The Tail of the Tip-Off (17 page)

31

T
he St. Luke's Parish Guild gathered as usual in the welcoming meeting room. Cherry logs crackled in the fireplace. The old rugs, worn through to the backing in some places, remained on the floor. The carpet men absolutely, positively, without fail would be there Friday morning to start work. By this point no one was holding their breath.

Matthew Crickenberger, composed, chaired the meeting. Herb added information as needed. Herb believed the chair should rotate and so it did. He thought this fostered leadership. If one didn't wish to be a leader, then it taught appreciation for those who were.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Tucker, Brinkley, Cazenovia, and Elocution considered raiding the communion wafers again. Given that their initial depredations had not been discovered, they all voted to leave well enough alone. And since this upcoming Sunday was a communion Sunday their misdeed would most likely be discovered. Instead they settled into Herb's office, all sitting on the large chesterfield sofa. Herb, like Susan Tucker, liked chesterfield sofas. The one in his living quarters was dark green, this one was a rich maroon.

They could hear Tazio and BoomBoom in the next room discussing fund-raising ideas.

“How come St. Luke's has so many poor parishioners?”
Brinkley wondered.

“Doesn't. All the churches cooperate to help with the food drive,”
Cazenovia, the senior kitty, replied.

“Humans eat strange stuff. Asparagus,”
Tucker said.

“I like asparagus,”
Elocution demurred.

“You do?”
Tucker was aghast.

“I like greens every now and then,”
Elocution replied, “
especially with my communion wafers.
”

“What does Tazio feed you?”
Tucker loved hearing about food.

“Puppy chow mixed with canned food. Sometimes she gives me the fat off meat, too.”

“Oh, that sounds delicious.”
Tucker licked her chops.

“Tuna.”
Pewter closed her eyes, purring.

“Chicken.”
Mrs. Murphy smiled.

“Mouse tartare,”
Cazenovia declared.

“A giant knucklebone, jammed with marrow.”
Tucker wagged her nonexistent tail.

“Gee”
—Brinkley's soft eyes were puzzled—
“how do you get your human to give you such treats?”

“Since you can't go into the market with them, it's hard,”
Tucker advised.
“Seize the day. If you walk by a restaurant with big picture windows, wag your tail if someone is eating steak or a hamburger. Point with your right paw. Gets them every time and they really figure it out. You can train them with food.”

“Don't expect miracles,”
Cazenovia added.

“Well, you need to practice being cute.”
Mrs. Murphy rolled over showing her beige tummy with the stripes lighter than on her back.
“Like this.”

“Do I do that in front of a restaurant?”
Brinkley innocently asked.

“No, no. Your human will pitch a fit because you've rolled in dirt or whatever is on the sidewalk. Just point.”
Tucker demonstrated a point.
“Trust me, they get the point.”

“Very funny,”
Pewter dryly said.

“How long does it take to train a human?”

“Brinkley, all your life. Now some lessons they retain such as your feeding time because it's tied to their feeding time.”
Mrs. Murphy liked the yellow Lab.
“Going to sleep, waking up at the same time, they learn that pretty quickly, too. Truth is, we're usually on similar schedules so it's not too taxing for them. But other things, getting them to notice something out of the ordinary or warning them that another human isn't right, oh, that's hit-and-miss.”

“Really?”
He nudged the tiger cat who patted his nose.

“Now our human is very smart.”
Pewter puffed up.

“Our human? I thought you didn't claim any human,”
Mrs. Murphy teased her.

“I changed my mind.”
Pewter tossed her head.
“And she
is
smart.”

“Highly trainable.”
Tucker nodded in agreement.

“She's a country person so she's not so far away from her real self,”
Pewter added.

“Real self?”
The growing fellow was curious.

“You know, the animal in them.”
Mrs. Murphy thought this would be self-evident.

“They don't know they're animals?”
Brinkley was astounded.

“No, they really don't.”
Pewter turned up her nose.

“And the more they live away from other animals, the worse it gets.”
Elocution, a lively girl, held the tip of her tail in her paw but forgot why she had picked it up in the first place.

“What about your human? Is he smart?”
Brinkley asked.

“Depends,”
Cazenovia, who had lived with Herb the longest, answered.
“He's smart about fly-fishing. He pays attention to the signs in the runs and branches when he's fishing but he can walk right through a meadow and miss fox poop. Or worse, bear poop.”

“Can't he smell it?”

