did…”
“Yeah?”
“The Judds worship money. They made it a stand-in for all the other qualities of life. If you can be nice, or have money, take the money. If you can be brave, or have money, take the money. If you can have friends or have money, take the money. They’re like that. They don’t even hide it. Take the money. Pulling two hundred thousand dollars in cash, out of a safe-deposit box, in front of Bill Judd Jr., would be like pulling Jesus Christ out of a box, in front of the Pope.”
“Not a nice thing to say about someone,” Virgil said. “Especially the Pope.”
“It’s the truth, though,” she said. Her eyes narrowed: “Can I tell all my friends about all this?”
“Well, let me think,” Virgil said. “The only witnesses were me, your brother, the lawyer, the banker, Judd, and the vault lady. What are the chances that they all kept their mouths shut?”
“Zero.”
“Right. Just don’t quote me, okay?” Virgil said. “You could get me or your brother in trouble. Maybe you could hear it from one of the wives first?”
“I know both of them, banker and lawyer,” she said. “One of them’ll spill the beans, and then I can add everything you gave me.”
“Sounds good,” Virgil said. “Did I mention I like your dress?”
“Really? I sewed it myself. Ordered the material out of Des Moines.”
“Seriously?”
“Try not to be stupid, Virgil,” she said. “I bought it at Neiman Marcus, in the Cities.”
V IRGIL HAD GROWN UP in Marshall, Minnesota, sixty miles north of Bluestem, as the crow flies, or eighty miles, if the crow were driving a pickup. His father had the biggest Presbyterian church in town, until he retired, and his mother taught engineering and survey at Southwest Minnesota State University, until she retired. They were both still alive and played golf all summer, and had a condo in Fort Myers so they could play golf all winter.
Joan’s father had been a farmer. He’d been involved with Bill Judd’s drive to make a commodity out of the Jerusalem artichoke.
“I don’t remember all this, because I was too young at the time, but Dad thought that nothing good was going to happen with corn and bean prices. There was too much low-priced competition around the world. He thought if we could come up with a new crop, that could replace oil…well, I guess back in the seventies and eighties there were all these predictions that oil might run out any minute, and then we’d all be screwed.”
“Like now.”
“Like now, with ethanol and four-dollar corn. Anyway, if you could grow oil…I guess he figured they couldn’t lose. But it was all bullshit. It was a scam right from the start, cooked up by a bunch of commodities people in Chicago and some outlanders like Bill Judd. When it all went bust, Bill Judd didn’t care. He was a sociopath if you’ve ever seen one. But people who were tied into him, like my dad, did care…”
She sighed and shook her head. “Lot of people thought my dad was right there in with Judd. But Dad lost half his land. He was farming more than two thousand acres back then. He sold off the land at way-depressed prices, right into a big farm depression in the middle eighties, paid off all his debts, and then he got this .45 that he had, and killed himself. Out in the backyard, one Saturday afternoon. I can still remember people screaming, and I can remember Mom sitting in the front room looking like she’d died. That’s what I remember most: not Dad, but Mom’s eyes.”
“Jimmy was pretty hurt, I guess? Boys and fathers?”
“He was.” Her eyes came up to meet his. “You don’t think Jim had anything to do with Judd’s murder?”
He shook his head: “Of course not…Were the Gleasons tied in with Judd?”
“They were friendly,” Joan said. “There was a tight little group of richer folks, like in most small towns. Doctors, lawyers, bankers, real estate dealers. People say that Judd helped some of them with
“Yeah?”
“The Judds worship money. They made it a stand-in for all the other qualities of life. If you can be nice, or have money, take the money. If you can be brave, or have money, take the money. If you can have friends or have money, take the money. They’re like that. They don’t even hide it. Take the money. Pulling two hundred thousand dollars in cash, out of a safe-deposit box, in front of Bill Judd Jr., would be like pulling Jesus Christ out of a box, in front of the Pope.”
“Not a nice thing to say about someone,” Virgil said. “Especially the Pope.”
“It’s the truth, though,” she said. Her eyes narrowed: “Can I tell all my friends about all this?”
“Well, let me think,” Virgil said. “The only witnesses were me, your brother, the lawyer, the banker, Judd, and the vault lady. What are the chances that they all kept their mouths shut?”
“Zero.”
“Right. Just don’t quote me, okay?” Virgil said. “You could get me or your brother in trouble. Maybe you could hear it from one of the wives first?”
“I know both of them, banker and lawyer,” she said. “One of them’ll spill the beans, and then I can add everything you gave me.”
“Sounds good,” Virgil said. “Did I mention I like your dress?”
“Really? I sewed it myself. Ordered the material out of Des Moines.”
“Seriously?”
“Try not to be stupid, Virgil,” she said. “I bought it at Neiman Marcus, in the Cities.”
V IRGIL HAD GROWN UP in Marshall, Minnesota, sixty miles north of Bluestem, as the crow flies, or eighty miles, if the crow were driving a pickup. His father had the biggest Presbyterian church in town, until he retired, and his mother taught engineering and survey at Southwest Minnesota State University, until she retired. They were both still alive and played golf all summer, and had a condo in Fort Myers so they could play golf all winter.
Joan’s father had been a farmer. He’d been involved with Bill Judd’s drive to make a commodity out of the Jerusalem artichoke.
“I don’t remember all this, because I was too young at the time, but Dad thought that nothing good was going to happen with corn and bean prices. There was too much low-priced competition around the world. He thought if we could come up with a new crop, that could replace oil…well, I guess back in the seventies and eighties there were all these predictions that oil might run out any minute, and then we’d all be screwed.”
“Like now.”
“Like now, with ethanol and four-dollar corn. Anyway, if you could grow oil…I guess he figured they couldn’t lose. But it was all bullshit. It was a scam right from the start, cooked up by a bunch of commodities people in Chicago and some outlanders like Bill Judd. When it all went bust, Bill Judd didn’t care. He was a sociopath if you’ve ever seen one. But people who were tied into him, like my dad, did care…”
She sighed and shook her head. “Lot of people thought my dad was right there in with Judd. But Dad lost half his land. He was farming more than two thousand acres back then. He sold off the land at way-depressed prices, right into a big farm depression in the middle eighties, paid off all his debts, and then he got this .45 that he had, and killed himself. Out in the backyard, one Saturday afternoon. I can still remember people screaming, and I can remember Mom sitting in the front room looking like she’d died. That’s what I remember most: not Dad, but Mom’s eyes.”
“Jimmy was pretty hurt, I guess? Boys and fathers?”
“He was.” Her eyes came up to meet his. “You don’t think Jim had anything to do with Judd’s murder?”
He shook his head: “Of course not…Were the Gleasons tied in with Judd?”
“They were friendly,” Joan said. “There was a tight little group of richer folks, like in most small towns. Doctors, lawyers, bankers, real estate dealers. People say that Judd helped some of them with
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