Theresa Monsour (4 page)

WHAT A RUSH it had been. Being fawned over. Fought over. “I get the first live shot . . . Bullshit. I was here first . . . I set this up before you got here.” Treated with respect. Treated like someone with a mind. Called “Mister” every time he turned around. “You're doing fine, Mr. Trip . . . Thank you for your time, Mr. Trip . . . How can we reach you later, Mr. Trip?” He was finished with all the television interviews by a little after ten o'clock Sunday night. Finally got to pull his hat back on. They didn't go for his hat. Told him to take it off for the on-camera interviews. They said they couldn't see his face when he had the hat on. He took it off to please the reporters. Especially the pretty women. All his life—with one exception—just the homely ones went for him, and then only when they were lonely. He'd slept with a lot of ugly, depressed women. He liked being liked by attractive women, and being liked by more than one person at any one time was a complete novelty.

The only other time he'd been showered with that sort of group approval was when he found that little girl's
necklace. A few years earlier. A Wisconsin town, outside of Eau Claire. The maintenance engineer for a manufacturing company said he'd buy a couple of five-gallon buckets of degreaser and a bunch of mops if Trip would help comb a farmer's cornfield for a missing kid. Reluctantly, he went along. A hot August afternoon, and the corn was tall. He'd bent over to tie his shoes in between the rows and found the child's jewelry. Then the cops found the kid. Alive. Then it started. Newspaper interviews. People stopping him on the sidewalk and shaking his hand. Strangers in the bar slapping him on the back, buying him beer. At first he was terrified of the fuss. Tried to numb his nerves with booze and pills. Took someone out one night when he wasn't prepared. He wanted to leave town right away, but there were too many reporters waiting for interviews. He didn't want to raise suspicions. He got scared when a cop noticed his cracked windshield the next day, but a couple of people stood up for him. Said the crack had been there all along. He'd never had anyone stand up for him like that. Not since Snow White. That's when he warmed up to the attention, discovered it wasn't so bad if it was positive. The town's mayor, who owned a trophy shop, even gave him an award with his name engraved on it. A bowling trophy. The message said:
Thank you, Justice Trip. You bowled us over with your help
. Probably a leftover from a bowling tournament, but Trip didn't care. He'd never before won a prize for anything.

 

MOST of his thirty-six years, he'd been afraid of any sort of attention. Self-conscious about his height—nearly seven feet—he walked hunched over. He stared down because looking up never got him anything but whispers and stares. Even in kindergarten he was big, and he was so afraid to draw attention to himself he'd pee in his pants rather than raise his hand and ask to go to the bathroom. He finally trained himself to go without water all day. Everyone expected him to play basketball when he got
older, but he got tangled in his own legs. He was smart, but doing well in class would have drawn attention. He worked at mediocrity and kept his grades to C's. Worst of all was the teasing about his stutter. The more the other kids teased, the worse it got. He'd try to go all day without talking. Then he'd hear: “What's wrong? The c . . . c . . . cat g . . . got your t . . . t . . . tongue?” When he'd come home from school crying because of the mean kids, Pa would tell him they'd get theirs. He'd say, “What goes around comes around.”

His pa was tall, too, but he carried it well. Trip didn't know what his ma was like; his pa had burned all her pictures right after Trip was born. All he knew was her name. Anna. Whenever he asked about her, his pa would say, “Ran off with your big sister. That's all I know.” Same words every time. All Trip knew about his big sister was her name. Mary. Two names. Anna and Mary. The only history Trip ever had of his immediate kin. When he was ten, he found a photo in a kitchen drawer, under the paper liner. Nothing written on the back. He assumed it was his sister. Black hair. Nice skin. Dark eyes. She was in a frilly dress. His pa found him holding the picture, ripped it out of his hands and shoved it in the sink.

“That my s . . . s . . . sister? That Mary?”

His pa's answer was to turn on the garbage disposal.

