Dead Rapunzel Page 3

  Osborne stared down at his phone: This was an odd conversation. “So you do know how to reach them?”

  “Unfortunately.” The edge was back, though Osborne didn’t feel it directed at him. “Did you say this was an accident?”

  “Not sure. The driver of the vehicle involved—a large logging truck—said that he saw someone push Mrs. Tomlinson. Now, I probably shouldn’t be telling you that because it hasn’t been confirmed, so please don’t say anything—”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.” And Osborne knew she wouldn’t. Judith Fordham was blunt if not a touch cynical. She had an officious way to her. “Pushed, huh?”

  “That’s what the truck driver said. Chief Ferris has no one in custody—just a witness who may have seen a person in the vicinity and the truck driver. Hopefully, we’ll know more when you get here. With the roads so bad I’m not sure we should be talking.”

  “Sure, I’ll get off the phone, but one more question . . . ” A long pause; then, “Do you think my friend knew what hit her?” The edge had given way to sadness.

  “I—based on my initial exam, I am sure she died instantly.” He didn’t add the obvious, that the question ultimately was unanswerable.

  “Hmm. Well . . . Rudd might be okay with that. Look, Dr. Osborne, I should make it into town within fifteen or twenty minutes. Has Rudd . . . Has her body been moved?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Please tell whoever is in charge not to move her until I get there.” And with that, the woman’s voice broke. “Sorry, I have to pull over. I—”

  “Take your time,” said Osborne. “I’ll give you directions. I’m afraid you’ll have to park at the top of Main Street, as it’s been blocked off until the police and EMTs are finished.”

  The woman who walked into the café half an hour later had composed herself. She was bundled into a long, black, quilted coat, with a bright red scarf muffling her chin and earmuffs of black fur covering her straight brown hair. The skin around her eyes was blotched, but she was not crying.

  Undoing the scarf, she shook Osborne’s hand and then hurried over to the picture window at the front of the café. She leaned forward, her gaze intent on the figure lying in the middle of the street. “How much longer will they keep her out there? It is so cold!” She was still speaking when Lew walked in the café door. Osborne pointed toward the woman standing at the window.

  “Judith Fordham, I’m Lewellyn Ferris, Chief of the Loon Lake Police and in charge of this investigation,” said Lew, pulling a glove off her right hand as she extended it. “I am so sorry about your friend. And I’m sorry Officer Donovan wouldn’t let you near her body, but the circumstances right now are complex. We’ve been told she may have been pushed in front of the truck that hit her.”

  Judith’s eyes went black as she said in a deliberate tone, “I am not surprised. Rudd recently inherited a great deal of money under circumstances that upset a number of people. And we all know what that can do.”

  “Dr. Osborne said you know how to reach her next of kin?”

  “Yes, I have been Rudd Tomlinson’s closest friend for twenty years and I know how to reach the family, but by that I mean her late husband’s adult children. Rudd herself has no living relatives. If it is okay with you, Chief Ferris, I think I would rather call them a little later when I have some privacy and I can reach them on a landline phone—my cell phone isn’t working great up here.”

  “Certainly, but in the meantime there are some legalities that have to be handled. Whom do I contact?”

  “That’s me. I am the executor of her will, which is how I know that I am her legal heir, and that, for the record, will come as a surprise to the Tomlinson crowd.” She gave a grim smile. “Will her body be out in the cold like that much longer?”

  “No. I’m about to let the EMTs move her. We needed photos in order to document what may be a crime scene, but I believe the photographer has finished his work around the victim.”

  Looking through the window, Osborne could see Ray working on the far side of the street. He had set up a tripod and appeared to be adjusting his camera to shoot along the sidewalk and the snow bank. “I’ve asked him to shoot the entire two-block radius,” said Lew. “He’ll be here for a while. In the meantime, I hope you don’t mind coming with us to the victim’s home. I want no one on that property until we have been able to conduct a full search of the premises.”

  “Certainly, but may I see my friend before she’s moved?”

