Dead Rapunzel (18 page)

“He didn't happen to mention if he had a beard or what he was wearing, did he?”

“No beard. I asked about that, too. He didn't notice what the old guy was wearing, Chip said, because he could only see him from the shoulders up. The window over the sinks in the café kitchen is pretty high. One thing, though, that he
wasn't
wearing, and that Chip thought real weird since it was so cold out:
Old guy had no hat on
. No scarf, nothing on his ears like a headband, nothing. And it was thirty-some below zero.”

The woman pressed her lips tight together. “I guess that's it. My kid who wants to be a chef gets a good job in a restaurant, happens to look out the window, sees a bad person, and he gets killed. What the hell is fair about that?” The tears welled in Donna's eyes. Lew handed her several Kleenex.

“So am I correct in assuming that Chip might have been able to identify the man if . . . ”

“If he was alive, you mean? Yes, Chip was confident he would recognize the man.” Donna looked off into the distance. “In fact, he felt good about that. It made him feel important, you know?”

“Was it unusual for your son to go fishing so late in the day?” asked Lew.

“Heavens, no. That was his way of relaxing after being on his feet all day. He loved to ice fish—plus all that free walleye, those bluegills. Do you know how much it would cost if we had to buy our fish in the store?

“I will say this. My son headed out to fish feeling pretty darn good that night. He has a bunch of fishing buddies he runs into out there on the lake. He always liked to stop by a couple of shacks and see what was up. A habit he picked up from his dad when he was alive. They're regular fellows, those guys. They all knew Chip and he knew them. That's why I'm having a luncheon at St. Mary's after the funeral Mass—Chip had lots of friends.”

“Would you say that people fishing out there, guys in their shacks, for example, would know to expect Chip to show up on a regular basis?”

“Probably. But I can't imagine that any one of those . . . I mean, most people around here hadn't even heard about the truck accident yet. It wasn't until the six o'clock news that . . . Are you trying to tell me that Chip didn't drown?”

“Donna . . . ” Lew got up from her chair and walked over to put an arm around the woman's shoulders. “I heard the autopsy report a little while ago. Your son was murdered. He was dead when his body went into the water. He did not drown.”

Donna sat still for a long moment. “Do you think he felt pain?”

“I think, I'm sure, someone hit him from behind and he never knew what happened.”

Again Donna was quiet. Then she asked in a soft voice, “When can I have my baby?” Both women wept.

After Donna left the station, Lew walked across the hall to where Dani was working in the conference room. “Didn't you mention that you're on Facebook with Kenzie Steidl?”

“Yes. She friended me a while back. Why?”

“I'd like to check something that she may have posted there. A photo from a recent family gathering that included the victim, Rudd Tomlinson.”

“Sure, let's see if we can find it,” said Dani, pulling her laptop out of the leather bag that she carried it in. “This will just take a minute,” she said, turning it on. “First, let me make sure Kenzie is still on my ‘friends' list.” Dani's fingers moved fast. “Yep, there she is . . . so we'll go to her page . . . Got it, and it looks like I can access her photos.”

Dani scrolled through the photos on the screen until Lew, pointing, said, “That one—the one with everyone wearing masks.”

Dani clicked on the photo and it filled the screen. Once again Rudd was standing in the center of the group with a happy expression on her face. “What a friendly-looking person she is,” said Dani.

“
Was
.” Lew's tone was grim. “Maybe too friendly. Can you zoom in on that one person?” She indicated the old man with wispy white hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Dani enlarged the photo and Lew leaned forward to study the man's features.

“Chief, you know that's just a mask, right?”

“Yes. Kenzie told me it's hers. Very realistic, isn't it?”

“Too real for me,” said Dani. “Reminds me of this mean old man lived next door to us when I was growing up.” She shivered at the thought.

Lew continued to study the photo, only now she was interested in the faces of the partygoers caught standing behind the celebrating mask wearers: Who else was there that night?

Kenzie had commented that “I always have to have family” and it appeared this was one of those gatherings. Though their images were in the background, Lew could make out Sloane chatting with Vern and another woman. Maybe a neighbor? Or Vern brought a date? Or a friend of Sloane's?

