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“What difference does it make? You said he’s not our guy.”
Wyatt picked up his gin bottle from the grass and flipped it in the air and caught it. “You said something about me riding a woman hard and putting her away wet. Was you talking about Miss Bertha or not?”
There was a long silence. “It was just a joke.”
“A joke about Miss Bertha?”
The detective’s throat bladed with color. “I wasn’t talking about any woman in particular,” he said. “No, I wasn’t saying anything about her.”
“That’s what I thought,” Wyatt said.
IT WAS EVENING before Wyatt Dixon worked up the courage to go see Bertha Phelps. He rode the elevator up to her apartment overlooking the Clark Fork and knocked. When she opened the door, it was hooked on the chain. He saw her nostrils swell. “Have you been drinking?” she said.
“I was. I ain’t now.”
“Is that detective out there?”
“No. He come to my house, though. You want me to go away?”
“I just don’t like to see you hurt yourself. If you want to know the truth, I’ve been awfully worried.” She slid the chain and opened the door. “I didn’t think you were a drinking man.”
“I ain’t. At least not the hard stuff.”
“You sit down at the table. I’m going to fix you a cup of coffee and a plate of lasagna. I called you three times. Why didn’t you answer?”
“I was out of sorts. I get that way sometimes.”
“Because I deceived you?”
“That plainclothes detective said you spoke up for me.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Did you know there’s people that’s not capable of doing wrong, at least not deliberately?” he said.
“You fixing to give me a compliment? If you are, don’t. I don’t care for flattery, Wyatt.”
“You’re one of them kind, Miss Bertha. You’re a good lady with a big heart.”
“Don’t be calling me ‘miss’ anymore, either.”
He sat down at the table by the window. There were children riding the wooden horses on the carousel, each of them leaning far out of the saddle to grab the brass ring that guaranteed them a free ride. “Did you study history in college?” he asked.
“I went to business school. I’m not as highly educated as you think.”
“I’m looking for a preacher who calls hisself Geta Noonen. I couldn’t find nobody by that name on the Internet. You ever hear the name Geta before?”
“Not that I recall.”
“I did a Google search on it. There was a Roman emperor with that name. He was the brother of a guy named Caracalla.”
“I don’t understand what we’re talking about.” She took a plate of lasagna out of the microwave with a dish towel and carried it to the table. “Start eating. You need to start taking a whole lot better care of yourself.”
“When this guy Caracalla wasn’t building baths, he was killing people, including his brother Geta.”
“Why are you looking for this preacher?”
“I think maybe he kidnapped that waitress up by the Idaho line. I don’t believe he’s a preacher. I think he’s somebody who comes from a place people don’t want to study on.”
