Рита Браун - Rest In Pieces

“He would have found humor in it somewhere.” Little Marilyn had liked BoomBoom’s deceased husband.

Fitz-Gilbert nearly put his nose on the photograph. “Isn’t it something what these guys can do? Imagine putting together a face, given the condition of that head. It’s just amazing. He looks better than he did in life, I bet.”

“The organization behind something like this is amazing, too,” Harry said. “Rick told me that this photograph will be in every police station in the country. He’s hoping it will pay off.”

“So do we,” Mim announced.

Mrs. Hogendobber let herself in through the back door. She bustled over to see what was going on and was drawn to the photograph. “He was young. Thirty, early thirties, I should say. What a shame. What a shame for a life to end so young and so violently and we don’t even know who he was.”

“He was a no-count. We do know that.” Fitz-Gilbert referred to the man’s vagabond existence.

“No one’s a no-count. Something must have happened to him, perhaps something awful. Perhaps an illness.” Mrs. Hogendobber folded her arms across her chest.

“I bet he was one of those people who used to live in halfway houses,” Little Marilyn put in. “So many of these places have been shut down, now that the programs have been cut off. They say that flophouses in big cities are full of those people—low normals, you’d call them, or people who aren’t a hundred percent functional. Anyway, the state pays hotels to give them lodging because they can’t work. I bet he was one of those people. Just thrown out into a world where he couldn’t cope.” Little Marilyn’s high-pitched voice lowered a trifle.

“Then what in the world was he doing in Crozet?” Mim never could give her daughter credit for anything.

“On his way to Miami?” Fitz-Gilbert posited. “The homeless who can leave the northern cities in winter try to get to the Sunbelt cities. He could have hopped on a freight at Penn Station.”

“What could he have in common with Ben Seifert?” BoomBoom wondered.

“Bad luck.” Fitz smiled.

“If these murders are connected, there is one interesting thing.” Harry stroked Mrs. Murphy, lounging on the counter. “The killer didn’t want us to know the dismembered victim, yet he or she didn’t care at all if we recognized Ben Seifert.”

“Identify the dismembered man and you’ll identify the killer.” Fair’s clear voice seemed to echo in the room.

“We’d at least be halfway home,” Mrs. Hogendobber added.

“That’s what worries me,” Mim confessed. “We are home. These murders are happening here.”

38

Layers of sweaters, winter golf gloves, and heavy socks protected Cabby and Taxi Hall from the cold. Avid golfers, they tried to squeeze in nine holes after Cabell’s work hours when the season permitted, and they never missed a weekend.

Taxi’s relaxed swing off the tee placed her ball squarely in the fairway. “Good shot if I do say so myself.”

She stepped aside as Cabell stuck his orange tee into the ground. He placed a bright-yellow ball on the tee, stepped back, shifted around a little, and fired. The ball soared into the air and then drifted right, into the woods. He said nothing, just climbed back into the cart. Taxi joined him. They reached the woods. As the ball was such a bright color they easily located it, even though it had plopped into the leaves.

Cabell studied his position. Then he pulled out a five iron. This was a risky shot, since he’d have to shoot through the trees or go over them. He planted his feet, took a deep breath, and blasted away.

“What a shot!” Taxi exclaimed as the ball miraculously cleared the trees.

Cabby smiled his first genuine smile since Ben was discovered dead. “Not bad for an old man.”

They headed back to the cart. “Honey,” Taxi said, “what’s wrong, other than the obvious?”

“Nothing,” he lied.

“Don’t shut me out.” Her voice carried both firmness and reproach.

“Florence, sugar, I’m plain tired. Between worried employees, the sheriff’s investigation, and a constant stream of questions from our customers, I am beat, crabby—you name it.”

“I will. You’re preoccupied. I’ve seen you handle bank problems and people problems before. This is different. Are the books cooked? Was Ben a thief?”

“I told you as soon as we had that audit, around the clock—can’t wait for the bill on that one—no. Ben’s books look okay.”

“Is someone running through his trust fund? Fitz-Gilbert spends like there’s no tomorrow.”

Cabby shook his head. “For him there is no tomorrow. He’s got more money than God. I tried to instill some restraint in him when he was a boy but I obviously failed. Combine his fortune with the Sanburnes’ and, well”—Cabell swung his club—“what’s the purpose in restraint?”

“It’s not right for a man not to work, no matter how much money he has. He could do charity work.” Taxi got in the driver’s seat of the cart. Cabell hopped in. “See”—she pointed—“you’ve got a good lie. I don’t know how you made that shot.”

“Neither do I.”

“Cab . . . are we in trouble?”

“No, dear. Our investments are sound. I’ve put enough away. I’m just puzzled. I can’t imagine what Ben got himself into. I mean, he was my anointed. I trusted him. How does this look to the board of directors?”

Taxi cast a sharp glance at her husband. “You never really liked Ben.”

Cabell sighed. “No. He was a smarmy little bastard, impressed with money and bloodlines, but he worked harder than people gave him credit for, he had very good ideas, and I felt he could run Allied when I stepped down.”

“In other words, you don’t have to like the chicken to enjoy the omelette.”

“I never said I didn’t like Ben. Not once in his eight years at the bank have I said that.”

Taxi pulled up by the bright-yellow ball. “We’ve been married twenty-seven years.”

“Oh.” Cabby sat for a moment, then got out and fussed over which iron to use.

“The seven,” Taxi advised.

“Well”—he took a look at the green—“well, you might be right.”

As they continued play, Cabell Hall thought about the differences between women and men, or perhaps between his wife and himself. Taxi always knew more about him than he realized. He wasn’t sure that he knew his wife as well as she knew him: his likes, dislikes, hidden fears. True, he kept much of his business life from her, but then she didn’t share every moment of her day either. He didn’t care if the washer repairman came on time any more than she cared whether one of the tellers had a bad cold.

Still, it was a curious thing to be reminded that his life partner could see into him and possibly through him.

“Cabell,” Taxi interrupted his reverie, “I’m serious about Fitz. A man needs a real life, real responsibilities. I know Fitz seems happy enough, but he’s so aimless. I’m sure it all goes back to losing his parents when he was so young. You did all you could for him, but—”