Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder (6 page)

Frisco glanced at Jo. His look said, “Now we’re getting
somewhere.” He turned to Mazlo. “What makes you say that?”

The professor leapt up from his desk chair and began to pace, his
arms flailing about. “They threatened to sue Rick, me, the U…anyone they could
think of. Got a couple of injunctions to bring filming to a standstill. Of
course, they couldn’t stop people from talking. But they just kept coming after
us.” He tugged on his earlobe. “Shit.”

Frisco raised his eyebrow. “Professor, we’ll need a list of the
individuals and/or companies involved.”

“I can do you one better.” He walked back to his desk and pulled
out a sheaf of papers. “Here, you’re welcome to it all. It’s a copy of the
legal filings. Rick was scared out of his wits when he saw his name at the top
of the filing. I can’t say as I blame him, but my lawyer has been helping us
out with the legalities.”

Jo read the name of the company at the top of the document. It
read, “Wellborne Industries”. After flipping through a few sheets, she came
across the management team, with the CEO’s name in bold lettering, “Jonathon
Wellborne”.

Jo flipped through more of the document before setting it back on
the desktop. “Seems like a big fuss for a little documentary project.”

Mazlo smirked. “Yeah, well, they’ve had many people questioning
their tactics. From what I heard, they’ve sent these filings out - like
scattershot - to anyone who got a little too nosey.” The smile abruptly
disappeared from his face, as if he suddenly remembered why Jo and Frisco were
here to see him.

He lowered his head. “I swear, I never thought they’d physically
harm anyone.”

Jo patted his shoulder. “We still don’t know who did this and
why.” She changed the subject when he gave a brief nod. “You wouldn’t happen to
have a copy of his documentary, do you? It might shed some light on whatever
he’d discovered so far. It appears anything he might have had at the apartment
was either destroyed or it disappeared.”

“No. Rick was pretty cagey about his research. He didn’t want me
to see it until he was ready with the final product.”

Frisco said, “Was he working with anyone else on this project?
Another student, maybe?”

The professor frowned. “I’m not quite sure. Rick didn’t mention
anyone else to me.” He shrugged “Could be wrong, though.”

Jo and Frisco rose to leave. Jo grabbed the stack of injunction
documents the professor had left on the desk for her. Out of the corner of her
eye, she noticed a flyer, with the picture of a fresh-faced, attractive young
woman on it.

Curious, she tilted her head and began to read the flyer. It was
an announcement for a vigil for a student who had recently disappeared from the
University of Minnesota’s Minneapolis campus. Jo remembered reading about the
case in the local papers.

Mazlo pointed to the flyer. “Shame about Claire. Wandered away
from a party one night and never returned to her dorm room.” He shook his head.
“I can’t imagine what those parents are going through. She was a smart,
beautiful young woman.”

Frisco said, “So you knew her?”

“Yes, she was in my intro to marketing class last fall.” He
pointed to the flyer. “I plan on going to the vigil tonight; it’s the least I
can do. I sure hope they find her.”

Jo felt a stab of pity for the man. He obviously cared about his
pupils. Jo said, “So sorry to bring you more bad news about another one of your
students.”

“Thank you, Agent Schwann. I appreciate that.”

Jo turned to Frisco. “Do you have any more questions for the professor?”

The detective said, “Nope, guess that’s it for now.” Jo packed up
the copy of the injunction and Michael Mazlo escorted them to the front door.

Glancing around the spacious foyer, Jo remembered a final question
on her mind. “You have a beautiful home, Professor Mazlo. What do you do for a
living?”

Mazlo’s smile was self-deprecating. ”Is that your polite way of
asking how an adjunct professor can afford a house like this?”

Jo smiled. “The thought
had
crossed my mind.”

“I’m in the import/export business, mostly native art.”

He paused, and tilted his head, studying Jo for a moment. “You’re
wondering why a successful business person would bother teaching classes. Well,
at the risk of sounding pompous, I’ve been very fortunate in my career.
However, I had help along the way. Teaching business classes to young people is
my way of giving back. It brings me immense satisfaction and I like to think it
keeps me young in the process.”

