2
Five months later, Mayor Wardell Holland told Virgil Flowers that there weren’t any available motel rooms in Wheatfield, and not even over in Blue Earth, down I-90. He’d checked. “Your best bet is Mankato. It’s an hour away.”
“Ilivein Mankato,” Virgil said. “That’s my best shot?”
“Well, we’ve only got one operating motel, the Tarweveld Inn. It’s booked solid five months out, with a waiting list. There’s a Motel 6 coming online in a couple of months, but that won’t help. You need to get down here. And, I mean, right now. Today!”
“I didn’t know things were that tight,” Virgil said. “I can do it, but it’ll be a pain in the ass driving back and forth every day.”
“Okay, had a thought,” Holland said. “Let me make a call—gimme ten minutes.”
Virgil hung up, dropped the phone in his pocket, dragged a spoon through the pot of Cream of Wheat on the stove, and shouted, “It’s ready.” At his knee, Honus, the yellow dog, looked up anxiously, always worried that he wouldn’t get his fair share, although he always did.
A moment later, Frankie Nobles eased into the kitchen, barefoot, wearing a pink quilted housecoat straight out of Target. She was a short, blond woman, busty, with a slender waist, and normally rosy-cheeked. On this morning, her face was a greenish white, and she had one hand on her stomach. “Why don’t I remember these parts? Five kids, and I never remember.”
Morning sickness. She burped, grimaced.
“Bad?”
She thought for a second, said, “About a four on a scale of one to ten. That’s not too bad. When I get to a seven, you’ll know it.”
Virgil was spooning the Cream of Wheat into a bowl. “Tell me when.”
“Keep going,” she said, “I’m starving. At least I can keep that stuff down.”
All three of them—Virgil, Frankie, and Honus the yellow dog—were eating Cream of Wheat, and two of them were reading different pieces of theFree Press, when Holland called back. “Okay, I got you a place. Mother-in-law apartment, the local hairdresser and her husband. Nice folks. Separate entrance, and you get a refrigerator and a microwave. Fifty bucks a day. Extra ten for housekeeping, if you want it.”
“Aw, jeez, I dunno,” Virgil said. “What happened to the mother-in-law?”
“Dead. Choked to death on one of those vegan fake-meat burgers. That was a few years back. And listen, this place isn’t exactly what you might think—it’s not a dump in the basement. They fixed it up nice, been renting it out to pilgrims. I’ve seen it. The only reason it’s available is, Roy’s picky about who they rent it to.”
“All right, I’ll take it,” Virgil said. “I’ll be there by noon. Where will I find you?”
“I run the local store,” the mayor said. “We’re a block north of downtown, across from the Catholic church. Skinner and Holland, Eats and Souvenirs. You can’t miss it.”
—
When will you be back?” Frankie asked when Virgil got off the phone.
“Any time you need me—it’s only an hour from here,” Virgil said. “With lights and siren, fifty minutes max.”
“I’ll be out at the farm, the boys can take care of me,” she said. They were sitting in Virgil’s kitchen, the May sunlight streaming through the window over the sink, a pretty Sunday morning in Mankato.
Less than a month away from summer and the longest day of the year, the spring so far had been cool and generously wet without being offensive, and through the window they could see the pink blossoms on the neighbor’s apple tree. “It’ll be a nice drive down there. You be careful. I always worry when you’re dealing with a nut.”
“We don’t know he’s a nut,” Virgil said. “Or she. Could be a woman.”
“Not likely. When was the last time you heard of a random sniper who was female?”
“Don’t even know he’s a sniper,” Virgil said. “There might be a motive that ties the two shootings together. That would make him a shooter but not a random sniper.”
“You just said ‘he’ and ‘him,’” Frankie pointed out.
“That’s because you’re right,” Virgil said. “It’s a guy.”
—
Frankie went to shower and get dressed while Virgil got his traveling gear together, which, as usual, bummed out Honus. Honus was a dog of no specific breed, although there had to be some Labrador DNA in the mix: he loved to go out to the swimming hole. That wouldn’t happen for another few weeks, as the water coming out of the spring uphill from the hole was essentially liquid ice.
