Dead Rapunzel (11 page)

“As part of our investigation I would like to interview you late this afternoon or tomorrow morning—we have to complete our search of the property first,” said Lew.

“Can't do it,” said Tim. “The reason I'm here is I'm booked on a flight to Bonaire early tomorrow morning—a flight out of Minneapolis. I'm leaving here to drive to the cities shortly. Sorry.”

“Well,” said Lew, choosing her words with care. “We'll have to work something out because you cannot leave until I say so.”

“And why on earth would that be?” said Tim with a bewildered expression on his face. “You can't possibly suspect
me
of pushing that woman in front of the truck.”

Osborne did not miss the tone in which he said “that woman.” It would not be necessary to ask Tim how he felt about his stepmother.

“I didn't say that,” said Lew. “But one or more of her family members—and I'm including Judith Fordham in this group, too—may have important information that can help us find the person or persons behind her death. Information you may not be aware that you have.”

“What a time waste,” said Tim, nose sniffing at the air again. “This is the silliest thing I've heard of.”

“Rudd wasn't
pushed
,” said Sloane from across the room, her voice loud and grating. “She slipped on the ice and fell. You know damn well that driver is just trying to cover his ass. You are forcing us into the most absurd—”

Tim turned toward his sister. “Sloane, shut up.” Anger flashed across Sloane's face, but she stayed silent, eyes smoldering.

“Mr. Tomlinson,” said Lew, her pen poised over the notebook, “tell me what you do, please. What kind of work? And is your full name Tim or Timothy?”

“Tim. Just Tim.” Crossing his arms and rocking back and forth on the soles of his feet, he said in a tone implying terminal boredom: “I do three things for which I do not get paid . . . yet.”

He proceeded to speak in a tone so deliberate that he implied his audience was too stupid to understand him otherwise: “Thanks to the modest inheritance I received after my mother's death, I am able to work independently as an artist. I am also an expert scuba diver and an amateur geologist, which is why I winter in Bonaire. I do abstract acrylic paintings of the sea creatures that live in the water down there. My work is very, oh, David Hockney-ish, if you must. But I doubt you know who I am talking about.”

“You're right about that,” said Lew lightly. She gave a brisk smile as she said, “Now, Mr. Tomlinson, since neither you nor either of your sisters will be able to leave Loon Lake until I've completed my interrogations of each of you, I suggest you change your flight.”

“
Interrogations
? You make it sound like we're criminals,” said Tim with a condescending smile. Lew ignored the comment.

“What about Greg? Don't you need to talk to him?” asked Kenzie, walking in from the kitchen with a tray holding a coffee carafe, cups, saucers, and a plate of donuts. As uncomfortable as Osborne felt in the current company, the donuts looked appetizing. She tipped her head back toward the kitchen where two men had just appeared in the doorway.

“Greg,” said Kenzie as she lowered the tray onto the coffee table, “I want you to come meet Chief Ferris.”

Greg Steidl was a younger, healthier version of his father, who remained in the doorway chewing on a toothpick. He appeared hesitant to join the group. Vern Steidl was a tall, wide-shouldered man whose broad chest and narrow hips were emphasized by the white button-down shirt tucked into the belt at his waistline. In his black leather jacket and crisply pressed Levi's, Vern held himself with the self-important air of a man convinced he was attractive to women—but his was a physique that Osborne had learned to associate with the risk of an early heart attack.

His son, on the other hand, was just as tall but as slim as a marathon runner. While the older man's features, bulbous under a shock of white hair combed forward and emphasized by a trim white beard and wire-rimmed glasses, testified to a taste for red meat and hard liquor, the son could not have been more clean-cut. He wore his dark brown hair in a sedate crew cut and only a slight crook of his nose, identical to Vern's, hinted of his parentage.

“Pleased to meet you, Chief Ferris,” said Greg, shaking Lew's hand. “I really hope I can help with your investigation. Rudd was a kind, generous woman, always good to Kenzie and me. We were shocked when we heard the news.” As he spoke, he slipped his arm around his wife's waist. Osborne was struck by how young the two of them seemed.

