Wish You Were Here (20 page)

38

Bob Berryman prided himself on his physical prowess. Stronger in his early fifties than when he played football for Crozet High, he'd grown even more vain about his athletic abilities. Time's theft of speed made Berryman play smarter. He played softball and golf regularly. He was accustomed to dominating men and accepting deference from women. Maude Bly Modena didn't defer to him. If he thought about it, that was why he had fallen in love with her.

He thought about little else. He replayed every moment of their time together. He searched those recollections, fragments of conversation and laughter for clues. Far more painfully, he returned to the railroad tracks today. What was out here halfway between Crozet and Greenwood?

Immediately before her death, Maude had jogged this way. She took the railroad path once a week. She liked to vary her routes. Said it kept her fresh. She didn't run the railroad path more frequently than other jogging routes, though. He backtracked those also, with Ozzie at his heels.

Kelly and Maude had never seemed close to him. He drew a blank there. He reviewed every person in Crozet. Was she friendly to them? What did she truly think of them?

A searing wind whipped his thinning hair, a Serengeti wind, desert-like in its dryness. The creosote from the railroad tracks stank. Berryman shaded his eyes with his hand and scanned east toward town, then west toward the Greenwood tunnel.

She used to joke about Crozet's treasure, and given Maude's thoroughness, she'd read about Claudius Crozet. The engineer fascinated her. If she could only find the treasure she could retire. Retail was hard, she said, but then they shared that thought, since Berryman moved more stock trailers than anyone on the East Coast.

It wasn't until ten o'clock that evening, in the silence of his newly rented room, that Berryman realized the tunnel had something to do with Maude. Impulsively, driven by wild curiosity as well as grief, he hurried to his truck, flashlight in hand, Ozzie at his side, and drove out there.

The trek up to the tunnel, treacherous in the darkness on the overgrown tracks, had him panting. Ozzie, senses far sharper than his master's, smelled another human scent. He saw the dull glow at the lower edge of the tunnel where dappled light escaped through the foliage. Someone was inside the tunnel. He barked a warning to his master. Better he'd stayed silent. The light was immediately extinguished.

Berryman leaned against the sealed tunnel mouth to catch his breath. Ozzie heard the human slide through the heavy brush. He dashed after him. One shot put an end to Ozzie. The shepherd screamed and dropped.

Berryman, thinking of his dog before himself, ran to where Ozzie disappeared. He crashed through the brush and beheld the killer.

“You!”

Within one second he, too, was dead.

39

Rick Shaw, Dr. Hayden McIntire, and Clai Cordle and Diana Farrell of the Rescue Squad stared at Bob Berryman's body. He was seated upright behind the driver's wheel of his truck. Ozzie, also shot, lay beside him. Bob had been shot through the heart and once again through the head for good measure. In his breast pocket was a postcard of General Lee's tomb at Lexington, Virginia. It read, “Wish you were here.” There was no postmark. His truck was parked at the intersection of Whitehall Road and Railroad Avenue, a stone's throw away from the post office, the train depot, and Market Shiflett's store. A farmer on his way to the acres he rented on the north side of town found the body at about quarter to five in the morning.

“Any idea?” Rick asked Hayden.

“Six hours. The coroner will be more exact but no more than six, perhaps a little less.” Hayden thought his heart would break every time he looked at Ozzie. He and Bob had been inseparable in life and were now inseparable in death.

Rick nodded and reached into his squad car. Picking up the mobile phone, he commanded the switchboard to get him Officer Cooper.

A sleepy Cynthia Cooper soon greeted him.

“Coop. There's been another one. Bob Berryman. But this time the killer was in a hurry. He abandoned his usual
modus operandi
. No cyanide. He didn't have time to slice and dice the body either. He just left two bullet holes and a postcard. Stick to Harry. I'll talk to you later. Over and out.”

40

Mrs. Murphy and Tucker learned the news from the town crier, Pewter. The fat gray cat, asleep in the store window, heard the truck in the near distance early that morning. Pewter was accustomed to hearing cars and trucks before dawn. After all, the drunks have to come home sometime; so do the lovers, and the farmers have to be up before dawn. Ozzie's death hit the animals like a bombshell. Was he killed protecting Berryman? Was he killed so he couldn't lead Rick Shaw to the murderer? Or was the murderer losing his marbles and going after animals too?

“If only I'd known, I would have jumped on the ice cream case and seen who did this,”
Pewter moaned.

“There was no way for you to know,”
Tucker comforted her.

“Poor Ozzie.”
Mrs. Murphy sighed. The hyper dog had tried her patience but she didn't wish him dead.

