“Sure you were.”
I grabbed two fistfuls of Schroeder’s coat and yanked him off my car. I felt my lips curl over my teeth, felt my skin grow tight over my face. I leaned in close and snarled, “What are you doing here? Who sent you?”
Schroeder shook his head.
“Nope. Nice try, though. Maybe with a little work. You should practice in front of a mirror. And remember, less is more.”
“Fuck you, Schroeder.”
I pushed him away.
Schroeder smiled and shook his head like he felt sorry for me. He turned and began sauntering away through the snow. In the distance, I saw where he had parked his Ford Escort.
“Hey, wait a minute. I want to talk to you.”
“I’ll see you around, tough guy,” he called over his shoulder.
“Schroeder.”
He lifted his gloved hand and let it drop in a kind of backward salute.
“You sonuvabitch.”
Schroeder thought that was awfully funny. He gave me another wave and continued walking to his car.
God, I hate that guy, I told myself.
The Victoria Inn was located on the edge of town off U.S. Highway 71 and boasted a cocktail lounge, indoor swimming pool, and $49 weekday rates. I decided to crash in Victoria overnight, meet with Dr. Peterson and Grace Monteleone in the morning, then try to speak with Josie Bloom again. That was as far as my plans took me.
“Will you be staying with us long?” the desk clerk asked as I completed the registration card.
“Just the night.”
“I see.” The desk clerk spoke in a way that caused me to look up from the card. The clothes the woman wore were too tight, and her face was made up as if she were intent on hiding all clues to her age, which I guessed was well over forty. She was grinning as if we shared a secret.
“Check or credit card?” the woman asked.
“Cash.” I removed three twenties and a ten from my wallet, enough to cover the room rate and taxes. The desk clerk took the bills and examined them like she had never seen their like before. She worked the transaction on her computer and gave me a receipt.
“Luggage?” she asked.
I held up a paper bag. It contained a toothbrush, toothpaste, disposable razor, shaving cream, hairbrush, gel, cotton briefs, white socks—three pairs to a package—and an XXL Minnesota Wild hockey jersey. I had come to Victoria unprepared to stay the night and bought the items at a shop near the Des Moines River after first cursing myself for my lack of foresight.
“I see,” the desk clerk said. Her smile came and went without touching the rest of her face as she studied the registration card.
“Is your license plate number correct?”
“Is there a problem?”
The desk clerk could see my Audi through the glass wall facing the parking lot. She matched the plates on the car against the number I had written.
“No, no problem.”
I showered, put on a pair of fresh briefs, and pulled the large hockey jersey over my head. I went to the small table and worked my notebook for a while, adding impressions to the facts that I had written down after each interview. A few minutes later I was staring out my window at the parking lot beyond. It was still snowing.
I should have bought something to read along with my other supplies, I told myself as I flopped down on the bed with the remote control. The TV promised some distraction, about a dozen channels worth. However, I surfed through them and found nothing that interested me. Even ESPN was a washout, broadcasting a trick-shot pool competition. Curiosity caused me to linger for a moment to see what the adult pay-per-view channels had to offer. Somehow the trailers for Sinderella and Naughty Nurses III suggested that they were the same movie.
“Things will never get that bad,” I vowed and quickly turned to CNN.
Still, the previews reminded me that I had promised to call Nina Truhler.
“Hey,” she said after I identified myself.
“How’s Prudence?” I asked.
“Prudence is a treat—as usual. How’s Victoria?”
“It’s snowing.”
“Snowing in the Cities, too. I wish you were here to keep me warm.”
“And shovel your sidewalks.”
“That, too. When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know. This favor I promised to do, it’s turning out to be more complicated than I thought it would be.”
“I have a question.”
“Ask.”
“When I spoke to you earlier, I said I loved you, but you didn’t say that you loved me back.”
“You know I do, don’t you, Nina? Do I have to say it?”
“It’s something a girl likes to hear every now and again.”
“I love you.”
There, I said it.
She exhaled like she had been holding her breath a long time.
“Nina?”
“I’m okay. It’s just . . . after our last conversation . . . I guess I’m a little paranoid. I blame my ex-husband. ’Course, I blame my ex-husband for most of the things that are wrong with my life.”
