Dead Rapunzel (16 page)

“Millions,” said Bruce. “If I want to believe what my brother-in-law said, we're talking serious money. Worth futzing around like this to see if you can get enough of a sample to justify the cost of bringing in a team of experts.” Bruce looked across the expanse of snow reaching all the way to the main house. “And if you had a whole field full? Probably build and operate a full-scale mining operation right there.”

“So Rudd Tomlinson may have wanted to build her museum on land worth millions?”

“Could be. But who knows how the testing went?”

“I'm more interested in
who
did the testing.” Ray's eyes met Bruce's. “That cell phone of yours take okay photos in this cold?”

“Believe so.” They paused for a moment to study the bay and the bonfire. “I sure hope that new wood burns okay,” said Bruce. “When we finish here, I'd still like you to teach me your jigging technique.”

“We'll have time,” said Ray, watching as Bruce held his phone out to take a series of photos from different angles. “Hey, how many bars does that phone show—enough to make a call?”

“Looks like it. Want me to call Chief Ferris?”

“We'd better. My instructions were to let her know if I saw anything unusual on the Tomlinson property. Since it didn't occur to me to walk the property lines this far from the house, I'd feel better if she was aware someone has been in the area.”

Lew took Bruce's call immediately. After listening to his theory and checking the photos that he had emailed in before they spoke, she said, “Good. Now if you and Ray can ballpark when that testing might have happened that would be very helpful.

“But whatever you, do don't say a word relative to any soil testing to Kenzie or Judith. Sand mining has become a hot potato in this county, and I don't want news like this to get out until we know more. Meanwhile, thanks. This puts a whole new spin on things.

“Gotta go. Tim Tomlinson is due here later for his interview with Doc and myself. It'll be interesting to hear if he knows anything about someone fooling around with soil testing.”

As Bruce tucked his phone back into his parka and pulled his mitts on, he said, “She'd like to know if we have any idea when this testing might have taken place.”

“I figured as such,” said Ray. “While you were talking, I checked the stand of balsams running along here for sign of anyone entering from a nearby logging road, but I didn't see anything.

“I think they came by snowmobile. The lake has been frozen over since early December, so they could have been here any time over the last six weeks or so. I know how deep the snow is out on the lake, so I compared that with the height of the snow on these logs, which is a lot less. Since we haven't had a melt in weeks, I'm guessing the wood to cover the test site was cut within the last three weeks.

“Ray! Ray! I got a fish, hurry!” It was Judith hollering from one of her tip-ups. She was jumping up and down like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Okeydoke, I'm coming, I'm coming,” Ray shouted back. He winked at Bruce. “Hope I can get her that excited later tonight.”

“Pradt, you are incorrigible,” said Bruce, grinning as he shook his head. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Back at the fire, Ray helped Judith slip her fish from the hook. “This is a decent-sized walleye, Miss Fordham. May I invite you . . . later this evening . . . to my humble abode where . . . I will sauté this beauty . . . in the finest Wisconsin butter? You,” he pointed his mitt at her, “deserve only . . . the best for such a prize. May I?”

Judith giggled. “Oh, all right. You'll have to put your address in my GPS, though. I have no idea where you live.”

“I can do that,” said Ray, slipping another minnow onto her line.

Meanwhile Kenzie, sitting near the fire with a mug of hot chocolate between her mitts, asked, “So what do you guys think about those weird pipes we found?”

“Just something left from years ago,” said Ray. “Once upon a time your dad might have wanted to put in a tank to hold minnows or a fish hatchery. Something like that.” Kenzie shrugged, satisfied with Ray's answer. She kept both eyes focused on her tip-ups.

“Hey, my turn, Ray,” said Bruce before Judith had a chance to quiz Ray further. “You keep bragging you have a secret lure for jiggermen. Better show me before I freeze to death out here.”

“All right already,” said Ray.

He picked up the ice auger and drilled two new holes in the ice—one for him and one for Bruce. Then he pulled over two of the folding chairs and beckoned for Bruce to sit beside him. Holding a short jigging rod in one hand, he sorted through his tackle box while saying, “Last time I used this, I caught a thirty-one-and-a-half-inch walleye—so be prepared.”

