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

“Neither do I.”

“This morning she announced that she intends to move to Hollywood and become a sound effects woman.” Mrs. Miller quoted the air around the word “woman.” “What rubbish. I thought we had drummed that fantasy out of her head years ago.”

“What’s wrong with creating sound effects? Someone has to do it. Why not her?”

“Mr. McKenzie, please. It is a pipe dream, at best. A childhood fancy.”

“I remember one time when I was a kid, I wanted to become a professional water-skier. I told the old man I was going to run away and join the Tommy Bartlett Show in the Wisconsin Dells. He said if that’s what I really wanted to do, I should practice first. He got me lessons with a guy who actually worked with Tommy Bartlett at one time. Turned out I lacked the necessary aptitude for the profession. Oh well.”

“What’s your point?”

“No point. Just telling you a story about me and my father.”

Mrs. Miller smirked. “You’re suggesting that we are unsupportive of our daughter,” she said. “Far from it. She is being groomed to take over our numerous business concerns. One day she will thank us.”

“Assuming the businesses are still here to inherit.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve been told on several occasions that the Great Plains are dying. Why shouldn’t your numerous business concerns die with them?”

She stared at me as if I had been the first person to suggest the possibility to her. Perhaps I was. She turned it over in her head for a few moments before smirking again.

“What utter nonsense,” she said.

“When do you expect Mr. Miller?”

“Not for a few hours at least. He is meeting with our banker. Mr. McKenzie, you mentioned the evening when Rush—hmm. Should I call him that?”

“Why not?”

“You asked about the evening Rush disappeared. May I ask why?”

“The Imposter left his hotel that evening immediately after receiving a call from your husband.”

Mrs. Miller thought long and hard about that bit of news before answering.

“You are mistaken,” she said.

“I’m only telling you what I heard,” I said.

“From that trollop who works for us, no doubt. Still, Mr. McKenzie, you are mistaken.”

“We can check the phone records to make sure. When I say we, of course, I mean the cops.”

“Yes, yes, but that is not what I meant when I said you are mistaken. It was not my husband who made the call. I did.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why you called the Imposter?”

“So I could kill him.”

“What?”

“I didn’t tell him that, naturally, when I lured him to Lake Mataya.”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“Instead, I gave him the impression that we would exchange sexual favors. To be honest, I was a little surprised he fell for that gambit, especially after he was just caught in a hotel room with my teenage daughter. Imagine the arrogance.”

“Are you saying you killed the Imposter because you believe he assaulted your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Michelle, you must know nothing happened. Sara Anne was not assaulted.”

“So she says.”

“You don’t believe her?”

“I knew Rush.”

“You should have believed her. She was telling the truth.”

“You’re saying I killed the Imposter for nothing? It matters not. It is a mother’s prerogative, her duty, in fact, to defend her children. I am sure that any jury that consists of at least one mother will agree with me.”

I had nothing to say to that, but something in my face must have spoken to her, because Mrs. Miller said, “I feel neither regret nor remorse over what I have done. Why should I? To be honest, Mr. McKenzie, it feels good to finally tell someone about it. Liberating, in fact. Yes, liberating.” She was smiling now. “What surprises me is that no one has yet discovered the body. I left it in plain sight.”

“Where?”

“Would you like me to show you?”

Although I drove the Audi northwest out of town with the air conditioner on full, I kept sweating. Michelle Miller sat next to me, chatting as if we were old friends out for a ride in the country. She told me that she was twenty-five when she first met her husband; that he was thirty years her senior, yet it didn’t seem to make much difference at the time—he was so alive, so vibrant, so much fun, she said. That changed as he grew older.

“Somewhere over the ensuing decades he misplaced his sense of humor,” she said. “Or maybe he sold it. Do you know why he got himself elected mayor?”

“So he could be in charge.”

“He’s already in charge. No, he ran for office so he’d be in a position to change the town’s name.”

“To what?” I said. “Millerville?”

“Millertown,” Mrs. Miller said.

“Ahh.”