The next thing he knew a brightly colored climbing rope was flipped over his neck and the word bonus was choked right out of him. Strangulation took less than two minutes.
Still furious, the killer viciously kicked the body, breaking some ribs. Then he shook his head, collected his wits, and bent down to pick up the limp corpse. This was an unpleasant task, since the dead man had voided himself.
Cursing, he tossed the body over his shoulder, for he was a strong man, and carried him up to the tunnel. Although it had been sealed after World War II, there was an opening of loose stones which had been dug out by a former Crozet resident. The railroad had overlooked resealing the tunnel.
His brain worked clearly now. He removed the stones with care so as not to tear up his hands and then dragged the body into the tunnel. He could hear the click of little claws as he slammed his unwanted burden on the ground. He walked outside and replaced the stones. Then he picked his way down the hillside, composing himself, brushing off his clothes. People rarely hiked up to the tunnels. With luck it would be months before they found that bastard, if they found him at all.
The problem was Seifert’s car. He searched the seats, trunk, and glove compartment to make certain no note existed, no clue to their meeting. Then he started the engine and drove to the outskirts of town, leaving the car at a gas station. He wiped off the steering wheel, the door handle, everything he’d touched. The car shone when he finished with it. Shrewdly, he’d left his own car three miles away, where the victim had picked him up on Three Chopt Road. That was at one o’clock this morning. It was now four-thirty and darkness would soon enough give way to light.
He jogged the three miles to his own car, parked behind one of the cement trucks at Craycroft Cement. Unless someone walked around the mixer they’d never have seen his car.
He had figured killing his unwanted partner was a possibility, hence the preparation. Not that he had wanted to kill the dumb son of a bitch, but he’d gotten so greedy. He kept bleeding him. That left little choice.
Blackmail rarely ended with both parties wreathed in smiles.
29
The mail slid into the boxes but the magazines had to be folded. Ned Tucker received more magazines than anyone in Crozet. What was even more amazing was that he read them. Susan said it was like living with an encyclopedia.
The morning temperature hovered at thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, so Harry, Mrs. Murphy, and Tucker hopped to work at a brisk pace. Harry brought the blue truck only when the weather was filthy or she had errands to run. As she’d done her grocery shopping yesterday, the blue bomb reposed by the barn.
Harry cherished the quiet of her walk and the early hour alone in the post office after Rob Collier dropped off the mail. The repetition of chores soothed her, like a labor’s liturgy. There was comfort in consistency.
The back door opened and closed. Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and even Harry could tell by the tread that it was Mrs. Hogendobber.
“Harry.”
“Mrs. H.”
“Missed you at the Cancer Ball.”
“Wasn’t invited.”
“You could have gone alone. I do sometimes.”
“Not at a hundred and fifty dollars a ticket I can’t.”
“I forgot about that part. Larry Johnson paid for my ticket. He’s quite a good dancer.”
“Who all was there?”
“Susan and Ned. She wore her peach organdy dress. Very becoming. Herbie and Carol. She wore the ice-blue gown with the ostrich feather ruff. You should have seen Mim. She had on one of those gowns Bob Mackie designs for Dynasty.”
“Did she really?”
“I am here to tell you, girl, she did, and that dress must have cost her as much as a Toyota. There isn’t a bugle bead left in Los Angeles, I am sure of it. Why, if you dropped her in that lake of hers she’d attract every fish in it.”
Harry giggled. “Maybe she’d get along better with the fish than she does with people.”
“Let’s see, I said Ned and Susan. Fair wasn’t there. Little Marilyn and Fitz weren’t there either—must be taking a break from the black-tie circuit. Most of the Keswick and Farmington Hunt Clubs showed up, and the country club set too. Wall to wall.” Mrs. Hogendobber picked up a handful of mail and helped to sort.
Mrs. Murphy sat in a mail bin. She had sat so long waiting for a push that she fell asleep. Mrs. Hogendobber’s arrival woke her up.
“What did you wear?”
“You know that emerald-green satin dress I wear at Christmas?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I had it copied in black with gold accents. I don’t look so fat in black.”
“You’re not fat,” Harry reassured her. It was true. She wasn’t fat but she was, well, ample.
“Ha. If I eat any more I’m going to resemble a heifer.”
“How come you haven’t told me that Blair escorted BoomBoom to the ball?”
“If you know it why should I tell you?” Mrs. Hogendobber liked to stand behind the post boxes and shoot the letters in. “Well, he did. Actually, I think she asked him, because the tickets were in her name. The hussy.”
“Did he have a good time?”
“He just looked so handsome in his tuxedo and I like his new moustache. Reminds me of Ronald Colman. BoomBoom dragged him to meet everyone. She was wearing her party face. I guess he had a good time.”
“No dread disease?”
“No. She danced so much I doubt she even had time to tell him of the sorrows of her youth and how awful her parents were.” Miranda didn’t crack a smile when she relayed this observation but her eyes twinkled.
“My, my, doesn’t he have something to look forward to: ‘The Life and Times of BoomBoom Craycroft.’ ”
“Don’t worry about her.”
“I’m not.”
“Harry, I’ve known you since you were born. Don’t lie to me. I remember the day you insisted we call you Harry instead of Mary. Funny that you later married Fair Haristeen.”
“You remember everything.”
“I do indeed. You were four years old and you loved your kitty—now let me see, her name was Skippy. You wanted to be furry like Skippy, so you asked us to call you Hairy, which became Harry. You thought if we called you that, you’d get furry and turn into a kitty. Name stuck.”
“What a great cat Skippy was.”
This aroused Mrs. Murphy from her half-slumberous state. “Not as great as the Murphy!”
“Ha!” Tucker laughed.
“Shut up, Tucker. There was a dog before you, you know. A German shepherd. His photo is on the desk at home, for your information.”
“Big deal.”
“Playtime.” Harry heard the meows and thought Mrs. Murphy wanted a push in the mail bin. Although it wasn’t what the cat was talking about, she happily rolled around in the canvas-bottomed cart.
Mrs. Hogendobber unlocked the front door. She no sooner turned the key than Blair appeared, wearing a heavy red Buffalo-checked jacket over a flannel shirt. He rubbed his boots over the scraper.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hogendobber. I enjoyed our dance last night. You float over the floor.”
Mrs. Hogendobber blushed. “Why, what a sweet thing to say.”
Blair stepped right up to the counter. “Harry.”
“No packages.”
“I don’t want any packages. I want your attention.”
He got Mrs. Hogendobber’s too.
“Okay.” Harry leaned over the other side of the counter. “My full attention.”
“I’ve been told there are furniture and antique auctions on the weekends. Will you tell me which are the good ones and will you go along with me? I’m getting tired of sitting on the floor.”
“Of course.” Harry liked to help out.
Mrs. Murphy grumbled and then jumped out of the mail bin, sending it clattering across the floor. She hopped up on the counter.