He pulled out a lurid green jig and showed it to Bruce. “Here's the secret: This is an eight-ounce jig and it
has
to be chartreuse. Not red like every other jabone uses. But
chartreuse
. And . . . you have to have a very sharp tip . . . now you add a one-and-a-half-inch nightcrawler . . . ” Ray fished in his tackle box for the plastic container holding his worms. “Then you jig . . . but keep your jig within a couple inches of the bottom . . . like this, see?”

“Ah,” said Bruce, “that's why you wanted this shallow bay, huh? I wondered why. And no Vexilar?” he asked, referring to a fish locater that is standard equipment for most ice fishermen. Ray shook his head. “Nope. No need to hook that up. I know who's lurking down below us.” He raised his eyebrows as he grinned an evil, happy grin.

“You do that with no gloves?” asked Judith, who had walked over to watch.

“You have to,” said Ray. “Can't feel the tug otherwise. Like they say . . . the tug is the drug, doncha know.”

“Oh, my fingers would freeze.” Judith shivered at the thought.

“Your turn, bud.” Ray handed Bruce one of his chartreuse jigs and the container of worms. Bruce got his line ready with jig and nightcrawler. He moved his chair so he could sit over the other hole in the ice. The two men sat jigging in silence, their hands naked in the below-zero weather. Judith, watching, finally asked, “Does that lure you're using have to be chartreuse?”

Ray didn't answer her question.

Instead he said, “These two fishermen were out in their boat one day when they heard a woman screaming. So they rushed across the water to her dock, where she told them that her fluffy little dog had been swimming when ‘all of a sudden Tiffy was gone. Eaten by a big fish!' ‘How big a fish?' asked one of the fishermen. She held her hands four feet apart. ‘This big—I saw it grab my little Tiffy.' ‘That's a heck of a big muskie,' said the other fisherman. ‘So, lady, what color was your dog?'”

Judith stood with a perplexed look on her face for a long minute, then she laughed. “O-o-kay, I get it.”

Bruce, meanwhile, was aware that Ray had told his story without his usual hostage-taking pauses, which meant one thing: He must have sand on his mind. Like Bruce, he was ready to get back to town.

Time, they agreed half an hour later, to stop by a certain office before it closed.

Judith had expected to be out on the ice for at least an hour. But in spite of Bruce's excitement after landing two good-sized walleyes, one right after the other, Ray started loading the gear back onto sleds. “Quitting so soon?” asked Judith, taken aback.

“Hey,” said Kenzie, “what's the deal? We've been here less than an hour.”

“Had a text from Chief Ferris,” said Ray as he folded the canvas chairs and wedged his cooler into one of the sleds. “She needs Bruce and me in town to check on something. Sorry, ladies, but I promise we'll walk on water another time.”

“Hope so,” said Judith, wondering what had happened while the two men were checking out the woodpile. Ever since they'd walked back to the bonfire, they had seemed jumpy.

Even Ray's manner had changed: less teasing, fewer jokes. Yes, she was sure something had happened, something related to those odd metal pieces stuck in the ground. Hoping that Ray and Bruce's behavior had something to do with why and how her dearest friend had been pushed to her death, she pitched in to help load the sleds.

As the four of them trudged back to the house, Judith asked, “As far as dinner at your place, Ray, are we still on or—”

“Yep.”

“Shall I bring Mallory along, too? If Bruce is going to be there . . . ”

“Oh, I won't stay long,” said Bruce. “I'll eat and run.”

“Bring Mallory?” Ray repeated Judith's query with a perturbed look on his face. “Maybe not . . . Not sure if I have enough fish. We'll include her next time.”

“Oh, okay,” said Judith. She liked the sound of “next time.”

Reaching the house, they walked around to the front where Kenzie had parked. Bruce opened the door of a small red sedan and helped her climb into the driver's seat. As she backed out of the driveway, he turned to Ray. “Didn't you say that the car seen parked behind the Grizzly Bear Café right about the time that Rudd Tomlinson was killed was a red sedan?

“Was it a Honda Accord like the one our friend is driving?” He pointed to the red car disappearing down the road toward the Steidls's house.

