“You!”
Within one second he, too, was dead.
39
Rick Shaw, Dr. Hayden McIntire, and Clai Cordle and Diana Farrell of the Rescue Squad stared at Bob Berryman’s body. He was seated upright behind the driver’s wheel of his truck. Ozzie, also shot, lay beside him. Bob had been shot through the heart and once again through the head for good measure. In his breast pocket was a postcard of General Lee’s tomb at Lexington, Virginia. It read, “Wish youwere here.” There was no postmark. His truck was parked at the intersection of Whitehall Road and Railroad Avenue, a stone’s throw away from the post office, the train depot, and Market Shiflett’s store. A farmer on his way to the acres he rented on the north side of town found the body at about quarter to five in the morning.
“Any idea?” Rick asked Hayden.
“Six hours. The coroner will be more exact but no more than six, perhaps a little less.” Hayden thought his heart would break every time he looked at Ozzie. He and Bob had been inseparable in life and were now inseparable in death.
Rick nodded and reached into his squad car. Picking up the mobile phone, he commanded the switchboard to get him Officer Cooper.
A sleepy Cynthia Cooper soon greeted him.
“Coop. There’s been another one. Bob Berryman. But this time the killer was in a hurry. He abandoned his usualmodus operandi. No cyanide. He didn’t have time to slice and dice the body either. He just left two bullet holes and a postcard. Stick to Harry. I’ll talk to you later. Over and out.”
40
Mrs. Murphy and Tucker learned the news from the town crier, Pewter. The fat gray cat, asleep in the store window, heard the truck in the near distance early that morning. Pewter was accustomed to hearing cars and trucks before dawn. After all, the drunks have to come home sometime; so do the lovers, and the farmers have to be up before dawn. Ozzie’s death hit the animals like a bombshell. Was he killed protecting Berryman? Was he killed so he couldn’t lead Rick Shaw to the murderer? Or was the murderer losing his marbles and going after animals too?
“If only I’d known, I would have jumped on the ice cream case and seen who did this,” Pewter moaned.
“There was no way for you to know,” Tucker comforted her.
“Poor Ozzie.” Mrs. Murphy sighed. The hyper dog had tried her patience but she didn’t wish him dead.
Bedlam overtook the post office. Harry had time to adjust to this latest horror because Officer Cooper prepared her, but nobody was prepared for the onslaught of reporters. Even theNew York Times sent down a reporter. Fortunately, Crozet had no hotels, so this swarm of media locusts had to nest in Charlottesville, rent cars, and drive west.
Rob Collier fought his way through a traffic jam to deliver his mail.
“Goddamn!” He chucked the bags on the floor, quickly shutting the door behind him as one reporter in a seersucker jacket tried to come through.
“Maybe we’d better bolt the windows,” Harry remarked.
Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter scratched at the back door. Officer Cooper let them in.“I think your children have relieved themselves. Pewter’s in tow.”
“I refuse to stay in the market another minute!” Pewter bitched loudly.“You can’t move in there.”
Mrs. Murphy noted,“You stayed long enought to push your mug in front of the TV cameras.”
“I did not! They chose to highlight me.”
“Girls, girls, calm yourselves.” Harry poured crunchies in a bowl for everyone and returned to the front.
Rob stared out the window.“I heard on the radio that the killer leaves a mark, a momento. That’s how Rick knows it’s the same fellow. Bob Berryman … well, ladies, at least he exited this life with speed.”
Officer Cooper joined him at the window.“Strange country, isn’t it?”
“We’re more excited by bad news than by good news. Think these reporters would be here if you’d saved a child from drowning?”
“Locals, maybe. That’s about it.” He turned to Harry. “See you this afternoon. Might be late.”
“Take care, Rob.”
“Yeah. You too.” He pushed open the front door and shut it quickly behind him, then sprinted for the truck.
The phone rang.
“Harry,” the familiar voice rang out, “I just saw theToday show. Bob Berryman!”
“Mrs. Hogendobber, the world’s gone mad,” Harry said. “Don’t come home. Whatever you do, stay put.”
“The times. The morals. People have abandoned God, Harry—He hasn’t abandoned us. It’s time for a New Order.”
“I always suspect that under a New Order, women will be kept in their old place.”
“Feminism! You can think of feminism at a time like this?” Mrs. Hogendobber was both aghast and furious at being out of the center of events.
“I’m not talking about feminism but who runs your church. The women?” Harry would prefer to talk about anything but this latest murder. She was more frightened than she let on.
“No—but we contribute a great deal, Harry, a great deal.”
“That’s not the same thing as running the show or sharing in the power.” Susan rapped on the window. Harry cradled the receiver between shoulder and ear and made a T for time sign with her hands. “Mrs. Hogendobber. I apologize. I’m so upset. The reporters have parachuted in. I’m taking it out on you. Forget everything I’ve said.”
“Actually, I won’t. You’ve given me something to think about,” she uncharacteristically replied. Travel seemed to make Mrs. H. more liberal. “Now you watch out, hear?”
“I hear.”
“I’ll call tomorrow. Bye-bye.”
Harry hung up the phone. Officer Cooper let Susan in.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. If the killer has any heart maybe he’ll fire on these reporters. What are we going to do? I had to walk over here. It’s gridlock out there.”
“You know”—Harry shoved a mail sack in Susan’s direction; to hell with rules—“I think the killer is loving this.”
Officer Cooper grabbed a mail bin.“I think so too.”
“Well, I’ve got an idea.” Harry motioned for Susan and Coop to get close. She whispered: “Let’s give him a little zinger of our own. Let’s put graveyard postcards in everyone’s mailbox.”
“You’re kidding.” Susan’s hands involuntarily flew up to her chest as though to protect herself.
“No, I am not. No one knows about the postcards but me and you, and Rick and Coop. They know there’s some telling sign, but they don’t know what it is. Think Rick told anyone else?”
“Not yet,” Coop answered.
“We won’t scare anyone but the killer,” Harry said. “He won’t know who sent the postcard. But he’ll know we’re playing with him.”
“You’d better damn well hope he doesn’t figure out who we are.” Susan folded her arms across her chest.
“If he does, I guess we’ll fight it out,” Harry replied.
“Harry, forget fighting. He’ll blindside you.” Coop’s voice was low.
“Okay, okay, I shouldn’t sound so cocky. He’s killed three times. What’s another one? But I think we can rattle his chain. Dammit, it’s worth a try. Susan, will you buy the postcards? I know there are postcards of Jefferson’s grave. Maybe you can find others.”
“I’ll do it, but I’m scared,” Susan admitted.
41
Rick went through the roof. A third murder on his hands, the press tearing at him like horseflies, and Mary Minor Haristeen hit him with a crackbrained idea about postcards.
He screeched into Larry Johnson’s driveway and slammed his squad car door so hard it was a wonder it didn’t fall off. The retired doctor, tending his beloved pale yellow roses, calmly continued spraying. By the time Rick joined him he was somewhat calmed down.
“Larry.”
“Sheriff. Bugs will take over the world, I swear it.” The hand pump squished as the robust old man annihilated Japanese beetles. “What can I do for you? Tranquilizers?”
“God knows I need them.” Rick exhaled. “Larry, I should have come to you before now. I hope I haven’t offended you. It was natural to interview Hayden because he’s practicing now, but you’ve known everybody and everything far longer than Hayden. I’m hoping you can help me.”