Holy Ghost (Virgil Flowers #11)(60)

He made it back to the Jeep, stamping his feet to take off the worst of the mud and water, which smelled like sulfur, did a U-turn, drove back to Van Den Berg’s, and parked in the garage. Inside, he turned off the kitchen light and then sat in the living room, waiting, and finally, at midnight, let himself out the side door and walked quietly to the street.

There was little electric light to be seen in Wheatfield at that time of night, and the stars looked close and only a little smudged by humidity. Nobody bothered him on the way home.

What a nice Minnesota night.

There’d be fireflies soon.





16


After choking the breath out of Van Den Berg, Virgil met with Jenkins and Shrake at Skinner & Holland. Skinner was in school, but Holland was working in the store, and Virgil told him about Fischer getting beaten up again.

“Somebody needs to have a word with Larry,” Holland said. “As mayor, I’m exactly the right guy to do it.”

“I already had a word with him,” Virgil said.

Holland eye-checked him, then said, “I hope you didn’t get yourself in trouble.”

“I don’t think there’ll be a problem. Janet’s a mess. Banning is taking her to see a doc, and she’ll take some evidentiary photos in case we need them.”



* * *



—

Jenkins and Shrake had been talking about the case, and when they got in the back room, Jenkins said, “I think we’ve got to look real close at this Barry Osborne. Son of Margery.”

“I already talked to him. He was pretty screwed up,” Virgil said.

“You might be screwed up, too, if you’d shot your own mother,” Shrake said.

“Okay. I’ll buy that,” Virgil said. “Why did he shoot her?”

“Because he wanted to inherit?”

Virgil nodded, then shouted, “Hey, Wardell!”

Holland stuck his head through the curtain, and asked, “Yeah?”

“Did Margery Osborne have any money?”

Holland stepped into the room and shook his head. “Not as far as I know. She and her husband had a little farm down south of here, too small to be economic. Margery worked in town as a health care aide . . . you know, hospice care and Alzheimer’s people. She and her husband retired, moved to town, and he died a couple of years later. That must’ve been . . . jeez, ten, twelve years ago.”

“What about her house?”

“She lives with Barry. That’s actually Barry’s house, I think. I could make a call and find out.”

“Could you?”

“Probably with the Blue Earth bank,” Holland muttered. He took a phone out of his pocket, scrolled through a directory, pushed a button, and said, “Hey, this is Wardell . . . I know, I know, but I’ve been drop-dead busy. Listen, I’m calling for a state police officer. You know Barry Osborne? His mom was Margery Osborne, the lady who got shot? Okay, can you check something? I need to find out who owns the house. If he owns it, or if maybe his mom did . . . Okay?”

He smothered the phone against his shirt, and said, “I’m talking to a friend at the Blue Earth bank. They got links into the title company. She wants my body. Real bad.”

“She gonna get it?” Shrake asked.

“She already has, on several occasions,” Holland said. He went back to listening on the phone, and a moment later said, “Yeah, I’m here.” He listened some more, and then said, “Thanks, Sara. I’ll call you again when you get off work.”

He hung up, and said, “Barry owns it. Bought it seven years ago, with a fifteen-year mortgage, minimum down payment, but it was cheap. Seller was a guy named Ole Birkstrum, no relation.”

“Well, poop,” Shrake said. “Nurse’s aide, kid already owns the house. Not like she was a walking gold mine, huh?”

“Maybe he hated her,” Jenkins said. “One of those bad mother–son things. He’s a psycho, and he knocks her off.”

Virgil said, “That’s possible, but, like I said, when Zimmer and I talked to him, he’d been crying.”

“Obviously faked,” Shrake said.

Virgil said, “Yeah. What else you got?”



* * *



—

Holland said, “Since you’re wondering about inheritances . . . I bet Glen Andorra’s place was worth three or four mil.”

Jenkins and Shrake looked at each other, and Shrake said, “Whoa! There’s a motive.”

“Where’d you get that number?” Virgil asked.

“Pulled it out of my ass,” Holland said. “Except for that shooting range along the creek, he had a nice piece of property. I think he owned a whole section, and he inherited from his parents, so I doubt there’s a mortgage on it. Good land around here sells for seven thousand dollars an acre, give or take. If he’s got six hundred and forty acres, you take out a hundred acres for the range . . . you’ve still got property north of three million. And the range isn’t worthless. Plus, the house and machinery.”

Virgil to Holland: “Somebody said his kid lives in the Cities?”

“Yeah. Zimmer’s talked to him, I think, and most likely he would have talked to the medical examiner and maybe a funeral home.”