The Tail of the Tip-Off (13 page)

22

A
s Cooper and Tazio drove off in their respective vehicles, Harry ordered a coffee to go. She needed the buzz this morning. She also ordered three doughnuts. One for her, one for Susan, and one to be shared among Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker.

As she shepherded her small brood into the 1978 Ford half-ton, she considered whether H.H.'s and Mychelle's murders were connected by anything other than location. Both were UVA fans, but their social circles didn't overlap. They shared no hobbies. Their connection through construction must have been rife with tension.

Of course, it was possible that the demise of both people was not connected. Yet both murders occurred within days of each other. It was too suspicious, at least in her mind.

Even though neither H.H. nor Mychelle was close to her, murder comes as a shock. To snatch life from another human violated everything she had been taught. Murder created disorder. Harry loathed disorder.

A morose Tucker, paws on the dashboard, watched the road.

“Tucker, you did what you could,”
Mrs. Murphy sympathized.

“It must have been a slow, agonizing death,”
Tucker said.

“Well, think of all the abandoned animals who die slow, agonizing deaths. Put it in perspective,”
Pewter counseled since she certainly didn't believe human life was more important than animal life.

“I guess.”
The strong little dog sighed, pushed back from the dash, and landed on Pewter who complained loudly.

“All right, you two.” Harry cruised down Susan's driveway, lined with blue spruces. She cut the engine. “Back door. We are wiping paws.” She held up the towel she kept in the truck for this purpose. “And we are not begging for food. Do you read me, Pewter?”

“I do not beg for food. I merely put myself in the vicinity of food.”

“Pulease.”
Mrs. Murphy held up her paw as Harry wiped it.

“Yeah, pulease.”
Tucker drew out “please” even more.

“Mock me if you must.”
Pewter sniffed.

Harry opened the back door. “It's me.”

“Den,” Susan called out.

The three animals rushed in, greeting Owen, Susan's corgi and Tucker's brother, followed by Harry.

“Where is everybody?”

“Ned took Brooks to Barnes & Noble after church. He promised her a book if she made an A in her last history test and she did. And once there you know she'll drag him to Old Navy and they'll have to check out the shoe stores and then he'll pop into the clothing store. Ned has more ties than David Letterman, I swear. The shopping will exhaust them. So they'll eat at Hot Cakes or maybe Bodo's. I'll get a loaf of bread from Our Daily Bread. Ain't motherhood grand?”

“Susan, shut up!”

“What?”

“Mychelle Burns has been killed. Her body was found at the Clam. Stabbed.”

“What! You waited all this time to tell me?”

“I couldn't get a word in edgewise.”

“Mother can talk,”
Owen laconically said.

“Can't they all?”
Tucker agreed with her brother.

“I brought you a doughnut. We've got figuring to do.”

Harry, knowing Susan's house as well as her own, walked over to the writing desk, picked up a tablet and a pencil.

“If I'm going to eat this doughnut, I'll perish from sugar shock. I'll make us sandwiches, then we can eat the doughnut.”

“Susan, later. Come on. Look at this.” She rapidly drew a sketch of the Clam, the parking lot, and a cutaway view of the interior of the Clam.

“Harry, you brought coffee but you didn't bring me any?”

“Oh—I'm sorry. I didn't think of that.”

“Selfish.” Susan walked to the kitchen, returning with a large mug of coffee. She sat next to Harry on the leather chesterfield sofa.

“Okay. Here's where H.H. fell down. X marks the spot. There are broom closets on each floor but if I remember correctly, the first one going in from the main doors is about here.” She made another X. “I wonder if the killer works at the Clam.”

“Honey, I hate to cast stones at your theory but I don't think where they were found matters. The question is why.”

“I know that!” Harry got testy. “But wouldn't you agree that two deaths, murders, right here and here practically back to back are frightening—and probably connected.”

“How'd you find out?”

“Coop tracked down Tazio and me after church.”

“What's Tazio got to do with it?”

“Nothing except that Mychelle cornered her at the Mountain View Grille”—Harry named the restaurant—“and told her she wanted a meeting with her right then. This was yesterday. Tazio declined nicely and Mychelle became un-nice. Her specialty. Said that Tazio better see her first thing Monday morning. Tazio assumed it had to do with some code violation. I was right there with Fair and Herb. Anyway, we all saw it. Mychelle left, her pout intact.”

“Speak no ill of the dead.”

“Oh, I just can't be that big of a hypocrite.” Harry dismissed the ancient protective phrase.

“I can't resist.” Susan reached for the doughnut.

“Me, me, me,”
Pewter cried piteously.

“That's why I bought this extra doughnut.” Harry divided it into four pieces which irritated Pewter who tried to steal Mrs. Murphy's, receiving a box on the ears for her efforts.

Susan savored the delicious glaze. “If Mychelle was the woman behind H.H.'s—”

“Already thought of that. Only one person has a motive under those circumstances. Anne Donaldson.”