Although
who
, thought Lew, would want to be friends with Sloane? She chastised herself: That was not a kind thought, but it was honest.

She sat back thinking. “Dani . . . how many red Honda Accords do you see driving around Loon Lake?”

“Serious?” Lew nodded. “A lot. Hondas and Toyotas—you can't get away from 'em. Well, except for Ford 150 trucks. Want me to search the DMV database?”

“Yes, please. I want to find something to help me change my mind.” Dani gave her a quizzical look.

Back at her desk, Lew picked up the phone. “Doc, think you can take an hour to do one last interview with me? I'm using a guerrilla tactic this time: surprise. And I need a reliable witness with me.”

“Sure, just let me know what you need from me,” said Osborne. “Need me to drive in?”

“No, I'll pick you up.”

“I'm ready when you are,” said Osborne. He hung up and gazed down at his best friend. “I know, boy, I've been gone so often this week that I've neglected you, haven't I?” Mike agreed wholeheartedly, his tail thumping wildly.

Whenever the old man sounded so chagrined, the dog knew what was coming: extra treats and a new bone. He would survive.

When a half hour had passed and Lew had not yet been by to pick him up, Osborne grew concerned. He was on the verge of calling to be sure she didn't want him to drive to town when he saw her cruiser pull into the driveway.

“Sorry to be so late, Doc,” she said as he fastened his seat belt. “I forgot that Bruce and Ray were stopping by. They caught me going out the door, which was good. You won't believe what they found over on the western edge of the big field surrounding the Tomlinson property—”

“Gold?” asked Osborne. “Just kidding, Lew, but you sound so excited. Has to be something good.”

“Almost as good—sand.”

“Come again?”

“Silica sand—maybe. Ray took Bruce, Judith, and Kenzie out to fish that small bay behind the field. He forgot to bring enough firewood, so the two women saw a pile of cut logs on shore and went over to get some. As they were putting some of the logs on the sled they uncovered a couple of pipes sticking out of the ground right beneath the pile.

“Ray and Bruce went to check it out and found two more pipes under the log pile. Bruce thought it looked like someone had been attempting to do soil testing, so they shot a couple photos and stopped by the Wisconsin Silica Sands office, where a buddy of Ray's, one of the mining engineers, works. He said it sure looks to him like someone has been trying to get samples of the sand around there. If the sand at that location fits the profile of the silica sands needed for oil fracking, the property could be worth one heck of a lot of money.”

“The Tomlinson property is worth a lot already,” said Osborne. “The lake frontage alone is worth at least half a million dollars.”

“I know. And Ray knows that, too. But when he and Bruce told the engineer how many acres of land are in that field where the museum is to be built, he said it could be worth millions. Doc, turns out here in the Northwoods we have what is called ‘coarse Northern White sand' and it is ideal for fracking. With the oil frackers planning to use ninety-five
billion
pounds of sand just this year, the demand for quality sand is high.”

“So the question is: who was in there testing—right?”

“You got it. Both Bruce and Ray say they figure it may have happened within the last three weeks, too.

“Last thing, Doc. Bruce got the autopsy report on the Dietz boy. He died of blunt-force trauma to the left side of his skull. Someone bludgeoned the poor kid to death and shoved him under the ice. If the county didn't have that dive-rescue squad, I'll bet we wouldn't have found his body until spring.”

As she spoke, Lew drove down Tomlinson Road, past the elegant wings of Rudd's home, to the driveway in front of the house where Kenzie and Greg Steidl lived.

She glanced at Osborne as she turned off the ignition. “I'm sure someone thought it would be another three months before we knew he hadn't fallen in by accident. Since he was the only witness who might have identified the old man seen running toward the street where Rudd was hit, that's awfully convenient. It's also why I want to see Kenzie today.”

“Anything in particular you want me to say or do?”

“Just listen, Doc. Listen and watch.”

Though it wasn't yet five o'clock, the sky was darkening. Lights were shining in the windows of the Steidl home. Lew knocked on the front door and they waited.

