Theresa Monsour by Cold Blood

I already made reservations for you at the AmericInn right off the freeway. Got you a room with a Jacuzzi.”
    â€œI’m afraid to ask why.”
    â€œMy way of trying to apologize. Plus they had a weekday special. Okay?”
    Odd but well-meaning gesture, she thought. Yo-Yo wasn’t such a jerk after all. “Okay.”
    â€œSorry about that crack about your head. Actually, that scar gives you an air of mystery.”
    â€œCut the crap, Duncan. Should have quit while you were ahead.”
    He laughed. “My life story.”
    Â 
    SHE took the Moose Lake exit. The hotel was part of a growing tourist development right off the highway. A gas station and sub shop shared the intersection. She parked the Jeep, took her bag out of the back and walked in. Ablaze crackled in the lobby fireplace. The clerk at the front—a skinny blond woman with hair pulled back into a ponytail—slid the key card across the desk to Murphy. “Breakfast in the morning. Served right here in the lobby. Coffee. Juice. Cereal. Toast. Fruit. Waffles. Danish. The whole nine yards. Comes with the room.”
    â€œThanks.” Murphy took the card and grabbed a trail map from the counter. A quick run at dawn would be good.
    â€œYou can get on one of the trails right off the parking lot,” said the clerk.
    Murphy pointed toward the moose head mounted over the fireplace. “That real?”
    â€œWho knows? I hate it regardless. Scares me at night. His eyes follow you.”
    â€œWhich way to the pool?” Murphy asked, and the woman sent her down the hall. Murphy poked her head into the room. Hot and humid. High, wood-beamed ceiling. Through the sauna window she saw two fat men sweating it out. Two fat women sat in the hot tub; probably the fat guys’ wives. The pool was unoccupied. She’d have to go for a swim later. She walked to the edge of the pool and peered into the water. At the bottom of the pool, written in tile: MOOSE LAKE . She went to her room, slipped the key card into the lock and pushed open the door. She turned on the light and gasped. A two-room suite with a whirlpool and a fireplace. “Shit,” she muttered. She threw her bag and purse on the bed, a four-poster. The setting gave her an idea. Why not? She pulled the cell phone out of her purse and punched in his phone number. “Hey, babe,” Murphy said into the phone. “Are you up for a one-night vacation?”
    Murphy pulled down the bedsheets, turned on the gas fireplace, filled the ice bucket and set it next to the tub. She called the front desk. “A tall, handsome guy is meeting me here.”
    The woman laughed. “Does he have a brother?”
    â€œHis name is Jack Ramier. If he gets here before I get back from dinner, give him a key card.”
    â€œGotcha.”
    Murphy checked her watch. It would take nearly two hours for Jack to drive up. He’d already eaten and she was hungry. She grabbed her jacket and purse. Remembered a bar off the main drag that served dinner.

TWELVE
    MURPHY SPOTTED TRIP the instant he stepped into the bar. His height caught her eye first, then his gait. Eighteen years had passed and she still recognized his walk and posture. Slow. Hesitant. Head down. A giraffe tiptoeing past the lions. He was by himself; that hadn’t changed with the years either. In high school, he’d sat alone. In the library. At the lunch table. In his truck. Never a friend at his side. She saw him turn his head away when the hostess started talking to him; he was still having trouble looking people in the face.
    The woman led him to a table toward the front. A round table with six chairs around it. The hostess probably figured she was doing him a favor, giving him legroom. The big table made Trip seem even lonelier. Murphy was in a booth in back. A few other tables and booths were occupied. A young couple. A middle-aged couple. Three men in jeans and flannel shirts. Probably farmers.