"How about if he popped a couple of people because he got the urge?"
"Maybe," Service said. "He's had enough shit shoveled on him, all his life. He could be pretty angry under all of it. Kids gave him a hard time in school, old man gives him a hard time at home, doesn't have the brains to deal with it. He just heads for the trees."
Interesting, Virgil thought, when he said good-bye to Service. A good suspect whom he had no good reason to suspect.
FROM HIS CAR, he called Mapes and asked him about Slibe's AR-15, and was told that they'd done test shots with it, and whatever it might be, it wasn't the weapon that had produced the shells at Stone Lake or the Washington shooting.
"Could you get that back to me? Is there some way I could get it back this afternoon?"
"Let me check around. We'll figure out something."
The gun, Virgil thought, was an excellent reason to go back out to Slibe's place.
HE WAS ON HIS way to the hospital, to check on Washington, to see if she was awake and had anything else to say, to ask if she or her husband knew anything about Jared Boehm or the Deuce, when Sanders called. "I got a woman who wants to talk to you. She says she might have some information."
"Yeah? Who?"
"Iris Garner. She's Margery Stanhope's daughter."
IRIS GARNER was a tall redheaded woman in her mid-thirties who lived not far from the Boehms, in another sprawling ranch house, but on the precise edge of town, off the water, with an actual ranch in the back. Not exactly a ranch, but a training ring for horses, with a small horse barn behind it, and a pasture that extended out to a tree line that marked the edge of the real countryside.
She smiled in a tired way when she answered the door, said, "Come in," and as they walked through to the living room, she said, "I wasn't sure I should call you. I had to think about it. But after Jan Washington… I'm not even sure that this amounts to anything…"
"I take everything," he assured her.
"Mother doesn't know that I called you," she said. "Please don't tell her, unless it's necessary. She'd be really upset."
She sat down in a red armchair next to a flagstone fireplace, and Virgil settled onto a couch. "That's not a problem. The only time the specifics of an investigation get out is when they get into court. At that point, of course, things are pretty serious."
She understood that. "All I want to say, that I think you should know, is that Mother told me that you were a little friendly with Zoe Tull. Is that right?"
"A little. She gave me a ride from the Eagle Nest to the airport, to pick up a rental-and she showed me the Wild Goose, so I could interview some of the people who hang out there," Virgil said.
"Wendy and her band. I know about that." Garner sighed, then asked, "Did you know Zoe wants to buy the Eagle Nest from Mother? That she's been trying to do it for a couple of years? And that Erica McDill is… was… another possible buyer?"
A moment of silence, then Virgil said, "Nobody mentioned it to me."
"Here's the thing," Garner said. "Mother would like to retire. Earl and I-that's my husband-think she should stay on for a few years. The real estate market is falling to pieces, and five years from now, she could probably get a lot more. Unless we're in a depression, or something. Anyway, Zoe is pushing her to sell. Zoe would like to market the place more to lesbians. She thinks that lesbians are a rich specialized market. Mother has never really done that. We had lesbians, but we had a lot of straight women, too. Heck, when I was a kid, we were a family resort. My folks only started the all-women thing when every Tom, Dick, and Harry from the Cities started building fishing resorts."
"About McDill…"
"Mother mentioned to Erica McDill that she might want to sell the place, and Erica right away said that she might be interested in buying it," Garner said. "Mother told me at dinner Sunday before last. I don't know how serious Erica was, and I don't know what became of it."
"You're saying that Zoe might have had competition for the place," Virgil said.
"Not just that… by the way, I do like Zoe, even if she is gay. What I'm saying is that Zoe works really hard, and saves her money, and really has her heart set on this. Then Erica comes along. A bidding war would push up the price, and Zoe can't afford that. A bidding war would be the end of her. Erica, as I understand it, has a lot of money. Had a lot of money."
"When's the sale supposed to take place?" Virgil asked.
"Well, if it does, this winter. Usually, that sort of thing happens in the off-season. It would have happened last winter, but Zoe couldn't get the financing together, and asked Mother for another year."
"Why wouldn't your mother have told me this? Or Zoe?"
