Theresa Monsour (8 page)

MURPHY SPOTTED TRIP the instant he stepped into the bar. His height caught her eye first, then his gait. Eighteen years had passed and she still recognized his walk and posture. Slow. Hesitant. Head down. A giraffe tiptoeing past the lions. He was by himself; that hadn't changed with the years either. In high school, he'd sat alone. In the library. At the lunch table. In his truck. Never a friend at his side. She saw him turn his head away when the hostess started talking to him; he was still having trouble looking people in the face.

The woman led him to a table toward the front. A round table with six chairs around it. The hostess probably figured she was doing him a favor, giving him legroom. The big table made Trip seem even lonelier. Murphy was in a booth in back. A few other tables and booths were occupied. A young couple. A middle-aged couple. Three men in jeans and flannel shirts. Probably farmers. Four duck hunters in camouflage loudly replaying the day's shoot. A family celebrating Grandma's birthday. Homemade cake in the middle of the table. Pointed hat on the old woman's head.

The room was dark, long, narrow and had a low ceiling. She figured she could order and eat dinner and he'd never notice her, but that would make her feel like she had something to hide. She contemplated standing up and walking over. Extending her hand. Joining him for dinner. Would he remember her? Sure he would, she told herself, and that's why she was hanging back. He would remember that she turned him down at homecoming. That her boyfriend and his pals beat the hell out of him for talking to her. That she never offered an apology. Could he still be holding a grudge? Would it mean anything if she said she was sorry now? Pushing her even more than her guilt was her curiosity. What was he trying to do by reinventing himself? Was he after attention or something else? She had to know. She grabbed her purse and jacket, slid out of the booth, stood up and walked over.

His back was turned to her. His posture when he was seated was as bad as when he was standing. As crooked as a comma. His black mop was worse than she remembered; she could see his scalp through the thin hair in back of his head. She walked to the other side of the table to face him. He was paging through a menu, bending over it like a man huddling over a campfire.

“Hello, Sweet.” She extended her hand.

He glanced up. Ignored her hand. His eyes widened and then narrowed. In the span of a few seconds, she could see his expression go from recognition to surprise to hate. After all these years, he still blamed her. That made her sad and uncomfortable, but above all else, curious. What kind of man was Sweet Justice?

“D . . . d . . . do we know each other, ma'am?” Trip asked. His gaze shifted back and forth between her face and the menu.

He's playing a game, she thought. She lowered her hand but flashed him her biggest smile. “Justice Trip. I can't believe you've forgotten me. Paris Murphy. It's been eighteen years, but I thought you'd still remember. St. Brice's?”

“High s . . . school. Sure.”

His mouth was half open, as if he wanted to say something more to her. Murphy braced herself. Expected him to finally rip into her after years of stewing over the beating and her imagined role in it. Trip only stared. Not at her. Past her. She decided not to say anything about it. Let it be for now.

“How've you been, Sweet? You look good.”

His eyes fell again. “So d . . . do you, Paris.”

“I'm eating alone,” she said. “Mind if I join you?”

“Suit yourself,” he said.

Not an enthusiastic reception, but she'd take it. She draped her jacket over the back of a chair, set her purse on the floor at her feet and took a seat across from him. Despite his thinning hair, she still saw a trace of his high school handsomeness. Dark. Brooding. But that earlobe. Two gobs of flesh hanging down like teardrops from the side of his head. Why didn't he have that fixed? Was it some kind of badge?

The waitress came by. A skinny young woman with short hair the color of strawberry Jell-O and a silver stud in her nose. She handed Murphy a menu. “You changed tables.”

“Is that okay?” Murphy asked.

“Whatever. Separate checks?”

Murphy was going to buy Trip dinner but decided against it. “Yeah. Separate.”

“Something to drink?”

“Glass of red wine,” said Murphy. “House Merlot is fine.”

The waitress to Trip: “What about you?”

