Dead Rapunzel (6 page)

“And then there is Tim,” added Judith with a sigh of exasperation. “I am not sure where he is. I left him a voicemail asking him to call me. He likes to say he lives in Quebec, but he is here a lot. Oh, and he also spends his winters on the island of Bonaire, so he may be there. I have no clue.”

Looking down at the sheet of paper that Judith handed her, Lew said, “Thank you. This is very helpful. Does Rudd have siblings? Parents? Other people who need to be informed? I am happy to make those calls.”

“No, just Philip's adult children, her stepfamily. Her folks are dead and no siblings. Except for me. Like I said, I was her closest friend.”

“And heir. Isn't that what you told Sloane?” asked Lew.

“Afraid I exaggerated a bit,” said Judith. “Her will puts me in charge of her assets but in the sense that her wishes will be carried out. I can tell you about that later . . . happy to. It's sure to infuriate some folks.”

“So perhaps you should be careful?” Lew made it sound like she was kidding.

Judith paused and looked hard at Lew and Osborne. “If anything happens to me, nothing changes. The sooner Sloane, Tim, and Kenzie learn that—the better.”

Judith picked up her coat and headed toward the door leading into the foyer.

“Judith, hold on just a minute,” said Lew. “I want to run something by Dr. Osborne before you leave.”

Lew motioned for Osborne to follow her into the kitchen, where she lowered her voice to say, “What would you think of the three of us getting dinner at the pub, Doc? If you have time, it could really speed up getting more background information on the Tomlinsons. I know nothing about that family, and you did say that you might have some information in your files. Maybe you could check on that before we meet for dinner?”

“Good idea,” said Osborne. “Although . . . are you planning to tape our conversation? It can get pretty loud in the restaurant.”

“Not yet,” said Lew. “I want to keep this casual. But we can both take notes.”

“You mean I can take notes,” said Osborne, correcting her with a smile.

“If you wouldn't mind—you're awfully good at it.”

“Sure.”

Lew walked back across the room to where Judith stood waiting. “Dr. Osborne and I are planning to have dinner this evening at the Loon Lake Pub, which is not far from the Inn. Would you like to join us? That is, if you're not too tired. This has been a grueling day.”

“I would. I would like that very much,” said Judith. “I'm anxious for you to know more about Rudd before you meet Philip's family.” She paused. “I'm not sure they'll be fair in their remarks about her.”

“This won't be exactly social,” said Lew. “One or both of us will be taking notes as we talk. Are you comfortable with that? If you aren't, I'll arrange for a more formal interrogation tomorrow.”

“No, no, however you want to discuss things is fine with me,” said Judith. “Frankly, I would just as soon not be alone right now. I feel so . . . flat. Company will be good.”

Lew gave her a pat on the shoulder. “I know what you mean. Now, if you are okay driving yourself into town, get yourself a room at the Inn and I'll pick you up at six-thirty for dinner. But you'll have to look for a beat-up red Mazda pickup with a white topper—after office hours I drive my fishing truck.”

“Sounds wonderful,” said Judith with a grateful smile.

As he drove home to change for dinner after Lew had dropped him off back at the police station, Osborne thought back over the day. Seeing Sloane had jogged his memory of her mother, Caroline. He remembered that summer day long ago, when Caroline had rushed a teenaged Sloane into his office after she had fallen walking down to their dock and loosened one of her front teeth.

“You have to be very careful now, Dr. Osborne,” Caroline had said, making her opinion of small-town dentists clear. “My Sloanie is the prettiest eighth grader in Shorewood Country Day, which is the most prestigious private school down where we live.” Caroline spoke in a high-pitched, nasal tone, emphasizing the name of the private school and stroking her daughter's hair as she spoke, the implication being that no one else had a girl child quite so lovely, and certainly no children in Loon Lake could even hope to attend a private school.

The smirk on the teenager's face, paired with an overdose of eye shadow and lipstick, made it obvious she was her mother's daughter. Osborne doubted athletic activity of any kind would be high on this girl's list.

