Theresa Monsour

by Cold Blood

  “Justice. Take it easy,” said his pa. He and Murphy had stopped in the middle of the kitchen and were both gawking at his frantic cleaning efforts as he bent over the garbage can.

  “Told you, P… Pa. It’s a d… disaster.” Trip stood straight and glanced at the two of them—his old man and a cop—arm in arm. Like best friends, and it made Trip furious.

  “Son. Paris is available. Maybe you should ask her to this reunion thing.”

  Trip glared at his old man and his pa stared back. A long silence. Murphy cleared her throat. Decided to lay some groundwork for Saturday night. “Actually, I’m seeing someone. I’m going with him.”

  “A policeman?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” she said. Murphy gently disengaged her arm from Frank’s and stepped farther into the kitchen. She could feel her shoes sticking to the linoleum. She noticed the room smelled like alcohol.

  “This here’s where Justice works his culinary magic,” said the elder Trip.

  Murphy didn’t see anything suspicious on the counters or table. She walked around the kitchen table and went over to the cupboards. Trip was on her heels. “You’ve got more shelf space than I do.” She reached up and pulled open a cupboard while keeping an eye on him. Wanted to observe his reaction. He didn’t flinch. Nothing in the cupboards he cared about. She scanned the shelves and shut the door. She saw the wastebasket between the kitchen table and the sink. Trip’s eyes darted down to it and then away. She glanced inside it. Saw a broken liquor bottle. Was that what he was hiding?

  “Excuse the m… mess,” Trip said. He opened the cupboard under the sink, set the wastebasket inside and shut the door.

  With the tip of his cane, Frank pointed to a doorway on one side of the kitchen. “My digs are on this end.”

  She eyed Sweet. He was glancing out the kitchen window; this part of the tour didn’t worry him. She walked past Frank and poked her head through the door. The full-size bed was made. A set of longhorns mounted on the wall over the headboard. Western print on the spread. Matching curtains on the windows. Nightstand. Dresser. Lamp on the dresser that looked like a miniature covered wagon. Elvis clock with swinging hips hanging on the wall above the dresser. “Nice,” she said.

  “You’ve already seen our great room,” said Frank. She walked through the kitchen and ahead of him into the front room. Sweet was a step behind her. “Guess it’s not too great. Let’s call it our ‘okay room.’ ” He laughed at his own joke and followed her.

  She pointed down the hall on the other end of the front room. “The jungle room this way?”

  Sweet stepped in front of her and barred her way, planting a hand on each side of the doorway. “No, Paris. Really. It’s t… too m… m… messy.”

  She read his face. Fear. In one of the rooms or closets down this hall, Sweet Justice Trip was hiding a terrible secret.

  Frank slipped between the two of them. Leaning his right hand on his cane, he faced his son. Said in a voice that was low and loaded with threat, “Out of the way, Justice. Let me finish the tour. I want her to see the rest of the place. All of it.” Sweet didn’t move. Kept both arms up. His father lifted his cane and with the hooked handle, pulled down his son’s left arm. In a guttural voice, the older man said, “Get the fuck out of my way. Now.” Murphy took a step backward. She thought the two men were going to start swinging at each other. Instead, Trip stepped aside and let his father pass. “This way, Paris,” Frank said over his shoulder.

  Murphy didn’t look at Trip. She followed his father down the hall.

  Standing and watching the two figures’ backs, Trip reached into his right pocket and grabbed the switchblade. He paused. Plenty of time to pull it out, he thought. He let go of the knife and took his hand out of his pocket. Followed his pa and Murphy.

  Frank pushed open his son’s bedroom door, flipped on a light switch and thumped into the middle of the room. Turned around to face Murphy. She took a couple of steps into the room and stifled a gasp. A medieval arsenal. Knives and swords and daggers mounted on the walls and displayed on the dresser. Was this what Sweet didn’t want her to see? She heard him behind her and turned around. He was standing with both hands in his pockets, surveying the room with pride. No. His room and its contents weren’t the big secret. In fact, she sensed Sweet wanted her to say something complimentary. “Impressive collection,” she said.

