Dead Calm

by Annelise Ryan

  I get in my car, start it, and pull out onto the street. I drive a couple of blocks away—just enough to be out of sight of the reporters and make sure I’m not being followed—and then I pull over to the curb. I take out my phone and dial Jonas’s number. He answers after the first ring.

  “Kriedeman.”

  “Hey, Jonas, it’s Mattie. I have a question about the motel case. There was a hair we found in Craig Knowlton’s car, a blond hair that we collected as evidence.”

  “Yeah, I remember it. What about it?”

  “Were we able to get any DNA from it?”

  “I sent it to Arnie,” he says. “I don’t think he tried. There was no root attached, so there was no point. Besides, all it would prove if we had a match was that the person it belonged to had ridden in Knowlton’s car at some point.”

  “Okay, thanks. I need you or Laura to look into something else for me.” I tell him what it is, and then I disconnect the call. Next, I look up something on my phone and place another call. When that’s done, I dial Hurley’s number.

  “What are you up to?” I ask him when he answers.

  “Just got back to the station. I went out and had a chat with Mrs. Andruss.”

  “Andruss? Who’s that?”

  “It’s a long story,” Hurley says cryptically.

  “Well, you can tell me all about it when I pick you up in a minute. I have some interesting information for you, too. And we need to go buy Emily a car.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, right now.”

  “Mattie, I thought we discussed this. I want her to earn the car herself.”

  “And she has, Hurley. Remember, when she has a car, she still has to pay for things like insurance and gas. She’s worked hard to save up her money, and she’s done it without complaining. And it would help us with our schedules if we didn’t have to drive her everywhere all the time.”

  “She has the bike,” he reminds me.

  “It has a flat tire.”

  “I can fix that.”

  “Sure, but what if it happens again? Plus, I have an ulterior motive.” I sense he’s going to object again, so I tell him what I have in mind.

  “Of course,” Hurley says with a doh tone. “I’ll meet you out back in a minute.”

  I drive to the police station, and true to his word, Hurley is waiting for me in the parking lot. As soon as he gets into the hearse, I say, “Tell me about your chat with Mrs. Andruss.”

  “She called me earlier today and invited me out to her house,” Hurley says. “She saw the news items about our alien bones and said she thought she could clarify things for us. She’s Ted Jenkins’s granddaughter.”

  Ted Jenkins is the elderly farmer we bought our land from. “What did she have to say?” I ask.

  “It seems Mr. Jenkins is suffering from dementia. That’s why there was a power of attorney who signed the paperwork when we bought the land. Mrs. Andruss says they put the old man in a home last week, and she’s been going through his stuff at the house, clearing it out, because they’re going to sell it to help pay for his care. And while going through some old albums and papers she found in the attic, she came across these.”

  Hurley pulls out some photos and shows them to me. I gape at them and nearly drive off the road.

  “Whoa!” Hurley says, pulling the photos back. “Pull over.”

  I do so, pulling to the curb and shifting the car into park. Then I take the photos from Hurley and look at them again. There are five of them, each one showing a little boy who looks to be somewhere around the age of five. The boy has a large, bulbous head, a small jaw, close-set eyes, a narrow, cylindrical chest, and spindly arms and legs. I look at his hands and see that he has only three fingers on each one, a thumb and two other fat digits that look like fingers that have fused together.

  “That’s Oskar,” Hurley says. “Those pictures were taken in the fifties, and they span about five years.”

  “Who is he?” I ask.

  “He was the son of Mr. Jenkins’s wife’s sister, Anna,” Hurley explains. “Anna was about eight years younger than her sister, and lived down south somewhere with her parents. She got pregnant out of wedlock and gave birth to Oskar. As you can see, Oskar had some serious birth defects. Anna’s parents wanted to put him in an institution, but Anna refused. The problem was, she couldn’t take care of the kid on her own because she was essentially a kid herself. She was only sixteen. And her very strict and religious parents were determined to hide the shameful results of her sins.”

