Catch As Cat Can

24

Tucked on the west side of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the Shenandoah Valley sat the modest city of Waynesboro. While not wealthy like its eastern neighbor, Charlottesville, Waynesboro evidenced its own character, which was up-front, hardworking, and ready for a good time.

Cynthia Cooper liked the town, which was economically dominated by a DuPont chemical plant. Virginia Metalcrafters was also based in Waynesboro, and she enjoyed stopping by to watch the men create the beautiful brass door locks and other items for which the firm was justly famous.

She turned right past the Burger King and McDonald's, heading west. Then she turned onto Randolph Street, filled with neat, well-kept houses.

She parked in front of a brick rancher painted white with navy-blue shutters on the windows. The front door, red, had a large polished brass knocker, no doubt made at Virginia Metalcrafters.

She rapped on the knocker. Within seconds the door opened, revealing a careworn woman perhaps in her mid-forties but appearing older at the moment. Glued to her side was a pretty golden retriever.

“Mrs. Partlow?”

The woman involuntarily took a step back. “You're the second policeman to come here. My son is not dead.”

“Yes, ma'am, I know that and I'm sorry to bother you. I'm Deputy Cynthia Cooper from the Albemarle County Sheriff's Department. Is your son at home?”

“As a matter of fact, he is. He works the night shift at the DuPont plant. He's asleep.”

“I see.” Cooper smiled at the golden retriever. “Beautiful dog.”

“That's Rolex. Wesley gave her to me on my birthday. He said he couldn't afford a Rolex but the puppy would make me happier than any watch. He was right, wasn't he, Rolex?” She patted the silky head as Rolex thumped her tail.

Reaching inside her chest pocket, Cooper pulled out a license, which she handed to Mrs. Partlow. “Is this your son?”

Her eyebrows darted upward. “No. Who is this?”

“We don't know.”

Mrs. Partlow studied the rest of the license. “The rest of it is correct.”

“We're hoping your son will know who the man is in the photograph. Do you mind waking him?”

“No, not at all. It's about time for him to get up anyway. Please come in, Deputy—”

“Cooper.” She walked through the door.

The parquet floor in the entrance hall gleamed.

“Come on in the living room. I'll go wake Wesley.” Mrs. Partlow disappeared down the hall, Rolex at her heels.

Cooper heard a few grunts and groans.

Mrs. Partlow returned. “He'll be out in a minute. May I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you, ma'am.”

Wesley soon appeared, wearing a blue T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers without socks. “Hi.”

Cooper stood up to shake his hand. “I'm sorry to disturb you.”

“That's okay.” The slight, curly-haired young man smiled.

“Here's your driver's license.”

He took the stiff card from her hand. “I have my license. I think. Let me check.” He hurried back to his room.

Cooper could hear metal clothes hangers sliding on a metal closet pole. Rolex cocked her head. “Good ears, Rolex.”

Wesley, perplexed, stepped back into the living room. “It's gone! I keep my license in the pocket of my bomber jacket except for when it's really hot, then I just stick it in the visor of my truck.”

“Do you have any idea how long you've been missing your license?”

He thought a moment. “I remember getting gas. Had it then. Last week. I—” He paused. “You know, it's kind of hard to remember. I just never think about my license.”

“Do you recognize the man in the photo?”

He peered intently at the likeness. “Kinda. I've seen him around but I don't know his name.”

“Whoever he is, he can sure doctor a driver's license or he knows someone who can.” Cooper smiled.

“Yeah. Looks valid to me.”

“Me, too,” Mrs. Partlow chimed in.

“Mr. Partlow, think. Any guidance you can give me will be a big help.”

“He's dead, right? Mom said the Augusta cop came by to tell her I was dead.”

“I think I surprised him more than he surprised me.” Mrs. Partlow smiled tightly.

“Yes, he's dead. Could you have seen him at the gas station?”

“Uh, no.” Wesley cupped his chin in his hand as he took a seat. “Might have seen him at Danny's, the bar behind the post office downtown.” He furrowed his brow. “Yeah.”

“And when you go to Danny's, what do you do with your coat?”

“Hang it up or put it over the back of the chair.”

After a few more questions, Cooper left, driving over to Danny's. The bartender, Louis Seidlitz, was just setting up, preparing for the evening's traffic.

Louis recognized the face but couldn't recall a name to go with it.

As she drove back toward Charlottesville, climbing up over Afton Mountain, she thought how quick-eyed and light-fingered the false Wesley Partlow had been. Quick enough to pilfer a driver's license. How many pockets did he touch before finding pay dirt? Apparently he rifled them without drawing attention to himself. She was reminded of that expression, “Opportunity makes a poet as well as a thief.”