Still Life: The Randi Lassiter Series, Book 1 (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Ben Wachowski stood in front of the mirror attached to the back of his closet door and nodded approval as he turned sideways to examine his profile, then tried to suck in his gut. Maybe he should lay off the donuts?

“Or maybe I’ll just start working out when I solve this.” He patted the protrusion and hiked the waist of his pants up. They slid back down as soon as the big man exhaled.

He’d spent the better part of last Saturday digging into the back of his closet for a pair of black jeans he knew existed. Although they were from two decades ago and a bit wrinkled he thought they made him look taller and thinner. He had taken the trouble to iron his royal-blue shirt—the one he’d worn to his cousin’s wedding five years ago. It was the type of clothing he would be able to purchase more of when he finally got that promotion. He looked like a plainclothes detective all right. He looked like his uncle. The man would be proud.

“Have to look the part when I make the arrest.” He said to himself as he ran a hand across the scruffy stubble on his chin, picturing himself as Russell Crowe in a day-old beard instead of the aged Gary Busey he actually resembled. He tried on a pair of aviator sunglasses then frowned, taking them off.

“Too bad this shit is going down at night.” He was disappointed at having to leave them behind but found a reason to smile as he imagined the looks on his coworkers when he hauled the murderer into the station. They’d have to give him that job then—hell, they’d probably throw him a party.

Ben struggled to put on a cheaply made shoulder holster he’d purchased on eBay. The leather was thick with sharp edges that bit into his skin. He couldn’t imagine wearing it for any length of time, but it wouldn’t be a problem for one night. Maybe he’d get the expensive professional version in the official law enforcement catalog after his raise—a celebratory gift. He’d considered breaking it in over the last couple of days, but he hadn’t tried it on with his suit jacket over top, and realized too late that it didn’t fit without looking awkward—the outline of the gun and holster were clearly visible when he had it on.

At the last minute he went down to the Goodwill and bought a larger blazer. The gray fabric was nice, and the sleeves were long but it worked. It smelled like old man and mothballs, but it would have to do.

Once fully outfitted Ben went into the kitchen to take stock of his supplies. He made certain his Beretta had a full load and pocketed a backup magazine. “Just let the little shit try and get away.” Ben laughed as he struggled to get the gun to stay in the holster. Finally getting it snapped in, he strutted around the house to get the feel of his outfit.

For three and a half weeks, Ben had been monitoring his neighbor and was convinced the little creep was the one that killed that woman Larissa. Right in the same goddamn building as him. The guy drove a black truck like the one on the videos. Ben didn’t care that Bricksen thought the truck belonged to some druggie over in Racine and that a black truck had nothing to do with the murder. Ben believed this one was it. His gut said so, and a detective trusted his gut.

Besides, the guy next door was just plain weird. He was constantly getting packages from PC supply companies, and kept to himself like some Unabomber type. The whole time he lived there he hadn’t spoken a single word to Ben until the day after the murder, when he’d passed him in the parking lot and asked if they knew who’d done it. That was enough to put him at the top of Ben’s suspect list. Perps always wanted to know how close the cops were to the truth.

“Son of a bitch isn’t going to know what hit him.” And with that declaration Ben walked out of his apartment, humming the soundtrack to Hawaii Five-O.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Magical was the word that popped into Randi’s head as they reached the long lighted driveway into Walnut Ridge and the glamorously lit grounds that unfolded before her. She glanced over at Detective Bricksen—Jon, who was, to her distress, still looking drop dead gorgeous. She groaned inwardly. The clear country night was bright with stars and the air felt crisp enough to warrant a man wrapping a warm arm around his date.

007 had better behave or she’d go Moneypenny on him! She took in the glitz and glamour as they parked. It was such a different place at night. Ambient lighting glowed along the footpath’s foliage, leading to the grand entrance of the massive lodge. Sculptural trees with spotlights beneath them dotted the area, and millions of tiny rice lights hung on outlying branches, which made the place surreal…and far too romantic.

