The Big Cat Nap (5 page)

Harry turned to look at the younger deputy. “Which is?”

Coop wiped her hands. “Hold on.”

She ran out to her car, took out her reporter’s notebook.

“Maybe she’ll take the grease from the chicken and pour it on our crunchies.”
Pewter would have made a wonderful chef had she been human—a step down, in her mind.

“Good idea.”
Mrs. Murphy sat up.

Coop returned to the kitchen, leaving the door open. A light breeze wafted through the screened-in porch off the kitchen; all the windows were open, too.

“Okay. ‘We stayed late at lunch.’ ”She read from her notebook.

“That’s it?”

“Every single one of them said just that, followed by, ‘We figured we’d stay a half hour late and make up the time later that day.’ ”

“Hmm.”

“They also agreed that Walt left early for lunch and returned to ReNu earlier than the other workers.” She looked up from her reporter’s book.

“Sounds rehearsed,” said Harry.

“Well, it’s got me thinking. Usually in a situation like this, someone or another gets all shook up and rattles on. If there’s a group, they speak over one another, contradict one another. It can get emotional.”

“Well, some did go outside and throw up when they saw the gore.”

“Did you see them throw up?” Coop put the notebook on the table, grabbed the head of romaine lettuce, and began washing it.

“Coop, I’m not going outside to watch people puke.”

“I understand that, but I didn’t see any evidence of lunch.”

Harry made a face. “You looked.” She stopped, hands idle for a moment. “I used to think I’d make a good detective. You’re proving me wrong.”

“What you are is a nosy neighbor—a good neighbor, but a nosy one who stumbles on evidence.” Coop elbowed her lightly. “But you see things I don’t. I have to go by the book. You can rely on inspiration.”

They both laughed at that.

“Last thing our mother needs to hear,”
Mrs. Murphy said.
“Now she’ll really be nosy.”

“Odd that humans use that particular word when they have such terrible senses of smell,”
Tucker mused.

“I gave a call to Susan and then Herb,” said Harry. “To check in. They’re okay.”

“When I first came to the department, the reverend was driving a big Bronco. They’re so cool. The old Jeep Wagoneers are, too.”

“Listen to you, and you’re not even a motorhead,” Harry teased her. “Speaking of motorheads, maybe you should go to the drag races. Just a thought.”

Cooper smiled. “If I don’t, you will.”

“Ah, come on, Coop. I love cars. Why shouldn’t I go?”

“Why haven’t you gone before?” Cooper shrewdly asked.

“I’m so busy with the farm. Get tired at night and the weekends. Fair’s home more now, but he’s not much for any kind of racing.”

“Odd. You think he’d like horse racing.” Coop waited a moment. “When’s your next checkup?”

“Next week.”

“You’ll be fine,” Coop said encouragingly.

“I think so, but it’s always in the back of my mind that the cancer may do a boomerang on me. Even when I pass the five-year mark, I expect I’ll still wonder. I know, I know, they say they got it all and nothing traveled.” She shrugged.

“I’d feel the same way. On the other hand, I reckon a scare like that makes you appreciate life more. You don’t sweat the small stuff.”

“That’s a fact, but, Coop, I’ve been looking out this kitchen window for forty years. Mom and Dad would hold me up or carry me out to the barn when I could hardly walk. For forty years I’ve looked at the Blue Ridge Mountains, heard the red-shouldered hawks, seen the raccoons, the deer, the fox, the bobcats, the dogwoods, redbuds, jack-in-the-pulpits, the wild roses. I’ve always appreciated life. The big difference is, now I know mine can end. Oh, we all know it.” She tapped her head. “But now I really know it.” She tapped her heart.

“Karma.” Coop wrapped the lettuce in a dish towel.

“What?”

“To know that. And for all of us to be here together. I believe it’s karma.”

“And what about what happened to Walt? Was that karma?” Harry wasn’t looking for an argument, just curious about Coop’s thoughts on the subject.

“Yes. Had no friends. Family in Iowa. That’s all I’ve found out so far, but, yes, his death is karma.”

