Dead Rapunzel (3 page)

After Lew had filled him in on the status of the victim and the truck driver's allegation that the woman had been pushed, Todd asked, “And you believe him?”

“I do,” said Lew. “The look in his eye, I believe him.”

Todd glanced over at Osborne, who said, “I do, too.”

“So I've been thinking,” said Lew, tapping her pen on the counter. “The snow and ice and the freezing temps make this not the easiest crime scene to work. So we'll have to do the best we can. We'll follow the usual protocols, but when it comes to photos, it is so cold that our cameras may not work very well. For one thing, the tracks left by the truck's tires after the driver started to brake indicate he didn't see her until the last minute. We need to document those, but I'm worried.

“Hate to shoot the scene and find everything blurry, which is what happened two weeks ago when I tried to take shots of an eagle that someone had poisoned. I thought I would ask Ray Pradt to help out with the photography. He's shot winter scenes for his calendars, so he must have equipment that will work in cold weather—”

“Not only that, Chief,” said Todd. “We have our cameras in our warm cars. I think it's the temperature difference when it's this cold that affects the lens. I'll bet you anything Ray keeps his gear in that old pickup of his. And if that beater has heat, I owe you money.”

“You're right,” said Lew. She turned to Osborne. “Doc, can you try to reach Ray? He can't be ice fishing on a day this cold. Tell him I need black-and-white as well as color. With all this snow, the black-and-white might pick up shadows. Tell him I want shots of the roadway as well as the street in both directions: the buildings, the sidewalks, cars parked nearby. If anyone walks by while he's shooting, I want photos of them, too. This is hardly tourist season, so it will be good to know who's crazy enough to be out and about when it's this cold—and why.”

“Another thing, Chief,” said Todd. “Checking the weather this morning, it's going to warm up. If we have a melt, any evidence left in the snow, the tire tracks, any tracks left by the individual who pushed the victim, are likely to disappear.”

“Good point,” said Lew. “Damn, it's so overcast now and it'll be pitch black by five. Whew—talk about a short window. Not sure if tracking will be of any value, but let's start with the driveway. That's where the kid saw the old guy running before the victim was pushed.”

“What direction did he go?” asked Todd. “If we know that—”

“We don't. All we have is the driver insisting he saw a man push the victim before he hit her. His focus was on trying to stop his vehicle and avoid a further catastrophe.”

“Look, Lew,” said Osborne, aware of her frustration, “I'll take care of reaching Ray. I'll tell him you need the photos and possible help with tracking if you and Todd come across anything. Does that sound right?”

“It's a start,” said Lew. “Doc, you can help by going through that woman's purse one more time. I have to reach her next of kin, and no luck with that cell phone. I have Dani getting in touch with the provider in hopes they'll give us the code. Until then the phone is locked. While I found the wallet with the license and credit cards, I haven't had time to go through the rest of the stuff in that bag.

“Looks like there's a lot in there, too. Makeup, medications, who knows what else. If you would go through it and make a list of the contents, that would help. If you don't find any more personal information, let me know. I may have to ask you to drive out to the address on the driver's license and see if we can reach someone at the home or a neighbor—”

“I'll take care of it, Lew.”

After Lew and Todd left the café, Osborne poured one more cup of coffee and settled in with his assignments. Any time spent in the warmth of the little café was fine with him. First on his list was to reach his neighbor. He punched Ray's cell number into his phone and waited.

When Ray didn't answer, Osborne waited for his voicemail, wondering what he would hear this time, since Ray had a habit of recycling messages ranging from the insightful (“This is Ray Pradt hoping you ‘fish like it matters'—and leave me your number”) to the profane (a riff on “wedding tackle” that Osborne had learned to cut off before the ribald punch line). He wondered if Ray's voicemail messages would have been different if the guy had been a responsible husband and father instead of a not-bad-looking, unattached fishing guide living in a trailer home painted to look like a fearsome fish.