Most days he and his pa got along. They were both neat. Kept the house fine. Neither one could cook worth a damn; ate a lot of TV dinners and instant oatmeal. Certain holidays, such as the Fourth of July and Flag Day and Halloween, his pa dressed in a white jumpsuit and passed out Fudgsicles from the front porch while “All Shook Up” blared from the cassette player. He'd make Trip wear a cowboy outfit: hat, vest, bandanna, spurs, holster, plastic six-shooter. That way his pa had his two favorites on the porch: Elvis and cowboys. The routine was supposed to be for the neighborhood kids, but the women came around, too. Pa charmed them. Called them all “ma'am,” whether they were junior-high girls or grandmas. His pa craved an
audience the way Trip feared it. He was relieved when he finally outgrew the cowboy clothes.

Trip couldn't decide if his life would have been better or worse if he hadn't spent his childhood in the shadow of Graceland. His pa sold bootleg Elvis Presley paraphernalia at a strip mall in Memphis, right across the street from Graceland. Bumper stickers. Snow globes. Shirts. Hats. Action figures. Backscratchers. Salt and pepper shakers. The shop was a weird place to be when Elvis was alive. Always full of tourists talking about
The King. The King. The King
. When he was real young, Trip thought they were talking about Jesus because he'd heard about The King of the Jews in Sunday school. He thought Jesus starred in
Jailhouse Rock
and sang “Love Me Tender,” and wondered if The King was crucified and went to heaven, why was he still living in the big house across the street. The shop got weirder after Elvis died, and busier. His pa struggled to keep up. The stock of souvenirs multiplied nearly overnight; floor-to-ceiling snow globes and backscratchers. The stuff flew off the shelves, but the fans doing the buying weren't happy anymore. They were all bawling when they came into the store, and his pa would bawl with them. Trip didn't like any of it; he hid in the stockroom. His pa would yell for him: “Make yourself worthwhile.” The store became a jumbled mess.

Then his pa hired Snow White.

Cammie Lammont had skin the color of eggshells and black hair that reached down to her butt. She walked into the shop carrying a suitcase and wearing sunglasses and a wide-brimmed straw hat; she could have been a starlet on the run from her fans. Her dress was spray-painted on. She was nearly as tall as Trip, but she carried herself like a queen. Nose in the air. Back straight as an ironing board. She ripped the Help Wanted sign they'd posted in the shop window and brought it over to his pa. “Meet your help,” she said, and slapped the sign on the counter. When she took off her sunglasses, the expression on his pa's face was strange. A combination of surprise and fear and
curiosity. She moved in with them. Took the spare bedroom. She couldn't cook and she didn't know spit about Elvis, but she managed the inventory and did the bookkeeping. She saved the shop. His pa gave her a baseball hat on her six-month anniversary. She eyed the cap with suspicion. “What's this E.P. stand for?” Trip thought his pa was going to pass out.

She was Trip's first crush, and she knew it. She'd laugh and tell him, “For all you know, I'm old enough to be your mama.” Cammie was one of those women who slathered on the makeup and kept her age a big secret. She told him she'd run away from home because her ma's boyfriend tried to get into her pants, so Trip suspected she wasn't that much older than he. Still, she didn't dress or act much like a teenager and she had a hard edge. She didn't laugh or smile much, but she was good to him. Called him “Sweet Justice” or “Sweet.” She didn't mind his stutter. Told him she used to stutter. He didn't believe her; to his ears, she articulated like a radio announcer. They'd go to movies together. Cartoons. She loved anything by Walt Disney. One night some older kids from school saw the two of them together. She caught them giving Trip dirty looks. She grabbed his ass in front of them and kissed him hard on the mouth. One of them dropped his popcorn. Trip loved her for it. She took him to a motel after the movie. He was fourteen. Not long after, Cammie and Pa had an argument. Trip heard them yelling at each other one night, then Cammie crying. Trip rolled over and went to sleep. Cammie was one for dramatics. He figured the fight was over the bookkeeping. They always fought over the bookkeeping. Pa thought Cammie was doing a little skimming; he kept her on anyway. Whatever she was holding over his pa's head, Trip was glad for it.

