Theresa Monsour (29 page)

Duncan looked at the stove. Smoke was seeping out of the oven. He saw the mitt on the counter. He slipped it over his right hand, went over to the oven, opened it. Smoke rolled out. He coughed and pulled the rack toward him. Murphy materialized at his back.

“How's it look?” she asked. She picked up one of the tire photos and started waving smoke away from the ceiling-mounted alarm. It stopped buzzing.

“It looks like you should order a pizza.” Duncan stood up and ran his eyes around the galley. “Got another mitt?” She set the picture back down on the table. Went to the counter, opened a drawer, pulled another mitt out and handed it to him. He slipped it over his left hand, bent over and picked up the pan. He set it on top of the stove, shut the oven door and turned on the vent over the range. He pulled off the mitts and threw them on the counter. “Sausage and pepperoni?”

She stepped closer to him and asked in a whisper, “Jack okay to drive home?”

“He's fine.”

“Good. What did he say?”

“Not much.”

She paused and then it occurred to her that he might have heard something he shouldn't have. “When did you walk in?”

“In time to keep your boat from catching fire.” He picked the key up off the counter and handed it to her. “Found this outside. Assume it belongs to you or one of your boxing buddies.”

She snatched it from him. “It's mine.” She shoved it in the pocket of her sweatpants. She picked up the oven mitts and slipped them on. She took the thermometer out of the black roast and set it in the sink. Picked up the pan. She nodded toward the door. “Open it, would you? I want the stink outside.” He opened the door. She carried the pan outside, bent down and set it on the dock to the right of her door. Stood up and pulled off the mitts. “Tripod can have at it when it cools off.” She stepped back inside and he shut the door behind her.

“Tripod?” he asked.

She tossed the mitts on the counter. “Three-legged dog. He was barking while the boys were punching the shit out of each other.” She turned, took a breath and leaned against the counter. Stopped moving for the first time since he got there. Noticed he looked more pulled together in casual clothes than he usually did in his office wear. Black leather jacket over a black turtleneck and black jeans. She wondered what he thought of her sloppy clothes. She brushed her bangs to make sure her scar was covered.

Erik came down the stairs holding a washcloth stuffed with ice to his nose. “Duncan.”

Duncan saluted him. “Erik.”

Erik tossed the cloth and ice into the sink. Touched under his nose and checked his fingers. No more blood. “How'd you happen to show up in time to referee?”

“My good luck. Actually I've got some stuff to talk to Murphy about. Stuff about the case.”

Murphy picked up a jean jacket that was hanging from
the back of a kitchen chair and handed it to Erik. “Before you launch into it, let me see Erik to the door.”

Duncan looked at Erik and saw his mouth harden. Erik took the jacket from her and slipped it on. Duncan stifled a smirk; she was throwing her lover out. Erik stepped into his running shoes parked by the front door. She pulled the door open for him. As he was walking out, Erik bent toward her to kiss her and she leaned away from him. Duncan turned his back to them, pleased she was mad at Erik. Duncan pulled his cell phone out of his right jacket pocket, turned it on and used the voice dial. “Pizza.” He heard the door shut. He turned around and Murphy walked toward him.

“That's sad,” she said.

“What?” he asked.

“You have the pizza joint on voice dial.”

He laughed and then said into the phone, “Yeah. For delivery. A large sausage and pepperoni. Houseboat parked at the St. Paul Yacht Club.” He paused. “I don't know. I'll meet you on the dock. How long?” He hung up and shoved the phone back in his pocket. “I'm sorry.”

“For?”

“The deal in my office.”

She put her hands on her hips. “So this isn't about the case.”

“It's more about my groveling.”

“You made up for it tonight. If you hadn't showed up, I'd have two wet fools sitting at my table right now.”

“And a charred kitchen. Don't forget that.”

“And a charred kitchen.”

“Not bad for a Yo-Yo.”

Her mouth dropped open. He'd heard her call him that. Then she realized he'd listened to more upstairs than he let on. She didn't know if she should be embarrassed or angry. She wrote off both emotions. She pulled out a chair. Sat down. “Tell you what. You can pay for the pizza.” He took off his jacket and draped it over a chair. Pulled the chair out and sat down next to her.

