* * *

—

On the way back to Wheatfield, they took a call from Holland on the Tahoe’s speaker: “Did you arrest Osborne?”

“No . . . we talked to him. I think he’s okay. Why?”

“I was wondering. I got a call from Jacoby and Sons . . .”

“Who’s that?”

“The funeral home in Fairmont. He had an appointment to pick out a casket and didn’t show up. They can’t get in touch with him. Doesn’t answer his phone. I know Don Lee Jacoby, and he thought maybe I’d seen him. I thought maybe you had.”

“Not since this morning,” Virgil said.

“With everything that’s happened . . .”

Holland rang off, and they drove along for a while, then Virgil said, “Goddamnit.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Jenkins said. “Hit the lights.”

They drove the rest of the way to Wheatfield at thirty miles an hour over the speed limit, pulled up outside Osborne’s house, and saw the Steam Punk van in the driveway. “He parked a little crooked this morning,” Jenkins said. “Still crooked. He hasn’t been out of the house.”

They went to the back door—the one Osborne used—and knocked, then pounded on it. Jenkins tried the knob, but the door was locked.

They could hear a lawn mower going in the yard and they went that way, around the house; but it wasn’t Osborne, it was the man in the house behind Osborne’s. He didn’t see them coming. He was wearing headphones and riding away from them, and Virgil had to shout “Hey!” four times before he paused and looked around and saw them at the hedge separating the yards.

Virgil waved to him over, and he killed the noisy engine and walked over, pulling off the headphones. “What can I do for you?”

“Have you seen Barry in the last couple of hours?”

“No. I was working this morning. I got home a half hour ago and started mowing, but I haven’t seen him since I got here. Something wrong?”

“He’s missed an appointment,” Virgil said.

The man shrugged. “He’s been distracted ever since his mother got killed. Not his normal self at all.”

Jenkins: “You don’t think he’d hurt himself?”

“Jeez . . . I don’t know. But, I know Lou Simpson has a key to his house. She lives there . . .” He pointed at the house to the left of Osborne’s. “She checks the place when he’s out of town . . . You know, makes sure the heat’s still on and so on. She could probably let you in.”

Virgil said, “Thanks, Mr. . . .”

“Apel.” He reached out, and they shook hands. “Davy Apel. We almost met—I was the one who yelled at you when you were chasing that guy through the backyards. I was the guy on the porch in the white undershorts.”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks for the help.”

“Too bad you didn’t catch him. Looked like a big guy to me, and he was really moving.”

* * *

—

They walked over to the Simpson house. Simpson was another old lady, heavily stocked. with red tabby cats that curled around her ankles and meowed at Virgil. “I haven’t seen him today. I was more friendly with his mother than with Barry, but we’re still friends.”

“We’re worried,” Virgil said. He explained about the casket, and the old woman frowned. “Well, that’s not Barry. He’s been very sad, but he wouldn’t miss that appointment unless . . . I hope he hasn’t hurt himself. Let me get the key.”

She let them in Osborne’s. Virgil took a step inside, opened a door to the kitchen, turned to her, and said, “You’ll have to go back out.”

Jenkins knew what he was talking about, took the old lady’s arm, and backed her down the stoop. “You can help. Could you go back to your house and call the sheriff and tell him we need some deputies here immediately?”

“I can.” She knew what was happening and hustled back to her house to make the call. Virgil was already on his cell phone to Zimmer: “Barry Osborne’s been killed. At his house. A woman named Lou Simpson’s going to call nine-one-one in a minute and ask you to send some deputies. She let us in Osborne’s house, and we’re getting her out of the way, but we do need some deputies over here.”

“I’ll get them moving,” Zimmer said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Virgil hung up and looked down at the body slumped in the chair. He could see a hole in Osborne’s back surrounded by a spot of blood the size of a large strawberry.

Jenkins had moved around Virgil to look at Osborne from the side, and said, “You’re not going to believe this. He’s facedown in a potpie.”

“Ah, for Christ’s sakes.” Virgil moved to Osborne’s side to look. He hadn’t slipped off the chair, because his chest and head were resting on the tabletop. “He knew the guy who killed him. The guy came through two doors, and Barry must have heard him, but he didn’t even turn around to see who it was. They must’ve been talking.”

“Maybe I should go back and talk to the lawn mower guy,” Jenkins suggested.

“Do that. I’m going to stand here and look at things for a while.

Jenkins went out the door, and Virgil looked around the kitchen, staying away from the body and the puddle of blood beneath the chair. The puddle wasn’t large: most of the blood would be on Osborne’s lap and legs.

A chicken potpie carton sat on the countertop. Virgil checked the freezer compartment of the refrigerator and saw a second, identical potpie carton. Virgil had seen Osborne put the cartons in the freezer when they interviewed him that morning. Osborne had said he didn’t have a lot of time to talk because he had an appointment to buy a coffin for his mother. He’d changed clothes; he was no longer wearing the Steam Punk coveralls he’d been wearing when they interviewed him.

That meant that after Virgil and Jenkins left him, he must’ve changed clothes—maybe he’d taken a shower—and then come down and heated up the potpie. That took six minutes in the microwave, and he’d eaten only a few bites of it, from what Virgil could see.

He’d probably been killed, Virgil thought, within twenty minutes of when he and Jenkins had left the house.

Had somebody seen them there?

* * *

—

He backed out of the scene, closed both doors, and walked back into the side yard between Osborne’s and Simpson’s houses. A sheriff’s car pulled up in the street, and a deputy got out, someone that Virgil hadn’t yet met. Virgil walked out to the street, and said, “Barry Osborne’s been murdered. We need to keep the site as tight as we can. Don’t let anybody near the doors. Not even other deputies.”