Theresa Monsour

by Cold Blood

  Didn’t go to bed. He’d sat on the couch and watched television, occasionally dozing off. Falling asleep with the remote in his hand. A privilege only his old man had enjoyed. Every so often he’d gotten up off the couch and peeked through the front room window to make sure no one was messing around near the truck.

  Before he’d left for the reunion, he eyeballed the front room one last time. If anyone looked closely they could find evidence of blood, but he figured he’d given no one reason to scrutinize the place. His plan was to drive carefully and stay sober and straight while on the road. Give no state trooper reason to stop him. Bury the bodies, the towels, the women’s purses and Keri’s clothes at night. Somewhere between St. Paul and Memphis. The only thing he’d keep were the assortment of pills from Keri. He’d dumped the entire stash in with Keri’s Prilosec prescription—including the Roofies.

  As he steered the truck down Summit Avenue, he slipped his hand inside his right jacket pocket and touched the bottle. Safely tucked away. He withdrew his hand from the jacket and felt the bulge in his right pants pocket. The straight-edge. In case. His hand moved to the controls on the CD player. He turned up the volume on “Evil Element” by Taste of Insanity. The guitar squeals ripped through the cab. He pulled at the neck of his shirt. He’d sifted through all the shirts and picked out one of the few with sleeves long enough for his arms. A pale gray shirt. Athletic fit. Fifty cotton. Fifty poly. Button-down collar. Perfect with his cuffed slate-gray dress pants. No tie. After getting fired from his sales job, he never wanted to see another tie. Instead of a suit coat he wore his best jacket, the gray suede bomber. The black leather belt and black dress shoes were his old man’s. His pa didn’t need them anymore.

  He stopped on the street in front of the reception hall, an old mansion like the other mansions that lined Summit Avenue. The three-story stone house was surrounded by wrought iron. The fence was draped in dried vines and white Christmas lights. The front yard was illuminated by a coach lamp mounted on a post, and by ceiling lights on the open front porch. Trip could see a few people milling about on the porch with their cigarettes and cigars. The rest had to be inside; it was cold and windy outside and an icy drizzle was starting to slice the air in diagonal lines. Trip wouldn’t miss the Minnesota weather.

  All the street parking in front of the hall was taken on both sides of Summit. He turned down the side street that ran alongside the mansion. Was frustrated parking wasn’t allowed on one side. Found a space at the end of the block on the other side. He made a U-turn and pulled into the space. He shut off the truck. Shoved the keys in his left pants pocket. Hopped out. Slammed the driver’s-side door and pulled on the handle to make sure it was locked. He glanced at the topper. Nothing suspicious. He sniffed. No stink. As long as the cold weather held, the bodies would keep. He buried his hands in his pockets as he walked down the sidewalk. The wind was in his face; the rain felt like needles on his skin. Ahead of him, a man and a woman were walking arm in arm under an umbrella. They were probably headed to the same place. He wondered if he knew them. Was the man a jock who’d shoved his face into a locker? Was the woman a bitch who’d whispered with her friends? Pointed at him? Laughed at him? The couple crossed under a streetlight. They had gray hair. Too old to be his former classmates. Since it was an all-class reunion, there’d be a lot of people he didn’t know. He didn’t care. As long as one person in particular showed up. He kept walking. Wondered what she’d be wearing. Who this fella was that she’d have on her arm. Trip had more than enough pills. Maybe he’d waste both of them.

  TRIP paid the cover charge at the door and walked in. Didn’t bother standing at the table inside the front door to fill out a name tag. Ignored the other tables filled with St. Brice High memorabilia. Yearbooks. Homecoming buttons. Programs from school plays. Football trophies. Basketball trophies. Hockey trophies. None of that had ever been a part of his life. That was some other world he’d heard about but never experienced. He saw people carrying their jackets upstairs. He didn’t want to leave his jacket in the coatroom. He wanted it handy so he could bolt when he wanted.

