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

“Helluva thing,” I said again.

“What’ll ya have?” Evan said.

I ordered the same drinks as before—double Jack Daniel’s for me, bourbon and water for Sharren—and told Evan to charge them to my room.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, McKenzie, you look like crap.”

I did mind. Still, a quick glance at my reflection in the mirror told me that he was right. I hadn’t shaved or changed clothes since the day before, and my eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.

“I’m starting a new fashion trend,” I said.

“Let me know how that works out for you.”

Sharren had stopped weeping by the time I returned and was now staring out of the large window at nothing. She said, “Thank you,” when I set the bourbon on the small table next to the chair and didn’t speak again for a long time. I was nearly finished with the Black Jack when she turned in her chair to face me.

“You think I’m being silly,” she said.

“Not at all.”

“I didn’t know Mike Randisi, and I didn’t like Tracie Blake. So why am I crying for them?”

I had an answer that involved other English poets, only Sharren wasn’t looking for answers, so I kept my mouth shut.

“I thought Tracie was an opportunistic, money-grubbing slut, and she—she thought the very same of me. So why—”

Sharren turned to gaze out the window again, and for a moment I thought she would begin weeping some more. She didn’t.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I can’t get past the idea that it’s all my fault.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Do you think what happened—do you think that it might have something to do with Rush?”

“I don’t know. It could have.”

“It is my fault.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Sharren?”

Sharren retrieved the glass from the table and drank down half of the bourbon. She took a deep breath as if it had burned her throat and then pressed the glass against her forehead with both hands while she studied the carpet at her feet. A moment later she drained the glass, studied the carpet some more, then looked at me. She was working herself up to telling me something, and I was going to let her, no matter how long it took. It took a long time. I had finished my own drink before she began to speak again.

“The Miller family keeps a room—they have a room reserved just off the swimming pool year-round with a sliding door that opens right onto the deck. Saranne uses it a lot.”

That would be Sara Anne, my inner voice said. Yet I kept it to myself. There was no way I was going to interrupt Sharren now.

“I won’t lie to you, McKenzie. I slept with him, with Rush—the Imposter. I told you that. Afterward, the day after, I saw him in his swimming trunks walking to the pool. First chance I got, I went to say hello. Only I couldn’t find him anywhere. I walked around the pool. There were people there, not many. I thought I might have missed him until I heard his voice. He had a voice that carried, an actor’s voice, you know? The voice was coming from the Millers’ room. The sliding door was open, but the drapes were drawn. He was saying things—they were the same kinds of things he had said to me the night before. I pulled open the drapes, and he was sitting on the bed in his swimming trunks. Saranne was across the room. She was holding a beach towel in front of herself. It didn’t do much to hide her own swimsuit, this skimpy two-piece, and Rush was trying to talk her onto the bed next to him, patting the bedspread like he was calling a pet, and I—I made a scene. I don’t know why. He didn’t mean anything to me. He was just, he was just—I called him things, bad things. I called her things, too, just as bad, things that she didn’t deserve to be called, and everyone at the pool heard me. Rush thought it was funny. Saranne, of course, was crying. That’s what I heard when I left. His laughter and her tears. It’s not something I’m proud of. I’m afraid I hurt Saranne badly.”

I don’t often come across this degree of honesty, and it made me squirm in my chair. I felt as though I should reciprocate in some way, tell her something uncomfortably honest about myself to even the score—it would have been the Minnesota Nice thing to do. I resisted the impulse. I had no idea what Sharren’s confession had to do with the murders of Tracie and Mike, but I wanted to hear it. Still, I didn’t push. I figured she would get to it in her own time. After a while, she did.