Stiff Competition

by Annelise Ryan

  “This is Chuck Obermeyer,” he says, showing me a DMV picture on his cell phone. “Should we get a table, or wait here for him?”

  “Let’s get a table,” I say. “I’m ravenous.”

  A hostess shows us to one of several empty tables. It’s Tuesday night, not a busy time for any city night life, much less a city the size of Sorenson.

  As soon as we are seated, Giorgio, who is both the proprietor and a magician, comes over to our table to greet us.

  “Mattie Winston!” he says, with a dramatic bow. “How good to see you again.” He pauses and looks over at Richmond. “And who is this you brought with you tonight? A new boyfriend, perhaps?” Giorgio whips a paper flower bouquet from his sleeve and hands them to Richmond. “You might want to butter her up with these, good sir.”

  I smile at Richmond, who is blushing as red as the fake poppies in the bouquet. “This is Detective Bob Richmond,” I tell Giorgio. “He’s a coworker of mine. We’ve been working on a case together.”

  “Oh, I see,” Giorgio says, looking puzzled. “Please, pardon my gaffe.” He stares at Richmond for several seconds and then says, “Are you the same Bob Richmond who used to order takeout from me all the time?”

  “Yes, I am,” Richmond says with a guilty smile.

  “What happened? You no like my food anymore?”

  “I love your food,” Richmond says. “I loved it a little too much for a lot of years.”

  Giorgio looks puzzled so I jump in to explain. “Bob has been on a journey of health and fitness for the past year. He’s lost well over a hundred pounds.”

  “Almost one-fifty,” Richmond says proudly.

  Giorgio nods and looks relieved. “I see,” he says. “Well, I will try not to tempt you too much this evening, then.” He shifts his attention back to me. “And you have some good news, too, I hear. A bambino?”

  “Yes, a little boy named Matthew.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful!” he says with a big smile. “Do you have a picture?”

  I realize I don’t, and instantly feel a twinge of guilt. What kind of mother am I if I don’t have a picture or two to show off? “I don’t have one with me,” I say apologetically. “I have lots of videos of him at home, but I haven’t taken any regular pictures.”

  “Well, you best get on that then and bring me one when you can.”

  “Yes, I best.”

  With the awkwardness now out of the way, Giorgio excuses himself to greet some new arrivals. I hope it might be Chuck Obermeyer, but it’s not.

  A waitress comes by with two glasses of water and our menus.

  “I don’t need the menu,” I tell Richmond. “I have it memorized.”

  He chuckles. “I don’t need it either. I don’t have it memorized, but I remember my favorite dish.” We place our orders—fettuccine alfredo for me and cheese raviolis with a side of sausage for Richmond. We both order salads as well, mine with Italian dressing, Richmond’s with bleu cheese.

  “So what was your take on Cynthia Parker?” I ask Richmond once the waitress departs.

  “I don’t see her for it,” he says. “She seemed genuinely crushed by the news of Lars’s death, so she’s either a stellar actress, or she’s innocent.”

  “I agree. She’s the first person so far to actually shed a tear over Lars’s death, and her pain seemed very real to me.”

  “It’s nice to know someone will mourn the man,” Richmond says.

  “Presumably his family will.”

  “Apparently not,” Richmond says. “The guys out in Colorado called and told us that Lars has been estranged from his parents for years. They didn’t seem too broken up about his death, and they didn’t offer to handle the funeral arrangements, either.”

  “That’s sad,” I say. Families are complicated, messy, and at times, lifesavers. “Do you have any family nearby, Richmond?”

  “I have a brother who lives in Arizona, but we don’t talk much. We were never close.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “They’re both dead. At least the ones I called Mom and Dad are dead. But since I was adopted, I might have some natural parents alive somewhere.”

  “You were adopted? I didn’t know that. Did you ever try to find your birth parents?”

  “Nah, I figured if they didn’t want me back when I was a cute little baby, they weren’t going to want me when I was overweight and all grown up.” He glances over my shoulder and says, “There’s Obermeyer.” Richmond gets up and heads for the door. I turn and watch as he shows Obermeyer his badge and has a brief discussion with him. Then Richmond gestures toward our table and the two of them come my way.

