The Tail of the Tip-Off (16 page)

29

T
he January thaw ended at six on Tuesday evening. Harry got home at five-fifteen, thrilled to be able to blast out of the post office so early. She brought in Tomahawk, Poptart, and Gin Fizz and put on their blankets, leading each to her or his stall.

The barn doors facing the drive were wide open. The chill became persistent. When she walked to the doors she noticed a scattering of low clouds with darker cirrus clouds high above. She smelled the moisture in the air and rolled the barn doors shut.

She swept out the center aisle. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter argued in the tack room over the most efficient way to lure the mice out from behind the walls. Tucker sat in the aisleway. If her mother would avoid some pet project, like sewing a rip in a blanket, she and the cats could be snug in the house in another twenty minutes. Tucker loved being in the barn but hearing the herbivores munch hay made her long for her bowl of boiled hamburger mixed with crunchies, the hamburger juice poured over the goodies. Harry liked to prepare special dishes for her animals about once a week. The rest of the time she used high-quality commercial foods but she thought the canned cat foods contained too much ash. Once she brought home fresh crabmeat for the cats and Pewter passed out from overeating. Harry, horrified, paid much more attention to the rotund gray kitty's portions after that.

A blade of wind slipped behind the cracks of the big doors as Harry hadn't shut them tight. She dropped the bolt to secure them.

Harry double-checked each stall, then she hung up her broom.

Simon peeped over the hayloft.

“You'll be happy to know I remembered you.” Harry smiled up at the endearing creature.

She walked into the tack room, reaching into a brown paper bag. Out came the marshmallows. She returned to the center aisle, tossing about five up into the loft. Joyfully, Simon scrambled for his special treats.

“Thank you! Thank you!”

“Do shut up,”
the owl grumbled.

The phone jingled in the tack room. Harry stepped back inside, closing the door behind her. The tack room was cozy as it had a long strip of baseboard heat. When the barn was originally built back in 1840, a huge wood-burning stove sat in the center of the tack room on the herringbone-patterned brick floor. Fortunately, no sparks spiraling out of the chimney ever landed back into the hayloft. The efficient potbellied cast-iron stove was ripped out in 1964 and replaced by baseboard heat when Harry's mother and father rewired and replumbed the barn.

Her father, a practical man, had run all the wire through narrow galvanized metal tubes. That way dust wouldn't collect on the wires, creating a potential fire hazard, and the metal tubing also ensured the mice wouldn't gnaw through. Once a month Harry lifted off the baseboard cover to clean the unit, a long string of flat squares placed closely together. She'd kneel down, wipe down everything, wipe down the cover, then pop it back on.

She kept the thermostat at sixty-five degrees. Since she usually wore many layers plus her old red down vest, sixty-five was a toasty temperature.

She lifted the receiver off the back wall phone. “Yes.”

Susan launched right in. “The you-know-what has hit the fan big time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Fred Forrest called, his term, mind you, an emergency press conference, at the county office. He says he has to halt construction of the new sports complex until he examines the steel bearing I-beams called for in the blueprints. He says he is not convinced they can bear the load for which they are intended.”

“Load of what?”

“The roof.”

“What a mess.”

“It gets better. While one TV crew, the one from Channel 29, was interviewing Fred, another mobile unit sandbagged Matthew at the site. At the site! He had no idea what was going on. Not a hint of warning. All he could say was the county had raised no objection before. The design and materials had passed all criteria, et cetera. And then, I mean these guys had a wild hair, let me tell you. They got footage of Tazio just as she was leaving her office.”

“What did Tazio say?”

Susan chuckled. “She was great. She and Brinkley invited the crew into her office. In they trooped. She unrolled the blueprints. She opened the file cabinet. Pulled out all the paperwork with Fred's or Mychelle's signature on it, right? Close-ups of signatures. Close-ups of the plan's acceptance papers. I don't know what you call that.”

“Doesn't matter. I know what you mean.”

“She's cool, collected. She asks the interviewer why Fred is questioning plans he, himself, had approved. She says she would comply with any additional studies, nothing could be more important than safety and so forth. Then she brings up the issue of cost and delay, mentioning how important this structure is going to be to the university and really the entire Atlantic Coast Conference as the newest sports complex. Certainly this will spur other institutions to upgrade their facilities. I'm telling you, that woman could be a politician. I hope Little Mim was watching.”