  He blushed and averted his eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Bunch of expensive junk if you ask me,” said his father.

  She noticed a street sign on the one spot on the wall not covered with weaponry. It said ELVIS PRESLEY BOULEVARD. She pointed to it. “That from your souvenir shop back home?”

  “Yup,” Frank said. “Worst thing we ever did was sell that place. It’d be a gold mine now.” Frank walked out and Murphy turned and followed. Trip was on her heels.

  They went past the bathroom. The door was open. Frank pointed inside with the tip of his cane. “It’s a small can, but it’s all we need. No bathtub. Wish we had one. Got a shower though.” He looked over Murphy’s head at his son. Said slowly and deliberately, “That shower gets more than its share of use.”

  Murphy turned and glanced at Trip’s face. Saw only anger directed at his father. She didn’t like standing between the two men. Might as well stand between two snarling dogs. She stepped inside the bathroom. “Mind if I wash my hands?”

  “Go right ahead,” said Frank, his eyes still locked on his son’s face.

  She went to the sink, turned on the faucet and put her hands under it. She heard whispering and gave a sideways glance. Frank was standing in the hall at the entrance to the bathroom, resting both hands on his cane. Sweet was leaning his back against the wall and looking at his father, shaking his head. The elder man noticed her staring at them. She had to say something. “Any hand soap?” she asked.

  “Above the sink,” said Frank. “Help yourself.”

  That’s what she wanted to hear. Permission to snoop. She pulled open the medicine cabinet. Quickly surveyed its contents. Saw only a disposable razor and shave cream. Bottle of Tylenol. Bottle of aspirin. Cold medicine. Bar of Lava hand soap. She took down the soap, shut the cabinet. Tore off the paper wrapper and looked for a wastebasket. Saw it next to the toilet. Tried to peer inside it without being obvious. Saw it was empty. She dropped the wrapper into the basket. She held the bar under the water and rubbed it into a lather with her hands. She set the bar on the edge of the sink. Rinsed. Didn’t see a towel. Wiped her hands on her pants legs.

  “Sorry,” said Frank. “My boy needs to get to the Laundromat pronto.”

  “That’s okay,” she muttered, and stepped out of the bathroom. She glanced at the last door down the hall. “That the guest room?”

  “Let me finish the tour,” said Frank. He thumped toward the door and put his hand on the knob. Turned and pushed it open. Went inside. Murphy followed.

  “A freezer,” she said. “Good idea. I’ve been thinking of getting myself a small one.” Murphy walked over to the chest and put her right hand on the lid.

  Standing in the doorway, Trip watched her back in case she turned suddenly. He reached into his pants pocket and wrapped his right hand around the switchblade. He pulled the knife out. Put it behind his back. As he opened it, he coughed to cover up the click it made when the blade locked. In his mind, she was already sprawled out on her back in front of the freezer. He could see her bleeding from a gash across her throat. Struggling for breath. Dying. Dying. Dead.

  Murphy turned her head and looked into the hall. Sweet was hunched in the doorway. His left hand planted on the door frame. His right behind his back. A pained expression on his face. A trickle of sweat snaking down the middle of his forehead. He could have been a man getting ready for his own crucifixion. She directed a question at Trip to hear his voice. Listen for the fear. “How much does it hold?”

  Trip seemed startled. Surprised she’d asked him a question. “What?”

  “How much does the freezer hold?�
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  Sweet’s mouth opened but nothing more came out. His father answered. “More than you’d think.” Frank rested his right hand on top of hers. “Would you like a dish of ice cream? I think we got some spumoni.” He rubbed his sandpaper palm over her fingers.

  She slipped her hand out from under his. “No. Thanks.” Something was in this room, maybe even in the freezer. Drugs were a good bet. Money possibly. Regardless, Murphy’s instincts told her to get the hell out of there. Get away from Sweet. The murdering bastard. His creepy father and his creepy house filled with knives and swords. She could always come back with a search warrant after the reunion Saturday. She backed away from the freezer, opened her purse and pulled out the party invitation. Turned around and headed for the door. Sweet took his hand off the door frame and stepped out of her way. “Thanks for the tea and tour,” she said, and handed him the invitation as she passed.

