The Big Cat Nap

Looking up at Dr. Nelson Yarbrough’s incredible silver hair, Harry, mouth wide open, gave thanks that the former UVA quarterback chose dentistry as his profession. He was so careful as he leaned over her. She’d chipped a tooth trying to dismantle the hydraulic pump on her 2750 John Deere.

As the good dentist patiently worked, he asked in his rumbly voice, “I’ve seen a lot of teeth, Harry, and yours are good ones, but I’ve never known anyone to chip a tooth on a tractor.”

Once his hands were out of her mouth, she replied, “John Deere. Good steel.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He smiled, getting back to work as Beverly, his assistant, handed him the bonding agent.

Nelson and his wife, Sandra, also a dentist, had in their youth been one of Albemarle County’s more glamorous couples. The years had not leeched away their good looks; however, now the kindness shone through. The pair, along with able assistance from Alice Hill and JoAnne Burkholder—a former county commissioner for Greene County—kept patients happy. Amy Doss and Holly Cox kept their teeth clean. One could tell a great deal about a business by the attitude of the people who worked there. This was the only dental office Harry had ever walked in to where the first thing one heard was raucous laughter.

She did recall being in Larry Hund’s office and witnessing a pretty teenager being dumbfounded when confronted by the dentist’s movie-star looks. Charlottesville seemed to specialize in interesting dentists.

Once out of the office, her tooth looking good as new, Harry trotted up the outside wooden stairs to Blue Ridge Embroidery. Evan Gruber was coming down.

“Morning, Evan. Good to see you again.”

“Harry, what brings you here?”

“Picking up some T-shirts for St. Luke’s. Flag Day party. It’s a big annual do. The kids love it; I do, too.”

Evan rubbed his chin, covered with a fashionable two-day stubble. Fashionable though it might be, it certainly gave his girlfriend brush burn.

“Isn’t that the day you put flags in the cemetery?”

Harry nodded. “Everyone does. All over America.”

His question answered, Evan pointed with pride. “I got a new truck.”

Harry turned around to look. A quilted stainless-steel refrigerated truck sparkled in the sunshine.

“Wow.”

“Ford truck; the bodywork was done down in Richmond. I mean, that sucker can frost you.” He beamed. “Full of dressed free-range chickens. Need to deliver them to Fresh!”

“I saw you unloading a few days ago. I don’t recall you being in the poultry business.”

“Not me. I just pick up the orders. I give anything extra, left over, to the Salvation Army.”

“Good for you.”

“Mostly drunks. Still.” He shrugged.

Harry didn’t know if those who used the venerable organization’s services were drunks or not. She did know that about fifty-four million Americans went hungry each day. The figure so overwhelmed her that she always hoped it wasn’t true but feared it was.

“Haven’t been down there in years.”

“I go every day. Sometimes I use my old pickup to haul furniture to them, too.”

“That’s good of you, Evan.” She hesitated a moment. “How long have you delivered to Fresh?”

“Two years, give or take. I go over to the valley; still some poultry farms there. Stick to birds. Beef, lamb, pork, won’t do it. It’s not that it smells bad right away, but the odor lingers. Whatever you put in the freezer unit after that soaks up the odor.”

“Never thought of that.” And indeed Harry had not. She continued, “How do you define a free-range chicken?”

“I don’t. I just pick up chickens when the poultry farm calls. They all look the same to me.” He then quizzed her. “You found Walt Richardson. He used to work on my trucks.” Evan, not one to miss the opportunity to express his many opinions, held forth on the murders of the two mechanics at ReNu. “I’ll bet you it was drugs. When a man kills a woman, it can be lots of things, but men killing men: drugs.”

“You’ve got a point there.”

Leaning down toward her, he half-whispered, “They’re all in on it. I tell you, Harry, this crap goes all the way to the White House. Insider trading, stock-market manipulation, Ponzi schemes, and drugs. You don’t think half of Congress isn’t bought with drug money?”

“I never thought about it.”

“You should. As long as drugs are illegal, no taxes. Pure profit. Everyone on the take has a big—I mean big—reason to keep the stuff illegal.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Harry really wanted to get going and pick up those T-shirts.

“Tell you something else. This is a rich town. It’s full of good weed, good coke, and all those pills the doctors write prescriptions for. I mean, there are all kinds of druggies, right?”

“Guess so.”

“Meth. Out in the county. Lots of meth. It’s not a city drug. If those two dead men had bad teeth, meth. Otherwise, weed or blow. You just wait and see.” With a self-satisfied grin, he tipped his baseball cap and descended to his silver truck.

Harry sighed, pushed open the door to Blue Ridge Embroidery.

The proprietor, Greg, his ginger hair catching the light, looked up. “Heard the whole thing. Thought maybe I’d save you, but Evan was on a roll, wasn’t he?”

“Isn’t he always, but, hey, Greg, at least he didn’t lecture me on how we’re descended from aliens.”

“Maybe he is.” Greg laughed as he unfolded one of the T’s for Harry to inspect.

“Perfect. Just perfect.”

“Red T’s, white, blue. The flag looks good on everyone.”

“Herb’s idea to use a small Old Glory over the heart turned out perfect. St. Luke’s was founded before the Revolution.”

“Beautiful, beautiful church. Let me help you carry these down the stairs.”

Harry paid him with a St. Luke’s check and they toted the boxes to the bottom. “Where’s the Mrs.?” she asked.

“In the embroidery room.”

“Business good?”

Greg smiled a slow smile. “Coming back. We had two and a half bad years.”

“We all did. You didn’t go under. Neither did we. You’d be surprised at how many people don’t call the vet when times are tough. Fair will work with them, spread the payments out, but they figure the horse will just cure himself.”

“Kinda cruel.”

“Is,” Harry flatly stated. “Sometimes I think I don’t understand people at all.”

“I know what you mean,” the nice-looking man agreed. “Hearing Evan’s analysis of the ReNu murders brought that to mind. You think you know someone, a neighbor, an acquaintance. Then you find out he’s beating his wife or, in a situation like this, he’s killed those two men. It’s almost always a man.”

“You know, Greg, I think you’re right, though I’m willing to bet more women kill than we know. They’re just smarter about it.”

He laughed. “Hey, I knew that when I got married. Not that she’s a killer,” he hastened to add. “But my wife sees so much that I don’t. I’m focused on the job.”

“Greg, you underrate yourself.” Harry thought him a good businessman. “But I do know what you mean about being fooled by people. ’Course, you can be fooled in good ways.”

“Right. Let’s concentrate on that.”