He eyed the photos on the kitchen table. “Your photos of Sweetie's truck tires?”

“Yeah.”

“Turned out pretty good.”

“Castro's digital.”

He picked up the photo of the tread mark found in the park.

“Winter e-mailed it to Erik,” she said.

He held the tread mark photo in his right hand. His eyes ran over the photos she'd taken. He pushed them around with his fingers and, from the bottom of the mess, picked up one from the table. Held it next to the one from the park. “I'd say we have a winner.”

She stood up and went behind him. “Really? Erik and I couldn't see it.” She looked over his shoulder at the two photos as he held them next to each other. Rested her right hand on his right shoulder and leaned over. “Son of a bitch. You're right. That is a match.” She realized how close they were. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her right breast was pressed into his back. The only thing separating them was her tee shirt and his thin turtleneck. She suddenly straightened and took her hand off his shoulder.

He turned his head and looked at her. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said. She went to the refrigerator.

Behind her back, he was grinning.

She pulled open the refrigerator. “How about a beer?”

“Sure. The tread marks and tires should match even better after a couple of beers.” He reached across the table and collected all the photos. Stacked them into a pile. “Wish we had a copy of the cast itself. We could take it to the reunion and compare it to the genuine article.”

She pulled out a six-pack of St. Pauli Girl and shut the door. “Let's just worry about getting those fingerprints off of him tomorrow night. Getting some information out of him. Bring up those boys who died in high school. See what that does.” She plucked a magnetized bottle opener off the refrigerator.

“You never told me why Sweetie did those boys.”

“They beat the shit out of him for asking me to homecoming.” She set the opener and beer down on the table. Was going to take a chair across from Duncan and told herself that was stupid and paranoid. She sat down next to him. “Now I'm thinking he killed a lot more people in between those four in high school and those two in Moose Lake. They were the tip of a big fucking iceberg.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I made some calls today. He was a suspect in at least one other hit-and-run. In Wisconsin. I've got a buddy in Public Safety ready to help me plow through old Minnesota cases.”

Duncan sat for a few seconds, digesting what she'd said. He shook his head. “Scary.”

“Scary. Good description of Sweet. Of both Trips.”

“The scary Trips,” Duncan muttered. He pulled a bottle out of the pack. “St. Pauli Girl. Good choice.”

“I'd offer you wine but I'm out and the liquor delivery guy probably got lost. Your pizza guy will get lost, too. They can never find this place. I don't get it. The Mississippi is such a big landmark. It's not like I tell them to take a right at the big rock or something.”

“Liquor delivery? You call me pathetic.”

“Shut up. I've been busy.”

She tried to hand him the opener. “Don't need it,” he said. He grabbed a second bottle out of the pack, tipped it upside down and used the cap to pry the top off the first bottle. He set the second bottle down and saw her staring. “What?”

“That's how my brothers open a beer bottle in a pinch.”

He took a sip of beer. “Is that how you see me? A brother?”

“I don't know how I see you, Duncan. We really don't know each other.”

“We're not in the office. How about using my first name?”

“Axel.”

“I like hearing you say it.” He took another sip and set
the bottle down. “Well, Paris. What are you going to wear?”

She popped the cap off her bottle, dropped the opener on the table. “I've got my marching orders. I'm to
wear something hot for a change
. Isn't that how you put it?”

“How long do I have to live that down?” he asked. “I said I was sorry.”

“You guys.” She took a sip. “You think that's all it takes.”

“What can I do to make it up to you?”

“Cover my back tomorrow night.”

“I think we're going to make a good team.” He held up his beer in tribute.

“We'll see,” she said, and clicked her bottle against his.

He put the bottle to his mouth, took a drink. Stifled a burp. Put the bottle on the table. “Can you dance worth a shit?”

“Hell yeah.” She took a bump off her beer. “Can you shoot worth a shit?”

“Fuck yes.”

