Dead Rapunzel
Page 19
“Oh, my gosh, I can’t stand it,” said Kenzie, jumping up and down as she peered over Ray’s shoulder. “How soon can we eat?” She was the happiest Osborne had ever seen her. Had to help that Greg was recovering and able to be there without the wheelchair he had been using.
Standing alongside Ray was Mallory, carefully tending a large pot of water. When the water reached the boiling point, she set a buttered strainer filled with wild rice over the water to steam. Osborne knew the next steps well. After all, it was he who had taught her the secret to cooking wild rice.
Now he watched as she covered the strainer with a blue-and-white dishcloth and waited for the steam to pop the grassy kernels. On the counter beside her was a bowl of sautéed mushrooms, a saltshaker, and a black-pepper grinder, along with more butter—all ready to be tossed with the wild rice. That last step would be his job: He had supplied the rice, Mallory had cooked it, and it was up to Osborne to add the finishing touches to his secret recipe.
Earlier that evening, driving over with his daughter, Osborne had dared to ask Mallory how she felt about Ray and Judith seeing each other almost daily. “I know you and Ray . . . ”
“Dad, don’t worry about it. Ray and I are friends.” She turned to Osborne. “It’s odd, maybe, but we’re better friends than we ever were lovers. Don’t ask me why, but I’m happy with it—and so is he. It’ll be interesting to see how serious it gets between those two. Just hope they don’t break up before they can help me move.”
With an affectionate pat on the knee, Osborne had said, “I am so pleased you got the old Kirsch cabin. It’ll be nice to have you close by.”
Mallory had smiled. “Almost uncanny how it came on the market right when I was looking for an older place on Loon Lake. It needs a new roof and I’ll have to update the plumbing, but it has so much character, Dad. I love it.
“Now that Judith is moving forward on the Tomlinson Museum, I have the job security and the income to enjoy that antique.” And she had chuckled with satisfaction.
Osborne didn’t say anything, but he was pleased, too. It hadn’t been easy, building this camaraderie with his oldest daughter. Maybe it was fighting the same battles with alcohol, paired with their stints in rehab, but they had a friendship now that had not existed when Mallory was growing up.
Or maybe it was as simple as having Mary Lee, with her disparaging comments on just about everything Osborne did or tried to do, now happily ensconced in a heaven designed for neurotic upper-middle-class housewives whose husbands fish too much. Whatever the reason for their newfound bond, Osborne was determined to keep it close to his heart.
Over at the vegetable sink, Judith was busy washing and drying lettuces for tossed salad. She had already mixed a vinaigrette of olive oil and sherry vinegar with a touch of tarragon. And not to be outdone by any of the other guests, Kenzie and Greg had arrived bearing two homemade pies: wild blueberry (“with berries we picked ourselves,” Kenzie bragged) and apple (“from trees Dad and Rudd had planted”). Even Sloane was there, though grudgingly. She had contributed a plate of cheese and crackers. The cheese was a store-brand cheddar. Cheap.
The only person missing at the moment was Chief Lewellyn Ferris. She was working late, as there was to be an arraignment early the next morning of Tim Tomlinson for conspiring with the late Vern Steidl to murder Rudd Tomlinson.
Just as Ray scooped the last bluegill from the frying pan, the door to the foyer opened and Lew bustled in, carrying two six-packs—one of Leinenkugel’s Original and another of Sprecher Root Beer. Shrugging off her police parka, she said, “Am I too late?”
“No,” everyone said in chorus, “just in time.”
Chairs were pulled out and everyone sat down to dinner.
“First, a toast,” said Judith, getting to her feet. “To my dear friend, Rudd, without whom so much of the good feeling around this table might not have happened. If only she could be here, too. Cheers.”
“Cheers,” said all the guests.
When dinner was over and the pies—and ice cream—had been attacked with relish, coffee was served. Again, Judith stood to speak.
“I talked today with the architects for the museum. Over the coming weeks, Mallory and I will be meeting with them and the construction teams so that we can break ground for the museum in early May.
“I want to thank Ray and his friend at Wisconsin Silica Sands, as they were very helpful with the soil testing. The mining engineers tested the fields all around the property and found that the coarse Northern White sand, which is in such demand right now, is limited to a small area close to the shoreline. There is not enough there to make it financially feasible to mine, which is a relief because I love this landscape. Rudd loved it, too. So I am relieved I do not have to decide between building the museum and looking at a mountain of sand. Whew!”
“You have to be the only person in Wisconsin happy not to have that sand,” said Ray.
“You’re right,” said Judith. “The other conversation I had this week was with the bank, to return the assets in the Tomlinson estate not needed for the museum to the family. Except . . . Tim.” There was silence after that statement.
