Still Life: The Randi Lassiter Series, Book 1

by DB Kennison

  Jon ran through the investigation in his head. This time around, it struck him that something other than misfortune could have been at play when Randi was sick during the gala.

  She was only home long enough for one glass of wine. She hadn’t really eaten much at the event, just those fancy chocolates along with some veggie sticks and wine. He hadn’t eaten the chocolate or veggies, but he had the wine—except for the glass wig-woman poured when she was hitting on Randi.

  It was possible that someone tried to poison them, but Jon didn’t think it was plausible. Then again, maybe the goal wasn’t to truly poison, just inconvenience. Distract. Get their eye off the ball before they reached Perry’s exhibit. At any rate he couldn’t prove anything now.

  But he wasn’t stupid either. If it happened once, then Randi could be in real trouble if the killer thought she was any kind of threat. All the more reason he needed to get a hold of her.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Still full from lunch, Randi had stopped by the market for a few things. It was her last night at the hotel and she didn’t want room service, so she put together a wine pairing in lieu of a full meal. She had a spread of specialty cheeses on pepper crackers with a tart Chardonay and a large Bosc pear.

  She got into her pajamas—sleep shorts and a slinky tank that sported the slogan Wine takes the bitch right out of me—and carried her picnic and the hefty envelope to the king bed.

  She tossed a chunk of cheddar into her mouth as she undid the flap and dumped the contents out in front of her. She began sorting things into piles to try and find a starting point. She organized photos in one spot, notes in another. She set aside a glossy promotional brochure and went for a folder. Inside was a timeline of sorts, a contact sheet documenting when and where Larissa—or Cheryl for that matter, it seemed she’d been involved in the early stages—touched base with anyone concerning the case. There were reference numbers that coincided with documented leads, which in turn led somewhere else in the investigation.

  She had piles of newspaper clippings, magazine snippets reviewing Truman Perry’s art, photos of Perry at various venues—Walnut Ridge was highlighted in several of these, in addition to others Randi was familiar with—the Artisan Gallery in Paoli, Burr Oak Winery Gallery, and The Monroe Art Center.

  Randi picked up some newspaper clippings that had fallen from the bevy and read them. The articles were basically all the same, a journalistic diagnosis of how Truman Perry had turned his art into big business. It detailed how a troop of artists, with him at the forefront, had made weekend resort stays and catered gallery openings popular again. One story talked about Truman Perry’s creative process and following one’s instincts when it came to trusting the right path in life. When a reporter asked how his concepts came to life, he said, “Every successful artists needs either a muse or a wealthy benefactor, and that I’ve been lucky enough to have both.”

  So this asshole killed women, painted them in death, then sold the shit as art. And made a fortune at it. The anger that bubbled up inside her was the only thing that got her through the rest of the material.

  After two hours, Randi saw double, and not just because she’d had three glasses of wine. She put away the stacks to keep them organized and looked over the pamphlet she’d set aside earlier as she refilled her glass. She had to slap a hand over her mouth to keep from spewing wine out across the bedding as she opened the brochure and saw Truman Perry’s picture on the inside cover. Or more accurately, the artwork behind him.

  Randi set her glass down on the nightstand and gave the booklet her full attention. It was coverage of an art exhibit from two years ago featuring Perry, a special one-time showing of a performance piece. The synopsis talked about Perry being new to the world of art and quickly discovering his penchant for the macabre.

  Randi paged through the booklet of Perry’s art prints, all similar to the piece that featured Larissa in death. Blood. Bone. Tissue. Flesh filleted for display, each one unique but with the same dark themes. On her third pass something caught her eye in the background of a photo that was taken at a reception. Randi blinked a couple of times and brought the photo up to her face. Sonja? She couldn’t be certain because the picture was so small, but it looked like the caterer. If she were at home she’d have access to a magnifying glass. It was doubtful the front desk had one.

  Something from one of her school science classes (or was it a college bar trick?) popped into her head. She emptied the last of the Chardonnay into her glass and filled the bottle with water from the bathroom tap. She jammed the cork back in, dried it off and brought it back to the bed. Fortunately the glass was clear and not one of those olive-green varieties. She held the wine bottle on its side over the brochure and adjusted the distance until, like a magnifying glass, the photo enlarged. It was Sonja. And on the table behind her was an array of the fancy chocolate sculptures she was known for creating.

  Randi had no idea if Sonja had any connection to Truman personally or any of the artists within the troop for that matter. She didn’t really know anything about Sonja, other than she wanted to buy a country home and made exceptional candy.

  Randy stifled a yawn. But if Sonja knew Truman well then maybe she could shine some additional light on him. She was getting tired. She made quick work of cleaning up the bed and packed everything back into the envelope.

  As much as it pained her, Randi committed the art to memory. She felt instinctively what the average gallery client apparently did not—Truman Perry was a butcher. Each of his works was a woman captured in death. If her theory was correct, and no doubt the police were discovering the same thing back home, Truman Perry was a serial killer, one who turned his victims into art, and he’d been doing it for a while now. When Liv had gotten close to the truth he killed her. Then he did the same thing with Larissa.

