Dead Rapunzel (9 page)

“She wanted kids growing up in the Northwoods to have a chance to see that all art doesn't have to be realistic—it can be weird, it can be dots and straight lines, it can be abstract splashes of color, it can be shapes that look like something out of a strange dream. She wanted people, especially kids, to learn to see beyond the obvious.”

“Will the museum be in the house?” asked Osborne, thinking of the swooping wings at the entrance.

“No. The house will become the administrative offices, and the museum will be built in the big field you see driving in. The building Rudd bought in town was for temporary offices. The architect who designed the house has already drawn up plans for the museum.

“And that's what I am now in charge of. Rudd wanted the museum built, and together we've been talking to curators and art dealers. As of the stock market today, there is enough money for a twenty-million-dollar building and four or five works by each artist. Rudd's trust leaves around one hundred fifty million dollars. ”

“This will be unpleasant news for Sloane, Tim, and Kenzie. Correct?” asked Lew.

“Afraid so.”

“Very interesting,” said Ray, getting to his feet. “Please excuse me, folks. I have to get home for my dogs.”

“Sorry to have bent your ear for so long,” said Judith, “but I thought it would help to understand the family dynamic that may occur tomorrow morning.”

“We will plan to see you in the morning around ten,” said Osborne, pushing in his chair.

“Yes,” said Lew, “and I will have a good excuse for why we are showing up.”

Judith watched Ray leave before turning to Lew and Osborne. “So he really lives in a trailer shaped like a fish?”

“Heavens, no,” said Lew, laughing. “The trailer is painted dark green with long teeth—it's painted to
look
like a muskie. Summers, Ray is a fishing guide, and his clients get a kick out of driving up to a big fish.”

“He lives right next door to me,” said Osborne. “Looking out the window at Ray's place used to drive my late wife nuts.”

“He's like a walking piece of folk art,” said Judith. “You wouldn't happen to know how old he is—and is he involved with anyone?”

“He's thirty-two,” said Osborne, “same age as Mallory, my oldest daughter. As far as involved with anyone? I don't know. Do you, Lew?” Lew shrugged.

“I'll bet he is,” said Judith. “That is one handsome guy even if he does wear a fish on his head. Fun.” With that she walked off to get her coat, which was hanging on the coat rack at the entrance to the restaurant.

“Don't tell me she's interested in Ray,” said Osborne with a sigh. “How does he do it? Plus, she has to be at least ten to fifteen years older—” Lew punched him in the arm.

Twenty minutes later, Osborne pulled into his driveway and before hitting the button for his garage door, he noticed the lights were on in his kitchen. Sure enough, right next to his parking spot in the garage was Mallory's car. He hadn't realized that she would be driving up so soon.

“Hi, Dad,” said his daughter, jumping up from the kitchen table where she was eating a peanut-butter sandwich. “Did you get my voicemails?”

“Oh, darn. I'm afraid I forgot to check my phone during dinner.”

“That's okay. I have great news. I just took this new job as the director of marketing for an art museum being built up here by a woman I met during a seminar I took at the Art Institute. She married some wealthy guy who died and left her a fortune—”

“Rudd Tomlinson.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

Osborne pulled out the chair beside his daughter and sat down.

Lew unlocked the front door to her farmhouse and pushed it shut against the wind howling outside. It had been an hour since she'd dropped off Judith, completed the office paperwork, and finally heard back from Bruce Peters with the Wausau Crime Lab.

“Hey, Chief Ferris, got your message,” Bruce had said. “How are those walleyes biting? You getting any ice fishing in?”

“Not if I can help it,” said Lew. “I do not ice fish. But I do have a problem you can help me with and, if you can, I know someone who will be happy to help you freeze your fingers jigging.”

“Not my buddy Ray.”

“Yes, your buddy Ray.” And with that, she filled Bruce in on the events of the day and the discovery of the cigarette butts. “Maybe nothing, but then again . . . ”

“You know that DNA testing will take time, Chief. Like a couple weeks or longer, but I'll head your way in the morning. I'll make a few calls, too. We might be able to speed it up—we'll see.”