Cazenovia hopped onto the back of the sofa to be at eye level with the Lab, who was sitting upright. He was already so big he couldn't stretch out on the sofa. There wouldn't be room for the others.

“They can't smell.”
Cazenovia delivered the shocking news.

“Can't smell?”
Brinkley felt terrible. This was his sharpest sense.

“Now that's not true.”
Mrs. Murphy countered the longhaired calico.
“They can smell a wee bit. If they don't smoke they can smell better. But for instance, if you put out a piece of bread, say, fifty yards from them, they wouldn't smell it even if it was fresh. A smell has to be very strong or right under their noses to affect them.”

“Those poor creatures.”
Brinkley's ears drooped for a moment.

“Eyes. They rely on their eyes.”
Elocution kept staring at her tail tip.
“'Course their eyes aren't nearly as good as a cat's but they aren't bad. They're better than your eyes.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes.”
Pewter smiled up at the big dog.
“You can't see nearly as well as they do, but you can hear and smell way, way beyond them.”

“Harry's got good ears.”
Mrs. Murphy loved Harry.

“Actually, she does. She quite surprises me.”
Tucker thought Harry exceptional for a human.

“Well, they could all hear better if they'd yank those stupid phones out of their ears, turn off the computers, TVs, and radios. They can't hear because they're surrounded by noise.”
Elocution finally dropped her tail.

“No animal would willingly shut out information about what's around them,”
Brinkley sensibly said.
“Why do they keep noises?”

“Oh, they think it's information. They will sit in front of the TV and watch something that happened in New Zealand but they won't know what's happening in Crozet. Or they sit and watch things that don't happen.”
Cazenovia giggled.

“How can you watch what doesn't happen?”
The Lab thought this was insane.

“Made-up stories, films. Or books. They'll sit down and read fiction. It's stuff that never happened!”
Cazenovia watched the yellow handsome fellow just get bowled over with the information.

“How can they tell the truth from what they make up?”

“Brinkley, they can't!”
Cazenovia laughed so hard she fell onto the Lab's back, then rolled under his tummy. She quickly righted herself but remained under his tummy.

“Now wait a minute, Cazzie. You aren't exactly fair.”
Mrs. Murphy swept her whiskers forward, all attention.
“Brinkley, humans are afraid. They're not fast, you see. They can't outrun danger and they aren't strong or quick. They are much more afraid than we are because of this. So these stories that are made up are made up to let them learn about other humans' lives. See, it gives them courage. They don't feel so alone. They're herd animals. Always remember that they fear being alone and they fear the dark. Their eyes are good in daylight but pretty bad at night. I would have to say that the made-up stories serve a purpose and I think most humans do know the difference between those stories and what's happening around them.”

“Oh, Mrs. Murphy, you're too kind.”
Cazzie shook her head.
“I've seen Herb weep over a story.”

“Daddy's sensitive.”
Elocution nodded in agreement.

“They have a great range of feeling if they choose to use it,”
Mrs. Murphy said.

“Mostly they blunt their nerve endings, listen to the noise, and wonder why they feel out of step.”
Cazzie moved to sit alongside Brinkley.
“They're too caught up in words.”

“We can talk. We have words,”
Brinkley said.

“Yes, but we don't confuse the word with the deed. They do,”
Mrs. Murphy told him.

“Better yet, they substitute the word for the deed and do nothing.”
Pewter laughed uproariously, the others laughing with her.

“I had no idea humans were so complicated.”
Brinkley liked Cazzie rubbing along his side.

“They are and they aren't. They need to go back to their senses, live where they live instead of worrying about something thousands of miles away. Too much planning.”
Elocution liked humans nonetheless.

“Hey, if you live in a temperate climate, you have to plan. Winter changes how humans think. Humans who live in the tropics or subtropics don't have to plan.”
Mrs. Murphy read along with Harry who had been reading about these things.
“But any animal that lives with winter has to figure things out. Even squirrels bury nuts. Humans, too.”

“I haven't seen Tazio bury nuts.”

“Her bank accounts. That's where the nuts are,”
Pewter sagely noted.

“You mean that's what she does when she goes to the bank?”

“Oh yes. They store things. Lock them right up, they do.”
Cazenovia nodded in agreement.
“That's why we have, I mean had, those boxes of communion wafers.”

With this all the animals screamed with laughter.

“What's going on in there?” Harry called from the next room using her “mother” voice.

“Wouldn't you like to know?”
Pewter sassed.

32

H
arry drove from the meeting to the Clam. She'd missed the first half of the game because the meeting went on and on. The animals curled up in the blankets and she hurried into the building.

