Death at the Door (12 page)

They threaded their way past three police cars and parked in front of the house. Joel passed around a box of surgeon's gloves. They got out of the car and pulled on their gloves.

“The scene is probably so contaminated we won't get a thing here,” Lark said, just before they entered the house.

The rugs and the hardwood floors in the living and dining rooms glistened as if they were covered with diamonds instead of thousands of tiny pieces of glass. Two of the dining room chairs and a wingback chair in the living room were overturned. The dining room table was covered with glass shards. Some of the larger pieces of glass had gouged the top of the table. A smeared trail of blood lead from the tiled kitchen floor around the corner into the laundry room. A cordless phone lay on the floor in the kitchen surrounded by pools and smears of blood. The telephone charger and the counter around it were also smeared with blood.

Lark almost threw up when he walked into the laundry room. Despite his years as a Chicago homicide detective, he had never got used to the carnage at a murder scene. Rivulets of dark red blood ran down the wall and seeped behind the baseboard. The doorknob to the garage was covered with smudges of dried blood. The wall beside the door held a bloody palm print streaked with light red trails made by Daisy's fingers as they had slid down the wall to the tile floor. One strappy, stiletto sandal lay on its side in a corner of the laundry room, its Manolo Blahnik label displayed like an expensive prize. Its mate was under the cabinet overhang in the kitchen as if someone had thrown it there.

It appeared that Daisy had run through the house to get away from her assailant and had been shot and left for dead in the utility room. At some point she had crawled into the kitchen and called 911 before collapsing on the kitchen floor.

“This doesn't fit the MO for the other burglaries.” Lacey stared at the carnage, her face registering the shock they all felt.

“This is the first time someone's walked in on the burglar. Maybe everyone else has just been lucky,” Joel said.

“I don't think so.” Lark left the laundry room and walked back through the kitchen to the dining room. He stared at the overturned chairs and the carpet covered with glass. “The other scenes were very neat and clean. Some of them even had vacuum marks in the carpet in front of where the glass was stolen. Our burglar would never have done this unless he's trying to throw us off. The china cabinet is empty.” He pointed to the large mahogany breakfront with open doors and empty shelves. “It was probably full of some sort of clear glass that is now smashed to smithereens all over the floor. Our burglar wouldn't do that.”

“It was full of her grandmother's cut glass,” Joel said, remembering how it had flashed in the sunlight when he had interviewed Daisy.

Lark stuffed his hands in his pockets and surveyed the room. “Someone either staged a robbery to kill Daisy or they broke in here thinking they would make a little dough by stealing her glass and blame it on our burglar. Daisy caught them and they shot her. Either way, why would they break all this valuable glass?”

Lark wandered into the living room. “He either chased her through the house or knocked down the chairs to make us think he did.” Lark studied the wingback chair on its side and wandered back to the dining room, studying the carpet and the two overturned side chairs. He noted the other eight dining room chairs neatly pushed right up to the edge of the table. “Lacey, if you were running for your life through the house, would you take the time to turn over a heavy wingback chair and pull out two dining room chairs and turn them over?”

“I don't know.” Lacey surveyed the scene, mentally running through the room. “Once they wrap up the crime scene, we can go through here and check it out.”

“All this glass on top of these dark Oriental carpets could cover up a multitude of sins. Even bloody footprints.” Lark studied the carpet but couldn't see a trace of what he suspected the evidence technicians would find.

Sheriff Skewski came through the door, trailed by a tall, lanky, red-haired guy in khakis, a white, open-necked shirt, and a navy jacket. “What else can happen?” Skewski asked. “This is worse than a set of brass knuckles to the balls.” He nodded at Lacey. “ 'Scuse me, ma'am. I've known Daisy since she was a tiny thing. I can't believe this is happening in Door County. We've got to get this SOB. It's one thing to steal. It's another thing to kill people. This bastard's going to rot in hell if I have to go down there myself and see that it happens.”

The guy in the navy jacket surveyed the scene, his hands in his pockets. His eyes settled on Lark with a nod of recognition.

“Russ.” Lark nodded back at him. “Did the FBI decide they want a piece of this? We've already got the county sheriff and the state police involved.”

“I'm not FBI anymore. Five of the insurance companies hired me to try and recover for them. Sorry about your wife. Heard you left Chicago, but I didn't know you were in Door County.”

“I'm the sheriff of Big Oak County, in northern Wisconsin. I'm working for the state police on this one.”

Russ introduced himself to Lacey. He handed Lark and Lacey business cards that said Russell O'Flaherty Investigations and listed a Chicago address and phone number in sedate black ink.