“I appreciate that,” said Lew. Turning toward the man standing in the doorway, she said, “And you must be Vern, Greg's father.” Flipping to a new page in her notebook, pen in hand, she walked over to Vern. “Address, please? Phone numbers?”

She jotted his answers down, then looked up at Vern. She was about to speak when he said, “Cut the crap, Ferris. You've got all the information on me you need. One of your officers with nothing better to do cited me for driving without a seat belt just last month.” Vern shook his head. “Worse than a game warden, that idiot.”

Osborne smiled to himself. Vern might pride himself on his male superiority around women, but he had just picked on the wrong one. The man's idiocy knew no bounds.

“That's not why I'm here this morning,” said Lew, her voice stern. “If you have a problem with anyone in my department, Vern, I suggest you share it with the mayor. But before you do, I suggest you keep in mind that seat belt violations are against the law. I do recall your citation and I also recall that Officer Adamczak's citation was a warning with no fine attached. You have a problem with that?”

Anger flashed in Vern's eyes before he said in a restrained voice, “Okay, yes, Greg is my son. I run Steidl Builders and Greg is my CFO—he handles the purchasing and billing for our construction projects. We build commercial—”

Before he could say another word, Kenzie piped up: “Yeah, but before that Vern was the caretaker for my dad—all the buildings, the docks, and boats. Mom's place, too. That's how Greg and I met. We used to play together in the big house while Vern was working. We were five years old then—and today is our third wedding anniversary.” She beamed.

That explains why Kenzie is so happy and outgoing, thought Osborne. He had been wondering, given the grim reason for the family meeting, why she, of the three Tomlinson siblings, was so upbeat.

“Honey, that's not why they're here,” said Greg, squeezing her waist. “Sorry,” he looked at Lew, “my wife's been a little carried away today . . . ”

“Kenzie,” said Vern, his voice thundering across the room. “Have you forgotten your meds again?”

“N-o-o.” Kenzie sounded flustered. She threw a worried look at her husband. “Why? I feel fine.”

“Dad,” said Greg, “Dr. O'Hearne has her tapering off—oh, sweetie. Don't cry.” Greg reached over to hug Kenzie around the shoulders. He glared at his father. “Mind your own business for once, will you?”

Vern shrugged off his son's dismay. Osborne saw him wink in Tim's direction.

“Now, now,” said Judith, jumping up from where she had been sitting, in the corner with Mallory. “Let's get on with our plans for a memorial for Rudd.

“And, by the way, Greg and Vern—I'd like you two to meet Mallory Osborne. Rudd and I hired her to be the marketing director for the Tomlinson Museum, so she will be my right-hand person and she'll be able to answer any questions you may have in the future.”

“I remember you from high school,” said Greg, walking over to shake Mallory's hand.

“Osborne? You related to the old man here?” asked Vern, leaving the doorway to take a nearby chair.

“Yes, I'm Dr. Osborne's daughter—”

“Doc Osborne's your old man, huh. Say, Doc, still got that wild hair up your ass against bear hunters? And what the hell brings
you
out this way anyhoo? No one here needs a traveling dentist that I can see.” Vern chortled at his own joke.

“Vern, I'm afraid you've been out of the loop. I retired from my practice over two years ago.” Osborne kept his voice even while wondering where this conversation was going. It was becoming clear that Vern had been drinking.

“Dr. Osborne is an expert in dental forensics,” said Lew, interrupting the conversation, “and he has been deputized on several occasions to help out the Loon Lake Police when we've needed expertise in homicide investigations. The Wausau Crime Lab can't afford a full-time odontologist, and dental records are still the best way to identify dead bodies. Plus, as you may know, our coroner has had some, um . . . health issues, so Dr. Osborne takes over when necessary.”

“Good, that's cleared up,” said Judith with a withering look at Vern. “If no one else has a question for Dr. Osborne or Chief Ferris, I would like to share with everyone my idea for a memorial gathering. I think we should tie it into an announcement about the founding of the Tomlinson Museum—”

“Whoa, Nellie,” said Vern. “Doesn't all that money and land that Rudd inherited from Philip go back to his family now?” Vern glanced around the room, which was silent.

