Twisted at the Root--A Jane Lawless Mystery

by Ellen Hart

  34

  It was a nasty morning, with freezing drizzle making the streets slick. Jane could feel her truck fishtail as she turned off Nicollet and headed into the heart of the Windom neighborhood. She rolled slowly up to the curb a few minutes later, squinting at the number above the door to make sure she had the right place. Most of the homes in south Minneapolis faced the avenues. This one faced a side street and was apparently zoned as a business. It looked as if it might once have been a regular family home. The back half of the house still was. Somewhere along the line, the front section had become The Happy Curl Beauty Shop.

  A bell jingled above her head as she pushed her way inside. Even though the sign in the window said the business was open, nobody was around. The room seemed cheerful enough, painted a soft yellow with blue gingham curtains, and smelling of old-fashioned permanent wave solution. Did people still get those? Two styling chairs faced a long mirror. There was the requisite washing station, hair dryers, and a manicure table. Yellowed posters advertising various hairstyles hung on the walls.

  “Can I help you?” asked a chunky, sandy-haired woman, emerging through a door in the back. She had on a bright red track suit and white cross-trainers.

  “I hope so,” said Jane. She introduced herself and handed the woman a card.

  “Wow, I’ve never met a real-life P.I. before.” The woman adjusted her glasses as she examined Jane from head to toe. “What’s this about?”

  “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions about your daughter.”

  “Kit? Why?”

  “I’m working for an attorney who’s trying to find evidence to reopen an old homicide case. The lawyer believes the man in prison for the murder is innocent.”

  “Okay, but what’s my daughter got to do with it?”

  “She knows some of the people involved.”

  “Then why don’t you talk to her?”

  “I have.”

  She narrowed one eye. “Are you suggesting my daughter had something to do with it?”

  “No, not at all,” said Jane, trying to sound reassuring. “I promise, I’ll only take a few minutes of your time. I just need to get a little background.”

  “Background,” repeated the woman, inspecting the word for possible meanings. “Well, I guess. Sure. I like to be helpful. But there’s really no place to sit in here. Why don’t we go back to the living room? By the way, I’m Denise.”

  “Jane.”

  “I should warn you,” she added, tossing a smile over her shoulder, “I’m a talker.”

  The first thing Jane saw when she entered the living room was a framed photo of Denise and her daughter. Kit was wearing a flowing white dress and holding a rose-and-baby’s-breath nosegay. Denise was decked out in a bright pink suit with a white gardenia corsage on her right shoulder.

  “That was taken at her wedding to John Henry,” said Denise. “Such a beautiful day. I have an entire album, if you’d like to see it.”

  Jane sat down on a couch covered in a loud floral print. She judged the living room to be about the same size as her kitchen, the kitchen alcove about the size of her foyer.

  “Do you mind if I take notes?” asked Jane.

  “Whatever you need to do.” Denise pushed a bowl of peppermint candies on the coffee table closer to Jane.

  “So,” Jane began, clicking her pen open, “how long have you lived here?”

  “Oh, gosh, let me think. Kitten was thirteen when we moved in, so maybe sixteen years. The place was up for sale but as you can imagine, it wasn’t the kind of house most people wanted. The first time I walked in, I knew it would be perfect for me. The price was right. So was the location. I heard that years ago, the salon was a mom-and-pop grocery store. That was back in the fifties. After that closed, it was a yarn shop for a while, and then later a little gift boutique. When I bought it, there was a bunch of hair salon stuff in the front room, but the business had closed the year before. I’d worked at a beauty shop once, so I thought, hell, I’ll resurrect it. Turns out, there are lots of old ladies around who still want a wash, a set, and a comb-out.”

  Jane couldn’t imagine two people, one of them a teenager, living in a place this small. Maybe there were two bedrooms, but if there were, they had to be no more than large closets. “Where did Kit go to high school?”

  “Washburn. Her grades weren’t good, but they were okay enough to graduate. As good as mine were. Neither of us were great students.”

  “Do you get together often?”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, I see her. She used to come by on Sunday nights for supper. That’s spaghetti night around here. She always liked my spaghetti. Now that she’s married, I don’t see her as much.”

  “Are you still married?”

  She snorted. “I never been married. Of course, I been with Karl, my boyfriend, for going on eight years now. He’s a trucker, so he’s not home a lot. Maybe that’s the secret to a lasting romance. Together we make ends meet. He’s a sweet guy. Believe me, I deserved to get lucky after every frog I kissed hoping he’d turn into a handsome prince.” She laughed.

  “I hear you,” said Jane, smiling. “What was Kit like as a teenager?”

  “Feisty. Allergic to rules. Sneaky as hell. Liked parties and chasing boys. And she lied. Oh, mother, could that kid lie. She was always trying to get stuff past me. I’m sure she stole cash out of my purse more than once. She was incorrigible, really. I guess I was a lot like that at her age, so the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. There were times when it got pretty heated around here. I will say though, I never sassed my mom back.”

  “What about her dad?”

