Rest In Pieces (27 page)

They moved up into the foothills behind Blair’s property. Harry was making a circle, keeping uppermost in her mind that light was limited. She put her hand on his forearm and pointed up. An enormous snowy owl sat in a walnut tree branch.

She whispered, “They rarely come this far south.”

“My God, it’s huge,” he whispered back.

“Owls and blacksnakes are the best friends a farmer can have. Cats too. They kill the vermin.”

Long pink shadows swept down from the hills, like the skirts of the day swirling in one last dance. Even with snowshoes, walking could be difficult. They both breathed harder as they moved out of the woods. At the edge of the woods Harry stopped. Her blood turned as cold as the temperature. She pointed them out to Blair. Snowshoe footprints. Not theirs.

“Hunters?” Blair said.

“No one hunts here without permission. The MacGregors and Mom and Dad were fierce about that. We used to run Angus, and the MacGregors bred polled Herefords. You can’t take the chance of some damn fool shooting your stock—and they do too.”

“Well, maybe someone wanted to track, like we’re doing.”

“He wanted to track all right.” The sharp cold air filled her lungs. “He wanted to track into the back of your property.”

“Harry, what’s wrong?”

“I think we’re looking at the killer’s tracks. Why he wants to come back here I don’t know, but he dumped hands and legs in your cemetery. Maybe he forgot something.”

“He wouldn’t find it in the snow.”

“I know. That’s why I’m really worried.” She knelt down and examined the tracks. “A man, I think, or a heavy woman.” She stepped next to the track and then picked up her snowshoe. “See how much deeper his track is than mine?”

Blair knelt down also. “I do. If we follow these, maybe we’ll find out where he came from.”

“We’re losing the light.” She pointed to the massing clouds tethered to the peaks of the mountains. “And here comes the next snowstorm.”

“Is there an old road back up in here?”

“Yes, there’s an old logging road from 1937, which was the last time this was select-cut. It’s grown over but he might know it. He could take a four-wheel drive off Yellow Mountain Road and hide it on the logging road. He couldn’t take it far but he could get it out of sight, I reckon.”

A dark shadow, like a blue finger, crept down toward them. The sun was setting. The mixture of clear sky and clouds was giving way to potbellied clouds.

“What would anyone want back up here?” Blair rubbed his nose, which was getting cold.

“I don’t know. Come on, let’s get back.”

In the good weather the walk back to Harry’s would have taken twenty minutes but pushing along through the snow they arrived at Harry’s back door in the dark one hour later. Their eyes were running, their noses were running, but their bodies stayed warm because of the exercise. Harry made more cocoa and grilled cheese sandwiches. Blair gratefully accepted the supper and then left to take care of his kittens.

As soon as he left, Harry called Cynthia Cooper.

Cynthia and Harry knew each other well enough not to waste time. The officer came to the point. “You think someone is after Blair?”

“Why else would someone be up there scoping the place?”

“I don’t know, Harry, but then nothing about these murders makes any sense except for the fact that Ben was up to no good. But just what kind of no good we still don’t know. I think Cabell knows, though. We’ll find him. Ben died a far richer man than he lived. Bet that took discipline.”

“What?”

“Not spending the money.”

“Oh, I never thought of that,” Harry replied. “Look, Coop, is there any way you can put someone out in Blair’s barn? Hide someone? Whoever this is doesn’t intend to barge down his driveway. He’ll sweep down from the mountainside.”

“Harry, can you think of any reason, any reason at all, why someone would want to kill Blair Bainbridge?”

“No.”

A long sigh came through the phone. “Me neither. And I like the guy, but liking someone doesn’t mean they can’t be mixed up in monkey business. We called his mother and father—routine, plus I wondered why he didn’t go home for Christmas or why they didn’t come here. His mother was very pleasant. His father wasn’t rude but I could tell there’s tension there. He disapproves of his son. Calls him a dilettante. No wonder Blair didn’t go home. Anyway, there wasn’t much from them. No red flags went up.”

“Will you put a man out there?”

“I’ll go out myself. Feel better?”

“Yes. I owe you one.”