They were saved from making a comment by the arrival of additional evidence techs. Simon and Rose Gradoute were right on their heels. Despite their warnings, Rose insisted on going through the house. She went from mad as hell to crumpled into tears when she was told she would have to wait until the evidence techs processed the house. Simon carried her back to their car and then came back to the house to talk with the police.

“I pleaded with Rose not to come here, but she said she needed to see what happened to Daisy. Do you know who did this?” Simon asked Skewski. The sheriff noted that Simon's hands shook as he ran them through his hair.

“We hope to know a little more after we go through the scene,” Skewski said, patting Simon's shoulder.

“I can't believe anyone would want to hurt Daisy,” Simon said, tears standing in the corners of his eyes. “She's such a gentle soul. Rose and I just ate dinner with her last night.”

“What time was that?” Joel flipped open his notebook to take notes.

“Daisy left the restaurant a little after midnight. She would have been home by twelve-thirty at the latest.” Simon swiped his hand under his eyes. “Rose and Daisy and I went to an opening at the Hardy Gallery. We met there about eight-thirty. I left at nine to help out at the restaurant, and Daisy and Rose showed up half an hour later.”

“Did Daisy and Rose leave at the same time?” Joel asked.

“Rose left right after Daisy. She wanted us to leave together, but Rosemary's was very busy and the staff asked me to help close.” Simon watched Joel write in his notebook.

“Do you know where your wife went when she left?” Joel asked.

“Home, she went home. I talked with her just before I left the restaurant.”

Joel flipped to a new page in his notebook. “Did you talk with her between twelve-thirty and one-thirty?”

Simon looked back and forth between Skewski and Joel. “You can't think that my wife would ever hurt her sister.”

“Sir, did you talk with your wife between twelve-thirty and one-thirty last night?” Joel repeated.

Simon raised his hands to Skewski in a plea for help. “Sheriff, this is absurd. No one who knows Rose would believe for one second that she would harm one hair on Daisy's head.”

“Simon, answer the detective's question,” Skweski said. “He has to set up a timeline for everyone, including you and Rose.”

“I was at the kitchen at Rosemary's until I went home. I'm not sure what time I talked with Rose, but I'm sure she was home.” Simon shook his head; he suddenly looked very tired and old beyond his years. “If you have any more questions for us, you can reach us at University Hospital in Madison.”

Skewski walked Simon back to his car and Joel went back into the house.

“Did you interview Daisy before she went to the art gallery?” Lacey asked Joel.

“Yes, the interview should be transcribed this morning. I'll get you and Lark a copy. She and Paul Larsen worked together in Chicago. He recommended her to his clients who needed a decorator. They also had an on-again, off-again relationship. I'll bet the women's underwear we found at Paul's was hers. She said she kept a few things there. She didn't have any idea who killed Paul, but she did say that he and Rose were fighting about the conversion of the house to a bed-and-breakfast and the long-lost carnival glass.” Joel glanced at Lark's puzzled face. “It's a long story about some barrel of carnival glass that's been missing eighty years.”

“Why didn't the Gradoutes' have Paul design the bed-and-breakfast?” Lacey asked.

“Daisy said Paul was against converting the house and Rose and Simon were arguing with him about it. They couldn't ask him to design something he was against.”

Skewski interrupted them, pulling Joel and O'Flaherty outside.

“I'm going to go check out the second floor,” Lacey said over her shoulder. She trotted upstairs, where she found three bedrooms and two baths. She discovered two suitcases sitting open on luggage racks in the cavernous walk-in closet attached to the master bedroom. It looked like Daisy had rummaged through both of them. A pair of Tod's loafers, jeans, and a long-sleeved T-shirt lay in a heap on the floor of the closet. Three outfits with color-coordinated lace bras and panties were flung on the bed.

“She couldn't figure out what to wear?” Lark asked from behind her. “Matching sexy underwear means she was expecting more than just dinner?” Lark cocked his eyebrow at Lacey.

“That's my guess, but it doesn't feel right that she would have a hot date if she had been seeing Paul off and on. Although, from the looks of her wardrobe, especially her shoes, maybe she wore this stuff all the time.” Lacey wandered over to one of the dressers. “By the way, those in the know call it lingerie, not underwear.”

“Sorry, it's a little hard to keep up with Victoria's latest secret in the wilds of Wisconsin.”

“There's always the catalog,” Lacey said over her shoulder. She opened one of the drawers in Daisy's dresser and pulled out a rainbow collection of lacey bras and panties. “Looks like she spent more money than I make in a year on shoes and underwear.”

“That would be lingerie,” Lark quipped.

“Funny, very funny.”

Lark went to check out the other bedrooms. They perused the rest of the upstairs and found nothing and decided to leave the evidence techs to finish their work.