“I appreciate that, Bruce. See you tomorrow.”

As she turned up the thermostat on the new furnace, Lew realized how tired she was. It had been a long day. Just as she wrapped herself in the warm bathrobe that Osborne had given her for her birthday, she heard a knocking on the kitchen door.

Lew was startled. Who on earth at this hour? She checked her watch. It was after ten. Not the time a rational person, not even someone selling Avon products, chooses to drop in for a visit. Plus, everyone who knew her was well aware that she insisted people, even close friends like Doc, call before coming by. Judges and police officers had learned the hard way that unsolicited visits could be dangerous.

Tiptoeing into the bedroom, Lew reached into the holster for her Sig Sauer pistol. Edging her way back through the living room toward the kitchen, she stayed away from the windows. She paused beside the kitchen door, gun ready. Whoever it was knocked again.

“Who is it?”

“Hello, Mrs. Ferris, you don't know me. Charlene Murphy. I know it's late, but I'm on my way home from work and I was hoping to ask you a couple questions about your late husband?”

“I don't have a
late
husband.” Lew held her breath.

“Your former husband, I mean—Mr. Robert Ferris?” Letting her intuition kick in, Lew relaxed ever so slightly. The woman sounded sincere, if misinformed.

“We've been divorced for years. I don't know anything about the man, though I did hear he died a while back, but that was long after we broke up. And that that's all I know. So please leave.”

“He's my birth father. I'm adopted and trying to find my birth mother. I think, I'm pretty sure, you can help me.” Ohmygod, thought Lew, what next?

She opened the door to the porch a crack. “All right,” said Lew, aware she sounded testy. “I doubt I can help you. And if I could, why would you come out here so late?” The lights from the kitchen illuminated the face of the young woman on the porch. She had worried blue eyes and cheeks bright red from the cold.

“You're right. It is too late. Maybe I could come back another time? I live in Tomahawk, but I manage an office in Loon Lake that just opened, so I drive this way every night on my way home. I work late most nights. This is the first time I've seen lights on, so I thought I'd see if you were home. I guess you travel a lot?”

“You can see my lights from the highway?” Lew knew that wasn't true.

“Um, I know your fire number, so I've been pulling into your driveway until I could see your house and whether someone was home. Guess maybe I was trespassing? I am so sorry if I was, but I didn't know any other way to reach you. You aren't in the phone book.”

“No, I am not. You're right about that.”

Convinced the woman was no threat, Lew hid her gun in a drawer under the kitchen counter and opened the door.

“Come on, step inside before we both freeze.” The young woman stepped in, her eyes grateful. “Here,” said Lew, pulling out two chairs from her small kitchen table, “sit down. Tell me: What makes you think that my ex-husband, whom I divorced many years ago, might be your birth father?”

“I grew up with a family who said they adopted me after a priest told them of a man looking for a home for a newborn. The man signed all the papers but didn't name the mother of the child. He's dead, but I was able to get his name from the people at the church rectory: Robert Ferris. Wasn't he your husband? I thought maybe you would know the woman or women that he knew after your divorce. If you do, then I hope to find the one who is my mom. I'm sure it sounds goofy, but I just want to know exactly who I am. You know, health information for myself and my children, maybe what my mother looked like.” She was about to break into tears.

Lew reached over to pat the woman's hand as she said, “I'm sorry to disappoint you, but once you divorce someone you do your best to avoid them. Stay out of the line of fire, if you know what I mean.

“After we split, Rob moved away and whatever he did was none of my business. My daughter did see him occasionally and said he had many women friends. She's the one who told me he had died. That's as much as I know and I'm sorry.”

“Oh, I see. Well, sorry to have bothered you like this. You were kinda my last hope.” She stood up, defeat in her eyes.

“Charlene, there are private detectives who might be able to help you.”

“They are so expensive. But you're right. Pretty soon I'll have paid off my school loans and I'll be able to afford one.”