  She needed to get this information to Jon and Becca. The police could put it all together and maybe Sonja could fill in some of the gaps. She took one last look at the caterer, years younger and at the cusp of her own success. Maybe when Randi found the woman her dream home she could pay her part of the commission in chocolate.

  Before going to bed, Randi pulled out her phone to call Georgia. After catching up briefly with idle chitchat, Randi got to the point.

  “By the way…I wonder… Do you happen to know anything about Truman Perry having a wealthy benefactor? Someone that he would consider his muse?”

  “What on earth are you talking about, honey?” Her southern drawl was even apparent in her girlish laughter. “A muse…that’s an antiquated term if I’ve ever heard one. Where on Earth did y’all get such a notion? Now a wealthy benefactor…well, that would be different.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Each of the artists here has been given a leg up now and again. Sometimes a mentor that has already made it big, sometimes an infatuated patron, or anyone with a bit of money and compassion for the arts—myself included.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yes. I know how it feels to be a starvin’ artist. I’ve experienced that kind of struggle myself as a young girl, so I’m more than happy to help. Of course I can’t contribute as much as people like the Richmonds can. Oh my no.”

  Randi recalled the wife buying Truman’s graphic piece at the gala and wondered if they had any inkling that their artist of choice was a killer.

  “Say, what’s this all about?”

  “Just something I ran across in Minneapolis.”

  “Oh honey, you crack me up…really ya do.”

  As an afterthought Randi asked. “How long has Sonja known Truman Perry?”

  “Sonja? Forever, I do believe. They came here back when the troop was formed. I took them in as kind of a package deal, they really depended on each other as they came up through the ranks, you might say.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At some point most artists are
faced with the reality of being unable to continue their work because of their financial situation—hence the term starvin’ artist. Truman and Sonja’s no different. Whether it’s painting canvas or sculpting chocolate, if you can’t afford to live you might just have to give up.

  “But Truman and Sonja had each other. When he needed an event catered, Sonja would do it for free. And once Truman was in a better position, he’d throw her some work and recommend her to anyone who’d listen. I’ve been doing this long time, seen a lot of creative people forced to give up their dreams. It isn’t pretty, dear. Truman and Sonja were lucky to have each other.”

  “Wow, I had no idea. Thank you.”

  Something dawned on Randi after she’d hung up. She wondered how upset Sonja would be about Truman’s arrest.

  Randi checked her phone messages and saw that she had two missed calls from Jon and that he’d left a message. Probably trying to apologize again, or convince her to believe more of his flowery bullshit. Still, she was torn over whether to call him. She wanted to get this material to him and let him know that Sonja may be of help, but it wasn’t an emergency since she was certain they had Perry under surveillance.

  Besides, she was still raw from the emotional tailspin Jon had thrown her into—she didn’t feel like hearing what he had to say tonight. She’d speak to him soon enough when she dropped the envelope off to him. Or maybe Terri instead. And if he saw her there and brought up anything she’d shut him down on the spot.

  She ignored the messages and dialed CJ.

  “How’s Tater?”

  “Doped up to high heaven. I suspect he’ll never be content without a hefty bribe of catnip from here on out.”

  “At least you two found a way to get along.”

  “We did. Tater never bit, scratched, or clawed me and I never dropkicked his ass across the room. A triumph of cross-species understanding.”

  Randi chuckled. “What have I missed?”

  “Mmm…nothing much.” She heard the shuffling of paper on the other end of the line. “I scheduled a few appointments for the day after tomorrow—two of them closings. Got a message from the clinic. Your mammogram needs to be rescheduled—something about equipment calibration—which means they probably need larger squish plates for your boobs. Gale from the Chamber wants a commitment on when you want to host a business after-five event. There are new clients coming in on Friday, and Sonja DiBattista found a property she wants to see ASAP.”

  “Oh, okay. That’s not bad. I’m heading home first thing in the morning; I’ll handle it all when I get there. Love and kisses to you and Tater.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

  Randi laughed. She just loved conversations with CJ. It was like poking a rattlesnake with a stick at times. The contact was exciting and you never knew when she was going to bite.

  Chapter Sixty

  Randi hated having to take a break in the Wisconsin Dells and deal with the dense traffic—even weekdays could be crazy with tourists—but she’d been on the road since early morning and the need to pee took precedence over finding a parking place at a busy truck stop. She grabbed a coffee for the road and ended up off schedule a mere fifteen minutes. She’d checked out of The Foshay W at seven-thirty in hopes of getting back to Mt. Ouisco by early afternoon, so fifteen minutes was no big deal.

  Randi tried to enjoy the drive home but butterflies in her stomach at the thought of seeing Jon again made it difficult. The last few days had given her time to think about his comments about a future together and how she felt about him…them.

  What he said had scared the bejeezus out of her, had thrown her shields right up, but she had to admit she liked hearing it. Once she dropped off the envelope and informed him of what she’d learned in Minnesota she intended to be nice to him—test the waters, see if they could at least be civil to each other.