“I mean, doesn't it? You know, years ago, right after Caroline's death, Philip and I had a handshake deal that I could buy a couple lots from him, over in the field, and it's pissed me off ever since that he forgot about our deal. I planned to use those acres for deer hunting and I'd sure as hell like someone to follow through on that.”

“As executor of my friend's estate, I'll be happy to check into that, Vern. I assume you have some paperwork? But let me finish, okay?”

Meanwhile, Lew had returned to her seat on the sofa and held out her notebook so Osborne could see a short note she had written: “Unless they make us leave, I want to stay right here.”

Osborne gave a slight nod. He couldn't agree more.

“What I want to discuss with all of you,” said Judith, her voice calm, “is that, yes, Rudd named me executor of her estate, but she also established a trust that specifies how her assets will be used and the land is part of that.” She glanced at Vern as she spoke.

“Twenty million dollars will go to building the museum in the big field next to her home. The architectural plans were completed last month. Forty million will go toward the purchase of the art—paintings, drawings, and studies by two female artists whom she and Philip chose before his death: Georgia O'Keeffe and Helen Frankenthaler.

“What about the Monet, the Corot, and all the other art that she and my dad owned? Those are worth millions,” said Tim. “Can we have those?”

“If you mean the Corot that Sloane tried to take, the answer is no. Rudd was in the process of selling those, with the money used to establish an endowment to pay operating costs for the museum over the coming years.”

“I was worried that someone would try to steal it,” said Sloane, defending herself. “I mean, with no one in the house, those paintings are not safe. They are too valuable.”

“They're reproductions,” said Judith in a blunt tone. “Right after Philip's death, Rudd had the Monet, the Corot, and several more of the most valuable paintings copied. They look like the real thing, but they aren't.”

“Why would she do that?” asked Sloane, visibly upset.

“Living alone this far out in the country, she told me she felt vulnerable. Twice she found evidence that someone had tried to enter the house when she wasn't home. At the time, the security system worked, but she knew that it wasn't infallible, so she decided to take the precaution of having replicas made and storing the original artworks in a facility over in the cities that specializes in storage for fine art and antiques.”

“Do we know where that is?” asked Tim.

“I do and no one else, with the exception of one of her lawyers. Now here's something no one here knows. Two months ago, Rudd learned that her cancer had recurred—aggressively. The doctors gave her less than six months. So she made the decision to return the money not needed for the museum to Philip's adult children and their heirs—all of you here this morning. As executor of her will, I am to oversee that.”

“And how much are we talking about?” asked Tim. Osborne marveled at how Tim could ask a reasonable question but make it sound like a putdown of his stepmother and her friend.

Judith looked around the room as she said, “Approximately fifty to sixty million dollars.” She paused. “The good news for all of you is that her lawyers have drawn up the paperwork for that to happen. The bad news is she died before she could sign those papers.”

“Oh, my God,” said Sloane. No one else said a word. Osborne saw Vern toss his toothpick onto the floor as he mouthed an epithet.

“I have every reason to believe that I can sign those papers on her behalf,” said Judith. “But I am not signing anything until we know who pushed Rudd in front of that logging truck.”

“And if you don't sign, what happens?” asked Tim.

“The entire trust—investments and land assets—goes to the museum under the original plan. The family won't get a dime.”

“Wow,” said Kenzie, “how do we make that happen—find out who pushed Rudd, I mean?”

“Hey,” said Vern from across the room, “leave it to rocket scientist Kenzie to ask the big question. How the hell do you think they find out, dumbyak? They
investigate.
Chief Ferris, here,
investigates
. Her team is great on seat belts—let's sit tight and see what she can do with an obvious accident. Let's see how much time can be wasted on an
investigation
.” Vern threw his arms into the air as he said, “We all know Sloane is right: This entire brouhaha is all about a truck driver covering his ass. That's it, plain and simple.” With an authoritative thrust of his chin, Vern stood with his feet apart and arms crossed, challenging anyone to contradict him.