  “Never had a dad. Like I said, I was a wild one. I’m not sure who the father is. Coulda been a couple of guys. I had boyfriends when she was growing up, but nobody we ever lived with. She didn’t seem to mind not having a father around. She always said most of her friends’ dads were total assholes.”

  “Really,” said Jane. The more she learned about Kit, the worse her brother’s judgment seemed to be. “Did she ever get into any major trouble?”

  “Like with the police? Nah.”

  “Drugs?”

  “That’s one thing she was never into, thank God. She drank some when she was out with her friends. We never had any liquor in the house. As for sex, I made sure she had contraception. Didn’t want her getting pregnant like I did.”

  “Do any of her friends still live around here?”

  “Sure, her best friend does. Name’s Brittany Daniels—used to be Brittany Miller. She brings her grandmother by twice a month for a wash and a set. Nice girl. Married with a couple of kids.”

  “Do you have her phone number?”

  “Let me look. I’m sure I do.” Denise rose from the couch and went back to the salon. She returned a few minutes later with an appointment book. Perching on the arm of a recliner, she read out both a phone number and an address.

  “After high school what did your daughter do?” asked Jane.

  “For a living? Oh, this and that. Wasn’t interested in college. That didn’t come as a surprise. Once she got married—”

  “You mean to John Henry?”

  “No, before that. She married a guy the year after she graduated. There was no father of the bride to pay for a fancy wedding, but Kitten spent a good month planning it anyway. I remember they got lots of great wedding presents, but in the end, they eloped. I was sorry I couldn’t be there. Davey was a real loser. Lazy. Had the personality of a houseplant. All he had going for him was his looks and a nice car.” She lowered her voice before adding, “I don’t know this for a fact, but I’ll bet he knocked her around some. It wasn’t eight months before she was back here, begging me to let her move back in.”

  “They divorced?”

  “Yeah, she couldn’t stand the sight of him. Thank God she never got pregnant.”

  “Do you remember his full name?”

  “David Allen Stokes.”

  “Where is he now?”


  “No idea.”

  Closing her notebook and slipping it back into her pocket, Jane said, “This has been helpful.”

  For the first time, Denise seemed to grow uncertain. “Look, I may have painted too dark a picture of my daughter. Sure, she was tough to raise, but we got through it. I love her and she loves me. There were times when she was just golden, you know what I mean? Sweet. Happy. Carefree. Young in a good way. And artistic. People never give her credit for how artistic she is.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Jane.

  “And one last thing. She never hurt anyone. Oh, she could be sarcastic and snappy, and her judgment wasn’t always the best, but down deep, she was a good kid. Remember that. Nobody knows a child better than a mother.”

  35

  While Jane had been inside talking to Denise, the temperature had risen into the mid-thirties. The freezing drizzle was gone, replaced by a thin, misty rain. Jane sat in the front seat of her truck and scrolled through her emails, finally finding the one she’d been waiting for. It was from Nicole Gunness—an answer to her question about any items missing from Harper Tillman’s body.

  J—Hi. Checked on it. Not sure if this qualifies.

  Harper had on earrings—turquoise teardrop with

  gold at the top. One was still attached.

  Looked like the other had been ripped off. Cops

  said it happened in a struggle, but I saw no

  evidence of one in the photos. Once she was

  hit on the back of the head, she went down, so

  it could have been ripped off on purpose. No

  real way of telling, though. Hope that helps.

  NG.

  Jane wasn’t sure what to make of this. She tucked the information away inside her mind as she drove north along Nicollet Avenue, heading to another interview, this one with the woman who lived across the hall from Gideon and Rashad—the same woman who’d alerted Marlo that the police were coming in and out of her dad’s apartment on the night he died. Jane wasn’t sure Bree Mitchell had anything important to tell her. Everything, she’d learned, felt like a hundred-to-one shot when she couldn’t bring the entire picture into focus.

  When Jane called from the house phone in the lobby, Bree gave her a code that would allow access to the ninth floor. Bree met her at the doors to the elevator and led the way back to her penthouse.

  Jane didn’t really know what to expect. She’d read about the condos at the Finnmark, heard that they were some of the loveliest in the city. The hallway was more utilitarian than anything else. Cement floors. White walls. Lightbulbs with a metal grid around them. But once inside, Jane could see what all the fuss was about.

  “This is amazing,” she said, taking a seat in the living room. “It’s so bright and airy.”

  “I love it,” said Bree, tucking herself into a corner of the couch. She was a trim woman, probably in her late fifties or early sixties, dressed in gray linen slacks and a white wool tunic. The silver lanyard around her neck kept her reading glasses close. She wore no makeup and still managed to look elegant.

  “I’ve always been troubled by what happened to Gideon.”

  “Did you know him? Or Rashad?”

  “I’d moved into my unit about a month before they arrived. I was so happy when they moved in across the hall. They were a wonderful couple. Very friendly. They invited me in for a glass of wine as soon as they were settled. I reciprocated. I felt lucky, I guess. I could just tell that we’d be great friends.”

  “Did they seem happy together?”

  “Yes, very. I never understood what happened there.”

  “Did you see anyone go in or out of their condo on the night Gideon died?”