  Sweet took the piece of paper with his left hand and nodded. Stuffed it in his left pants pocket. “I’ll w… walk you out.” She went ahead of him down the hall. Trip exhaled with relief. His right hand still behind him, he closed the switchblade, slipped the knife back in his right pocket. He followed her down the hall. Wiped both palms on his pants as he went; they were wet with sweat.

  Leaning against his cane and standing in front of the freezer, Frank watched them go. He was disappointed. He’d hoped his son would take her in front of him; he would have found that exciting. Satisfying. Still, he’d had fun tormenting Sweet. He yelled after them: “Nobody wants ice cream?” He lifted the freezer lid a crack. His lips stretched into a smile as a frosty mist rolled out.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWO CORPSES LEFT Erik no time for cooking. As Murphy expected, he was too immersed in autopsies to make dinner. She didn’t mind; she wanted a break from him. “Give it up,” she told him when he called her at the cop shop Wednesday night to suggest a midnight meal. “You sound tired. I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Grocery shopping.”

  “Exciting. Sure you don’t want my company?”

  “I’ll take a rain check,” she said, and hung up. She was tired and hungry by the time she left the station and went to the grocery store straight from work. Her visit with the Trips had rattled the hell out of her and mystified her at the same time. She couldn’t believe Trip had handed her the mug he’d taken from Denny’s car. She wanted to put it out of her mind for a while. Seeing it had been a shock, and it sent her emotions through the ceiling. Maybe she was reading too much into a stolen mug. She had to admit Erik would be good at helping her sift through a pile of wild ideas to come up with a solid theory. This wasn’t one for over the phone, though. She’d wait until they got together again, whenever that would be. After that surprise in the shower, a part of her wasn’t in that big of a hurry to be alone with him. Maybe they could meet in a restaurant and talk on Thursday.

  She steered the Jeep onto Grand Avenue, a tree-lined two-mile meander of trendy shops, restaurants and old homes that started at the western edge of downtown and ended at the Mississippi River. About a mile down Grand she hung a right into the parking lot of Kowalski’s Market, a family-run grocery store loaded with imported cheeses, organically grown produce, cut flowers, fresh seafood, meats. Inside, she piled the cart with some basics. Steaks, chops, a roast, a chicken, oranges, celery, milk, butter, bread. A carton of eggs. She’d hit the farmers’ market later in the week for more produce. Saw pumpkins for sale, but decided it was still too long before Halloween to buy one. The Greek olives looked good and so did the ready-made wild rice salad, but the line in front of the deli case was deep and her stomach was growling. She couldn’t decide between Gouda and cheddar. Tossed both into the cart. She ate a Hershey’s bar while standing in the checkout line and felt embarrassed when she handed the woman an empty wrapper to scan. Gnawed on a hard-crust roll in the car while driving back to the houseboat, brushing crumbs off her lap at every stoplight. While cramming food into the refrigerator, she ate some cheddar. Didn’t bother slicing it. Peeled off half the wrapper and nibbled on the block. She wanted to wash it down with a glass of wine, but all she had left in the rack was a bottle of champagne. She thought about a liquor store run, but instead fell asleep on the couch watching television, the half-eaten cheese in her hand.

  She woke early in the morning still fully dressed. Even her jacket and shoes. The television was on. Her back was sore from another night on the couch. She shut off the television, stood up and stretched. Felt something under her foot. She looked down. She was standing on the block of cheese. “I’m pathetic,” she muttered, and bent over to pick it up. She brushed it off. Figured the five-second rule was long past, but put it in the refrigerator anyway. Tripod loved cheese. Threw her jacket over a kitchen chair. Falling asleep on the couch with her clothes on and a block of cheese in her hand. Slob behavior, she thought. Nothing repressed the slob in her like a good run. She went upstairs, pulled on some sweats and a stocking cap. Opened the bedroom patio doors and stepped out onto the deck. Cold and cloudy. She scanned the activity on the river and saw some rowers from the Minnesota Boat Club skimming the brown water in their shell. They’d just pulled away from their stucco boathouse on Raspberry Island, a wedge of land downstream from Murphy’s houseboat. She’d tried rowing that past summer and tipped the boat. She wondered what it would feel like to tumble into the water on a chilly fall day. She shivered and went back inside, slid the door shut and dug around in her closet for a windbreaker and gloves. Found them on the floor. Shook off the dust bunnies. Put them on. Pulled on her shoes. Checked the treads. Worn down. She’d have to get to the mall sometime soon. She thumped downstairs and out the door. Locked up and tucked the key in her windbreaker pocket. Did some quick stretching on the dock while a V-shaped flock of Canada geese honked in the slate sky overhead.