“Then we'll make a great team.”

ONE HUNDRED AND eighty-two polybagged dress shirts. The entire knife collection packed away in an old steamer trunk. Stereo and CDs. Metal chest filled with car repair tools. Elvis Presley clock. “Elvis Presley Boulevard” street sign.
E.P.
hat. Box of Graceland cigarette lighters. Graceland snow globe. Bunny Pederson's peach purse. Keri Ingmar's purse and clothes. Two frozen bodies encased in cowboy bedsheets. Bloody towels.

On his way to the reunion Saturday night, Trip took a mental inventory of what he'd packed into the back of his truck late Friday and early Saturday while his neighbors slept. The last he'd loaded, and the worst, had been the bodies. He'd again donned the hooded parka and gloves so he wouldn't have to feel their hard skin when he fished them out of the freezer. His father wasn't frozen solid like Keri; he still had some bend. He'd dropped his old man in the middle of the sheet with the bloody towels from the cleanup. Gathered up the corners diagonally and tied them. A neat package. Dragged the bundle down the front steps and lifted it onto the gate without much trouble. Pushed it
tight against the other stuff. Getting Keri out had been a bitch. Couldn't lift her out of the freezer for anything. Couldn't get a good enough grip. He'd been terrified something would snap off. A finger or an entire arm. He'd finally pushed the freezer over on its side and pulled her out. Rolled her onto the sheet like a boulder. Strangely, the coins had stayed stuck to her eyes. She'd looked frosty. A hunk of meat with freezer burn. He'd thrown her clothes and purse on top of her. Remembered the bridesmaid's purse in the garbage. Dug it out, tossed it on top of her. Gathered up the corners of the sheet and tied them and then twined nylon rope around the works. Used the rope like a handle to pull her down the steps. Lifting her onto the gate had nearly killed him. Wedged her next to his old man. Two bundles wrapped in cowboys.

Didn't go to bed. He'd sat on the couch and watched television, occasionally dozing off. Falling asleep with the remote in his hand. A privilege only his old man had enjoyed. Every so often he'd gotten up off the couch and peeked through the front room window to make sure no one was messing around near the truck.

Before he'd left for the reunion, he eyeballed the front room one last time. If anyone looked closely they could find evidence of blood, but he figured he'd given no one reason to scrutinize the place. His plan was to drive carefully and stay sober and straight while on the road. Give no state trooper reason to stop him. Bury the bodies, the towels, the women's purses and Keri's clothes at night. Somewhere between St. Paul and Memphis. The only thing he'd keep were the assortment of pills from Keri. He'd dumped the entire stash in with Keri's Prilosec prescription—including the Roofies.

As he steered the truck down Summit Avenue, he slipped his hand inside his right jacket pocket and touched the bottle. Safely tucked away. He withdrew his hand from the jacket and felt the bulge in his right pants pocket. The straight-edge. In case. His hand moved to the controls on the CD player. He turned up the volume on “Evil Element”
by Taste of Insanity. The guitar squeals ripped through the cab. He pulled at the neck of his shirt. He'd sifted through all the shirts and picked out one of the few with sleeves long enough for his arms. A pale gray shirt. Athletic fit. Fifty cotton. Fifty poly. Button-down collar. Perfect with his cuffed slate-gray dress pants. No tie. After getting fired from his sales job, he never wanted to see another tie. Instead of a suit coat he wore his best jacket, the gray suede bomber. The black leather belt and black dress shoes were his old man's. His pa didn't need them anymore.

He stopped on the street in front of the reception hall, an old mansion like the other mansions that lined Summit Avenue. The three-story stone house was surrounded by wrought iron. The fence was draped in dried vines and white Christmas lights. The front yard was illuminated by a coach lamp mounted on a post, and by ceiling lights on the open front porch. Trip could see a few people milling about on the porch with their cigarettes and cigars. The rest had to be inside; it was cold and windy outside and an icy drizzle was starting to slice the air in diagonal lines. Trip wouldn't miss the Minnesota weather.

