Saarinen giggled: “She looks like she went six rounds with Rocky.”
“How long were Wendy and McDill involved?” Virgil asked.
Saarinen glanced at the singer, then said, “A few days—since about . . . mmm . . . Tuesday. Maybe Tuesday. McDill and some other women introduced themselves on Saturday night, at the Goose, and they got to talking. McDill came around and watched us work on Monday, and on Tuesday, we were talking about PR and I realized that they’d been talking during the day, when the rest of us weren’t around. You could tell something was about to happen.”
THE BAND got to the end of the song, then played the end again, and again, and finally one of the engineers leaned into a microphone and said, “That’s got it, guys.”
Wendy pulled her headphones off and turned and spotted Virgil and did a double take, then grinned and said, “Hey, guy.” She had a black eye as big as a silver dollar, startling under her blond hair.
“Wendy,” Virgil said. “That black eye looks pretty interesting.”
“You like it? We did a couple of publicity photos this morning. Might use it for the album cover.”
THERE WAS AN EMPTY wheeled office chair pushed under the control board, and she rolled it over to Virgil and plopped down, with her feet overlapping his, their knees almost touching. She did it deliberately but good-naturedly, poking at him, to see how he’d react. He said, “I need to talk to you and the band about which one of you killed McDill.”
That stopped her: “You know . . . one of us did it?”
“No, but you’re the best I’ve got, and I’ve got to work with what I got,” Virgil said, poking her back.
“Well, let me see . . . I guess it was Wednesday when we decided to kill her. I said, ‘Girl, you gotta get it on. Gotta get the six-gun and shoot Erica McDill right in the ear.’ ” The smile vanished and she cocked her head: “So what in the fuck are you talking about?”
“McDill could have been killed for business reasons, but when I dug into that, I couldn’t find any,” Virgil said. “Most everybody needed to keep her alive. Her getting killed is going to cost a lot of people a lot of money. Then, I thought maybe her girlfriend did it—but her girlfriend needs written instructions to walk across the street, and I don’t see her figuring out something this complicated. Then I’ve got a whole band full of people whose love lives are all twisted up, with you in the middle of it. A lot of emotion going around. People fighting in bars about it. Most of you are small-town girls, and I bet more than one of you has her own rifle, and could figure out how to get through that swamp into Stone Lake. That’s how I figure it.”
Wendy looked at him for a minute, then backed up to the control board. On the other side of the glass, the musicians were chatting as they took down music and put their instruments away, and Wendy pushed a button on the control board and said, “Everybody, come on in: there’s a cop here who thinks we killed Erica.”
IN A MINUTE or so, the room had filled with a half-dozen querulous women, none of them, with the exception of Berni the drummer, especially small. Virgil watched with interest as Wendy put on her outraged mask. It went on like a Halloween face, and Virgil thought, I’ve got a crazy one.
Not knowing exactly what was going to happen, Virgil eased to his feet as the women pushed into the control room, as though he were being polite; they brought the odor of overheated bodies with them, and he noticed that a couple of them were sweating, from the session just ended—harder work than it seemed.
Wendy said, “Well, he says one of us did it—who was it? Cat? Did you do it?”
“Not me,” said the keyboard player. She looked at Virgil, storming up. “Did he say it was me?”
Wendy turned to Virgil, ready to say something, but Virgil snapped, “I didn’t say it was anybody. But we’ve got a lot of women swarming around Wendy here, and Wendy was sleeping with McDill. You’re where we look. Everybody who doesn’t like Wendy, raise your hands: you can go.”
They all looked at one another, and a couple of women flashed amused smiles. No hands went up.
Berni said, “You know, people could get sued if you go throwing these accusations around.”
“If you think you see an accusation, sue me,” Virgil said.
“Maybe we ought to kick your ass,” the lead guitar said, and she sounded serious.
More quick glances, people checking to see how far this was going, and Virgil took a step to his right, to open the distance by three feet and to get his back against a wall. One of the engineers said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, we got equipment in here.”