Matthew, BoomBoom, and Tazio also rushed to get to the game. The rest of the gang was already there.

Fred flipped a bird at Matthew when he looked over his shoulder at him. Harry saw it and couldn't believe Fred was that childish.

Anne Donaldson had given her seats to friends. Harry, Fair, and BoomBoom introduced themselves.

Tracy and Josef officiated a tough game, a dirty game, too. The opponents stuck out elbows under the basket, tripped players if no one was looking. Tempers frayed. Despite their efforts to throw the UVA team off stride it didn't work. UVA easily won by twelve points, which was a boost after their last game.

Miranda joined Harry, BoomBoom, Susan, Brooks, and Fair for a bite to eat down at Ruby Tuesday's, which wasn't that far from the Clam.

Tracy said he'd join them after he showered. He pulled on his clothes, picked up his gym bag and was all ready to go out the side door. Josef, in a hurry, had already left. The players' locker rooms were on the other side of the officials' locker room.

Tracy walked into the hall. He marveled at how quiet a large building could become after a game. The silence created a pensive mood; one could almost hear the echoes from the dispersed crowd.

He passed a closed door, the lacrosse coach's name on it. No one worked late on this January night. He passed by the equipment room and stopped. He thought he heard sounds coming from inside even though no light spilled from under the door. Given that Mychelle had been killed at the Clam he was extra alert. He pulled out his cell phone, hit the On button. He was so intent on punching in the numbers that he didn't hear someone tiptoeing behind him. The last thing he heard was a crack and he sank like a stone.

33

W
hen Tracy awoke he was flat on the cold floor and it was dark. He touched his head, and a knot the size of a golf ball with a thin crust of dried blood greeted his fingers. He sat upright. He felt pain but he wasn't dizzy or nauseated.

Good, he thought to himself, I don't have a concussion. Where am I? Tuesday night. Game. Twenty-six referee signals. He stopped. That was irrelevant. Perhaps he wasn't as clearheaded as he thought. He breathed deeply. He reached into his pants pocket, retrieving a plastic lighter. Tracy always carried a lighter and a small Leatherman all-purpose tool. He flicked it on, discovering he was inside someone's office. He carefully stood up and switched on the light. The lacrosse coach's office. He sat down at the desk, picked up the receiver of the phone, and punched nine for an outside line. Where was his phone? He'd worry about that later.

“Miranda—”

“Honey, where are you? I've been calling and calling and I get that infernal recording, ‘The cellular customer you have dialed is not available at this time or has left the reception zone. Try again later.' ” Her voice accurately mimicked the inflection of the recording.

“Well.” He didn't want her to worry. “A little delay here after the game. I'll explain when I swing by.” He checked his watch. “Maybe I'd better wait until morning. It's eleven-thirty. Forgot about the time.”

“You come right over here. I don't care if it's three in the morning. Tracy, are you all right?”

“Yes.” He felt in his right pants pocket for his car keys. Still there. “I won't be any longer than an hour.”

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“A little headache. Be right along. Okay?”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you, too. 'Bye.” He hung up the phone, stood up and scrutinized the office. It seemed orderly enough. No skid marks on the floor from his shoe soles meant whoever dragged him, if one person, dragged him by the feet. Two people would have picked up both ends and dumped him but he didn't feel as if he'd been dumped. No other bruises or aches and pains. Just his head, which throbbed the more he moved about.

He opened the door. The hallway was dark. The building seemed deserted. He checked the shelves in the office to see if there was a flashlight. None. He checked the desk drawers. The lacrosse coach, Jason Xavier, didn't keep so much as a penknife in his drawers. Nothing but paper, rubber bands, a playbook, pencils in various states of sharpness, and one leaky ballpoint pen. Tracy shut the drawers. He walked out into the hall, carefully closing the door behind him.

He felt along the circular walls intermittently using his small lighter for guidance. Finally he could see the stairs sign, lit, down the hall. He didn't want to turn on lights.

He hadn't thought of it before. He reached into his left pants pocket. His money was still there. He made the full circle of the building, returning to the equipment room.

He listened outside. Silence. He tried the door. Locked. He continued walking along the corridor, stopping at each door, listening. This bottom level of the Clam was deserted.

The white rectangular light with Stairs written in green beckoned him. He opened the door, listened, then climbed to the next level, the main level. Carefully he walked all the way around. The silence was eerie. He looked up to find himself standing outside the broom closet where Mychelle was found. He listened. Nothing.