“Sounds like you have a good job . . . ”

“I do.” The young woman's voice brightened as she stood up to leave. “And I love the people here. You know, we have three new mines in the area and we're one of the top suppliers of sand to the companies fracking for oil in North Dakota.”

“Speaking of detectives, how did you find me? How did you know my fire number?”

“Oh, that was easy. I manage the new regional office for the Wisconsin Silica Sands Mining Company in town. We have all the land records, and I was looking in the plat book at properties around here when I saw your name. I knew that my birth father was from here, so when I saw Lewellyn Ferris I figured you might have been married to Robert Ferris—or be a relative, anyway.”

“I'm listed in the plat book?”
Lew was stunned. She thought all her personal information was confidential—no phone listings, no cable-television records, no trash pick-up—even her mail was delivered to a P.O. box. When she took the position with the Loon Lake Police it was understood that those personal details would be kept in confidence for one simple reason: People arrested, convicted, and sent to prison too often seek retribution later. Police Chief Lewellyn Ferris was one of many people in the law enforcement and judicial systems who preferred anonymity. And now she was in the plat book, which was available to any razzbonya with a license to hunt. Hunting meant carrying a gun. This was not good.

“Yes, you're in the plat book,” she heard Charlene saying, “because this property is over five acres in size. That's why.”

“Well, I'm going to talk to the county and get that changed,” said Lew. “Can you see that I'm removed from the records used by your company?”

“Sure. Everything is digital, so it should be easy to delete your name from the database, but why?”

“Because I am chief of the Loon Lake Police and I do not want every convicted felon getting out of prison to have my home address. I guess you didn't know who I was when you drove out here.”

“Gosh, no. I must have scared you.”

“Let's just say you put me on alert.”

Lew was about to open the door for the woman to leave when she paused. “I have a thought, Charlene. Let's do a quid pro quo. You take my name off the plat-book database and I'll arrange for you to meet with Dani Wright, an intern of ours who is a whiz at Internet searches. I'll see if she has the time to do some freelance work, and maybe she can help you for a lot less than a private detective would charge. Since I have Robert Ferris's Social Security number, you two will have somewhere to start. Want to try that?”

“Are you serious? Sure. I'll try anything. And I will get your name off the plat-book database tomorrow morning. Don't you worry, Chief Ferris.”

“I appreciate that, Charlene. I will talk with Dani in the morning and tell her to expect a call from you. Here's the number where you can reach her when you're ready.”

Meanwhile in Osborne's kitchen, Mallory, a pained expression in her eyes, listened as her father told her what had happened that day. As he finished describing the situation surrounding Rudd Tomlinson's death, he asked, “Have you met the woman who was her right hand—Judith Fordham?”

“Yes, sort of. I was on a conference call with Rudd—she insisted I call her by her first name—and Judith Fordham. That's when I was hired. So I haven't met Judith in person, but—”

“You will tomorrow. Given what I heard tonight from Judith, she is going to need help. Lots of help. She is planning to build that museum in spite of Rudd Tomlinson's death.”

“So I may have a job after all?” Mallory's face eased with relief.

“Judith said that Rudd put everything in a trust for the museum and named Judith as the chief administrator. Unless the two of you don't get along, I think you will have a very interesting job.”

He didn't add that handling the Tomlinson family might be part of it. Nor did he add that he liked the idea of having ears he could trust, ears Lew could trust, close to what would be happening with the millions of dollars earmarked for the museum.

Mallory sat thinking. “Dad,” she said finally, “do you think Rudd was killed for the money?”

“I can't imagine otherwise. And likely by someone not smart enough to know that getting their hands on the Tomlinson fortune might not be as easy as it may have looked.”

“In that case, wouldn't whoever was behind Rudd's death be after Judith next?”

“Could be. We'll know more tomorrow when Judith meets with the family. She said they said they've called the meeting to plan a memorial service for their stepmother, but she's convinced it is really to find out if the money now goes to each of Philip Tomlinson's adult children.