  Most people were funneling into the largest room on the main floor, an area that originally must have been the mansion’s front room and dining room. Trip followed the crowd. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Chandeliers hung overhead. At the front end of the room was a band setting up on a small stage. At the opposite end, against the back wall, was a cloth-covered banquet table filled with food. Trip thought it was typical Minnesota fare. Veggies and dip. Fruit. Cheese and crackers. Sliced meats and rolls. Meatballs simmering in barbecue sauce. He wondered whatever gave northerners the idea of polluting barbecue sauce with meatballs. In his mind, he was already home eating real southern cooking. Interstate Bar-B-Que would be his first stop. A slab of pork ribs with a side of beans.

  People were coming upstairs from the basement with drinks in their hands. He went down. He told himself he needed a drink in his hand so he wouldn’t look suspicious. So he had something to do besides sit. Everyone else went downstairs for their drink and took it back upstairs to the main floor. Trip stayed in the bar, a converted cellar with stone walls and a low ceiling. He sat at a table in a far corner with his back to the wall and his eyes trained on the floor. He raised his eyes whenever he heard a female voice at the bar; he didn’t want to miss her. Though a parade of people passed through the basement, he didn’t try talking to anyone and no one tried talking to him. His resolve to stay sober melted in the crowded reception house. For him it was filled with two kinds of people: those he didn’t know, and those he knew and never liked. One pair of blondes in particular. He remembered them. Recognized them the instant they walked into the bar. Long, straight hair parted down the middle. They wore their hair the same way in high school. They weren’t related but the pair’s nickname was “The Twins.” They did everything together. Both were cheerleaders. Shared their lunch bags with each other. Took the same classes. They stood behind him on the choir risers. They’d complain in voices too low for the teacher to hear but loud enough for his ears: “Can’t even see with the f… f… freak in the way.” “Wish the f… freak would move his f… fat f… fucking head.” “The f… f… freak can’t sing worth a shit.” They were “The Twins” and he was “The Freak.” He hated them. They were giggling as they left the bar with their glasses of wine. They didn’t see him sitting there, but he was certain they were laughing at him.

  He ditched the idea of trying to impress anyone with his heroic volunteer efforts. Nothing he could do would ever make them accept him, even after all these years. All he wanted to do was poison Paris Murphy and her boyfriend and leave town. He reached into the right pocket of his jacket and touched the pill bottle again.

  THIRTY-SIX

  SHE’D CONSIDERED WEARING something dumpy to piss off Duncan and then thought she’d show him up instead. Murphy stood in front of her bedroom dresser mirror and scrutinized her evening attire. A fuzzy three-quarter-sleeve black cashmere sweater with a high neckline and a low back. Fitted black satin skirt with a hemline that fell just above the knees. She wished she could dump the panty hose—they were too confining—but it was cold outside and the wrong season to go barelegged. She turned sideways and examined her profile. Murphy hadn’t worn the outfit in a while; the material hung a little looser on her than she remembered. She hadn’t been watching the scale lately and suspected she’d lost some weight since the summer. She blamed it on the surgeon’s case. The “stress diet” was always effective. She took a brush off her dresser top and gave her hair a few strokes. She brushed the bangs; she’d never get used to those things. Peering into the mirror, she studied her forehead to make sure the scar wasn’t visible. She didn’t want anyone seeing it and asking about it. Worse, someone staring at it while trying to act like they weren’t.

  She heard a knock at the door. She stepped into her black pumps and went downstairs. She pulled open the door and blinked. “Nice.”

  Duncan could have been a catalo
gue model in the black wool crepe suit. Underneath the three-button jacket were a white shirt and a silver silk tie. Over his arm was draped a black trench coat. He stepped inside. “You like it? Went to the Mall of America this afternoon. Found the whole kit and caboodle on the clearance racks at Nordstrom’s. Even the rain gear.” He was grinning like a kid showing off his trophy fish. He reached into the pocket of the coat and pulled out some paper. “Saved the receipt and the tags. Like you said.” He shoved the scraps back in the pocket.