 

SHE was with them about a year, until she was struck by a car one autumn night while walking home from the shop. She'd left Trip's pa behind to close up. Dark side street.
No witnesses. Paramedics said she might have lived had they gotten to her a little sooner. Had the driver stopped and summoned help. The police never caught who did it. The only clues were two quarters wiped clean of prints. One placed on each side of her head. Cops guessed whoever killed her left the money as some kind of final insult, like she was a two-bit whore or something. Trip imagined the accident. Played it over and over in his head. In his mind's eye, she was run over by a car filled with jealous teenagers like the ones at the movie theater. Sometimes they were headed to a dance and other times they were coming back from a football game. Always ended the same, though. Snow White sprawled on the street. Coins tossed out of a car window. Laughter coming from the car as it squealed away.

His pa was as broken up as he was. Trip wondered if they'd had another fight that night and that's why she stomped off. When Trip asked him what had happened, the response was nearly the same as when he asked about his missing ma: “Ran off. That's all I know.” His pa shipped her body down to Baton Rouge, where he said she had family. Trip wanted to go to the funeral but his old man told him they were headed in the other direction. They sold everything and moved to Minnesota—about as far north as they could drive without leaving the country. They kept a few Elvis souvenirs. A snow globe with a miniature of Graceland inside. A box of cigarette lighters engraved with a line drawing of Graceland. A clock with The King's swinging legs as the pendulum. A green street sign that said
Elvis Presley Boulevard
. Trip made sure he took her
E.P.
hat; it carried her smell. Herbal shampoo and Charlie cologne.

His pa got work cleaning a Catholic high school in St. Paul. The principal gave Trip free tuition. Wasn't any better or worse than public school in Tennessee. Like back in Memphis, the other students teased him about his stutter. They had the additional ammunition of his pa being the janitor. His accent was the biggest, easiest target,
however. Between classes, the meanest ones yelled stuff down the hall in an exaggerated southern drawl.
Yew-all
this and
yew-all
that.
How yew-all doin', b . . . b . . . boy? Yew-all eat g . . . g . . . grits, b . . . b . . . boy?
He worked on it and toned down his accent, but there was nothing he could do about his stutter. He'd had it all his life, since he could remember. Even in his dreams he stuttered. In elementary school, the nurse tried to get Trip some speech therapy, but his pa wouldn't go for it. Said it would be a waste of time because stuttering ran in the family. Nothing to be done about it. Trip wondered what his pa was talking about; he didn't know any relatives who talked like he did.

At home, Trip hid under the hood of a truck. All the neighbors in the trailer park brought their beaters to him and he worked on them until they purred. He loved it. Trucks didn't care whether he could dribble a basketball or what he sounded like when he opened his mouth. All they recognized was his skill and genius at work on their engines and bodies. Behind the wheel of a truck, up so high off the ground, he didn't have to look anybody in the face. The money he earned fixing trucks he spent on his own trucks, and on drugs and knives.

He loved fancy knives. Sharp and flashy, the way he wished he could be in public. His pa thought the knives were a waste, wanted him to get into hunting. “Buy a shotgun. Something worthwhile,” he'd tell Trip. His room had piles of catalogs with knives and swords and daggers in them. He ordered hundreds of them so there were always packages with wonderful surprises arriving at his door. Samurai swords. Battle-axes. Throwing knives. Daggers with dragons carved on the handle. Machetes. Folding knives. Stilettos. Bowie knives. A set of jackknives with Confederate officers etched on the handles, including General Robert E. Lee. He surrounded himself with his collection; they were his closest friends since Cammie. They hung on the walls of his room and rested in different
wooden cases under his bed. At night, he'd spend hours getting stoned and listening to Black Sabbath and getting those blades sharper. Loved putting a good edge on a blade while listening to his music. Sharp metal and heavy metal.

