Catch As Cat Can

15

Within seconds the wind roared through Crozet at forty miles an hour, lifting party tents into the heavens, shredding striped awnings, sending Big Mim's guests shivering to the fireplaces as the temperature dropped violently.

Overhead, black clouds, blacker than night, scudded over treetops; white, pink, and even bluish lightning ripped through the swirling clouds to strike below. A brilliant bolt hit the tin roof of Mim's gardening shed, the flash temporarily blinding those who beheld it. Luckily the shed didn't catch fire.

The usual quota of car accidents for the Dogwood Festival dropped, because most people had the sense to get off the roads. Those few that stayed out skidded into guardrails. The sheriff's department and the wrecker services were working as fast as they could.

Although she had looked forward to this night, Cynthia Cooper, overcome with a sense of duty and knowing that Rick Shaw would be on overload, bid her host and hostess good-bye, hopped in her Jeep, and drove to headquarters. She changed into her uniform and grabbed the lone squad car remaining, driving out into the lashing rains.

“Coop to Sheriff Shaw.”

“Hey,” came the familiar, tired voice.

“I'm heading out to Boonesville. Accident at the crossroads.”

“What are you doing at work?”

“All hands on deck on a night like tonight. Yancy's squad car was lonesome. Where's Yancy?”

“In the hospital with a broken jaw.”

“What?”

“Stopped a speeder, Din Marks, weaving all over the road. Guy got out of the car, Yancy shined the flashlight in his face, and the guy hit him broadside with a hammer. Held it behind his back, black as pitch tonight and Yancy never saw it coming.”

“Damn.”

“Filthy night. But Yancy will be okay. With his jaw wired shut he's bound to lose weight.”

“There is that.” She smiled. “Did he nail the perp?”

“Oh yeah. Sitting in the same cell with that little asshole, Partlow. Hey, I don't know when we'll wrap up this night but I'll buy you coffee and a doughnut when we do.”

“Best offer I've had all week.”

“Over and out,” he replied.

As Cooper headed up to Boonesville, a small community north of Charlottesville proper, Harry and Diego danced the last dance at midnight. Big Mim invited everyone back to the library for coffee. Her eagle eyes noted if anyone was beyond driving. Her husband whisked off those few to the apartments above the stable. Jim's size and bulk guaranteed little resistance.

Thunder roared overhead, the lightning illuminated the fields with eerie colors. The horses sensibly retreated to their run-in sheds. Even the cattle withdrew to the run-in sheds, standing patiently with the horses, who felt superior to cattle.

Tucker covered her eyes in the bedroom at Harry's home. Pewter made a big show of not caring about the storm.

Mrs. Murphy, curled up on the bed, said, “This is a bad one. I'm surprised there isn't hail.”

The words were no sooner out of her mouth than a tremendous rattle pelted the roof. Hailstones the size of golf balls pounded down, bouncing high off anything they hit.

“Wow!” Pewter hurried to the window.

“It was a dark and stormy night,” Mrs. Murphy chanted in a ghostly voice.

“That's not funny.” Tucker shivered.

“Wimp.” Pewter tossed her head in the air.

“Don't pick on her. She really hates these things and this is a hateful storm. Bet the horses are glad Mom opened their outside stall doors. She's got a sixth sense about the weather.”

“She watches the Weather Channel.” Pewter, never one to be impressed with humans, jumped as a big hailstone smashed against the window.

“Wasn't on the Weather Channel. I watched it with her. This is one of those wild storms that comes out of nowhere.” Mrs. Murphy knew how swiftly weather could change in the mountains. “People are lucky their crops aren't high enough to beat down but this will tear the dogwood blossoms right off the trees.”

The sound of Harry's truck coming down the driveway sent them all to the back door. She floated through the door heedless of the weather. “Hello, babies.”

“I'm glad you're home,” Pewter confessed.

Tucker, thrilled that Harry was home, followed her human closely. “I hate this.” Pewter decided to follow Harry, too.

Mrs. Murphy scampered ahead of them as the hail sounded like artillery fire. “Let's be glad we're inside tonight, safe and sound.”

That was the same feeling Cynthia Cooper had when she finally pulled back into department headquarters. At four-thirty in the morning her eyes burned, her mouth was dry. It had been one fender bender after another.

She pushed open the heavy swinging door. The odor of fresh coffee greeted her.

Rick smiled. “Doughnuts right here. Krispy Kremes.”

“I could eat a bug.” She poured coffee, grabbed a glazed doughnut, and slumped into her desk chair. “Where is everybody?”