“Hot date or not, we'll have to get that Hardy Gallery guest list.” Lark sighed, thinking his day was going to be shot to hell and wondering why he'd agreed to work on his vacation.

After giving instructions to the evidence techs, Joel and O'Flaherty ran them down the road to pick up Lark's Jeep. It was five-thirty and the gray light of a foggy, overcast morning was just beginning to seep into the sky. The air smelled heavy with rain. Lark and Lacey drove over to the Anderson Dock and found that the Hardy Gallery didn't open until 11
A.M
.

“I'll run you back up to Fish Creek so you can get a little sleep and come back here and take a nap,” Lark said as he sped south on Highway 42. “I'll pick you up at eleven so we can be at the gallery right after it opens.” Lacey agreed and dozed until Lark dropped her off in front of the White Gull Inn.

Lark called John to cancel their golf game as soon as he got back to the Edgewater. He fell into bed, not moving until his alarm went off at ten.

May 31—Ephraim, Wisconsin

Lark picked Lacey up on the dot at eleven. They drove across the road to the Hardy Gallery. The owner, who had just opened the gallery, had already heard about Daisy and was devastated by the news. She told them that she and Daisy had known each other for years. She agreed to print off her invitation list and make copies from the guest book. She told them that Daisy had come to the reception with Simon and Rose Gradoute. She didn't recall Daisy spending an unusual amount of time with anyone in particular or getting into an argument with anyone.

They wandered around the gallery looking at the exhibits while they waited for the owner to make copies. Lark was fascinated by a large bowl that had been turned from a sycamore burl. He'd always thought he'd like to learn how to work with wood but he had never had the time. Lacey was tempted to buy a red-glass-bead necklace and matching earrings. They got the list and left, both vowing to come back and look around in their spare time.

“An hour ago sleep was more important than any meal, but now that I'm up, I'm starved. Let's grab breakfast while we go over the lists,” Lacey said.

Lark drove the short distance across the road to the Old Post Office Restaurant. The cheerful white wallpaper strewn with cherries and the smell of fresh coffee relaxed what could have been a tense meal. They ordered and got their coffee right away.

They reviewed the lists until their food came and then ate in companionable silence listening to the discussions around them. Locals talked about who was back and who had not yet shown up for the summer. They asked the wait staff whom they'd seen this season. Tourists talked about their plans for the day and asked the wait staff questions about local galleries, shops, and restaurants. They had just finished eating when John and Ann strolled hand in hand into the restaurant. Lark invited them to join their table. Lacey watched as John pulled Ann's chair out and kissed the top of her head after he got her seated. Ann beamed a smile at him as he sat down.

“How long have you two been married?” Lacey asked.

“Too damn long,” John said into his menu. He pulled away to avoid Ann's swat on the arm.

“Twenty years. Twenty mind-numbing years,” Ann said into her menu.

“Mind numbing? Mind numbing?” John repeated when Ann didn't come out from behind her menu. “What the hell was that all about?” He snatched her menu out of her hands.

“Payback's hell, isn't it, darling?” Ann grinned into his eyes.

He shook his head and laughed. Lacey watched them discuss what they were going to have for lunch and her heart ached. She couldn't fathom what it must be like to be together like that for decades and still enjoy each other.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the conversation two people were having at the table behind her. She noticed that Lark was quiet and seemed to be listening to them babble on about Daisy DuBois. From what Lacey could hear, Daisy's housekeeper had called a friend who had told the woman at the table about Daisy. The couple then went on to speculate if Daisy had been dating the now deceased Paul Larsen since they had seen them at the Shoreline, the White Gull Inn, and the Viking fish boil together the previous summer. Lark told the Ransons that he and Lacey had to get going. They paid their bill and left the restaurant with Lacey wondering what the rush was.

“Did you hear those people behind us talking?” Lark asked as they climbed into his Jeep.

“Yes, it's just like so many other small towns around the country; everyone is into everyone else's business.”

“You could sit around in these restaurants and hear what just about everyone who lives here is up to. Remember when we were in Mann's Mercantile on Washington Island? We listened to people talk about who was still gone and who was back, right in the aisles of the store. People talked about when they were leaving and coming back during the summer. I've heard it in every restaurant we've been in. That's how someone could come up here and find out what houses to rob.” Lark called Joel on his cell phone and they agreed to meet at the Edgewater parking lot.

“Remember, I've still got those two people that worked for all three house-cleaning companies to check out,” Lacey said, her mind racing. “How would the burglar know who people are and where they live if he's just picking them out from conversations he hears in restaurants?”