Little Mim, a Republican, was vice-mayor of Crozet. Her father, a Democrat, was the mayor. It made for interesting times.

“Did the TV interviewer bring up Mychelle's death?”

“You bet. To both Fred and Tazio. Did they think Mychelle's death was related to the sports complex project.”

“Is that how the question was worded?”

“Oh, Harry, I don't remember the exact phrases but watch the eleven o'clock news if you can stay awake.”

“Try to remember.”

“What the heck is going on?”
Tucker, like the cats, sat attentive, ears pricked forward.

“S-h-h,”
the cats said.

Susan hummed a minute, collecting her thoughts. “Not word for word but the question was something like, ‘Do you think the murder of your assistant might be related to your new findings?' Not word perfect but close.”

“And?”

“Fred said he didn't know.”

“Tazio?”

“The question was leading. Uh, ‘Isn't your relationship with the county building inspector sometimes adversarial?' ‘No,' she said. Then they hit her with Mychelle's death. Could it be related to these new questions about the worthiness of her design? That kind of thing. Again, she was amazingly cool and she said, ‘I don't see how it could be.' And someone obviously had pumped those guys because they asked about Mychelle wanting a meeting with Tazio Monday morning. Tazio said that wasn't uncommon and, in fact, she had been looking forward to it and was shocked when she received the dreadful news. I mean the goddamned interviewer all but accused her of having a hand in Mychelle's murder. Sensationalism.”

“Jacks up the ratings. They don't care if they ruin careers and lives.”

“But you would have been proud of Tazio.”

“How do we know she isn't involved?”

“Harry, you have a suspicious mind.”

“Well—maybe. Why don't you call Tazio and see if she needs emotional support or anything? You're good at that.”

“She doesn't have our network. We should both call her.” Susan meant Tazio hadn't grown up with all of them and was a newcomer. “What are you going to do? I know you're up to something.” Susan hoped Harry would tell her.

“I'm going to eat macaroni and cheese. Then I am going to call Coop to see if she can pull up on the computer all those buildings Mychelle had inspected in the last two years. Pull up the paperwork.”

“Clever girl.”

“Actually, I bet Coop's already thought of it.”

“Are you really going to make macaroni and cheese?”

“Yes.”

“Microwave?”

“No. Never tastes as good. Cold rolled back on us. Have you been outside? I need macaroni and cheese.”

“Darn,” Susan softly said.

“What's the matter with you?”

“Now I want some.”

“Come on over. I'll make enough for both of us.”

“Thanks, but that doesn't solve the problem of my extra ten pounds.”

“Oh, Susan, you are not fat.”

“You haven't seen me naked recently.”

“Do I have to?” Harry laughed. “And we had this discussion.”

“You know what I'm going to do? Now I'm going to make macaroni and cheese. Ned doesn't really need it, either.” She sighed. “Bum.”

“Ta-ta,” Harry laughed and hung up the phone.

When she walked into her kitchen, the phone was ringing. Miranda told her about the interviews. Then BoomBoom called, which surprised Harry. Fair called. Herb called. By the time she made her macaroni and cheese she was starving but she fed the animals first.

After she ate and cleaned up, she called Cooper who had indeed pulled up everything on the county computers. Nothing seemed amiss.

They batted ideas back and forth, none of them illuminating.

Mrs. Murphy sauntered back into Harry's bedroom where she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror on Harry's door.

She stopped. She leapt sideways. She huffed up. She jumped sideways to the mirror. She spun around. She leapt upward, her paws outstretched, her formidable claws exposed. Then she performed a backflip, again attacking her own image.

Tucker ambled in during this fearsome performance. After five minutes of hissing, smacking, and subduing the mirror, the tiger cat hopped onto the bed.

“Cats are mental.”
Tucker giggled.

“I heard that.”
Mrs. Murphy peered over the edge of the bed down at the corgi.

“So?”

“Death to dogs.”
Mrs. Murphy dropped down onto her canine pal, pretending to shred her. Then she shot back up on the bed, ran a few circles on it, flew off at the mirror and for good measure smacked her image one more time.

Pewter now entered the room.
“What a mighty puss.”

“Smoke and mirrors.”
Mrs. Murphy swept her whiskers forward, puffing out her chest.

