Рита Браун - Pawing Through The Past

"Doesn't look bad enough to operate." She'd seen lots of X-rays during their marriage.

"Hope not. It should reattach. Splints are more common than not." He switched off the light box. "Hello, kids."

The animals greeted him eagerly.

"Here, you're a peach." Harry smiled on the word peach. She handed him a check.

"What's this?"

"Partial payment on my old truck. Five hundred dollars a month for four months. I called Art for the real price. He told me to take anything you'd give me but I can't-really. It's not right."

"I don't want the money. That was a gift." He frowned.

"It's too big a gift. I can't take it, as much as I appreciate it."

"No strings. I owe it to you."

"No you don't." She shoved back the check that he held out to her.

"Harry, you can be a real pain in the ass."

"Who's talking?" Her voice raised.

"I'm leaving." Mrs. Murphy headed for the door, only to jump sideways as Ruth rushed in.

"Doc, Sheriff Shaw has Bill Wiggins in the squad car."

"Huh?"

Ruth, almost overwhelmed by the mass of curly gray hair atop her head, breathlessly said, "Margaret Anstein called from the station house. She's the new receptionist at the sheriff's office-or station house, that's what she calls it. She just called me to say Rick was bringing in Bill Wiggins for questioning about Charlie's murder."

"You can't get away with anything in this town." Fair carefully slid the X-rays in a big heavy white envelope.

"That Marcy is a pretty girl. Just Charlie's type." Ruth smacked her lips.

"They were all Charlie's type," Harry said.

"She wasn't at the funeral," Ruth said.

"Why should she be? She's new," Fair replied, irritated that Ruth and most of Crozet had jumped to conclusions.

"The other new people were there. A funeral is a good place to meet people," Ruth blathered.

"Unless they're dead." Pewter twitched her whiskers and followed Murphy to the door.

19

Harry no sooner walked through the back door to the post office than Miranda rushed over to her.

"There's been another one."

"Another what?"

"Mailing. Open your mail. You're always late in opening your mail."

Harry picked up her pile on the little table in the back.

"This one." Miranda pointed out a folded-over, stapled sheet.

"Who else . . . ?"

"Susan, BoomBoom, Bill, and-"

Harry exclaimed, "What a jerk!"

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter stuck their heads over the paper that Harry held in her hands.

"What is it?" Tucker asked.

"Typed. 'Sorry, Charlie. Who's next?' and a drop of red ink like a drop of blood," the tiger answered.

Harry flipped over the page, which allowed Tucker to see it. "22905. The Barracks Road post office again. It's funny no one said anything this morning."

"Because none of your classmates came in before lunch. BoomBoom was at her therapist's and Susan spent the morning in Richmond. The only reason I know that Bill got one was that Marcy called once she got home. Guess she opens his mail. Not right to do that." Miranda believed mail was sacrosanct, the last intimate form of communication.

Harry dialed Vonda, the postmistress at Barracks Road. "Hi, Vonda, Harry. How you doin'?"

Vonda, a pretty woman but not one to babble on, said, "Fine, how are you?"

"Okay, except my classmates and I have gotten another one of these mailings from your post office. Folded over, stapled. Looks to be run off from a color Xerox."

"Bulk?"

"No. They're too smart for a bulk rate. A regular stamp and yesterday's postmark. Did anyone come to the counter with a handful?" Harry knew Vonda would remember, if she'd been behind the counter.

"No. Let me ask the others." Vonda put down the phone. She returned in a minute. "They were pushed through the mail slot. Mary says they were in the bin when she started sorting at elevenish. Second full bin of the day."

"Keep your eyes open. This is getting kind of creepy."

"I will. But it's very easy to walk in and out of here without attracting notice."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks, Vonda." Harry hung up the phone.

"Barracks Road gets more traffic in a day than we get in a week," Pewter remarked.

"Second busiest post office in the county." Mrs. Murphy knew enough to be a postmistress herself. "Even busier than the university station." The main post office on Seminole Trail was the busiest, of course.

"Does Rick know?" Harry asked.

"Yes. Susan called him the minute she picked up her mail." Mrs. Hogendobber paused. "Did you hear that Rick hauled in Bill Wiggins for questioning?"

"Ruth told me. I stopped by Fair's clinic."

"Doesn't look good, does it?" Miranda pursed her lipstick-covered lips.

"For Bill?"

"No, in general."

"I want to know why Bill?"

"Perhaps he was Charlie's doctor. It's entirely possible that Charlie had cancer. He'd never tell."

"I never thought of that." Harry looked down at Tucker, who was looking up. "That doesn't mean Bill will reveal anything. Aren't doctor-patient relationships privileged?"

"I think they are. Doesn't mean Rick won't try."

Mrs. Murphy batted at the paper. Harry dropped it on the table. "What a sick thing to do. Send out . . ." She didn't finish her sentence.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter both stared at the 81/2¢¢ x 11¢¢ white page.

"Looks like a warning to me," Pewter said.

"What happened back then? Back when Harry graduated," Tucker sensibly asked.

"I don't know. And more to the point, she doesn't know." Mrs. Murphy looked up at Harry. "If something dreadful had happened and she knew about it, she'd tell the sheriff." Mrs. Murphy sat on the paper.

"Yes. She would." Pewter shuddered.

20

Rick Shaw made drawings, flow sheets, time charts, which he color-coded, sticking them on the long cork bulletin board he installed at the station. Being a visual thinker he needed charts.

Every employee of the Farmington Country Club was questioned. Every member at the club that evening had been questioned also, which put a few noses out of joint.

He paced up and down the aisle in front of the bulletin board, eighteen feet. Although pacing was a habit he declared it burned calories. When he slid into middle age he noticed the pounds stuck to him like yellow jackets. You'd brush them off only to have them return. He'd lost fifteen pounds and was feeling better but he had another fifteen to go.

"You're wearing me out." Cynthia tapped her pencil on the side of her desk.

"Get up and walk with me." He smiled at her, his hands clasped behind his back. "This is such a straightforward murder, Coop, that we ought to be able to close the case and yet we haven't a firm suspect. Bill Wiggins is our most logical candidate but the guy has an airtight alibi. He was with a patient at Martha Jefferson Hospital."