'Lover Do,' but I didn't have anything to do with killing McDill.'
Virgil believed her.
GERRY O'MEARA, BASS, didn't seem to have a nickname; she'd been working on the 'Lover Do' song with Wendy and the others when McDill was killed. 'Yeah, there'll have to be some personnel changes in the band, and I guess she probably knows it. I mean, this is what I do for a living, and I'm good at it, and I've played with some heavy people. Now I need to cash it in. I'm almost thirty, and if I'm going to make it, it's got to be soon.'
'But you don't think the changes might somehow lead to this murder?' Virgil asked.
'I don't see how. McDill was going to help with PR, and with contacts in Nashville and so on, but… I don't see how the changes would wind up with her getting shot. I think it was something at the Eagle Nest. Somebody heard about her sleeping with Wendy and got jealous. I mean, who else would know where Erica was going in that canoe?'
'Good point. Have you heard that McDill had anything going up here, other than Wendy?'
'No, I haven't heard anything. I don't hang with the gay chicks. I'm straight. But McDill getting killed has to be one of two things, right? Business-I mean, money-or sex. Jealousy. One of those two things. You just have to figure out which one.'
'Thank you,' Virgil said.
WENDY.
'I think maybe I want a lawyer when I'm talking to you,' she said.
Virgil said, 'Okay. Get a lawyer. If you can't afford a lawyer, I'll arrange to have the court appoint one…'
She threw her hands up. 'Wait-wait-wait. You got me. I don't want a fuckin' lawyer,' Wendy said. 'Ask your questions.'
'When you slept with McDill the other night, was there a man around? Did you share a man? In any way?'
She looked at him for a minute, then did a reflexive grin, shook her head, and said, 'You know about the boys, huh? But no, it was just the two of us, bumpin' cunts.' She said it casually, no longer trying to shock him.
'Had McDill been playing with any of the other women up there? Or any of the men?'
'They're not really men-they're boys. Everybody calls them boys. And I don't know about McDill. I went up there because we'd been talking and doing some cocktails, and we were sneaking around Berni to do this, which got me kind of hot, so when Erica says, 'Come on up to the lodge,' I said, 'Okay.' It was that quick. Nothing planned. We went up there, had a few more cocktails, and got naked. I can give you the details of that, if you'd like.'
'Sure, go ahead,' Virgil said.
She looked at him for a moment, then said, 'Fuck you.'
'Do I make you nervous?' Virgil asked.
'You're not like other cops I've known-the thing that worries me is that you might be nuts,' she said. 'We don't need a nut. We need somebody who can clear this up, not a big cloud over the band.'
Virgil said, 'I'd like to talk to your father.'
'Why's that?'
'Because from what I've heard, he's virtually a part of the band. And I've got this thing going in my head: maybe somebody didn't want McDill to mess with the band. Maybe somebody saw her as a threat, who'd either take you away from them, or maybe force some people out of the band… I understand from some people that your father has been pretty central to your career.'
'Well, he's… I don't know what he is. He's not an official member or anything,' Wendy said. 'He's the one guy I know who has my best interests at heart, and I don't have to worry about that. I don't have to worry that he's up to something.'
'He's got your back,' Virgil said.
'That's it: that's what he does.'
'Still need to talk to him,' Virgil said. 'I'm told he's sort of a backwoods guy. A good shot.'
She didn't react to the 'good shot.' She said, 'Well, go on out-he's around.'
9
BEFORE GOING TO TALK to Slibe Ashbach, Virgil called Zoe again, and she was still at her house. He got directions and went over, and looked at the locks.
'The locks are fine,' he said, when he'd looked.
She lived in a modest bungalow, two bedrooms, and one of the bedrooms had an antique folk-art crucifix over the bed, and he wondered about it but didn't ask.
'The doors, on the other hand, are crap,' he said. 'A child could kick out those bottom panels, and the windowpanes are too big. Somebody with a gun could stick the gun barrel through the glass, knock it out, and unlatch the door. When you get the money, buy new doors.'
She was anxious about it, but also an accountant: 'There's usually no problem…'
'This is the twenty-first century, the problem's always out there,' he said. He put his fists on his hips: 'Now, why'd they break in? Why?'
'I still can't figure it out. I keep thinking about it-I can't get away from it,' she said. 'But I know one thing. I've lived here for thirty years with no problems, and then I hang out with a cop on a murder case for one day, and somebody tries to get in… That doesn't feel like a coincidence.'
'No, it doesn't. So think about it,' Virgil said. 'All the time. Work something out. Call me.'
THE ASHBACH PLACE was an early twentieth-century farmhouse eight miles out of town, down a country road that pushed past a couple of lake turnoffs, dropped from blacktop road to gravel, and finally ended at Ashbach's. It could be a hard place to get to in the winter, Virgil thought as he drove in; a place where you'd need snowmobiles.
The two-story farmhouse looked like something from Grant Wood: white, with a picket fence around a neat patch of green lawn, clumps of zinnias and marigolds along the fence, fifty yards off the road. Closer to the road, a brown double-wide trailer sat on concrete blocks that had all been neatly painted gray. Farther back, at the end of the drive, was a newer metal barn, and off to the right of the barn, an open shed, covering two Bobcats-a backhoe and a front-end loader-and a larger Caterpillar shovel. A lowboy was parked beside the shed. Across the drive from the farmhouse, an open half-shed was two-thirds full of split firewood.
The house sat on what Virgil thought was probably twenty acres, with a pine plantation at the far end, and a half-dozen apple trees clustered in a back pasture. At the driveway entrance, a home-painted sign said ASHBACH KENNELS. Under that, an older sign said SLIBE ASHBACH SEPTIC amp; GRADING. And under that, a newer metal sign said NO TRESPASSING.
As he turned in the drive, Virgil noticed that the metal barn had a series of chain-link enclosures protruding from the sides, each with a half-grown yellow dog inside. A neat and expansive vegetable garden ran parallel to the driveway, filled with corn, beans, cabbage, some used-up rows that probably had been greens and radishes, earlier in the year; and a plot of dark green potato plants, enough to feed a family for a long northern winter. The back side of the garden was bordered by a raspberry patch.
A nice place, Virgil thought, if a little low, dark, and isolated.
A man was working next to the firewood shed.
SLIBE ASHBACH WAS FIFTY or fifty-five, weathered, stocky, with a sandy three-day beard and dishwater blond hair worn long from a balding head. He was dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and muddy camo boots, working over a hydraulic log-splitter, splitting and piling firewood, which he stacked in the shed.
Virgil got out of his truck and walked over. Slibe didn't stop working for a minute, finished off three logs, threw them on the stack of split oak, then cut the motor and looked at Virgil and asked, 'You see that no trespassing sign?'