“I can't believe Anne would kill her husband and then Mychelle.”

“People are totally irrational about what we call ‘love.' I call it ‘mutual psychosis.' ”

“Bull.”

“I need to trace Anne's activities.”

“Like hell you do. That's Rick and Coop's job, and if you've thought of it, you can rest assured they've thought of it. And furthermore, Harry, it's in bad taste snooping around Anne.”

“Not if she killed them.”

“She didn't.”

“Who died and made you God? Since when do you know the unknowable?”

“I know Anne.”

“Listen, Susan, she was sitting smack next to him at the game. She could have easily slipped him the toxin, not poison, but toxin, or scratched his neck where the tiny puncture was, is. I suppose it's still there. I mean, he won't decay for some time.”

“That is the most gruesome thought.” Susan made a face.

“Well, the embalmers load them up depending on the viewing time, the temperature, I guess they factor in stuff like that. And even though he's in the ground he's still intact. That's all I was saying.”

“How can you think of stuff like that?”

“I just do. And you do, too. It might take you longer.”

“Thank you,” Susan dryly replied.

“I don't mean it that way. You're smarter than I am.”

“You went to Smith, I didn't.”

“That's neither here nor there. Our minds work differently. That's why we're best friends.”

“Is that it? I always wondered.” Susan's good humor was restored.

“Anyway, she could have so easily done him in and we'd never, ever know. About Mychelle, well, not an elegant murder. Sloppy.”

“God, it is ghastly. The murders are so different, in execution, I mean, it's quite possible they were committed by two different people.”

Harry replied, “That's logical but I know in my bones that H.H.'s and Mychelle's murders are connected. I've even thought that H.H. might owe money from gambling.”

“That's a different kettle of fish and if this is somehow connected to college sports, there will be a lot more dead bodies. Those rings are very well organized. Hundreds of thousands of dollars change hands.”

“And the playoffs are right around the corner.”

Susan reached in the white bag. “Damn.”

“What?”

“I wanted another doughnut.”

“I'm sorry. You're always moaning about losing weight. I don't know why. You look just fine.”

“You haven't seen me naked lately.” Susan laughed.

“No. Should we hit the showers?”

“Hey, golf and tennis season will be here before you know it. Do you want to see me walking through the ladies' locker room, a towel wrapped around me, looking like the great white whale?”

“Susan, you exaggerate.”

“A tad.” She clasped her hands together. “But now I can't get the thought of another doughnut out of my mind and I have all this correspondence to catch up on.” She pointed to a tottering pile on the desk. She thought about sneaking a cigarette to curb her appetite but dismissed that remedy. The doughnut was proving a more powerful temptation.

“Come on. We can pick up more doughnuts. Hey, we could go to Krispy Kreme.”

Susan shook her finger at her. “You know how I love those doughnuts. Not fair.”

As the humans and animals piled into Susan's station wagon, Mrs. Murphy said,
“The secret of success is to watch the doughnut, not the hole.”

23

W
hat do you mean she's dead? She can't be dead. She's supposed to be in my office tomorrow at eleven!” Fred Forrest shouted at the sheriff.

His wife, Lorraine, hurried back into the living room. She'd left her husband alone with the sheriff and his deputy but hearing his raised voice she thought he might need her. Fred possessed a terrible temper.

“Fred, honey?”

He turned to her. “Mychelle is dead. They say Mychelle is dead.” He was standing in front of his chair, having bolted up the minute he got the bad news.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Forrest.” Rick was standing in front of her.

“Sit down, Sheriff. Fred, you should have asked the sheriff and Deputy Cooper to sit down. Please.” She motioned to both of them to have a seat. “Now, Fred, you just take a deep breath. Sit down, honey.”

He remained on his feet. “I don't believe it.”

“I'm afraid it's true.” Cooper's voice was steady.

Finally Fred submitted to his wife's tugging and dropped into his chair.

“Would you like me to go, Sheriff?”

“No. Perhaps you'll be able to help us, Mrs. Forrest.”

She perched on the edge of the large, cushy chair next to Fred's La-Z-Boy.

“How did she die?” Fred's bottom jaw snapped upward like a turtle's.

“She suffered a stab wound. The coroner's report may reveal more information, though. We try not to jump to conclusions.”

“This is terrible. This is the worst thing I've ever heard. A young woman like that. She had everything to live for.” His eyes had a wild look.

“You worked closely with her?” Rick asked as Cooper unobtrusively took out her notebook, flipping over the cover.

“I supervised her. She was my best in the field. Soaked it all up. Only had to tell her once.” He kept shaking his head. “Who would do a thing like this?”

“That's what we want to know.” Rick rubbed his forehead. “Did she have a boyfriend?”

“She didn't say but we didn't talk about personal things, Sheriff. Strictly business. When men and women work together it has to be strictly business.”

“I see.” Rick avoided glancing at Cooper since they talked about everything and everyone under the sun. “Well, did you ever notice any men meeting her after work?”