MURPHY GOT UP before Jack to go for a run. Pulled on some sweats and a stocking cap and her shoes. Went out onto the dock, shutting the door quietly behind her. While she stretched she searched the decks of her nearest neighbors and saw signs of cold weather preparations. Covers draped over grills. Patio flowerpots emptied. Those who were planning to stay the winter but didn't have well-insulated houseboats were already wrapping their exteriors in plastic. She'd recently beefed up her insulation to avoid doing that this year—one bit of practical maintenance she'd managed to accomplish. She wondered which of her neighbors would tough out another winter on the river and which would lock up their boats and get an apartment downtown. The cold didn't get to them as much as the isolation. Even in the summer, not many people lived on the river full-time. In the winter, the numbers dropped to a hardy few. The wildlife artist and his photographer wife would stay; they utilized the scenery for their work. The architect would stay; his well-equipped boat even had a Jacuzzi in the master bath. She hoped Floyd Kvaal and his
three-legged dog, Tripod, would stay another winter. Kvaal was a garage-door salesman and a musician. In the summer, he paddled his canoe around the neighborhood and played the sax. Last winter, the neighbors took turns having him play at their houses.

She finished stretching and thumped down the dock and through the parking lot. Took one of her usual routes. North across the Wabasha Bridge, glancing down at the Mississippi as she crossed it. The leaves on the trees lining the river were orange and yellow and rust. A gray morning. Cold and windy. She ran through downtown to the State Capitol mall. Fallen leaves crunched under her feet. Back south down Wabasha. For variety, she took a left at Kellogg Boulevard and cut through the riverfront park to run across the Robert Street Bridge. She looked downriver as she ran. Jammed with barges. Soon enough they'd be gone, chased south by the ice. She hung a right on Plato Boulevard and watched for trains as she went across the railroad tracks. North up Wabasha and a left onto Harriet Island. A couple of weeks had passed since the Twin Cities Marathon. It had been a good race for her—she'd come in at 3:41—but it left her sore and she was having trouble going back to a regular running schedule.

She started walking when she got to the yacht club parking lot. Thumping toward her boat, she spotted her copy of the
St. Paul Pioneer Press
in the middle of the dock. The paper carrier was getting better; at least it wasn't floating in the water this time. She bent over to retrieve it, stood up, inhaled the river air. What did it smell like today? Some days it smelled like dead fish. Other days, motor oil. On rare occasions, like something fresh and clean. She didn't mind. Murphy loved living on a working river jammed with barges and towboats. Sure there were speedboats and paddleboats and rowboats, but they all knew to steer clear of the metal behemoths that ruled the Mississippi. She couldn't imagine living on a body of water without the barge traffic. Too quiet and boring. She tucked the paper under her arm, walked into the boat, heard the
shower upstairs. Damn. He'd beaten her into the bathroom. She'd have to put a shower in the downstairs guest bath one of these days. She turned on the coffeemaker and scanned the paper while the pot dripped. There he was again. Justice Trip. On the front page, above the fold. She stared at his photo. “Sweet Justice,” she said. She poured herself a cup and sat down at the kitchen table to read the story. Trip was a shirt salesman. He traveled around northern Minnesota and western Wisconsin selling shirts to clothing stores in small towns. He'd helped during a search years ago. A Wisconsin town. A missing girl. He found her necklace in a cornfield. The cops concentrated their search and found the child at the edge of the field. Dehydrated but alive. It made him feel good, he said in the story, and he wished this search had the same happy ending. “But it doesn't look good,” he said.

“No shit,” Murphy said.

Jack walked downstairs while digging in his ears with a Q-Tip. “Talking to yourself? You're losing it, lady.” He bent over and nibbled on her neck. He saw the front page spread out on the table. “They're sure making a big deal out of him.”

“Something isn't right; these stories aren't the whole story,” she said, more to herself than to Jack.

He walked over to the coffeepot and poured a cup. “How so?”

“The way Sweet's portraying himself. It's as if he's talking about someone else. Some character he made up.”

Jack leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee. “I'm sure we'd all exaggerate, try to make ourselves sound better in the newspaper.”

“Genuine good guys are embarrassed when people call them heroes, especially on the front page. Sweet's wallowing in it. Promoting himself. He was never that way.”

“That was high school. People change.” Jack took another sip of coffee.

“Look here. He's talking about how he feels a connection to this Bunny Pederson because she was an Elvis fan.
Who says she was an Elvis fan? And he hates Elvis. Heavy metal was his music. He's constructed this bizarre fantasy world.”