This morning the voicemail was one of Ray's birdcalls—the trill of a spring robin (highly inappropriate in Osborne's opinion, given that any bird outdoors would be a frozen specimen)—followed by “Yep, it's thirty below and falling. This is Ray—leave your name and number. Will return from the Caribbean one of these days.”

“Ray,” said Osborne, “I know you're there and I need to talk to you ASAP. Lew's got trouble—” Before he could finish, his phone buzzed with Ray calling back.

“Got it. Be there in fifteen,” said Ray after Osborne had filled him in on the situation. “Tell Chief Ferris not to worry. Both my cameras work fine in weather this cold. Chances are I'll have photos for her to review this evening—got everything digital now, y'know.

“By the way, you say it was old man Tomlinson's wife who was run over? I guided that guy a couple times back about ten years ago—Phil and a couple of his buddies. As I drive over, I'll see if I can try to remember who else was there.”

After entering as much information on the death certificate as could be done with the information available, Osborne reached for the victim's purse, which Lew had left on the table beside him.

It was the type of bag that his daughters carried: roomy, with straps long enough to be slung over the shoulder. The black leather was of good quality and the interior held several zippered compartments. Opening the purse, he could not help feeling guilty. Years of living with his late wife and raising two daughters had drilled into him the horror of violating the privacy of a woman's purse. Today was different: He had to hope the purse held secrets.

Osborne settled the bag on his lap and pulled it open so he could see the interior. He pulled out a red mesh envelope holding a compact, a tube of lipstick, and one ChapStick. Also in the bag were two pens and a small comb. Loose in the purse were a hairbrush with a colorful cloth cover, a small flashlight, two packets of Kleenex (one opened), a case with sunglasses, and another case with what looked to be reading glasses.

A zippered side pocket yielded a checkbook, a set of car keys, and a black leather card case. Cards that had been slipped into both sides of the small case included ones for a dry cleaner, a lawyer, a shoe-repair service, a building contractor, and three different individuals who appeared to be academics—one at Marquette University, another at Northwestern, and one at Yale.

The last card belonged to an art dealer from Venezuela. Then, folded tightly and tucked behind the art dealer's card was a slip of paper on which was written in longhand the following:

“In case of an emergency, my primary physician is Dr. Jerome Grant at Marshfield Clinic. My oncologist is Dr. Fred Waring at Marshfield Clinic. My emergency contact is Judith Fordham . . . ” A cell phone number was included, as were phone numbers for each of the physicians.

To be sure he hadn't missed anything, Osborne reached back inside the zippered side pocket. Crunched into folds at the bottom was another piece of paper. Unfolded and smoothed out, it was a full-page listing of passwords for different devices and websites. At the bottom, as if it had been recently added, was the code for an iPhone.

Osborne reached for his own cell phone to call Lew. “Lew, I think I found the code to unlock the cell phone. Also the name of an emergency contact—do you want me to call that number?”

Lew didn't hesitate. “Yesterday.”

“Hello. Who is this?” asked a woman's voice.

“This is Dr. Paul Osborne in Loon Lake, Wisconsin. Am I speaking with Judith Fordham?”

“Yes. Why? How did you get this number?” The voice held an edge. Osborne hoped the call wouldn't be dropped before he could explain himself.

“I'm calling regarding Rudd Tomlinson—”

“Oh,” said the woman, “I'm sorry. I thought you were someone asking for a donation. Let Rudd know I'm almost there. Maybe twenty miles away. But the roads are not great, so I'm taking my time. Please tell her I should be there before lunch and sorry I couldn't return her call. I tried, but sketchy service out here—kept dropping me.”

“I . . . um . . . ” Osborne wasn't sure where to start.

“Did you say your name is Osborne? You must be the new marketing director, but I thought we weren't meeting until next week. I am sorry to be running so late—it's the ice on these roads! Please tell Rudd she can start without me. A-a-n-d I can't
wait
to hear more about her amazing purchase.”

“That's . . . ah . . . why I'm calling,” said Osborne, surprised to feel pressure against the inside of his eyelids. “Your friend is dead. She was hit by a truck this morning.”

Silence on the phone. A long, long pause. “Say that again?” No edge in her voice—only the quiet that comes with disbelief.

