"I'm not afraid to come in and get my mail."
"Your box was overflowing. Thought I'd save you a trip."
"Anybody know if Sean's going to make it?"
"No. The hospital won't give out information, and they won't allow anyone to visit. That's all I know."
"Boy doesn't have a brain in his head. Have you seen Sandy Brashiers or Naomi?" April half laughed. Her tone was snide.
Harry sighed impatiently. "I doubt they want to see you any more than you want to see them. Marilyn's not your biggest fan now either."
"Who cares about her?" April waved her hand flippantly. "She's a bad imitation of a bad mother."
"Big Mim's okay. You have to take her on her own terms."
"Think we can get inside?" Tucker asked.
"No," Murphy replied. "She's not budging from that window."
"What are they saying about me?" April demanded.
"Oh—that you hate Sandy, loved Roscoe, and you're accusing Sandy to cover your own tracks. If there's missing money, you've got it or know where it is."
"Ha!"
"But you do know something, April. I know you do," Murphy meowed loudly.
"That cat's got a big mouth."
"So's your old lady," Murphy sassed her.
"Yeah!" Pewter chimed in.
"April, I wish you'd get things right." Harry zipped up her jacket. "The school's like a tomb. Whatever you feel about Sandy—is it worth destroying St. Elizabeth's and everything Roscoe worked so hard to build?"
"Good one, Mom." Tucker knew Harry had struck a raw nerve.
"Me destroy St. Elizabeth's! If you want to talk destruction, let's talk about Sandy Brashiers, who wants us to commit our energies and resources to a nineteenth-century program. He's indifferent to computer education, hostile to the film-course idea, and he only tolerates athletics because he has to—if he takes over, you watch, those athletic budgets will get trimmed and trimmed each year. He'll take it slow at first, but I know him! The two-bit sneak."
"Then come back."
"They fired me!"
"If you give back the papers—"
"Never. Not to Brashiers."
Harry held up her hands. "Give them to Sheriff Shaw."
"Fat lot of good that will do. He'll turn them over to St. Eliza beth's."
"He can impound them as evidence."
"Are you that dumb, or do you think I am?" April yelled. "Little Mim will whine, and Mommy will light the fires of hell under Rick Shaw's butt. Those papers will go to the Sanburne house if not St. Elizabeth's."
"How else can you clear your name?"
"When the time comes, I will. You just wait and see."
"I guess I'll have to." Harry gave up, walking back to the truck. She heard the window slam shut.
"Time has a funny way of running out," Mrs. Murphy noted dryly.
51
Driving back into Crozet, Harry stopped and cajoled Mrs. Hogendobber to drive her through the car wash in her Falcon. Pewter, hysterical at the thought, hid under the seat. Harry filled Miranda in on the conversation with April, a belligerent April.
As they pulled right off Route 29, coasting past the Texaco station, Harry observed the distance between the gas pumps and the port of the car wash. It was a quick sprint away, perhaps fifty yards at the most. The Texaco station building blocked the view of the car wash.
"Go slow."
"I am." Miranda scanned the setup, then coasted to a stop before the port.
Jimbo Anson rolled out, the collar of his jacket turned up against the wind. "Welcome, Mrs. Hogendobber. I don't believe you've ever been here."
"No, I haven't. I wash the car by hand. It's small enough that I can do it, but Harry wants me to become modern." She smiled as Harry reached across her and paid the rate for "the works."
"Come forward . . . there you go." He watched as Miranda's left wheel rolled onto the track. "Put her in neutral, and no radio." Jimbo punched the big button hanging on a thick electrical cord, and the car rolled into the mists.
A buzzer sounded, the yellow neon light flashed, and Miranda exclaimed, "My word."
Harry carefully noted the time it took to complete the cycle as well as how the machinery swung out from the side or dropped from above. The last bump of the track alerted them to put the car in drive. Harry mumbled, "No way."
"No way what?"
"I was thinking maybe the killer came into the car wash, gave Roscoe the poisoned candy, and ran out. I know it's loony, but the sight of someone soaking wet in the car wash, someone he knew, would make him roll down the window or open a door if he could. It was a thought. If you run up here from the Texaco station, which takes less than a minute, no one could see you if you ducked in the car wash exit. But it's impossible. And besides, nobody noticed anyone being all wet."
" 'Cain said to Abel, his brother, "Let us go out to the field." And when they were in the field, Cain rose up against his brother Abel, and killed him. Then the Lord said to Cain, "Where is Abel your brother?" He said, "I do not know; am I my brother's keeper?" And the Lord said, "What have you done? The voice of your brother's blood is crying to me from the ground." ' " Mrs. Hogendobber quoted Genesis. "The first murder of all time. Cain didn't get away with it. Neither will this murderer."
"Rick Shaw is working overtime to tie Kendrick to both murders. Cynthia called me last night. She said it's like trying to stick a square peg in a round hole. It's not working, and Rick is tearing his hair out."
"He can ill afford that." Mrs. Hogendobber turned south on Route 29.
"I keep coming back to cowardice. Poison is the coward's tool."
"Whoever killed McKinchie wasn't a coward. A bold run-through with a sword shows imagination."
"McKinchie was unarmed, though," Harry said. "The killer jumped out and skewered him. Imagination, yes, but cowardice, yes. It's one thing to plan a murder and carry it out, a kind of cold brilliance, if you will. It's another thing to sneak up on people."
"It is possible that these deaths are unrelated," Miranda said tentatively. "But I don't think so; that's what worries me." She braked for a red light.
She couldn't have been more worried than Father Michael, who, dozing in the confession booth, was awakened by the murmur of that familiar muffled voice, taking pains to disguise itself.
"Father, I have sinned."
"Go on, my child."
"I have killed more than once. I like killing, Father. It makes me feel powerful."
A hard lump lodged in Father Michael's thin throat. "All power belongs to God, my child." His voice grew stronger. "And who did you kill?"
"Rats." The disguised voice burst into laughter.
He heard the swish of the heavy black fabric, the light, quick footfall. He bolted out of the other side of the confession booth in time to see a swirl of black, a cloak, at the side door, which quickly closed. He ran to the door and flung it open. No one was there, only a blue jay squawking on the head of the Avenging Angel.
52
"Nobody?"
Lucinda Payne Coles, her heavy skirt draped around her legs to ward off the persistent draft in the old office room, said again, "Nobody. I'm at the back of the church, Sheriff. The only way I'll see who comes in and out of the front is if I walk out there or they park back here."
Cynthia, also feeling the chill, moved closer to the silver-painted radiator. "Have you noticed anyone visiting Father Michael lately, anyone unusual?"
"No. If anything it's quieter than normal for this time of year."
"Thanks, Mrs. Coles. Call me any time of the day or night if anything occurs to you."
Rick and Cynthia walked outside. A clammy mist enshrouded them in the graveyard. They bent down at the side door. Depressions on leaves could be seen, a slight smear on the moisture that they tracked into the cemetery.
"Smart enough to cover his tracks," Cynthia said.
"Or hers. That applies to every country person in the county," Rick replied. "Or anyone who's watched a lot of crime shows." He sat on a tombstone for a moment. "Any ideas?"