“He could follow them when they leave the restaurant.” Lark pulled in at the Edgewater. “He could work in a store or restaurant up here or know someone who does.”

“This is one idea we hadn't thought of.” Lacey thought about all the possibilities and her head began to hurt.

Joel pulled in the lot and he and Russ O'Flaherty got out of his car. “What set your pants on fire?” Joel asked as Lark led them up the wooden stairs to his suite.

“Moonlighting for the state police must pay quite well in Wisconsin,” Russ said, looking around the spacious living room and kitchen.

“I came here on vacation with some friends. Joel roped me into spending part of my two weeks off working for the state after I got here.” Lark made a fresh pot of coffee and they sat down at the snack bar to discuss his theory.

Joel nodded. “That's one way the thief could know when people are not going to be home.” His cell phone rang. He walked away from them to take the call. He told them he had to go meet Skewski and left after Lark and Lacey agreed to get Russ back to his vehicle.

“I spent yesterday wandering in and out of galleries and antique shops trying to get a feel for the place. Come to think of it, there was a lot of gossip and chatter about who was back and who was gone,” Russ said. “This is a very close-knit, friendly community. Everybody knows everybody else's business.”

“Now what?” Lacey asked.

“I'd like to have your full list of what's been stolen. I've got a partial list from the insurance companies I'm working for. I'm going to send it to my auctioneer and antique dealer e-mail groups and see what we get. Some of this stuff may have already been auctioned off or sold on-line. That's the best way to move it in a hurry.”

“You're kidding.” Lacey gasped.

“It will be very difficult to tell because only the original paintings are one of a kind, but if we see several of these items together in one sale, it may lead us to the thief.” Russ got up to top off his coffee.

“What about the paintings?” Lark asked.

“Pence is a regional artist so he probably went into a collection in the upper Midwest. The Hockney is a different story. It could have gone into a private collection anywhere around the world and we may not see it again until the person who owns it dies and it comes up for sale. We'll register the three paintings with the FBI on their NSAF list and the Hockney on the CoPAT list and see what happens. We may be able to register some of the other items on NSAF as well.”

“I'm not familiar with NSAF and CoPAT,” Lacey said.

“NSAF is the FBI National Stolen Art File. It's a computerized list of stolen art objects valued at two thousand dollars or more. They'll post a photo and description on their Web site for all law enforcement officials to access. CoPAT is the Council for the Prevention of Art Theft, based in England. We'll register the Hockney there because it has international appeal. They maintain a computerized list of stolen art objects and also do a lot of prevention education.” Russ wagged his eyebrows at Lacey. “It's a little late for prevention, don't you think?”

Although Russ's words were innocent, his eye contact wasn't, and Lacey found herself blushing. She wasn't quite sure why.

“We also need to get the name of every gallery owner and antique dealer here in Door County.” Russ nodded at Lark. “Based on what you've just told me, we should also get the names of all the restaurant owners and their staff. We'll run them through the state and federal criminal databases and see what we come up with.”

Lacey agreed to have a complete list of all the stolen items on a computer disc by the end of the day. Lark took on the job of getting the lists of all the businesses and their owners and staff. Lark drove Lacey and Russ to get their cars. Russ was also staying at the White Gull Inn.

The sky had been overcast most of the morning. It began to rain as they exited the town limits of Ephraim.

“At least you aren't missing out on golf today,” Lacey said.

Lark grunted his response and Lacey turned her conversation to Russ. “What got you into the private investigation business?”

“Money.” Russ laughed. “I've got three ex-wives and seven kids. You can't support all that on what the FBI or the Illinois State Police pay.”

“Seven kids,” Lacey said in wonderment.

“Ages twenty-six to seven. I love every one of them but I sure don't want any more. I don't know what it is. I just look at a woman and she gets pregnant.”

“Well, don't look at me, that's the last thing I need.” Lacey burst out laughing. “Is there a current Mrs. O'Flaherty?”

“No, but I'm always on the lookout for my one true love.” Russ gave her a devilish grin.

“I've never known you to have just one love at a time,” Lark said, glaring at Russ in the rearview mirror.

“I remember a time when you and I ran neck and neck in that department. Only difference was, I usually married one of my loves and you didn't.”

Lark said nothing and Russ turned his attention back to Lacey. “The White Gull is my third wife's favorite place in Door County. We made some great memories and at least one child there.”

“Then it must be painful to stay there,” Lacey said.

“Good God, no, I remember the great times. Who wants to relive the bad ones.”

Lark pulled up in front of the White Gull Inn. Lacey told him she'd call for an update later that day, and she and Russ got out of the Jeep. As they walked away from Lark, he heard them talking about getting together to share their progress over dinner.