She pulled up subsequent days, a few more reports, then months later the results of the investigation. Nothing was wrong with the backhoe. Mr. Asplundah had never evidenced any signs of heart trouble nor did his medical records indicate the same. It was a simple, unexpected heart attack.
She then researched murder for 1984 in Richmond. Nothing on work sites. She checked the obituaries for the year. That took one and a half hours. Nothing there either. Finally she pulled up missing person reports.
There was one for a construction worker, a welder. His wife reported he had not returned from work. He’d been welding a bent front fender for a friend. His day job was working on the Kushner Building.
Cooper knew the Richmond Police Department already had done what she did, were probably recording right on the site.
She had something. Just what, she wasn’t certain. She called Richmond’s department, identified herself, her search.
A young man confirmed they were looking for the son of Edward Elkins, the welder reported missing in 1984. They needed DNA.
She’d spent most of her workday in the office. Given the cold, it was better than cruising the streets, picking up drunks, examining bumper benders.
Dark already, she drove home, thinking as she drove. Driving helped her think.
She paid attention to Harry as much as Harry irritated her.
Her neighbor—whom she did love—could insinuate herself into affairs that were none of her business. To make it worse, Harry had no training in law enforcement but she’d become obsessed with something. Gary’s murder would arouse a friend’s sympathy. Being there, Harry was galvanized. Much as Cooper tried to tell her not to get involved in her soft-soap way, she knew it would do no good. If she told her off, Harry would become more devious, and that would be even more dangerous.
She parked near the side door. Often a walk outdoors cleared her mind. She opened the back door, picked up a box of dog treats and a small jar of corn oil. The temperature, according to the large outdoor thermometer, hung at 26º, Fahrenheit. Her face tingled. Walking into the shed, which doubled as a garage when she felt like parking there, she went over to a hole under the back wall. It opened on both sides of the wall and was not the only den opening. A tidy gray fox lived there. She broke up the treats, placing them in a pie tin saved for this purpose. Then she drenched them in corn oil. The fox would love it. Cold as it was in the shed, it provided protection from the elements, plus the little fellow had straw, rags, old towels to curl up in, along with his luxurious double coat.
Leaving, she pushed through the snow to the Jones family graveyard. The Very Reverend Herbert Jones rented the farm to Cooper, as he lived in the lovely clapboard pastor’s house at St. Luke’s. With Harry’s help, Cooper kept everything tidy. The snow on the gravestones added to the silence and beauty of this spot, a large gum tree in the middle of the place, and sleeping Joneses who stretched back to 1810.
Heading back to the kitchen warmth, she thought about how many Virginia farms cherished their dead. Gary had been cremated, spread over a pasture he had always admired. People’s last wishes ought to be carried out, but she liked reading headstones.
—
Lisa Roudabush, leash secure in her heavy mittens, walked down Mt. Tabor Road. There were no cars on the road, which was good as the roads could still be slick. “How are you doing, Pirate?”
“Okay.” The large puppy skipped through the cleared snow.
He had learned to avoid the piled-up snow.
“We’re almost home, buddy.”
“Good.” He looked up at Lisa.
“Stop.” She stopped.
He did, too.
“Good boy.”
About five minutes later they reached the small brick house that Lisa rented. Once inside, she emailed Kylie Carter. They congratulated each other on the continuing saga at the excavation site in Richmond.
“Now this will really cost Rankin Construction and Cloudcroft a fortune,” Kylie crowed.
“Murder. We couldn’t have asked for more.” Lisa was exuberant.
Be careful what you ask for.
26
March 27, 1787
Tuesday
“Walk back down, make him walk.” Jeddie nodded, halted the powerful sleek horse, turned him. They walked. Reynaldo pinned his ears but he listened. Jeddie then trotted the horse back up the hill.
“Don’t you want me to breeze him?”
“No. Let’s walk back to the stable. Make him walk, Jeddie. If you aren’t the boss, he’ll be the boss. He’s strong-willed and very, very smart. Right now we’re working on balance. We’ll work on wind later.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Jeddie grinned.
A handful he was, but Reynaldo possessed rare quality. He had lovely movement from the shoulder, powerful hindquarters, and an abnormally long stride. He was born to run. Catherine’s emphasis on his wonderful balance was as much for his mind as his body. Easily bored, which he would let you know, he was intelligent and very alert to his environment.
Jeddie, quiet, supple in the saddle, walked Reynaldo on a loose rein, a vote of confidence in the horse, which Reynaldo liked. He loved Catherine and he loved Jeddie. He tolerated Tulli and Ralston, and thought Baxter O. was decent enough, but there was no way he was ever going to pull a carriage. Never. Reynaldo had a high opinion of himself. But then so did the carriage horses King David and Solomon.
Once in the stable, Tulli ran up to hold the 16.2-hand horse while Jeddie easily swung out of the saddle.
“Tulli, wipe him down. Rub some liniment in his muscles. He likes being rubbed. Put his blanket on him and turn him out,” Catherine ordered.
“Yes, Ma’am.” Tulli nodded.
“Where’s Ralston?”
Tulli answered, “With Baxtor O. in the carriage barn.”