Cold Blood by Theresa Monsour Page B

table and rested her chin in her hand. Waited to see if Trip could manage a question. His headwas bent down. He was studying the menu again. Finally he glanced up.
    â€œYou m . . . married? Kids?”
    She was surprised that was his first question. Figured there was no reason to lie about it. “Separated. No kids. What about you?”
    Head down again. “No. I’m not m . . . married.” A long pause, then he asked the question she thought would have been his first one: “What you d . . . doing up here? Live in Moose Lake?”
    If she wanted to get the maximum amount of information out of him, she had to hide what she did for a living. “No. Still live in St. Paul. Come up here every year for the fall colors. A little vacation. What about you?”
    He set down the menu and picked up the salt and pepper shakers. “Work. Up here for w . . . work.” He had a shaker in each hand. Tapped one against the other. Looked at them instead of her.
    â€œSo what do you do for a living?” she asked.
    â€œSales.”
    â€œOh, yeah. I read that in the paper. Shirts, right?”
    He set down the shakers. “Dress shirts.”
    â€œYou’ve certainly been big news lately.”
    â€œGuess s . . . so.” He raised his eyes and smiled.
    â€œYou’re a regular hero,” she said. The waitress brought their drinks. Murphy took a sip. “How does it feel to be a hero?”
    â€œGood,” he said. He took a sip of beer and set it down. Stared at the stein. Ran his right index finger around the rim. “Actually, feels g . . . great.” He added what sounded to Murphy like a hollow afterthought. “I like h . . . helping the c . . . c . . . cops.” He took a long drink. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
    It wasn’t about being helpful, she thought. It was about getting attention. He was as puffed up as a rooster. She took another sip of wine. “Must have been horrible when you found that poor woman’s finger.”
    He leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs outunderneath the table. “I’ve g . . . got a mighty s . . . strong stomach.” He finished off his beer and looked her straight in the eyes for the first time. Grinned. Murphy found it a creepy, self-satisfied smile. An idea darted into her mind. Trip and the missing bridesmaid. Was there something more to it?
    The waitress returned with her order pad poised. “Walleye’s on special. Fried or baked. Comes with fries or baked potato and coleslaw or garden salad. All you can eat. Seven ninety-five. Ready or should I come back?”
    Trip jumped in before Murphy could answer. “Fried chicken.”
    â€œHalf or quarter?”
    â€œHalf. Fries. Coles . . . slaw.”
    The waitress looked at Murphy. “For you?”
    â€œThe baked walleye, please. Baked potato and garden salad.”
    The waitress left. Murphy took another sip of wine and drummed her fingertips against the side of the goblet. Even though he had already ordered, Trip was back fiddling with the menu. She’d have to keep the talk flowing. Slide in some questions without arousing his suspicion. “Newspapers said you helped find a missing girl, too.”
    He saw the waitress, set down the menu and raised his empty glass. “Found her n . . . necklace. That led the c . . . cops to her.”
    â€œAlive?”
    â€œYeah.” The waitress set another stein in front of him.
    â€œWhat do you suppose happened to that bridesmaid? Who’d do such a thing? She’s got a couple of little kids.”
    Trip took a long drink of beer. Set the stein down but kept his hand wrapped around the handle. “The ex d . . . did it.”
    She took a sip of wine. Tried to act surprised. “What? You’re kidding?”
    â€œSaw it on the