Authors: Rita Mae Brown
Simon thought about it.
“I’ll try.”
“Good.”
Mrs. Murphy scampered down the ladder.
As she and Tucker trotted back to the house for breakfast the cat told the dog about the earring. The more they talked, the more questions they raised. Neither animal was sure the earring was important to the case but if Simon found it in a suspicious place, its value couldn’t be overlooked. All this time they’d assumed the killer was a man but it could be a woman. The body was cut up and stashed in different places. The parts weren’t heavy by themselves. As to dragging Ben Seifert into the tunnel, that would be hard, but maybe the two deaths weren’t connected.
Mrs. Murphy stopped.
“Tucker, maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree. Maybe the killer is a man but he’s killing for a woman.”
“Getting rid of competitors?”
“Could be. Or maybe she’s directing him—maybe she’s the brains behind the brawn. I wish we could get Mom to see how important that earring is, but she doesn’t know where it came from and we can’t tell her.”
“Murphy, what if we took it from Simon and put it where he found it?”
“Even if he’d part with it, how are we going to get her over there?”
Inside now, they waited for their breakfasts.
Tucker thought of something:
“What if a man is killing for a woman, killing to keep her? What if he knows something she doesn’t?”
Mrs. Murphy leaned her head on Tucker’s shoulder for a moment.
“I hope we can find out, because I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
37
Not only had Larry Johnson taken the precaution of sending tissue samples to Richmond, he wisely kept the head of the unidentified corpse rather than turning it over to the sheriff. After contacting a forensics expert, the elderly doctor sent the head to a reconstruction team in Washington, D.C. Since Crozet did not have a potter’s field, a burial ground for the indigent, the Reverend Jones secured a burial plot in a commercial cemetery on Route 29 in Charlottesville. When he asked his congregation for contributions they were forthcoming, and to his pleasant surprise, the Sanburnes, the Hamiltons, and Blair Bainbridge made up the balance. So the unknown man was put to rest under a nameless but numbered brass marker.
Larry never dreamed he would have a second corpse on his hands. Ben’s family arranged for interment in the Seifert vault, but Cabell Hall handled all the funeral details, which was a tremendous help to the distraught couple. Larry’s examination determined that Ben had been strangled with a rope and that death had occurred approximately three days before discovery. The temperature fluctuated so much between day and night, he felt he could not pinpoint the exact time of death based on the condition of the corpse. Also, the animal damage added to the difficulty. Larry insisted on sparing Ben’s mother and father the ordeal of identifying the corpse. He knew Ben; that was identification enough. For once, Rick Shaw agreed with him and relented.
Rick did put up a fight about shipping off the head of the original victim. He was loath to part with this one piece of evidence. Damaged as the head was, it was his only hope. Someone had to have known the victim. Larry patiently showed him the work of the reconstructive artists. Cynthia Cooper helped, too, as she was impressed with what could be done.
After carefully studying the head in its present condition, the team would strip the skull of the remaining flesh and then build a new face, teeth, hair, everything. Drawings would be made to assist in the rebuilding. Once complete, drawings and photographs of the head would be sent to Rick Shaw. They would also be sent to other police stations and sheriff’s offices. Long shots do come in. Someone, somewhere, might identify the face.
Since a second murder had followed closely on the heels of the first, Larry Johnson called Washington and asked them to hurry.
This they did. Rick Shaw walked into the post office with a large white envelope in his hand.
“Sheriff, want me to weigh that?” Harry offered.
“No. This just arrived Federal Express.” Rick pulled out the photograph and slid it over the counter to Harry. “This is a reconstruction of the head of the dismembered victim. Looks like an all right guy, wouldn’t you say?”
Harry stared at the photograph. The face was pleasant, not handsome but attractive. Sandy hair, combed to one side, gave the face a clean-cut appearance. The man had a prominent, jutting chin. “He could be anybody.”
“Put it on the wall. Let’s hope somebody here recognizes him. Triggers a memory.”
“Or a mistake.”
“Harry, you’ll know before I do.” Rick tapped the counter twice. It was his way of saying “Be careful.”
She pinned the photograph by the counter. No one could miss it. Mrs. Murphy stared at it. The man was no one she knew, and she saw people from a vastly different angle than did Harry.
Brookie and Danny Tucker stopped by after school. Harry explained to them who the photograph was. Danny couldn’t believe that it was a likeness of the head he’d plucked out of his pumpkin. The photographed head lacked a beard, which made the man appear younger.
Mim came in later. She also studied the photograph. “Don’t you think this will upset people?”
“Better upset than dead.”
Those ice-blue eyes peered into Harry’s own. “You think we’ve got a serial killer on the loose? That’s jumping to conclusions.
Any
thing could have happened to this man.” A long, frosted fingernail pointed at the bland face. “How do we know he wasn’t killed in some sort of bizarre sexual episode? A homeless person, no one to care, he’s offered a meal and a shower. Who’s to know?”
How interesting that a sliver of Mim’s fantasies was showing. Harry replied, “I can’t think of one woman who would go to bed with a man and then kill him and cut him up.”
“Insects do it all the time.”
“We’re mammals.”
“And poor excuses at that.”
Tucker chuckled.
Mim went on. “Maybe it was a group of people.”
“In my wildest imaginings I can’t think of any group here in town that would do that. Wife swapping, yes. Sex murders, no.”
Mim’s eyes brightened. “Wife swapping? What do you know that I don’t?”
“The postmistress knows everything in a small town,” Harry teased.
“Not everything or you’d know who the killer is. I still think it’s some group thing and Ben was in on it. Or it was about money. But I spoke with Cabell Hall today and he’s had a team scouring the books, just going over them with a fine-tooth comb, and everything is in order. Very, very strange.”
BoomBoom, Fair, Fitz-Gilbert, and Little Marilyn crowded in at once. They, too, examined the photo.
“Makes me nauseated to think about that.” BoomBoom held her stomach. “I wasn’t right for days. I thought I’d seen everything when my husband was killed.”
Fair put his arm around her. “I wonder what Kelly would have made of this?”
“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—”
“Honey, you aren’t going to improve Fitz. Nobody is. He’s going to drift through life surrounded by things. Besides, if he did something useful like, say, taking over the Easter Seal drive, it would mean he couldn’t play with his wife. Work might conflict with deep-sea fishing in Florida and skiing in Aspen.”