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 with 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