Randi had been too spellbound to notice that Jon had come around to open her door and that she’d accepted his hand coming out of the car without thinking about it. Only now did she realize she’d let him keep it firmly in his grasp and guide her along the path. Obviously she was just letting herself get into character, or maybe she’d had too much wine back home. What she needed to do now was focus on the task at hand.

Guests huddled along the walkway in some semblance of a queue. Couples, brochures in hand, stood discussing the show and anticipated displays. Randi recognized a few of the local physicians and their spouses, a couple of lawyers, the town elite mingling with the upper-crust types from Lord-knows-where.

Chances were she wouldn’t see designer knockoffs on any of the other attendees. She fingered the petite pearl at her neckline, which, like her, felt insufficient for the occasion. Jon looked more at ease chatting up the privileged and influential people—another surprise about the detective.

The lodge entry was comprised of two massive glass doors intricately etched with walnut trees, currently propped open. Georgia stood in the foyer greeting everyone personally, taking great care to spend a moment with everyone who came.

“Why good evening, Randi. Detective.” Georgia said as they entered, taken aback. “I didn’t know you two were coming. And together, what a surprise! Is this a date?”

“No!” Randi said.

“Yes.” Jon countered at the same time. With a nudge from Jon, she was reminded of the game plan.

“First date.” Randi felt her face flush.

“And please, Georgia, call me Jon.”

Given the odd exchange, Randi wasn’t surprised to see a brief look of confusion on Georgia’s face. She leaned in to air-kiss their hostess and whispered. “We’re undercover.”

“Oh, my goodness, yes. Silly me.” She looked from one to the other as she reigned in her manners. “Well then, I do hope you enjoy yourselves.”

Georgia then pulled Randi in close again with a tug of her hand. “The Richmonds are here from Chicago.” She nodded in the direction of a diamond-encrusted couple holding champagne flutes, deep in discussion over a sculpture made of Ken and Barbie doll parts—plastic arms, legs, and heads disjointed and reassembled into art.

Randi’s lips made an O as she nodded, pretending to be impressed. Apparently she lived a sheltered life or didn’t read enough of the society pages because she had never heard of the Richmonds. Her first impression had them pegged as a simple May-December relationship, hubby was at least twenty years younger than wifey. Randi wondered what the tall, dark and muscled Mr. R saw in his wife. He seemed to dote on her, uninterested in the art, and aloof to the people around them. Arm candy? Randi’s cynical side concluded that his interest lay with Mrs. Richmond’s checkbook.

“They bought several items last time they were here.” Georgia whispered, then abandoned them to hobnob with the deeper-pocketed patrons arriving.

Randi felt Jon’s hand slide around her waist. She could feel the heat of his hand against her through the silk. She froze, unsure how she felt about this when abruptly he drew her in, pulling her up tightly against him. Randi’s mouth was inches away from his. She stared at that hooked scar on his lip and found she couldn’t pull her eyes away from it.

Just as suddenly Jon released her. When he saw her confusion he nodded behind her. Randi turned to see a woman changing direction as she chased a passing waiter with an appetizer tray. He had saved her from the rear-end collision with a finger food fanatic.

She could still feel the heat from his body as released her, but kept his hand at her hip. “Sorry…just hated to see that lovely dress ruined.”

Randi watched the woman walk away with a plate heaped with food, grateful for the save. “Thank you.”

Jon guided her over to the round bar in the center of the room and ordered two glasses of wine. She tried to make out exactly what he was doing with this liberal hands-on approach to detective work. She knew the strategy was to keep the appearance of being a couple, but she was pretty sure that could be done without all the touching. It made her uncomfortable given that their only interaction up to this point had been based on mistrust and professional loathing.

“Screw it,” she mumbled under her breath. If this pretense was what it took to find the killer, she could do it. In fact, she could play the game every bit as enthusiastically as he could. She thought about hanging on the hunky detective all night, getting him hot and bothered and then returning to her routine of aversion and hostility. Her face lit up at the prospect.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Jon’s hors d’oeuvre plate was piled high, heaped with shrimp, cheese, rumaki, meatballs, and mini Cuban sandwiches—everything a carnivorous, gun-toting man could find to substitute for a full meal.

