Dead Rapunzel (13 page)

“Chief Ferris, before we check that box, can I show you something?” asked Bruce, beckoning them all into the living-room area. He walked over to the tall case holding the fly rods and pointed to a framed set of colorful trout flies. “What are those?”

“Oh, do you mind if I answer him?” asked Judith, stepping in front of Lew.

“Bruce,” said Lew, “this is Judith Fordham. She was the victim's closest friend and is the executor of her estate. They fly-fished together.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” said Bruce, his eyebrows hitting the ceiling. “You fly-fish?”

Lew held her breath, hoping Bruce would not say something politically incorrect. There was a fierce intelligence about Judith that implied she would not suffer any cracks about women fishing.

“We did,” said Judith. “What you are looking at are trout flies that were tied by one of our instructors when we were at the Wulff School of Fly Fishing. We called them Rapunzels, but I think the official name is a Wilcox Rapunzel Olive. Aren't they beautiful? Too gorgeous to lose to a fish. That's why Rudd had them framed.”

As Bruce leaned in for a closer look, she said, “Fly-fishermen call the Rapunzel ‘a dragon of a nymph.' It's a Size 12 and tied to look like a damselfly. Great for nymph fishing, but Rudd and I never risked losing one. We always used a Royal Wulff since each of us owned dozens of those—and we did best with dry flies.”

“Chief,” Bruce gave Lew a questioning look, “any chance you can teach me how to tie one of these Rapunzels?”

“Not sure. I'll have to check my dead animal room,” said Lew, referring to the corner of her farmhouse where she kept her fly tying supplies. “I'll check tonight and see what I got.”

“Do you mind if I check out these rods?” asked Bruce. “I've taken prints off the cabinet and I'll keep my nitrile gloves on.”

“Judith?” asked Lew. “Do you mind?”

“Go right ahead. That Joan Wulff Winston was Rudd's favorite. It's a honey.”

“Say, Mallory, you back home for good?” asked Ray while Bruce explored the contents of the rod cabinet.

“Not sure,” said Mallory, with a brief explanation of her new position with the Tomlinson Museum. “If everything works the way Judith and I hope it will, I'll be around for at least a year.”

“Good,” said Ray. He put an arm around Mallory's shoulders and gave her a friendly squeeze. She smiled back. Osborne glanced away, relieved to see only friendship between the two.

His eldest daughter and his neighbor were two of his favorite people, but their brief romance two years ago had alarmed Osborne. Mallory, just out of her marriage to a man Osborne had detested, was on an emotional roller coaster at the time. And while Ray was one of Osborne's closest friends, he was not someone Osborne needed to have as a son-in-law. That prospect had been unnerving.

“Ladies,” said Ray when Bruce closed the door to the rod cabinet, “Bruce baby here . . . has twisted my arm . . . ” Ray paused as he raised his right index finger, which was the signal that he was about to deliver life-changing information, “to find a couple of waxies and take him ice fishing in the morning. Judith, have you thought it over—interested in going along?”

“I've never done that,” said Judith. “Sounds fascinating. I'm in.”

“Mallory?” asked Ray.

“No, thank you. I am not a fan of freezing to death. Judith, you go right ahead.”

“Oh, but like I said at the pub,” Judith's face fell, “I don't have the right clothes.”

“Yes, you do,” said Mallory. “I'll lend you my snowmobile gear—pants, jacket, boots, gloves—”

“And I've got a hat you can borrow,” said Ray.

“I'll bet you do,” said Judith, her laugh pealing through the room. It was the happiest Osborne had seen her since she had arrived. “What's a waxie? Do I need to get one of those, too?”

“It's a white worm that Ray carries in his cheek,” said Mallory. “Disgusting.”

“Maybe, but effective,” said Ray. “Walleyes love 'em.”

“All right, attention, everyone,” said Lew. “Now that you've got all your extracurricular activities in order, please help me with the contents of that box that's out in the foyer—the one Tim sent.”

As they walked into the foyer, headlights flashed in the driveway and the outside lights showed a small red sedan pulling in to park behind Ray's pickup. In less than a minute a figure appeared in the glass doorway: Kenzie Steidl.

