by DB Kennison
Chapter Twenty-Four
Randi hit the enter key and sagged like she’d just crossed the finish line of a marathon. The last of the friend requests for her Gretchen Polhamus alias went out through her new Facebook account. She would try to be patient as she waited to see who would accept them. It was the next logical step in her search for Larissa Leuenberger’s killer.
Weeks after Randi had stumbled over the poor woman’s body the buzz around town had finally died down. With nothing else showing up in the media, Randi had concluded that the police were no further along their investigation than she was.
Randi wasn’t sure where to start her own inquiry when it came to the victim’s family and friends. Then again, knowing where to start hadn’t helped the police. She figured she’d take a few select friends from Larissa’s Facebook page and send them a note, along with a friend request explaining her professional interest in the case and ask for anyone with information to contact her. She’d done this under the guise of Gretchen so that the police wouldn’t know she was still making inquiries. With social media being the pinnacle of most people’s lives these days, she assumed that any police detective worth his salt would be searching Larissa’s account as well.
Randi stood and arched her back. It was Saturday, and she’d spent the morning conducting an open house, then returned to the office to complete some paperwork and grab a yogurt out of the fridge. She’d taken the next couple of hours inventing her Gretchen persona and downloading fake friends and family onto the fabricated account, what she had to admit was a tedious but fun process.
Gretchen was nothing like herself—the wild child she’d secretly desired to be, perhaps. She looked down at her half-empty yogurt container next to the “Gretchen” name tag on her desk and laughed. She’d cut the tag out from the uniform she’d borrowed from the café—a souvenir they’d let her keep after she’d pretty much wrecked it, and the inspiration for her new identity. She gathered up the remainder of her lunch and tossed it in the trash. Now she was ready to head home. She stood and was packing up her files when she heard a faint ping, indicating an email, and glanced down at the screen.
That was fast. One of Larissa’s friends had accepted her request, which meant Randi could go on that person’s page and at the very least snoop for more connections to Larissa. But what she really hoped for was to open a dialog with someone Larissa had known and perhaps gain some insight into who would have wanted her dead. It did cross her mind that she could be opening herself to some degree of danger if the killer caught her poking around, but she pushed that to the back of her mind—logically the risk was slight.
Randi sat back down in front of her laptop and scrolled through the woman’s home page. Natalie Stratford was one of Larissa’s coworkers. Randi scanned the photos, trying to form a first impression from the postings of her friends—friends who apparently liked to party. She saw a dark-haired and vivacious young woman with a round face, rosy cheeks and vivid green eyes staring back at her. Randi sent her a message. Natalie responded immediately and after a somewhat lengthy exchange, Randi trusted her enough to call her. Natalie confirmed that whatever Larissa was doing in Mt. Ouisco, it had to do with the art exhibition out at Walnut Ridge.
“She was obsessed, but it’s hard to imagine it somehow got her killed.” Randi heard Natalie’s voice crack. “I did think it was weird, you know. Her preoccupation with all that art. I mean, every free minute she had she was researching a new art or exhibit venue.”
“Was she focused on any particular artist?” Randi asked, keeping the show at Walnut Ridge clearly in her mind.
“I don’t know. Sorry, I realize that doesn’t help.” Natalie sobbed. “It’s been weeks and I still can’t talk about it without crying. I miss her so much.”
Randi’s heart broke for the woman, but she had to stay on task. “Have you spoken with the police about this, Natalie?”
“A Detective Walberg was here. I told him the same thing. He took the hard drive from her work computer, and I assume everything she had at home as well.” More sobs. “I just hope they catch the bastard that did this.”
“So I noticed that Larissa didn’t allow her parents onto her Facebook account. Is there any reason, other than the typical kids not wanting their parents to know what they really do in life privacy issues?”
“Well, I guess she wouldn’t want them to know how preoccupied she was with the art stuff.”
“Why would that bother them?”
“Larissa’s sister, Liv, worked at some magazine. After she had passed away, Larissa became fixated. I think her parents were anxious for her to let go of Liv’s death and move on with her life.”
“How did Liv die?”
There was silence on the phone. “I think it was cancer.”
Natalie went on to say that Larissa didn’t have a boyfriend, or girlfriend for that matter. And she would not have had enemies. She promised to poke around at work and if she came across anything else she’d contact her.
The phone call left Randi with more unanswered questions than ever. It was obvious that Larissa was here for the art, but it didn’t explain why anyone would want to kill her. Why had she become so obsessed after her sister died? And did the one thing have anything to do with the other?
Randi clicked back onto Larissa’s Facebook page and examined her friends and Likes. Everyone in her daily world lived in Minnesota. She ran down the list. There were several resorts, all of which catered to the arts. One of them was Lanesboro—the bed and breakfast capital of Minnesota—a virtual hub for the arts, and Artist’s Point in Grand Marais along Lake Superior. In Wisconsin, Larissa had liked the page of Dillman’s Bay Resort in Lac du Flambeau along the shore of White Sand Lake, and Walnut Ridge Resort nestled in the woods near the Ice Age Trail.