Satisfied, Jo handed Mazlo one of her business cards. “Call me if
you think of anything else.”

The adjunct professor stared down at the card for a moment. “Will
they let me see Rick? At the hospital, I mean.”

Jo said, “That’s not up to us, but I’m sure you could talk to Mr.
Wilson’s mother about it.”

His eyes were closed when he said, “It was just supposed to be a
college credit project, for God’s sake.”

 
Frisco said, “Yeah, well, it looks like someone took it a little
more seriously.”

Chapter Nine

Turners Bend

Late September

C
HIP READ OVER THE CHAPTER
of
Head Shot
he had written the previous
day. He was pleased. He opened a new file for the next chapter, placed his
fingers on the keyboard and…nothing. He stared at the blank screen. Writer’s
block, the frustrating but common ailment suffered by most writers at some
time. He got up and fixed himself a piece of toast with crunchy peanut butter
and blueberry jam, fresh from his friend Mabel’s kitchen. Still nothing.

The
house was empty and so quiet he could hear the clicking of the wall clock and
the humming of the refrigerator. Not a damn word was coming to him. Callie, his
calico, jumped onto his lap and proceeded to curl up on the keyboard. It was
Chip’s cue to quit for the day.

It
was a one of those lovely, late September mornings with bright sunshine, a
China blue sky and a light breeze. Just like the day he had written about in
his last chapter. The leaves on the maples were just starting to turn orange.
The apple tree was laden with ripe fruit, so heavy the branches almost reached
the ground. Chip grabbed a grocery bag and went to the side yard to Jane’s
Wealthy apple tree. He plucked an apple, rubbed it on his shirt and took a
bite; a little juice ran down his chin. He filled the bag half full with bright
red apples and folded down the top.

The
apples were perfect for desserts and would make a nice gift for Bernice, the
waitress at the Cinnamon Bun Café, who was on a kick of experimenting with new
bakery delights. He grabbed the keys to his Ford from the house and headed for
the driveway. Runt, his golden retriever mix, beat him to the car, sat by the
door wagging his tail and barking. Chip sent him back to the yard, the dog’s
tail drooping. His animals had ruined his previous vehicle and he was
determined to keep this new one pristine. That was until he watched Runt’s
dejection, called him back and opened the back door. Runt raced across the yard
and took a flying leap into the back seat. Nothing like a happy dog, Chip said
to himself.

***

In
the two years Chip that had been a resident of Turners Bend, the main street of
town had begun to come back to life.
Out
of Business
signs were slowly being replaced with
Open for Business
signs. It had started with last year’s renovation
of the Bijou Theater. Since then, and much to Chip’s pleasure, a tiny new and
used book store opened. It was run by the same owner as The Book Shoppe in
Boone. The Cinnamon Bun Café continued to thrive and was Chip’s favorite place
for home cooked food served with a dollop of town gossip.

“Lord,”
said Bernice, as she looked up when the café’s door chimes jingled. “You look
like you tangled with a hay baler.”

“Hi
Bernice. Just a little mishap up in Minneapolis. I brought you some apples.
Figured you could make a pie or two.” He handed the grocery bag over the
counter and sat on one of the red Naugahyde-covered stools.

“Thanks
Chip. I’ve got a new donut for you to try. A Maple Bacon Bismarck.” She entered
the kitchen and returned with a huge donut loaded with maple frosting and
topped with two strips of crisp bacon.

Chip
took a bite, then another. “Bernice, I thought your cinnamon and caramel rolls
couldn’t be beat, but this is nirvana.”

“I
don’t know what nirvana is, but I can tell you these little porkers have been
selling like hot cakes. I’m getting ideas for new treats from the folks at the
Dutch Oven Bakery over in Boone.”

Chip
turned as he heard the door open and Turners Bend’s police chief, Walter
Fredrickson, sauntered in and looked around. The chief spotted Chip and sat
down at the counter next to him. He looked at Chip’s donut and said, “Bernice,
give me one of those things and a cup of coffee, please.”

He
turned to Chip. “Well, I hear you had an eventful trip to the Twin Cities. I
got a call from some detective named Franco. He spun me quite a tale and asked
me to keep an eye on you. Seemed like a decent guy.”

