Dead Hot Mama (22 page)

“Theurian
Resources is highly technical in its methods and our product line is considered quite innovative within the health care field,” Theurian was saying. “We are fully vested with all the proper licensure.”

They were sitting around a table that doubled as his desk in the spacious room that Theurian referred to as “the lab” and that took up half the warehouse. Ray and Lauren were at the main house. Lauren was calling to assure Nick she was okay, while Ray, at Lew’s request, was alerting the sheriff’s office to the false alarm.

It was Gina’s prodding about his company’s role as a tissue processor that had prompted Theurian to invite Lew, Osborne, and Gina into the warehouse for a quick tour of his operation.

“Let’s dispel any negative connotations right off the bat,” he’d said as they walked across the driveway through the blowing snow. “Boy, am I happy I turned back. We must be getting an inch an hour.”

But if he was good at reading snow, the man was a failure with bright women. Theurian made no effort to hide the fact that it required his level best to explain the complicated science behind his company to the chief of the Loon Lake Police and Gina Palmer. No matter that Gina had been introduced as a ‘technical services deputy,’ he answered her questions as if she had just graduated from a voc-ed school.

Describing his company in words so simple they bordered on condescension, he didn’t improve matters by bracketing various remarks with—”And you understand, of course, Dr. Osborne”—his tone implying that only a medical professional like himself or Osborne could hope to grasp such sophisticated concepts. Each time he said it, Gina winked at Lew.

Osborne sat quietly, as the man talked at the two women. It was like watching a fly fisherman cast a dry fly so poorly that it presented with a splash loud enough to hasten the good humor of a lurking trout.

And when Theurian had completed “Class 101 in Tissue Processing,” it was Gina’s turn to grill: Where did he find trained staff? Who were his suppliers? Who inspected the operation and how frequently? What were the most common complaints received from purchasing hospitals?

If the caliber of her questions came as a surprise, Theurian didn’t flinch. Only a slight shaking of his fingers whenever he reached to pull a sheet of paper or a brochure from the file cabinets behind his desk gave any hint of stress.

“The documentation is all here,” he said over and over, ready to prove his point with a blizzard of paperwork. “I welcome anyone—anyone with credentials, that is—to examine everything in this building except my database of suppliers and accounts. Those lists are confidential. I’m sure you understand.”

“Is the Michalski Funeral Home in Armstrong Creek one of your suppliers?” asked Gina, ignoring his remark. Osborne was beginning to understand what she meant when she said she was good at “confrontation interviews.” The woman was relentless.

“Never heard of them.” Theurian’s response was so immediate and abrupt it had to be true. Nevertheless, Gina made a note on the pad she was carrying.

“Getting close to the end here,” said Gina with a pleasant smile, “how’s business? Are you doing well?”

The silky voice, the stone face, the façade faltered. Theurian’s shoulders drooped. “Up to a point,” he said, “up to a point. Never easy starting a business from scratch. I’ve got suppliers and state-of-the-art processing capacity, but two of my major accounts got some bad press recently. They put a freeze on purchasing. Sorry,” he winced, “poor choice of words there. But business will pick up. Always does.” If Theurian was trying to sound positive, he failed.

“I have one favor to ask,” he said. “My daughter isn’t well informed on what I do. And I would like to keep it that way until the company is on its feet. Do you mind not sharing with Lauren what we’ve discussed here? It’s rather a grim business for a young girl to understand.”

But if he was concerned about Lauren’s understanding of his innovative and pioneering business practices, Dave Theurian had been nowhere near as considerate of her understanding of his relationship with her stepmother.

“All you saw was Mitten getting some help from the chief maintenance engineer for her properties, which she has just put up for sale,” he had said while they were still in the basement of the main house.

“That was plastic sheeting over some building supplies—not a body, for heaven’s sake. You’ve been watching too much television. And how did you get in here, anyway? Mitten keeps this room locked.”

Theurian turned to Lew. “My wife is the hunter and the gatherer for the family. She grew up north of here and loves to hunt, pick berries, that kind of thing. This is her place for dressing her wild game and her morels and her berries. Some women want privacy in the kitchen—this is Mitten’s little nest. Off limits unless invited.”