“Yeah,” said Ray, “the guy who saw it didn't know what year, though. But yes, he said it was a red Honda.”

“Chief?” Dani poked her head into Lew's office. “I found those records you wanted. They moved the archives down to the courthouse basement so it took me awhile. They're kinda hard to read.” She handed two files over to Lew. Dani was right. They looked hard to read.

“Oh, and I checked to see if there was anything else on the Tomlinsons or Vern Steidl that year, too. Found one more on Mr. Steidl. Thought you might want to see that one, too.”

“Thanks, Dani,” said Lew. “How did it go with Charlene? Were you able to help her find more information on her birth mother?”

“I think so. At least I found the right address for the division of Catholic Charities that arranged her adoption. She's checking with them now to see if they have a more accurate record of her birth parents.

“You know, Chief, Charlene has a great job with that mining company. You won't believe how much money she makes.”

“I hear you, Dani,” said Lew. “When you've finished your internship and have your degree, I'm hoping we can make you a good offer, too. Don't you think that working for the Loon Lake Police might be more interesting than researching sand and rocks?”

When Dani had closed the door behind her, Osborne gave a low chuckle. “Lew, you've already talked her out of running a hair salon . . . ”

“She doesn't realize how valuable she is,” said Lew, walking over to hand him one of the reports that Dani had delivered. “The day we have all our records scanned and accessible electronically, police work will be much easier. But that day is pretty far off and until then, I have to rely on Dani's talent for searching data on- and offline.”

She checked her watch. “Sloane Tomlinson won't be here for another ten minutes. You want to check this? It's the accident report on Caroline Tomlinson's death.”

Lew's predecessor, the police chief best known to Loon Lake residents as “the man with no laugh,” had worked in the era when law-enforcement personnel were required to type their reports on an old-fashioned typewriter with no “deletes” or “edits” to speed the process. Plus, the man was no typist.

Words crossed out, words typed over, plus messy washes of Wite-Out made for a sloppy, if not confusing-looking page. Added to that was the fact that the “man with no laugh” had been the taciturn type, given to few words—a restraint that carried over into his reports.

Quiet though he was, the late police chief had been a keen observer of human nature. And sympathetic to the pressures of trying to make a living in a small blue-collar town where logging barely paid the bills and the number of professionals making healthy salaries was minimal.

More than once, he could see past bad behavior and deliver a warning rather than a jail term: Domestic disturbances would go unreported if everyone involved calmed down; kids setting off illegal fireworks would be straightened out with a visit to their parents and stern looks; and a young Ray Pradt caught poaching on private water learned the hard way that a prize spinning rod could end up on the wall in the chief's office.

When the “man with no laugh” died, his funeral was well attended. The theory being that Loon Lake residents needed confirmation that their secrets had died with him. And they were right . . . for the most part.

The late chief was never forgiving of those chronically inclined to steal, bully, or otherwise abuse their neighbors. Those behavior patterns he did record and save—often in a note handwritten across the bottom of a typed page.

While Osborne checked one of the files that Dani had located, Lew studied the other. This one covered Philip Tomlinson's report that his boat and outboard motor had been stolen from his dock. Within days the boat was found in the possession of the Tomlinson boy, Tim.

The chief's report went on to mention that Tim had confessed to “being in cahoots with Vern Steidl, the caretaker for the Tomlinson properties.” While it was Tim who made sure to leave the boat unlocked, it was Vern who had a buyer for the boat and had promised to split the proceeds with Tim. Once Philip learned his son was one of the culprits, he did not want to press charges. But he did fire Vern.

A handwritten note at the bottom of the page mentioned that Philip had shared with the police the fact that he was also canceling two land deals with Vern—he asked that the police keep an eye on the properties in case Vern retaliated with vandalism. As of the date on the report, it did not appear that any had occurred.

Another report from the same year also involved Vern Steidl, though this one had nothing to do with Philip Tomlinson or any of his properties. The incident reported occurred months later and while it involved a piece of land that had once belonged to the Tomlinsons, it was one of the lots that Vern had had the good fortune to purchase before the boat was stolen.