Randi looked down at her meager selection of sculpted crudités, olives and pickles, everything a woman in a tight little dress substituted for all meals, and while the selection did not fill her empty stomach, she had to admit the presentation was impressive. Why was this world-class caterer here and not in New York or L.A. wowing the rich and famous? Granted, there was a fabulous turnout tonight, but still, a culinary artist of this caliber could
be famous in his or her own right. Randi wondered what was keeping the caterer deep in the woods of Wisconsin.

In contrast, Randi found the art lacking. It was a collection of odd crafters touting strange work. To her untrained eye she had yet to see anything worth a pricey cup of coffee. She wondered if keeping company with the troop had cost the caterer any golden opportunities.

She and Jon had taken a break from viewing the exhibits and were now at one of the tall bar tables in the center of the great room where people were pausing for refreshments as they paced their self-guided tours. The lodge had been set up as a working art gallery, with each artist having their studio space partitioned off by white drapery. During the show, the artist either worked on their current piece so people could view the process or did some kind of performance art at designated times. Randi noted that on occasion an artist would break free and mingle with the crowd, thus gracing fans with a personal connection that she noted gave each patron a small thrill.

There were fifteen artists in total; all of whom Georgia said were here when Larissa had visited. In fact, the art troop was an integral component to Walnut Ridge, often using it as their home base when traveling between scheduled shows, group classes and one-on-one instruction. As far as Randi knew the bulk of them had spent the last four weeks on the road. She and Jon had made it through half the galleries before agreeing they both needed a break.

“Talk about a bunch of warped minds.” Jon leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, speaking over the din of conversation and background music. “Heck, I think we should haul in the lot of them, if only for a psych eval.”

Randi knew where he was coming from. “I’m not going to pretend to know a lot about art, but this can’t be normal, right?” She gnawed on a sliver of celery as she tried not to think about how his warm lips tickled her ear or the spices on his breath made her want to taste his mouth.

“Who the hell buys this shit, anyway?” His question brought her back.

“The rich, according to Georgia. So what do you think? Any viable suspects?”

“All of them.” He skewered two meatballs on a toothpick and crammed them into his mouth. She tilted her head and gave him a look that made him rethink his flippant answer. “Seriously, what do you want me to say? It’s a freak show. Umm…okay, what do you think about Manfred Klaussen?”

“Was that the dead bug guy or the sweaty guy with sexual animal sculptures?”

“Sweaty guy.”

“Oh.” Randi thought about Manfred’s exhibit. In the center of the cubicle the artist had been hunched over his work as he diligently sculpted. Scrawny and middle-aged with wild dark curls piled on his head, Manfred wore thick glasses perched on the end of his long crooked nose. He kept glancing nervously up at her and Jon as they watched him work. Sweat dripped down his forehead and he let out an exasperated sigh when he had to stop to dab his forehead with a handkerchief.

He had been detailing a reclining gray walrus with physical traits of a human. There was deep pink paint on the end of a skinny brush and with a flourish Manfred finished off the rosy tip of a nipple. Two large female breasts and a small triangle of pubic hair at the apex of a blubbery tail was a creative vision Randi had a hard time wrapping her mind around. The pubic hair was a springy mound of curly auburn and looked entirely too realistic.

Dead bug guy, on the other hand, did miniature still life scenes using insects as characters. There was the largest horsefly Randi had ever seen in a bright yellow sundress lapping blood off a trash bag, one tiny leg held a matching ankle bracelet. The trash bag was set up to look like a buffet table.

In a separate piece, he had a dung beetle sunbathing and reading a novel. The book was titled: The Dingleberry Games. It had little sandals painted on the ends of its spindly legs in a color that matched its hot pink bikini, and wore a small crystal necklace and designer sunglasses—Chanel.

Randi marveled over the patience it would have taken to complete the small world views. Each miniature vignette was no bigger than four inches and covered in glass that magnified the scene for the observer.

“Yeah, dead bug guy’s stuff was strange, but sweaty guy’s was disturbed.” Randi downed the last of her wine. “Your people interviewed these artists before, right?”