  The parking lot at the police station was mostly deserted when she pulled in. She didn’t see Jon’s Jeep and felt her heart sink a little. Oh well, she could still check in with Terri and leave the information with her. But when she checked at the front desk she learned that both detectives were out.

  “Could you tell me where they are?” she asked.

  “Right, lady, because that’s how things work around here.” He shot her an annoyed look and turned away without waiting for a reply.

  She thrummed her fingers on the counter as the officer went about his business and she prioritized her to-do list. Randi wondered how she was going to get this information to either of the detectives. She didn’t want to hand it off to just anyone. She imagined Jon’s desk had returned to a state of disarray by now that would take archeologists years to dig through. She watched the front desk officer open mail, time stamp it and unceremoniously shove it into a distribution box like it was a black hole. She decided not to leave it with Officer Charm.

  Randi dropped by her office to see if anything needed her immediate attention and touch base with CJ. After that she would head to Jon’s house.

  “’Bout damn time you get your tiny butt back to work, you slacker,” was CJ’s way of welcoming her back.

  “I missed you too.”

  “Messages.” CJ thrust a pile of pink slips into her hands and breezed past her to put some files away. “FYI, there were two messages on the machine from Dick Tracy—one last night and one this morning. He said it’s urgent. I don’t want to get all up in your business…”

  “Right, like I could stop you.”

  “But I think that Dick…er…the detective wants to see you naked again. Just sayin’.”

  Randi ignored her and took her messages into her office. “I’m just here for a minute, I need to run some errands.” She heard CJ mumbling out in the lobby about absenteeism run amuck.

  “Sure, leave my ass high and dry again. Don’t know why you even bother to come in anymore ’cause I got this gig, baby. I think your time would best be served if you figured out how to get that good-looking hunk to eat at the Y. Easiest way to train a man is to teach him how to properly go down on …”

  Randi felt her face flush and almost slammed the door shut. In CJ’s world, propriety was an affliction that happened to other people.

  She ranked the message slips on her desktop and culled a few of them into File Thirteen—aka the trash bin under her desk. She picked up the phone and called to reschedule her mammogram, then called Gale at the chamber and took care of the after-five thing. She dialed Jon’s cell thinking he’d pick up by now, intending to orchestrate a meeting. It went right to voicemail, and because she didn’t know what to say she hung up without leaving a message. Urgent, my ass.

  She pushed the rest of the sheets to the edge of her blotter and placed a heavy geode paperweight on the pile. She grabbed the two messages from Sonja DiBattisa wanting to schedule a showing.

  Randi didn’t want to fit that request into what was supposed to be the tail end of her mini vacation, but she didn’t want to lose a sale either. More importantly, she’d sneak in a few questions about Truman Perry, maybe uncover some clues to what motivates him to kill. She didn’t know if she could do it without upsetting Sonja, but it was worth a shot. If it got too awkward she could always go back to the cottage business. And when she could get a response from Detective I’m-too-busy-to-trouble-myself-with-you, she could fill him in.

  She dialed Sonja, who picked up on the third ring. They agreed to meet out at the Evergreen Lake property at two. Randi figured she had just enough time to run by Jon’s house to see if he was there and then get to the lake to open up the house. The current owners used the home as seasonal property and the place would no doubt be musty. She wanted to air it out before Sonja arrived.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Jon and Terri both stood over the slumped figure of Manfred Klaussen as he cupped his head in his hands. They’d worked late into the night on the Truman Perry case and now they were tracki
ng down his movements for the twenty-four hours prior to his death. When they’d arrived at Walnut Ridge, the only person around was the scrawny artist. He collapsed to the ground at the news of Perry’s death.

  “Where are the rest of the artists?” Jon asked.

  Manny sniffed, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hands. “It’s an off week for us. We’re between shows. When that happens most of them head home—wherever that is. The only ones who stay behind are Truman and me.” He cleared his throat. “And Sonja,” he added.

  “What about Georgia?” Terri asked.

  “I don’t know. I came in for breakfast and she wasn’t here.”

  “And Georgia feeds you breakfast every day?”

  He nodded. “Or Sonja.”

  Jon and Terri exchanged looks. “And nobody made breakfast this morning?”

  He shook his head and said in a low voice. “No.”

  “That ever happen before? You know, no one showing up?”

  Manny stared at the carpet. “Never.”

  Jon grabbed his two-way and radioed for Walberg, Ostlund and Trujillo to come to Walnut Ridge. They’d make do without Erland, who was at the dentist.

  Jon felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw that it was Randi. As much as he wanted to talk to her, he’d back burner the conversation for now. He needed to get to the bottom of whatever was going on here. He let the call go to voicemail.

  He motioned Terri over to the corner of the room, out of earshot of Manfred. “We wait until backup comes and take this place apart room by room.”

  “We don’t need a warrant?”

  “We have two women missing. That’s reason enough to search the premises. We don’t know what’s going on and who’s behind it. If those women are missing, they could be dead or held hostage.”