  “So in 1951, when Oskar was about a year old, Anna ran away from home and came here to Wisconsin to live with her sister and brother-in-law. She kept it a secret from the rest of the family, afraid her parents would come and try to take her back and lock Oskar away somewhere. Despite his physical deformities, Oskar was fairly bright mentally, so his mother and his aunt homeschooled him and kept him out here on the farm. They kept him secluded and hidden, fearful that if someone in town saw him, word would get out and spread. And then he would be subject to bullying kids, teasing, rude stares, curiosity seekers, and the like. Plus, word might make it back to Anna’s parents. He grew up on the farm until the age of ten. He had something of a fixation with Flash Gordon, Buck Rogers, and space travel, so his aunt made him his own space uniform.”

  Hurley hands me another picture. In this one, Oskar is wearing a costume that is basically a one-piece suit with a round emblem sewn onto the chest. The emblem has a lightning bolt shape on it. Oskar has a huge, joyful smile on his face, and he’s holding a carved wooden item in his hand that looks like a ray gun.

  “The poor kid,” I say. “He looks so happy here, but that body . . .” I look over at Hurley, tears in my eyes. “What was wrong with him? Did they try to get it fixed?”

  “Mrs. Andruss found some medical records that she showed me. It looks like Oskar saw some sort of specialist in Milwaukee who told his mother that he had a rare form of that elephant man disease.”

  “Neurofibromatosis,” I say, nodding. “It makes sense with the hydrocephalus and the other musculoskeletal deformities.” I look at the picture again. “What happened to him? How did he die?”

  “Apparently his uncle built him a spaceship, cobbling together pieces from some old farm equipment, a sled, and whatever else they had lying around. Oskar would haul that spaceship out through the fields to the bluff where we’re building our house, sit in it, and look out over the valley, pretending he was flying. One day he went out there and never came back. When they went to look for him, they found him at the bottom of the bluff, with his spaceship smashed all around him. It had rained a lot in the days right before that, so the top of the bluff was covered with a lot of mud. They found a track in it that looked like the spaceship had slid downhill and over the edge. They figured either Oskar couldn’t stop it when it started to slide, or perhaps he slid on purpose, hoping he could fly.”

  “The fact that he lacked sinuses would have made him prone to dizziness and loss of balance,” I say.

  Hurley shrugs. “Whatever happened, there were no other footprints in the area on top of the bluff, so they didn’t suspect any foul play. And because no one knew of Oskar’s existence, they decided to bury him out there on the farm, at the top of the bluff he loved so much. Before she got locked away, Anna kept a diary. That’s where Mrs. Andruss got her information, though she said she’d heard hints of the story over the years.”

  “Oh my God,” I say, fighting back tears for that poor little boy and his family. “How awful that must have been for Anna.”

  “Apparently, it was too awful,” Hurley says. “Mrs. Andruss also had documents showing that Anna was placed in a home for the mentally ill in October of 1960, and she stayed there until she died from pneumonia four years later. Also in the trunk was a blanket embroidered with Oskar’s name and the dates of his birth and death. He died in May of 1960.”

  “What a horrible tragedy,” I say, shaking my head. I hand Oskar’s pictures b
ack to Hurley.

  “It is a sad story,” Hurley agrees. “But knowing it is good news for us. It means we can clear our land and go ahead with the construction.”

  I look at him, eyes wide. “Oh . . . right! That is good news.” I break into a big smile but immediately feel guilty for doing so. On the heels of the heartbreaking story I’ve just been told, my happiness seems inappropriate.

  “And it also means we can get those damned reporters to go away,” Hurley says. “I swear, they’re like bloodhounds, calling the station ten times a day, trying to catch us going in and out. The dispatchers said they’ve been driving them crazy.”

  “Well, maybe this story will be an even better one for them,” I say. “It will make a sweet human-interest piece.” I shift the car back into drive, pulling out onto the road. And as I’m thinking about those reporters and their drive to get a story, I get the beginnings of an idea.