  Lew paused. “Are you sure you want to do that? I’m afraid those truck tires did a great deal of damage . . . ”

  “I know,” said Judith, backing away toward the door. Tears glistened in her eyes. “I know, but I need to say goodbye.”

  “Of course. I’ll signal for the EMTs to stand back. Take your time, but, please, don’t touch the body. I doubt there is evidence of who pushed her, but we can’t risk contaminating—”

  “I understand, but—could I just leave her with something of mine? So she isn’t alone . . . ” Judith’s voice caught in a sob.

  “Yes, we’ll document whatever it is that you leave with her. It’s okay.” Lew gave her arm a reassuring pat.

  Osborne walked over to stand beside Lew. They watched in the grey wintery light as Judith walked past the ambulance where the EMTs were slapping their shoulders to stay warm. Curious bystanders had been coming and going.

  One of the waitresses, who had heard both the truck driver’s allegation and the fact that Chip Dietz had seen a person who might have pushed the victim, had been telling customers and calling friends. The gossip that a murder may have occurred was spreading fast, drawing more people to the scene.

  “I hope she does this quickly. I really don’t want to have to deal with a television crew this morning,” said Lew, muttering under her breath to Osborne.

  Judith knelt beside the body of her friend. Slipping her red scarf from around her neck, Judith folded it twice before laying it gently over what had been Rudd’s face. Then she stood and watched as the EMTs prepared the body before slipping the still form into the body bag.

  Osborne and Lew walked out to join her as she watched. Before the bag was zipped closed, Judith said to one of the EMTs, “Can you be sure my scarf is covering her face inside that . . . ” She didn’t finish her sentence, but turned to Lew and Osborne as the bag was loaded into the ambulance. “Seems silly, I know, but I want to keep her warm.”

  Chapter Six

  Skeletons hovered over the road as Osborne followed Lew’s cruiser down the county highway that wound through a hardwood forest. Stands of birch and maple and aspen stood naked under the grey sky, stripped of their summer glory. As Osborne’s Subaru crested a hill, the hardwoods gave way to evergreens—feathered branches of pine and spruce so heavy with snow, their bony arms scraped his windshield as if warning him away.

  Plows and sanding trucks appeared to have forgotten this remote stretch of the highway. Ice hidden beneath furrows of a recent snowfall forced Osborne to drive so slowly that he lost sight of Lew’s cruiser as she followed Judith’s SUV. He trusted that brake lights would alert him when it was time to turn off the county road.

  “Don’t rely on your GPS, you two. Better follow me or you’re likely to end up at one of the family places instead of the main house, which is Rudd’s home,” Judith had insisted when they started out.

  Two miles further and Osborne relaxed at the sight of winking brake lights. After turning down Tomlinson Road, the three cars came to a stop in front of a tall, wrought-iron gate guarding the entrance to a private drive while Tomlinson Road continued on. Judith got out of her car and trudged through newly fallen snow to a small metal box mounted on a stanchion to the left of the locked gate. She lifted the cover and punched in a code. The gate swung open to a recently plowed driveway that had been well sanded.

  The private drive wove through more evergreens before reaching an open field, a sea of snow sculpted by wind into waves of silvery meringue. The drive ended in a c
learing alongside two wings of black timber, with Thunder Lake in the background. The wings, which reached for the sky, framed a twenty-foot wall of glass banded with steel.

  “Wow,” said Lew, gesturing toward the house as Judith walked up. “Did this arrive from another planet?”

  Judith managed a smile. “Isn’t it something? It was finished just before Philip died. Rudd was so happy he was able to enjoy it even for a short time.” While she spoke, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small remote. One click and the glass wall split in two, each panel sliding silently into the wings.

  “Certainly not a hunting shack,” said Osborne, trying to imagine how much the timbered wings must have cost—dark wood like that wasn’t native to northern Wisconsin.

  He glanced around. “Where is the old Tomlinson lodge? Moved to another section of the property?