He was fingering the menu. “Whatever's on t . . . tap.”

“Miller? Bud? Pabst?”

“Miller.”

The waitress left to get the drinks. Murphy propped her right elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. Waited to see if Trip could manage a question. His head
was bent down. He was studying the menu again. Finally he glanced up.

“You m . . . married? Kids?”

She was surprised that was his first question. Figured there was no reason to lie about it. “Separated. No kids. What about you?”

Head down again. “No. I'm not m . . . married.” A long pause, then he asked the question she thought would have been his first one: “What you d . . . doing up here? Live in Moose Lake?”

If she wanted to get the maximum amount of information out of him, she had to hide what she did for a living. “No. Still live in St. Paul. Come up here every year for the fall colors. A little vacation. What about you?”

He set down the menu and picked up the salt and pepper shakers. “Work. Up here for w . . . work.” He had a shaker in each hand. Tapped one against the other. Looked at them instead of her.

“So what do you do for a living?” she asked.

“Sales.”

“Oh, yeah. I read that in the paper. Shirts, right?”

He set down the shakers. “Dress shirts.”

“You've certainly been big news lately.”

“Guess s . . . so.” He raised his eyes and smiled.

“You're a regular hero,” she said. The waitress brought their drinks. Murphy took a sip. “How does it feel to be a hero?”

“Good,” he said. He took a sip of beer and set it down. Stared at the stein. Ran his right index finger around the rim. “Actually, feels g . . . great.” He added what sounded to Murphy like a hollow afterthought. “I like h . . . helping the c . . . c . . . cops.” He took a long drink. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

It wasn't about being helpful, she thought. It was about getting attention. He was as puffed up as a rooster. She took another sip of wine. “Must have been horrible when you found that poor woman's finger.”

He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out
underneath the table. “I've g . . . got a mighty s . . . strong stomach.” He finished off his beer and looked her straight in the eyes for the first time. Grinned. Murphy found it a creepy, self-satisfied smile. An idea darted into her mind. Trip and the missing bridesmaid. Was there something more to it?

The waitress returned with her order pad poised. “Walleye's on special. Fried or baked. Comes with fries or baked potato and coleslaw or garden salad. All you can eat. Seven ninety-five. Ready or should I come back?”

Trip jumped in before Murphy could answer. “Fried chicken.”

“Half or quarter?”

“Half. Fries. Coles . . . slaw.”

The waitress looked at Murphy. “For you?”

“The baked walleye, please. Baked potato and garden salad.”

The waitress left. Murphy took another sip of wine and drummed her fingertips against the side of the goblet. Even though he had already ordered, Trip was back fiddling with the menu. She'd have to keep the talk flowing. Slide in some questions without arousing his suspicion. “Newspapers said you helped find a missing girl, too.”

He saw the waitress, set down the menu and raised his empty glass. “Found her n . . . necklace. That led the c . . . cops to her.”

“Alive?”

“Yeah.” The waitress set another stein in front of him.

“What do you suppose happened to that bridesmaid? Who'd do such a thing? She's got a couple of little kids.”

Trip took a long drink of beer. Set the stein down but kept his hand wrapped around the handle. “The ex d . . . did it.”

She took a sip of wine. Tried to act surprised. “What? You're kidding?”

“Saw it on the n . . . news tonight.” He took another long drink, almost finished the second stein. “Guy looks like a s . . . stupid jock.”

Trip still hated athletes. Another leftover from high
school, she thought. The waitress slapped their salads and a basket of rolls on the table.

“About t . . . time,” Trip grumbled to no one in particular. He pulled the rolls toward him, took three of the four, put them on his bread plate. Slid the basket in Murphy's direction. He started spooning the coleslaw into his mouth. Murphy thought he was swallowing the stuff without chewing.

She unfolded her napkin and set it on her lap. Picked at her salad. Took a sip of wine. Tossed out a chilling question: “How does it feel? I wonder?”

