“Yes,” she said without hesitation.
“All night?”
“All night.”
“How about Friday night between eleven and midnight?”
“Friday night? Isn’t that”—Casselman looked to his wife—“The night we went …”
“To the movies and for a drink afterwards,” Lila finished. “We went to see the new Tom Hanks film. It was a date. We hardly ever have time for dates anymore.”
Casselman nodded in agreement. He and Lila danced well together. I knew I wasn’t going to get anything more out of either of them until they were separated.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Casselman. Mrs. Casselman. I can let myself out.”
Casselman wasn’t as anxious to see me depart as I would have guessed.
“Mr. McKenzie, do you own your own business?”
“I’m self-employed,” I admitted.
“Then you certainly qualify for the Northern Lights Entrepreneur’s Club Ball. It’s tomorrow night at the Minnesota Club. Have you received an invitation?”
“It must have been lost in the mail.”
“Please plan on attending,” he told me. “I’ll arrange to have an invitation sent to you by messenger.”
“That’s gracious of you.”
“It’s going to be a great party. A great send-off for Napoleon and the others.”
“I’m sure it will be.”
“I’ll be looking forward to seeing you there.”
Through all of this, Lila stood mute, looking first at her husband, then at me, watching our conversation like it was a tennis match. Just for the hell of it, I decided to serve her a high, hard one. I glanced at my watch even though I had no interest in the time and said, “I have to go. I promised to meet someone at Rickie’s.”
I looked directly into Lila Casselman’s eyes when I said that last part. Her smile froze and her face went pale.
“I’m unfamiliar with Rickie’s. Is that a club?” Casselman asked.
“Yes. In St. Paul.”
“I confess that I rarely get to St. Paul.”
“You should make more of an effort,” I told him. Lila stared at me without blinking. “Thank you for your time and trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” he replied.
Lila didn’t say anything and probably wouldn’t until the blood returned from her feet.
Devanter was nowhere to be seen as I cautiously made my way to the Jeep Cherokee, but I could hear the lawn tractor. It sounded a long way off, behind the house. I turned the SUV around and headed down the
drive, under the arches, onto the private lane and drove to where it intersected the main road. I found an unobtrusive spot in the shadow of a large oak tree and parked.
Casselman had made a mistake. He should not have trusted his wife to provide an alibi—she had been with Bruder on Tuesday and Cook on Friday. Apparently, he didn’t know.
I switched on my radio, found jazz station KBEM, and waited. During the news break at the top of the hour I learned that one of the three people wounded during the attack on David Bruder had died earlier that morning at the Hennepin County Medical Center. I switched off the radio. That made eight dead since this all began. Good God in heaven.
I waited near the intersection for nearly two hours before Casselman sped past me driving the same Audi Lila had piloted the previous evening. He was alone. I was tempted to follow him as I had followed Napoleon Cook. Instead, I returned to Birchwood.
I parked close to the house and watched for Devanter. I didn’t see him and he didn’t answer when I rang the bell. Nor did Lila. I circled the house, discovering a twenty-five-foot-high wall of red, pink, and yellow roses climbing a trellis fixed to the south face. Beyond the house I found a carefully manicured lawn about the size of a football field that sloped leisurely to Lake Minnetonka. The lake was blue and quiet—boats in the distance gave it a picture postcard appeal. Having a wonderful time, wish you were here. Closer to the back of the house I found Lila standing next to a lounger by a swimming pool the size of a volleyball court. Why she needed a swimming pool when there was a perfectly good lake only a hundred paces away was beyond me.
She saw me approach but pretended not to, becoming the seductress I saw at Rickie’s, slowly discarding the oversize black shirt to reveal a
white, scoop-neck tanksuit with shimmery gold straps lacing the back. A swimsuit not designed for water. She pivoted slowly, tugging at this and smoothing that, locking her fingers behind her neck and stretching, giving me a good look at her strong, sleek body, playing me like one of the strippers at Déjà Vu. She sat on the lounger and, with her back to me, slipped the straps of the swimsuit off her shoulders before lying back and stretching out. I stood watching her, not liking the way she made me feel.
“See anything you like?” she asked, her eyes closed.
“One or two things,” I admitted.
She moved her hands up her body, taking her time, guiding them to her breasts. She began gently massaging herself with fingertips and palms, her lips parting with a sigh.
“Do you think I’m beautiful?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you say so? Most men do.”
“I hate to follow the crowd.”
She smiled slightly, licking her thin lips with the tip of her tongue as she slid her hands off her breasts, across her flat stomach to her thighs. At the same time a German shepherd puppy trotted across the lawn. He sniffed at my leg, wagged his tail, then found a cool spot in the recliner’s shadow. The dog broke Lila’s spell. I stepped backward, took a deep breath, and asked, “Does this act work with everyone?”
“So far,” she said, smirking.
I shook my head, telling myself more than her, “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Why are you here?”
“I still want to know where your husband was Tuesday night, the night Jamie was killed.”
“He told you. He was with me.”
“You were with David Bruder.”
The smirk froze on her face.
“Bruder Tuesday. Napoleon Cook Friday. And Geno Belloti last night.”
The smirk thawed quickly into a soft smile, but her eyes remained hard and shiny. She reminded me of a cat, the kind you find behind the reinforced glass at the Como Zoo, a predator.
Lila swung her long legs off the lounge chair. “Napoleon was sure we were being followed. You?”
I nodded.
