Deep Freeze (Virgil Flowers #10)(7)
She had recently bought, for three thousand dollars, in a dying prairie town, an abandoned mansion that had once belonged to a rich quarry owner.
The place was filled with black walnut floors and oak beams, which by themselves would have had her only breaking even on the three grand after paying her employees. The real find had been the library, where all the wood was straight, dry, turn-of-the-twentieth-century Brazilian rosewood, for which she would net an additional thirty thousand dollars from a musical instrument maker.
“You don’t feel bad about screwing the former owner?” Virgil had asked when he heard about the thirty grand.
“The former owner was a Kansas City hedge funder who wanted to get rid of the house and outbuildings so he could plow over another four acres. Would have cost him ten thousand to get a wrecking contractor to tear the place down—instead, they make three thousand.”
“Then screw ’em,” Virgil said.
—
Frankie had a complicated history, which at times had involved minor crime, and which included five children, all boys. The oldest worked as a partner in her salvage business, while the next oldest cheerfully drifted around the United States in a series of casual jobs, good training for what he wanted to ultimately become: an author. He and Virgil talked writing whenever he was in town.
The other three boys still lived at home. The third son, a senior in high school, was in charge of the other two when Frankie spent the night at Virgil’s place.
After an hour at the Rooster Coop, they went back to Virgil’s, fooled around until midnight, then let Honus the Dog back into the bedroom. Honus had been deeply insulted by his temporary exclusion from the room, but he was a good-natured yellow dog of indefinite breed and gave them both a nose and assumed his spot at the bottom center of the bed.
—
At breakfast the next morning, Frankie asked, “Have you ever been to Trippton when you weren’t towing your boat?”
“Didn’t think about that, but I don’t believe I have,” Virgil said. “It’s not the most inviting place in winter. In fact, it’s butt ugly.”
“Well, say hello to Johnson Johnson for me,” Frankie said. “No point in telling you to stay away from him.”
“Hey . . .”
“I know, I know, old college buds and all. But the guy ought to be declared a federal disaster area.”
That was true, so Virgil changed the subject. “I’ve got to get going. Could be gone a few days, and it’s colder than hell,” he said. They both looked out the kitchen window at the snowfields around the house. “Gonna have to take the big bag.”
“Any chance this is more than a onetime deal?” she asked. “The murder?”
“No idea.”
“Then take your shotgun, too,” she said. “I’ll clean up the dishes while you pack, and I’ll walk Honus out at the farm. I’ll check the house every day you’re gone.”
“Good deal.”
—
Virgil wrote checks for a few routine bills, put stamps on the envelopes, sent JPEGs of the owl photos to Wing & Talon, packed his cold-weather gear into a duffel bag, pulled on insulated hiking boots, and made sure he had two pairs of gloves, one for driving and one for outside. Watching the gear going into the big bag depressed Honus, who slunk away to sit next to Frankie.
When Virgil went back to the kitchen carrying the bag, he found a red-eyed Frankie sitting at the table, the dishes not done, a short stack of papers by one hand. She looked up, and he asked, “What?”
“You left your insurance papers on the sink . . . I wasn’t snooping,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Well, I’m down as the beneficiary,” she said. “And if we’re both killed at the same time, my kids get it . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Stop saying ‘Yeah?’ Made me cry a little bit,” Frankie said.
“I got nobody else who I’d want it to go to,” Virgil said. “Just you and the kids.”
She sighed and said, “You know, Virgil, sometimes we don’t talk enough. I gotta tell you, I’d be totally up for another kid. Especially if it was a girl.”
Virgil sat down because he needed to.
She said, “We don’t have to talk about it now, but so you know: you’d be like the first-best dad in the world. You already sorta are.”
Virgil said, “Ah, boy.”
FOUR With all that, and the fallout, Virgil left late for Trippton.
On the way, he called the medical examiner at the Mayo in Rochester to tell him that he’d be a bit later than he thought. The ME told him not to worry about it, he wasn’t doing much anyway, just another murder.
With frequent snow-covered stretches on the highways, and a stop to get coffee, Virgil took an hour and a half to make the trip. Once in town, he found a parking space in a city parking structure, walked through the Skyway, and then the Subway, to the Mayo.
Since it was a Sunday, there were few people around. The medical examiner, Peter Thurston, said he’d be waiting in the cafeteria. Virgil had worked with him a number of times and had found him a congenial sort, good at his job. Thurston was sitting at a table, reading the New York Times. Virgil gave him a wave and continued on to the food line, where he got a piece of pumpkin pie and a Diet Coke and carried it over to Thurston’s table.