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If she were with us now, you could stick around, shoot a little pool, fight off some more beautiful women who ache to get to know you in a biblical sense. I would feed her good meat back in my office and she would like that.”
    “The Board of Health would strip you of your license for having a dog in here, even one as delightful as Gotcha.”
    “I’m not sure you really have a dog. You have spoken of her, I have asked you to bring her by any time, and still, nothing. Time passes. Many snows, many moons.”
    “Many Indian cliché metaphors.”
    “Is she your imaginary friend?”
    “She’s not imaginary, and she is a great friend. I’ll bring her with me next time if you’ll give her a beer on the house.”
    Lunatic Mooning nodded his head. “I assume she prefers imports?”
    “With a few exceptions, yes. Now, I must adieu,” I said, handing the Ojibwa owner-operator enough to cover both tabs and a hefty tip.
    “Miss Highsmith’s staying at The Rockbluff Motel. She’s always been straight up with me, Thomas. That’s all.”
    I left, climbed into my giant F-150, and drove home, Suzanne Highsmith on my mind as I pondered two questions: was she maybe lonely in her room at the Rockbluff Motel; and second, where was she getting her information?

 

    I must be getting old. Certainly old- er . Genuine fatigue was shoving its way into my body and mind by the time I started out for my little home in the woods overlooking two rivers. It had grown dark while I hung around The Grain. Now, the dark was deeper. And colder. And since I had kept my eyes mostly on the road as I drove past the Rockbluff Motel where I noticed Suzanne’s 4Runner parked, all I wanted to do was rest.
    I drove on home, parked, and went inside.
    But my cell phone rang. My cell phone never rings. It knows I hate it, but it’s a necessary evil. Like dental floss.
    I enjoy the idea of ignoring my cell and just waiting for the person to leave a message. Or call back. Or not, which is best of all. Then I can decide what I want to do. I hadn’t even had a moment to mess with Gotcha, or sit down and put up my feet, and there’s that interruption from the first few notes of “Three Blind Mice.”
    It was a brass monkey night. I was well fed. Pleasantly lightheaded from the Belgian ale, but a bit too much on my mind to be able to relax and just go to bed. Suzanne. Dead girl in the water. The Hawkeyes basketball team at Iowa State.
    The phone quit ringing.
    I walked from the living room into the kitchen and picked up the cell. The call was Ernie. I hit the button to call him back and he picked up right away.
    “Thomas! Why aren’t you down at the river looking for bodies, man? Or is that what you were doing when I called?”
    “You got my email, I see.”
    “And I read the story in The Des Moines Chronicle .” I thought I could hear Ernie chuckling.
    “I didn’t read it. Didn’t realize it was in print already.” Here we go again.
    “Tomorrow’s edition on line. Says you and violent deaths are, let me see how they put it, oh yeah, you and violent deaths and Rockbluff , Iowa are ‘inextricably, tragically united’.”
    “Who wrote the story?” Suspicion lurked.
    “It says, just ‘Staff.’”
    “Such B.S.,” I said, excoriating journalists in my mind. Then, “Is that why you called, to harass me about my bad timing ever since I moved up here?”
    “No. Not at all,” Ernie said. “I’m calling to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner wherein we provide all the food and you provide all the wine.” He sounded triumphant.
    “I’m not sure I can get down there for Thanksgiving, Ernie. That’s just a few days away, and I expect I might need to stick around and answer questions from the coroner or some more from Sheriff Payne. Maybe even a legitimate journalist if there’s one out there somewhere.”
    “No problem. We’re inviting you to Thanksgiving dinner at your place! Thanks! You are such a wonderful paragon of hospitality, something