She reached down and very deliberately scratched the shepherd’s ears. “What I was doing at the Paradise Motel is my affair,” she said without irony.
“True. But where your husband was is mine.”
The shepherd’s wagging tail brushed her ankle. “Sic ’em,” she shouted suddenly, pointing at me. “Kill. Tear him up.”
I reached for my Beretta but didn’t pull it from the holster. No need. The dog jumped at Lila’s hand, wagged his tail furiously and let loose with a string of low, playful barks. Just a confused puppy.
Lila scratched his ears again. “Some watchdog. Well, I guess I’m going to have to talk to you after all.”
“Where was your husband?”
“I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t bother you, not knowing?”
“Should it?”
“Maybe he was with Jamie.”
Lila giggled. “You think Warren killed Jamie and Katherine?” She giggled harder.
“Just a thought.”
“Well, think again.”
“Was your husband having an affair with Jamie Bruder?”
“Sweet, adorable little Jamie? Sugar and spice, everything nice Jamie? Get serious.”
“Why not? You were sleeping with David Bruder.”
“I was sleeping with
all
of them. I even slept with Katherine.”
“Why?”
“To prove a point about all those wonderful, true-blue, one-for-all, all-for-one lifetime friends of the Northern Lights Entrepreneur’s Club.”
“The point being?”
“They’re hypocrites and they can’t be trusted.”
“What about all the other men you’ve slept with?”
“Some people collect stamps.”
“You’re a wonderful human being, you know that?”
“Mr.—McKenzie, is it? I don’t think I care to answer any more of your questions.”
“Would it change your mind if I threatened to tell your husband about your activities with his friends?”
“He probably already knows. He’s not a fool.”
“What if I told him about you and Devanter?”
“I don’t think Devanter would like that. Would you, Devanter?”
I didn’t know he was behind me until he slammed his fist into my spine. He hit me harder than I had ever been hit before—the pain made me cry out. My entire body went numb and I folded like an accordion. Devanter lifted me by my shoulders and threw me in the general direction of Lake Minnetonka. I hit the ground with my face and upper chest. He picked me up and threw me again. This time I landed on my neck and shoulders. I tried to roll into some kind of fighting stance, but he caught me and tossed me around some more.
Lila sat on the lounge chair and watched, scratching the shepherd’s ears, the shepherd licking his paw.
Devanter must have been getting tired because he grabbed my
shoulders and held me. “I told you, didn’t I?” He butted my head. Blood spilled over my face. He butted me again. He smiled. I could see my blood on his teeth. Suddenly, there was a heavy weight in my hand. We both looked down. It was my Beretta. Don’t ask me how I managed to wrest it from the holster, I couldn’t even feel the grip. I thrust the barrel into Devanter’s groin. He wasn’t impressed. Instead, he grinned. And those eyes. He didn’t give a damn. Maybe Lila did.
“Call him off!” I yelled.
“Devanter,” she said softly.
Devanter let go of my shoulders and stepped back. I crumpled to my knees, reaching out my left hand to keep from tumbling over. I managed to keep the gun pointed at him.
“Devanter,” Lila said again, and he turned and walked toward the house. She rose from the recliner and patted his head as he went past. Just a playful puppy.
Lila came to where I knelt on her lawn, standing before me, the sun directly behind her. Backlit like that she seemed beatified, a halo of light around her head like you see in Renaissance paintings of the Virgin Mary. The sight hurt my eyes. I lowered my chin against my chest. Lila gently stroked my hair.
“You must leave, now,” she said.
I nodded and tried to wipe the blood from my eyes.
“Men,” she muttered and stepped away. The front of her white suit was stained with my blood. She walked back to her house, the shepherd trailing behind. I kept the Beretta trained on her until she was inside.
With strength I didn’t know I possessed, I pushed myself vertical and staggered to my vehicle. I set the Beretta on the passenger seat and slowly pulled the handkerchief from my hip pocket—everything I did was at quarter speed. I mopped the blood from my face and surveyed the damage
in the mirror behind my sun visor. There was a four-inch slice along my hairline. I touched it. That was a mistake. The shooting pain made me both dizzy and nauseous.
I shouldn’t have tried to drive, but I had to get out of there. I turned the wrong way on the gravel and followed it to the black-and-white-striped traffic barrier. Dead end. I turned off the engine and fell out the door. I rolled a few yards, struggled to my feet and pushed myself over the barrier and through the trees to the lake shore. The shore was rocky—I tripped on it several times, tearing the knees out of my jeans. I pushed myself until I reached the water.
You must leave now,
I heard a voice say from far away, and I started to weep again.
“Concussion,” I told myself. “Stay awake.”
I dropped to my knees and crawled into the lake. I splashed water onto my face. It was cold and I began to shiver. Finally, I lay on my back in the water and watched the sun behind the trees. I stopped weeping and started a long, rambling conversation with myself, discussing whether or not the Timberwolves had the depth to go the distance this season, if the Vikings had finally learned how to defend against the run, what it would take to bring peace to the Middle East, if I had a future with Nina Truhler. I talked to myself for a long time.
Eventually, the nausea and dizziness subsided—my mind cleared. I tried to stand. My knees creaked and my back demanded relief, which I attempted to provide with pressure from both hands. I walked only slightly upright to my SUV. The door was hanging open. It took what was left of my strength to climb in and pull the door shut. The bleeding had stopped long ago—I worried about stitches. Only instead of doing the smart thing and driving to a hospital, I went home. I would rather die in bed.