  CHAPTER 30

  We arrive at our destination five minutes later. As often happens, the sight of the hearse pulling into the parking lot garners some odd stares. We are at a car dealership, and you’d think the hearse would create less of a stir here than it might elsewhere, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. Faces are lined up inside the showroom windows, staring at us and pointing.

  I park, and Hurley and I get out and head for the showroom. We are immediately descended upon by two salesmen. They come at us from opposite sides, one of them saying, “What kind of vehicle would you like to test-drive today?” and the other one saying, “Have you seen the hands-free capabilities in our new Jeep Grand Cherokee?”

  When the two men realize they’ve hit on us at the same time, they stand there and glare at one another for a few seconds. I’d love to watch and see which one of them backs down first, but Hurley destroys both of their hopes by saying, “We’re here to see Chip Cook.”

  Both men immediately drop their happy, expectant expressions and turn away, leaving us standing there. The one who had come at us from the right seems to realize their faux pas a few seconds later, and he turns back. “His office is through that door and up the stairs on the right.”

  He then skulks back into the office he came from. Left to our own devices, we follow his directions upstairs and find a large glassed-in office with the name CHIP COOK stenciled on the door. The door is open, and we can see a man who looks to be somewhere in his forties seated behind a desk, a phone to his ear. He is leaning back in his chair, facing to the right, holding the phone with his left hand and shooting tiny foam balls at a mini basket mounted on the wall across from him. His aim isn’t very good, and I see there are a half dozen foam balls scattered about on the office floor.

  Hurley walks up and knocks on the door. Cook sees us and immediately straightens up, sets the ball he was holding on his desk, and tells whoever is on the phone that he has to go but will call back later. He hangs up the phone and stands, waving us in, and then coming around the desk to shake our hands.

  “I take it you’re the lady who called?” he says, looking at me.

  “I am. My name is Mattie Winston, and as I said on the phone, I’m looking into a case that I think you can help us with. This is Steve Hurley, the primary detective on the case.”

  I see Hurley frown ever so briefly and wonder if it’s because I’ve taken the lead, which isn’t usually the case, or because I’ve introduced myself as Mattie Winston. That last name thing is going to be an ongoing problem for us, I think.

  Cook shakes our hands, introducing himself to Hurley as he grabs his. He then gestures toward a couch and a couple of chairs in the corner. “Please, have a seat,” he says. Hurley and I settle in to the chairs. “Can I get you a drink of some sort?” Cook asks.

  “No thanks,” I say. Hurley shakes his head, and then Cook settles in on the couch.

  Hurley fires off the first question. “Mr. Cook, you’re the ex-husband of Penny Cook, is that right?”

  Cook takes on a wary expression. “What the hell has she done now?” he says. “Are you going to serve me with something?”

  “No, sir,” Hurley says. “We’re interested in whatever information you can give us regarding Penny and her relationship with her sister, Pamela. I don’t know if you heard the news or not, but Pamela’s husband died a few days ago.”

  Cook nods, a sober look on his face. “I heard. Apparently, it was some sort of murder-suicide thing involving a woman he was having an affair with?”

  “At first blush, it appeared that way, yes,” I say. “But now we’re not so sure.”

  “Really?” Cook looks surprised by this. “I have to say, the whole scenario seemed a bit off to me. Craig and Pamela have always had such a strong, solid relationship. Those two seemed genuinely in love. The idea of him having an affair never occurred to me, much less doing something as drastic as killing the other woman and himself.”

  “Are you privy to any of the financial assets Pamela and Craig have?” Hurley asks.

  “Not specifics,” Cook says. “But I know their business has been doing quite well. And, of course, Pamela still has her trust fund.”

  “Trust fund?” Hurley and I both say at the same time.