Virgil said to the lead guitar, “Well, roll it out, honey. Let’s see what you got,” and he said it with enough ice that he caught their attention.
“You think you can take all of us?” the lead guitar asked.
“I think so,” Virgil said. “Maybe not. I’ll have to hurt a couple people bad, maybe blind you.”
“You’re fuckin’ crazy,” one of the engineers said.
“I’m a BCA agent investigating a murder. If you guys take me on, I’ll beat as many of you as I can, and all of you will be going to prison for assault on a peace officer, which is a felony in the state of Minnesota,” Virgil said. “You think a murder is fuckin’ funny, you should have come down and looked into McDill’s dead empty eyes, the back of her head all blown out. She wasn’t laughing. You want a couple of years in prison to think about that, bring it on.”
That turned them off, quick as a light switch. The woman who’d been playing the violin said, “This is nuts. I’ve got nothing to do with this. I don’t want to fight a cop. My dad’s a cop.”
“Pussy,” Wendy said.
“Hey, you wanna come out in the live room and say that?” the woman snarled at Wendy.
The engineer, a burly guy with heavy-rimmed black-plastic Hollywood hipster glasses, pushed into the woman and said, “Get out of here. You’re gonna start breakin’ stuff, goddamnit. Wendy, that board’s a hundred and fifty thousand and if you bust it, you pay for it; or your old man does.”
“I’m outa here,” said the violinist.
“Nobody’s out of here,” Virgil said. “I came here to interview you, one at a time. Take five minutes each.”
“Outside,” the engineer said. “Do it outside.”
THEY WOUND UP doing it in the drum booth, Virgil sitting on the drummer’s stool, the women, Wendy last, moving in and out of a metal folding chair.
Berni Kelly, who called herself Raven, drummer: “Like I told you the other night, I was by myself, but I didn’t do it. I was home, waiting for Wendy. Her dad was there, over at his place, part of the time, anyway. I didn’t see him—I saw his truck and I’m sure he must’ve seen mine. I didn’t know about Wendy and McDill. I guess I was the last to find out.”
“You’re pretty upset?”
“Well, she’s gone off before,” Berni said. “She always comes back. But I was pretty upset. I mean, last night, I hit her as hard as I could.”
“Pretty good shot, too,” Virgil said with a grin.
“Thank you.”
“You’re back together?” Virgil asked.
“We are. Yes. Listen, I really don’t have anything against you. I hope you find out who killed Erica, even though I didn’t like her. Us guys got this rock ’n’ roll attitude about cops, but it’s a TV thing, it’s not real. I’m on your side, really.”
“What do you think about Zoe Tull?”
“I don’t think about her,” Berni said. “She and Wendy had a thing, but Zoe’s so straight, Wendy couldn’t stand it anymore. I mean, Zoe wanted to exchange Valentine’s Day candy-heart boxes, for God’s sakes.”
CATHY (CAT) MATHIS, KEYBOARDS: “We could have taken you.”
“Maybe—you had total weight on your side and you might have taken me down, but I would have hurt a few of you, and the more I hurt, the more room I’d have to go after the rest,” Virgil said with a smile. “It’d be an interesting thing to try out, except that we’d have to hurt people
to do it. If I didn’t have the job I have, I’d be willing to try it out.”
Her head bobbed up and down a couple of times, and then she said, “Really?”—a genuine question.
“Yeah. Really,” Virgil said.
“You like to fight?” she asked.
“Like is the wrong word,” Virgil said. “I find it intense. My life lacks intensity.”
“You killed all those Vietnamese. Was that intense?”
“I didn’t personally kill anybody—but yeah: it was intense,” Virgil said. Before she could ask another question, he asked, “Where were you when McDill was killed?”
“I don’t know exactly when she was killed, but I heard it was late afternoon. I have a karate class at six o’clock, and I was in class.”
“Karate. You like to fight?” Virgil asked.
“My life lacks intensity,” she said.
“How many people in the class?” Virgil asked.
“Probably eight or nine people, plus the sensei,” Mathis said. “Then, another class came in while we were finishing. If you want to check the alibi, you should do it quick—today—before people start to forget. I sparred with a guy named Larry Busch.”