"I suppose because… they didn't want you to suspect them," she said. "I'm only telling you because… well, what if it is Zoe? What if she's gone a little crazy? What if Mother's on her list?"
"Huh. All right. Interesting," Virgil said. "You did well to tell me. I will keep your name under my hat, but I will look into it."
AT THE HOSPITAL, he found Jan Washington had been moved to Duluth.
"When did this happen?" he asked the nurse.
"About an hour ago. They think she might be bleeding again, inside, and they need better imaging equipment. They're probably going back in."
"Is she… how serious is this?"
"Serious, but nobody thinks she'll die. I mean, she might-but it's mostly getting inside to see what's happening. She's pretty strong."
VIRGIL STOPPED AND KNOCKED on Zoe's door, but nobody was home. He called the sheriff's department, identified himself, and asked for an address and directions. He got them, found Zoe's business office at the end of a strip mall, ZOE TULL, CPA.
Inside, he found a waiting room, with a half-dozen comfortable chairs with business magazines, two people waiting, and a secretary-receptionist who said Zoe was with a client, behind one of three closed office doors down a short hallway. A bigger operation than Virgil had expected.
Virgil identified himself and asked, "Could you break in, tell her that I need to talk to her for a minute? It's somewhat urgent."
The secretary was reluctant, knocked on the last door, then went in; a moment later, she came back out and said, "Just one minute."
Zoe came out a minute later, and Virgil tipped his head toward the door, and they stepped outside.
"What happened?" Zoe said.
"Why didn't you tell me that you were competing with McDill on the purchase of the Eagle Nest?"
Zoe pulled back a bit, watching him, judging, then said, "Because it had nothing to do with the murder, and it was a complicating factor. Besides, she wasn't serious. When Margery told her that she might sell out, she said something like, 'I could be interested in something like that.' But she never came back to it. Never asked any serious questions."
"I needed to know, Zoe."
"Why? It's a distraction. It has nothing to do with these killings," she said.
"Because there's a few million dollars in play there. That's enough for a murder," Virgil said. "Her daughter, and her husband, want Margery to stay on, because they think the resort'll bring a better price once we get out of this market slowdown. And the reason they want that is because they'll probably inherit, eventually. So it's not just you."
"You don't really think Iris and Earl would kill somebody to stop a sale?"
"How would I know? I don't know Earl. Or Iris," Virgil said. "I do know that McDill was shot and somebody broke into your house. I have to look at them-and I have to know about them before I can look at them."
She nodded. "Okay, okay. So, I was dumb. But it didn't seem related. Erica wasn't serious… I'm sorry."
"Is there anything else that you don't think is important, that maybe I should know?"
"No. No, there's nothing. Jeez. I thought for a minute that I might be back on the suspect list."
"You never really left it," Virgil said, shaking his head at her.
MAPES CALLED: the rifle was on the way to Grand Rapids wit
h a highway patrolman. "He left here ten minutes ago, but it'll be better'n an hour before he's down there. He'll leave it with the sheriff 's office."
"Thanks, man. I'm gonna use it as an invitation to get back into a place."
"Piece of shit, I can tell you. Been shot a lot. Our gun guy put it on a bench out at the range and couldn't keep it inside four inches at a hundred yards," Mapes said. "Suppose it'd be a good self-defense weapon."
AN HOUR TO KILL.
He'd get some lunch, he thought, pick up the gun, and go roust Slibe. There was something in the whole mess that seemed to want to pull him toward Wendy and her band, including her old man and her brother. An ambient craziness.
He headed out to the highway, to a McDonald's, got a call from Johnson Johnson, who was back home: "Fished the V one more day, never did see a thing. You solve the murder yet?"
"Not yet."
"I was thinking, since they peed all over your vacation, why don't y'all come along to the Bahamas this fall? Get you in a slingshot, put you on some bonefish."
"Johnson, the chances of getting me in a slingshot are about like the chances of you getting laid by a pretty woman."
"Aw, man, I been laid by lots of pretty women," Johnson said.
"Name one."
After a long silence, "This woman… she gotta be pretty?"