  “Oh, yeah. Pam and Penny’s parents were financial planners, and their wills specified that their assets be equally divided and set up in trust funds for the two girls. Penny went through her fund paying to keep herself and her sister going. Penny essentially raised Pam, and Pam couldn’t access her money until she turned eighteen. When Pam came of age, she was able to obtain a scholarship for college, and she also worked while attending school. As such, she was able to not only leave most of her fund untouched, but she invested it very smartly and made herself a nice little bundle.”

  “That must have been hard for Penny,” I say. “Did Pamela offer to reimburse her sister for any of the expenses incurred in raising her?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Cook says, his eyes growing big momentarily. “Pam has always been supportive of her sister. Too much so, if you ask me.”

  “What do you mean?” Hurley asks.

  Cook sighs, leaning back on the couch and folding his hands over his stomach. “My wife . . . my ex-wife has a bit of a gambling habit. When I married her, she was already hooked, but I didn’t know it. It took me many years and the loss of my entire retirement account before I caught on to what was happening.”

  “Are you saying Penny gambled away your money as well as hers?” I ask. I feel my face flush as I ask the question. I had a bit of a gambling habit myself for a while, right around the time I got pregnant with Matthew. If I were to set foot inside a casino again, I suspect I’d be sucked in just as hard. I think about it a lot, and it’s only because I won’t let myself go anywhere near a casino that I’ve been able to keep things reined in. Even so, I play two sets of lottery numbers every week. Every time I think about stopping, I imagine my numbers coming up the first week after I stop and me losing out on the jackpot I’ve been paying into week after week. Some part of my mind recognizes the illogic of it, but another part of my mind simply doesn’t care.

  “Penny not only gambled away all of our money; her sister bailed her out numerous times, and she gambled that money away, too.” Cook pauses and shakes his head. “I tried to get her to go to Gamblers Anonymous meetings, but she insists she doesn’t have a problem, that she’s in control.”

  “Your divorce didn’t wake her up to the realities?” Hurley asks.

  “No, but when she lost custody of the kids, I think it gave her pause. Not enough, though.”

  “You have custody of the kids?” I ask. I find it interesting that Penny left this information out when she was filling me in on her life’s story that day at Pamela’s house.

  “I do,” Cook says. “I petitioned for full custody when I filed for the divorce. Given Penny’s history with the gambling and all the money she had burned through, it was an easy decision. She has visitation, and we split the holidays, but the kids are with me the bulk of the time.”

  “And
what does Pamela think about it all?” I ask.

  “Those two are very close,” Cook says. “It’s understandable, I suppose, given what they went through together. It doesn’t help that Pamela keeps bailing Penny out, but the dynamic between the two of them is an odd one. I think Penny is a little jealous of her sister’s success, but she won’t admit to it. I’ve heard her talk several times about how she wishes she could go back to the way it was in the old days, just the two of them, with no kids, no husbands, no hassles. And I think Pamela harbors some guilt about Penny using all of her money supporting the two of them, although I think Penny might have been gambling even then. Pam feels like she owes something to Penny, that she’s indebted to her. Penny is clearly the one in charge whenever they’re together, and Pamela defers to Penny on a lot of decisions. I suppose it’s understandable, given both the age difference and the fact that Penny raised Pamela for a number of years.”

  “Was it the gambling problem that destroyed your marriage?” I ask.

  “For the most part,” Cook says. He takes on a sheepish look. “Penny always cared more about Pam and the kids than she did me. I think she was jealous of Craig because he took up so much of Pam’s time and affections. Things between Penny and me weren’t great even before I learned about the money situation, and I started looking outside our marriage. I had an affair, and that was the nail in the coffin.”

  “Where does your wife live?” I ask. “Is she in the family home?”

  “Family home?” Cook scoffs. “No, we lost that, too, thanks to her gambling. We were forced to sell it. Took a loss on it, too. I just bought a place last year over on the other side of town, but Penny is renting a duplex apartment near here. I think that’s all she can afford.”