“No, sir. That girl did her job, then climbed in her car and drove home. Every single day. Never mixed in pleasure with her job. No, sir.”

“Would you characterize Mychelle as a happy person?”

“Well, I guess I would. She didn't complain.” This was Fred's version of happiness.

“Did she ever have difficulties with contractors? Architects?”

Fred pinched his lips together. “Any one of them can be a headache on any given day. She was professional. If something was wrong she explained the problem. She knew the county code forwards and backwards. Very professional.”

“Did you ever receive complaints about her?”

“Our department gets every whiner in the county. But it wasn't personal, you see. Doesn't matter which building inspector is on the job. Contractor will call back and say, ‘Fred Forrest says I don't have proper ingress and egress.' Stuff like that.”

“No one ever called and said, ‘Mychelle Burns is wrong' or ‘She's impolite.' That sort of thing?” Rick queried.

“No.”

“What about H. H. Donaldson?”

“No different.”

“You didn't like him?”

“No. Man was a pain in the ass. Thought he was an artist. That type. I didn't wish him dead, you understand, but I never liked the guy.”

“He never called complaining about Mychelle?”

“No. H.H. just called to complain, period.”

“Any other contractor that you would describe as a prima donna?”

“Olin Reid's like that.”

“What about a huge operator like Matthew Crickenberger?”

“He's reasonable but, you see, Sheriff, that's pretty much the way it is. The bigger the operator, the better he is. I don't have but so many citations on a Crickenberger job. It's the little guy's trying to pull the wool over my eyes. Do it cheap, you see. Doesn't always have good subcontractors. The best attract the best.”

“I see.” Rick patted his pack of cigarettes in his chest pocket. He wouldn't light up in Fred's house, but it was reassuring to know his Camels were right there. “Did Mychelle ever come into money?”

Fred's expression was surprised. “Money?”

“An inheritance, perhaps. Maybe she won a lottery ticket, you know, something for a thousand bucks. Anything?”

“No. Never saw her spend much. A sensible girl. Why?”

“Money is often a motive for murder. Perhaps she came into some money. That sort of thing.”

Fred shook his head. “No. I would have known. I don't think people can hide money. Even though she didn't bring her personal life to work, I would have noticed new clothes or things.”

“Did she gamble?”

Now he was really surprised. “Mychelle?”

“Sure. Gambling's big.”

“Only time I ever saw her use the phone was for business. Same with the cell phone. County phone. Gotta have it in the field, you know. No extra calls. No, sir.”

Lorraine took advantage of the momentary lull in the conversation to ask Rick and Cooper if they'd like refreshments but they declined.

“Uh, Mr. Forrest—”

“Sheriff, my name is Fred and you know that.”

“I do.” Rick smiled. “All right, what about sports? Big sports fan?”

“Yes, sir. Loved UVA. Any UVA team. Loved the Pittsburgh Pirates. Could never understand that.” A puzzled expression crossed his face.

“Now, Fred, you're a pretty big sports fan yourself.”

“I guess I'd have to agree.”

“Well, I agree.” Lorraine put in her two cents' worth.

“You ever run into Mychelle at a game?”

“Now, I rarely saw her at football. Stadium's so big, you see. I know she was there but I didn't see her. I'd see her at basketball. Men's and women's. Big fan of women's. Big fan.”

“Do you recall if she had dates? Do you remember seeing her with anyone consistently?”

He thought hard. “I'd usually see her with a bunch of girls. All about her age. A couple of times I saw her with a fellow but”—he shook his head—“couldn't tell you who.”

“I would guess Mychelle would be good with numbers.”

“Sure.”

“Fred, I have to chase down any and every idea.”

“Guess you do. Guess you do.”

“You won't like this question but I have to ask you. Do you think she could have been taking bribes to overlook anything not up to grade?”

Fred vigorously shook his head. “No way, José. No way.”

“Do you have any idea why Mychelle might have been killed?”

“I don't, but I sure hope you catch the bastard who did it. She was a good girl, Sheriff. Kept to herself. Not a flashy girl but she did her job and she did a good job. She had a future, she did.”

“And someone took it away from her,” Lorraine quietly said.

“Mrs. Forrest, do you have any idea why someone might kill Mychelle Burns?” Rick thought she was relaxed enough to speak up if she had a thought.

“Sheriff, I don't. I don't think she was a happy girl. She was a person finding her way in life but I can't imagine her in some kind of trouble, trouble like this.”

“Drugs?”

Fred interjected. “I'd have known. An employee can only hide drugs or booze but so long.” Then he turned to his wife. “Why do you say she was unhappy?”

“She did her job just like you said, dear, but I never saw Mychelle animated about anything.” Lorraine held up her hand because Fred was going to interrupt her. “Except for UVA sports, like you said. But she never talked about hobbies or her friends or a special friend. My personal opinion is that she was a lonely girl without a lot of social skills. I don't think she was happy.”

“You never told me that.”

“Dear, you never asked.”