A devilish gleam lit Mrs. Murphy’s gorgeous green eyes.
“Hey, Pewts, that means the blue jay that keeps attacking you, it’s your karma.”

Pewter’s eyes widened, her pupils filling out, her tail lifting slightly, her whiskers a little back.
“Tapeworms are yours.”

A
mister on a timer released tiny droplets of cool water as Harry lingered over the various types of lettuce, some varieties named with imagination, like Tidewater Romaine and Low Country Early Lettuce. Taking a step back, Harry looked down at the produce section of Yancy Hampton’s grocery store. Harry marveled at the freshness of it all, beholding the bounty: shiny eggplants, deep oranges, tangerines, apples in every red and green imaginable. She also marveled that these sumptuous vegetables and fruits were truly organic.

As a farmer, Harry knew how insects, blight, various fungi, too much rain or not enough, could affect a crop. Few organic goodies glowed as these beauties did. Any of them would have been at home in a still-life painting of superabundance.

Then, too, how do you define organic? Fresh. Yancy stressed the point by naming his store “Fresh! Fresh! Fresh!” The market constantly advertised the purity of its goods.

The store also heavily advertised that it bought from local farmers. Walking its aisles, Harry conceded that buying tomatoes might be easy after all. They were the number-four crop in the state. Tobacco was third, corn second, and soybeans first.

While she’d never seen a tobacco leaf in any store, the varieties of corn and tomatoes were prominently displayed. Maybe they were trucked in.

Virginia collected $1.8 million in wine liter tax revenue, and she could only imagine the monies that the big four brought to the state. Few people realized how crucial agricultural proceeds were to the economy of any state. They were all dazzled by green industry, high technology, electronics. At least Yancy was supporting Virginia farmers.

Few people bought raw soybeans. They were hulled and roasted. Harry had no idea if Yancy’s soybeans came from Virginia or not.

She didn’t know why she was suspicious, but she was.

She crossed her arms over her bosom. The temperature under the morning sun had been seventy-two degrees F when she’d exited the station wagon. Just enough for the trickle of sweat to roll down her cleavage and under her breasts. A lady didn’t take a handkerchief and wipe down her glories any more than did a gentleman whose nether regions were prone to sweat. Harry couldn’t help but think that those very breasts, lovely as they were, might have killed her. She banished the thought, continuing to troll the fruits. The tangerines’ color was so deep, it just jumped out at her.

The price, four dollars and ten cents for three, also jumped out at her.

Reminding herself that she wasn’t here to buy citrus, Harry checked her watch: ten o’clock sharp. Time for her appointment with Yancy Hampton. Although Monday morning was not a time one usually associated with grocery shopping, the store was jammed with well-groomed women and the occasional man. Rolex watches captured the light; discreet good earrings or diamond studs created tiny rainbows. Perfectly pressed blouses and Bermuda shorts were worn with snappy espadrilles to complete the outfits. No one was fat.

Yancy Hampton knew his market.

Harry knocked on the natural-wood door; a thin voice called out, “Come in.”

Yancy Hampton rose to greet her and shake her hand. He motioned for her to sit in an ergonomically perfect chair and then sat back down in his own version, designed to take pressure off the back.

“Harry, last time I saw you was at the Cancer Ball.”

“Thank you again for your support. We raised a lot of money from
the five-K race, as you know, and then with the ball we raised a quarter of a million dollars. Of course, having the work of sports celebrities and media types sure helped.”

“You know that Diane Long raised that or maybe a bit more for the Boys and Girls Club? Her husband, Howie, and Terry Bradshaw were the auctioneers. We should send that woman to Washington. She’d get things done.”

Harry smiled, for she’d met Mrs. Long, a great beauty, only once and was deeply impressed by the fact that she’d been a classics major. “Hampton, she’s too good for Washington.”

He laughed. “What can I do for you?”

“BoomBoom told me you were buying crops before harvesting. I don’t want to take up a lot of your time, but I found that concept unusual and intriguing.”

