"They'll never get it. Too egocentric." Pewter swatted Murphy's tail and renewed the combat.
"I ought to get out those old letters." Little Marilyn headed for the door. "Be interesting to see who we were then and who we are now."
"Bring them in someday so I can look at the stamps."
"Okay."
Miranda cut another piece of banana bread. "Marilyn, do you believe Kerry could kill someone?"
"Yes. I believe any of us could kill someone if we had to do it."
"But Hogan?"
She breathed deeply. "Mrs. H., I just don't know. It seems impossible, but…"
"Where did Kerry work in London—if she did?"
"At a bank. London branch of one of the big American banks. That's when she found her vocation, at least that's what she told me."
"I never heard that." Harry's mind raced.
"She's quiet. Then again, how many people are interested in banking, and you two are acquaintances at best. I mean, there's nothing shifty in her not telling you."
"Yeah," Harry weakly responded.
"Well, this is errand day." Marilyn pushed open the door and a blast of muggy air swept in.
So did Rick and Cynthia.
"May I?" Rick pointed to the low countertop door separating the lobby and mailbox area from the work area.
"How polite to ask." Mrs. Hogendobber flipped up the countertop.
Cynthia followed. She placed a folder on the table and opened it. "The owner of a bar in San Francisco where Huckstep worked sent me these." She handed newspaper articles about George Jarvis's suicide to Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber.
Harry finished hers first, then read over Miranda's shoulder.
"The real story is that this man Jarvis, a member of the Bohemian Club, pillar-of-the-community type, was homosexual. No one knew. He was being blackmailed by Mike Huckstep and his girlfriend or wife—we aren't sure if they were really married— Malibu. She must be a cold customer, because she would hide and photograph Mike cavorting with his victims and that's how the blackmailing would start."
"The wedding ring said M M." Harry handed the clipping back to Cynthia.
"I'm not jumping to conclusions. We've checked marriage records in San Francisco for June 12,1986. Nothing on Huckstep. It's like finding a needle in a haystack. Checked the surrounding counties too. Given enough time, we'll get through all the records in California."
"Those two could have stood before the ocean and pledged eternal troth." Rick was sarcastic. "Or gone to Reno."
"We've sent out a bulletin to every police department in the nation and to the court of records for every county. Nothing may come of it, but we're sloggin' away."
Cynthia pulled out an eight-by-ten glossy blow-up of a snapshot. "Mike."
"Looking better than when he roared up to Ash Lawn."
"No one has claimed the body," Rick informed them. "We buried him in the county plot. We've got dental records to prove it was really him. We had to get him in the ground, obviously."
"Here's another. This is all Frank Kenton found. He said he called everyone he could remember from diose days when Mike tended bar."
A figure, blurred, her back turned, stood in the background of the photo. "Malibu?" Harry asked.
Mrs. Hogendobber put on her glasses. "All I can see is long hair."
"Frank knows little about her. She worked part-time at the Anvil, the bar he owns—caters to gay men. Malibu might as well have been wallpaper as far as the patrons were concerned, plus she seemed like the retiring type. Frank said he can't recall ever having a personal conversation with her."
"Did he know their scam?" Harry stared at the figure.
"Eventually. Huckstep and Malibu left in the nick of time. I suppose they left with a carload of money. They moved to L.A., where they probably continued their 'trade,' although no one seems to have caught them. Easy, I guess, in such a big city."
Rick jumped in when Cynthia finished. "We believe she was in the Charlottesville area when Mike arrived. We don't know if she's still around. Oh, one other sidelight. We've pieced together bits of Mike's background. His social security number helped us there. Frank Kenton had the number in his records. Mike was raised in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Majored in computer science at Northwestern University, where he made straight As."
"The Threadneedle virus!" Harry clapped her hands.
"That's a long shot, Harry," Rick admonished, then thought a minute. "Puts Kerry right in the perfect place to call in."
Harry folded a mail sack. "If she was smart enough to create their scam or to link up with the computer genius, she sure was dumb to get caught. Somehow it doesn't fit."
"The murder weapon sure fits." Cynthia took a piece of banana bread offered by Miranda.
"Now, you two"—Miranda's voice was laced with humor— "you're not here to show us a photograph of someone's back. I know you have two murders to solve. You'd put most of your effort into finding Hogan's killer, not the stranger's killer. So you must believe they are connected and you must need us in some fashion."
Rick's jaw froze in mid-chew. Mrs. Hogendobber was smarter than he gave her credit for being. "Well—"
"We're trustworthy." Miranda offered him another piece of banana bread.
He gulped. "No question of that. It's just—"
Cynthia interrupted. "We'd better tell them."
A silence followed.
"All right," Rick reluctantly agreed. "You tell them, I'll eat."
Cynthia grabbed a piece of bread before he could devour the whole loaf.
"We've had bur people working on Crozet National's computers. It's frustrating, obviously, because the thief has covered his tracks. But we did find one interesting item. An account opened in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Michael Huckstep."
Harry whistled.
Miranda said, "Mr. and Mrs.?"
Cynthia continued. "We pulled the signature cards. But we can't really verify his signature or hers."
"Can't you match it to the signature on his driver's license?" Harry asked.
"Superficially, yes. They match. But to verify it we need a handwriting expert. We've got a lady coming down from Washington." She paused for breath. "As for Mrs. Huckstep's signature… it doesn't match, superficially again, anyone's handwriting in the bank."
"When did he or she open the account?" Harry asked.
"July thirtieth. He deposited $4,218.64 in cash." Rick wiped his mouth with a napkin supplied by Miranda. "The bank officer in charge of opening the account was Kerry McCray."
"Not so good." Harry exhaled.
"What if…" Mrs. Hogendobber pressed her fingers together. "Oh, forget it."
"No, go on," Rick encouraged her.
"What if Kerry did open the account? That doesn't mean she knew him."
"Kerry declares she never opened an account for Mr. and Mrs. Huckstep even diough she was on the floor all of July thirtieth," Rick said heavily. "There's a number on each new account, an identifying employee number. Kerry's is on Huckstep's."
"Is the missing money in his account?" Harry queried.
"No," both answered.
Cynthia spoke. "We can't find a nickel."
"Well, I hate to even ask this. Was it in Hogan Freely's account?" Harry winced under Miranda's scornful reaction.
"No," Rick replied.
"For all we know, the money that disappeared on August first or second could be sitting in an account whose code we can't crack, to be called out at some later, safer date," Cynthia added.
"Maybe the money is in another bank or even another country," Miranda said.
"If two million or more dollars showed up in a personal account, we'd know it by now."
"Rick, what about a corporate account?"
"Harry, that's a bit more difficult because the big companies routinely shift around substantial sums. Sooner or later I drink we'd catch it, but the thief and most likely the murderer, one and the same, would have to have someone on the inside of one or more Fortune 500 firms," Rick explained.
"Or someone inside another bank." Harry couldn't figure this out. She didn't even have a hunch.
"Possible." Cynthia cracked her knuckles. "Sorry."