  Chuck Obermeyer looks like the quintessential general contractor. He’s tall with a weathered face, clear blue eyes, and blond hair gone to white at the temples. He’s dressed in blue jeans, a long-sleeved, corduroy shirt, and a lined denim jacket. Richmond introduces us and then motions for Obermeyer to have a seat.

  “We’ve ordered,” Richmond says. “Feel free to do the same.”

  Obermeyer waves the offer away. “I’m really not that hungry. What’s this all about anyway? Where’s Sanderson?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you he’s dead,” Richmond says. “Under suspicious circumstances. Can I ask what the two of you were meeting about?”

  Obermeyer stares at Richmond, his mouth hanging open. Finally he says, “Sanderson is dead? Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” Richmond says.

  “Well, ain’t that a kick in the ass.” Obermeyer lets out a perturbed sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “I suppose that means I’m not going to get the job.”

  “Get the job?” I echo.

  “Yeah, Lars was planning to use me as his primary contractor on that new gated development deal. Damn, I really needed that job. Do you know who’s going to get it now?”

  Richmond and I exchange a look. Clearly Obermeyer has motive, but it’s to want Lars alive rather than dead, assuming he’s telling the truth and not putting on an act. Judging from the way Richmond is scrutinizing Obermeyer, he’s wondering the same thing.

  “So the two of you were planning to discuss this job over dinner tonight?” Richmond asks.

  “We weren’t going to discuss it; we were going to finalize it.” Obermeyer reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a sheaf of papers. “I brought the contract for him to sign.” He hands the papers to Richmond, who opens and reads them.

  Our waitress arrives with our salads and asks Obermeyer if he wants to see a menu.

  “No, thanks. I’m not staying.”

  Richmond looks through the papers and then hands them back to Obermeyer. “Sorry for your loss,” he says.

  For once that line seems both adequate and appropriate.

  “Thanks,” Obermeyer says. Though it seems unnecessary, Richmond asks Obermeyer if he’s a hunter.

  “Hell, no,” Obermeyer says, making a face. “I wouldn’t have the stomach for it. I love animals too much.”

  With that, Obermeyer has hit on one of my own annoying dichotomies—trying to come to terms with my love of animals and my love of meat. I realize how hypocritical it is to get upset with hunters who kill deer and other animals for sport when I’m perfectly content to settle down to a nice juicy steak, or gnaw on some barbecued ribs, both of which, I discovered, can be ordered from Amazon.

  Obermeyer says, “If you don’t need anything else from me, I’m going to go. I’ve got a crew working overtime on a project out on the lake. I need to go check on them.”

  “That’s fine,” Richmond says. “Thanks for talking to us.”

  With that Obermeyer gets up and leaves.

  “I think we can cross him off the list,” Richmond says, digging into his salad. “I’ll have Jonas see if he can find anything in Lars’s office files that verifies his intent to sign up this Obermeyer guy, but even if he doesn’t, I don’t think Obermeyer had anything to do with the death.”

  “I agree.”

  Richmond chews on a
bite of salad as I check my cell phone. “Still no word from Hurley?”

  I shake my head. “I hate this waiting. I’d rather be doing something about it.”

  “Not much you can do that Hurley can’t.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

  Our entrees arrive, and by some unspoken agreement, Richmond and I spend the next half hour eating and chatting about unimportant stuff that has no bearing on our immediate lives or the case. It’s a welcome respite from the intensity of the day, but when we’re done, reality noses its way back in.

  As I check my phone yet again, Richmond says, “Why don’t you send him a message?”

  “I did. Back when Obermeyer was leaving. He hasn’t answered me.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “I want to run home and get in a little time with the kid before I go to my hair appointment. Are you planning to talk to anyone else tonight?”

