Twisted at the Root--A Jane Lawless Mystery Read online

  “Who’s Peter Hall?”

  “Sir Peter Reginald Frederick Hall was an English director, probably the most important figure in British theater in the last fifty years. He was a genius, in my never-to-be-humble opinion. He said that if theater doesn’t challenge, provoke, or illuminate, it’s not fulfilling its mission.” She stopped in front of the box that Jane had just placed on her desk. “What’s this?” she asked, fingering the cover.

  “It’s all the info collected by a private investigator on Rashad’s case.”

  Her eyebrow arched. “Really? Can I look?” Without waiting for an answer, she removed the top. “Oh, Janey. You seriously need my help with this.”

  “Do I?”

  She lifted out a folder of photos. Thumbing through them, she said, “I can tell you who these people are.”

  “Good,” said Jane, removing a bunch of pushpins from the top desk drawer.

  “Okay. So this is Marlo Wise.” She handed a five-by-seven over. “Probably old. She had bangs at the trial.”

  “She still does. I met her this morning.” Jane took a few minutes to give Cordelia the down and dirty on her encounter.

  “Doesn’t surprise me. At trial, she looked like the sort of woman who ate nails for breakfast. Not that I don’t appreciate a good bowl of nails myself on occasion.” She pulled out another photo. “And this is Marlo’s husband. George something or other.”

  “Met with him, too.”

  “Boy, you have been a busy little bee.” She handed Jane another picture. “That’s Gideon Wise. Not exactly a handsome man, but he had a powerful presence. And he giggled. I like that in a man.”

  Jane was pretty sure it wasn’t a significant detail.

  “And here’s Rashad. He’s about as beautiful as they come. Very introspective, very kind.” It took her a full minute before she handed it over.

  Jane tacked it up on the board with the others. She put Gideon in the center, with Rashad’s photo next to him. Possible suspects, such as Marlo and George, were stacked in a row to the left. Once she found a picture of Chuck Atchison, he would be added to the row.

  “Who’s this?” asked Cordelia, removing a somewhat damaged five by seven. Oh, I remember now. It’s Trevor Loy. The guy who turned the trial upside down. He’s younger here, no facial hair. He had a beard four years ago, if I recall correctly, and I’m sure I do. And he sweated a lot.”

  “Takes a lot of effort to lie on the witness stand,” said Jane. “Is that the last photo?”

  Cordelia dipped her hand inside the folder and came up with a small snapshot. “Who’s this guy?” She held it up.

  “No idea.”

  She flipped it over. “Somebody named Frick.”

  “Oh, he’s the cop Sherwin May’s P.I. thought might have pressured Loy into his last-minute testimony. Hand it over.” She took a moment to study it. Frick was middle-aged, with close-cropped sandy hair and a round, meaty face. In the picture, he was wearing a tight black T-shirt.

  “So who’s our primary suspect?” asked Cordelia, carrying the box over to the love seat and making herself comfortable.

  Mouse looked up at her, wagged his tail, but kept on chewing.

  “I don’t have one,” said Jane. “I’ve got a lot more digging to do. What else is in that box?”

  Before Cordelia could begin her search, the doorbell chimed. “You expecting someone?”

  “Not that know of. Answer it for me, will you? I want to keep working.”

  “FYI, I am not your butler.”

  “Pretty please?”

  “Oh, all right,” Cordelia said, dragging herself out the door.

  Sitting down next to the box, Jane pulled out a file labeled CRIME SCENE. She started paging through it, but stopped when Peter walked in.

  “I saw your truck in the driveway,” he said, hands tucked into the pockets of his leather bomber jacket.

  “Peter,” said Jane, rising to give him a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  It seemed that Peter’s arrival was of sufficient importance to cause Mouse to stop chewing and come over to greet him. Gimlet looked up, but kept on chewing.

  “Good boy,” said Peter, leaning over to fondle the lab’s ears. “Wow, his muzzle is starting to gray.”

  “He’s still young at heart,” said Jane.

  “So, my man,” said Cordelia, leaning against the doorframe, “you’ve been MIA for what? Two days?”

  “No I haven’t. I’ve been visiting friends, catching up.”

  “Really? Like who?”

  “Well, for one, I had coffee with Ted Rucker this afternoon.”

  “I always liked Ted,” said Jane. “He comes by the pub every now and then.”

  “He’s got a new job at the Met Council. A systems engineer. Said it pays really well. He likes it.”

  “I’m glad,” she said nodding to the desk chair. She returned to the love seat.

  “What’s that?” asked Peter, pointing to the bulletin board.

  Cordelia chewed absently on a toothpick. “In case you forgot, dearheart, we’re working on the May case.” She said the words with a kind of weary nonchalance. “Those are our prime suspects.”

  He walked up and took a closer look. “How’s that going?”

  “Just a matter of time before we nail the perp,” said Cordelia.

  “The perp?”

  “Don’t you ever watch Law & Order reruns?”

  “Not if I can help it. Listen, Janey, I was hoping you could help me with something.” He parked himself on the chair. “Do you remember my old buddy Eli Chenoweth? We lived together off campus during my junior year. His father owns an art gallery in the warehouse district.”