Jack set his coffee cup in the sink. “Her music tastes aside, anything else new about the unfortunate owner of the finger?”

Murphy folded the paper and set it down. “They ran out of stuff to say about the disappearing bridesmaid. Sweet's the latest angle, you know.”

“On that cynical note, I'm outta here.” He pulled on his jacket.

“What about breakfast? I've got omelet fixings.”

“Nope. Early shift. By the way, that showerhead is leaking.”

“I'll add it to the list,” she said. “Right after the paint job and new deck railing and a second shower.”

“I've offered to help. I spend enough time here.”

She shook her head. “It's my own damn fault.” She'd saved for repairs at one point, but blew it all on upgrading her galley. She had to have a great kitchen. “I'm a big girl. I'll figure it out.”

He kissed her on the cheek and left. The sound of the door slamming made her feel sad. Another weekend spent together and not a word uttered between them about their relationship. She couldn't remember what they'd talked about. What they'd said to each other that mattered. Lately they both kept moving and doing because when they weren't in motion, they had nothing to say to each other. It used to be the silent moments they shared were intimate and comfortable. Now they were awkward. First-date awkward. Not a good sign for the marriage, she figured. Something had changed, and she decided it was her fault. The affair had hit her harder than she expected. She was spending too much time thinking about it, analyzing the word itself.
Affair
. Had it lasted long enough to be called that? She and Erik had slept together only once. If it wasn't an affair, what was it? She avoided thinking about the other
A
word.
Adultery
. Whenever it crossed her mind, she told herself it
wasn't adultery because she and Jack were separated at the time and working on getting back together. Like they were now. It seemed as if they were always working on it. What did Erik say?
If it takes too much work, maybe it isn't there
. She had to admit she missed him. Missed his hands on her. His mouth. She ran her finger around the rim of her coffee cup. “Damn you, Erik.” She shivered, cold in her damp running clothes. She'd have to turn up the temp on the boat; winter was on the way.

She ran upstairs, pulled off her clothes and turned on the shower. She stepped into a lukewarm spray; a new water heater moved up a notch on the home improvement list. She heard ringing while she was drying off. She twisted the towel into a turban around her wet hair and went into the bedroom to search for the cell phone. She fished it out from under the covers. “Murphy.”

The Homicide commander: “Got a little job for you this morning.”

“Let's hear it.” She braced herself. Commander Axel Duncan was new to the job but not to the department. He'd worked in Vice for years. Since moving to head Homicide he'd shaved his beard, cut his wild blond hair and stopped dressing to pass for a drug addict, but he was still behaving like a loose-cannon undercover cop. His act wasn't translating well in Homicide; he summoned his detectives at all hours to send them off on strange missions. Some of the other cops called Duncan “Yo-Yo.”

“That Moose Lake case,” he said. “They haven't been able to reach her ex. Baby-sitter says he took off with the kids Friday night.”

“So?”

“So he's a West Sider. Check out his place. See if anyone's seen him or his kids. Sniff around the garage. Maybe he's a sentimental fool and took part of her home in the car trunk.”

“They're looking at him for this?”

“Maybe.”

“Don't suppose anyone's explored the nine hundred other possibilities.” The state had a medium-security prison in Moose Lake with nearly nine hundred male inmates.

“All the naughty boys have been accounted for.”

“Good.” Then a question for which she already knew the answer: “Have we got a search warrant for the ex's place?” Duncan rarely worried about legalities, rules, jurisdiction.

“For what? We're not searching jack. We're poking around. That's all. Poking around.”

She paused and then asked, “Is this official or unofficial poking?” That was code for:
Are you going to get both our butts in trouble with this one?

He ignored her question. “You're from that end of town. You can canvass it in your sleep. Shit. With that big fucking clan of yours, he's probably one of your relatives and you don't even know it. Get on it, Potato Head.”

She didn't want him calling her that, but she let it go. With Duncan, it was best to let it go. He was always ready for a fight. “What's the address?” she asked.