Harry had never weathered blunt truth from BoomBoom before. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. Finally she found her voice. “I can see you’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
“Yes. I have.”
The discussion had magnified tension instead of dispelling it.
As Harry drove home she noticed the late afternoon shadows seemed longer. A sense of menace began to haunt her.
She kept to her routine, as did everyone else. At first the routine cushioned the shock of the murders, as well as her separation, but now she felt off balance, the routine a charade. The macabre killings, the reality of them, began to sink in.
She touched down on the accelerator but she couldn’t outrun the shadows of the setting sun.
31
“‘Wish you were here.’ ” Harry’s hands shook as she read the postcard addressed to Mrs. George Hogendobber. The front of the postcard was a beautiful glossy photograph of Pushkin’s grave. Another carefully faked postmark covered the upper right-hand corner.
Harry called Rick Shaw but he wasn’t in the office. “Well, get him!” she yelled at the receptionist. Next she depressed the button and dialed Mrs. Hogendobber.
“Hello.”
Harry never thought she would be thrilled to hear that hearty voice. “Mrs. Hogendobber, are you all right?”
“You call me first thing in the morning to see if I’m all right? I’ll be over there in fifteen minutes.”
“Let me walk over for you.” Harry fought for a deep breath.
“What? Mary Minor Haristeen, I’ve been walking to the post office since before you were born.”
“Please do as I say, Mrs. H. Go out on your front porch so that everyone can see you. I’ll be there in one minute flat. Just do it, please.” She hung up the phone and flew out the door, Tucker and Mrs. Murphy at her heels.
Mrs. Hogendobber was rocking in her swing, a perplexed Mrs. Hogendobber, an irritated Mrs. Hogendobber, but an alive Mrs. Hogendobber.
Harry burst into tears at the sight of her. “Thank God!”
“What in the world is wrong with you, girl? You need an Alka-Seltzer.”
“You must get out of here. Get out of Crozet. What about your sister in Greenville, South Carolina?”
“It’s just as hot there as it is here.”
“What about your nephew in Atlanta?”
“Atlanta is worse than Greenville. I’m not going anywhere. Are you suffering from heat stroke? Maybe you’re overworked. Why don’t we go inside and pray together? You’ll soon feel the hand of the Lord on your shoulder.”
“I sincerely hope so but you’re coming with me to the post office and you aren’t leaving until Rick Shaw gets there.”
Tucker licked Mrs. Hogendobber’s ankles. Mrs. Hogendobber shooed her away, but Tucker returned. Finally, Mrs. Hogendobber let her lick. She was sweaty already on this blistering morning. What were wet ankles?
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on here?”
“Yes. Each murder victim received an unsigned postcard. The handwriting was in computer script. It looks like real handwriting but it isn’t. Anyway, on the face of each postcard was a photograph of a famous graveyard. The message read, ‘Wish you were here.’ You received one this morning.”
Mrs. Hogendobber’s hand fluttered to her ponderous bosom. “Me?”
Harry nodded. “You.”
“What did I do? I’ve never even seen a marijuana cigarette, much less sold dope.”
“Oh, Mrs. H. I don’t know if this has anything to do with drugs or not but the killer knows you’ve seen the second set of books. At Josiah’s gathering.”
Mrs. Hogendobber’s eyes narrowed. She might lack a sense of humor but she didn’t lack a quick mind. “Ah, so it isn’t just the IRS Maude was cheating. That ledger is an account of her turnover with whomever her partner was.” She placed her hands on either side of the hanging swing. “Someone at Josiah’s party. It’s preposterous!”
“Yes—but it’s real. You’re in danger.”
With great composure Mrs. Hogendobber rose and accompanied Harry back to the post office. She recovered sufficiently to say, “I always knew that you read the postcards, Harry.”
When Rick Shaw arrived with Officer Cooper, he herded everyone into the back room.
“Harry, you act normal. If you hear anyone, go on out and talk to them.” He studied the postcard.
“What about prints?” Officer Cooper asked.
“I’ll send them to the lab. But the killer’s smart. No prints. Not on the postcards. Not on the bodies. No nothing. This guy—or gal—must be invisible. We’re checking with the computer companies in town to see if there’s anything distinguishable in the script. Unfortunately, computers aren’t like typewriters, which can be traced. A letter from a typewriter is almost like a fingerprint. Electronic printing is, well, homogenized. We’re trying, but we’re not hopeful on that front.”
Officer Cooper watched Mrs. Murphy try to squeeze into a Kleenex box on the shelf.
“He’s sporting, too. He gives us a warning even if the victims don’t know it’s a warning,” Harry said.
“I hate the kind that put on finishing touches.” Rick grimaced. “Give me a good old domestic murder any day.” He swiveled his chair, facing Mrs. Hogendobber. “You’re getting out of Dodge, ma’am.”
“I’m prepared to accept what God has in store for me.” Her chin jutted out. “I was prepared to drown on Mim’s lake. This isn’t any different.”
“The Lord moves in mysterious ways, but I don’t,” Rick countered. “You can visit a relative and we’ll make certain you arrive there safe and sound. We’ll alert the authorities there to keep a close watch over your welfare and we won’t inform anyone of your whereabouts. If you won’t leave town, then we’ll put you in jail. We’ll treat you well, but, my dear Mrs. Hogendobber, you are not going to be the third victim of this cold, calculating murderer. Am I understood?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Hogendobber’s reply was not meek.
“Fine. You and Officer Cooper go home and pack. You can decide what you want to do, and tell no one but me.”
“Not even Harry?”
“Not even Harry.”
Mrs. Hogendobber reached over and squeezed Harry’s hand. “Don’t you worry about me. You’ll be in my prayers.”
“Thank you.” Harry was touched. “You’ll be in mine.”
After Mrs. Hogendobber and Officer Cooper left through the back door, Harry crumpled a mailbag.
“He’ll know that I know and that you know,” the sheriff said. “He won’t know if anyone else knows. Does anyone else know?”
“Susan Tucker.”
Rick’s eyebrows clashed together. “Oh, dammit to hell, Harry. Can’t you keep your mouth shut about anything?!”
“She’s my best friend. Besides, if anything happens to me I want someone to know at least as much as I did.”
“How do you know Susan isn’t the killer?”
“Never. Never. Never. She’s my best friend.”
“Your best friend. Harry, women who have been married to men for twenty years find out they’ve got another wife in another city. Or children grow up and find out that their sweet daddy was a Nazi war criminal who escaped to the United States. People are not what they seem and this killer appears normal, well-adjusted, and hey, one of the gang. He or she is one of the gang. Susan is under suspicion as much as anyone else. And what about Fair? He’s got medical knowledge. Doctors make clever killers.”
“Susan and Fair just wouldn’t, that’s all.”
Rick exhaled through his nostrils. “I admire your faith in your friends. If it isn’t justified you’ve got a good chance of meeting your Maker.” He picked up a pencil and tapped it against his cheek. “Do you think Susan told Ned?”