“Yes,
he is. He reminds me a lot of one of my characters, Mike Frisco. Patrick
Finnegan’s murder is a puzzler, but I’m confident Franco will find the perp.”

“You
think someone’s gunning for you, too?” said Fredrickson as he pulled the bacon
off his Bismarck and munched on it.

“Nah,
I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” answered Chip. That’s the
story I’m sticking with for now, Chip said to himself, wanting to believe it
was truly the case.

“I
don’t know about that. I think there’s more to it than a drive-by shooting.”
The chief unsnapped his shirt pocket, removed a folded piece of paper and
opened it. He showed it to Chip. “This is a printout from a security camera at
the National Car Rental counter at the airport in Minneapolis. He’s the dude
who returned a black Escalade, about 45 minutes after your parking ramp
encounter. I just got it from Franco. Name on the rental was Gomez. He used an
international driver’s license. You know him?”

Chip
looked at the grainy photo of a man with a mustache wearing a baseball cap and
wrap-around sunglasses. “Doesn’t look familiar to me. Guess I don’t have to
keep an eye out for an Escalade anymore; do I?”

“Nonetheless
Chip, be cautious and call me if you notice anything unusual. I’ll send out an
APB to local law enforcement and the Iowa State Patrol.”

The
chief returned the printout to his pocket. “Right now I’ve got a couple of cows
missing…that’s about as much excitement as I want in this town. Or ever again,
to be honest.”

Being
vigilant in Turners Bend seemed unnecessary to Chip. He knew almost everyone
and a stranger in town would stick out like a corn stalk in a melon patch. He
lulled himself into a cocoon of small-community safety topped with a generous
portion of denial that anyone could really be gunning for him.

***

Runt
was asleep on the sidewalk outside the café where Chip had tied him to a lamp
post. Chip thought Runt might enjoy a swim in Beaver Creek. And, maybe some
time musing by the water would alleviate the nagging itch in his own head…the
one that wondered if he truly was in some kind of danger.

The
dog woke, jumped into the car and stuck his head out the opened window.

When
Chip hit a long stretch of two-lane highway with no one ahead of him, he said,
“Let’s open this baby up, Runt, and see what she’ll do.” He increased his
speed, watching the digital readout rise past eighty miles per hour. He looked
off in the distance at an approaching semi-truck. When the semi was close
enough that he could hear the roar of it’s diesel engine, he slowed and edged
over to the right to give it plenty of room. He hated the feeling of being
sucked toward a semi as it passed.

He
saw a flash of color on his right. He glanced over to the shoulder and saw a
red Suburban alongside his car. He hadn’t been paying attention to his rearview
mirrors and hadn’t noticed the vehicle behind him. It rammed into him; he
fought to gain control of the car and reduce his speed further.

The
large SUV rammed him again, this time the force sent him across the road and
into the path of the oncoming semi. He tromped down on the accelerator and
cleared the semi by just feet, the blast of the truck’s horn reverberating
through his head, adrenaline pumping through his body. Struggling with the
wheel and unable to stop his vehicle, he flew through a guardrail and into a
ditch, missing a utility pole by inches.

He
was shaken and dazed; his heart was racing but his seatbelt kept him in place
and the airbag exploded. The front of his car was caved in and smoke was rising
from under the hood.

He
turned to check on Runt, feeling a searing pain in his neck. He cried out in
anguish, “Runt.” The dog turned his head toward Chip and whimpered. Chip heard
the semi’s airbrakes bring the truck to a stop and a man’s voice yelling. His
vision dimmed, then darkness.

***

Two
days after the highway accident Chip sat in the kitchen. He did not want to
think about the crash or about Jane at the animal hospital in Ames where she
was still attempting to mend Runt’s broken body. He did not want to think about
the driver of the red SUV who sped off or about his own foolishness at refusing
to face reality.

That was no accident; someone wants
to harm me, someone wants me dead. It must have been the same Suburban that
followed me down 35W. Is it the mysterious Gomez
, and if so, why
is he after me?