Rough Country

he’s out there, too.”
    “Then let’s go,” Virgil said.
    Johnson asked, “Am I coming?”
    “You can,” Virgil said. “Or you could wait at the lodge with Miz Stanhope.”
    “I’ll go,” he said.
     
     
     
    THEY TOOK one of the Lunds, the standard Minnesota lodge boat, Virgil and Johnson in the front, the second deputy, whose name was Don, at the tiller of the twenty-five-horse Yamaha. The run was short, no more than a half-mile. There were no cabins along the way; Virgil could see cabins and boathouses on the other side of the lake, and down at the far end of it, but the shore elevation west of the lodge dropped quickly and became low and marshy around the outlet creek. They passed the mouth of a shallow backwater, and a line of beaver lodges, like haystacks made of small logs and sticks, turned around a point into the outlet, dodged a snag, went down a narrow channel, and emerged into the pond.
    Four more boats, with seven people, were floating along the eastern shore, and Don took them that way. “The guy in the white ball cap is the sheriff,” Don said. “The guy in the boat by himself is George, the guide. The two guys in the green emergency vests are from the funeral home; they’re here to pick up the body. The other three are deputies.”
    “How’d George happen to find her?” Virgil asked. “Anybody know?”
    “Nobody saw her at dinner last night, but sometimes, people will cook something up in their cabin, though Miz McDill usually didn’t do that,” Don said. “Anyway, nobody really looked, but then early this morning, some of the women were going on a paddling trip and one of the boats was missing. One of them said, ‘My gosh, didn’t Miz McDill take one out last night?’ So they went and looked at her cabin, and she wasn’t there, and they knew she liked to paddle down and look at the eagle’s nest”—he pointed at a white pine that stood over the end of the pond, with an eagle’s nest a hundred feet up—“so George jumped in a boat and he came down here and says, ‘There she was.’ He came back and they called us.”
    Don killed the motor and they coasted down on the cluster of boats. As they came up, Virgil stood and looked over the bow, saw an upside-down olive-drab plastic boat, with a body in a white shirt bobbing in the water next to it. The sheriff stood up and asked, “You Virgil?”
    “Yeah, I am,” Virgil said, and they bumped gunwales and shook hands. The sheriff was a tall, fleshy man with a hound-dog face, wrinkled like yesterday’s tan shirt; and he was wearing a tan uniform shirt and brown uniform slacks, along with heavy uniform shoes that weren’t right in a boat.
    “I read those stories you wrote for The New York Times ,” he said. “Pretty interesting.”
    “Couldn’t miss—it was an interesting case,” Virgil said.
    Sanders mentioned the names of the other cops and Rainy, and said, nodding at the two men from the funeral home, “These guys are here to pick up the body.”
    “What do you think?” Virgil asked.
    “It seems to me like a murder, but it could be suicide, I suppose,” Sanders said, looking back at the body. “But you don’t see women like this one, shooting themselves in the head. Too messy. So . . . somebody got close and shot her. Might possibly be an accident, I guess.”
    “Murder,” Virgil said. “Small chance it could be a suicide, but not an accident,” Virgil said, looking around.
    “Why’s it not an accident?” Johnson asked.
    “Too many trees,” Virgil said. “It’s too thick in here. To get a slug through the trees, you’d have to be right on the edge of them. Then you could see her. So it wasn’t like somebody fired a gun a half-mile away, and she happened to be in front of it. And if it was somebody in a boat, who met her here, and they were both bobbing a little bit, they had to be really close to hit her.”
    Johnson nodded, looked at the white shirt floating around the body, like a veil, and turned away.
    Virgil asked the sheriff, “Is there a time of death? Did anybody hear any shots?”
    “Not that we’ve been able to find.”
    Virgil nodded and said, “Don, push us off the sheriff’s boat, there, get me a little closer.”
    They got close, and Virgil hung over the boat, getting a good look at the body. He couldn’t see her face, but he could see massive damage to the back of her head, and looked back over his shoulder and said, “If you don’t find a large-caliber pistol at the