Holy Ghost (Virgil Flowers #11)(85)

But that year a third check had come in, for twenty-five thousand dollars, he said. All of that had gone almost immediately to St. Anne’s, handled through the Diocese of Winona-Rochester.

“So she was already donating large chunks to the church,” Virgil said.

“Yep. I talked to her about it, and there was more to come. I’m not Catholic myself, but I have to say I was impressed by her charity and devotion. Her whole face lit up when she talked about the church and the Virgin.”

Other than the big check to the church, there wasn’t much interesting about her account—they looked for names going back three years, and while Osborne had made small donations to several local charities, the largest check was for a hundred and twenty-five dollars for a Coats for Kids charity.

“She wasn’t exactly throwing it down ratholes,” Jenkins said, as they walked across the parking lot back to Virgil’s Tahoe. “I don’t see anybody hustling her. Not here anyway. Probably oughta get her Florida checks, too.”

“The shooter’s local,” Virgil said.

“Yeah . . . I know . . . You wanna go see Shrake?”

“You go. I’ll drop you at your car . . . I’m going to walk around and talk to people,” Virgil said.

“Don’t get shot in the head.”



* * *



—

On the way back to Wheatfield, they took a call from Holland on the Tahoe’s speaker: “Did you arrest Osborne?”

“No . . . we talked to him. I think he’s okay. Why?”

“I was wondering. I got a call from Jacoby and Sons . . .”

“Who’s that?”

“The funeral home in Fairmont. He had an appointment to pick out a casket and didn’t show up. They can’t get in touch with him. Doesn’t answer his phone. I know Don Lee Jacoby, and he thought maybe I’d seen him. I thought maybe you had.”

“Not since this morning,” Virgil said.

“With everything that’s happened . . .”

Holland rang off, and they drove along for a while, then Virgil said, “Goddamnit.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Jenkins said. “Hit the lights.”

They drove the rest of the way to Wheatfield at thirty miles an hour over the speed limit, pulled up outside Osborne’s house, and saw the Steam Punk van in the driveway. “He parked a little crooked this morning,” Jenkins said. “Still crooked. He hasn’t been out of the house.”

They went to the back door—the one Osborne used—and knocked, then pounded on it. Jenkins tried the knob, but the door was locked.

They could hear a lawn mower going in the yard and they went that way, around the house; but it wasn’t Osborne, it was the man in the house behind Osborne’s. He didn’t see them coming. He was wearing headphones and riding away from them, and Virgil had to shout “Hey!” four times before he paused and looked around and saw them at the hedge separating the yards.

Virgil waved to him over, and he killed the noisy engine and walked over, pulling off the headphones. “What can I do for you?”

“Have you seen Barry in the last couple of hours?”

“No. I was working this morning. I got home a half hour ago and started mowing, but I haven’t seen him since I got here. Something wrong?”

“He’s missed an appointment,” Virgil said.

The man shrugged. “He’s been distracted ever since his mother got killed. Not his normal self at all.”

Jenkins: “You don’t think he’d hurt himself?”

“Jeez . . . I don’t know. But, I know Lou Simpson has a key to his house. She lives there . . .” He pointed at the house to the left of Osborne’s. “She checks the place when he’s out of town . . . You know, makes sure the heat’s still on and so on. She could probably let you in.”

Virgil said, “Thanks, Mr. . . .”

“Apel.” He reached out, and they shook hands. “Davy Apel. We almost met—I was the one who yelled at you when you were chasing that guy through the backyards. I was the guy on the porch in the white undershorts.”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks for the help.”

“Too bad you didn’t catch him. Looked like a big guy to me, and he was really moving.”



* * *



—

They walked over to the Simpson house. Simpson was another old lady, heavily stocked. with red tabby cats that curled around her ankles and meowed at Virgil. “I haven’t seen him today. I was more friendly with his mother than with Barry, but we’re still friends.”

“We’re worried,” Virgil said. He explained about the casket, and the old woman frowned. “Well, that’s not Barry. He’s been very sad, but he wouldn’t miss that appointment unless . . . I hope he hasn’t hurt himself. Let me get the key.”

She let them in Osborne’s. Virgil took a step inside, opened a door to the kitchen, turned to her, and said, “You’ll have to go back out.”

Jenkins knew what he was talking about, took the old lady’s arm, and backed her down the stoop. “You can help. Could you go back to your house and call the sheriff and tell him we need some deputies here immediately?”