“Really,” said Lew. “She told us you shot the buck this fall.”

“She did, huh. Yeah, well, it was a nice one.” Theurian was less than convincing.

“Nest?” said Ray. “You call this place a ‘nest’?” Ray jerked his head towards the stainless steel tables and countertops, the stainless steel doors on the refrigerated lockers lining the walls. “Little short on cozy, doncha think?”

“It’s how my wife wants it,” said Theurian. He walked over to the door. “Did you break the lock? She’s going to be furious—”

“I have some questions for Mrs. Theurian on a separate matter,” said Lew, interrupting. “When do you expect her back?”

“Late this afternoon sometime. She has business up north, meetings with the real estate group brokering the properties for her.” Theurian looked relieved to have the father-daughter bickering behind him.

“In that case, perhaps you can answer my questions. I believe your wife’s legal name is Karin Hikennen. Is that correct?”

“Yes, she kept her maiden name after our marriage for business reasons.”

“But you call her Mitten?”

“I know that sounds silly, but from the day we met I’ve called her Mitten, and she calls me—”

“She didn’t call you very nice names last night, Dad,” said Lauren, a sullen arrogance evident in the thrust of her chin. She straightened up to her full height, her shoulders back.

“Honeybunch, all couples have disagreements—but they don’t kill each other.”

“A
disagreement
? Is that why she’s been boffing that … that maintenance—whatever the jerk is—out in the ice house. I saw them the afternoon before your party, Dad.” Lauren waited, daring her father to contradict her this time.

So brief was the flash of rage across Dave Theurian’s face that Osborne wasn’t entirely sure he’d seen it. If there was any vestige of emotion after Lauren’s statement, it was only a slight pulsing of a vein along his jaw.

“Lauren, we’ll discuss this later. You are very out of line.”

“Your wife’s properties,” said Lew, warning Lauren with a look that she had said enough. “I assume you’re referring to the strip joints?”

“She inherited several businesses, of which a chain of gentlemen’s clubs happens to be one,” said Theurian. “Part of her grandmother’s estate and, as I just said, she is in the process of selling those off.”

“Is Patrice Kobernot in the business, too?” Osborne couldn’t resist asking.

“No, Karin’s sister asked to be bought out of her share back when the estate was settled.”

“And when was that?”

“I’m not sure,” said Theurian, sounding exasperated. “End of November, maybe? A family squabble I had no interest in. You need to understand one thing: Mitten and I make it a point to have nothing to do with each other’s business interests. That’s how we keep our marriage on an even keel.”

Lauren snorted.

“Most of the time,” said Theurian. “What Lauren heard was a modest misunderstanding.”

“No, it wasn’t, Dad. You were shouting last night. I heard you say she was going to ruin you. Didn’t you say that?”

“Lauren …” The man paused. “In the heat of discussion people often say things they don’t mean. Now, please. Will you accord me some respect as your father and stop airing our personal family matters. This is embarrassing both of us.”

Osborne marveled at how, in spite of his daughter’s accusations, Theurian managed to keep his voice to a soft purr and a light, kind expression in his eyes. Hallmarks of an excellent lawyer, a talented persuader.

Only Lauren wasn’t buying. She edged away from her father, her shoulders rigid, arms folded tight across her chest. Was it the look on his face? Or the oily tone? Had she heard him speak to her mother just that way? Whatever the reason, Lauren’s body language signaled that trust had left the room.

Back in the warehouse, after acknowledging the tissue processing industry was proving to be a tougher market than he had expected, Theurian resisted Gina’s request for a demonstration of how allograft tissue is processed.

“I’m not sure how to operate the microprocessors. I leave that to my lab tech. He’s off today.”

“I understand,” said Gina, “but maybe you could just walk us through. You know, give us a brief rundown on the process.”