“What if he’s acquitted?” asked Sloane. “He’ll need money to pay his defense lawyers.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” asked Judith.
Osborne was aware that Sloane had been quiet during dinner. She’d responded when spoken to but had not joined the conversations otherwise.
“I doubt he will be acquitted,” said Lew. “I was reviewing the police reports this afternoon. Tim Tomlinson and his defense team have an uphill battle ahead.
“Bruce leaned on a good friend of his and we got the DNA reports in late yesterday. Because we were able to get samples from Vern’s remains, it did not take long to find matches with the samples on the cigarette butts Ray found by where Kenzie’s car had been parked behind the Grizzly Bear Café the morning Rudd was killed, the butts left near the holes in the ice where poor Chip Dietz had been fishing, and the saliva stains inside the old-man mask. Tough to argue with DNA no matter what Tim thinks.
“And that’s only the beginning. Not only will Greg testify to what his father told him about Tim and Vern’s collaboration to put the blame on Kenzie, but I will testify that Vern told me he and Tim planned to split the money resulting from the death of Rudd Tomlinson. Tim’s lawyers are going to find that I’m a damned good witness for the prosecution.”
“To answer your question, Sloane,” said Judith, “I wouldn’t care if he was acquitted. That could only happen on some technicality. As Chief Ferris just said, we know the bargain he made with Vern. No money.
“On a happier note,” said Judith, leaning down to take a sip of her wine, “Kenzie, you will be receiving close to twenty million dollars. You’ll want to talk with a financial planner and decide how to manage that—”
“No, that has been decided,” said Kenzie with a broad smile directed at her husband. “We’re using half to start Greg’s business. The rest will go to endow a treatment center for teenagers diagnosed bipolar, schizophrenic, or with related mental health issues. I’m already talking with the clinic in Woodruff because I would love for the center to be based there.”
“Sloane, what about you? You’ll get the same. Do you have plans for your share of your father’s estate?” asked Judith.
“I’m moving to La Jolla, California,” said Sloane with a smirk. “I am so over the Northwoods.” She gazed around the table. No one looked upset about that plan. But no one was rude enough to say, “We’re so over you, too.”
Jumping to his feet, Osborne said, “If that’s settled, I’m doing the dishes.”
“I’m helping,” said Lew, reaching to clear plates.
And all were happy with that, too.
Later that night, right after Osborne and Lew had climbed into Lew’s double bed ready to snuggle under the quilts, Lew jumped out. “Need to make sure I locked both doors, Doc. Be right back.” She ran from the room.
On her way back, she checked the bathroom.
“Is the window closed, Lewellyn?” asked Osborne.
“Yes,” she said, climbing back into bed beside him.
“Sweetie, do you know how many times you’ve checked the doors and the window tonight? At least four times. And not a door nor a window has moved since we got home.”
“I know. I’ll get over it.”
Osborne knew that Lew liked to think she was tough. Problem was she forgot she was human. Gathering her into his arms, he said, “Lewellyn, I have a plan.”
“You always have a plan, Doc,” she kidded. “What is it this time?”
“We—you and I—will spend every night for the next month here at your place. Hope you don’t mind if I bring Mike along? He’s feeling neglected. Chewed a leg off one of the end tables by my bed this week.”
“Of course not, but why? You love your house.”
“Yes, I do. But I also know how it feels when someone has violated your home.”
Boy, did he ever, remembering as he spoke how the week after a woman had broken into his house and assaulted Mallory that he spent more that month on deadbolts, patio-door locks, and sliding-door security bars than he had all year on fishing lures!
“And you said you’ve been having bad dreams this week . . . ”
He felt her nod against his shoulder.
“Lew.” With gentle fingers he pushed the dark curls back from her forehead. “The plan is we sleep here until you feel safe again . . . agreed?”
She answered with a kiss.
Copyright © 2015 by Victoria Houston.
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Hardcover ISBN 10: 1-4405-6849-9
Hardcover ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6849-7
Paperback ISBN 10: 1-4405-6848-0
Paperback ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6848-0
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6850-2
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6850-3
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Houston, Victoria,
Dead Rapunzel / Victoria Houston.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-4405-6848-0 (pb) -- ISBN 1-4405-6848-0 (pb) -- ISBN 978-1-4405-6849-7 (hc) -- ISBN 1-4405-6849-9 (hc) -- ISBN 978-1-4405-6850-3 (ebook) -- ISBN 1-4405-6850-2 (ebook)
I. Title.
PS3608.O88D4365 2015
813'.6--dc23
2014046176
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
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