She walked back into the barn, closed the big sliding doors, checked everyone's water buckets, and readjusted Tomahawk's blanket which he'd managed to push toward the right.
Simon peered over the hayloft. "Murphy, marshmallows."
The possum adored marshmallows. His sweet tooth caused him to rummage through the wastebasket searching for candy wrappers. He ate all the grain spilled onto the feed-room floor, too.
"I'll do my best but she doesn't listen," Murphy answered Simon.
Harry checked and double-checked, then cut the lights at the switch housed at the end of the center aisle. She opened the doors enough to slip through, then shut them tight.
Back in the kitchen, she made herself a cup of hot chocolate. Tucker, ears drooping, Pewter at her side, barely lifted her head.
Harry felt the dog's ears. Not hot. She checked her gums. Fine. "Little girl, you look so sad."
"I am."
"She blames herself," Pewter explained.
"If I'd run away from Mom maybe she would have chased me. If I'd kept coming back to the closet door she might have figured it out. I just didn't think fast enough." Tears formed in the dog's eyes.
"She's a good human but she's only human." Mrs. Murphy joined Pewter in consoling the corgi. "She probably wouldn't have figured it out no matter what you did. There was nothing you could do."
Tucker was grateful for their kindness but she felt so horrible she closed her eyes. "Someone has to find whoever is in there."
She was right. Someone was in for a nasty shock.
20
Billy Satterfield, a student, worked as a janitor. He was a sandy-haired, slight boy with clean features, a regular kid who fit in with the rest of the student body when in the jeans and flannel shirts he wore to classes. On the weekends when he wore coveralls, though, students never looked his way. He was invisible, a member of the working class. People's responses to him as a broom pusher taught him a lot. He never wanted to be a negligible person, a grunt. He made good grades if for no other reason than because he was determined to graduate and make money.
A long, loopy key chain hung from his belt, the keys tucked in his right pocket. He walked to the broom closet, pulled out the keys, found the right one, and opened the door.
The sight of a youngish woman, bound and gagged, scared him half to death. Her glassy eyes stared right through him. He wanted to scream, to run down the hall, but he had enough presence of mind to make certain she was truly dead. Gingerly he touched her shoulder. Cold. Stiff.
His knees shaking, his stomach churning, he backed out of the closet, shutting the door. He leaned his head against the door for a minute fighting for his composure. It was seven-thirty in the morning. No other custodial person was on duty. As there was a basketball game tonight, other men would show up later at nine if he was lucky. He breathed deeply.
He pulled out his cell phone, a tiny folding one, and dialed 911. Within seconds he was connected to the Sheriff's Department and grateful.
Coop, working the weekend, spoke to Billy, did her best to soothe him. She was by his side within fifteen minutes, calling Rick on the way.
She heard Rick open the door, the squeaking of his rubber-soled shoes. He wore a dark charcoal suit, as he was on his way to the early service at church.
"What have we got?"
"Knife wound, bled to death internally. Let's just say our killer wasn't skillful. It was a slow death, I would think. Oh sorry, Sheriff Shaw, this is Billy Satterfield. He found the body about thirty minutes ago."
Rick extended his hand. "Sorry, Mr. Satterfield. Do you mind telling me what you saw?"
"Billy, call me Billy." He took a breath and did not look at the corpse. "I usually come in early on Saturdays and Sundays. I got here right at seven-thirty so I opened the door to the closet probably seven thirty-five and that's what I saw. I touched her shoulder-to make sure." He shivered.
Cooper reassured him. "Most people have the same reaction."
"Really?"
"They do."
Rick pulled on thin latex gloves, bent down on one knee, and carefully examined the body. He didn't move it. No sign of struggle. No other cuts. Bruising on the neck. He shook his head. "Is this your rope?"
"No, sir."
"Sorry, I didn't mean yours personally. Was this rope in the closet?"
"No, sir."
"Clothesline." Rick stood up. "I'll call the boys," he said, referring to his crime lab team. "Maybe we'll get lucky and come up with prints or at least fibers or something." He exhaled. "She wasn't winning any popularity contests but this-"
"You know her?" Billy was amazed at their professional detachment.
"Yes. She works for the county. She's a building inspector."
21
The wind, out of the west, carried a sharp edge. Tree branches swayed against a still blue sky. Harry walked out of St. Luke's at nine-thirty. She liked to attend the earliest service, matins, which was at eight-thirty on Sunday morning since the eleven o'clock service was packed. Vespers, at seven P.M., also pleased her. The eventide service exuded a cozy, quiet quality, especially in winter.
She didn't know how Herb preached three sermons each Sunday, but he did. He needed an assistant, a young pastor, but so far the diocese couldn't find their way to sending him one, saying there weren't that many to go around. Although overburdened, Reverend Jones thoroughly enjoyed his labors.
Tazio Chappars also liked matins. She hurried along to catch Harry.
"Sorry, Tazio, I didn't know you wanted company." Harry pulled her cashmere scarf, a present from Miranda, tighter around her neck.
"Isn't it funny how the seasons remind you of people, past events?"
"Yes, it is."
"This time of year makes me think of my mother. She hated winter and complained nonstop from the first frost to the last. But right about the third week of January she'd say, 'A little more light. Definitely.' Then every day after that we'd have to read the newspapers together, myself and my brothers, to find the exact number of daylight hours versus nighttime hours."
"You know, I've never met your brothers. I'd like to."
Tazio quickly put her hand on top of her hat, for the wind kicked up. "Jordan and Naylor, twins. Can you imagine growing up with twin brothers? They were horrid. Anyway, they about died when I moved here. Like a lot of people they have visions of po' black folk being oppressed each and every day. I tell them it's not like that and in many ways it's as sophisticated here as back home in St. Louis, but I'm talking to a brick wall. If I'm going to see them I have to go to them."
"Gee, I'm sorry. If they ever do come, though, let me know."
"I will. It's hard to believe the creeps who put tadpoles in my Kool-Aid are now doctors. Dad's an oncologist, Jordan followed Dad. Naylor specializes in hip replacements. I'm the oddball who didn't go into medicine."
"I couldn't do it." Harry shook her head. "You picked the right career for you." She turned her back on the wind. "Boreas."
"The north wind." Tazio remembered her mythology. "I loved those stories. And the Norse sagas. In college I read the African myths, went on to Native American myths. And you know, all those stories are filled with wisdom. Not that I learned to be wise. I'm afraid that only comes the hard way."
They reached their respective trucks, each one carrying their animals. Brinkley stood up, tail wagging, when he saw Tazio.
"I wish I could take my cats and dog to church," Harry mused. "It would do them a world of good."
"Mrs. Murphy on the organ? Think again, Harry."
"You do have a point, but she is a musical kitty."