  “I remember fishing this lake with my father when I was a kid and the lodge was quite the place, with walls made of logs three feet in diameter and a massive river-rock chimney. Had to have been built in the late eighteen hundreds from virgin timber. You know, you don’t see lodges like that any longer.”

  As he spoke, they followed Judith across a heated walkway that led into the glass-enclosed, two-story foyer. “That old place had seen better days by the time Rudd met Philip,” said Judith. “There were structural issues, including the chimney, that were not solvable. So Philip had the lodge torn down, but they saved the wood from the walls and floors for use in the museum. Of course, a couple of his kids are convinced Rudd was behind tearing down the old place—they hate her for that.”

  “I’m sorry, but what did you just say—they are saving the wood for what?” asked Osborne as they paused a few feet from a door of the same dark wood as the wings.

  Before Judith could answer, the door opened and a dark-haired woman in a fur coat, unaware they were standing there, backed her way into the room. One arm clutched a large purse slung over one shoulder while the other arm encircled a flat object wrapped in a pillowcase. She turned around and jerked back, startled.

  “Judith! What are you doing here?”

  “Excuse me, Sloane. The question is what are you doing here? And what’s that under your arm?” Judith’s tone was not friendly. Osborne threw a worried glance at Lew.

  “Oh, just a little thing of Dad’s. Nothing special. And who the hell are these people? Rudd didn’t say she’s expecting visitors.”

  Stepping in front of Judith, Lew said, “I’m Lewellyn Ferris, Chief of the Loon Lake Police, and my deputy and I are here to secure the premises as part of a criminal investigation. No one will be allowed to enter the home or remove anything until we have completed our investigation.”

  “I—I—this in inexcusable. What are you talking about? Philip Tomlinson was my father. I have every right to be here whenever—”

  Osborne watched the woman’s face as she spoke. She wore the makeup of a woman spending too much money on a fruitless attempt to look better. The wrinkles of age do not cooperate with even the most expensive of cosmetics, and everything about this woman looked expensive: the fur coat, the fur boots, and the multiple rings on her fingers. Years of bending over faces in the dental chair had made Osborne sensitive to the perils of makeup on women (and some men) as they age. When the effect was as bad as it was on Sloane, he considered it an act of desperation.

  Like a muskie fisherman with a lunker on the line, he couldn’t help being interested in how this scenario would play out. Sloane, however confident she might have been in her attempt to sneak something out of her stepmother’s home, had two formidable foes: Lew had the authority of the law while Judith was angered by the attempted theft, which she was not hesitant to block.

  “Sloane,” said Judith, her voice even, “I don’t think you are aware that Rudd was killed in a traffic accident this morning. I’m sorry you have to hear it this way, but I hope that explains why Chief Ferris and Dr. Osborne are here.

  “Thing is, her death may not have been an accident. The driver of the truck that hit her has sworn that he saw someone—a man—push her. If that’s true, she was murdered, and that’s why this house will be off-limits to everyone, including myself.” Judith turned to Lew. “Chief Ferris, maybe you can explain what has to happen here.”

  “Until we know more about your stepmother’s death,” said Lew, “this house and its contents may be critical to our criminal investigation. We’ll be searching the interior and any outer buildings for evidence or indications of why Mrs. Tomlinson was killed. So please tell me your name and why you happen to be here at this time—and I will appreciate it if you would please set down whatever that is that you’re carrying.”

  Grief hits people in different ways, but Osborne had never seen it expressed in quite this way: Before she could hide it, a smile of sly satisfaction flashed across Sloane’s face.

  “I see,” she said, backing away. “But Judith, if Rudd is dead—then all this,” she turned toward the open door behind her, “all this belongs to the family now—me, Tim, Kenzie . . . ”

  “Sloane,” said Judith, “Chief Ferris just asked you to put down whatever that is you are holding. Please do so. The house is not yours, and in the meantime, I have Rudd Tomlinson’s power of attorney and I give consent to the search of this house.”

