He turned around. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Depends.”
“Mr. McGaughey, did you know the victim?”
“Only in passing.” He clipped his words.
“Did you like him?” Rick felt his nose get colder by the minute.
“What little I knew of him, yes. He was a pleasant fellow.”
“All right. You can go.” Rick paused. “One last thing. Don’t fire Dabney Shiflett.”
“Man’s got a problem.” Wilson was furious that the redneck had put one over on him.
“He performs his duties.”
“Drinking during work hours is against company regulations.”
“Then get the man into a program. Don’t fire him. He has three mouths to feed and he’s a hard worker. I’ve known him all my life. If you want to get along in Crozet, work with people. Do you understand?”
Wilson understood that the sheriff was mad at him. But he didn’t understand exactly what was being asked of him.
Cynthia spoke up. “The sheriff is saying that you will lower your productivity and maybe even harm your career if you don’t learn that showing a little concern for your workers might boost morale. If Dabney was slacking off on the job, okay, then be a hard-ass. But help him. You might need help yourself someday.”
“I’ll take it under consideration.” He walked off, nearly as stiff as Tommy Van Allen.
“Jesus, what a bonehead. And I’ll bet he has his M.B.A.,” Shaw said.
“Boss, this was in Van Allen’s trench-coat pocket.” Cynthia held a condom wrapper in her gloved hand.
“Any sign of the condom?”
“No.”
“Coop, how do you think he got on that meathook?”
She shrugged. “He could have been hoisted up the same way they hoist the beef. Come on, I’ll show you.”
They walked outside and Cynthia pointed out a squarish machine used to move pallets loaded with heavy cartons; modified, the machine could also lift up sides of beef.
“Possible.” He walked over. “How much does one of these things cost?”
“About sixteen thousand dollars retail.”
“How do you know that?”
“Asked Wilson.”
“Ah, yes, he’d know.” He heard the gurney rolling down the outside walkway. “Coroner’s good. Body may be frozen blue but I bet he can establish the time of death. What he can’t establish is, was he killed here or brought here? And why here? Why not just dump him up in the waste unit like dead meat?” His voice rasped. “I have never seen anything like this in my years of law enforcement.”
“Me neither.”
He shot her a sharp glance. “You, you’re still wet behind the ears.”
“I’ve seen enough murders to know most of them are committed in a white-hot rage. This was not.”
“The bomber jacket in Herb’s truck was a neat trick, too. A little flag to let us all know we aren’t on top of this case.”
The gurney rolled past them, Tommy tucked into two body bags, since his arms were frozen straight up. Diana Robb, the paramedic, couldn’t get him into one bag without breaking his arms, and that would compromise evidence.
She stopped as her coworkers continued to push the body to the ambulance. “Weighed a ton. Like moving a boulder.”
“Better than shaking off the maggots that crawl up your leg. Those suckers bite.” Rick hated that stench.
“You’ve got a point there. Never would have thought Tommy would end this way. I could have pictured a jealous husband shooting him maybe, but nothing like this.”
“Nasty, isn’t it?” Coop said.
“Yep.” Diana grimaced, then rejoined her crew.
Rick half closed his eyes to hide his frustration.
28
Mrs. Murphy watched a bejeweled hand reach into the post-office box. Playfully she swatted.
Big Mim withdrew her hand. “Murphy, stop it.”
“Harry, your cat is interfering with federal property again.” Mim reached in once more.
“Murphy, behave.” Harry walked over to the postboxes. She peered through the brass box as Mim peered in from the other side. “Peekaboo.”
“Back at you!” Mim was in a good mood.
Aunt Tally, however, was not. “A sixty-two-year-old woman acting like a silly schoolgirl.”
“I am not sixty-two.”
“And I’m not ninety-three. Or is it ninety-one?” She sighed. “I’ve lied about my age for so many years, I can’t remember how old I really am. But I remember exactly how old you are, Mimsy.” A light hint of malice floated through her voice. “My sister said you kicked in the womb so hard you gave her a hernia.”
The turned-up collar of Mim’s expensive English-tailored shirt seemed to stiffen. “Harry and Miranda aren’t interested in that.”
“Oh yes we are,” came the chorus, the animals included.
Tally leaned across the divider. “Urquharts conceive with no difficulty at all, of course.” She called over her shoulder to Mim, sorting her mail, “And Little Mim gave you a couple of whacks.” Mim ignored her, so she continued. “I never had children myself but I’ve spent a lifetime observing them—from birth to death sometimes. I’ve outlived everyone except my imperious niece and her daughter.”
“I’m not imperious, Aunt Tally. That honor belongs to you.”
“Oh la!” Tally’s eyebrows rose, as did her voice.
Pewter, sound asleep on the table, was missing the exchange but Murphy and Tucker drank in every word.