  Instead of her usual route along Wabasha, she headed for Lilydale, a road that followed the river and sliced through a thickly wooded regional park. As she pounded along the tar running path, she had trees and the Mississippi to her right, the street and steep bluffs to her left. Even on a gray day, the colors of the fall leaves seemed fluorescent. She saw another runner yards ahead of her and a bicyclist glided past her. Otherwise the trail was quiet. It would grow quieter as it got closer to winter until only a hardy handful braved the cold to use the path; she would be one of them. She tried to use the run to clear clutter from her head. She was successful at pushing the Trips from her mind, but her thoughts about Jack were tougher to put aside. Jack. His back to her, growing rigid with the news that Erik was her lover. His questions. In the same bed where we made love? On the same sheets? She hadn’t heard from him since he walked out. She wondered if she should call him, but didn’t have a clue what she’d tell him other than what she’d already said. I’m sorry. When it came to responding to Erik’s declarations of love, she was equally incapable of finding the words. Lately, responding to his touch had also been hard. Jack dumping her had shifted her emotions. Unsettled them.

  After twenty minutes she turned around and took the same path back to the boat. At the parking lot, she slowed to a walk. Wiped her forehead with the hem of her jacket. Saw Erik’s car in the lot. What was he doing there so early in the morning? She’d have to get that spare key back from him; she didn’t mean for him to start using it so freely. When she set her feet on the dock, she looked for her copy of the Pioneer Press. Didn’t see it. Looked over the edge into the water. Dead carp. Oily log. No floating newsprint. She made a mental note to call the paper and bitch. Maybe she’d complain to Cody, to aggravate him. Reporters hated when people called them with delivery gripes. She pushed open her houseboat door.

  Erik was in the galley, standing at the counter, wearing her “Kiss the Cook” barbecue apron over his slacks and dress shirt. His sleeves were rolled up. His tie, blazer and jacket were thrown over the back of a kitchen chair. He must have pulled an all-nighter and come right from work. He was cracking eggs into a
bowl with one hand—a skill she could never master. He turned and looked at her, egg in hand. “Figured you were running. Made myself at home in the kitchen. Thought if I couldn’t make you dinner, I’d make you breakfast.”

  “Thanks.” She pulled off her sweaty stocking cap and gloves and stuffed them in the pocket of the windbreaker.

  “What’s with the cheese?” He held up the dirty block of cheddar with teeth marks on it.

  She took it out of his hands, opened the refrigerator, set it inside. Took out a bottle of spring water. “You weren’t going to use that in the omelet?”

  He started whipping the eggs with a wire whisk. “No.”

  “Good,” she said, shutting the refrigerator door. “It’s dog cheese. For Tripod.”

  He stopped whipping and frowned. “Dog cheese? Never heard of such a thing. Where do you buy it? Petco?”

  She opened the bottle of water and took a gulp. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yeah. Petco.” Took another drink.

  “Still thinking about a dog?” He set an omelet pan on a burner, turned the heat to medium, tossed a small chunk of butter into the skillet.

  She leaned back against the counter. “Jack thought it was a bad idea, me being gone so much and all. He’s probably right.” She started chugging the rest of the water.

  He moved the butter around the pan with a fork. “I could keep the pooch whenever you’re out of town. I could come here and watch him. Or I could move in.” She choked on the water. Coughed and covered her mouth. “Is that a yes or a no?” he asked with a grin.