Wish You Were Here (14 page)

“Hey, now, that's enough! You didn't learn these bad manners at home.” Harry put the milkshake on the counter and lifted Mrs. Murphy off her shoulder. Gently, Mrs. Murphy was placed on the floor.

Tucker touched noses with the cat.
“What did I tell you?”

“Close. The almonds don't smell exactly like a turtle, but then a turtle doesn't smell exactly like whatever we smelled at the concrete plant and up at the railroad track. I wonder what it is?”

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker sat next to each other and stared up at Harry as she drained the last drop.

“Oh, all right.” Harry grabbed dog biscuits and kitty treats out of the cupboard. She gave one to each animal. They ignored them.

“Not only bad manners, but picky too.” Harry waved the kitty treat under Mrs. Murphy's nose. “One little nibble for Mommy.”

“If she starts the Mommy routine she'll coo and croon next. You'd better eat it,”
Tucker advised.

“I'm trying to keep the smell of almonds. . . . Oh, well, you're probably right.”
Mrs. Murphy daintily removed the treat from Harry's fingers.

Tucker, with less restraint, gobbled up her biscuit with its gravylike coating.

“Good kitty. Good doggie.”

“I wish she'd stop talking to us as if we were children,”
Mrs. Murphy grumbled.

24

Saturday sparkled, quite unusual for sticky July. The mountains glistened bright blue; the sky was a creamy robin's-egg blue. Mim Sanburne swaggered down to the little dock on the lake, which also gleamed in the pure light. Her pontoon boat,
Mim's Vim
, sides scrubbed, deck scrubbed, gently rocked in the lap of the tiny waves. The bar overflowed with liquid delight. A huge wicker basket filled with special treats like cream cheese–stuffed snow peas sat next to the pilot's wheel. Everything was splendid, including Mim's attire. She wore bright-white clamdiggers, red espadrilles, a horizontally striped red-and-white T-shirt, and her captain's cap. Her lipstick, a glaring red smear, reflected the light.

Jim and Rick Shaw were huddled up at the house. She'd heard her husband say they ought to bring in the FBI, but Rick kept repeating that the case didn't qualify for the FBI's attention.

Little Marilyn followed a servant carrying the lovely baskets filled with party favors. Upon seeing the baskets, Mim entertained a fleeting thought of Maude Bly Modena. She quickly pushed it out of her mind. Her theory was that Maude must have surprised Kelly's killer and that was why she had been killed. She'd seen on many TV programs that a killer often has to kill again to cover his tracks.

After arranging the little favors on her boat, Mim languidly strolled up the terraces and walked around her house to the front. Day lilies shouted in yellow and burnt orange. Oddly, her wisteria still bloomed and the lavender was at full tide. She couldn't wait for her friends Port and Elliewood and Miranda Hogendobber. Not that Miranda was their social equal but she had distinctly heard Harry say to her last night at Josiah's that she was to head the newly formed “Celebrate Crozet” committee, and Big Marilyn meant to be a part of such a committee. Anyway, the lower orders were violently flattered at being included in little gatherings of the elite. Mim was confident that Miranda would fall all over herself when Mim suggested that she, too, help head the committee. The trick of the day would be to keep Miranda off religion, to keep Port off the grandchildren, and to keep Elliewood off the murders. No murder talk today—she absolutely forbade it.

As Mim waited for the various ladies of quality and one of lesser quality to drive down the two-mile approach to the house, she allowed herself to recall her “White Party.” Decorated in silver and white by Josiah, this was to have been Mim's
Town and Country
party. She'd arranged to have a reporter there. Josiah contacted the press. It would never do for her to seek publicity openly.

Jim kept the Learjet busy zooming to New York and California to pick up people. Just two hundred of her nearest and dearest friends.

Josiah, using the bulldozing talents of Stuart Tapscott, created a thirty-foot oval pond at the end of the formal gardens. The tables were laid out among the garden paths and the very special guests were seated around the pond. Josiah lined the bottom of the pond so that it was really a swimming pool. He painted the bottom cobalt blue, and lights shone under the water. However, apart from the lighting, the pond appeared to fit the lay of the land. Marvelous water lilies enhanced the surface, as did heavily sedated swans, floating serenely. As the evening wore on the drugs wore off, and the swans underwent a personality change from serene to pugnacious. They stalked from the pond, dripping, flapping and pecking vigorously at one another, to assert their right to the brandy and bonbons. They honked and attacked guests, some of whom, having consumed too much brandy, fled into the pond. Mim herself was accosted by one of the larger swans. She was saved at the last minute by Jim, who lifted her off the ground while abandoning the table to the greedy bird.

