Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder (4 page)

“I was afraid you were going to say that. What’s up?”

 
“The St. Paul PD called me
bright and early this morning. They need our help with the investigation of a
shooting of a twenty-one year-old college student, near the St. Paul campus of
the University. Also found dead at the scene were his male roommate and a young
woman.”

“Why bring us in on a local murder case?”

“It looks like the investigation will spread outside their
jurisdiction. The kid was shot in the head, but survived. We can’t talk to him
yet, but his mother said something about him working on a documentary of some
sort…”

Her heart pounded as she recalled her earlier conversations with
John about his patient. “Wait. Are you talking about Detective Mike Frisco’s
case? John was the surgeon and ran into Frisco. So, they are serious about
investigating the fracking angle?”

Jo heard Tom’s gasp of surprise. “You already heard about that,
huh?”

“Frisco mentioned it to John. This could take us into other parts
of Minnesota and North Dakota, correct?”

“You got it. Right now, the documentary is just one of the angles
they are looking at, but it’s the strongest so far. They want the Bureau
involved now, before it spills into a broader geographical area. Of course, I
thought of you, since you and Frisco have worked so well together in the past.
He’s at the crime scene now.”

Jotting down the address Tom rattled off, Jo remembered John’s
earlier teasing that she envied Frisco’s involvement in the case.
That’ll teach me to watch what I wish for.

She glanced at the closed door of her bedroom and thought about
John sleeping on the other side. Feeling exhausted and wishing she was still
dozing next to him, Jo blew out a puff of

air. “I’m on
my way.”

Chapter Seven

Downtown
Minneapolis/Turners Bend

September

C
HIP RETRIEVED HIS CAR
from the body
shop where his window had been replaced. He knew he should head straight home,
but he had two stops he wanted to make, first back to the bookstore to check on
Gary and Pat and to see if they had any news about Finnegan’s murder. Then he
wanted to visit Maureen, Finnegan’s widow, to offer his condolences and help.

He
parked in one of ONCE UPON A CRIME’s three parking spots in the alley. He
elbowed his way through the crowd of people standing on the steps outside the
doorway, much to the irritation of those in the line that snaked down the
sidewalk.

Gary
was behind the check-out counter ringing up sales with a harried look on his
face. Chip gave him a wave and mouthed “Pat?” Gary nodded to the back of the
store.

Chip
found Pat in the back hall storeroom, unpacking a case of books. “Holy
mackerel, Pat. What’s going on?”

She
jumped and emitted a little yelp. “Sorry, Chip, guess I’m a little edgy. It’s
one thing to have a store full of books about murder and an entirely different
thing to find a dead body in your store. Being back in business has me freaked.
It didn’t take forensics long to finish, and they said we could re-open the
store. I don’t think they found any prints or clues.”

She
loaded a stack of books into her arms. “To your question, it seems we are a hot
tourist site today. Lots of crime scene gawkers, but at least most of them have
the decency to buy a book. We’ve almost sold all of Finnegan’s books we stocked
for the signing and lots of your books, too.”

She
shook her head and blew out a puff of breath. “Just seems wrong to be profiting
from Finnegan’s murder. We’re donating the proceeds from his books to a fund
for his family. Gary and I want to see his murder solved.”

Pat
took a close look at Chip. “What in the heck happened to you?”

“Just
a minor mishap. I’m fine.”

Chip
worked his way to the back of the store and stood near the area where the
writer’s body had lain. Pat had placed a draped table stacked with Finnegan’s
books over the spot, but it couldn’t erase the scene from Chip’s memory. It
gave him goose bumps. He bid the owners farewell, promising to return for a
signing before the end of the year and walked back to his car, stopping to
check for anything or anyone suspicious, reminding himself to be vigilant

He
headed to Prospect Park and the address on Sharon Avenue he had found in the
phone directory in his hotel room. He crossed the Mississippi and caught a
glimpse of the new 35W bridge that had replaced the one that collapsed and
killed thirteen people in 2007, then passed the University of Minnesota campus.