  She shook her head. “But when I heard these heavy, clomping footsteps out in the hall, and then a couple deep male voices, I opened my door. Salsa music was coming from inside Gideon and Rashad’s place. There was a uniformed police officer inside the unit and another standing by the door. The one by the door told me to shut mine and not to come out again. He didn’t seem very friendly.”

  “What did you do?” asked Jane.

  “I closed the door. I immediately phoned Marlo. Gideon had introduced me to her—and to George—one Sunday afternoon, a few weeks before his death. We exchanged phone numbers, you know, for safety. When I called her that night, I told her I thought she should come over right away, that the police were in her father’s condo.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I watched everything through the peephole. When Marlo arrived, she charged right in, followed by George. The cop at the door tried to stop her, but she just pushed past him. A few seconds later, I heard her scream. That’s when I knew it was bad. Quite honestly, I thought Marlo’s appearance threw the police into a real tizzy. That’s a term my mother used to use, but in this situation, I think it’s appropriate. One of the officers slammed the door, so I couldn’t see what was happening for a few minutes, but then this man in a suit and tie arrived, looking like he was in charge, followed by a whole group of people. I later learned they were the crime-scene unit. They kept the door open after that. It was hours before Gideon was wheeled out on a gurney. I didn’t keep watch the entire time, but I did see them lead Marlo and George out separately.”

  “Were either of them carrying anything on their way in?”

  “No, not that I recall.”

  “What about on their way out?”

  She thought about it. “You know, I think George might have had a sack or—something he carried by the handles.”

  “Do you remember the color?”

  “Sorry.”

  Removing several photos from the pocket of her peacoat, Jane handed one to Bree. “Do you recognize him?”

  Slipping her reading glasses on, she studied the face. “No.”

  Jane handed her the second photo. “What about her?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. I’ve never seen either of them before.”

  Handing over the last photo, Jane waited.

  “Oh, my, yes. He was here. Not a face you’d forget.”

  “By here, you mean—”

  “I was coming home one night after work and I saw him leaving Gideon and Rashad’s condo. I nodded and smiled, and he did the same. Who is he?”

  “His name is John Henry Chenoweth. Did Gideon or Rashad ever mention him to you?”

  “No,” she said, handing the photos back. “Not that I recall.”

  They spoke for a few more minutes. Bree was curious as to why Jane was looking into a murder case that had already been solved. Jane gave a very brief explanation and was glad when Bree seemed satisfied.

  On her way back down in the elevator, Jane made a quick decision. She had one more stop before she was done with the day’s interviews.

  * * *

  Jane sat across the desk from John Henry, waiting for him to finish signing some papers for his secretary, a woman he introduced as Anna Morley. He’d been gracious when she’d come to the gallery and asked to speak with him. Eli gave her a sidelong glance as she and John Henry took the stairs up to the second floor. Kit was nowhere to be seen.

  His office was strangely devoid of artwork. When he was done and Anna had left, Jane asked him about it.

  “I need someplace to cleanse my palette, so to speak. Do you see?”

  “I do,” said Jane.

  “I’m around works of fine art all the time. It’s good to have a break.” After moving some papers to a credenza behind his desk, he said, “So, what can I do for you, Ms. Lawless?”

  “I have a couple of questions about Gideon Wise.”

  “I assumed that was it. I’m told your father is opening an investigation into the matter. Does he really think he can challenge a case that was successfully litigated?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to determine.”

  “And you think I can help?”

  Jane wasn’t sure she needed her notes, but decided to take out the notebook anyway. “In talking to Gideon
’s neighbor, I learned that you visited him at his condo a few weeks before his murder. Do you remember that?”

  He smoothed the front of his shirt. “Yes, I do.”

  “May I ask why you were there?”

  “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I have a question myself,” said John Henry, shifting in his chair. “My son tells me you think someone at the gallery might be involved. Is that true?”

  She nodded.

  “Because we had the key code for his unit.”

  “That’s right.”

  He scratched his beard, giving himself a moment to think. “You’re speaking about me, my son, and my wife.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ll tell you why I went to see Gideon that night. I needed money—or rather, the gallery did. I’d worked with him for a good ten years, considered him not just a customer, but a friend.”

  “And did he give you the money?”

  “He did not. Rashad was there as well that night. I knew he wasn’t all that keen on Gideon’s penchant for collecting. The fact was, they were thinking of buying a chalet-style home just outside of Breckenridge, Colorado. They both loved to ski and liked the town. They’d even gone out to inspect a place and were in negotiations to purchase it.”

  Jane made a couple of notes. “So no money.”

  “No money. Nothing nefarious. Let me ask another question: What would my motive be for murdering Gideon? Did I decide to bludgeon a friend because he refused to float me a loan? I would think even you would find that idea has no relationship with reality.”

  “Did you have any other dealings with him around that time?”

  “You’re fishing, Ms. Lawless, and I’m not biting.” Folding his hands in his lap, he continued, “What, may I ask, was Eli’s motive? Or Kit’s?”

  Jane admitted that she only had theories, none of which she wanted to share.

  “Then I’m not sure there’s anything else to say.”

  She was being dismissed. Standing, she thanked him for his time.