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

“What should I do in the meantime?”

“Leave your husband, challenge the prenup, divorce him for half of everything he owns, take your daughter back to Edina, and start living the life you deserve to live—or at least the life Sara deserves to live.”

“I meant for right now.”

“Go home and forget all this ever happened.”

A puzzled expression spread over Mrs. Miller’s face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“See, it’s working already.”

We slowly made our way through the trees back to the parking lot. Mrs. Miller’s cell phone rang—it sounded like an old-fashioned telephone.

“Uh-oh,” she said when she read the display, and then, “Hello, dear,” when she activated the phone.

I could hear only her end of the conversation.

“I’m at Lake Mataya … I’m with Mr. McKenzie. He asked if I would show him where Rush’ … If you must know, he came to the house looking for you … Apparently Rush received a phone call that originated from our home just before he disappeared. Did you call Rush, dear? … Of course.”

Mrs. Miller held the phone out for me. I took the phone and pressed the receiver to my ear.

“Yes?”

“What are you doing?” Miller said. “I said I wanted my family left out of this.”

“I said I don’t work for you.”

There was a long pause, and for a moment I thought we had lost Miller’s signal.

“I will not be provoked,” he said at last.

I placed my thumb over the microphone.

“He will not be provoked,” I said.

Mrs. Miller covered her mouth with her hand and turned away, afraid that her husband would hear her laughter.

I removed my thumb from the microphone.

“Mr. Miller, I’m not trying to be a pain in the ass.” Oh yeah, like he believes that, my inner voice said. “I’m just trying to find answers, like I was asked to do, remember?”

Mr. Miller sighed heavily. “Tell my wife to bring you out to the sheds,” he said. Then he hung up.

Miller Self-Storage was a work in progress. It was located north of Libbie, and from the illustration on the huge sign along the county road, it would eventually have sheds large enough to house RVs, not to mention cars, boats, and furniture. Only that was some time in the future. When I arrived there, it was little more than a huge slab of concrete surrounded by gravel, stacks of cinder blocks, bags of cement, wood, and corrugated tin. Mr. Miller and the banker, Jon Kampa, were standing near the center of the slab, where additional building supplies were also stacked. Miller wore an untucked sports shirt loudly decorated with rodeo images; Kampa wore a powder blue dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the shirtsleeves carefully rolled up. There were no workmen in sight, which raised the question, what were Miller and Kampa doing there alone on a late Saturday afternoon? After parking the car, Mrs. Miller and I walked toward them. The bright sunshine made Miller look much older than the previous times I’d met him.

“Explain yourself,” he said.

“I was born in St. Paul to an ex-marine and his wife—”

“I don’t want your fucking life’s story. I want to know why you’re messing with my wife.”

“Actually, your wife was messing with me, but what the hell.”

“McKenzie,” Mrs. Miller said. She appeared shocked at my remark, but appearances can be deceiving. “I did no such thing.” She turned to her husband. “Mr. McKenzie asked about a phone call that was made from our house to Rush just before he disappeared. I told him—”

“She told me that she lured Rush to Lake Mataya and killed him with a tree branch, but of course there was no sign of foul play and we couldn’t find a body.” I stamped the concrete slab with my foot. “Is it under here, do you think?” I stamped some more.

“What I told you was true,” Mrs. Miller said.

“I believe you,” I said. “Only I’m notoriously gullible. Just ask my investment counselor.”

Mr. Miller shook his head, his expression an odd mixture of disappointment, amusement, and anger.

“Mickie, what were you thinking?” he said.

“She was thinking about her investment,” I said.

“Her investment?”

“She was protecting you.”

“I didn’t make a phone call.”

“Are you sure?”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Yep.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Someone called the Imposter using your phone.”

“Nonsense.”

“I told you, I did it,” Mrs. Miller said.

“Nonsense,” her husband said.

Jon Kampa stood at a discreet distance throughout the conversation, pretending not to be there, giving the Millers the illusion of privacy while listening intently to every word. Finally he spoke up.

“I did it,” he said. “I made the phone call.”

“Ahh, another county heard from,” I said.