“And I know you’re growing sunflowers and grapes. I even heard you’ve got a plot of ginseng down by the creek there.”

Harry wasn’t surprised. Everybody knew everything in the county. Then again, she thought, maybe not. There was a dead man at the ReNu shop ready to disprove that theory.

She cleared her throat, for she’d paused a bit long to answer. “I’m trying to find niche crops. I don’t have the implements for my tractor to grow corn. Ethanol has sure made that an attractive proposition, but I’m old-fashioned. If I did grow corn, it wouldn’t be for fuel.”

Yancy leaned back, folding his hands and putting them behind his head. “Scam. That’s all I’ll say about that. Anyway, you know I’m dedicated to locally grown products whenever possible and to products grown as naturally as possible. You are what you eat.”

Harry almost said, “And you are what you do,” but she halted, instead saying, “How can you buy before harvest? Mother Nature is a temperamental partner.”

“I go out, look at the crop, make a bid based on past costs per bushel or per chicken, let’s say, based on the prior five years of purchase price wholesale. I also have to figure in gas costs, since everything is trucked in. That means I’m getting an average. Now, the harvest might be excellent and the prices go down a bit. Or it may be the opposite and prices rise. The market giveth and the market taketh
away. But you get what I bid no matter what, so you’re taking your chances, as am I.”

“What if the crop is destroyed?”

He frowned a moment, as that was not a happy thought. “Obviously, the deal is void. That’s in the contract.”

Removing his hands from behind his head, he picked up a folder, a bright lime green, and slid it across to Harry.

She rose, picked it up, placed it in her lap as she sat down. “Beautiful folder.”

He beamed. “I have a weakness for office supplies. If I hadn’t become a grocer, I’d have opened an office-supply store, a high-end one.” He sat up straight. “You know, there’s a woman in Richmond who prints on a hand press, invitations and the like. The more our economy shifts to the big box stores, the more room there is for quality and individuality.”

“Yes, I think so, too. I’ll read this thoroughly.”

“Well, if you decide to sign on, I’ll come out three times before harvest to inspect your crops. Heard you had a banner year with the sunflowers last year.”

“I sure did. And this is the first year I can harvest my grapes. It really will take another four years or so before they’ll be as they should.”

“You were prudent to only put in a quarter acre, if for no other reason than to see how the soil affects the taste. Every vineyard, even if only two miles apart, creates its own
terroir
.”

“Fascinating. Thank you for the compliment, but I know I can’t become a big vintner. I’m learning so much with the help of others, but I think my real drive is toward the sunflowers, the ginseng. I’m also growing asparagus, though it won’t be ready until next year.”

“You staggered the planting, of course.” He leaned forward, brown eyes bright.

“Had to. You can only pick edible asparagus every other year. That’s one of the reasons it costs more.”

“I’m interested in that, Harry. I can’t keep fresh asparagus on the shelves. Doesn’t matter if it’s the type most people know around here or the large white ones, the European varieties.”

She stood up. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“My pleasure.”

She left, took two steps from the office as she closed the door behind her, and ran smack into Franny Howard, owner of a large tire store.

“Harry, I’m so sorry.” Franny’s hand flew to her lips, pink with color.

Harry laughed. “Hey, I’m just glad you weren’t behind the wheel of your car.”

“I do a little better there. Not so many distractions. Isn’t your checkup next Wednesday?”

“Is.”

“Want me to go with you?” Franny had also survived cancer, before Harry was diagnosed.

Franny had brought Harry into the cancer support group.

“Oh, thanks, Franny. I know I’m going to be fine.”

“Yes, you will. Say, I read in the papers where you, Reverend Jones, and Susan found that body at ReNu Auto Works. Must have been a shock.”

“Was. No suspects yet. The guy seems to have led a quiet life.”

“Those are the tough ones. You peel away the layers. There’s always something bubbling at the center, I swear. ReNu undercuts everyone’s prices. I guess if the killer were one of their competitors, they’d have brained Vic Gatzembizi instead.” She named the owner.