Photos of the debacle splashed across
Town and Country
. The copy, lighthearted, did not declare the night a disaster, but Mim was stung nonetheless.

Miranda Hogendobber, punctual to a fault, came up the driveway in her ancient but impeccable Ford Falcon. She was soon followed by Elliewood and Port. After fulsome greetings, Little Marilyn helped her mother load the ladies. She pushed off the pontoon boat and waved from the shore. Then Little Marilyn sat on the dock, toes in the water.

The first round of drinks loosened everyone. Miranda allowed alcohol to scorch her lips. A nifty cure for the stomach ailment that had plagued her last night. She refused the second round but did take a tiny nip on the third.

Mim broke out a fresh deck of cards, still smelling of ink. Port and Elliewood played against Miranda and Mim. Mim just couldn't do enough for Miranda, which amused Port and Elliewood, who knew Mim was angling for something. Occasionally Mim would wave to a sunbathing Little Marilyn on the dock. It was perfect, really perfect, because Mim was winning.

After the first round of cards, Mim insisted on cranking the boat up and motoring on the lake. Speed was her downfall. She frightened Port, who continually asked her to slow down, but Mim, three sheets to the wind, told Port, in so many words, to shut up and live dangerously.

Finally, she stopped the boat for lunch. At first no one noticed anything wrong. The effects of the drink and the profound gratitude of not having Mim at the wheel dulled their senses.

Then Port felt something rather wet. She glanced down. “Mim, my feet are wet.”

Everyone looked down. Everyone's feet were wet.

“Well, put your feet on the table.” Mim cheerily poured another round.

“I get the distinct sensation that we are lower in the water,” Mrs. Hogendobber said, even-voiced.

“Miranda, we
are
lower in the water,” Port echoed, her face now white despite the sunburn.

Mim took off her soaking shoes and settled back for another swig. The group stared at her.

“Can you bail? I mean, Mim darling, do you have a pump?” Elliewood asked. Not a cursing woman, Elliewood had to exercise willpower to say “darling.” She wanted to say “jerk,” “asshole,” anything to get Mim's attention.

By now the water was mid-calf. Port, unable to control herself any longer, emitted a heartrending shriek. “We're sinking! Help, my God, we're sinking.”

She so startled the other women that Miranda put her hands to her ears and Elliewood fell out of her chair. She did not, however, spill her drink.

“I'll drown. I don't want to die,” Port wailed.

“Shut up! Shut up this minute. You're embarrassing me.” Mim spat the words. “Little Marilyn is there on the dock. I'll get her attention. There's not one thing to worry about.”

Mim waved at her daughter. Little Marilyn didn't budge.

Elliewood and Miranda waved too.

“Little Marilyn,” her mother called.

Little Marilyn sat still as a post.

“Little Marilyn! Little Marilyn!” the other three called.

“I can't swim! I'm going to drown,” blubbered Port.

“Will you please be quiet,” Mim demanded. “You can hold on to the boat.”

“The goddamned boat is sinking, you bitch!” Port shouted.

Mim, outraged, pushed Port off her chair. Port sloshed in the water but bounced back up. She hauled off and caught Mim in the neighborhood of the left bosom.

Elliewood grabbed Mim, and Miranda grabbed Port.

“That's quite enough,” Miranda ordered. “It won't settle anything.”

“Who are you to tell me what to do?” Port got snotty.

“Bag it, Port.” Mim, although in deep water, was not going to have her chances ruined. She returned her attentions to Little Marilyn. She screamed. She hollered. She boldly took off her red-and-white T-shirt and waved it over her head, her lift-and-separate bra dazzling in the sun for all to see.

Little Marilyn, who was staring at them the entire time, finally rose to her feet and walked—not ran, but walked—up to the house.

“She's leaving us to die,” Port sobbed.

“Can you swim?” Miranda matter-of-factly asked Elliewood. “I can't.”

“I can't,” howled Port.

“I can,” replied Elliewood.

“Me too,” said Mim.

“You'll leave me here. I just know you will. Mim, you're a cold-hearted, self-centered snake. You always were and you always will be. I curse you with my dying breath.” Clearly, Port had once harbored secret dreams of being an actress.

“Shut the fuck up!” Mim shouted.

The use of the “f” word stunned the girls more than the fact that they were sinking.

Mim continued. “If help does not come in time, and I'm sure it will, we will nonetheless get you to shore, but you've got to lie on your back and shut up. I emphasize
shut up
.”

Port put her head in her hands and cried.

Miranda, with calm resolution, prepared to meet her Maker.

Within minutes Jim, Rick Shaw, and Little Marilyn appeared on the shore. Little Marilyn pointed to the distressed band. Mim forgot she had taken her shirt off. Miranda did not. She covered Mim.