As
he approached Prospect Park he saw a strange looking water tower with a top
that looked like a witch’s hat, the landmark he was looking for. He exited the
freeway and wound his way through the residential area stopping in front of a
classic 1920s bungalow, a story-and-a-half stucco house with a dark green
canvas awning over the front window. There was a toddler’s riding toy on the
front walk. He double checked to make sure it was the Finnegan’s address.

He
had not met Finnegan’s wife, but Patrick had frequently talked about his
family. Seeing the bright yellow tricycle, it struck Chip that two little
children would be without the father who adored them. He took a deep breath to
steel himself for the visit, sighed and got out of the car.

***

Maureen
Finnegan was an attractive thirty-something with short black hair and fair
skin. She sat on a leather sofa, propped up by her parents on either side. Her
eyes were puffy and blood-shot, and she clutched a soggy tissue.

Chip
greeted them and Maureen’s father introduced himself as David Edwards and his
wife as Diane; they all shook hands. “What happened to you?” asked David
Edwards. Chip again explained. His face felt hot and swollen, worse than the
previous day. I must really look ghastly, he thought.

“The
kids are at my sister’s, Chip; they’re too young to understand what’s going on,
Sean is three and Abby is ten months,” said Maureen. “As soon as Patrick’s
parents arrive from Boston, we have to go to the morgue and the funeral home.”
Tears welled up in her eyes and her father put his arm around her; she leaned
her head against his shoulder.

“I’m
sorry for your loss, Maureen. This is an unimaginable tragedy. Patrick was a wonderful
writer and I valued his friendship. I’ll miss him greatly.”

She
broke down in soul-wrenching sobs. Crying women always got to Chip. Maureen’s
sobs were on a whole new level for him. They were beyond heart-breaking; they
were devastating. He was frozen, unable to decide what he could do or say to
comfort her.

After
her crying subsiding, she said, “My husband was looking forward to the signing
with you, Chip. He admired your work.”

“It
was mutual. I was impressed with how much research he did and how he could
create so much suspense in his stories.” Chip took a business card from his
wallet and gave it to her. “Please let me know if I can ever be of help.”

“Chip,
Patrick seemed very agitated about his new book. He said he was on the trail of
something disturbing, but I don’t know exactly what it was. He told me he was
going to discuss it with you after your signing.”

“Did
you mention that to the homicide detective?”

Maureen
shook her head. “I just realized it could be important.”

“It
might be. Do you know of anyone who would want to harm Patrick? Anyone who had
a grudge against him?”

“No,
I can’t imagine who would do this to him. He was a good husband, a great
father. All he wanted was to be an author, and his books were doing so well.”

“When
did you last see him?”

“On
Saturday morning. He left with his laptop to go to the Loft Literary Center in
downtown Minneapolis. During the week I work and he stays at home with the
kids. On weekends I take over with the kids, and he rents a little writer’s
room at the Loft. Saturday he left at about 10:30 a.m., just like always.
Sometimes when he was in what he called a zone, he’d write all day and far into
the night. I didn’t worry until I woke yesterday morning and realized he hadn’t
come home. I called the Loft, but it wasn’t open. I called his brother and a
few friends to ask if he was there. When I couldn’t locate him, I called the
police and Father Mike, our parish priest over at St. Francis of Cabrini.”

Chip
politely refused an offer of coffee from Maureen’s mother and after again
expressing his offer of help, departed and left for home with a deep yearning
to be with his new family. He also made a mental note to call his own parents
to check on their welfare and tell them he loved them.

***

Chip
headed back to Turners Bend with mixed feelings. He wanted to stay and try to
find out what Finnegan was on to, what he was about to share with him. But, he
wanted to go home, too. He was concerned about his own safety but was having a
hard time believing he was in any real danger, that he could possibly suffer
the same fate as Patrick Finnegan. Still he was feeling vulnerable and kept
looking in his rearview mirror checking for the black Escalade from the parking
ramp. He didn’t see one, but somehow that failed to calm his nerves.

Just
after he spotted the
Welcome to Iowa
sign he looked ahead at what appeared to be miles of orange cones. In the time
he had been in Minneapolis the cones had been moved from the northbound lanes
to the southbound lanes, again with no apparent road work in progress. Single
lane traffic stretched ahead for as far as he could see.

“Call
Jane,” he commanded his car phone.