Virgil laughed and said, "Johnson, I'll call you when I get back. But count me in. Goddamnit, they can't pull this shit if they can't find me."
SITTING OVER A BIG MAC, fries, and a strawberry shake, he took another call, this one from Jud Windrow, the bar owner from Iowa.
"You in Grand Rapids?" Windrow asked.
"I am," Virgil said, through the hamburger bun. "Where're you?"
"About three thousand feet straight up… just coming in. Wendy's playing the Wild Goose tonight. I'm gonna stop by and take a look. You gonna be around?"
"Could be," Virgil said. "You got something?"
"Huh? Oh, no. You told me to be careful, and I thought if you were around, with a gun, that'd be careful," Windrow said. "Besides, you were wearing that Breeders T-shirt."
"Well, hell. What time you going?"
"First set at seven o'clock," Windrow said. "If she's decent, I'll stay until she quits. If she's not…"
"See you at seven o'clock," Virgil said.
VIRGIL BACKED out of his parking place, drove a block, pulled over, and got on his cell phone. Davenport's secretary answered, and Virgil asked, "Lucas in?"
He heard her call back to Davenport's office, "It's that fuckin' Flowers."
Davenport picked up, said, "Virgil," and Virgil said, "Sometimes I get tired of that 'fuckin' Flowers' stuff."
"I'll let her know," Davenport said. "But it's part of the growing Flowers legend. Or myth, or whatever it is. What's up?"
"Wanted to fill you in," Virgil said.
"Shoot."
Virgil spent five minutes filling him in. When he finished, Davenport said, "You know what I'm going to say."
"So say it."
"Go see this band with the guy from Iowa, stay up late, have a couple beers, and in the morning…"
"Say it…"
"Go fishing."
"I wanted it to be official," Virgil said. "So I could say that you ordered me to."
THE HIGHWAY PATROLMAN HADN'T gotten to the sheriff's office yet, so Virgil hit the men's room, then wandered outside, not wanting any more food or coffee, and so at loose ends; standing there, with his fingers in his jeans pockets, he saw the liver-colored patrol car turn a corner, and walked out to meet the driver.
The patrolman's name was Sebriski, and he wanted to hear about the shoot-out in International Falls. Virgil told him a bit about it, and Sebriski said, "Better you than me, brother."
He'd handed over the rifle and Virgil had signed a receipt for it, and they talked for a couple more minutes about Department of Public Safety politics, and the prospect of raises, and then Sebriski slapped Virgil on the back and went on his way, and Virgil threw the rifle in the back of his truck.
Sebriski had been sucking up a little bit, Virgil thought.
In the immediate wake of the shoot-out in International Falls, in which three Vietnamese nationals had been killed, and another wounded, Virgil, who had a second career going as an outdoor writer, had been invited to write two articles for The New York Times Magazine.
There'd been some bureaucratic mumbling about it, but the governor's chief weasel, who was using the episode to pound his Republican enemies, did the algebra, got the governor to clear the way, and the Times published the articles, the second one two Sundays earlier.
The effect had been greater than he'd anticipated-the Minneapolis papers subscribed to the Times's news service and reran the articles, and that had put them in every town in the state. He was, Davenport said, the most famous cop in Minnesota.
Which worried him a little.
He'd always been the genial observer-that was most of his method-and having other people looking at him, questioning him, watching his moves, was unnerving.
He'd mentioned it to Davenport, and Davenport's wife had said, "Well, somebody's got to be the tall poppy."
He hadn't known exactly what she'd been talking about until he looked it up on Wikipedia.
Then he worried more… and now fellow cops were sucking up to him, which made it worse.
He'd have to fuck something up, he thought, to get back to normal. Shouldn't be a problem.
SLIBE WASN'T HOME when Virgil got there.
The pickup was gone, and when he knocked on the door, he got a hollow echo, the kind you get when a house is empty. Virgil had the rifle case in one hand and stepped back from the door and turned toward his truck and saw Slibe II standing in the doorway of the kennel, with a half-bag of Purina dog chow in his hand. The sun was illuminating him, a Caravaggesque saint set against the black velvet surround of the barn's interior.
