"What?" Pewter yawned.
"If Sean is part of Roscoe's murder, if he's in on this somehow, Mother was one of the last people to be with him. Only Cooper knows he didn't speak to her and Rick."
"So?" The gray cat fluttered her fur.
"So, Pewter, the killer might think he told Mother what's what."
Pewter's eyes opened wide as did Tucker's. They said in unison, "I never thought of that."
47
The antiseptic odor of hospitals turned Deputy Cooper's stomach. It stung her nostrils even though it wasn't as overpowering as, say, garbage. She wondered if the real offender was the associations she had concerning hospitals, or if truly she just hated the antiseptic.
Shorthanded though the department was, Rick was ferocious about maintaining vigilance over Sean. He'd broken half the bones in his body, his legs being the worst. His left arm was smashed in two places. His spleen was ruptured, and his left lung was punctured by his rib, which caved inward.
His right arm was fine. His skull was not crushed, but the force of the impact had created a severe concussion with some swelling in the brain. He had not regained consciousness, but his vital signs, though weak, had stabilized.
There was a good chance he'd live, although he'd never play football again. Sean's mother and father took turns watching over him. His grandparents flew in from Olathe, Kansas, to help.
Cynthia half dozed on the hard-backed chair. On the other side of the bed his mother slept in another chair, equally uncomfortable.
A low moan alerted Cynthia. Her eyes opened, as did Sean's.
He blinked strongly to make sense of where he was.
"Sean," Cynthia said in a clear low voice.
His mother awakened with a start and leaned over her son. "Honey, honey, it's Mom."
He blinked again, then whispered, "I'm a father." His lips moved but no more sound escaped. Then, as if he had never spoken, he shut his eyes again and lost consciousness.
48
A howitzer ripped through Harry's meticulously planned schedule. Each night before retiring she would take a sheet of tablet paper, eight by eleven inches, fold it in half, and number her chores in order of priority. She used to watch her mother do it, absorbing the habit.
Harry was an organized person. Her disorganization involved major life questions such as "Whither thou goest?" She told herself Americans put too much emphasis on direction, management, and material success instead of just jumping into life.
Awaking each morning between five thirty and six, she first drank a piping hot cup of tea, fed the horses, picked out the stalls, stripping them on Saturdays, turned the horses out, fed Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and now Pewter. Then she usually walked the mile out to the road to get her paper. That woke her up. If she was running behind or the weather proved filthy, she'd drive out in the blue truck.
Thanks to BoomBoom, the blue truck reposed again at the service station. Fortunately, BoomBoom's insurance really did cover the damages. And she'd get a new BMW since Sean had destroyed hers. Harry's worry involved the ever-decreasing life span of the 1978 Ford. She had to get a new truck. Paying for it, even a decent used one, seemed impossible.
The morning, crisp and clear at 36° F, promised a glorious fall day ahead. She jogged back, never opening the newspaper. Reading it with her second cup of tea and breakfast rewarded her for finishing the farm chores before heading off to the post office. She adored these small rituals of pleasure. Another concept she'd learned from her mother.
She bit into a light biscuit . . . then stopped, the biscuit hanging from her mouth. As she opened her mouth, the biscuit dropped onto the plate.
She knocked the chair over calling Susan. "You up?"
"Barely."
"Open the paper."
"Mmm. Holy shit! What's going on around here?" Susan exploded.
On the front page of the newspaper ran the story of the highspeed car chase. Harry was quoted as saying, "Another ten seconds and he'd have been blown to bits."
But what caused Susan's eruption was a story in the next column concerning April Shively's release on twenty thousand dollars' bail. That was followed by April's declaring she would not release the papers she had taken from St. Elizabeth's until the board of governors audited the current accounting books in the possession of the temporary headmaster, Sandy Brashiers. She all but accused him of financial misdeeds just this side of embezzlement.
As Harry and Susan excitedly talked in the background, Mrs. Murphy sat on the newspaper to read. Pewter joined her.
"Sean's not in the obit column, so we know he's still fighting." Murphy touched her nose to the paper.
"Going to be a hell of a day at the post office," Tucker predicted.
How right she was. A gathering place in the best and worst of times, it was packed with people.
Big Mim, hoisted up on the counter by the Reverend Jones, clapped her hands. "Order. Could I have some order, please?"
Accustomed to obeying the Queen of Crozet, they fell silent.
"Honeybun, we could move to city hall," her husband, the mayor, offered.
"We're here now, let's get on with it." Mim sat down and crossed her legs. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter flanked her. Tucker wandered among the crowd. The animals decided they would pay attention to faces and smells. Someone might give himself or herself away in a fashion a human couldn't comprehend.
Mim stared sternly at Karen, Jody, Brooks, and Roger. "Why aren't you in school?"
Karen answered for all of them. "Which school? We want to go back to St. Elizabeth's. Our parents won't let us."
"Then what are you doing here?" She pounded them like a schoolmarm.
"The post office is where everything happens, sort of," Brooks replied.
"Smart kid," Mrs. Murphy said.
Irene called out, "Marilyn, can you guarantee my child's safety?"
"Irene, no school can do that anymore, but within reason, yes." Marilyn Sanburne felt she spoke for the board.
Harry leaned across the counter. "Guys, I don't mind that you all meet here, but if someone comes in to get their mail, you have to clear a path for them. This is a federal building."
"The hell with Washington," Market Shiflett brazenly called out. "We had the right idea in 1861."
Cheers rose from many throats. Miranda laughed as did Harry. Those transplanted Yankees in the crowd would find this charming, anachronistic proof that Southerners are not only backward but incapable of forgetting the war.
What Southerners knew in their souls was that given half the chance, they'd leave the oppressive Union in a skinny minute. Let the Yankees tax themselves to death. Southerners had better things to do with their time and money, although it is doubtful those "better things" would be productive.
"Now we must remain calm, provoking as these hideous events have been." Mini turned to Harry. "Why don't you call Rick Shaw? He ought to be here."
"No." Herbie gently contradicted her. "If you'll forgive me, madam"—he often called Mini "madam"—"I think we'll all be more forthcoming without the law here."
"Yes." Other voices agreed.
Mim cast her flashing blue gaze over the crowd. "I don't know what's going on, I don't know why it's going on, but I think we must assume we know the person or persons responsible for Roscoe's demise as well as Maury's bizarre death. This community must organize to protect itself."
"How do we know the killer isn't in this room?" Dr. Larry Johnson asked.
Father Michael replied, "We don't."
"Well, Kendrick was found bending over Maury. Sorry, Irene, but it's true," Market said.
"Then we're telling the killer or killers our plans. How can we protect ourselves?" Lucinda Payne Coles, her brow furrowed, echoed what many others felt as well.
Harry raised her hand, a gesture left over from school.
"Harry." Mim nodded toward her.