“Dave, I’d like to see your operation, too,” said Osborne. “A number of my colleagues in the dental profession are using allograft tissue. Bone powders in the periodontal field in particular. How ‘bout just a brief overview of the processing—nothing too detailed. Something I can bring up at our next meeting, encourage the board to invite you down to speak.”

“Well…” Theurian checked his watch. “I have a conference call at ten with the client I had planned to meet—but I can take a few minutes. You don’t mind if it’s short…”

“Not a problem,” said Osborne.

“Freeze-drying allows a biological product to maintain its original size and shape with a minimum of cell rupture,” said Theurian, explaining as he walked them quickly through the lab area of the warehouse.

“Not only will the products maintain their color and texture but they are shelf-stable for six months to three years if properly stored. Degradation occurs only if the product is exposed to oxygen.

“I explained to your friend, Ray, the other night that I have patents pending on my proprietary freezing equipment, which are those units over there,” he said, pointing to a wall of steel cabinets outfitted with dials and gauges. “In addition, the warehouse contains six cold rooms for product storage and processing at temperatures as low as minus forty degrees Centigrade and twelve drying chambers with over fourteen thousand square feet of freeze- drying capacity.”

“That explains the size of your building,” said Lew.

“This is a major investment that you’re looking at, believe me,” said Theurian. Again he pointed. “On that side of the room are low-temp granulators, screening units for size classification, and mixers for product blending.”

He paused at a door to a small office but made no move to open the door. “That room holds the microprocessor controls that keep each chamber running at peak efficiency. Also in there is our central computer where we collect chamber operating data, store that data on hard disk, and dump it to tape after the cycle completion to provide permanent validation.

“And it is that validation that is critical to the hospitals and other health-care providers that we supply.” He looked at Gina. “All the documentation I showed you earlier? That is generated here.”

“And finally … follow me, folks,” said Theurian as he walked towards a door at the back of the building. “To be sure we maintain control of the product every step of the way, we have two vans specially outfitted for shipping …” He opened the door and stepped into a small garage-like area and looked around. “That’s odd.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Gina.

“Oh, nothing. I guess my lab tech is using one of the vans is all. I forgot about that, I guess.” Theurian looked at the three of them. “If there are no more questions, I need to get on with that call to my client.”

“One last thing,” said Lew. “Going back to our earlier discussion of your wife’s business—what was the name of that gentleman who was here this morning? The chief maintenance engineer?”

“I have no idea. I left the house at six this morning, and my wife was still asleep. And as I said several times, I
have no interest in my wife’s business
. I don’t know who works for her, I don’t know what she makes, I don’t know jackshit about those clubs. And I don’t want to. That’s one reason she’s selling the damn things.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to sound upset but … I am.” He dropped his voice, “I didn’t want to say this in front of my daughter, but Lauren has been sent to boarding school for a reason. She’s getting help for what you might call an active imagination. She’s too sensitive, she imagines things. She always has, but it’s been worse since her mother died. Very sad, really. I mean, would you believe she went through a stage of believing I caused her mother’s death? Can you believe that?”

He looked each of them in the eye, expecting sympathy.

“Hmm,” said Lew. “I can see that being a problem.”

As they left the warehouse, Theurian kicked his way through the snow towards the garage where an overhead door was still open to the stall where he had parked his Hummer. He stopped and looked around, hands on his hips, then turned back towards the house, a puzzled look on his face.

“Something else missing?” asked Lew, walking towards the garage.

“My snowmobiles,” said Theurian. “Lauren must have left them down in Loon Lake when she went riding with her friend Nick.”

“If you mean yesterday,” said Gina, “the kids rented sleds. I happen to know that Ray helped them arrange the rentals.” Osborne walked over to the garage and looked in. He checked the stall to the right where he had seen the sleds two days earlier. It was empty all right.

“But I was sure that Mitten said … oh well, I must be wrong. I’ll be glad when the holidays are over. It’s obvious I’m getting things mixed up.”

But before Theurian hit the switch to close the garage door, he scanned the hooks along the wall in the empty stall. Osborne followed his gaze. Also missing was a neon blue woman’s snowmobile suit with its five hundred dollar matching helmet.