Rough Country

coffee shop. The McDill story was on the front page, above the fold, with a two-column headline and a photograph. Nothing on the murder, except that it happened, and a few details. The rest was biography and expressions of shock from parents, friends, and business and political associates.
    He had his clothes folded and put away, his working clothes packed, and was on the road in his own truck, pulling his own boat, by nine-thirty. He had taken down Barney Mann’s cell phone number the day before, and on the way out of town, headed toward the Cities, rang it. Mann answered on the third ring and Virgil asked, “Had your meeting yet?”
    “It’s at one o’clock,” Mann said. He sounded tired. “I’m just getting up and I’m hungover. . . . Are you coming to the meeting?”
    “I don’t know—am I invited?”
    “I couldn’t speak for the board, but I can tell you, the meeting’s in the agency’s main presentation room,” Mann said. “I can tell them that you invited yourself.”
    “Give me the address—I’ll see you there. I’d like to get that address and phone number for Mark and Abby Sexton.”
    Mann chuckled: “Boy, I’ll bet they’ll be happy to hear from you . ‘Tell me, Mr. and Mrs. Sexton, was there anything about Mrs. Sexton’s venture into muff-diving that might have elicited this response?’ Like one of those intellectual BBC cop shows, huh?”
    “You got the number?” Virgil asked.
    “Getting my book now,” Mann said. “You know what? You gotta loosen up. You strike me as tense.”
    Virgil called the Sexton number as he was coming into the Cities. Abby Sexton answered the phone and said, “We read about it at breakfast. This is awful. But why would you want to talk to us?”
    “I’m filling in as much background on Miss McDill as I can. I understand the two of you had a relationship that ended badly.”
    “Oh, God, are people still talking about that? Well, come on ahead . . .”
    The Sextons lived in a big brown-shingled bungalow on a narrow lot, with a garage in back accessed from an alley, in the St. Anthony neighborhood, a nicer residential area of old homes north and east of the Minneapolis downtown. The porch had a swing; a strip garden in front of the porch was divided between flowers on one side, and vegetables on the other, including eggplant. Virgil hated eggplant, even chicken-fried eggplant, and took this as a sign of the Sextons’ decadence.
    He clumped up the stairs to the front door and rang the doorbell. Abby Sexton’s blue eyes popped up behind the cut-glass diamond in the door, and she pulled it open and asked, “Virgil?”
    She was a dishwater blonde, slender and athletic and pretty, wearing a white long-sleeved blouse with the sleeves pushed up, khaki capri pants, and sandals. Her husband came up behind her as she invited Virgil in: he was a dishwater blond, slender, athletic, and pretty, wearing a blue shirt that vibrated with his blue eyes, and khaki surfer shorts and sandals. He was eating an apple and shook hands with his free hand, and said, “Come on in—should we have our lawyer here?”
    Virgil said, “This is more of an interview than an interrogation. I can’t tell you not to get a lawyer, so . . .”
    “We’ll trust you, at least for now,” Abby said with a toothy smile. “I might have to run and get the baby now and again. He’s in his pen right now, not making a peep.”
    They arranged themselves in the front room, Pottery Barn couches and overstuffed chairs with a scattering of antiques and new Stickley-style oak tables and bookcases. Abby Sexton put a plastic box on the table and said, “It’s an intercom, so we can hear if the baby cries.”
    Virgil didn’t quite know how to open the conversation, with Mark Sexton sitting there, and said, “I don’t know exactly how to get into this . . . ?”
    “If you’re worried about Mark, he knows all about it. He knew about it at the time,” Abby Sexton said.
    Mark Sexton nodded; he didn’t seem put off.
    “All right,” Virgil said. He still felt uncomfortable—this wasn’t exactly a country-western scenario. “I’ve interviewed a number of people, and it’s been suggested that the murder may have originated here in the Cities. That Miss McDill was about to get full control of the agency, and that she planned to fire a number of people. I’ve been told that Mark might have been one of them, not because of job performance but as revenge for . . . the unpleasantness at