Jim and Rick ran in opposite directions. Jim hauled a canoe out of the dock house and Rick hopped in his squad car. He roared to the neighbor's on the other side of the lake. They really didn't want him to use their small motorboat. The sight of Mim's sinking was pleasing to their eyes but they gave in. The women were rescued as the water crept above their waistlines.

Later, Jim and Rick overturned the boat. One of the pontoons had been slashed and then covered with some manner of water-soluble pitch. Mim, fully recovered from her plight, stood next to the boat. Jim wished she hadn't seen this.

“Someone tried to kill me.” Mim blinked.

“Well, it could have been ripped on the bottom,” Jim lied.

“Don't tell me what I know. I never came near the bottom. Someone tried to kill me!” Mim was more angry than scared.

“Perhaps they only meant to give you a hard time.” Rick hunkered down again to inspect the tear.

Mim, now in full hue and cry, whipped out her cellular phone to call the girls.

“Don't do that, Mrs. Sanburne.” Rick pushed down the phone's aerial.

“Why not?”

“It might be prudent to keep this to ourselves for a while. If we withhold information, the guilty party might make a mistake, ask a leading question—you understand?”

“Quite.” Mim pursed her lips.

“Now, Mim honey, don't you worry. I'll hire day and night bodyguards for you.” Jim put his arm around his wife's shoulders.

“That's too obvious,” Mim replied.

After further discussion Jim convinced her, saying he'd get female bodyguards and they'd pass them off as exchange students.

Later, when grilled by her mother concerning her inaction on the dock, Little Marilyn declared the sight of Mim sinking was so traumatic that she was temporarily paralyzed by the prospect of losing her mother.

25

Mondays made Harry feel as if she were shoveling a ton of paper with a toothpick. Susan's junk mail piled up like the Matterhorn. Harry couldn't fit it in her mailbox. Josiah received
Country Life
magazine from England and a letter from an antiques dealer in France. Fair's box was jammed with advertisements from drug companies:
End Heartworms Now!
Mrs. Hogendobber would be happy to receive her Christian mail-order catalogue. Jesus mugs were a hot item, or you could buy a T-shirt printed with the Sermon on the Mount.

Harry envied Christ. He was born before the credit card. Owning a credit card in the age of the mail-order catalogue was a dicey business. Bankruptcy, a phone call away, could be yours in less than two minutes.

Cranky, she upended the last duffel bag, and letters, postcards, and bills poured out like white confetti. Mrs. Murphy crouched, wiggled her behind, then pounced into the delicious pile.

“No claws. Citizens will know you're fooling with their mail and that's a federal offense.” Harry scratched the base of her tail.

Tucker watched from her bed under the counter while Mrs. Murphy darted to the end of the room, rose up on her hind legs, pulled a 180, and charged back into the pile.

“Gangbusters!”

Tucker twitched her ears.
“You love paper. I don't know why. Bores me.”

“The crinkle sounds wonderful.”
Mrs. Murphy rolled in the letters.
“And the texture of the different papers tickles my pads.”

“If you say so.”
Tucker sounded unconvinced.

By now Mrs. Murphy was skidding on the mail, much like kids skidding on ice without skates.

“That's enough now. You're going to tear something.” Harry reached for the cat but she eluded her. Harry noticed a postcard on top of the latest pile Mrs. Murphy had assaulted. A pretty etching of a beetle was printed on the postcard. Harry picked it up and turned it over.

Written in computer script and addressed to her, it read: “Don't bug me.”

Harry dropped the postcard as if it were on fire. Her heart raced.

“What's the matter with Harry?”
Tucker called to Mrs. Murphy, still sliding on the letters.

The cat stopped.
“She's white as a sheet.”

Harry sorted the mail slowly, as if in a trance, but her mind was moving so quickly she was nearly paralyzed by the speed. The killer had to be someone at Josiah's house, telling her to mind her own business. Her amateur sleuthing had struck a nerve. What the killer didn't know was that Harry knew the postcards were his or her signal. Nor did the killer realize that both Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber knew more about Maude than they were letting on. Harry sat down, put her head between her hands, and breathed deeply. If she put her head between her knees she'd pass out. Her hands would have to do. Her thoughts going back to Mrs. Hogendobber, Harry realized she would have to impress upon her the absolute necessity of not telling anyone about the second ledger. Even if Mrs. Hogendobber had a guardian angel, there was no point in testing him.

If flitted through her mind that Fair could have sent the bug postcard. This was his idea of sick humor. Really sick. The card might not have come from the killer. She clung to this hope for an instant. Fair had his faults but he wasn't this weird. Like a dying light bulb, her hope fizzled out. She knew.