She was carrying a large covered casserole dish in mittened hands. She backed off as Lew opened the door, saying, “I know the house is still off-limits, but I made wild rice soup for later. It'll keep in the fridge—”

“No, you can come in, Kenzie. We're about finished here,” said Lew.

The sky outside the windowed foyer was darkening as Bruce and Ray helped Lew pull the large, heavy, wrapped rectangles from the box. Judith took the first one over to the small oak bench in the corner, sat down, and started to unwrap it.

As she pulled off the first layer of Bubble Wrap, she looked down at a painting of a barracuda. “What? What was Rudd thinking?”

Looking over her shoulder, Mallory said, “Well . . . it
is
a fish . . . ”

“Not one you see in Wisconsin,” said Judith. “What the hell is Tim up to?”

“Maybe he just wanted her opinion on his work.” Mallory's tone was conciliatory.

“That's not what he told Chief Ferris,” said Judith as she tore down corners of the wrapping of the second and third paintings. She held the second painting out in front of her. “Okay, now we have a family of goats. Great.” She picked up the third framed painting. “And a coral reef. Colorful, yes, but not right for the Tomlinson Museum. All right, let's take a look at the last three . . . ”

Judith sighed as she started to remove the wrapping from the fourth painting. She stopped. She stared at the canvas, then ripped off the remaining Bubble Wrap. No fish this time. The painting was of a naked woman, bound and twisted and with streaks of black blood across her body. A small picture of Rudd's face, which appeared to have been clipped from a larger photo, was stuck in one corner between the canvas and the frame. It resembled the face of the woman in the painting.

“Oh, my God,” said Judith, gasping. Everyone in the room was silent.

She reached for the fifth painting. This time, the figure was a naked child with demon eyes and hands stained black. Again a small black-and-white photo of Rudd's face was stuck up in the corner. The last painting showed a woman's head, deathly white, smashed face-down against a blood-red surface. No photo attached.

Judith looked up at Lew, who had walked over to stand beside her. “Was Tim sending a message?”

“He hurt her, too,” whispered Kenzie. She was standing beside Mallory, close enough to get a good view of the paintings.

“What?” Lew turned to the young woman. “What did you just say?”

But Kenzie, still in her winter jacket, raced for the sliding glass doors leading out of the foyer. She ran down the driveway, but before reaching the road she jumped over the snow bank and disappeared into the dark woods.

Everyone in the room stood still, astonished. Then Ray was out the door after her. Plunging through the snow, he shouted, “Kenzie, stop!” She kept going, staggering thorough the pines, sobbing. Tackling her from behind, Ray brought Kenzie down face-first into the snow.

Lew and Bruce came running up from behind. “Are you okay?” asked Lew, helping her to her feet and brushing the snow from her teary face. “You're hysterical, Kenzie. No one's going to hurt you. Take a deep breath. Another one. Good.” Arm around the girl's shoulders, Lew led her back toward the house.

She escorted Kenzie to one of the sofas in the living room where she had her sit down, take off her jacket, and have a drink of water. Judith, Mallory, Osborne, Ray, and Bruce stood near the back of the room, leaving the two women together.

After a few minutes, Kenzie laid her head on Lew's shoulder. “Does Tim hurt you?” asked Lew, her voice kind.

“He did. I was six years old when he did it the first time. Then he drew pictures and made me look—pictures like that child with the bloody hands and no clothes. That was me.” She lifted sad eyes to Lew.

“When did it stop?”

“The day Greg caught him. We were like ten years old. Greg beat him up. He told Tim he'd kill him if he did it again. So he stopped, but he's always been mean.”

“Did you tell anyone what he was doing?”

“I tried.” Kenzie sniffed. “Sloane told me I was lying.”

“What about your mother? Did you tell her?”

“I tried, but she said I was making it up.” Kenzie took a deep breath. “Mother never liked me. Once she told me I shouldn't have been born, I was an accident, and just looking at me made her mad. I mean, I know why. I've never been pretty like Sloane or . . . cool like Tim.”

Lew dropped her head, thinking over Kenzie's remarks. She looked up. “Kenzie, I have to ask you a couple more questions because I need to understand the dynamics of your family.”

