Twisted at the Root--A Jane Lawless Mystery

by Ellen Hart

  “I sold one of the Glastons today.”

  “Wow. Congratulations.” Saturdays were always busy at the gallery, though rarely did they ever sell a significant painting on a Saturday. Most people just came to feel artsy.

  “Did I miss anything?” asked John Henry, easing down on the floor next to Kit.

  “I better go unpack our dinner,” she said, jumping up.

  Eli listened politely as his father went on and on about the sale. He smiled, nodded, and acted interested, all the while mentally turning down the sound on what felt like a tedious infomercial.

  25

  As soon as Jane got back to the restaurant that afternoon, she sent several more texts to Peter. The earlier ones hadn’t been returned, which might be all for the good. When she’d left Stillwater state prison, she’d been pretty angry. She’d cooled off a little, though she still needed to talk to him. Even more importantly, she needed his cooperation.

  Everything she’d learned from today’s visit with Rashad pointed directly to the Chenoweth gallery. The timing suggested that both Gideon’s and Rashad’s routines had been studied. Since their habits were regular, whoever had planned the illegal entrance had probably assumed they’d be safe until at least seven fifteen. What they hadn’t counted on was Gideon’s dental appointment. So what had actually happened? Was it premeditated murder, a robbery gone wrong, or something else?

  While Eli seemed the most likely suspect, since he’d been the one to hang Gideon’s artwork, Jane had to look carefully at his father, too. Even Kit, the woman she’d met at the gallery right before lunch, could have been involved. Kit seemed knowledgeable about the art and appeared to have some talent at sales, but she also seemed slick, her nonchalance studied, fake. When Jane introduced herself, Kit appeared surprised. From that moment on, she trained her eyes on Jane and never looked away. Jane could only guess at the reason.

  Eventually, Jane brought up the subject of George, describing him and saying she was hoping she might run into him. He was planning to stop by the gallery before lunch. Kit shrugged, saying she’d gone out to do some errands. Perhaps, if he’d arrived during that time, Eli or John Henry had helped him. As they walked around, she said that Peter was a good friend. She talked about him easily, with a kind of casual intimacy, saying how glad she was that he’d come back to town, that she wished he’d stick around, especially now that his marriage was on the rocks. Jane was more than a little miffed that her brother had apparently confided some of the details to Kit when he’d mentioned virtually nothing about his marriage to her. She was left to wonder if her negative reaction to Kit was mostly the result of that omission. Her most important takeaway from the visit was the knowledge that Peter knew these people well, which made his dinner with Rashad on the night of Gideon’s murder seem even more ominous.

  During the dinner rush, Jane worked for an hour or so as an expediter in the kitchen. The man who usually did the job needed to run to the hospital to bring his mother home. Since they were also short one bus person, Jane spent another hour clearing and resetting tables. She was back in her office by eight, when Nicole Gunness, the ex-police officer Jane had hired to do background work for her, knocked on her door.

  “Come in,” Jane called, standing to shake her hand. “Great to see you. Have a seat.”

  Nicole was a heavyset woman in her midfifties, with dyed blond hair and a sober manner. She’d burnt out as a cop and had no desire to jump through all the necessary hoops to become a licensed P.I. in Minnesota, but she loved investigation and wanted to keep her hand in. “Mike’s here, too,” she said.

  Mike Hustvedt was Nicole’s partner. They weren’t married but had been living together for at least a decade.

  “And my cousin Terry came with us. They’re in the pub having a beer.” Nicole carried a manila folder and an iPad. She handed the folder to Jane, and they both sat down. “Think I’ve got everything you asked for.”

  Jane opened the folder and began flipping through the top pages. “Tell me first about Harper Tillman.” Because Jane had concluded that Eli might be connected to Gideon’s murder, she was even more interested in what had happened to his girlfriend.