  Richmond shakes his head and consults his notebook. “First thing tomorrow we’ll get a crew out to those woods to look for some ATV tracks, and Bridget Rutherford is coming in to the station for a chat at nine. Then I need to try to find this Hartwig Beckenbauer guy. I’ve got Laura working on it. He’s not a local so we’re going to have to start with the dead woman, Freda Herman, and see if we can track down any offspring. I suppose we should contact Kirsten Donaldson’s ex, too, and invite him in for a chat. Any chance George Haas would let us into his house to take a look at his shoes and those of anyone else in the house so we can compare them to the footprints we found in the woods?”

  “George might, but I’m betting his mother, Irma, won’t.”

  “Then I’ll have to see if I can get a search warrant.”

  “You might want to add Harry Olsen to your warrant list. He admitted to owning archery equipment, but by the time Hurley asked him to volunteer it for us to examine, he was incensed and he refused. And Olsen has a black and white cat that lives in the museum.”

  Richmond nods and writes something in his notebook.

  “Also, Hurley asked Laura to look into the lawsuits that have been filed against Lars. That might give us some new leads.”

  Richmond stops writing and looks at me. “Of the people you saw today, does anyone leap out at you?”

  “Reece Morton had motive and we thought he had the means, but his archery equipment is all mysteriously missing. Normally that would keep me focused on him, but he has a bad case of Parkinson’s disease with a severe tremor. I can’t see him being able to shoot an arrow with any degree of accuracy. He and Lars did have a fight of some sort at the Nowhere Bar last week, and we should probably follow up on that, but at this point I don’t think Reece could have done it. However, I am intrigued by the fact that his archery equipment is missing.”

  “I’ll stop by the Nowhere Bar tonight before I head home and see what I can dig up,” Richmond says.

  “We know George Haas was out there in the woods either at the time of the murder or shortly thereafter, maybe both. I don’t see him for shooting the arrow that killed Lars, but Hurley’s idea that it might have been more than one person keeps him on my list. Though I don’t know what motive George would have. Cynthia Parker and Obermeyer are at the bottom of my list. I don’t see either of them for it.”

  “Let me take a run at Harry Olsen tomorrow to see if I can talk him into letting us look at his archery equipment. Just to be sure, I’ll submit the requests for the search warrants first thing in the morning. Want to join me for the interview with Bridget Rutherford?”

  “I’d be happy to if there isn’t anything going on in my office.”

  “Why don’t we plan to meet at the station around eight forty-five then? If something comes up with Izzy, or with Hurley and Emily, and you can’t make it, just let me know.”

  With that, we split the check and head out, each of us going our separate ways. I skedaddle home hoping to spend the fifteen minutes I have before my hair appointment with Matthew.

  I pull up in front of my cottage and, as I head for the front door, I peek inside the window. Dom is sitting on the floor with Matthew on a blanket in front of him. He’s playing peek-a-boo, hiding his face behind his hands and then opening them wide as he lunges toward Matthew’s face. Matthew smiles and squirms with delight with each lunge, windmilling his little arms and legs. Sitting on the couch watching is Izzy, but his eyes aren’t on Matthew. He’s focused on Dom, whose own smile rivals that of my son. Dom’s utter enjoyment of this silly little game is obvious, and I can’t help but wonder what Izzy is thinking.

  I head inside, feeling a little guilty that I’m about to interrupt this fun playtime. As soon as Dom realizes I’m home, he gets up from the floor, scoops Matthew into his arms, and squeals, “Mommy’s home!”

  The smile on my son’s face makes all the day’s ugliness and frustration vanish. Dom holds him out to me and I snuggle him against my chest, relishing his warmth, his baby smell, his precious smile. For a few wonderful seconds, the rest of the world retreats and I am happier and more content than I’ve been in years . . . maybe forever.

  “I don’t have long,” I say to Dom and Izzy. “My hair appointment with Barbara is at seven. But I wanted to come by and see my little guy. I really missed him.” I kiss the dark fuzz of hair on top of his head, and he coos. With the sound of his voice, my milk lets down. “My boobs really missed him, too,” I say. “I’ve got enough time to give him five minutes or so on either side. After that, you might need to supplement him.”