“If you had to pick out one person that you know who might have killed Erica McDill, who would you pick?”
But she was already shaking her head: “Not a fair question. I have no idea who might have wanted to hurt McDill. I knew that she and Wendy were fooling around, but I figured that was their business.”
“Have you had a relationship with Wendy yourself ?”
“Yeah. She pays me to play keyboards. I’m an employee,” Mathis said.
“But . . .”
“I’m straight.”
“All right; so you had no . . . love interest in the situation . . . with either McDill or Wendy or Berni or whoever.”
“Nope.”
BERTHA (BERT) CARR, the violinist: “You’re looking at the wrong place. The only person who might have wanted to get rid of McDill for romantic . . . or sexual reasons . . . would be Berni, and Berni really didn’t know. I mean, I know she didn’t know, because I was talking to her about Wendy and she asked me if I thought McDill was a threat. She knew McDill had an eye on Wendy, but didn’t know how far it had gotten.”
“When did you figure it out?”
“Tuesday night. Nobody said anything, but we were sitting around here and Wendy’s dad brought some pizzas and McDill and Wendy were sitting right next to each other, were touching each other all the time; right there with Dad watching.”
“Tuesday.”
“Yes. I counted back.”
“If I shouldn’t be looking here, where should I be looking?” Virgil asked.
“At the Eagle Nest,” Carr said. “That place . . . you know that there are a lot of us who stay there, right?”
“Us?”
“Gays. Lesbians,” she said.
“Sure. I’ve been told that.”
“That’s not the whole story,” she said. “Did you notice that there are quite a few little boy-toy waiters up there?”
“Boy toy . . . Are you . . . ?” He thought of the waiter who’d taken him down the steps to the water, and his cutting-edge hairdo.
“Yes. There are any number of hasty romances going on up there, and they’re not all gay. I’d heard that McDill would rent one of the boys every once in a while. She had this dominatrix thing going. You know, I don’t mean leather or vinyl or any of that, but she sort of liked getting a little boy to kneel down for her, if you get the picture.”
“Ah, man. Did Wendy know that?” Virgil asked.
“Wendy . . . Wendy would inhale a boy every once in a while,” Carr said. “That was something she and McDill shared. I wonder if there was a boy there that night, when Wendy stayed over?”
“Ah, man,” Virgil said.
“What? You weird about sex?” Carr asked.
“No. But everything just got more complicated,” Virgil said. “So where were you when Erica McDill was murdered?”
“I think—this is just from what I heard on TV—that I was right here, working on ‘Lover Do’ with Wendy. There were a few people here, Gerry, Corky, our manger, that guy Mark . . .” She pointed through the window to one of the engineers, who was disconnecting a microphone in the live room.
“Okay. Enough to nail down an alibi.”
“Yes. I believe so. I mean, people were coming and going, we went out to eat for a while. . . . But, generally, we were around,” Carr said.
“It’s only ten minutes out to the Eagle Nest.”
“Well . . . what can I tell you? I don’t know where everybody was, for every ten minutes. The dinner break, some people were out for an hour. . . .”
CYNTHIA (SIN) SAWYER, the lead guitar. She came in carrying a saxophone, tooted it once, then put it on the floor beside her chair.
“Gay or straight?” Virgil asked.
“Me? A little of both,” she said.
“Do you think Wendy and McDill ever shared a male companion?” Virgil asked.
“I doubt it. Wendy would have been bragging about it, if they did,” Sawyer said. “And she hasn’t. Been bragging.”
“You ever hear about male companions working up at the Eagle Nest?”
“Sure. It’s a high school joke around here,” she said. “If you’ve got a certain look, apply at the Eagle Nest for a summer job. Depending on the length of your dick, you might get overtime.”
“You believe it?”
“Yep.” She smiled.
“The place is starting to sound like a whorehouse,” Virgil said.
“What, you thought women came up to look at loons all day? Believe me, you can only look at a loon for so long,” she said. “You get up, you do some yoga, drink some body-cleansing green tea, look at some loons, paddle some canoes, drink some martinis, get your brains banged loose, go to bed. All part of the package.”