“I'm Dr. Paul Osborne—acting Loon Lake coroner. Our chief of police, Lewellyn Ferris, asked me to call you. We found a note in the victim's purse listing you as the person to be notified in case of an emergency. So I'm sorry to be calling with bad news. Are you Rudd Tomlinson's next of kin?”

“No, I'm not. I'm her friend—the one she counts on.”

“Can you help us reach her next of kin?”

“Yes, of course. But can that wait until I get there? I'm her closest friend and I know the family well. They are not very nice people, and Rudd would want me to be the one to deliver the good news.”

Osborne stared down at his phone: This was an odd conversation. “So you do know how to reach them?”

“Unfortunately.” The edge was back, though Osborne didn't feel it directed at him. “Did you say this was an accident?”

“Not sure. The driver of the vehicle involved—a large logging truck—said that he saw someone push Mrs. Tomlinson. Now, I probably shouldn't be telling you that because it hasn't been confirmed, so please don't say anything—”

“Don't worry. I won't.” And Osborne knew she wouldn't. Judith Fordham was blunt if not a touch cynical. She had an officious way to her. “Pushed, huh?”

“That's what the truck driver said. Chief Ferris has no one in custody—just a witness who may have seen a person in the vicinity and the truck driver. Hopefully, we'll know more when you get here. With the roads so bad I'm not sure we should be talking.”

“Sure, I'll get off the phone, but one more question . . . ” A long pause; then, “Do you think my friend knew what hit her?” The edge had given way to sadness.

“I—based on my initial exam, I am sure she died instantly.” He didn't add the obvious, that the question ultimately was unanswerable.

“Hmm. Well . . . Rudd might be okay with that. Look, Dr. Osborne, I should make it into town within fifteen or twenty minutes. Has Rudd . . . Has her body been moved?”

“Not yet.”

“Please tell whoever is in charge not to move her until I get there.” And with that, the woman's voice broke. “Sorry, I have to pull over. I—”

“Take your time,” said Osborne. “I'll give you directions. I'm afraid you'll have to park at the top of Main Street, as it's been blocked off until the police and EMTs are finished.”

The woman who walked into the café half an hour later had composed herself. She was bundled into a long, black, quilted coat, with a bright red scarf muffling her chin and earmuffs of black fur covering her straight brown hair. The skin around her eyes was blotched, but she was not crying.

Undoing the scarf, she shook Osborne's hand and then hurried over to the picture window at the front of the café. She leaned forward, her gaze intent on the figure lying in the middle of the street. “How much longer will they keep her out there? It is so cold!” She was still speaking when Lew walked in the café door. Osborne pointed toward the woman standing at the window.

“Judith Fordham, I'm Lewellyn Ferris, Chief of the Loon Lake Police and in charge of this investigation,” said Lew, pulling a glove off her right hand as she extended it. “I am so sorry about your friend. And I'm sorry Officer Donovan wouldn't let you near her body, but the circumstances right now are complex. We've been told she may have been pushed in front of the truck that hit her.”

Judith's eyes went black as she said in a deliberate tone, “I am not surprised. Rudd recently inherited a great deal of money under circumstances that upset a number of people. And we all know what
that
can do.”

“Dr. Osborne said you know how to reach her next of kin?”

“Yes, I have been Rudd Tomlinson's closest friend for twenty years and I know how to reach the family, but by that I mean her late husband's adult children. Rudd herself has no living relatives. If it is okay with you, Chief Ferris, I think I would rather call them a little later when I have some privacy and I can reach them on a landline phone—my cell phone isn't working great up here.”

“Certainly, but in the meantime there are some legalities that have to be handled. Whom do I contact?”

“That's me. I am the executor of her will, which is how I know that I am her legal heir, and
that
, for the record, will come as a surprise to the Tomlinson crowd.” She gave a grim smile. “Will her body be out in the cold like that much longer?”

“No. I'm about to let the EMTs move her. We needed photos in order to document what may be a crime scene, but I believe the photographer has finished his work around the victim.”