 

Bedlam overtook the post office. Harry had time to adjust to this latest horror because Officer Cooper prepared her, but nobody was prepared for the onslaught of reporters. Even the
New York Times
sent down a reporter. Fortunately, Crozet had no hotels, so this swarm of media locusts had to nest in Charlottesville, rent cars, and drive west.

Rob Collier fought his way through a traffic jam to deliver his mail.

“Goddamn!” He chucked the bags on the floor, quickly shutting the door behind him as one reporter in a seersucker jacket tried to come through.

“Maybe we'd better bolt the windows,” Harry remarked.

Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter scratched at the back door. Officer Cooper let them in. “I think your children have relieved themselves. Pewter's in tow.”

“I refuse to stay in the market another minute!”
Pewter bitched loudly.
“You can't move in there.”

Mrs. Murphy noted,
“You stayed long enought to push your mug in front of the TV cameras.”

“I did not! They chose to highlight me.”

“Girls, girls, calm yourselves.” Harry poured crunchies in a bowl for everyone and returned to the front.

Rob stared out the window. “I heard on the radio that the killer leaves a mark, a momento. That's how Rick knows it's the same fellow. Bob Berryman . . . well, ladies, at least he exited this life with speed.”

Officer Cooper joined him at the window. “Strange country, isn't it?”

“We're more excited by bad news than by good news. Think these reporters would be here if you'd saved a child from drowning?”

“Locals, maybe. That's about it.” He turned to Harry. “See you this afternoon. Might be late.”

“Take care, Rob.”

“Yeah. You too.” He pushed open the front door and shut it quickly behind him, then sprinted for the truck.

The phone rang.

“Harry,” the familiar voice rang out, “I just saw the
Today
show. Bob Berryman!”

“Mrs. Hogendobber, the world's gone mad,” Harry said. “Don't come home. Whatever you do, stay put.”

“The times. The morals. People have abandoned God, Harry—He hasn't abandoned us. It's time for a New Order.”

“I always suspect that under a New Order, women will be kept in their old place.”

“Feminism! You can think of feminism at a time like this?” Mrs. Hogendobber was both aghast and furious at being out of the center of events.

“I'm not talking about feminism but who runs your church. The women?” Harry would prefer to talk about anything but this latest murder. She was more frightened than she let on.

“No—but we contribute a great deal, Harry, a great deal.”

“That's not the same thing as running the show or sharing in the power.” Susan rapped on the window. Harry cradled the receiver between shoulder and ear and made a T for time sign with her hands. “Mrs. Hogendobber. I apologize. I'm so upset. The reporters have parachuted in. I'm taking it out on you. Forget everything I've said.”

“Actually, I won't. You've given me something to think about,” she uncharacteristically replied. Travel seemed to make Mrs. H. more liberal. “Now you watch out, hear?”

“I hear.”

“I'll call tomorrow. Bye-bye.”

Harry hung up the phone. Officer Cooper let Susan in.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. If the killer has any heart maybe he'll fire on these reporters. What are we going to do? I had to walk over here. It's gridlock out there.”

“You know”—Harry shoved a mail sack in Susan's direction; to hell with rules—“I think the killer is loving this.”

Officer Cooper grabbed a mail bin. “I think so too.”

“Well, I've got an idea.” Harry motioned for Susan and Coop to get close. She whispered: “Let's give him a little zinger of our own. Let's put graveyard postcards in everyone's mailbox.”

“You're kidding.” Susan's hands involuntarily flew up to her chest as though to protect herself.

“No, I am not. No one knows about the postcards but me and you, and Rick and Coop. They know there's some telling sign, but they don't know what it is. Think Rick told anyone else?”

“Not yet,” Coop answered.

“We won't scare anyone but the killer,” Harry said. “He won't know who sent the postcard. But he'll know we're playing with him.”

“You'd better damn well hope he doesn't figure out who we are.” Susan folded her arms across her chest.

“If he does, I guess we'll fight it out,” Harry replied.

“Harry, forget fighting. He'll blindside you.” Coop's voice was low.

“Okay, okay, I shouldn't sound so cocky. He's killed three times. What's another one? But I think we can rattle his chain. Dammit, it's worth a try. Susan, will you buy the postcards? I know there are postcards of Jefferson's grave. Maybe you can find others.”

“I'll do it, but I'm scared,” Susan admitted.

41

Rick went through the roof. A third murder on his hands, the press tearing at him like horseflies, and Mary Minor Haristeen hit him with a crackbrained idea about postcards.

He screeched into Larry Johnson's driveway and slammed his squad car door so hard it was a wonder it didn't fall off. The retired doctor, tending his beloved pale yellow roses, calmly continued spraying. By the time Rick joined him he was somewhat calmed down.