Curious, Randi logged onto the Walnut Ridge website to see if there was any specific information about the artists showing there. No such luck. It just gave the date and time of the upcoming exhibitions and an overview of the troop as a whole, with a few general marketing pictures of unidentified exhibits. She saw that there was a presentation scheduled tonight. It seemed the only way Randi was going to learn anything was to check out the art fair for herself. Well, why not? The victim had been there. She might as well see what Larissa traveled hundreds of miles to obsess over.
Now all she needed was a date. She assumed the exhibition would be the kind of thing couples attended and that she’d have a better chance blending in if she was accompanied with a friend or escort. She cleared her desk, packed up her laptop and headed out the door. She started making phone calls as she walked to her car.
As it happened, Sarah couldn’t go because she was schmoozing a deep-pocketed client by taking him to dinner. CJ was committed to taking her elderly German aunt Bertha shopping; something she said was long overdue and “verboten” to cancel according to the old hausfrau. Randi would have to go it alone. Not her favorite thing to do on a Saturday night. But hell, by now she was used to it.
Randi drove west into the low-hanging sun and thought about the event. It was to begin with a cocktail hour opening that started at six p.m., and that gave her plenty of time to get ready. Undeterred by going stag, she caught herself getting excited at the thought of an evening dressed up, sipping wine and learning a thing or two about art. By the time she pulled in to her driveway she was actually looking forward to going.
Unfortunately all hope of that was soon dashed. The smile melted from her face when she saw frickin James Bond standing on the front porch.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Detective Bricksen stood at the top of Randi’s white porch steps in a black tuxedo. Standing at ease with his hands behind his back he looked more like a penguin on look out for a returning mate. Randi noted how well he cleaned up, she’d even go so far as to say he was attractive. Too bad his personality didn’t match.
As Randi made her way to th
e house the detective pulled a small bouquet of flowers out from behind his back and bent to scratch Tater’s head when the cat came around the corner to greet her.
She strolled up the stairs past him. “Careful, he bites.”
“I think I’m safe. He’s purring.”
“Wasn’t talking to you.” Randi walked through the screen door, letting it slam shut behind her.
Bricksen followed her in without waiting for an invitation. “Hey, I’ve never bitten anyone. At least, not with the intention of hurting them.”
She turned to let him know in no uncertain terms that he was trespassing, only to catch him wink at her, which threw her off guard.
“What exactly can I do for you, Detective?”
“I’m here to ask you on a date, actually.” He thrust the bundled daisies in her face.
Randi’s eyes narrowed. “The best I can do is call you an ambulance. Clearly you have a concussion.” She gave him her back and went to the kitchen and busied herself opening a bottle of merlot.
When she looked back at him, he was inspecting the kitchen, nodding his head as if approving of the renovations she’d made. Like she cared what he thought. She poured a glass of wine for herself and turned to face him, back against the counter. She took a sip, arched her brow and waited.
“Aren’t you going to offer me any wine?”
“I don’t even remember inviting you inside.” She crossed an arm as she sipped but didn’t budge from where she stood.
The man came up to her, reached around and removed a glass from the cupboard, moving as if any quick movement might give her a reason to deck him.
He brushed against her and she could smell his cologne, the spicy scent gave her a slight buzz. He took a step back to pour himself a glass, even though he was still well inside her personal space bubble.
“What do you want, Detective?”
“I would like for you to come out with me tonight.” He clinked her glass with his and drank.
Her head tilted sideways, and she regarded him like the high school quarterback trying to convince the social outcast to go to prom. You just knew a bucket of pig’s blood had to feature in the evening somewhere. “Seriously?”
“I don’t think you’ll want to turn me down. Not for this date.”
She studied him for a moment, that smart-ass-sexy smirk plastered to his face. She could have slapped him, but realized there was more going on here than an unwelcomed attempt at romance. “What gives?”
“Well, I was planning on going out to Walnut Ridge tonight for the art show. I thought you might want to go with me.”
“I was already planning on going. I don’t need to go with you.”
“I thought as much, but I think you’ll agree it would be much more productive if we went together.”
She gave him a dubious look. “Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious. Two cops going in would be suspicious, but you’re better known around here as a real estate agent.” Randi tried to ignore the subtle jab at her detective business. “We can bounce observations off each other, exchange a bit of information on the case, and I can keep an eye on you so that you can’t get into any trouble.” He chuckled. “You won’t have to sneak around trying to avoid me and you can get information without stealing it off my desk.”
As angered as she was by his presumptions, she found it hard to argue with him. They both knew what she was capable of; he was just calling her out on it.
But she didn’t trust him. How could she? Why should she?
“Come on, how bad could it be?” He drained his glass. “I’ll even drive.”
She took her time considering this strange offer. What it would be like to spend an entire evening with this insufferable man, and what were the potential gains of any collaboration? It wasn’t that she considered him the enemy—he just happened to be a first-class ass. She thought she could tolerate, or at the worst, ignore said ass for one night.