  “No problem,” Dom says. “We’ll probably take him over to our place after you leave. We were about to head there anyway to make dinner.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll pick him up there when I get back. My appointments typically last about an hour and a half, and I have to stop by the office afterward to get the bottles I have in the fridge from today, so it will probably be around nine or so before I return. Is that okay?”

  “That’s fine,” Dom says. “Should I save you some dinner?”

  “Thanks, but I already ate. Bob Richmond and I had to meet a person of interest in our current case at Pesto Change-o so I grabbed something there.”

  “How about dessert?” Dom says. “I’m making apple crisp.”

  “You could twist my arm on that one,” I say. “Count me in.”

  I take Matthew into my bedroom and settle into the rocking chair I have there. Seconds later he is latched on and feeding.

  The next ten minutes of my life are quiet, peaceful, and relaxing. For those few moments, everything seems right with the world. But as I finish nursing my son and make myself ready to head out for my appointment, my cell phone rings. And with that ring, everything gets turned upside down.

  Chapter 16

  It’s Hurley calling. I answer with hope in my voice, wanting him to tell me that Emily has finally returned home and everything is fine. But it’s not to be.

  “Any good news to report?” I say.

  “No. None. She hasn’t come home and she still isn’t answering her phone or any of the text messages I’ve sent her. I’m really worried, Mattie.”

  “Have you talked to Johnny Chester again? Maybe she’s been in touch with him.”

  “I did. I went out to his house and talked to his mom and him, just in case he was lying. According to him, the marijuana that was found in his jacket pocket wasn’t his. He said he’d given the jacket to Emily to wear earlier in the day because she was cold, and then later just hung it in his locker when she no longer needed it. He says the marijuana had to have come from her.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  Hurley sighs. “I don’t know. He swears he hasn’t heard from her recently and his mom showed me his phone to prove it. I’m not sure if I believe him about the marijuana, but he looks and sounds as worried as I am about the fact that Emily is missing. Of course, maybe it’s because he’s afraid we’ll find out he had something to do with it. Maybe he got mad at her for the marijuana and did something about it. But his mothe
r swears he’s been grounded at the house since his suspension, and if that’s true, I don’t know how he could have anything to do with her disappearance.”

  “What about her friends? Could she be holed up at someone else’s house?”

  “According to the teachers and a handful of students I spoke to, she doesn’t have that many friends. They say she’s a loner who spends most of her time with Johnny. That’s not her usual. She was much more involved in activities and school events in Chicago. She even had plans to try out for cheerleading right before they moved up here.” He pauses and sighs, and in my mind’s eye I can see him raking a hand through his hair the way he does whenever he’s upset. “I haven’t paid close enough attention,” he says. “I knew Emily was upset by all the changes in her life, but I guess I didn’t realize how much she herself had changed.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up over this,” I tell him. “You’ve been through a lot lately, too. We all have. And we’re all doing the best we know how. Let’s stay focused on the task at hand. Let’s find her and get her home, and then you can start berating yourself.”

  “Right,” Hurley says with no conviction.

  “I assume you’ve tried tracing her cell phone?”

  “I did. It’s either turned off or she took the battery out. I’ve been driving around town, hitting up the spots where the kids tend to hang out, but no has seen her, at least not that they’ll admit to.”

  I rack my brain, trying to think of any other suggestions. “What about your phone records? You pay for the phone, right? Look and see what numbers she has called or texted recently. Maybe that will offer up a new clue.”

  “I already did that. The only numbers that came up were mine and Johnny’s, and those were from last Friday. There haven’t been any since then.”

  “What about e-mails?”

  “Her laptop is password protected and I haven’t been able to figure it out yet.”

  “Do you want me to come over there and help you?”

  “I would love to have you and Matthew here, but I think it might be best if I’m here alone for now. If she decides to come home and sees you here, it might be enough to push her away again. I’ve got the guys who are on patrol this evening keeping an eye out for her and I even gave the county and state guys a heads-up. So I think I’ll sit tight for now and wait, maybe take another run at that laptop.”