Deep Freeze (Virgil Flowers #10)(84)

—

Virgil felt vaguely embarrassed but he went anyway. He liked the truck, said he wanted to look at what Ford had. Cheever was pleasant about that, seemed to know all about Fords, was even complimentary, while letting Virgil know he was a fool if he didn’t go for the Tahoe.

Virgil was at the wheel, going through town, when the sales pitch wound down. Virgil asked, “Tell the truth, who do you like for the murders?”

“Rob Knox,” Cheever said without hesitation. “I wanted to talk to you about that, which is the other reason I came over. Look, Lucy and I had nothing to do with these murders. We’re appalled. Honest to God, we really are. About the loan thing . . . Lucy and I are going to wind up as the richest people in town, because we know what we’re doing and we’re in the right business at the right time. Gina not giving us the loan was a blip in the process. It’d cost us ten thousand a year, but we’re talking about five million in gross sales from the new dealership, once we get it running right. We’d like to have the ten grand, but it wasn’t important, really. We sure as hell wouldn’t kill anyone for it.”

“We’re not thinking that the murder was planned,” Virgil said. “We’re thinking it was an impulse. Like a slap, but with a bottle . . . by somebody who was angry.”

“But that wasn’t the case with Margot, was it? That was cold-blooded murder. And with Gina, somebody would have had to go back to kill her. They’d already left. That argues against impulse. Looks like intention to me.”

“You’re a smart guy,” Virgil said. “Either the killer had to go back . . . or was new to the whole scene.”

“That’s why it was Knox,” Cheever said. “I’m not saying that because he’s gay. We’re way past that, even in Trippton. There must be twenty guys who are openly gay in Trippton, and probably that many woman. Probably always have been that many, or more, in the closet. Most people knew that. Knew who they were. So nobody cares who’s gay and who isn’t, but it’s money. It’s money that’s done it. Knox is an idiot, he’s hungry for money, and, if the rumors are true, Justin Rhodes is about to come into a million bucks.”

“I’ve had a couple other people suggest that to me,” Virgil said.

“See? When you know a bunch of people in a small town like this, know them really well, you know who’d kill and who wouldn’t . . .”

“You didn’t see it in your school board,” Virgil said. “The whole board turned out to be a bunch of killers.”

“Well . . . that was nuts. But you’re right. I never saw that. I never even suspected it,” Cheever said. He stared out the passenger-side window, his face turned away from Virgil. “That was crazy. That was all about money, too. Millions of dollars. For me and Lucy, the amount involved was ten thousand a year, in interest, and after you write it off as a business expense, half that. Nothing. But for Knox, you’re talking about a million or more. Serious money.”

They worked that back and forth for a while. Virgil asked about Barry Long, the state legislator, Homecoming King, and greenhouse owner.

“Ah, Barry wouldn’t kill anyone. Barry has one passion: politics. Nobody, and I mean nobody, will talk to him about it because he could bore the bark off a tree, once he gets started. He’s a good representative because he knows all the ins and outs of state government and he brings home the bacon, but he doesn’t have the . . . intensity . . . to kill somebody. Or anybody. He sure as shit wouldn’t have come creeping up on you and tried to kill you with a deer rifle.”

“Then who did? I’ve got two completely different sets of possibilities—the person who killed Hemming and Moore, or the people who are involved with Jesse McGovern in this Barbie-O thing.”

Cheever’s head bobbed up and down, considering, and said, “Look. Jesse gathered up a bunch of people who are really . . . backed into a corner. Can’t live on welfare. We’re talking people who might not have enough food to eat, even with the food shelf, not enough money to pay for heat. I’ve got a mechanic who’s supporting his brother and his brother’s family because his brother can’t find work. Telling that guy to move to Texas to find a job is like telling him to move to Mars.”

“Desperate.”

“It’s all over, in small towns. Hell, Trippton is better than most. Anyway, Jesse probably has fifteen or twenty working with her, all of them people like that. To have somebody trying to take away what Jesse’s giving them . . . well, you want to talk about fear and anger and hate all stirred together, that’s what you got.”

—

Cheever offered to loan the Tahoe to Virgil overnight—he could drop Cheever off at home and take the truck to the cabin—but Virgil declined, and Cheever left him at the cabin a few minutes before eleven o’clock.

That night, Virgil lay in bed and tried to decide whether he’d been attacked by Jesse’s people or by the murderer.

For the life of him, he couldn’t decide one way or the other.

—

Jenkins called at nine o’clock, as Virgil was getting out of bed, and said he and Shrake had heard about the fire. “Somebody’s trying to kill you, man. You gotta get out of there. Get a hotel up in La Crosse or something.”

“I’ll think about it,” Virgil said. “What are you guys up to?”