The Taking of Libbie, SD (Mac McKenzie #7)

The Taking of Libbie, SD (Mac McKenzie #7) Page 17

“Nothing.”

At the far end of the dining room was an ancient bar, the kind with a long, graceful mirror. A young man with sparkling eyes and a winning smile stood behind the stick. The way he ran his fingers through his blond hair made me think he knew how to get girls. On the other hand, the way his white dress shirt strained at the buttons made me think that if he didn’t start investing in some exercise, the girls wouldn’t stay gotten for long. He greeted us with two coasters that he quickly set in front of us and a prediction that we’d like it there.

“Evan, this is Rushmore McKenzie,” Sharren said. “McKenzie, this is Evan.”

“The one and only,” Evan said as he extended his hand. I didn’t know if he meant me or himself. “What’ll ya have?”

We ordered a double Jack Daniel’s for me and bourbon and water for Sharren. I took a long pull of the liquor. It burned all the way down to my empty stomach. I heard my inner voice say, You should eat something before you set to drinking. In a minute, I told it, and took another sip.

“So, what do you think of Libbie?” Evan said.

“It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live here.”

Neither of them thought my answer was particularly funny.

Sharren asked if I would mind taking our drinks back to the hotel lobby in case an errant traveler might seek lodging for the evening. I said that was fine. On the way out, I caught Evan giving Sharren a wink and the thumbs-up sign. Sharren responded by sticking out her tongue.

As we worked our way back through the dining room, Sharren told me about the swimming pool and sauna that were added in the early seventies and how people would often book rooms just to lounge around them, especially in winter.

“We added a water slide two years ago,” she said. “It’s become a big profit center for us.”

Once again, I noted the turned heads, whispered words, and more than a few twisted smiles as we walked past. This time, though, it occurred to me that I was only peripherally the object of curiosity. It was Sharren that the diners followed. I began to suspect that I wasn’t the first “big boy” Sharren had treated to drinks. I also wondered at what point her dalliances had become a spectator sport.

“Small towns,” I said.

“Tell me about it,” Sharren said.

Apparently this time she knew exactly what I meant.

I followed her to the lobby. We found a pair of overstuffed chairs with an uncluttered view of both the front door and the registration desk and settled in.

“Are you really going to try to find Rush—I mean—you know who I mean,” Sharren said.

“Do you care?”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing him get punished for what he did to the town.”

“What did he do to you?”

Sharren surprised me by smiling. She waved her glass at the arched doorway leading to the restaurant.

“You saw those people giving me the eye,” she said. “That’s what he did to me.”

“What do you know about him?”

“I know he used to be a cop in the Twin Cities and that he quit the force to collect a reward on an embezzler he tracked down—a couple of million dollars. I know he graduated with honors from the University of Minnesota, he speaks three languages, he’s single, and his parents are dead, that he has a big house in Falcon Heights…”

I took a long pull of the whiskey.

“That’s all you, isn’t it?” Sharren said.

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. I like being me.”

“Yes, but him using your name like that—I’m sorry.”

“What else do you know about me?”

“I know you like sports. Do you like sports?”

“Yes.”

“You played hockey?”

I nodded.

“And baseball?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And football?”

“Football? No. He said I played football?”

“He said you lettered as a wide receiver and backup quarterback.”

“Did he say who I played for?”

“Central High School in St. Paul. He said you were a Raider.”

That caused me to lean back in my chair.

“You didn’t go to Central High School?” Sharren said.

“I did, yes. We were called the Minutemen.”

I bet you could catch him if you really wanted to, my inner voice told me. There are probably a thousand high schools in the U.S. with the nick name Raiders, yet if you could narrow it down … Stop it! You’re going home, remember?

The clock above the registration desk told me if I hurried, I would be only fifteen minutes late for my meeting with Tracie. I drained my drink and stood up. The pain in my head made me wince.

“Are you okay?” Sharren said.

“I need to get something to eat.”