  “I think you should keep it,” she said. He pushed back his blazer and showed her his gun hanging from a shoulder holster. “Keep that, too,” she said.

  He raised his brows. “Hey. You look great.”

  “Thanks.” She eyed his coat. “Raining out?”

  “Starting to.”

  “Let me get my black trench coat. Then we can match. Plus I need my purse.”

  “Why? Don’t need to drag around any makeup or anything, do you?”

  “I need to drag around my gun.” She ran upstairs to her bedroom.

  He watched her go and said in a low voice, “Hot. Hot. Hot.”

  She came back down, pulling the coat on as she went. “Did you say something?”

  “Got to go.” He slipped his coat on.

  “We’re okay. We’ve got time.” She threw her purse strap over her shoulder. Fished a pair of leather gloves out of her coat pocket and pulled them on. Took her house keys out of her purse. “Don’t want to be the first ones there.”

  He held the door open for her and motioned her outside with his hand. “I’ve got some fancy wheels to go with your fancy outfit.” She stepped outside. He followed, shutting the door behind them. She locked up and dropped the keys in her purse.

  “I thought I was going to drive,” she said as they walked down the dock. She’d heard Duncan was a crazy man behind the wheel.

  “Paris. Have you been listening to those naughty stories about me again?”

  She was glad it was nighttime so he couldn’t see her face redden. “No. No. I like my Jeep is all.”

  “I like my little ride. Come on. I’ll keep the needle under a hundred.”

  The instant their feet touched shore the drizzle quickened. They pulled their coat collars up and dashed to his car. He opened the passenger’s-side door for her. Even in the rain she had to step back and take in the car. “A black boat.” She slid inside. Red leather seats and interior, like a bar lounge. He shut her door, went around, got into the driver’s side. Slammed the door. Pushed the key into the ignition and started it.

  “Nineteen seventy-six Cadillac Sedan DeVille.” He pulled out of the parking lot. “Eight-banger. Automatic everything. Not a spot of rust. Bought her out in California from Jurassic Cadillac. Drove her back here. Check this out.” He reached under the seat, fished out a fat tape and pushed it into the player.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said. “It works?”

  “Bet your ass.” He turned up the volume. “Small World by Huey Lewis and the News. Nineteen eighty-eight. The last eight-track released by a major label.”

  “Why do you know that?”

  “I don’t know why I know that,” he said as he piloted the Cadillac north over the Wabasha Bridge. “I just do.” He took a left at Kellogg Boulevard downtown. “What’s the plan regarding the prints?”

  “We’ll keep our eyes open for an opportunity.”

  Duncan steered the car through downtown traffic. The streets and sidewalks were clogged with hockey fans. The Wild were playing the Red Wings at Xcel Energy Center. “This joint is down from the cathedral, right?”

  “Yeah. Sits on a corner. Parking on Summit’s a pain. You can probably find something on a side street. Might have to walk a ways.”

  The rain pattered on the windshield. “Good night for a walk,” he said. He went up a hill and took a left onto John Ireland Boulevard, curved past the St. Paul Cathedral and got onto Summit.

  “Thanks for doing this. Really. I wouldn’t feel safe without someone watching my back.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all mushy on me.” They drove past the hall. “Shit. Nothing on Summit.”

  “Keep going. We’ll find something farther down. Here. Take the first right.”

  He turned down the narrow side street. “This isn’t any good,” he grumbled. “Parking isn’t even allowed on this side. Trying to get me towed in my own town?”

  “Hang a U-turn and park on the other side.” They got to the end of the street. “Stop!” Murphy yelled. Duncan slammed on the brakes. Murphy opened the passenger’s door and jumped out. Left the door open. Ducked her head back inside and pointed to a truck parked on the other side of the street. “This is Sweet’s.” She slammed the door and Duncan waited with the engine running. She looked up and down the block. Didn’t see anyone coming. She ran across the street, stepped next to the truck and peeked inside the cab. Didn’t see anything weird. Went around to the rear and looked through the topper window. “Shit. Can’t see.” She went back to the Cadillac, opened the passenger’s door. Leaned inside. “Flashlight?”