  Sloane stared at Judith and did not move. She was a heavy-faced woman who might have been attractive before appetite and attitude marred whatever vestiges of kindness or class possibly existed. With a sneer she said, “Alrighty then,” and dropped the object onto the floor. “It’s going to be mine someday anyway.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “And just what do you mean by that?” asked the woman as she stepped forward, shoving her face in front of Judith’s. Judith did not back up.

  “Six months ago Rudd established a trust to support the new museum. All her assets belong to the trust, and I am the administrator of the trust.”

  This time the woman had nothing to say. Osborne watched as anger mixed with fear contorted her features. Throwing her head back, she set her shoulders and turned toward the glass doors. With a wave of her hand, the doors slid open.

  “Judith Fordham, I am calling our lawyer. You won’t get away with this.” She stomped out and disappeared to the left of the entrance.

  “Wait—I want to talk to you,” said Lew, rushing toward Sloane as the doors slid closed behind her.

  “She’s not going far,” said Judith, sounding disgusted. “She has a McCottage a short walk down the road. You won’t have any trouble finding her. Chief Ferris, I don’t know what you think, but I find it very interesting that she was in here. The timing, you know?”

  Judith reached down to pick up the object that Sloane had dropped onto the floor. She pulled off the pillowcase to expose a small oil painting. “It’s The Bay of Naples with the Castel dell’Ovo, a painting by Corot, who was an artist Rudd loved. The original was her wedding gift from Philip. Worth about two million dollars.”

  “Are you saying that Sloane was planning to walk out of here with a painting worth millions?” asked Lew.

  “She thought she was,” said Judith with a tight smile. “You’ll find that Philip’s children—all three of them—haven’t grasped the reality that they are not Philip Tomlinson’s heirs. They are not as entitled as they believe.

  “Not to worry,” she said in response to the concern on Lew’s face. “This painting is a replica. But Sloane doesn’t know that.”

  Judith lowered her head, raised her eyebrows, and said with grim satisfaction, “Rudd was very aware of what Sloane and her brother were up to. Between the two of us, Rudd and myself, we’ve made sure Sloane and Tim have a closet full of reproductions. The originals are safe in a temperature-controlled storage facility in Minneapolis, which was designed for the storage of fine art and antiques. They’ll be furious when they find out.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Chief Ferris, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take over the sitting
area on the upstairs balcony for a few minutes,” said Judith. “I get better cell reception up there, and I really need to get those calls in to Rudd’s other stepchildren—Tim and his younger sister, Kenzie.”

  Now that she had her coat, scarf, and hat off Osborne could see that Judith was a pleasant-faced woman. She might not have been pretty, but her face was open and her brown eyes frank. A slight hook to her nose reminded him of a Roman statue. The patrician look suited her well-spoken manner.

  As she spoke of the need to make the calls, her shoulders had slumped. Osborne recognized that overwhelming kick in the gut that comes with the loss of someone close to you. As self-contained as she had been when they’d entered Rudd’s home, the fact was only hours had passed since her friend’s death. Over the next days, weeks, and months, Judith would learn that grief has a way of sneaking up on you.

  “Take all the time you need,” said Lew as she slipped off her parka and set it on a nearby chair. “But, here, first slip on these nitrile gloves and try not to touch anything, not even the handrails on the stairway.” She handed Judith a pair of gloves from the box she carried in the cruiser.

  “Also, I’ll need you to be careful where you walk. Follow Dr. Osborne and myself so we don’t contaminate more of the area than is necessary.”

  “May I tell the family everything? What the truck driver said? That he saw Rudd pushed?”

  “Yes,” said Lew, “that will explain why law enforcement has to treat their stepmother’s death as a crime—and why no one is allowed in her home until it has been thoroughly searched.”

  “I’ll make sure they understand,” said Judith.

  Lew turned to Osborne. “All right, Doc. I hate to ask, but I sure hope you have the time to help me search this place. Every closet, every drawer, every shelf, every desk, and every computer—though I can have Dani check the computers. Thank goodness I have her to help out. It’s times like this when I wish Loon Lake had a tax base that allowed for more manpower . . .