  “Only vaguely,” said Jane.

  “I don’t remember him at all,” offered Cordelia.

  “I had dinner with him last night. Seems he was involved with a woman for a while, someone he said he loved. She was murdered last October.”

  “Murdered,” repeated Jane. “How awful. Did they ever find out who did it?”

  “It’s still unsolved. He seemed pretty torn up about it.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Do you think he did it?” asked Cordelia, never one to approach difficult questions with caution.

  Peter locked eyes with her. “Why would you ask that?”

  “It’s often the boyfriend or the husband. Just saying.”

  “Well, I’m sure the police checked him out. But, I mean, sure, I’ll admit it. I did wonder. He’s got this extensive library of books about serial killers, stalkers, murderers. Don’t you think that’s kind of odd?”

  “It’s called true crime,” said Jane. She had more than a few volumes like that herself.

  “He thinks a serial killer might have murdered her. A similar murder was committed up near Duluth right around the same time.”

  “Why are you so interested?” asked Cordelia.

  “Because … because he’s my friend.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Isn’t that enough? Look, I know you’re busy with that other stuff, Jane, but—” He removed a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his jacket and pushed it across the desk toward her. “I looked it up on the internet to see what I could find out. There wasn’t much. But I did find that.”

  She adjusted her reading glasses. “Where’s it from?”

  “The Star Tribune.”

  “Read it out loud,” said Cordelia, wedging herself into the space next to Jane on the love seat.

  “It’s dated October nineteenth. The headline is, ‘Woman Found Slain Near Taylors Falls.’ ‘Officers called to the scene on Tuesday afternoon encountered a Franconia man and his dog who led them to a body in a wooded section of Wayside Park on Highway 8. The woman, Harper Elaine Tillman, was pronounced dead at the scene by fire department paramedics. According to a police statement released this morning, the death has been ruled a homicide. Investigators remained at the scene to collect evidence and interview possible witnesses. M
s. Tillman was the daughter of Jim and Karen Tillman of Minot, North Dakota. Suspects are being actively sought.’”

  “Doesn’t tell us much,” said Jane.

  “Is there any way you can find out more?” asked Peter.

  She watched him pick at a fingernail. He seemed distracted, even a little nervous. “Possibly. Did your friend, Eli, say anything else about it? Did she have enemies? Was it possible she was seeing someone on the side? Did they have a fight? Did she engage in risky behavior?”

  “No idea. All I know is he was serious about her and he thought she was serious about him. They were living together, had been for a while. He came home from work one night, expecting her to be there, and she wasn’t. He gave her a few hours, then started calling friends, even hospitals. I asked him a few more questions about it before I left his place. He told me the police had interrogated him for several hours before they released him.”

  “And what was the cause of death?”

  “She was knocked unconscious. They think the killer may have used a rock. And then she was stabbed.”

  “And your friend has a solid alibi?”

  “I guess. The police wouldn’t have let him go if they thought he was guilty.”

  That was an assumption Jane wasn’t willing to make. There could be many reasons the police had released him, not the least of which was their need to collect more evidence before they made an arrest. Then again, that had been months ago. She wondered if anyone was still working the case. “Honestly, Peter, I don’t know how far I can go with this right now, but I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thank you. I’ll keep working on it, too.”

  “You must really care about this guy,” said Cordelia.

  He seemed uncertain how to respond. “I … I don’t like to think someone I’ve known for so many years is capable of … you know.”

  Jane wrote the name Eli Chenoweth at the bottom of the piece of paper, then rose, moved around the desk and pinned it up on the far edge of the board. The information about the murdered woman had no place in her investigation into the Gideon Wise homicide, and yet she left it there to remind her of her promise to Peter. She would do what she could. If nothing else, it would serve as a way to connect with him while he was home.

  21

  The first floor of Cordelia’s house was ablaze with light, and the circular drive was jammed with cars. Peter assumed there was some kind of meeting or party going on inside. With zero desire to get dragged into one of Cordelia’s “happenings,” he entered the house through the back door and tiptoed up the old servants’ stairway to his bedroom. He needed a shower, but there was something he wanted to get out of the way first.

  Removing his jacket, he perched on the edge of the bed and tapped in Sigrid’s number. It was nine P.M. in Minneapolis, which meant it was three in the morning in London. He waited through four rings until she answered.

  “Hello?” came a groggy, whispered voice.

  “Hi.”

  Silence. “Peter?”

  “Is he there?”

  “What? Do you know what time it is here?”

  “Is he in bed with you? Our bed?”

  “Wait. Just wait.”

  He could hear muffled sounds. He felt like throwing up.

  “Okay, I can talk now.”

  “Wouldn’t want to wake him, would we?”

  “I’ve texted you dozens of times. You pick the middle of the night to call me back?”

  “You said you wanted to talk. Let’s talk.”

  More silence. Then: “How are you?” she asked, her voice tentative.

  “Like you care.”

  “I do care, Peter.”

  “Just not enough.” He could hear her fumbling with the phone. She was probably stepping out onto the balcony, separating herself from the filthy SOB keeping her bed warm.