“No, you don’t. Now sleep tight tonight. Oh, you heard about the dead rat present to Mim?”

“Yeah. That’s odd.”

“I can think of about one hundred people who would like to do that.”

“But would they?”

“No.”

“Are you nervous about this? It’s not over yet. I can feel it in my bones.”

A silence from Coop told Harry what she needed to know. Cynthia finally said, “One way or the other, we’ll figure this out. You take care.”

56

The wind lashed across the meadows in the early morning darkness. Even silk long johns, a cotton T-shirt, a long-sleeved Patagonia shirt, and a subzero down jacket couldn’t stave off the bitter cold. Harry’s fingers and toes ached by the time she reached the barn.

Simon was grateful for the food she brought him. He had stayed in last night. Harry even tossed out some raw hamburger for the owl. Given the mice that crept into the barn when the weather became cruel, Harry needn’t have fed the owl. She dined heartily on what the barn itself could supply, a fact that greatly irritated Mrs. Murphy, who believed that every mouse had her name on it.

When the chores were finished and Harry ventured back out, the wind was blowing harder. She couldn’t see halfway across the meadow, much less over to Blair’s. She was glad she had kept the horses in this morning, even if it would mean more mucking chores.

Tucker and Mrs. Murphy followed on her heels, their heads low, their ears swept back.

“If this ever stops I’m asking the owl to look where those prints were,”
Tucker said.

“They’re covered now.”
Mrs. Murphy blinked to keep out the snow.

“Who knows what she’ll find? She can see two miles. Maybe more.”

“Oh, Tucker, don’t believe everything she says. She’s such a blowhard, and she probably won’t cooperate.”

Both animals scooted through the door when Harry opened it. The phone was ringing inside. It was seven o’clock.

Cynthia’s voice greeted her “hello” with “Harry, all’s well over here.”

“Good. How was Blair?”

“At first he thought it was silly for me to sleep out in the barn but then he came around.”

“Is he awake yet?”

“Don’t see any lights on in the house. That boy’s got to get himself some furniture.”

“We’re waiting for a good auction.”

“Got enough to eat? I think the electricity might go out and the phone lines might come down if this keeps up.”

“Yeah. Can you get out okay?” Harry asked.

“If not, I’ll spend an interesting day with Blair Bainbridge, I guess.” A distant rumble alerted the young policewoman. “Harry, I’ll call you right back.”

She ran outside and strained her ears. A motor, a deep rumble, cut through even the roar of the wind. The snow was blowing so hard and fast now that Cynthia could barely see. She’d parked her cruiser in front of the house. She heard nothing for a moment and then she heard that deep rumble again. She ran as fast as she could through the deep snow but it was no use. Whoever was rolling down the driveway finally saw the police car and backed out. She ran back into the barn and called Harry.

“Harry, if anyone comes down your driveway other than Susan or Mrs. Hogendobber, call me.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know. Listen, I’ve got to get out on the driveway before all the tracks are covered. Do as I say. If I’m not back at the barn, call Blair. If he doesn’t pick up, you call Rick. Hear?”

“I hear.” Harry hung up the phone. She patted Tucker and Mrs. Murphy and was very glad for their sharp ears.

Meanwhile, Cynthia struggled through the blinding snow. She thought she knew where she was going until she bumped into an ancient oak. She’d veered to the right off the driveway. She got back on the driveway again and reached the backup tracks. The tread marks were being covered quickly. If only she had a plaster kit, but she didn’t. By the time she got one this would be gone. She knelt on her hands and knees and puffed away a little snow. Wide tires. Deep snow treads. Tires like that could be on any regular-sized pickup truck or large, heavy, family four-wheel drive like a Wagoneer, a Land Cruiser, or a Range Rover. She hunkered down in the snow and smashed her fist into the powder. It flew up harmlessly. Half of the people in Crozet drove those types of vehicles and the other half drove big trucks.

“Damn, damn, damn!” she shouted out loud, the wind carrying away her curses.