At first Caroline had refused to leave the room during Osborne's exam. “Mrs. Tomlinson,” he had said while turning on his stool to face Caroline, “you have a choice. Either you leave this room while I examine your daughter or the two of you can leave and find another dentist. I do not allow parents in my room when I have a patient in the chair. It is too distracting. Have I made myself clear?”

He had kept his voice low and authoritative as he told his lie: He didn't allow parents in the room for a reason that had nothing to do with distraction—too many adults had an unreasonable fear of the dentist and could be very effective at communicating that to their offspring. Take the parent out of the equation and most kids, whether aged five or fifteen, would listen to Osborne and relax. The few who had been so indoctrinated by fearful parents that they continued to quiver and cry would hear Osborne repeat the option of going to another dentist. That usually shut them up.

Caroline had acquiesced only after demanding that she be allowed to sit within hearing distance “in case Sloanie needs me.” A small-boned woman with cramped features, hair too blonde, and a powdered face, Caroline had hit Osborne wrong the minute she had barged into his office that day. Nor did it help that she had been rude to his receptionist. But after a pause, while debating Osborne's directive, she had agreed to take a chair in the waiting room.

Osborne was relieved when he saw that Sloane's loosened tooth—so long as she didn't chew caramels or crunch down on peanut brittle—would heal itself. Meanwhile, it was August and chances were excellent that if she did have a problem it wouldn't happen until the family was back home in Lake Forest.

“Be careful, young lady,” he had cautioned her. “You don't want me to have to pull that tooth and leave you with a gaping hole when you smile. Right?” Sloane's eyes had widened at the thought of an extraction: She would be very careful.

After parking his car in the driveway, Osborne let Mike, the black lab, out for a brief run in the snow. It was so cold that the poor dog hopped along on his paws until he had taken care of business.

His owner then trudged along the narrow path he had managed to shovel to the side entrance of his heated garage. Turning on the lights, he opened the door to the small room tucked behind the porch where he cleaned fish, the room where he kept the two tall oak file cabinets he had inherited when he took over his father's practice.

Once again, he was pleased that he had saved all the patient files from his thirty years of practicing dentistry in Loon Lake. The young dentist who had purchased his practice had scanned in the files of current patients before handing those records over to Osborne as well. The files were filled with the memories of people whose lives he had observed over years—some well lived, some disastrous. Little did a patient realize the secrets on display in their mouth: Dental hygiene is a map to one's habits elsewhere in life.

Oh yes—I'm sure at least one Tomlinson is in here, thought Osborne as his fingers moved quickly through the Ts in the file drawer marked “Summer Patients.” The files were grouped into three clusters, each containing a decade's worth of summer emergencies.

Opening Sloane's file, he was surprised by how vivid was his memory of Caroline and a remark she had made that afternoon so long ago: “Yes, Paul,” she had said with an air of deigning to speak to him on a personal level, “our place is quite lovely, but I am sorry to say that it's on Thunder Lake. All we have on our lake are muskie fishermen—I have to spend my whole summer around people I do not need to know.”

That was when she had sighed and said, “If only Philip's grandfather had bought property over in Minocqua. You know, Elizabeth Taylor's brother, the art dealer, had a mansion there. Much classier summer crowd in that area . . . if you know what I mean.”

And that reminded him of Mary Lee.

Over the years of their marriage, his wife had grown more rigid in her attitude toward their fellow residents in Loon Lake, expecting Osborne to spend his free time with the couples in her social clique, activities centered around dinner parties, golf, and bridge. When he would dare to excuse himself to spend time on the water, she was not happy.

His fishing buddies appalled her: “Paul, those men haven't seen a shirt and tie in years—much less a decent shave.” To her mounting chagrin, Osborne chose his friends over hers, forgoing a shirt and tie to slouch into his well-worn khaki fishing clothes (which she made him hang on the back porch) and do his darnedest to avoid the razor.

After all, his philosophy of life (had she bothered to ask during the year of their courtship) was uncomplicated: He chose to practice dentistry so he could afford to fish. But she had never asked and he had never volunteered the information, so it was both their faults that over time their life together did not improve.