  “Listen.”

  “No, you listen,” said Peter. “I’ve been thinking about what I should do. Separation? Divorce? Murder? I’ll put it to you like this: You can have me or him, but you can’t have us both.”

  “I know that. It’s just … I never expected to find myself in this kind of predicament.”

  “So I’ve moved from husband to predicament.” He got up and walked over to the window, drawing back the curtain. “I wrote Mia a long email.”

  “You did? What did you say to her?”

  From the urgency in her voice, he could tell he’d landed a punch. It felt good. “That’s between Mia and me.”

  “Peter, please. Whatever happens between us, we have to protect her.”

  “I know that.”

  “When … when are you coming home?”

  He looked down on the circular drive.

  “Peter?”

  “Is he there?”

  “Why do you keep asking that?”

  “Because I want to know. Oh, screw it. Of course he is. You have what you want, Sigrid. Now I have to figure out what I want.”

  “Come home.”

  “London isn’t my home. My home used to be where you and Mia were, but not anymore. I’m hanging up.” He waited to see what she’d say. When all that came across the line was silence, he clicked the phone off and tossed it on the bed. Leaning his head against the cold window glass, helpless, angry tears streamed down his face. “Screw you, Siggy,” he choked out. “And screw him. I hate you both.” He wanted a drink so bad.

  His cell rang. He had no intention of answering it, and yet, almost against his will, he threw himself on the bed and pressed the phone to his ear. “What?” he snapped. “Have you figured out some new way to twist the knife?”

  “Um, hi?” came a low, female voice, nothing like Sigrid’s.

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Kit.”

  He sat up. “Oh, hi. Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

  “Clearly,” she said, her voice full of amusement.

  “What’s up?”

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “Okay, well, here’s the deal. I’ve had kind of a super weird day.”

  “You mean our lunch?”

  “No, no. Stuff that happened after.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “I want to forget it. I thought maybe you’d like to get a drink.”

  “Now?”

  “Past your bedtime?”

  “Funny. What about John Henry? Will he be joining us?”

  “He’s staying late at the gallery. If it’s anything like the last couple of months, he’ll probably sleep there, too.”

  “That sounds pleasant.”

  “Sometimes I feel like I don’t have a friend in the world, Peter. Someone I can really confide in.”

  She was exaggerating, but then, she often did. “I’m your friend.”

  “Are you? Can I trust you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I phoned my dad before I called you. I knew just hearing his voice would make me feel better, but it went to voice mail. He’s in San Francisco, according to his dimwit of a wife. On a business trip.”

  “Do you want me to pick you up?”

  “No. I’ll drive and meet you.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s a place not far from here. It’s called the Lighthouse. Kind of tacky. An old supper club. But it has a wicked cool bar.”

  “Okay. Maybe we should invite Eli.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Just us, okay?”

  “Sure,” said Peter, feeling his mood improve. He would drink Coke and enjoy her company. Why the hell not?

  “I need to get away from here. You are seriously saving my life.”

  “I doubt that. See you in a few.”

  * * *

  Candles glowed softly from a corner of the bedroom. The general turmoil of the day was over, and Jane was holding Julia in her arms. “What are you thinking about?” she whispered.

  “That there’s something I need to tell you.”

>   There it was again, that sudden trapdoor feeling in her stomach. At least Julia had waited until after they’d made love. Health announcements, if that’s what this was, weren’t exactly aphrodisiacs. “What?” she asked, smoothing back a lock of Julia’s hair. “Something to do with your visit to Rochester today?”

  “In a way.”

  Jane wanted to memorize the feel of Julia’s body against hers, how purely alive moments like this were. She spent so much of her life focusing on work that she missed a lot. Too much.

  “The cancer hasn’t grown.”

  “That’s great news.”

  “The doctors at the Mayo don’t recommend surgery at this point. In essence, they’re saying it’s too late.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  There were times when Jane struggled to make the brutal word “cancer” real in her mind. “But you’ll continue with the chemo.”

  “I don’t know.”

  It wasn’t the response Jane had expected. “Why wouldn’t you? If the tumor hasn’t grown, then it must be working.”

  “The chemo makes me sick. I’m tired all the time. I hate it.”

  “But if you don’t continue with it, what’s the prognosis?”

  “You mean how long will I live?” She turned on her side so she could face Jane. “If I were my own doctor, I suppose I’d give myself a few months—a year if I’m lucky.”

  Julia was an oncologist. If anyone knew the ramifications of her disease and her decisions, she did.

  “Contrary to what doctors believe, they’re not God. I rarely gave one of my patients a time limit. There’s no point. I’ve seen too much and been surprised, both negatively and positively, way too many times. The truth is, I could die in a month. Or I could be around five years from now. I might outlive you.”

  Jane was glad that they weren’t sitting across a table, or across a room. She needed to be close for a conversation like this. “You know I’ll support any decision you make.”

  “Will you? Are you sure about that?”

  “Well, I mean—” Julia was right. It was a big ask. If Julia did decide to go off chemo, could Jane really give up all hope of a cure and simply watch her die?

  “There’s one other thing I need to tell you. I’m flying to Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, tomorrow.”