“Fine. But only if you lose the bow tie. It’s not that formal. You look like a man that has fallen off his cake.”
“Deal. But only if you stop calling me Detective. It’s not exactly the best way for us to avoid unwanted attention.” She ignored him and took her wine into the bedroom to change.
Fifteen minutes later when she emerged; Jon’s gobsmacked look gave her a profound sense of satisfaction. Her classic little black dress made of Shantung silk hugged her curves without appearing to be painted on like so many dresses that were popular right now. It had a deep square neckline that accentuated her décolleté but didn’t have her breasts spill over. A simple pearl teardrop necklace hung delicately at the apex of her cleavage. She completed the ensemble with a pair of knockoff Louboutin sandals.
Randi hadn’t dressed to impress Detective Ass. It was the exact outfit she had pictured wearing before he’d shown up. But now he was making her slightly uncomfortable as he stood there and gawked.
Still, she couldn’t help but be a bit flattered as she threw lip gloss, a Tide pen, and breath mints into a small evening bag and then grabbed her phone and keys off the table.
“You look great,” he said. It was the first genuinely nice thing he’d said to her.
Randi gave him the once over. At least he’d removed the tie. She rolled her eyes and turned to the front door. “Let’s get this carnival on the road…” She tried his first name on for comfort. “…Jon.” After all the bitching she’d done up till now, it was hard to shift gears and use a non-derogatory title. In fact, it was hard for her to picture him as anything other than a thick-skulled Neanderthal.
After she locked up, she turned and stood on the porch with her four-inch heels rooted to the boards as Jon made his way to his Jeep. “Oh no, uh-uh. Not happening.”
“What’s wrong with my ride?”
She crossed her arms. “What’s right with it?” The vehicle was so thick with mud and road dust that you could hardly tell what color it was supposed to be. “I can’t get into that car with this dress on.”
A suggestive smile lit up his face. “You could always take it off.”
Randi rolled her eyes and went to her own car. Jon had no choice but to follow. She went to the passenger side, then tossed the keys to him. “You can drive, if it makes you feel any better.” And just so he’d know she could keep up with his innuendos she pushed the console button that lowered the top on the little convertible. “And I only feel like going topless tonight.” She heard him laugh as they got in.
Once on the road Jon brought up the case. “So tonight I think we should present a unified front. Most people think the case has gone cold so if we act like we’re just out for the evening maybe we can catch someone off guard.”
Randi nodded. “Play the couple out on a date.”
“Right. Let people think we’re just out for a night of art and culture. That’s all.”
Randi noted a look of uncertainty on his face. “What? I can do that.”
“Good. The goal is to figure out why Larissa would have come all the way from Minnesota for this and if it has anything to do with her being murdered. I figure we’ll be looking for someone associated with the troop.”
Randi turned in her seat and stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
Jon looked dumbfounded.
“Larissa’s been following the bulk of this group around for a year and a half. Whatever she was interested in, it had to do with someone in that group. I thought you knew.”
Jon’s his head snapped around, and he almost drove off the road. “What?”
“Hey, watch it.” Randi grabbed the dash as the little sports car fishtailed on the graveled shoulder.
“Sorry. But can you please explain how you know this?” He looked over and saw the grin on her face. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ben Wachowski stoo
d in front of the mirror attached to the back of his closet door and nodded approval as he turned sideways to examine his profile, then tried to suck in his gut. Maybe he should lay off the donuts?
“Or maybe I’ll just start working out when I solve this.” He patted the protrusion and hiked the waist of his pants up. They slid back down as soon as the big man exhaled.
He’d spent the better part of last Saturday digging into the back of his closet for a pair of black jeans he knew existed. Although they were from two decades ago and a bit wrinkled he thought they made him look taller and thinner. He had taken the trouble to iron his royal-blue shirt—the one he’d worn to his cousin’s wedding five years ago. It was the type of clothing he would be able to purchase more of when he finally got that promotion. He looked like a plainclothes detective all right. He looked like his uncle. The man would be proud.
“Have to look the part when I make the arrest.” He said to himself as he ran a hand across the scruffy stubble on his chin, picturing himself as Russell Crowe in a day-old beard instead of the aged Gary Busey he actually resembled. He tried on a pair of aviator sunglasses then frowned, taking them off.
“Too bad this shit is going down at night.” He was disappointed at having to leave them behind but found a reason to smile as he imagined the looks on his coworkers when he hauled the murderer into the station. They’d have to give him that job then—hell, they’d probably throw him a party.
Ben struggled to put on a cheaply made shoulder holster he’d purchased on eBay. The leather was thick with sharp edges that bit into his skin. He couldn’t imagine wearing it for any length of time, but it wouldn’t be a problem for one night. Maybe he’d get the expensive professional version in the official law enforcement catalog after his raise—a celebratory gift. He’d considered breaking it in over the last couple of days, but he hadn’t tried it on with his suit jacket over top, and realized too late that it didn’t fit without looking awkward—the outline of the gun and holster were clearly visible when he had it on.