“Do you have any feeling that anybody in the band might have wanted to hurt McDill?”
She leaned forward and tapped his knee. “No. And I’ll tell you why. I’m a good goddamned lead guitar; I’m a pro. Gerry is a terrific bass player—she’s not from here, she’s from the Cities, and moved up here to get with Wendy’s voice. And she’s got a good backup voice. The violin is fine, the keyboards are okay; if we can find a decent drummer, we could go a long way with Wendy. McDill could have been part of that plan. I listened to McDill talk, and I’m a believer. She knew her shit. She was somebody we needed.”
“But you’d have to dump Berni, right?” Virgil asked.
“Well, yeah—but she doesn’t necessarily know that,” Sawyer said. “Or maybe she does. That’s life. Maybe she could be an assistant manager or something, a roadie, or a spare drummer, or she could do some other percussion shit—tambourines. She can sing a little, and she’s got really great tits, so she’d look good up front, I mean, she could stay . . . but the point is, McDill could have put us on that road, you know? She had contacts all over the place: she knew how to get it done.”
“You liked her?”
“Oh . . . no. But that didn’t make any difference to me,” Sawyer said. “It’s like you’ve got a terrific music teacher, and he puts his hand on your ass. You don’t like him, but hey—he teaches you to play a killer guitar. You like that part. Same with McDill. I’m not going to sleep with her, but she can do my PR all day and night.”
She had been running around to a grocery store and to a Wal-Mart when McDill was killed: “I guess that’s not exactly a great alibi, but that’s what I was doing. I was in and out of here, while they were trying to figure out ‘Lover Do,’ but I didn’t have anything to do with killing McDill.”
Virgil believed her.
GERRY O’MEARA, BASS, didn’t seem to have a nickname; she’d been working on the “Lover Do” song with Wendy and the others when McDill was killed. “Yeah, there’ll have to be some personnel changes in the band, and I guess she probably knows it. I mean, this is what I d
o for a living, and I’m good at it, and I’ve played with some heavy people. Now I need to cash it in. I’m almost thirty, and if I’m going to make it, it’s got to be soon.”
“But you don’t think the changes might somehow lead to this murder?” Virgil asked.
“I don’t see how. McDill was going to help with PR, and with contacts in Nashville and so on, but . . . I don’t see how the changes would wind up with her getting shot. I think it was something at the Eagle Nest. Somebody heard about her sleeping with Wendy and got jealous. I mean, who else would know where Erica was going in that canoe?”
“Good point. Have you heard that McDill had anything going up here, other than Wendy?”
“No, I haven’t heard anything. I don’t hang with the gay chicks. I’m straight. But McDill getting killed has to be one of two things, right? Business—I mean, money—or sex. Jealousy. One of those two things. You just have to figure out which one.”
“Thank you,” Virgil said.
WENDY.
“I think maybe I want a lawyer when I’m talking to you,” she said.
Virgil said, “Okay. Get a lawyer. If you can’t afford a lawyer, I’ll arrange to have the court appoint one. . . .”
She threw her hands up. “Wait-wait-wait. You got me. I don’t want a fuckin’ lawyer,” Wendy said. “Ask your questions.”
“When you slept with McDill the other night, was there a man around? Did you share a man? In any way?”
She looked at him for a minute, then did a reflexive grin, shook her head, and said, “You know about the boys, huh? But no, it was just the two of us, bumpin’ cunts.” She said it casually, no longer trying to shock him.
“Had McDill been playing with any of the other women up there? Or any of the men?”
“They’re not really men—they’re boys. Everybody calls them boys. And I don’t know about McDill. I went up there because we’d been talking and doing some cocktails, and we were sneaking around Berni to do this, which got me kind of hot, so when Erica says, ‘Come on up to the lodge,’ I said, ‘Okay.’ It was that quick. Nothing planned. We went up there, had a few more cocktails, and got naked. I can give you the details of that, if you’d like.”
Rough Country Page 12