“Hi,
sweetie, where are you?” answered Jane.

“In
road construction hell.”

“How
are you holding up?”

“I
visited Maureen Finnegan and it was tough. What are you doing?”

“I’m
on my way out to the Schmitt farm to put Radio Frequency ID chips in his herd.
Poor Tom, he thinks cattle rustlers have snatched two steer. He’s got Chief
Frederickson on the case. Never a dull moment in Turners Bend.”

“You
mean like Old West cattle rustlers? In Iowa? In the 21
^st
century?”

“Yes,
it does happen. Unbranded cattle are taken across the border into southern
Minnesota and sold at sales barns. It’s happening more with the bad economy.
The RFID chips will help Tom track his cattle. It’s similar to the chips we
have in our pets. Sorry, I’ve got to run. Love you.”

“Play
Josh Groban.” Chip hoped that hearing the tenor sing Italian love ballads would
ease his mind, which it did for a few miles, until his thoughts returned again
to Finnegan’s murder.
What did he
uncover? What, if anything, did Margaret Murphy have to do with it?

He
checked his rear-view mirror.
That poor
chap in the red Chevy Suburban has been stuck behind me for miles. Avis rental
car sticker on the bumper. Must be someone on vacation or business who is not
going to get wherever he’s going any faster than I am.

***

“Oh
my God, Chip, you look like someone went at you with a weed whacker,” said Jane
gently touching the side of his nicked and bandaged face. “You can’t go out
meeting your reading public looking like that. Plus someone shot at you. What
are you going to do?”

“Franco,
the homicide detective, said drive-by shootings are often gang initiations.
It’s made me a little nervous, but I think I’ll feel safe now that I’m home.
Try not to worry too much. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s
a wife’s job to worry. What, if for some reason, you were the intended target,
not just a random victim? First Patrick and now this. I’m glad you’re finally
home. You’ll be safer here than in Minneapolis.”

Jane
kissed him lightly on his nose, made him tomato basil soup and sent him to
bed…alone. When he awoke, he discovered he had slept through the night and Jane
had joined him at some point with her back to him. He reached his arm over and
pulled her toward him, spooning her. He kissed her neck, catching a whiff of
the citrus-scented shampoo she used.

***

Later
the two were in their kitchen, Jane scrambling eggs for their breakfast. “What
are you going to do about your tour? I think you should cancel the engagements
for a while. Didn’t you say the homicide detective told you to lay low and be
careful? It’s just not safe for you to be out in public, plus you look a fright
right now. Lucinda won’t fuss; she has other things on her mind.”

Chip
poured himself a glass of orange juice. “Lucinda. I almost forgot about her. I
can’t believe she hasn’t been hounding me. What does she have on her mind,
other than my next book contract?”

“Babies.
After a year of trying her biological clock is taking over like a ticking
bomb.”

Chip
guffawed and spit out the coffee he had just sipped. “Lucinda with a baby?
Really? I can’t picture it.”

“That’s
unkind, Chip. Many women, who you wouldn’t expect, have strong maternal
desires. I do admit, however, it’s kind of difficult to imagine Lucinda
changing diapers.”

Jane
served his eggs and toast and poured coffee in her thermal mug. “Baby pigs are
calling me. I better run off to Hoffman’s farm. Try to rest today, dear.”

He
looked around the kitchen with its one red wall. It was the most-used room in
Jane’s house where he now lived with her and Ingrid. On the counter were the
proofs from Ingrid’s senior pictures. He had heard Jane and Ingrid discussing
the pros and cons of each as they tried to select a head shot for the yearbook.

Shuffling
through the poses he mentally attached a label to each…sullen, worried,
intense, sad, distant, hurt. Ingrid was going through a tough period and was
still dealing with the aftermath of several traumas, the worst being a
kidnapping. Her expressions conveyed her pain.

The
photographer must have had a hard time getting a genuine smile out of her, he
thought. That is until he came to shots of her with Sugar, her prized
Appaloosa. Ingrid’s face had a peaceful glow in those photos. One of them would
get his vote if he were asked.

It
came to him in a flash, the long-elusive title for his newest

novel…
Head Shot
.