"You could have been killed." Her eyes filled up again.
He put his arm around her. "But I wasn't. What does that tell you?"
"That your Guardian Angel works overtime." She dabbed at her tears.
"No. Well, yes. But it means I'm not important. If whoever hit me had wanted to kill me, it would have been easy enough. Right?"
"Yes." She nodded.
"But they didn't. However, H.H. and Mychelle were killed, and H.H. was killed in front of everyone."
"But we all thought it was a heart attack at the time."
"Sugar, there's a meaning to this, a reason. I'm not part of the reason."
"But you got in the way."
"That I did and whoever hit me was intelligent enough not to kill if he didn't have to kill. So whatever is going on will tie those people together in some way or tie them into whatever is going on at that building."
"Isn't it odd that all this is happening in one spot?"
"I don't know. If I just had even one idea, I'd feel better. The only thing I can think of is someone is pilfering equipment and selling it. But that doesn't seem worth two murders."
"And you're sure that no one else was in the building when you came to your senses?"
"I'm pretty sure it was abandoned. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse." He squeezed her shoulder.
34
The next morning, Deputy Cooper and Sheriff Shaw met Tracy Raz at the Clam. Tim Berryhill, in charge of all the buildings and grounds at the university, including the Clam, also met them at the front doors. He was one of the Berryhill clan originating in Crozet although he lived in North Garden outside of Charlottesville. He held an electrical engineering degree from Penn State and had gone to Darden Business School at UVA.
Late last night, Rick and his team had found Tracy's gym bag, cell phone inside, tossed in the Dumpster. It was being checked for prints.
Tim said that given all that had happened he personally wanted to be in charge. He would closely examine the building from an engineering standpoint and he would personally check inventory.
Rick and Tracy left Tim and Cooper at ten-thirty A.M.
Tracy walked with the sheriff over to his squad car. "Rick, if there's any way you can use me, do."
"Thanks. I appreciate it."
"No reason for anyone to know about last night." Tracy shrugged. "Could have been a stupid mugger."
"Really stupid. He didn't take your money."
Tracy grinned. "Hell, he might even have knocked some sense into my head. Or she. Don't want to leave the ladies out of this."
"Crime has become an equal opportunity employer."
As the two men drove off in different directions, Rick replayed his two interviews with Anne Donaldson in his head. The first time he spoke to her she was completely distraught and all he could get out of her was that she couldn't imagine why anyone would kill H.H. He called on her again, after the memorial service. This time he had to ask the unpleasant question, "Did you know with whom your husband was having the affair?"
She pleaded ignorance but he didn't believe her. Not that he challenged her. He just chipped away. Little questions like, How many nights a week did he stay out or stay late at work? The answer: None. Were there strange expenses on his credit cards? No. It didn't matter how he approached it, he ran into a wall.
She knew, all right. She knew and she wasn't telling.
Perhaps it was the sin of pride.
35
The storm's first lazy snowflake twirled to the frozen ground. Tombstones from the early eighteenth century looked particularly forlorn as heavy gray clouds roiled ever lower.
Matthew Crickenberger, slumped in one of the comfortable chairs by the fireplace, glanced out the windowpanes, the glass wavy since it was handblown.
Elocution and Cazenovia dozed on the back of the sofa, the warmth from the fire making them even more sleepy than they usually were at four in the afternoon. Nap time for cats, tea time for people.
Charlotte, still snuffling from her cold, brought the two men hot tea, a crystal decanter of port, and another of sherry, should either need stronger spirits.
"Oh, thank you, Charlotte."
She placed the tray on the coffee table then put her hands on her hips. "Would you look at that."
The snow began to fall steadily.
"Isn't that a beautiful sight?" Herb smiled.
"Yes, as long as you don't have to drive in it," was Charlotte's somewhat tart reply.
"There is that. Odd, though. We've had a dry fall. Bone dry." Herb minded the weather; outdoor thermometers were placed by his workroom window and his bedroom window. "No sooner did we ring in the New Year, and the snow started falling with nary a stop."
"That's about right."
"Anything else? I've got some cookies."
Herb held up his hand. "No. I really have to exercise some self-control."
"Oh la." She smiled, then winked at Matthew. "Self-control for you, too? I hope not."
"I could use a little, Charlotte. I'll pass on the cookies, but if you have a can of self-control back there in the pantry, bring it on out."
She nodded and left them.
Herb sipped his tea. "Never drank tea as a young man. Not even when I was in the army as a chaplain stationed in England. That's a lovely, lovely country. You've been there?"
"Once. This summer, though, Sandy and the kids and I are going to spend August in Scotland. We'll start in Edinburgh and work our way up to the Highlands."
"Stop at any distilleries?"
"Every one."
"They say the fly-fishing is good in Scotland. Ireland, too. I'd go back across the ocean for that. Or to Wyoming or Montana or you-name-it." He offered Matthew a wee spot of port which the younger man did not refuse.
"Port chased by hot tea with lemon. A taste sensation." He felt the robust flavor of port on his tongue. Matthew always thought of port as a man's drink and sherry as a woman's.
"I know you are beset with many and sundry things, but I'm glad you dropped by." Herb crossed one leg over the other. "I am having a terrible time getting these carpet people to come on out here. Might you give them a push? You're a big fish. I'm a minnow."
"I'll make it my mission. I'll personally talk to Sergeant." Matthew named the owner of the carpet company. "I've been letting my secretary call his secretary. Enough of that. Anyway, what if the Parish Guild changes its mind?"
Herb held up his hands in mock horror. "Don't breathe a word. No. No. No."
Matthew laughed. "Consensus really means you just wear everyone out. In my lifetime I haven't seen too many people change their mind nor have I seen too many people learn."
"Perhaps it's the business you're in. I'd have to say that my experience is just the reverse." Herb eyed the ruby port glowing in Matthew's glass. What a beautiful color. He thought of it as the color of contentment.
"I never thought of that." He shifted his weight. Matthew, a large man, wasn't fat but he wasn't thin anymore, either.
"We all see life through the prism of our own work, our own needs, I guess. I think of stories in the Bible, Scripture." He paused. "Although that Miranda can outquote me any day of the week. I see the spiritual struggle perhaps more than the material struggle."
"Your work to feed the poor contradicts that."
Herb looked out the window; the bare tree branches were turning white, the large lovely blue spruce at the other end of the quad appeared covered in fancy white lace and the black walnut close by the window appeared more majestic than ever. "I am my brother's keeper. Those simple lessons. Not so simple to enact, are they? And I am so glad you've stopped by because I did want to talk to you about more than carpet, Matthew." He leaned forward, pouring himself more port. "Just what is going on with you and Fred? Can I be of any service?"
"You could cover his mouth with duct tape for starters," Matthew ruefully replied. "Herb, Fred and I have been crossways with one another since we were teenagers. I guess it's a personality thing. He looks for problems. A born complainer. I look to build, I look for what's positive. He looks for the negative. He's even worse than Hank Brevard, God rest his soul." He mentioned a man who had gone to his reward in the last two years, another nitpicker.