The Big Cat Nap

On Friday, June 1, the cool morning air refreshed Harry as she cut the endless lawn at St. Luke’s. At ten, the turquoise blue skies were dotted with cream cumulus clouds hovering over the emerald grasses. Once Harry adjusted to the zero-turn mower—her old belly-mount conventional mower had finally died after twenty-five years of cutting grass—she wondered how she’d ever lived without the new manner of mower. Instead of a steering wheel, the driver grasped two long handles, which could move forward and back. She could cut corners so much closer than with a conventional mower. Still she’d have to use an edger along the pathways and the special gardens lining those pathways, but the zero-turn saved so much time.

Peonies, in full bloom this late in the season, crowded the long, brick-laid pathways. The gardening club of the church—now full of men as well as women, since gardening had become just about as competitive as grilling with some of them—created masses of white, pink, and magenta with the peonies. Harry marveled at how beautiful the grounds looked, regardless of season. Even in winter, the hollies shone with red berries, and pyracanthas grew up the side of Herb’s garage, providing a long-distance blast of orange, often against snow. While she liked gardening, she lacked the time to devote herself to it. Her focus was her crops, the foals, and working the horses. Wistfully, she looked down at the cemetery on the lower level, old cream-colored climbing roses spilling over the stone walls. If only she had more time.

The scent of fresh-cut grass filled her, lifted her up. Something about fresh-cut hay and grass made Harry glad to be alive.

Every now and then, Herb would look up from his desk to see one of his favorite parishioners out there mowing away.

Chuckling to Elocution on his lap, he said, “See the pattern? She cuts in one direction, then comes back on the other. Takes longer, but Harry wants there to be a pleasing pattern. Her mother was like that. Well, she inherited her mother’s sense of beauty and her father’s practicality. Not a bad combination.”

A thunk caused Harry to cut the motor.

Once on her hands and knees, Harry saw that a hidden rock, part of it above ground but covered by the grass, had sheared off one of the bolts holding the belly mount. If she continued mowing, she’d scrape the earth and the cut would be uneven. Couldn’t have that.

“Drat,” she muttered under her breath, then said aloud, “Well, I can fix it.”

As she walked toward the administrative buildings on the quad, Herb leaned out the window.

“What now?”

“Sheared a pin. You wouldn’t happen to have spare parts?”

“Don’t. We don’t have a zero-turn.”

“Right. Well, I’ll head to the dealer.”

“Go to Waynesboro. Better price.”

“That’s the truth. Buy something in Charlottesville, add ten percent to the price. Herb, I’ll need to drive over there and fetch a pin. I promise I’ll get this all ready before Sunday. Actually, I think I can finish it today.”

“I’ll drive you over there. It’s such a beautiful day. I’m getting antsy in the office,” Herb volunteered.

“Okay.” Harry walked inside the administrative buildings from the back door, washed grease off her hands, then met Herb out front, for he’d already pulled his truck around.

“Come on, girl. Time for an adventure, especially after your clean mammogram.” The older man grinned.

“Word gets out.” Harry smiled back at him.

“Your friends are very, very happy.”

Handsome, overweight, the Very Reverend Jones was a barrel-chested man, not tall but impressively built. All through his high school and college years, the football coaches wanted him to play on the line. He preferred baseball instead, playing catcher, where his wonderful memory served pitchers well. His knees held up better than if he’d been on the football line, but they creaked. He sometimes wondered how many times he crouched, rose, crouched again.

Within twenty-five minutes, Herb pulled in to the dealer’s. Light traffic helped, but it was actually faster, although a longer distance, to shop in Waynesboro rather than inching up Route 29.

Harry picked up some extra parts just in case. She reached into her jeans’ back pocket to pull out her wallet.

Herb grabbed her wrist. “Church purchase.”

“I don’t mind. It’s my mower and my little offering.”

“Your work is the offering.” He pulled out a silver credit card and handed it to the fellow behind the counter.

“I love doing it.”

“Looks good. My office affords me such a wonderful view, regardless of weather or season. I get most of my best sermon ideas just staring out the window.”

After Herb paid, they hopped back into the truck.

“Ready for our next vestry meeting?” Harry asked.

“We have a good board. Makes it easier. As you know, just maintaining the physical structures takes so much money and effort. Still, I wouldn’t want to be in modern buildings for all the tea in China.”

“Do they grow tea in China?”