After glancing through the file on Sloane, Osborne checked through “Summer Patients” one more time, but she was the only Tomlinson in the drawer. So even though he had heard about the Tomlinsons, that must have been the only time he had met anyone in the family. He checked his watch: Oops—time to change and head back into town.

When Osborne arrived at the Loon Lake Pub and Café, Lew and Judith were already seated at a table near the back of the dining room. Lew would have chosen to sit there for privacy: It was hazardous to discuss anything personal in public in Loon Lake without checking over your shoulder to be sure you wouldn't be overheard by the wrong person.

Tonight the restaurant was half-empty, as few folks were inclined to leave the warmth of their homes given that the temperature was predicted to hit thirty below zero and the sidewalks were treacherous. But for the few who did brave the cold, the dining room was warmly lit and cozy with a zoo of deer mounts, foxes, pheasants, otters, and even a mink grinning down at them.

The two women, deep in conversation, greeted Osborne with smiles as he approached. He was pulling out the chair beside Lew when he saw a look of alarm cross Judith's face. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the problem. Shuffling between nearby tables and knocking chairs aside as it aimed directly for them was a humongous alien hiding in a snowmobile suit.

The creature was at least six feet tall, though a stuffed trout—head and tail extending out over the ears—added another six inches. The figure neared their table, boots clomping across the wood floor, until it reached the chair next to Judith's, where it plunked itself down.

As Judith reared back, Osborne raised a hand. “It's okay—it's just my neighbor. Contrary to appearances, he is not dangerous.”

“Yo, Doc and Chief, ” said the alien as he slapped deerskin mitts on the table, reached up to remove the fish from the top of his head, and turned to Judith saying, “Aren't you as lovely as a forget-me-not in spring.” Judith's eyes widened.

“Judith Fordham,” said Lew, “meet Ray Pradt—one of the deputies I've asked to help out with the investigation. You may have seen him photographing the site in front of the Grizzly Bear Café this morning.

“Ray, you should know it was Judith's very close friend, Rudd Tomlinson, who was killed by that logging truck.” Lew spoke in a tone intended to alert Ray to the fact that this was not the time to be cute.

“That's quite the hat,” said Judith, slightly more relaxed now that it had been confirmed that the interloper was familiar to her hosts.

“Thank you,” said Ray. “This hat . . . ” he paused as he always did in the presence of a female he hoped to impress, “is my motif . . . so to speak.” Lew rolled her eyes at Osborne. They both knew what was coming next and were helpless to put a lid on it.

Ray had a habit of speaking in sentences sprinkled with pregnant pauses that Osborne swore were designed to hold listeners hostage. Apparently, not even the knowledge that someone in his audience might be grieving could get him to hurry words along.

“
Motif
? Not sure if that's the word you want to use,” said Judith. “But then, I'm a college professor and way too critical when I hear someone abuse the English language. Maybe what you want to say is that the hat is your trademark, your
signature accessory
, maybe—”

“Signature
accessory
? I like that,” said Ray interrupting her. “Adds weight to the image . . .
accessory
does. You see . . . the minute people see me and my hat . . . ” Ray raised his index finger to emphasize his point, “ . . . they know exactly my field of expertise.”

“And I am afraid to ask what that is,” said Judith, taking a sip of her wine. “But I'm going to guess it has something to do with fishing.”

“Ah . . . indeed it does. And in the event that you . . . are a
connoisseur
of hats, you might like to know . . . I have a summer trout hat and this . . . is my winter trout hat,” said Ray, tipping the hat over so she could see the snaps attaching furred earflaps that were nearly hidden by the brim of the worn leather cap holding the fish.

“And this . . . ” he said, laying a delicate finger on a shiny fishing lure hanging from the neck of the fish, “this . . . is a memento of a fifty-two-inch muskie I caught years ago.”

“Fifty-two inches! I don't know much about muskie fishing, but I do know that would be one large fish.” As Judith spoke, Osborne could see the sadness that had creased her face all afternoon lighten a bit.