Tucker lifted her head.
“What did you just say, Murphy?”

“Smoke and mirrors.”

“I think that's what's going on. Smoke and mirrors.”
Tucker sat up as the two cats stared at her, then looked at one another. Tucker had hit the nail on the head.

30

W
here is he?” Matthew Crickenberger stormed into Fred Forrest's office in the county building.

Sugar McCarry, a twenty-one-year-old feisty secretary whose fingernails had half-moons painted on them, simply said, “I don't know.”

“You're lying to me, Sugar. I know you're covering up for that sorry son of a bitch!”

“Mr. Crickenberger, I don't know where he is.” She stood up, putting her hands on her hips. “And I don't much like your attitude.”

“I don't give a good goddamn what you don't like.” He strode over to Fred's desk and with one arm swept everything off it. “You tell him to keep his goddamned big mouth shut. You tell him he is a lying sack of shit. You tell him if I see him I will create a whole new face for him, one without teeth. You hear me?”

“I hear you. Now if you don't get out of here right this minute, I'll call security.”

“Go ahead. I know what's going on in this office. Gambling, and, Sugar, you're playing with fire.” He walked out, not bothering to close the door behind him.

Sugar heard his footsteps retreat down the hall, the green, black, and white squares of the linoleum floors so highly polished they appeared wet.

Breathing shallowly, she put her finger on the pushbutton phone. She was going to dial security but thought perhaps this was too big for the security in the county office buildings, housed in old Lane High School. Instead she called the Sheriff's Department.

Deputy Cooper, just finishing writing up a fender bender at the main library only a few blocks away, arrived within fifteen minutes. Sugar told her everything as accurately as she could. She injected no personal feeling into her report.

“Did you know that Fred called a press conference to question the plans for the sports complex?”

The surprise on Sugar's face proved she didn't know. “What?”

“Look, I don't know whether Tazio's plans are good or not. They're beautiful, that's what I know, and I know that Matthew Crickenberger has built large structures and done a good job. So he won the bid. Up to this point I don't recall there being a public denouncement of anything Crickenberger has done—not from your department. From the public, yes. Any kind of development is seen as bad by some people, but, Sugar, do you have any idea, any idea at all, what is going on?”

“No.”

“Did Fred come down especially hard on H.H.?”

“No.” Her eyebrows shot upward. “Why do you ask that?”

“H.H. was in the running to build the complex and now he's dead and so is Mychelle.”

“They had the funeral over in Louisa County. Her people are from Louisa.”

“I know,” Cooper said.

“I went. Fred went. Maybe he's stirred up. You know how some people get. They have to take out their emotions on someone.”

“Yes. You don't appear too upset over Mychelle's death.” Cooper hit her with a zinger.

Sugar's nostrils flared, a blush of color rose to her already rouged cheeks. “I didn't like her, Deputy. No point in pretending, I really couldn't stand her. She thought she was better than me. Thought she could give orders. I think she just loved giving orders to a white girl but that doesn't mean I wished her dead. I just wished she'd get another job or that I would.”

Cooper folded her arms across her chest. “I believe you.”

“I don't care whether you believe me or not,” Sugar sassed. “I am sick of all this. Fred's been a real shit. He's never been Mr. Wonderful to begin with but lately he's been—nothing's right. I don't take his phone messages right. I don't reach him on the road fast enough. I don't—well, you get the idea. And then Mychelle. I tell you what, she played him like a harp. Oh, out in public, on the site, she deferred to him. Mr. Forrest this and Mr. Forrest that and he ate it up, ate it up. She could get anything out of him she wanted. This place has been no fun. Not Fun Central. I'm looking for another job. Not in government. No pay anyway. I can do better.”

Cooper chose not to be offended by her tone. “I hear you.”

Sugar, realizing that Cooper was also paid by the county, softened. “I'm sorry, Coop. I didn't mean to, well, you know. I'm sick and tired of it and it's just like Fred to do something like this and not warn me. He's not sitting here when Crickenberger comes on in here, his face as red as a turkey wattle. I read in the paper about people losing it and just blowing people away. At the post office and stuff, going postal.”

“Fred should have told you.”

“Creep.” Sugar lowered her voice although no one was with them.

“You can go to court and ask for a restraining order against Matthew if you're afraid he'll come back.”

