Рита Браун - Murder On The Prowl

"He'd have fumbled the ball. All we need is for the papers to get wind of this before we know what it's all about," April said.

"You have no idea?" Little Mim pressed.

"No. But you'll notice the incoming sums are large and regular. Usually between the tenth and fifteenth of each month."

"Let me see that." Coop snatched the green book out of Little Mim's hands. "Damn!"

"What?" Little Mim said.

Cynthia grabbed the phone. "April, seventy-five thousand dollars came in the week after Roscoe died. It's not reflected in the ledger, but there is a red dot by October tenth. For the other deposits, there's a red dot with a black line through it."

"Primitive but effective bookkeeping," April said.

"Did you know a Jiffy bag with seventy-five thousand dollars arrived in Roscoe's mailbox at Crozet on October"—she figured a moment—"twelfth. I'm pretty sure it was the twelfth."

"I didn't know a thing about it."

"But sometimes you would pick up Roscoe's personal mail for him?"

"Infrequently . . . but yes."

"Do you remember other Jiffy bags?"

"Cooper, most books are sent in bags like that."

"Do you swear to me you don't know what this money represents?"

"I swear, but I know it represents something not right. That's why I cleaned everything out. I didn't mind sitting in jail. I felt safe."

"One last question."

"Shoot."

"Do you believe that Kendrick Miller killed Roscoe and Maury?"

"Roscoe loathed him. But, no, I don't."

"He says he blew up in a rage."

"Show him the ledger."

"I'm going to do just that. One more question. I promise this is the last one. Do you think Naomi knows about the ledger?"

A pause. "If she did, we'd see the money. Even if just a pair of expensive earrings."

"Thanks, April."

"Are you going to prosecute me for obstructing justice?"

"I'm not the legal eagle, but I'll do what I can."

"Okay." April hung up, satisfied.

"Marilyn, I need this ledger. I won't publicize it, but I need to show it to Kendrick and Naomi. This is starting to look like money-laundering. Question is, was Kendrick Miller involved in it?"

The next day Kendrick examined the figures closely but said nothing. Cynthia could have bashed him.

Naomi appeared genuinely shocked by the secret bookkeeping.

All Rick Shaw said when he read through the book was, "Dammit to hell!"

68

"Stick Vicks VapoRub up your nose." Rick handed over the small blue glass jar to Cynthia Cooper as they cut the motor to the squad car.

She fished out a big dab, smoothing it inside each nostril. The tears sprang from her eyes.

"Ready?"

"Yep." She noticed that the photographer was already there. The rescue squad would soon follow. "Boy, George Bowden looks rough."

"Probably puked his guts out. Natural reaction."

"George." Rick walked over, leaves crunching underfoot. "Feel up to some questions?"

"Uh-huh." He nodded.

"What time did you discover the body?"

"Well, now, let me see. I set the alarm for four o'clock 'cause I wanted to be at the edge of the oat fields just on my way down to the hayfields. Good year for grouse, I can tell you. Anyway, uh"—he rubbed his back pockets in an upward motion—"got here about four forty-five, thereabouts. The kids set up a ruckus. Followed them." He indicated his hunting dogs as the kids.

Cynthia carefully walked around the car. The Vicks killed the stench but couldn't do much about the sight. She dusted each door handle. As she was quietly doing her job, another member of the department, Tom Kline, arrived. He gagged.

"Vicks." She pointed to the squad car.

He jammed the stuff up his nose, then returned, carefully investigating the car.

"Guys, I'm going to open the door. It'll be a real hit even with the Vicks. We need to dust the inside door handles, the glove compartment, just hope we're lucky. We aren't going to get anything off the body."

When the door was opened, George, although twenty yards away, stepped backward. "My God."

"Walk on back here with me." Rick led him out of olfactory range. "It's overpowering. The carbon cycle."

"What?"

"Carbon. The breakdown of flesh." Since George wasn't getting it, Rick switched back to business. "Did you notice anything unusual apart from the corpse? Footprints?"

"Sheriff, that thing's been out here so long, any footprints would be washed out."

"A month to six weeks. 'Course, we've had some cold spells. Bill Moscowitz can pinpoint the time for us. Bad as it is, the corpse would be torn apart if it had been out of the car. The fact that it's relatively intact may help us."

"Tire tracks washed out, too. I mean, I would have noticed tire tracks before. Would have come on down."

"You haven't been over here?"

"Been up on the mountain fields, no reason to come down here. Hay's not worth cutting this year anyway. Forgot to fertilize. Mostly I've been working on the mountainside of the farm because of the apples. Good year."

"What about grapes?"

"Got them in 'fore the rains. Be real sweet 'cause of the light drought this summer."

"Do you recognize that corpse?"

"How would I?"

"Odd though it may seem, if that body belonged to someone you knew, you would probably recognize it even in its current condition. Nine times out of ten people do."

"You mean, you show people something like that?"

"Only if we can't make an identification by any other means. Naturally, you try to spare the family as much pain as possible."

"I don't know that"—he gesticulated—"don't know the car. Don't know why she came down this lane. Don't know nothing."

"George, I'm sorry this has happened to you. Why don't you go on home? If I need you, I'll call or come by."

"You gonna take that outta here, aren't you?"

"As soon as we finish dusting the car and taking photos."

"Something in the air, Sheriff."

"I beg pardon?" Rick leaned forward as if to draw closer to George's meaning.

"Evil. Something in the air. The headmaster fella at the rich kids' school and then that Hollywood blowhard stabbed by Kendrick Miller. Sometimes I think a door to the underworld opens and bad spirits fly out."

"That's very interesting," said Rick, who thought George was slightly demented: nice but tilted.

"I was saying to Hilary the other day, evil flowing down the mountain with that cold wind. Life is an endless struggle between good and evil."

"I expect it is." Rick patted him on the back. "You go on home, now."

George nodded good-bye. The dogs tagged at his heels. George, not more than thirty-five, thought and acted like a man in his sixties.

"Boss, we're finished down here. You want a look before we wrap up?"

"Yeah." Rick ambled over. There were no weapons in the car or in the trunk, which ruled out a self-inflicted wound. There was no purse. Usually if someone committed suicide by drug overdose, the vial would be around. Given the body's state of decay, how she died would have to be determined by the coroner. "You satisfied?"

"Yes," Cooper replied, holding out the car registration. "Winifred Thalman."

"Okay." He nodded to the rescue squad.

Diana Robb moved forward with a net. When a body was decomposed, they placed a net around it to keep bones and disintegrating flesh together as much as possible.

"I'm going back to the office," Rick told Cynthia. "I'll call New York Department of Motor Vehicles and start from there. If there's a super at her address, I'll call him, too. I want you to make the rounds."

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Yeah."

"She would have been killed close to the time of Roscoe's death."

He picked up a brittle leaf, pulling away the drying upper epidermis, exposing the veins. "Could have." He released the leaf to fall dizzily back to earth. "It's the why."