"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."

VIRGIL 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."