“Of course.” He sounded offended as he spoke around a mouthful of food. “But they all seemed so normal when it was just a sitdown.” Randi gave him a skeptical look just as Georgia returned to check up on them.

“How ya doing, Detective? Er…um, Jon.” She lowered her voice and corrected, as she put a gregarious arm around each of them.

Georgia was in her element as hostess. But honestly she was kind of a twit too. A Betty. As in Betty White playing Rose on Golden Girls kind of twit, not Betty White the animal rights advocate.

“Fabulous.” Jon turned so that Georgia couldn’t see him and rolled his eyes. Randi hoped Georgia didn’t detect his sarcasm.

“I’m so glad! Here.” She set a plate down between them with two dramatic confectionary creations on it, each one a petite culinary sculpture almost too beautiful to eat. Almost. “Sonja DiBattista is the best chocolatier on the planet. She wanted to say hello herself but she’s just too busy with the wait staff.”

Randi looked beyond Jon’s shoulder to where the caterer was orchestrating the staging of buffet tables like a conductor of the philharmonic.

“She insisted I bring you an example of her specialty.”

“Let’s not forget a refill on the wine.” Randi felt a cold hand snake up her back to land at her neck. A touch that was far too intimate for a stranger to be making, but both of Jon’s hands were in plain sight. She turned to see who it was and was met by dark eyes beneath brows she’d swear were tattooed on.

She shot a look at Jon that read
save me,
which he might have done if he wasn’t busy stuffing meatballs into his mouth.

Might as well be with a minimum-wage security guard.

“Davina Politan,” the woman said as she set the bottle down and held out her free hand, the one that wasn’t still plastered to Randi’s neck. Davina was tall and pale, with short bobbed hair. Upon closer inspection she could see that the woman had no eyelashes and her eyebrows really were tattooed on, which then lead Randi to do a double take of her hair. Davina was wearing a wig. Not a costume piece but an investment-quality wig meant to be worn all the time.

One glance at the woman’s forearms solved the mystery. No arm fuzz. Davina must have Alopecia, a medical condition rendering the host free of all hair.

Randi hoped to break free as she gave the woman her hand. But that maneuver didn’t work and now Davina had both hands on her. Just as Randi thought Ms. Eyebrows would start playing her like a squeeze box Georgia stepped in.

“Davina, I’m so glad you’ve found time to make the rounds tonight. Ms. Politan here paints nudes.” Georgia twittered like a teenager.

The word nudes seemed to catch Jon’s attention and pulled him away from his food.

“But not in the typical forms of appreciation of the human body.” Georgia winked at Randi.

Davina finally let go of Randi’s hand and ran a finger down her arm. “You’ve got exquisite skin, very taut. Perhaps you’d allow me to paint you…hmmm?”

Randi saw Jon’s eyebrows pop up. But the cop still didn’t save her from her clingy captor. “Uh…er…um…I don’t think…” Randi knew full well she sounded like a Betty herself but couldn’t stop herself.

“How flattering for you, Randi. But let’s leave these folks to their evening. Come Davina, you have other guests to greet.” She shooed the artist away with a wave of her hand.

Randi felt her face flush as Davina pulled away with a slow, trailing motion up her arm that gave her goose bumps. She glimpsed the humor on Jon’s face and shot him a
don’t make me kick your cop ass
look in return.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to distract you from your dessert.” Davina’s voice was like velvet against Randi’s ear, as she reached across Randi and nudged the plate closer to them.

Randi beamed with delight but she didn’t know if it was from the chocolate in front of her or because the intrusive woman was gone at long last. “Oooh!” She picked up the black-and-white-striped cone-shaped piece. It had delicate, colorful spires shooting out the top with silver stars at the ends, a miniature confectionary celebration.

“Imagine, the whole thing is edible.” Georgia lightly patted them both on the back. “Enjoy!”

Randi bit the corner off the filled cone. “Mmm…raspberry truffle.” Her eyes closed as it melted in her mouth.
Way better than celery.
She pushed the dish towards Jon.

He wrinkled his nose. “No, thanks. Chocolate isn’t my thing.” He popped a mini Cuban sandwich into his mouth.

