Deep Freeze (Virgil Flowers #10)(30)

“No later than that,” Clarice said. “She always had good makeup; I never saw her without it. That takes a while. If she got to The Roasting Pig at eight-thirty, let’s say she left her house at eight-fifteen. I think no less than forty-five minutes to go to the bathroom, shower, do the makeup, get dressed . . . and that would be fast. Now you’re at seven-thirty for getting up. If she ate breakfast at home, checked the news on her laptop . . . she was getting up at seven o’clock. Or earlier.”

“With that kind of routine, she was probably going to bed at eleven o’clock at night. Good chance that she was killed between nine o’clock and eleven o’clock,” Virgil said.

“Unless she stayed up late to argue with somebody,” Johnson said.

“Even so, she was probably talking to the killer before eleven o’clock,” Clarice said.

Clarice had plates out on the cabin’s kitchen table and spooned out a helping of mac and cheese and dropped a half slab of ribs beside it, while Johnson Johnson opened a bottle of California Cabernet Sauvignon. “Thought you were totally off alcohol?” Virgil said.

“That wasn’t working. I’m totally off all alcohol except wine, which I never get drunk on,” Johnson Johnson said. “Clarice says if I start going over the edge again, she’ll warn me off and I’ll quit the wine.”

“Hope that works, but I gotta tell you, I’d be happier if you didn’t drink at all,” Virgil said.

Johnson: “I would be, too, but that ain’t gonna happen yet. I can hold it to one drink, though.”

Virgil let it go, something to worry about later. He spent a few minutes eating and thinking, then said, “Rhodes brought up the idea that somebody who owed money to the bank might have killed her.”

Johnson shrugged and said, “I don’t know,” and Clarice said, “That doesn’t sound right.”

“Doesn’t sound right to me, either,” Virgil said to her. “Why doesn’t it sound right to you?”

“From what you told us, it sounds more like an accident than something deliberate—hit once and killed,” Clarice said. “If somebody was really, really angry with her, they might beat her up and wind up killing her, but that didn’t happen, right?”

“Doesn’t seem that way. She didn’t show anything in the way of injuries, except the one that killed her, and some broken fingernails,” Virgil said. He thought about what Corbel Cain had told him about brawling with his wife. “Although it’s possible that she attacked first . . . and the guy was actually defending himself.”

“Some defense,” Clarice said.

“If somebody went there intending to kill her, they could have found a more efficient way of doing it than whacking her on the head, especially if it turns out she was hit with a bottle. Sounds more like a . . . lover. Seems impulsive. Could be that somebody was waiting for the reunion people to leave, she let them in, because they know each other, they argue, and WHACK!” Virgil said. He had been focused on the food as much as on the crime and looked up from his plate and said, “Holy cats, these are great ribs. Did you make these, Clarice?”

“I did,” Johnson said. “Clarice bought the wine.”

“What are you going to do next?” Clarice asked Virgil.

“Jack up the Class of ’92,” Virgil said. “They probably knew her better than anyone. See if I can find a close female friend who might know about a relationship.”

—

By the next morning, Virgil still hurt when he walked, still had the squid on his face, but wasn’t dysfunctional. As he was carefully pulling his pants over his aching black-and-blue ass, Margaret Griffin called. “I heard.”

“Yeah. I haven’t got anything on Jesse McGovern, I haven’t really had time to look. But you be careful. It looks like there are some people who are extremely protective of her if they’re willing to beat up a cop.”

“Heard they were all women.”

“Hard to tell with the parkas, but I think so,” Virgil said. “Could have been a short guy in the mix. I didn’t have time to check for testicles.”

“How’d they do it, exactly? Rush you?”

Virgil told her about it, and she asked, “Are you all right now?”

“I’m better, I’m going back to work,” Virgil said. “If I get anything, I’ll call.”

“If they come after me, they better bring a gun,” she said. “I carry a baton with me when I travel. I’ve got it in my coat pocket now. They give me one second to react, they’ll find out what an L.A. cop can do with a steel pipe.”

“Jeez, Margaret, take it easy.”

“I don’t need a bunch of trailer trash putting me in the hospital,” she said. “If they hurt you bad enough to give you a concussion, they might have cracked my skull. Nope, that ain’t gonna happen to Margaret S. Griffin. If somebody’s going to the emergency room, it won’t be me. I’ll whip their asses right down the street.”

—

On the way into town, Virgil worried about that. Trippton was the biggest town in the area but was isolated, the best part of a half hour from La Crosse, the nearest larger city. Given that, Trippton was turned in upon itself: everybody knew everybody else—and everybody’s business, relationships, history—and all the local news when it happened. Rumors ran through the place like grease through a goose.