Harry dialed Rick Shaw and gave him her latest report. He said he'd be right over. Then she finished sorting the mail, the one bright spot being another postcard from Lindsay Astrove, still in Europe.

Mrs. Hogendobber appeared on the doorstep. Tucker ran to the door and wagged her tail. Ever since Mrs. H. had released them from Maude's shop, Tucker harbored warm feelings for her.

Harry opened the door, reached for Mrs. Hogendobber, and yanked her into the post office. She shut the door behind her.

“Harry, I am capable of self-propulsion. You must have heard about my near-death experience on Mim's boat. I thank the Lord for my deliverance.”

“No, I haven't heard a peep. I do want to hear about it but not right this instant. I want to remind you, to beseech you, not to tell anyone about those accounting books. You'll be in danger if you do.”

“I know that,” Mrs. Hogendobber replied. “And I know more than that, too. I've studied those books to the last penny, the last decimal point. That woman ordered enough packing to move everyone in Crozet. It makes no sense, and the money she was getting! Our Maude would never have been on food stamps.”

“How much money?”

“She'd been here for five years—a rough average of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars per year on the left side of the ledger, if you know what I mean.”

“That's a lot of plastic peanuts.” Fear ebbed from Harry as her curiosity took over.

“I haven't a clue.” Mrs. Hogendobber threw up her hands.

“I do—sort of.” Harry peered out of the front window to make sure no one was coming in. “We have as our first victim a rich man who owned a concrete plant and heavy, heavy hauling trucks. The second victim was a woman who operated a packing shop. They were shipping something.”

“Dope. Maude could fix up anything. She could pack a diamond or a boa constrictor. Remember the time she helped Donna Eicher ship ant farms?”

“That!” Harry recalled three years back, when Donna Eicher started her ant farms. Watching the insects create empires between two Plexiglas plates held an appeal for some people. It lost its appeal for Donna when her inventory escaped and devoured the contents of her pantry.

“If Maude could ship ants, she sure could ship cocaine.”

“They've got dogs now that smell packages. I read it in the newspaper.” Harry thought out loud. “She'd have to get it past them.”

“We can smell anything. My nose detects a symphony of fragrance,”
Tucker yapped.

“Oh, Tucker, can it. You've got a good nose. Let's not get carried away with it.”
Mrs. Murphy wanted to hear what the women were saying.

“Piffle.” Mrs. Hogendobber waved her hand. “She'd wrap the drugs with some odor to throw them off—Vicks VapoRub would do the job. A hundred fifty thousand a year, well, where else would one make profits like that?” Her back was to the door, which had just opened.

Harry winked at Mrs. Hogendobber, who stopped talking. Harry smiled. “Hi, Courtney. How's your summer going?”

“Fine, Mrs. Haristeen. Good morning, Mrs. Hogendobber.” Courtney was down at the mouth but polite.

“How bad is it?” Harry asked.

“Danny Tucker is under house arrest for the rest of the summer. He even has a curfew! I can't believe Mr. and Mrs. Tucker are that cruel.”

“Did he tell you why?” Harry inquired.

“No.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Tucker aren't that cruel, so whatever he did, it was a doozy,” Harry said.

“
Doozy
is such a funny word.” Courtney wrinkled the mail by twisting it in her hands. She wasn't paying attention to it.

“Comes from Dusenberg,” Mrs. Hogendobber boomed. “The Dusenberg was a beautiful, expensive car in the 1920's but to own one you also needed a mechanic. It broke down constantly. So a doozy is something spectacular and bad.”

“Oh.” Courtney was interested. “Did you own one?”

“That was a little before my time, but I saw a Dusenberg once and my father, who loved cars, told me about them.”

Courtney thought the 1920's were as distant as the eleventh century. Age was something she didn't understand, and she wasn't sure if she'd just insulted Mrs. Hogendobber. She did know that her question would have insulted Mrs. Sanburne. Courtney left under this cloud of confusion.

“She's a dear child.” Mrs. Hogendobber swung her purse to and fro. “No one ever forgets anything in this town. I know I never do.”

“Yes?” Harry waited for the connective sentence.

“Oh, I don't know,” Mrs. Hogendobber said. “Just crossed my mind. Now listen, Harry, I was due at the Ruth Circle five minutes ago but I'll be in constant touch and I want you to do the same.”

“Agreed.”

Mrs. Hogendobber rushed out for her women's church group meeting and Harry waited for the troops to march through, eagerly opening their mailboxes for a love letter and groaning when they found a bill instead. She waited for Rick Shaw too. She didn't know if he was a good sheriff or not. Too soon to tell, but she felt safer for having him around.