He bumped off the rest of his beer and raised his glass toward the waitress. “How does what f . . . feel?”

“Killing someone. Murdering someone. Wasting them. What's that like?”

He ate a roll in two bites and as many chews. Nodded toward the table of men in camo. “Ever go h . . . hunting?”

“Think it's like shooting birds?”

“No. Not d . . . duck hunting.” The waitress brought him another beer. He grabbed the mug by the handle and lifted it. “Ever go d . . . deer hunting?” He took a long drink and set the stein down. “Ever hit a d . . . deer with your car?” That creepy grin again.

Murphy was ready to jump up and leave. She needed a break. She pushed her chair away from the table. Took her napkin off her lap and set it on the table. “Got to visit the ladies' room. Be right back.” She grabbed her purse, stood up, walked to the bathroom.

 

HE watched her go and thought:
Bitch. Beautiful bitch responsible for the worst beating I ever had
. He reached up and touched his earlobe. Seeing her gave him the same jolt as the one he'd gotten once while he was wiring a new light switch in the trailer. He'd touched the hot lead and felt a charge that ran right up his arm. Pain and excitement mixed together. After that shock from the light switch, he'd been tempted to touch it again. Had it really been that bad
or had he imagined it? Of course, he was too smart to touch it again; he was too smart to fall for her again.

Trip pulled his pills out of his jacket pocket and, under the table, emptied them into his left palm. Surely he had something left for Paris Murphy. He couldn't see in the dim light of the bar. He reached over and slid the votive candle closer. Better. He poked around the tablets and capsules with his right index finger until he found the white ones. Scored on one side. Stamped with the word “Roche” and an encircled “2.” He'd paid Keri about five dollars apiece for them. They came in a bubble pack, but he'd popped them out and dumped them in with the other pills. He hadn't tried them on himself yet. Keri told him they went great with beer; took the drunk to a new high. He couldn't remember the drug's real name. She called it a lot of different things. “Roofies.” “Roachies.” “Date rape pills.” He didn't want to rape Paris Murphy; but if he got her stoned, maybe someone else would. He'd heard it made women lose their inhibitions, practically rip off their own shirts. Even if it didn't do that, it would make her dizzy and drowsy. Maybe she'd get behind the wheel. Pass out. Crash her car. He scanned the room to make sure no one was watching. A table of people had started singing “Happy Birthday” to an old woman and everyone else in the bar seemed to know her. Turned to watch and sing along.

Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you.

Happy birthday, dear Hazel. Happy birthday to you.

He reached across the table and dropped a tablet in her glass of wine. The drug had no taste or odor. He'd wolf down his dinner and leave. She'd get sick after he was gone. Blame it on the food or the flu. She'd never suspect a guy from high school. A guy she hadn't laid eyes on in nearly twenty years. She had no idea how much he hated her. Was one pill enough? What would two do? Three? He picked two more tablets out of his palm. Dropped a second one in the glass and then, to be sure, a third. That should do
it, he thought. Keri had told him the pill was ten times more powerful than Valium. He poured the rest of the pills back in the bottle, screwed the lid back on, shoved the bottle back in his pocket. Slid the candle back to the middle of the table. He studied her wineglass and prayed the pills would dissolve quickly.

The waitress set the chicken and fish dinners on the table. “Will the lady need another glass of wine?”

“Doubt it,” Trip said with a small smile. “I think that'll b . . . be enough for her.”

Murphy washed her hands and splashed water on her face. Eating dinner with Trip was making her sick. He had the table manners of a pig and the conversation skills of a rock. The few full sentences he'd managed to utter gave her the creeps. She dried her face with a paper towel and looked in the bathroom mirror. How had she held up since high school? She leaned closer to the mirror. Except for the stupid scar on her forehead, her face was good. No lines yet. She took a brush out of her purse and gave her dark mane a few strokes. No gray hairs yet, either. She dropped the brush back in her purse and hiked the strap over her shoulder.