  “Not much to tell. She was from Minot, North Dakota. She worked as a reception agent at the Hyatt Regency in downtown Minneapolis for a year or so. No arrests. No known mental health or drug problems. Good student in high school. One year of college at the university in Minot before she dropped out. I talked to her parents. They said Harper had always been a good girl. She wasn’t a partygoer, didn’t engage in risky behavior—to their knowledge, I should add. They’d never met Eli, but confirmed that Harper was head over heels in love.”

  “What about Eli? He must have been a suspect in her murder.”

  “In homicide investigations, the police always look at the male relatives in the woman’s life, so that would also include J. H. Chenoweth, Eli’s father, and all of her old boyfriends. But, yeah, Eli was the prime suspect.” Nicole fired up her iPad. “It turned out to be kind of a turf war between the Franconia Township police and the Chisago County sheriff’s department. I’ve got a buddy who works for the sheriff. He said their investigator was sure Eli had done it.”

  “But not sure enough for an arrest?”

  “What you know and what you can prove are two different things. What they found, however, did seem suspicious. Apparently Harper had been crying at work on the day she went missing. A woman coworker said Harper indicated it was about Eli, but didn’t elaborate.”

  “Was this coworker a close friend?”

  “More of a work friend. She said Harper hadn’t been in the Twin Cities more than a few months when she met Eli. They moved in together almost immediately. The woman didn’t think Harper had many friends in town. She said that at least once a week, a bunch of coworkers would get together after work to go out for a drink. At first Harper went with them, but after she met Eli, she was always doing something with him. They eventually stopped asking.”

  “Where was Eli that day?”

  “He left the gallery early. He never mentioned that to the investigator until the guy independently verified it and came back and asked him about it. Eli said he’d been shopping. He couldn’t provide any receipts or proof of parking. The investigator figured he was lying. And then there’s his weird cell phone behavior.”

  Jane set the folder on her desk and leaned back in her chair. Once again, Nicole had done great work.

  Nicole scrolled through her notes. “Here it is. Eli turned his cell phone off just after four that afternoon. He didn’t turn it back on until almost eight that evening. Odd behavior for someone concerned about his girlfriend.”

  “How did he explain it?”

  “He said he always meditated when he came home after work. He would turn off his phone because he didn’t want to be interrupted. Usually, he said, he would turn it back on right away when he was done, but that night he didn’t. He said he forgot.”

  “Forgot? If he’d really been worried about Harper, he would have been checking his phone constantly.”

  “And think about this: Turning off his phone gave him a four-hour window during which he could have gone anywhere. If his cell phone wasn’t pinging off towers and establishing his location, he was effectively invisible.”

  “What about Harper’s phone?”

  “Never found.”

  “Her car?”

  “She didn’t own a car. She rode her bike to work if the weather was good, or she took the bus.”

  “She didn’t ride her bike to Taylors Falls,” said Jane.

  “No one ever determined how she got there.” Nicole scrolled a bit more. “Here. The police did a search of Eli’s place. He lives on his dad’s property, in a small house about a football field away from the main house. They found his calendar—it was the kind that lets you write a little about each day, laid out one month at a time. He always made notes, his appointments, important things he wanted to remember. The day before Harper wa
s murdered, the space was blank. Same for the day of the murder. That’s the only time in the entire year that the spaces were empty.”

  “Interesting, but as you said, not proof.”

  “Okay, listen to this: During the search, they found a set of steak knives in the kitchen drawer. Twelve serrated knives. Natural rosewood. Full tang. Nice knives. You see them everywhere online, so I’m not saying they were unusual. One of Eli’s knives was missing. The murder weapon was eventually found. It matched those knives. It had been wiped clean, but there was still blood evidence.”

  Jane crossed her arms.”That could be big.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “So other than Eli, who had access to his kitchen?”

  “His father. His father’s wife. Friends?”

  Cordelia had passed along an important detail after their trip to the gallery this morning. Kit Lipton was married to John Henry, the owner of the gallery. The age difference was huge.

  Nicole returned to scrolling. “I did a little research on Eli’s family. His dad—John Henry—is sixty-four. Divorced. Two children, one of whom died in Switzerland years ago while on vacation. He owns the gallery where Eli works. No arrests. He remarried three years ago to Kit Lipton. She was twenty-six at the time.”