“Hey, I'm out of here. Anyway, he wants Fred not me. I'm not going to court. I've seen enough around here to know I'm never going to court if I can help it.”

“Amen.”

“And you know what really fried me? He's standing there right in front of my desk screaming at me. Screaming that I know what's going on, that I'm gambling, that I'm playing with fire. I don't know what the hell he's talking about. I play bingo. I go with Mom Friday nights to the firehouse and play bingo. He's crazy.”

What Cooper knew and no one else did except for Rick Shaw was that Mychelle Burns had withdrawn most of her savings account, $5,000. For someone in Mychelle's position, that was a lot of money. For Cooper that was a lot of money.

“Did he accuse you of gambling?”

“Sort of.” She glanced at her computer then back at Coop.

“M-m-m, office pools?”

“Oh yeah, but I don't play. I don't care about football and basketball. Bores me to tears. I don't know what's going on and I don't understand how they do it.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you just pick a winner, I understand that, but for the office pool you have to pick the scores. For the World Series you have to select the winning game, you know, like the sixth game. I'm not doing that. It's too complicated.”

“Is there ever an office pool for UVA sports?”

She thought about this. “Five bucks a head.”

“Point spread?”

“I don't understand point spreads.”

Cooper smiled. “Doesn't matter.” She sat on the edge of Sugar's desk as her feet hurt. “What about basketball?”

She shook her head. “Fred would kill anyone who bet against the girls' basketball team. He loves those girls. No bets against UVA girls.”

“Did he and Mychelle ever talk about the games?”

“Yeah, sometimes. I tuned them out. I don't like basketball.”

“Well, do you ever remember them talking about point spread?”

“No. Neither one talked much, really. They usually stuck to business, but if they didn't it was basketball.”

“Did you ever hear them make a bet with each other, you know, something like, oh, Jenny Ingersoll will make fourteen points tonight?”

Sugar's brow wrinkled. “Oh, I don't know. It would have gone in one ear and out the other.”

“Ever see or hear either of them pick up the phone and place a bet?”

“No.” She waited a beat, though. “Could have done it on their cell phones.”

“We've investigated the calls from all their phones. Nothing out of line. Fred doesn't even call home.”

Sugar leaned forward. “Are you suspicious about Fred? Like he killed Mychelle?”

“No.”

She exhaled audibly. “Good. I really don't want to be here if that's what you're working on.”

“Do you think he could have killed Mychelle?”

“Nah.”

“Why?”

“Just don't. He really liked Mychelle. Her death has hit him hard.”

“Most murders are committed by someone who knows the victim, often quite well.”

“I know. I read the papers. I watch TV, but Fred, nah.”

“Sugar, how long have you worked here?”

“Two years. I graduated and got a job.”

“Charlottesville High?”

“Murray.” Sugar mentioned a high school specializing in gifted young people who often had trouble flourishing in the big high schools—Charlottesville, Albemarle, Western Albemarle.

“Ah. Didn't want to go on?”

“No. School bores me. I'm lucky I graduated.” She twirled a pencil. “I was kind of rebellious, you know.”

“That comes as a big surprise to me.”

Sugar laughed. “Yeah, well, what can I say?”

“A couple more questions. Did you ever notice Mychelle making large expensive purchases, like a leather coat or just something that caught your eye?”

“No.”

“Fred?”

“Um, no. Fred always goes someplace good on his vacation. That's about it.”

“Well, thanks. Now you can say anything you want to Fred, but if you tell him how upset Matthew really was when he charged in here I expect I'll be getting a call.” Cooper pointed to the mess on the floor. “You going to leave that there?”

“Do you want me to?”

Cooper considered this. “Up to you but it will fan the flames.”

“Fred would take a picture. He's just the type.” Sugar sniggered. “For future use.”

“We're thinking along the same lines.”

As Cooper reached the door Sugar asked quietly, “Am I in danger?”

“I don't think so. But if anyone frightens you or you think something is weird, you call me, I don't care if it's three in the morning, you call me.” She gave her her card with her personal number and her cell number.

“I will.” Sugar paused, then slipped the card in her skirt pocket. “Is Matthew right? Is some kind of gambling going on?”

“I don't know,” Cooper honestly replied. “I wish I did, but that's my job. I'll find out. You can bet on that.”