy Brashiers in the front right row. Harry, Susan, and Ned also attended. Other than that tiny crew, the church was bare. Had Darla shown her famous and famously kept face, the church would have been overflowing.
Back at the post office Harry thought about what constituted a life well lived.
At five o’clock, she gathered up April Shively’s mail.
“Do you think she’ll let you in?”
Harry raised her eyebrows. “Miranda, I don’t much care. If not, I’ll put it by her backdoor. Need anything while I’m out there? I’ll pass Critzer’s Nurseries.”
“No, thanks. I’ve put in all my spring bulbs,” came the slightly smug reply.
“Okay then—see you tomorrow.”
Ten minutes later Harry pulled into a long country lane winding up at a neat two-story frame colonial. Blair Bainbridge had lent Harry his truck until hers was fixed. When she knocked on the door, there was no answer. She waited a few minutes, then placed the mail by the backdoor. As she turned to leave, the upstairs window opened.
“I’m not afraid to come in and get my mail.”
“Your box was overflowing. Thought I’d save you a trip.”
“Anybody know if Sean’s going to make it?”
“No. The hospital won’t give out information, and they won’t allow anyone to visit. That’s all I know.”
“Boy doesn’t have a brain in his head. Have you seen Sandy Brashiers or Naomi?” April half laughed. Her tone was snide.
Harry sighed impatiently. “I doubt they want to see you any more than you want to see them. Marilyn’s not your biggest fan now either.”
“Who cares about her?” April waved her hand flippantly. “She’s a bad imitation of a bad mother.”
“Big Mim’s okay. You have to take her on her own terms.”
“Think we can get inside?” Tucker asked.
“No,” Murphy replied. “She’s not budging from that window.”
“What are they saying about me?” April demanded.
“Oh—that you hate Sandy, loved Roscoe, and you’re accusing Sandy to cover your own tracks. If there’s missing money, you’ve got it or know where it is.”
“Ha!”
“But you do know something, April. I know you do,” Murphy meowed loudly.
“That cat’s got a big mouth.”
“So’s your old lady,” Murphy sassed her.
“Yeah!” Pewter chimed in.
“April, I wish you’d get things right.” Harry zipped up her jacket. “The school’s like a tomb. Whatever you feel about Sandy—is it worth destroying St. Elizabeth’s and everything Roscoe worked so hard to build?”
“Good one, Mom.” Tucker knew Harry had struck a raw nerve.
“Me destroy St. Elizabeth’s! If you want to talk destruction, let’s talk about Sandy Brashiers, who wants us to commit our energies and resources to a nineteenth-century program. He’s indifferent to computer education, hostile to the film-course idea, and he only tolerates athletics because he has to—if he takes over, you watch, those athletic budgets will get trimmed and trimmed each year. He’ll take it slow at first, but I know him! The two-bit sneak.”
“Then come back.”
“They fired me!”
“If you give back the papers—”
“Never. Not to Brashiers.”
Harry held up her hands. “Give them to Sheriff Shaw.”
“Fat lot of good that will do. He’ll turn them over to St. Eliza beth’s.”
“He can impound them as evidence.”
“Are you that dumb, or do you think I am?” April yelled. “Little Mim will whine, and Mommy will light the fires of hell under Rick Shaw’s butt. Those papers will go to the Sanburne house if not St. Elizabeth’s.”
“How else can you clear your name?”
“When the time comes, I will. You just wait and see.”
“I guess I’ll have to.” Harry gave up, walking back to the truck. She heard the window slam shut.
“Time has a funny way of running out,” Mrs. Murphy noted dryly.
51
Driving back into Crozet, Harry stopped and cajoled Mrs. Hogendobber to drive her through the car wash in her Falcon. Pewter, hysterical at the thought, hid under the seat. Harry filled Miranda in on the conversation with April, a belligerent April.
As they pulled right off Route 29, coasting past the Texaco station, Harry observed the distance between the gas pumps and the port of the car wash. It was a quick sprint away, perhaps fifty yards at the most. The Texaco station building blocked the view of the car wash.
“Go slow.”
“I am.” Miranda scanned the setup, then coasted to a stop before the port.
Jimbo Anson rolled out, the collar of his jacket turned up against the wind. “Welcome, Mrs. Hogendobber. I don’t believe you’ve ever been here.”
“No, I haven’t. I wash the car by hand. It’s small enough that I can do it, but Harry wants me to become modern.” She smiled as Harry reached across her and paid the rate for “the works.”
“Come forward … there you go.” He watched as Miranda’s left wheel rolled onto the track. “Put her in neutral, and no radio.” Jimbo punched the big button hanging on a thick electrical cord, and the car rolled into the mists.
A buzzer sounded, the yellow neon light flashed, and Miranda exclaimed, “My word.”
Harry carefully noted the time it took to complete the cycle as well as how the machinery swung out from the side or dropped from above. The last bump of the track alerted them to put the car in drive. Harry mumbled, “No way.”
“No way what?”
“I was thinking maybe the killer came into the car wash, gave Roscoe the poisoned candy, and ran out. I know it’s loony, but the sight of someone soaking wet in the car wash, someone he knew, would make him roll down the window or open a door if he could. It was a thought. If you run up here from the Texaco station, which takes less than a minute, no one could see you if you ducked in the car wash exit. But it’s impossible. And besides, nobody noticed anyone being all wet.”