Рита Браун - The Tail Of The Tip-Off

"Did we see anyone slap H.H. on the back in the parking lot?" Tucker tried to remember that night.

"No," Mrs. Murphy said.

"Well, someone had to." Pewter became quite suspicious.

Tucker thoughtfully replied, "Maybe not."

"If only we knew why." Mrs. Murphy headed back toward the house. The others followed. "But we've got the weapon."

"Is there any way we can get Harry to understand?" Tucker looked up at the icicles hanging on the roofline of the house.

"No. We could slam into every bush, tree, building. They could all drop. She wouldn't get it. If she does understand, it will be by other means. But we know. So let's go in the kitchen where it's warm and try to remember every single thing, every person, we saw in the parking lot. Before the game and after." Mrs. Murphy pushed open the animal door.

"This human is incredibly smart." Pewter fluffed her fur for a moment once in the kitchen.

"Yes," Mrs. Murphy simply said.

"I find that terrifying." Tucker's brow furrowed.

38

Schools closed, sporting contests were postponed. The airport was closed. The trains continued chugging along with stops in the mountains as snowdrifts spilled over the tracks. Then crews with shovels would disembark to clear the snow. Central Virginians concentrated on digging out. The only vehicles on the roads were the huge yellow snowplows and the smaller yellow snowblowers as they methodically cleared the major arteries first. By the afternoon, the temperature had risen only to the mid-twenties but the road crews managed to begin clearing the secondary roads such as Route 240 into Crozet from Charlottesville.

Fortunately, no more snow was in the forecast so by Friday business should return to normal, people would be back in their offices, their snow boots lined up outside the doors, their heavy coats neatly arranged on coatracks.

The Reverend Jones mournfully looked at the tattered carpets. One more day without new ones. True, Job suffered greater tests in life but this certainly qualified as a scabrous irritation. He kept his temper, concentrated on positive projects and hoped the Good Lord noted his maturity and restraint.

Elocution and Cazenovia certainly did.

Big Mim had exploded in a flurry of closet organizing. As her closets were already organized with a neat square of paper hanging on each dress and on each pair of shoes noting when and where she had worn the ensemble, this really was taking coals to Newcastle.

Jim Sanburne, as mayor, hitchhiked a lift with a road crew to check his town. Satisfied that all was being done that could be done, he allowed them to drop him back home where he got underfoot. Frustrated, his wife gave him the chore of sharpening all the cutlery while she repaired to her closet followed by her dog.

Susan Tucker browbeat Brooks into getting all her homework through next week done.

"You'll be amazed at how happy you are to be ahead of the power curve instead of behind it." She smiled as Brooks bent over her books.

Miranda and Tracy sat in the deserted post office but used the time to go over plans for the bank building. He'd even brought over color swatches along with his rough drawings. This pleased Miranda enormously, and she would reach over and squeeze his hand from time to time. Miranda realized she was in love and she had thought that would never happen to her again. That he was her high school beau made it all the sweeter.

Those who didn't know the good woman well might have thought she'd resist the emotion but Miranda had lived long enough to know that it was far better to surrender to joy.

Tracy, too, gave himself up to the tide of happiness.

BoomBoom, bored beyond belief, sat on the phone calling everyone she knew, including a semi-current boyfriend in San Francisco. She preferred her beaus at a distance. After her husband died and she was left a widow at thirty-two, BoomBoom had gotten used to coming and going as she pleased, answering to no one but herself.

Harry might not express it in those same terms but the truth was she'd come to value her own company, as well. Like BoomBoom, although it would have killed her to admit it, she didn't feel like walking out the door declaring where she was headed and when she'd return. Nor did she have any desire to submit to the horror of cooking supper every night or food shopping for two.

Anne Donaldson and Cameron spent time in the stable after watering plants and checking on the thermostat in the greenhouse. Both mother and daughter enjoyed riding and H.H. had built Anne the stable of her dreams, complete with automatic, heated waterers, automatic fly spray which of course clogged, interlocking rubber bricks in the center aisle so no horse would slip, handsome Lucas Equine stall facings and dividers made expressly to her dimensions from Cynthiana, Kentucky. Each of the six stalls bore a brass nameplate shined to mirror gloss. Each stall door had a heavy, handmade brass bar upon which to hang a winter blanket; a brass bridle rack on the side of the sliding door gleamed. They'd been bolted into the steel of the doors and all of the Lucas equipage had been painted a rich maroon since Anne's stable colors were maroon and gold. Every stall had a skylight, covered with snow today.

Cameron cleaned her tack. Her mother was strict in that. No pleading or trying to get out of work. If Cameron didn't do the ground work she didn't ride.

Anne opened the small refrigerator in the tack room, removing a needle with a thin point. She needed to tranquilize Cameron's pony. The fancy little guy hated having his ears clipped, his nose whiskers trimmed. Without the chemical help, he could demolish the barn as well as Anne and Cameron.

She walked into his stall and slipped the needle upward into his neck as he munched apple bits. He flinched for a second but she had removed the needle before he really knew what stung him.

Sheriff Shaw closely cruised the opened highways. Thanks to accurate weather reports no stranded motorists needed pulling out or carrying home. For once people had the sense to stay home.

Deputy Cooper manned headquarters with the dispatcher. The quiet was refreshing. She took the opportunity to go over Mychelle Burns's bank accounts. In her neat hand, sloping forward, she'd written every deposit and withdrawal. Apart from the five-thousand-dollar withdrawal from her savings account, which she'd gotten up to seven thousand two hundred and nineteen dollars, her accounts were pretty much like everyone else's: electric bill, oil bill, gas bill, the occasional restaurant bill.

Mychelle's sense impressed Cooper. She kept only one credit card and she used it sparingly even at Christmas when most of us throw caution to the winds, overcome by seasonal cheer as well as guilt. She maintained no gas credit cards, no debit cards. She owned no cell phone, and according to Sugar McCarry, the secretary at the county office, Mychelle did not abuse the business cell phone.

When Cooper questioned Mychelle's mother, the sorrowing woman said although she didn't know about the money she thought her daughter might be saving for the down payment on a house. Mychelle had wanted to move into downtown Charlottesville, hopefully around the Lyons Court area. If she couldn't swing that then she'd look around Woolen Mills, which was lovely except for the sewage treatment plant. When the wind shifted you knew it.

As Cooper read the neat notations she had a sense of a life lost. Mychelle may not have been the most personable woman, but she was tidy, efficient, hardworking, and to all appearances, she kept her nose clean.

Was she having an affair with H.H.? Cooper could find no sign of it in these white checkbook and savings book pages.

So the call from Mrs. Burns startled her.

"Are you keeping warm out there, ma'am?" Cooper tried to put the nervous, grieving woman at ease.