“And when you do that, will you let me know?” asked Judith in a wry tone from where she'd sat down on a stool at the kitchen island. Lew waved for her not to talk.

“Did Tim's hurting you involve sex?”

Kenzie nodded with her eyes closed. “He bullied me into it.”

“I see. Where is he right now? At Sloane's?”

“Maybe. I'm not sure. Sometimes he stays at Vern's place.”

“And Greg's mother? Is she there, too?”

“No. They've been divorced for years. She lives in Milwaukee. She wants nothing to do with Vern. Greg and I spend Christmas with her.”

“Do your husband and his father get along?”

“Vern pays Greg well. Greg is really good with numbers, so Vern doesn't bother him. He needs Greg for the business.

“See, when Dad's cancer came back, we thought that when he died I would inherit a lot of money and Greg could start his own business. That was two years ago and we were wrong. It's hard to make a decent living up here, so Greg really has to work for his dad. Especially if we want to have a family.”

She pushed tears away from her cheeks and looked over at Judith. “If they don't find who pushed Rudd, then all the money goes to the museum, doesn't it?”

“Afraid so,” said Judith. “Kenzie, Rudd told me she helped you get professional counseling. Is that working okay?”

“I think so,” said Kenzie. “I have a good therapist. She says I'm bipolar, so I take meds for that. Sorry about running off. Those pictures are just so . . . evil. They scare me.”

“Have you told your therapist about Tim?”

“Um, no. You're the first people I've told except for Greg.” Kenzie looked around the room with fearful eyes. “You won't tell anyone, will you? I'm afraid what Tim might do if he found out. He told me he would kill me if I ever told anyone. I . . . I know he would, too. I had a baby bird once. He killed it.”

“Tell me if he touches you, kid,” said Ray. “I'll beat the crap out of him.”

“Ray,” said Lew with a warning glance. “Stay out of it.”

“Please, don't make it worse,” said Kenzie. “Greg says he can't hurt me. But whenever he's around, my stomach feels awful. I keep waiting for him to do something.”

“Chief Ferris,” said Judith, “he scares me, too. I can't have those paintings here in the house.”

“I'll take them to the station,” said Lew. Her cell phone rang. She answered, listened, and said, “We'll be there in twenty minutes, Todd.”

The floodlights set up around the holes in the ice where the divers had gone through made the scene on the snow-covered lake bright as day. Black-hooded figures in dry suits and tanks could be seen pulling themselves up from the water like aliens breaking through from the depths below.

With Bruce and Ray following in their vehicles, Lew and Osborne drove across the ice on the snowmobile trail. As they neared the site, they could see Lew's officers, Donovan and Adamczak, huddled near the van belonging to the dive-rescue team along with another man who turned out to be a detective from the sheriff's department. A body in sodden clothing lay face up on a cot at their feet.

“Chief, I'm afraid we've made a mess of the site,” said Todd Donovan, gesturing at all the footprints in the snow and slush, as Lew walked up. “No other way for the divers to go in. It took them an hour to locate the victim as it was. The water in this lake is so dark with tannin that it's hard to see in the summertime, much less when three feet of ice filters the light.”

“I understand. Not much you can do about that,” said Lew. “Have you spoken with the family?”

“His mother is meeting us at the morgue,” said Todd. “She's a widow and doesn't get around real easy. I didn't want her out here.”

“I'll go with you,” said Lew. “Let's step back and let Doc take care of official business before we all freeze to death.”

Opening the black bag that held his instruments and a clipboard with the documents necessary to declare an official cause of death, Osborne knelt over the body of the young man. The snowmobile parka was zipped up to the neck leaving only his head exposed.

With gentle fingers, Osborne tipped the boy's head to one side. “I don't need to tell anyone this victim did not drown.”

He glanced up at Lew. “You may want to consider how much his mother has to see when she meets you at the morgue.” Osborne pried open what was left of the boy's right jaw—several teeth were shattered. The left side of his head was caved in.

“What do you think happened, Doc?” asked Bruce. “I'll have the body sent down to the lab for an official autopsy first thing in the morning, but your thoughts?”