“So, Miss Quayle, you all liked him?”
“Oh, yes. He was never trouble, and if someone came in here off the mall, drunk or, I don’t know, just loud or bizarre, Frank would take them outside. He was protective of us.” She folded her hands together. “We were all so sad, upset, when we read what had happened.”
“I can imagine. Have you any idea who might have wished him ill? Did he ever mention a problem or a person who was a problem?”
She shook her head. “No. He was quiet. And he read a lot.”
“Yes, that I know.” Cooper smiled.
After dismissing Miss Quayle, she briefly questioned three other staff members, then spoke to the head librarian, Mrs. Deveraux, in her well-lit office.
“You have good people working here.”
“Thank you. Some might think that being a librarian is an easy job, a soft one, but these days, not hardly,” the slender lady observed.
“Well, I know, like the sheriff’s department, you all are constrained by budget.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” Mrs. Deveraux smiled. “And like you all, we deal with the public day in, day out. A library is a community resource. There are lectures, meetings, outreach activities. The bookmobile, things like that. And we try to help those who can’t read very well. We do a lot of work with the various literacy programs. You would be shocked, Deputy, to know how many illiterate citizens live in Albemarle County, one of the richest counties in this country.”
Cooper blinked. She was surprised. “I had no idea. On the issue of serving all, you see a lot of the residents, for lack of a better word, who live on the mall?”
She nodded. “A few. Frank was our true reader. Some of the others come in and pretend to read on those cruelly cold days or when the weather is dreadful. When I first started my career, we had no training to deal with the homeless. We do now.” She stopped, then her voice lowered. “I think law enforcement, librarians, and postal workers see more than many others. Those without a home or much hope find us, if for nothing else, a brief touch of security.”
“I wish I had an answer,” Cooper responded.
“I wish I did, too.” Mrs. Deveraux brightened. “For all that, it’s a wonderful career, at least it has been for me. We are at the center of the community, we know so many people who are doing things. You learn a lot and you make good friends.”
“What was your opinion of Frank Cresey?”
“Lost. Carried a deep sense of failure. He had a curious mind, when it was clear. Like so many people with alcohol damage, he’d killed a lot of brain cells.”
“Ever troublesome?”
“Never.”
“Any ideas as to who might have wanted him dead?” the deputy asked.
“None.” Her mouth straightened, tight. “He’d ruined his life. He was a vagrant and, unfortunately, an alcoholic, but he didn’t deserve to be killed and stuck under a tree.”
Cooper looked into her eyes. “That’s why I am here, Mrs. Deveraux, to find his killer.”
—
That afternoon was breezy and warm, promising a wonderful first day of May. Snoop had been canvassed on the mall for labor. Given the good weather, people were landscaping like mad, a pent-up demand after a long, hard winter. Snoop and two other men from the mall were picked up by one of Paul Huber’s landscaping trucks, a four-door three-quarter-ton Ford, so they all fit in.
He sat in the backseat, bouncing down Garth Road toward The Barracks, out where a series of expensive houses were being constructed on a few acres. To the people buying these huge houses, ten acres seemed like quite a lot of land. At least they could protect themselves from their neighbors by planting rows of border trees, usually Leyland cypress, since they grew fast. Snoop figured that’s what they would be doing today, digging holes, lots of holes, in a straight line.
The truck pulled up to a humongous eight-thousand-square-foot brick, neo-Georgian mansion, nearly finished. Snoop was last out of the truck, and the flapping sole of his shoe became loose. Cursing, he looked down, his duct tape had worn through. Standing next to the truck’s open door, he placed the exhausted shoe back up on the stair rail, a shiny chrome tube, to see if he could rewrap the sole, but the tape was shot and not a thread of adhesive was left.
“Dammit.” He put his foot back on the brown pea-rock drive, when a familiar shape caught his eye.
Tucked under the truck’s front seat was his letter opener, the one Snoop gave to Frank.
Hastily, he pulled it out. Something covered the wooden blade. It looked like dried blood.
May 2, 2015
Bouncing along on her John Deere, Harry plowed some back acres that she’d fertilized in mid-April. As winter proved long and hard, like other farmers, she waited it out, pushing back chores that normally were accomplished in April.
That glorious morning, clear, in the mid-fifties, seemed to invite celebration. Overhead red-shouldered hawks cried out; regiments of robins inspected what Harry had plowed, knowing worms would turn up. Blackbirds sat in the trees doing what they do best: gossiping. Rabbits, squirrels, foxes, deer, bobcats, and, higher up in the mountains, bear all wandered about, thrilled with the weather.
As she’d started at sunup, Harry rolled toward the barn on the last strip. Looking behind her, satisfied that she’d not missed any ground, she chugged along, just as happy as those creatures playing and chirping around her.
Pulling into the large work shed, she cut the tractor’s motor, climbed down.
She looked for Mrs. Murphy and the others, but they were nowhere in sight.
“Lazy bums.” She smiled, suspecting they were sprawled in the tack room or kitchen.
Inside the four-bay shed, on the wall, a huge thermometer, a big black hand on a white dial with degrees, told her it was now exactly fifty-six degrees Fahrenheit. Next to that hung an old clock, a Remington advertisement for the face, its electric cord tacked against the wall to an outlet.
Seeing it was 8:20 A.M., she dusted herself off, wiped her hands on an old clean rag, checked the clock again, and headed back to the kitchen in the house.
Since he was up most of the night with a mare foaling, Fair now slept. Pushing open the screen door, then the kitchen door quietly, Harry sat at the table and wrote him a note. Then, taking from the refrigerator a wonderful egg-and-bacon quiche she’d made, she put it in the oven but didn’t turn it on. She left her husband directions, not that he couldn’t have figured it out. Fair had mastered the basic domestic arts, but still.
Curled up in their beds, each of the cats opened one eye. Tucker, dead to the world, snored.
She washed her hands properly this time, grabbed a paper towel, dried them, and quietly walked out the door. Mrs. Murphy shot out of bed to follow.
Pewter rolled over, lifted her head. Did she want to vacate her cozy bed with her name on it? If she didn’t, she might miss something. She, too, roused herself, stretched fore and aft, then scurried after Harry and Mrs. Murphy, who had by now reached the truck.
“Sleeping Beauty.” Harry laughed as she opened the door, picking up the gray cat.
“She doesn’t need beauty sleep, she needs a beauty coma.” Mrs. Murphy giggled.
“Says you,” Pewter called from the truck seat. As Mrs. Murphy was placed next to Pewter, the fat gray cat turned her back on the tiger, who didn’t mind a bit.
Once in her seat, Harry took a deep breath, turned the key, listened to the glorious rumble of an old V-8 engine, popped her in gear, and drove down the long gravel driveway.
Whistling with happiness, Harry rolled down her window a crack for fresh air. She liked old trucks, no frills, no extra doors, more cargo space. The only time she didn’t like her old 1978 F-150 was when she pulled up next to someone on her right side. Then she had to lean over and roll down the passenger window to speak. Also, she had to personally lock each of the two doors. Other than that, fewer things to go wrong and fewer upkeep expenses. Harry, careful with money, hated to waste or overspend.