He shrugs. “I’m cold-natured. I love the heat.”
I snort. He’s probably one of those Florida guys who put on a sweater when the temperature falls below 80 degrees.
I wander around the cabin, looking at all the curiosities on his shelves. He has a little bit of everything. It’s the kind of place that makes other hoarders envious.
“So, what’s this evidence you have to show us?” Aaron asks again.
“Oh, yes. That,” Virgil draws our attention to the table in the center of the room. “This is it.”
Aaron and I both descend on the table to see a map of the forest. “A map?”
“Yes. Now you see.”
I see he’s a few logs short of a campfire, yes. “See what, exactly, Virg?”
“You see how I’m responsible for their deaths.”
I squint at the map and shake my head. I sneak a peek at Aaron. He looks as confused as I am.
Aaron’s phone rings. “It’s Poppy. I gotta take this.”
I nod. He steps outside, leaving me with Crazy McFloodwaterPants.
“So,” I shuffle over to his experiment shelf. “You do experiments to make people’s lives better?”
“Yes. Please, don’t touch anything. Those are…”
“Delicate,” I chuckle. “Yes. You told me.”
He folds his hands over his chest. “It’s not funny. I save lives.”
“Except for the ones you claim you’ve ended.”
Virgil frowns and stares at his shoes. “I’m very sorry about that. I didn’t mean to. But there was no time, you see. No time. No time for old men. No time to die. Only time to leave.”
For the first time since I met Virgil, unease pricks at my stomach. “What do you mean, no time?”
Virgil has clammed up. I move toward him and bump into a shelf. One of the jars falls to the floor with a crash, knocking the lid off the top.
“Shit! Sorry ‘bout that, Virg.”
“Oh, heavens! You don’t realize what you’ve done,” Virgil pulls on a pair of yellow dishwashing gloves and wraps a red bandana around his face. He reaches for the canister.
I sniff the air. No urine or feces, thankfully. I peer at the floor where the canister fell. And nearly laugh my head off. Sugar. I knocked over his sugar canister. Not fingernail clippings.
Virgil Troutwine is a certified nutcase.
I raise my hand in farewell. “Okay, then. If you’ve got it from here. I’ll be on my way.”
I spin on my heel and head outside, shaking my head.
Aaron’s eyes meet mine. “What’s going on?”
“We’re done here,” I hook my thumb over my shoulder. “I think the heat has gotten to him. We can leave now.”
Casper The Tatted Up Ghost appears out of nowhere, unlocking the SUV with a chirp from the key fob. Aaron and I resume our positions in the back seat, and we peel out of the clearing, headed back to civilization.
And air conditioning.
And the uncomfortable conversation we didn’t finish earlier.
And tequila, for finishing that conversation.
And inside Aaron’s pants, when I finish the tequila.
It’s going to be a busy night.
I wouldn’t waste any more time thinking about Virgil “Nutcase” Troutwine and his little shop of horrors.