Virgil went that way, called out, "How ya doing?"
The Deuce didn't say anything; stood in his camo coveralls, one hand in a pocket, and watched Virgil get closer. Virgil thought about the pistol under the front seat of the truck, but kept walking anyway, smiling, called, "Your dad around?"
The Deuce said, "No trespassin'."
"Bringing your dad's rifle back to him," Virgil said.
The Deuce was an inch taller than Virgil, with melancholy, deep-set dark eyes under overgrown eyebrows and shaggy dark hair that looked as though it had been cut with a knife. He was slender, underfed, with hard, weathered hands and a short beard. He wore a Filson canvas billed hat the precise color of a pile of dog shit somebody had shoveled out of the kennels. He considered Virgil's comment for a moment, then grunted, "You can leave it."
"Can't. Need to get your dad to sign a receipt," Virgil said. He turned casually toward the kennels and asked, "How many dogs you got here?"
"Some," the Deuce said. He smiled, said, "Get 'em going at it, we'll have some more."
"The kind of business you want," Virgil agreed.
"Them bitches want it all the time, when the heat's on them," the Deuce said. He spat in the yard, but in a conversational way, not as an insult.
"You know when your dad's coming back?" Virgil asked.
"Nope."
"I'm a cop, I'm looking into that shooting up at Stone Lake."
"Wendy…" The Deuce lost his thought for a moment, as though his mind were wandering through corridors labeled "Wendy," then found it again. "… told me."
"Yeah? You know that country? Up around Stone Lake?"
"The Deuce knows all the country around here." He dropped the bag of dog food by a foot, stepped out into the driveway, turned slowly around, as though sniffing the air, looked north, then northeast, then pointed with his chin and said, "Off that way. About, maybe… I could walk there after breakfast, get back here for lunch, if I hurried."
"You ever do that?"
"Oh, I went by there a few times, but it's not a good spot," the Deuce said, turning
his dark gaze back on Virgil. "The trails don't lead in there."
"The trails?"
"Indian trails. I follow the Indian trails. But the lake is there, cuts the trails off…" He looked north again, then gestured. "See, the trails go this way, and that way, but they don't go straight, because the lake cuts them off, so they bend."
"But if I needed somebody to take me in there, you could do it," Virgil said.
"Could. Probably wouldn't," the Deuce said.
"Yeah? You don't like cops?"
"Not much," he said.
TALKING TO HIM, Virgil understood what people had meant when they described Slibe II as not quite right. He thought too long about his words, though the words, when they arrived, were appropriate enough; it was the measure of his sentences that was wrong. And he had an odd sideways gaze, not shy, but shielded, as though he were trying to conceal an unhealthy curiosity, or passion, or fear.
Virgil had met people like him a few times, and he knew for sure that if he accused Slibe II of stealing a ham sandwich, a good prosecutor could get him sent to prison for life.
The Deuce oozed guilt.
VIRGIL WAS ABOUT to go on with the questions about Stone Lake, but Slibe Ashbach turned into the driveway in his pickup, bounced down past the garden, and rolled to a stop fifteen feet from the kennel. He climbed out and Virgil said to Slibe II, "Nice talking to you," and walked over to his father. "Dropped by to return the rifle."
Slibe took the gun case, looked at Virgil a little too long, then said, "Clean bill of health, huh?"
"It's not the gun that killed McDill or shot Jan Washington," Virgil said.
Slibe turned his head toward his son a bit, then asked, "They was both shot with the same weapon?"
"We think so," Virgil said. "That's what the lab people tell us."
"Told you it wasn't me," Slibe said. Once again glanced toward his son and then asked, "So what'd the dunce have to say?"
The Deuce backed into the kennel and out of sight.
"We were talking about Indian trails," Virgil said.
"Mmm. Well, he knows them," Slibe said. He hefted the gun: "You done with us?"
"Not completely," Virgil said, with a smile. "Me'n a friend are gonna go see Wendy tonight. He's sort of a big shot in the country music world, wants to take a look at her."
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