“I don’t know, but they sure drink it.” Herb gave her a devilish grin. “We aren’t all that far from Wayne’s Cycle Shop.”

“Yesss?” She lifted an eyebrow.

“Think what St. Luke’s could save on gas if I rode a motorcycle?”

Harry laughed, a light happy sound. “And half the board would have a fit and fall in it.”

Now they both laughed at the old Southern expression.

“Ever own a bike?” he asked.

“No. I’d love to. I mean, I’d just lose my mind, go everywhere. ’Course, the real decision would be whether to buy a dirt bike or a road one. Love the sound of the big ones.”

“Me, too. Like the old V8s from the fifties and sixties. That rumble.”

“If Fair and I weren’t facing a big bill for the hydraulic system on the old John Deere, I’d think about it. You really can save money on gas. Our gas bills have doubled, and, boy, that cuts into the budget. The estimate from the John Deere dealer—back to the tractor—is ten thousand dollars for a new hydraulic system, all new hoses, the works. We’re gonna get the work done outside the dealer, I think. It will take longer. Still cost, though.”

Herb whistled. “That calls for serious prayer and maybe a winning lottery ticket.”

The two people who loved each other drove back to St. Luke’s, chattering away.

As Herb pulled in to the driveway of the garage, the truck backfired, shuddered, and stopped dead.

Harry jumped out after Herb popped the hood. “Cut on the motor.”

He did. Nothing.

As this was a truck that still had an oil dipstick, Harry took it out, put the clean end to her ear. “Okay, try again.”

A click sounded, another. Click. Click. Click. But no ignition.

“I just picked this damned truck up, as you know.”

“I think it’s your alternator. But it could be more than that. Better call ReNu. They’ll need to tow you.”

He got out of the truck, slamming the door. “I do need a new truck. Or that motorcycle. But you know there’s no way the church can afford new wheels. Given the hauling and odds and ends we need, half the parish uses the church truck. It has to be a truck.”

“Yes, it does.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll call ReNu. Got the number?”

Herb easily recalled the telephone number, as he’d called it so many times.

By the time Harry had the new pin on the belly mount—an easy job once she found a block of wood to steady the mount and once she was able to dislodge the sheared pin—the tow truck from ReNu had turned onto the driveway. To her surprise, Victor Gatzembizi emerged from the passenger side; Terry Schreiber, the driver, was about as greasy as she was.

Wiping her hands on her jeans, Harry strolled down to them as Herb came out of his office.

Victor looked up. “Reverend Jones, let’s hope this is a hangover from your former problem.”

“Why?”

“Well, otherwise you and the insurance company are throwing good money after bad.”

Herb explained what happened, then Harry piped up, “I think it’s the alternator.”

Victor listened. Terry, who didn’t know Harry, discounted what the attractive woman said.

“If Harry didn’t farm, she’d be working for you, Victor.” Herb smiled.

“Given what’s happened to us, I could use a good mechanic.” Victor shook his head.

“It has to be a shock and a strain for you, Victor. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, Reverend. The best thing I know to do is to keep working. And I go to each of my shops at least once a week. It helps to get away. Terry here can’t. I think it’s harder for the boys.”

“I want to know what the sheriff is doing,” Terry grumbled.

“The best he can.” Harry quickly defended Rick and, by extension, Cooper.

“You’re right, Harry,” Victor agreed. “It takes time, and even if they know who did it or have a good idea, they still have to gather enough evidence to run them in.”

Harry looked at Terry, who had a smear of grease on his forehead. “I guess you guys are all pretty close.”

“We have a few beers. Race our cars.” Terry shrugged.

An idea occurred to Harry. Like most of her ideas involving curiosity about others, it would come to a bad end.

That evening she called Cooper, told her about Herb’s truck, and asked her if she could run over the VIN number.

“I can, but that’s not going to tell you anything,” Cooper said.

“Why not?”

“It will tell me and CarMax, for instance, if the car has been in a wreck. Won’t tell me anything about the repairs, which is what you’re after since his truck was just repaired. Right?”

“Right. But surely there are repair records.”

“Only insurance companies can access those.” Cooper paused a minute. “From a law-enforcement perspective, we don’t care about repairs. We want to know if the title, the registration, the license, is current, expired, et cetera, and we’d like an accident record.”

“But what if the accident is caused by a fault in the vehicle?”

“That’s not my job.”

“Hmm.”

“Harry.” Cooper’s voice rose. “I don’t know where you’re heading with this. I’m kind of afraid to find out.”