Rough Country

facing the water, and an ancient Pabst sign hanging below it, and a dock. He’d put in for forty-five minutes or so, got a Coke and a hamburger, read a two-day-old Herald-Review at the bar, and talked to the bartender, who thought the killings were the work of a nut from the Twin Cities.
    “Take my word for it—I’m very rarely wrong about these things,” the bartender said.
    His name was Bob, and Bob had no reason to think what he did, except that, in his opinion, the Twin Cities were chock-full o’ nuts. He also had, Virgil thought, a variety of bad opinions on sports, women, beer, fishing, and Sebring convertibles.
    “The thing is,” Bob said, laying his fat forearms on the bar, “that place is known for having lesbians going through there. I bet it’s all tied up with a Twin Cities lesbian thing, whachacallum—covens?”
    “I believe that’s an assemblage of thirteen witches,” Virgil said.
    “Same difference,” Bob said. He pulled a toothpick out of his mouth and closely examined the chewed end. “Maybe it’s some kind of sacrifice thing.”
     
     
     
    VIRGIL WAS BACK on the water before two, working down the waterline opposite the Eagle Nest. At three, he took a call from Shrake: “We shook her up and I can tell you two things: she had an alibi for the Washington shooting—she was at the funeral home, making funeral arrangements. And, she took three paintings away for safekeeping, and she will now be bringing them back. She claims that McDill gave them to her as gifts, but she’s got no proof of that.”
    Virgil was no longer interested, but he asked, “How much were they worth?”
    “Hard to tell, but McDill paid around ninety thousand for one of them, and thirteen thousand or so for the other two,” Shrake said.
    “So they were worth stealing.”
    “Hard to tell. I asked a pal who runs an art gallery, and he says they’re worth what somebody will pay you for them. The big painting, which is like a lot of color splotches, was done by a woman from Washington, D.C., who hung out with some abstract big shots in the fifties, but wasn’t a big shot herself. Maybe she will be someday, and the picture will be worth a lot more. Maybe everybody will forget her, and then it’ll be worth nothing.”
    “Wait, wait, wait, back up there,” Virgil said. “You’ve got a pal who runs an art gallery?”
    “Fuck you. Anyway, that’s what we got,” Shrake said. “If Davies is involved, she’s pulling strings, but she’s not pulling the trigger. She was down here when Washington was shot.”
    “Thank you. That helps,” Virgil said.
    And he thought, Slibe.
     
     
     
    AND HE ALSO THOUGHT, I’ve got nothing to take to trial.
     
     
     
    HE HAD SOME PIECES of forensic evidence: two rifle shells, and a shoe impression. The shoe impression was worse than useless, since it pointed at a female killer. If the shooter had an accomplice, then it might work into something. . . . The rifle shells were better: if he could find the rifle, he’d have something. And the rifle could have DNA, fingerprints, a history.
    But if Slibe was the shooter, the best thing he could have done, at this point, was to have thrown the rifle in a lake somewhere. If he’d done that, and lain low, and kept his mouth shut, Virgil couldn’t get at him.
     
     
     
    HE FISHED FOR ANOTHER ten minutes, coming up to the launch ramp, put the rod down, kicked back in the captain’s chair, and called Sig. “You want to get something to eat?”
    “I’d do anything to avoid my cooking,” she said. “Was that you that turned around in my driveway last night?”
    “Yeah. Quilting bee. I forgot,” he said.
    “I’m not quilting anything tonight,” she said. “A steak and a bottle of wine could get you somewhere.”
    “Seven o’clock?”
    “See you then.”
     
     
     
    AND HE CALLED SANDERS, who was back in Bigfork. “Could you have one of your deputies go around and pick up Berni Kelly? She’s the drummer with Wendy Ashbach’s band. I want to talk to her, but I want her treated like a suspect. No handcuffs, but put her in the back of a squad car. Make it feel bad. Sit her down in a hallway outside an interview room and let her stew. She’s probably down at that Schoolhouse place, the music studio. If she’s not there, try out at Slibe Ashbach’s place.”
    “You think she did it?”
    “I don’t think anything in particular, except that the scope of suspects seems to be narrowing,” Virgil said. “The one