was a dishwater blond, slender, athletic, and pretty, wearing a blue shirt that vibrated with his blue eyes, and khaki surfer shorts and sandals. He was eating an apple and shook hands with his free hand, and said, 'Come on in-should we have our lawyer here?'
Virgil said, 'This is more of an interview than an interrogation. I can't tell you not to get a lawyer, so…'
'We'll trust you, at least for now,' Abby said with a toothy smile. 'I might have to run and get the baby now and again. He's in his pen right now, not making a peep.'
They arranged themselves in the front room, Pottery Barn couches and overstuffed chairs with a scattering of antiques and new Stickley-style oak tables and bookcases. Abby Sexton put a plastic box on the table and said, 'It's an intercom, so we can hear if the baby cries.'
Virgil didn't quite know how to open the conversation, with Mark Sexton sitting there, and said, 'I don't know exactly how to get into this…?'
'If you're worried about Mark, he knows all about it. He knew about it at the time,' Abby Sexton said.
Mark Sexton nodded; he didn't seem put off.
'All right,' Virgil said. He still felt uncomfortable-this wasn't exactly a country-western scenario. 'I've interviewed a number of people, and it's been suggested that the murder may have originated here in the Cities. That Miss McDill was about to get full control of the agency, and that she planned to fire a number of people. I've been told that Mark might have been one of them, not because of job performance but as revenge for… the unpleasantness at the end of your relationship.'
'We didn't know that she'd gotten control of the agency,' Mark Sexton said. 'I read that in the paper this morning, and called up some other people. One guy had heard rumors, but most of us were clueless. I don't think I would have been fired anyway, because I'm pretty on top of the job. But who knows?'
'Who heard the rumors?' Virgil asked.
The two glanced at each other, then Mark shrugged and said, 'Barney Mann. He's the creative director for the agency. He's sort of the information central.'
'What was Mr. Mann's attitude toward Miss McDill?' Virgil asked.
'They got along,' Mark Sexton said. 'Barney's really good at what he does. So was Erica, in a way. She wasn't any threat to him.'
'Like Hitler,' Abby Sexton said. 'Good at what she does, if you don't mind working with a Nazi.'
'But you had a relationship with her,' Virgil said.
'That was sex,' Abby Sexton said. 'Even a Nazi can be good in bed.' Mark Sexton smiled indulgently at his wife. Like Ward Cleaver finding out that June had just dropped an oatmeal cookie on the good carpet, Virgil thought.
He said, 'Huh.' Virgil didn't like either one of them, and struggled to hide it. 'When you and Miss McDill broke up, was there any kind of an aftermath? Did she come around to see you? Were there any threats? Or scenes?'
'Phone calls. But it was typical breaking-up kind of stuff,' Abby Sexton said, wrinkling her nose. 'The problem was, she didn't want to share. I mean, she wanted to stay with Ruth while we went out-you know about Ruth?-but she didn't want me with Mark. But I like men and told her I was going to stay with Mark. So then I suggested that we share Mark, that we three get together. But she wasn't into that. She'd be happy enough to share a man, but not an employee, if you can believe that.'
'Huh. So she wasn't strictly gay?'
'Not strictly-technically a bi, I guess, like Mark and me,' she said.
He digested that for a moment, then smiled at them, apologetically, and asked, 'Where were you the evening before last? Here in the Cities?'
'We got a babysitter, Sandra Oduchenko, who lives down the street, and she came at seven o'clock, and we went out clubbing with some friends,' Abby Sexton said. 'We are completely alibied, up to our necks. That's why we didn't call a lawyer. Do you want everybody's names?'
Virgil took the names down, and then asked, 'Who do you think did it?'
Abby Sexton rolled her eyes up and took a deep breath. Her husband deferred to her, and she said, 'We definitely think it's possible that it was somebody with the agency. If we had to take a guess-you're not going to tell anybody that we said this, right?-we'd say Ronald Owen.'
Ronald Owen, she said, was in his late fifties and for the past five or ten years, had slipped from being one of the top account managers to being something less than that: the guy who got small stuff, and who no longer did much with it.
'He burned out,' Mark Sexton chipped in. 'But he's got kids and alimony and a second wife and he can't afford to quit. The other thing is, he's one of those veteran guys you see around-he was in Vietnam toward the end of the war, and all of that. He's bitter about the way everything turned out. He's also got good sources, so I suspect he knew about McDill taking over. And he hunts. Every year. People kid him about it, but he goes off and shoots antelope in Montana, and deer in Wisconsin. He's really into guns. He's always talking about how the rest of us don't know about real life. He says we get life from Whole Foods. He calls us Whole Foodies.'
They had another suggestion, a John Yao, 'An Asian, who's always creeping around. He runs some Asian business accounts, local stuff, Hmong businesses. He's another gun guy. I get a really bad feeling from him,' Mark said. They had nothing specific about Yao-no suggestion that he was about to get fired, except that his accounts were 'ratshit stuff. Small, insignificant. McDill might have decided to get rid of them.'
VIRGIL BROUGHT THE TALK BACK to the Sexton-McDill relationship. 'From what you knew of her, was she sexually predatory? When she was with you, was she drifting away from Ruth, and looking for another long-term relationship? Or was she really going out on the town?'
'Mmm. She definitely didn't like me leaving-but I think her relationship with Ruth was about done. And I knew that our relationship wouldn't have lasted, and she was smart enough to know that, too.'
'Might there have been another relationship after you? Somebody that Ruth didn't know about?'
She shook her head: 'I don't know. I'd tell you, but I don't know.'
'If she did,' Mark said, 'it wasn't with anyone associated with the agency. Word would have gotten around- there are no secrets in that place.'
VIRGIL ASKED a few more questions, but basically had written them off as suspects: their alibis would be too easy to check, so he doubted that they'd be lying. He ran out of follow-up questions, asked them for any last thoughts, and stood up.
As he did, the baby started crying, its voice squeaking out through the intercom.
'You're up,' Abby Sexton said to her husband, and he hurried off. 'We try to split the baby chores exactly fifty- fifty,' she said.
She trailed Virgil to the door, and as he went out, he said, 'Listen, thank you for your help, and I may get back to you.'
She stepped a foot too close and put a hand on his triceps and said, 'Do you do any clubbing? Here in the Cities? I notice you're not wearing a wedding ring.'
'I'm, uh, mostly down south of the Cities,' Virgil said, edging away.
'Well, give us a call if you're in town,' she said. 'We enjoy creative relationships.'
He bobbed his head and hastened away. Creative relationships, my ass. He really didn't like them-and he really didn't think they were involved in the murder of Erica McDill.
Ruth Davies? That was a more interesting proposition…
Virgil glanced back. Abby Sexton was still on her porch, and she waved.
He waved back, and was gone; and thought to himself, as he turned the corner, Do not imagine Mark Sexton naked in bed.
NOON. He called Mann from his truck and asked, 'How long is that meeting going to last?'
'I don't know, but it'll be a while. People are freaking out. Everybody'll want to talk for eight minutes, so that'll be an hour and a half of bullshit before we get to the hard stuff.'
'Do you have a number and address for a Ronald Owen?' Virgil asked.
'Sure. What does Ron have to do with this?'
'Don't know. I want to ask him,' Virgil said.
'That fuckin' Sexton pointed you at him,' Mann said. Not a question. 'That little weasel. Listen, I'll vouch for Ron, if that means anything.'