  “Yeah, I met her today. Did you do a background check on her?”

  “She moved around a lot when she was a kid, ended up in South Minneapolis. Her mom still lives in the same house. I noted the address in my report. There really isn’t a lot to say. No arrests. Attended Washburn High School. Middling student. John Henry is paying for her to get an online degree in art history.”

  “Did you find any more on the woman who died up near Duluth? The one Eli said was murdered by a serial killer, the same man he maintained murdered Harper?”

  Scrolling again, Nicole read for a second and then said, “As it happens, three days ago, the police found the man who committed the murder. Name’s Don Gilbert. The woman in question, Tammy Seaton, was in her midfifties, a waitress at a cafe in Bayfield. They’d been dating for a while, and she wanted out. He wasn’t having it. It wasn’t a serial killing. I figure Eli was just blowing smoke.”

  Eli seemed to be surrounded by death. First Gideon, and then Harper. Was he the common denominator? Peter might have come home for New Year’s Eve to get away from Sigrid and to spend time with his family, but that wasn’t the way it was turning out. What was going on with him? The thought that he was somehow involved in Gideon’s murder terrified her.

  “Want to hear about Marlo and George Krochak?”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Not really.”

  “We should probably go over it.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.” Nicole returned her attention to the iPad.

  26

  Peter made his way toward the stairway in Cordelia’s house while staring at his cell phone. He had a new email from Mia, one he needed to answer before he turned in for the night. Checking his texts, he saw that, over a period of a couple of hours, Jane had sent him three, each one asking him to call as soon as he got it. He assumed it was about Harper Tillman, that she’d found out something she wanted to pass on. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to her, so he clicked on the last text, which was from Sigrid.

  We can’t leave it like we did the

  other night. I know you need time.

  I never wanted to hurt you. Please

  Peter, come home.

  Instead of heading up to his bedroom, he sat down on a comfortably padded chair in the great room, gazing up at the triptych of stained glass windows. Who the hell built a place like this, he wondered. Had to have been some wealthy megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur, perfect surroundings for Cordelia and her sister—and their delusions.

  An eight-foot-tall Christmas tree still stood in a corner of the room, lit with hundreds of tiny colored lights and groaning under a ton of glittery ornaments. He’d always enjoyed the serene quality of a Christmas tree in a darkened room, the hushed, reverential feel it created inside him. He had so little of that in his life these days. Sitting here, drinking in the quiet, bathed in the soothing light, he felt at peace.

  The mood was broken when Cordelia wandered in dressed in a fluffy pink terrycloth robe and matching slippers. She held a glass of milk. “Peter,” she said, lifting her chin and staring down at him. “I thought you’d be out carousing with your friends instead of sticking around Chez Thorn.”

  “Right,” he said with a bitter grunt. “I spend all my evenings carousing.”

  She dragged one of the channel-back chairs closer to him and sat down. “Jane’s been texting you all day.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, brushing off the question. “I’ll get back to her.”

  “Promise?”

  He tried to hide his annoyance. “Sure.”

  She sat back and studied him. “What’s wrong, dearheart? You seem so preoccupied. Even discouraged. You can talk to me, you know. I am, as always, a font of wisdom.”

  Peter desperately needed a friend. He thought Eli might be that person, but as it turned out, Eli seemed more troubled now than he had years ago. Watching a glass of milk rapidly disappear down Cordelia’s throat, he said, “You really like that stuff?”

  “Milk? Helps me sleep. Want a glass?”

  He shuddered. “No thanks.”

  “How about a bourbon?”

  “I don’t drink anymore. I’m an alcoholic.” The words just slipped out.

  “You’re … you’re…” She couldn’t seem to finish the sentence.

  “I’m also addicted to pain pills and, the cherry on the top of the sundae, cocaine in all its infinite variety.”