On her way back to the barn she slammed into the corner of the house. There’d be no getting out of Foxden today. She hugged the side of the building and slowly made her way to the back porch. She opened the back door, stepped inside the porch, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it. It wasn’t eight yet and she was exhausted. She could no longer see the barn.

She used the dachshund foot scraper and cleaned off her boots. She unzipped her heavy parka and shook off the snow. She hung it on the hook outside the door to the kitchen.

She stepped into the kitchen and dialed Harry. “You okay?”

“Yeah, no one’s coming down my driveway.”

“Okay, here’s the plan. You can’t get to work today. Mrs. Hogendobber will go in if she can even get down the alleyway. Call her.”

“I’ve never missed a day because of weather.”

“You’re missing today,” Cynthia ordered her. “Blair has that Explorer. We’ll pack up his kittens and him and we’re coming over there. I don’t want you alone, or him alone, for a while anyway.”

“Nobody wants
me
.”

“You don’t know that. I can’t take any chances. So, I’ll get him up and we’ll be over there within the hour.”

57

“
What
pests.” Mrs. Murphy flicked her tail away from Jingle Bells, the calico, who was madly chasing it.

“Human babies are worse.”
Tucker ignored the gray kitty, Noel, who climbed up one side of her body only to slide down the other screaming
“Wheee!”

Harry, Blair, and Cynthia busied themselves making drawings of each room of Blair’s house. Then they drew furniture for each room, cut it out, and fiddled with different placements.

“Have you told us everything?” Cynthia asked again.

“Yes.” Blair pushed a sofa with his forefinger. “Doesn’t go there.”

“What about this, and put a table behind it? Then put the lamps on that.” Harry arranged the pieces.

“What about a soured business deal?” Cynthia asked.

“I told you, the only deal I made was to buy Foxden . . . and the tractor at the auction. If something is on my property that is valuable or germane to the case, don’t you think whoever this is would have taken it?”

“I don’t know,” Cynthia said.

“Whoops,” Harry yelled as the lights went out. She ran to the phone and put the receiver to her ear. “Still working.”

The sky darkened and the wind screamed. The storm continued. Fortunately, Harry kept a large supply of candles. They wouldn’t run out.

After supper they sat around the fireplace and told ghost stories. Although the storm slackened, a stiff wind still rattled the shutters on the house. It was perfect ghost story time.

“Well, I’ve heard that Peter Stuyvesant still walks the church down on Second Avenue in New York. You can hear his peg leg tap on the wood. That’s it for me and ghost stories. I was always the kid who fell asleep around the campfire.” Blair smiled.

“There’s a ghost at Castle Hill.” Cynthia mentioned a beautiful old house on Route 22 in Keswick. “A woman appears carrying a candle in one of the original bedrooms. She’s dressed in eighteenth-century clothing and she tells a guest that they ought not to spend the night. Apparently she has appeared to many guests over the last two hundred years.”

“What? Don’t they meet her social approval?” Harry cracked.

“We know their manners won’t be as good,” Blair said. “Socializing has been in one long downward spiral since the French Revolution.”

“Okay.” Cynthia jabbed at Harry. “Your turn.”

“When Thomas Jefferson was building Monticello, he brought over a Scotsman by the name of Dunkum. This highly skilled man bought land below Carter’s Ridge and he built what is now Brookhill, owned by Dr. Charles Beegle and his family, wife Jean, son Brooks, and daughters Lynne and Christina. The Revolutionary War finally went our way and after that Mr. Dunkum built more homes along the foot of the ridge. You can see them along Route Twenty—simple, clean brick work and pleasing proportions. Anyway, as he prospered, less fortunate relatives came to stay with him, one being a widowed sister, Mary Carmichael. Mary loved to garden and she laid out the garden tended today by Jean Beegle. One hot summer day Jean thought she’d run the tractor down the brick path to the mess of vines at the end which had resisted her efforts with the clippers. Jean was determined to wipe them out with the tractor. To her consternation, no sooner did she plunge into the vines than she dropped into a cavity. The tractor didn’t roll over—it just sat in the middle of a hole in the earth. When Jean looked down she beheld a coffin. Needless to say, Jean Beegle burnt the wind getting off that tractor.