“Out. I called Krispy Kreme and told them to give everyone doughnuts and coffee. I'd pick up the tab. Mercifully, things are slowing down. Next shift comes on at six. Hey, want a jelly doughnut?”

“No. You don't fool me. You bought those for you.”

“Uh—yes. I even bought a carton of cigarettes, which I am stashing in your desk.”

“Why?”

“Because if my wife comes in she'll check my desk.”

“Little lies lead to big ones.” Coop rolled her eyes.

“It's my one vice. I've tried to give it up and I finally decided, to hell with it. I might as well enjoy it.”

“Yeah.” She reached for another glazed doughnut. “My problem is I enjoy the first two puffs, then I can't stand the taste. Lot of money to spend for two puffs. I'm hungry. I think I'll call Miranda and ask her to make her orange-glazed cinnamon buns tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow.”

“Oh—well, the next tomorrow.” She licked her fingers. “Mim threw another grand party. She was afraid it would be subdued because of Roger O'Bannon's death but it wasn't. Not really Roger's crowd.”

“I wouldn't think so. What happened?”

“He keeled over in his chair. Pretty much like you heard over the radio.” She mentioned the radios in the squad cars. “Makes you think. I mean about stuff like smoking and eating doughnuts and greasy hamburgers.”

“Coop, when your number's up, it's up.” Rick folded his hands over his chest as he leaned back in his big chair. “And Sean won't agree to an autopsy?”

“No, unless he's changed his mind. He was, well, you can imagine. Held it together but what a shock.”

“People have strong feelings about autopsies. If it were my brother I'd do it. In case it's something hereditary, something I could attend to.”

“Now wait a minute. You just said you're smoking, to hell with it and when your number's up, it's up.”

He grinned. “Me?”

“Wasn't it Emerson who said, ‘Consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds'?”

“You're the reader but it sounds good to me.” He cocked his head. “Christ, the storm is getting worse.”

She polished off the last of her doughnut. “Who's back in the Taj Mahal?” she said, referring to the jail.

“A full house. Students. People who should know better and Din Marks, the jerk who smashed Yancy.”

“Din? Well, I suppose it's better than Spirit-Moves-Us. Remember him?”

“Easy wardrobe. Bedsheets.” Rick laughed. “And people give money to guys like that. Religious nuts. I'm in the wrong business. I'll shave my head, put a dot in the middle of my forehead, wear bedsheets, and chant ‘Om'—instant riches. Tell people they're stressed out and need to find inner peace.”

“Spirit-Moves-Us did, with prepubescent girls.”

Rick grimaced, shaking his head. “Said it was part of his religion. He won't be out of jail for years.”

“Is the guy's real name Din?”

“That's what his driver's license said. Oh, can't really hold that Partlow kid on hubcaps. I'll let him go later. Actually, I ought to release him now. Kick his sorry ass right out in the storm. I'll run him by the salvage yard first.”

“I think I'll pay him a visit.” She glanced at the clock. “A five o'clock wake-up call ought to bring a smile to his face.” She walked into the cell block, Rick with her. The arrested were sprawled in cells, dead drunk, sleeping it off. Wesley, though, sat straight up, listening to the storm. “Good morning, glory,” Cynthia said teasingly.

“Sounds like a tornado.”

“They're louder,” Rick answered him. “We're going to take you over to O'Bannon's Salvage later this morning. If Sean makes a positive I.D. your ass is grass. If not, you're free.”

“I didn't steal nothin'. He'll tell you.” Wesley listened as the hail intensified.

“Okay.” Rick shrugged.

“Wesley, if you cooperate things will go easy.”

He glared at her. “Nothin's easy.”

“Fine.” She turned and walked out, Rick with her.

Once outside the cell block they paused for a moment.

Rick sighed. “I need to pay my respects anyway. I'll ask Sean if he's up to identifying the little jerk. If he's not, we let him go.”

Unexpectedly, Sean agreed to do it, said he could handle it. When Rick brought Wesley to him he swore he'd never seen the kid though Wesley matched the description he'd given. Either there were two young men with a pronounced scar over the left eye or Sean was too rattled to make sense of anything. Then again, in his vulnerable state he could have figured nailing a kid for hubcaps wasn't worth it.

Rick released Wesley Partlow. He'd already run a check with DMV on the kid's license, which was current and clean. His address was Randolph Street, Waynesboro. He didn't really think too much about it. Small-fry.