  “Oh, Peter.” She slid out of her chair onto her knees, kneed her way over to his chair, and gripped him around the waist, pulling him toward her and pressing her cheek against his chest. “You poor boy. I’m here for you. Anything I can ever do to help you, all you have to do is ask.”

  As much as he fought his feelings, tears burned his eyes. Her arms felt so good wrapped around him. There’d been little human touch in his life for a very long time. He did believe Cordelia cared about him, and he needed that care. Something unlocked inside him. He wanted to tell her everything.

  “How did this happen?” she asked, pulling back and searching his face. “How did I not see?”

  “I never let you see,” he said, helping her up.

  They embraced for a few moments more and then, reluctantly, she resumed her seat.

  “I was a mess before we left Minnesota. Sigrid informed me that if things didn’t change, if I didn’t stop using, we were headed for divorce. I mean, I wanted to change. I hated what my life had become.”

  “You needed a good rehab.”

  He lowered his head. “We weren’t in Buenos Aires a month before I screwed up the filming one day. The writer and the director were furious. Not only was the footage ruined, but we’d wasted time and money, and it was all my fault. I think the writer, who was a friend, suspected I was using. I know the director wanted to fire me. I got a reprieve that time, and I swore to myself that I’d only use at night. But of course, a couple months later I screwed up again, this time even worse. I begged them to give me one more chance. Mia was in a school she liked. Sigrid finally seemed to be settling in. She even had a job prospect. We were supposed to be in the country for at least nine months. I lasted four. There was no money except for the little I had left from what I’d borrowed from Dad. I called a friend in Seattle. He agreed to loan me enough so I could get the family home and find a rehab. But I couldn’t come back to Minneapolis. I was too ashamed. We flew instead to Boston, where one of Siggy’s married brothers has a home. He and his wife let Sigrid and Mia stay with them while I was away.”

  “You could have called me,” said Cordelia. “I would have gladly given you the money.”

  “But then Jane would have found out.”

  She shot him an indignant look. “I can keep a secret.” />
  Like hell, he thought. She would have been so freaked that the moment she got off the line with him, she would have been on the horn to Jane. He couldn’t really blame her, so he never called. “I know you can keep a secret. I just didn’t want to put you in that position.”

  She thought about it. “Well, okay. I guess. Did the rehab help?”

  “It was miserable. But, yeah. When I came out, I felt like I had a chance to repair things with Sigrid and Mia. We stayed with Sigrid’s brother and his family for the next ten months. Sigrid wanted to return to counseling. She’d been interested in cognitive behavioral therapy for years, particularly as it relates to children. She decided to do some coursework. She found a couple of classes at Boston College that interested her, and because she already has a Masters in psychology, they let her in. That’s where she met Dr. Tobias Pool. He was teaching one of the classes. He’s South African, has a home there and one in Watford, England, and is well-known and well-respected in the field. He was so impressed by Sigrid that he began taking her under his wing. He even promised her a work visa and a job at one of his clinics in London if she’d consider relocating. He told her she needed to learn from a master.”

  “He actually said that?”

  “Yup.”

  Cordelia rolled her eyes.

  “When she didn’t immediately jump at the idea, he sweetened the deal by offering to help her get into the CBT program at King’s College in London, another place he teaches. We discussed it. I saw what an incredible opportunity it was for her so, I mean, I agreed. What I didn’t know then was that Dr. Tobias Pool, Toby to friends and sycophants, wasn’t just interested in Sigrid’s brain.”

  “Heavens,” said Cordelia, a hand flying to her chest. “Did she know?”

  “She says she didn’t. Honestly, the guy’s not a looker. He’s probably ten years older than Sigrid, but she was charmed by him, by the attention he paid her and all the positive feedback. I finally found a job working for a group doing a documentary on the far-right political shift in Eastern Europe. I was gone for a month at a time. I didn’t realize that while I was out of the country, Toby was worming his way into my wife’s personal life. When I was home, I sensed that something was off. For one thing, Sigrid seemed happier than she’d been in ages. I told myself that it was because I was out of her life more than I was in it. That kind of self-talk does wonders for a guy’s self-esteem.”