“Larry.”

“Sheriff. Bugs will take over the world, I swear it.” The hand pump squished as the robust old man annihilated Japanese beetles. “What can I do for you? Tranquilizers?”

“God knows I need them.” Rick exhaled. “Larry, I should have come to you before now. I hope I haven't offended you. It was natural to interview Hayden because he's practicing now, but you've known everybody and everything far longer than Hayden. I'm hoping you can help me.”

“Hayden's a good man.” Squish. Squish. “Ever hear that line about a new doctor means a bigger cemetery?”

“No, I can't say that I have.”

“In Hayden's case it isn't true. He's catching on to our ways. Not like he's some Yankee. He was raised up in Maryland. Young man, bright future.”

“Yes. We must be getting old, Larry, when thirty-eight seems young. Remember when it seemed ancient?”

Larry nodded and vigorously sprayed. “
Banzai
, you damned winged irritants! Go meet the Emperor.” He had been a career Army physician in World War II and Korea before returning home to practice. His father, Lynton Johnson, practiced in Crozet before him.

“I'm going to ask you to break confidentiality. You don't have to, of course, but you're no longer practicing medicine, so perhaps it's not so bad.”

“I'm listening.”

“Did you ever see signs of anything unusual? Prescribe medications that might alter personality?”

“One time, I prescribed diet pills, back in the 1960's, to Miranda Hogendobber. My God, she talked nonstop for weeks. That was a mistake. Still only lost two pounds in two years. Mim suffers a nervous condition—”

“What kind of nervous condition?”

“This and that and who shot the cat. That woman had a list of complaints when she was still in the womb. Once through the vaginal portals, she was ready to proclaim them. What put her over the top was Stafford marrying that colored girl.”

“Black, Larry.”

“When I was a child that was a trash word. It's awful hard to change eighty years of training, you know, but all right, I stand corrected. That pretty thing was the best, the best thing that coulda happened to Stafford. She made a man out of him. Mim teetered perilously close to a nervous breakdown. I gave her Valium, of course.”

“Could she be unstable enough to commit murder?” It occurred to Rick that Mim could have slashed her pontoon boat herself, so as to appear a target.

“Anyone could be if circumstances were right—or maybe I should say wrong—but no, I think not. Mim has settled down since then. Oh, she can be as mean as a snake shedding its skin but she's no longer dependent on Valium. Now the rest of us need it.”

“Did you treat Kelly Craycroft?”

“I checked Kelly into the drug rehabilitation center.”

“Well?”

“Kelly Craycroft was a fascinating son of a bitch. He recognized no law but his own, yet the man made sense. He had an addictive personality. Runs in the family.”

“What about hereditary insanity? What family does that run in?”

“'Bout ninety percent of the First Families of Virginia, I should say.” A wicked grin crossed his face. The spraying slowed down.

“Gimme that. I'd like to knock off a couple.” Rick attacked the beetles, their iridescent wings becoming wet with poison. A buzz, then a sputter, and then the bugs fell onto the ground, hard-backed shells making a light clinking noise. “What about Harry? Ever sick? Unstable?”

“Pulled out her back playing lacrosse in college. When it flared up I used to give her Motrin. I think Hayden still does. Harry's a bright girl who never found her profession. She seems happy enough. You don't think she's the killer, do you?”

“No.” Rick rubbed his nose. The spray smelled disagreeable. “What do you think, Larry?”

“I don't think the person is insane.”

“Fair Haristeen doesn't have an alibi for the nights of any of the killings . . . and he has a motive as regards Kelly. Since he lives alone now, he says there's no one to vouch for him.”

Larry rubbed his brow. “I was afraid of that.”

“What about cyanide? How hard is it to produce?” Rick pressed.

“Extremely hard, but a man with a medical background would have no trouble at all.”

“Or a vet?”

“Or a vet. But any intelligent person who took a course in college chemistry can figure it out. Cyanide is a simple compound, cyanogen with a metal radical or an organic radical. Potassium cyanide shuts off your lights before you have time to blink. Painters, furniture strippers, even garage mechanics have access to chemicals that, properly distilled, could yield deadly results. You can do it in your kitchen sink.” Larry watched the rain of dying beetles with satisfaction. “You know what this is all about, don't you?”

“No.” Rick's voice rose high with curiosity.

“It's something right under our noses. Something we're used to seeing or passing every day, as well as someone we're used to seeing or passing. It's so much a part of our lives we no longer notice it. We've got to look at our community with new eyes. Not just the people, Rick, but the physical setup. Bob Berryman did. That's why he's dead.”