Because of the glass doors the lights from the parking lot cast a glow into the front of the main level. He moved to the double interior doors of the basketball court. These were unlocked. The long stainless steel bar across the door clicked as he pressed it down, and opened into the cavernous pitch-black space enlivened only by the small red exit lights. He bent down, wedging a handkerchief between the two doors so the one he opened didn't completely close. If anyone was outside, he hoped he'd hear them. He stood just inside the door and listened. Not even a mouse scuttled along the seats. He strained to hear anything at all. A creak, not a human sound, finally rewarded him. The building breathed, or so it seemed, and that was all.

After ten motionless minutes, he retrieved his handkerchief, carefully closed the door behind him, and left through the main doors which would lock when they closed behind him. The doors had been designed so a person couldn't get locked in the building but once you left they would lock you out.

The cold air, in the low twenties, stung his face. His black Explorer started right up. No one had tampered with it. He drove to Miranda's. His gym bag and cell phone were missing.

When he walked into Miranda's she hugged him so hard she nearly squeezed the breath out of him.

“I've been worried sick.”

“Well, I had a little encounter.” Tracy proceeded to tell her what he remembered.

She checked the left side of his head. “Oh honey, I need to clean this right up.” She hurried into the bathroom, brought out a washcloth and hand towel, then carefully washed the wound with warm water as he sat on a chair by the kitchen sink.

“It's not so bad.”

“It's not so good.” She gingerly dabbed. “It's not bleeding anymore which is good because you know how head wounds can be.”

“Yep.” He'd seen enough of that in Korea and later in Vietnam.

“You could have been killed.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Now, sweetheart, don't worry. There's no reason to kill me. I'm not that bad of a referee.” He laughed.

“Oh Tracy, it's not funny. Something awful is going on at that place.”

“Yes,” he quietly agreed. “I heard something or someone in the equipment room and then—lights out. How's it look up there? Do I need to shave my head?”

“Don't be silly.” She wrung out the washcloth, dipping it again in warm water. “And I will never understand why young men shave their heads bald. If that isn't the ugliest thing I've ever seen.”

“When they forget Michael Jordan, they won't do it anymore. Takes about five years. Next group of kids, he'll be ancient history. People used to shave their heads to get rid of the lice. You shave a head wound if it's bad to keep hair out of it. If young people knew history, they might not want to look like cue balls.”

She peered at the cleansed wound. “I'm going to put some ice cubes in this washcloth. Let me wash it out first. Actually, let me fetch a fresh one. You don't need to hold a wet washcloth. Maybe we can get some of the swelling down.” She bustled into the bathroom, returning with another washcloth which she filled with curved ice cubes.

They repaired to the living room where both sat on the sofa. The fire in the fireplace crackled.

“I'll call Rick in the morning. No point getting him out of bed. And I guess whoever is in charge of the equipment room better run an inventory.”

“You'd better call Rick now. What if this is related to Mychelle's murder or H.H.'s?”

“You're right, honey. I guess I'm not as clearheaded as I thought.” He stood up, still holding the washcloth to his head, called Rick. He told him everything he could remember, then hung up and rejoined Miranda.

“He's going down now to see if he can get prints.”

They watched the fire for a little bit.

“Honey.”

“Hmm,” he answered.

“You won't go down there by yourself? If you have a game to ref, you and Josef should stick together afterward.”

“You're right. I don't think anyone should be alone there until these cases are solved.”

“You could have been killed.” Her eyes filled up again.

He put his arm around her. “But I wasn't. What does that tell you?”

“That your Guardian Angel works overtime.” She dabbed at her tears.

“No. Well, yes. But it means I'm not important. If whoever hit me had wanted to kill me, it would have been easy enough. Right?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

“But they didn't. However, H.H. and Mychelle were killed, and H.H. was killed in front of everyone.”

“But we all thought it was a heart attack at the time.”

“Sugar, there's a meaning to this, a reason. I'm not part of the reason.”

“But you got in the way.”

“That I did and whoever hit me was intelligent enough not to kill if he didn't have to kill. So whatever is going on will tie those people together in some way or tie them into whatever is going on at that building.”

“Isn't it odd that all this is happening in one spot?”

“I don't know. If I just had even one idea, I'd feel better. The only thing I can think of is someone is pilfering equipment and selling it. But that doesn't seem worth two murders.”

“And you're sure that no one else was in the building when you came to your senses?”

“I'm pretty sure it was abandoned. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” He squeezed her shoulder.