“That goddamn Button. I will never, ever . . .”

Jenkins patted him down. “Get in the truck,” Virgil said.

* * *

—

   They headed back to Wheatfield, trailed by Jenkins and the sheriff’s patrol car. Holland, looking over the seat back, asked Button, “What the hell were you thinking? Or did you think at all?”

“You’re the guys who’re gonna look like stupes when it turns out we’re right,” Button said. “Running around like your asses are on fire, gettin’ nowhere, and all you had to do was listen.”

“Why’d you think it was Osborne? Shooting his own mom?”

“For the money,” Button said.

Virgil said, “Aw, Jesus. Everybody keeps saying money, and there isn’t any.”

Button asked, “What?”

“There’s no money, Jim,” Holland said. “Barry owns the house. Margery was living there for free.”

“Well, yeah,” Button said. “But what about the Florida house?”

Virgil: “What Florida house?”

Button said to Good, “They don’t know about the Florida house.”

Good said, “What a bunch of stupes.”

Virgil looked over the seat back. “What are you talking about?”

“Where are we on this fraud thing?” Button asked. And he said to Good, “Keep your mouth shut, Raleigh.”

“We can talk,” Virgil said. “What about the Florida house?”

“You know Rose? You met her at the house, you sicced her on Clay Ford? Chick with the rose tattoo?”

“I remember,” Virgil said. “What about this house?”

“Rose cleaned house for Marge once a week when she was in Wheatfield. And she watched over Barry’s house when he drove Marge down to Florida. Marge wouldn’t fly,” Button said. “When they were packing up last fall, she heard Barry telling Marge that she ought to sell the place and move back to Wheatfield, where her friends were. They had an argument about it.”

Holland asked, “How much is it worth? The house?”

Button said, “I don’t know. Rose might. Rose is a snoop. But I bet it’s worth a lot.”

“Is Rose still at your place?” Virgil asked.

Raleigh said, “When you told her that Clay Ford might be interested, she hotfooted it right over there, and they been fuckin’ up a storm ever since. She’s moved in with him.”

“That didn’t take long,” Virgil said.

“She’s the restless sort,” Button said. “So . . . we got a deal? I solved your case. I wasn’t trying to fraud you.”

“This better not be Nazi bullshit,” Virgil said.

“Cross my heart,” Button said. “Go ask Rose.”

22

   The Tahoe’s clock said 11:51 when they passed the “Wheatfield City Limits” sign, but Virgil drove over to Clay Ford’s house anyway, Jenkins following behind. Ford’s house was dark when they pulled up outside. They left the Nazis chained in the back of the Tahoe, and Virgil knocked on the door and rang the doorbell, and a light went on in the back of the house.

Ford, barefoot, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and carrying a .45, came to the door, looking wide awake. “Virgil?”

“Is Rose here? Put the gun away.”

Ford looked toward the back of the house, and said, “Yeah? What happened?” He put the gun behind his back, probably in a carry holster.

“We arrested the Nazis, and they told us a couple of things we need to check with Rose. We’re not arresting her, or anything, but we need some information.”

From the back of house, Rose called, “Give me a minute to put my pants on.”

* * *

—

   They gathered in Ford’s living room, and Virgil told her what Button said about Margery Osborne’s Florida house.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Rose said. “When Margery came back this winter, after the Virgin Mary thing, she told me that she might sell. She was excited about the Virgin Mary; she started going to church every day. When she asked me what I thought about the apparitions and I told her I smelled a rat, she got really upset. I thought she might fire me.”

“What about this Florida house? You know anything else?” Virgil asked.

“The usual stuff . . . She and her husband sold their farm down south of here, which was small but worth quite a bit for land, and they moved into town. They rented a place; they were saving the money for their ‘real’ old age. Then, when her husband died, which was sort of unexpected, Margery started going to Florida with a friend. After a couple of years, she bought a place down there. This was a few years back, when the prices were lower and she figured it would be a good investment. I . . . mmm . . . I got the impression that it might be worth a million now. Maybe more.”

Jenkins said to Virgil, “There you go.”

“You know where the house is?” Virgil asked.

“Naples. I’ve got a phone number,” Rose said.

“Jim told us that Barry thought she ought to move back here,” Holland said.

“They talked about that,” Rose said. “I heard them. She said it was too gloomy and cold in winter, but he hated driving her back and forth every year. After the apparitions, when she came back up here, she mentioned that she might be selling. Nothing definite, but she was thinking about it. If the Virgin came back, she was not going to miss it.”

When Rose ran out of new information, Ford asked Virgil, “You think Barry killed his mom for the inheritance?”

“I don’t know,” Virgil said. “There are some reasons to think he didn’t—but we’ve been looking for a motive, and a million dollars is a powerful motive.”

* * *

—

Out in the street again, Jenkins asked, “What are we going to do? You want to go talk to him?”

“Not tonight. I need to do some research on this house, make some phone calls. See if she owns it, for one thing. See how much the farm sold for . . . I’d like to know what I’m talking about when we go back to Osborne.”

“I can probably find out about the farm sale from my girlfriend, but that won’t be until nine o’clock tomorrow,” Holland said.