  Duncan reached under his seat, pulled one out and handed it to her. “What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. She shut the car door, flicked on the light and went to the back of the Ford. Ran the beam around the inside of the truck bed. Jammed with stuff. Shirts. Boxes. A bunch of balled-up bed linen in that cowboy pattern the Trips favored. She flicked off the light and went back to the Cadillac. Pulled open the door, hopped inside and slammed it shut. “He’s taking off, maybe right after the reunion.” She opened the glove compartment and dropped in the flashlight. Shut it.

  Duncan started driving slowly, searching for parking spots while he talked. “Suitcases?”

  “Trunks. Boxes. Bedspreads. He’s definitely taking a hike.”

  “What about Pappy?”

  “Good question.”

  Duncan went around the block and got back on Summit. Saw a van pulling out of a space across the street from the hall. He did a U-turn and took it. “Guess some of your classmates did pretty good for themselves,” he said, pulling into the spot between a Mercedes and a Range Rover.

  “I’ll bet there’s not another car on the street with a working eight-track.”

  He turned off the car and pulled the keys out of the ignition. “Any other things we need to go over before we do this?”

  “Don’t eat or drink anything.”

  “You have go to be shitting me. I’m starving.”

  “He tried to dope me up at that restaurant in Moose Lake. He could try doing it again—to both of us.”

  He slipped the keys in his right pants pocket. Checked his left. Made sure he had his cell phone on him. “How about we keep an eye on our food and drinks? How about that?”

  “Okay. But be careful. He’s sneaky.” She paused and then asked a question she knew he wouldn’t want to hear. “When do we call for backup?”

  “Not until we need it,” he said.

  “When’s that?”

  He put his hand on the driver’s-side door. “When I say.”

  “Did you tell the bosses about this?”

  He opened his door and set one foot on the street. “I am the boss.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  TRIP WAS ON his third shot of whiskey by the time the two detectives crossed the street and entered the hall. By the time they paid the cover and hung up their coats and went down to the basement bar, he was on his fourth. Murphy asked for a glass of Chardonnay and Trip looked up. Recognized her from behind. The long, black hair. Like Snow White. The Snow White who’d been his dream. Who’d turned out to be his nightmare. The boyfriend had big shoulders. Big arms. Trip was sure they didn’t see him; he was a shadow hunched in a dark corner. Still, he felt perspiration collecting above his lip and on his forehead. He took the bar napkin from under his glass and wiped his face. Dropped the napkin on the table. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle. Keeping his hands under
the table, he unscrewed the cap. Set the cap on his lap. Poured all the pills into his left hand and set the empty bottle on his lap. He couldn’t see well in the dim light and with his hand under the table. He looked up. They’d already left with their drinks. He raised his cupped hand from under the table and poked around the tablets and capsules. They were sticking to his sweaty palm. With his right fingertips, he picked out eight Roofies and dropped them into his pants pocket. Four each would surely do the job. That still left him with six. No sense in wasting good pills. He dumped the remaining Roofies and the rest of the pills back in the bottle, screwed the cap back on, put the bottle back in his jacket pocket. He wanted to hang the jacket up after all. His mission might take a while and even in the cool basement, he was sweating like a pig.

  MURPHY and Duncan spoke in low voices as they walked upstairs from the bar.

  “See him?” he asked.

  “Yup. In the corner, hiding,” she said. They reached the top of the stairs and stepped into a small side room. It contained one round dining table surrounded by chairs. No one else was there.

  Duncan looked over his shoulder to make sure Trip wasn’t coming up behind him. “Why didn’t you go talk to him?”

  “Sweet and his father are big boozers. Give him time and he’ll get loose. We’ll mingle and munch and keep an eye out for him. When he comes up from the bar, I’ll back him into a corner. Get him talking about old times.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Duncan looked through the doorway into the dining room. “I’m hungry. Come on.”

  “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m going to plant myself near the basement doorway.”