All the street parking in front of the hall was taken on both sides of Summit. He turned down the side street that ran alongside the mansion. Was frustrated parking wasn't allowed on one side. Found a space at the end of the block on the other side. He made a U-turn and pulled into the space. He shut off the truck. Shoved the keys in his left pants pocket. Hopped out. Slammed the driver's-side door and pulled on the handle to make sure it was locked. He glanced at the topper. Nothing suspicious. He sniffed. No stink. As long as the cold weather held, the bodies would keep. He buried his hands in his pockets as he walked down the sidewalk. The wind was in his face; the rain felt like needles on his skin. Ahead of him, a man and a woman were walking arm in arm under an umbrella. They were probably headed to the same place. He wondered if he knew them. Was the man a jock who'd shoved his face into a locker? Was the woman a bitch who'd whispered with
her friends? Pointed at him? Laughed at him? The couple crossed under a streetlight. They had gray hair. Too old to be his former classmates. Since it was an all-class reunion, there'd be a lot of people he didn't know. He didn't care. As long as one person in particular showed up. He kept walking. Wondered what she'd be wearing. Who this fella was that she'd have on her arm. Trip had more than enough pills. Maybe he'd waste both of them.

 

TRIP paid the cover charge at the door and walked in. Didn't bother standing at the table inside the front door to fill out a name tag. Ignored the other tables filled with St. Brice High memorabilia. Yearbooks. Homecoming buttons. Programs from school plays. Football trophies. Basketball trophies. Hockey trophies. None of that had ever been a part of his life. That was some other world he'd heard about but never experienced. He saw people carrying their jackets upstairs. He didn't want to leave his jacket in the coatroom. He wanted it handy so he could bolt when he wanted.

Most people were funneling into the largest room on the main floor, an area that originally must have been the mansion's front room and dining room. Trip followed the crowd. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Chandeliers hung overhead. At the front end of the room was a band setting up on a small stage. At the opposite end, against the back wall, was a cloth-covered banquet table filled with food. Trip thought it was typical Minnesota fare. Veggies and dip. Fruit. Cheese and crackers. Sliced meats and rolls. Meatballs simmering in barbecue sauce. He wondered whatever gave northerners the idea of polluting barbecue sauce with meatballs. In his mind, he was already home eating real southern cooking. Interstate Bar-B-Que would be his first stop. A slab of pork ribs with a side of beans.

People were coming upstairs from the basement with drinks in their hands. He went down. He told himself he needed a drink in his hand so he wouldn't look suspicious.
So he had something to do besides sit. Everyone else went downstairs for their drink and took it back upstairs to the main floor. Trip stayed in the bar, a converted cellar with stone walls and a low ceiling. He sat at a table in a far corner with his back to the wall and his eyes trained on the floor. He raised his eyes whenever he heard a female voice at the bar; he didn't want to miss her. Though a parade of people passed through the basement, he didn't try talking to anyone and no one tried talking to him. His resolve to stay sober melted in the crowded reception house. For him it was filled with two kinds of people: those he didn't know, and those he knew and never liked. One pair of blondes in particular. He remembered them. Recognized them the instant they walked into the bar. Long, straight hair parted down the middle. They wore their hair the same way in high school. They weren't related but the pair's nickname was “The Twins.” They did everything together. Both were cheerleaders. Shared their lunch bags with each other. Took the same classes. They stood behind him on the choir risers. They'd complain in voices too low for the teacher to hear but loud enough for his ears: “Can't even see with the f . . . f . . . freak in the way.” “Wish the f . . . freak would move his f . . . fat f . . . fucking head.” “The f . . . f . . . freak can't sing worth a shit.” They were “The Twins” and he was “The Freak.” He hated them. They were giggling as they left the bar with their glasses of wine. They didn't see him sitting there, but he was certain they were laughing at him.

He ditched the idea of trying to impress anyone with his heroic volunteer efforts. Nothing he could do would ever make them accept him, even after all these years. All he wanted to do was poison Paris Murphy and her boyfriend and leave town. He reached into the right pocket of his jacket and touched the pill bottle again.