“Oh, hello, Chief Ferris and Dr. Osborne,” said Greg, opening the door with a look of surprise on his face. He was in jeans and a worn red flannel shirt. “Is Kenzie expecting you? She must have forgotten you were coming—she isn't here. But, please, come in out of the cold before we all freeze.” He stepped back, holding the door open.

“She isn't expecting us,” said Lew. “Doc and I were over at the main house and I thought we'd take a chance on her being here, as I have a few more questions for Kenzie. Is she likely to be home soon?”

Greg checked his watch. “Maybe ten minutes or so. She had a three o'clock appointment with her therapist and that usually lasts an hour. You are welcome to wait. As you can see from the mess on my drafting table I've been working on some drawings.”

Lew and Osborne followed him over to the angled drafting table that had been set up in front of south-facing windows. “That doesn't look like an office building,” said Osborne as he studied the blueprints spread out across the table.

“Oh no, this is a house I'm designing for an old college friend. He recently bought a lot out on Shepard Lake and asked me to design what will be his summer home. Pretty nice place if I do it right.”

“I didn't know that Vern was into building homes these days. I thought he was strictly commercial buildings,” said Osborne.

“This is one of my projects,” said Greg. “I've been designing houses on the side—trying to build my own business. At least get enough going that I don't need to work for my dad anymore. Nope,” he said as he picked up a metal square, “I want out of Steidl Builders before anyone is sued.”

Lew's eyes widened. “Mind if I ask what you mean by that?”

Greg looked from Lew to Osborne before saying, “If
you
don't, Chief Ferris, I'm sure Dr. Osborne knows how my dad operates. He's notorious for building on the cheap. He charges for premium materials, then substitutes crap. He cuts every corner he can when a building is going up. I'm sorry, but it's going to catch up with him one of these days. And I don't plan to be there when it does.

“That's why I'm hoping this situation with Rudd's death is resolved soon. Once Kenzie gets her portion of the money left in her father's estate, we'll have enough to be on our own.”

“So you're saying your father is a crook . . . ” Lew's comment hung in the air.

“I never believed my mother and her friends until I went to work for him myself. That was five years ago. Once I realized what was going on, it was too late. By then, we needed the money, and architecture jobs are difficult to find in the Northwoods, but . . . well, heck, let's talk about happier things.

“Kenzie and I, for example.” Greg's voice lifted as he spoke, and he walked away from the drafting table with his arms outstretched. “See all this—the upholstery, the floors, the wall coverings, the furniture? This is all Kenzie's work. Even that quilt hanging on the wall was made by her.”

He turned to them with a proud smile. “My wife is an artist with a real talent for interior design. She loves doing it and I love what she does. Our goal is to run our own architecture firm with me designing homes and Kenzie handling the interior design.”

“I will say your home is very attractive,” said Lew, looking around the living area and toward the kitchen. “The colors, the fabrics. Looks perfect.” She nodded in appreciation.

“Hmm. Perfection—that is part of the problem.” He dropped his eyes as he pulled out a chair at the dining room table. “With everything so uncertain since Rudd's death, I think it's important you know a few things about Kenzie. She's so . . . so fragile right now.”

“She told me that she's been diagnosed bipolar,” said Lew.

“Yes, Type II Bipolar is the diagnosis. She's on a mood stabilizer, Depakote. Also Prozac for when things get too out of whack. The drawback to the drugs is that she needs at least ten hours of sleep. And she's a night owl,” said Greg with a roll of his eyes. “So mornings here are pretty well shot.

“Except for this morning, when she was up at the crack of dawn to go ice fishing! But she loves Ray Pradt. He's always been good to her.” Greg chuckled. “Would you believe she went to bed at seven last night just so she could be with Ray and the folks. Maybe I should be jealous?” He grinned.

“Greg, I got the impression from her brother, Tim, that she has been—”

“Thank you, Tim,” said Greg, his grin vanishing. “I am sure he had to mention she's been in psychiatric units over in the cities twice in the last few years. But those were voluntary—and brief—commitments. She and I both felt it was the wise thing to do and that's how we found the Depakote, which has been a lifesaver, believe me.”