Randi looked longingly at the artful tidbit between her fingers. “Your loss.” She systematically dismantled the sculpture one bite at a time, relishing every morsel.

Georgia’s eyes scanned the crowd. “You know, attendance is just about the same as the first showing.” She lowered her voice and pulled them into her by their shoulders, pausing long enough to secure their full attention and then whispered. “Many of the guests here tonight were at the last show as well. And let me tell y’all, they are
abuzz
with knowing they witnessed Larissa Leuenberger’s final hours. They
cannot
stop talking about it. Now don’t you worry about it, my darlins. Y’all will solve this thing.”

Randi scanned the crowd as Georgia spoke. The Richmonds were at the bar filling their flutes. Mrs. R stared at Jon as he shoveled in food, no doubt mentally critiquing his manners. Then Randi saw Davina across the room, now deep in conversation with a man dressed in black. She was appalled when Davina actually pointed her out and then blew her a kiss. Randi pretended not to see them and nervously started in on the second chocolate as she turned back to their host.

Georgia’s face was filled with pride as she motioned to a drop-down projection screen that was on the wall and more spectators began to make their way over from the exhibition area. “This is video footage of that first gala. I always run video of previous events. Officially it’s another exhibit with the theme of a window to the past.” There was a degree of pride in how she said it, like it made her part of the club, even though it was her clubhouse.

Randi sensed the unspoken
but
in her statement. “And in reality?”

“Well, let’s just say my patrons like to see who’s visiting so they can size up the competition. Good for business.”

They watched as the screen filled with soundless footage that could have been filmed that very night as easily as four weeks ago. The setup and decor were exactly the same. The room was overflowing with people enjoying the art, socializing and drinking, much as it was tonight. Randi noted how some guests watched the video intently, while others didn’t.

Randi saw a few of the artists and then recognized the Richmonds. Wow, they must get off on this oddball stuff. Randi pictured them living in an elite Chicago penthouse, professionally decorated in minimalist style. A living space with crisp clean lines and the artist crap they’d purchased here yakked up all over the walls.

There was Sonja DiBattisa on the screen, troop caterer extraordinaire, as she stood at the periphery of the room monitoring her staff like a drill sergeant eyeballing her troops.

The video then panned along the art displays. Randi saw Jon’s jaw working as his eyes roamed the screen. Her nerves were getting the best of her and she broke off a piece of the second chocolate and ate it.

“Why didn’t you tell me you had this footage, Georgia?” asked Jon.

“Oh honey, I just got it back this morning. It’s been at the videographer’s all month. It had to be processed and re-rendered to look this good. The man’s a genius, but he’s slower than molasses in—”

Jon interrupted her. “I’m going to need to take this at the end of the night. It’s evidence.”

“All right. Don’t go getting your pistol in a twist, I’ll make sure you have it.”

Randi did her best to ignore the two of them. She picked up the last of the candy sculpture and without a thought of calorie counts or what passes from lips to hips, downed the chocolate in two bites. She was focused on only one thing now—finding Larissa Leuenberger’s face in the crowd.

There. There she was. The heart shaped face that was almost unrecognizable in death and angelic in her photos was still breathtaking on the screen. She looked elegant and at ease in the crowds, but then she seemed to have a glaring preoccupation with something. Randi discreetly drew Jon’s attention to the woman. “Look where she’s standing.”

Larissa had taken up position at the edge of one particular exhibition. Something off camera had captured her attention, and it looked as if she was trying to meld into her surroundings and go unnoticed. They couldn’t see what she was looking at, but Larissa never moved from the booth.

“Who’s space is that?” asked Jon.

“That’s Truman Perry’s, of course,” she said it like she expected them to know who he was. “I’m not at all surprised she was enthralled. The man is pure genius to blend his art with performance. No wonder that poor girl couldn’t pull herself away.”

Randi was shocked that Georgia seemed so detached given that the murder may have taken place at Walnut Ridge. But it had been weeks ago, she supposed. For some, life went on, even if Randi couldn’t let go of the fact that for one woman it hadn’t.