Stiff Competition

by Annelise Ryan

  “She hardly talks to me at all,” Hurley scoffs. “It’s like pulling teeth trying to get her to tell me what she wants to eat for dinner, much less what she wants to be when she grows up.”

  “She’s quite talented in the arts department,” I tell him, recalling how Emily once drew a portrait of someone using nothing more than a skeleton that hangs in our office library. The fact that the face she drew looked exactly like the woman whose skeleton it was impressed me. “She might have a career in forensics with her drawing abilities.”

  “First I have to get her through high school,” Hurley grumbles.

  We work through the rest of the bedroom and bathroom in silence. Patrick Devonshire shows up along with Jonas, and Hurley heads downstairs to direct them while I venture into the spare bedroom. As I work, I keep thinking about Emily and all the problems she is causing us. In an ideal world, the four of us could be living happily under one roof, but I learned long ago that this world is far from ideal. I understand why Emily’s acting out; life hasn’t been kind to her this past year, and I know she has to be experiencing a slew of complex emotions. She didn’t deserve what fate doled out to her, but then, I couldn’t help but feel that Hurley and I didn’t deserve our lot in life, either.

  I think about how much simpler life would be if Emily wasn’t in the picture, but as soon as the thought crosses my mind, I know it’s unfair and unkind of me to think this way. Maybe I do deserve the hand I’ve been dealt.

  The spare bedroom doesn’t offer up much in the way of useful evidence, so I shoot a bunch of pictures and head downstairs. I can tell right away that something is up with Hurley. His face is a thundercloud. He’s still directing Patrick and Jonas on what he wants done and collected, and judging from his tone of voice and what he’s saying, I don’t think they are the cause of his mood. Turns out I’m right.

  As soon as he’s done with the two men, he motions me out to the living room and says, “Here we go again. The school just called to inform me that Emily didn’t return to class after lunch.”

  “Has she done that before?”

  He nods. “She’s gone joyriding a few times with that boyfriend of hers. The last time she did it, I tried to ground her but she snuck out of the house through her bedroom window, climbed down the tree, and went out anyway.”

  “Should we go looking for her?”

  Hurley shakes his head. “Not yet. Dr. Baldwin told me she thinks Emily does this to get a rise out of me, so if I ignore her, she won’t get the kind of feedback she’s seeking and she’ll stop doing it.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” I say with a shrug. “So where do we go from here?”

  Hurley shoots me a wry look. “Are you referring to Emily, us, or the case?”

  I consider this a moment. “All three, I suppose.”

  “You and I are going to figure out a way to spend more time together with one another and with our son, with or without Emily. But we’re not going to do it this afternoon, so we might as well focus on the case. Let’s go visit Lars’s other office and see if his bad taste carries over into his professional life there.”

  I look around the living room and suppress a shudder. Lars was a very good-looking man, but even so it’s hard to imagine him as a lothario, given the décor of this place. “I feel like I’m trapped inside an Austin Powers movie,” I say.

  “Who is Austin Powers?”

  I gape at Hurley, thinking he must be spoofing me. “You really don’t know who Austin Powers is?”

  Hurley shakes his head.

  “You and I need to have a movie date soon,” I say, heading for the door. “And if you’re lucky, you’ll even get some time with your Mini-you.”

  “My mini what?” Hurley says, opening the door. He has a wicked gleam in his eye that suggests a meaning far from the one I had in mind. “Speaking of which, when are you clear for . . . you know . . . extracurricular activities?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  Hurley frowns. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because being physically ready and mentally ready are two entirely different things. And until both are met, that’s off the table. Right now if I lie down even for a minute, I fall asleep. I’m afraid to nurse Matthew unless I’m sitting up for fear I’ll fall asleep and roll over on him.”

  Hurley’s frown deepens. “I need to be able to help you more with this stuff.”

  “It will get better, Hurley. We just need to be patient.”

  We step outside and head for the car. Surprisingly, Hurley walks around and opens my door for me. It’s a sweet and unexpected gesture—Hurley’s never been one for the demonstrative, chauvinistic behaviors—and it makes me smile.

  That makes him smile, too, and the wicked gleam returns. “You know,” he says, “we don’t have to do it lying down.”

  Chapter 7

  The office of Lars Sanderson is located in the corner of a relatively new building that covers half a city block and houses several businesses. It borders the downtown area, which is populated with specialty shops housed in older buildings that date back to the late 1800s and early 1900s. This clash of old and new is evident all over Sorenson, in part because the town is spreading each year—kind of like my butt—and in part because some of the older buildings around town were so neglected and run-down that it was determined easier and cheaper to tear them down and rebuild rather than rehab them.

  Hurley tells me as we enter the building that Lars’s assistant’s name is Judy Bennett. This turns out to be unnecessary info since Judy has a large metal plate with her full name engraved on it in gold sitting on the front of her desk. She is a frizzy-haired, bleached blonde with black roots. It appears Judy tried to tame that hair in a taut French twist this morning, but strands of it have sprung out all over her head. Most of the escapees are corkscrew shaped, suggesting that Judy has a good amount of natural curl in her hair. It makes her head look like a skinned-alive, coil spring mattress. Her foundation is so thick that the skin of her face has an odd plaster look to it, one that makes me fear it will crack if she laughs too hard or yawns too wide. Her hazel eyes are outlined with heavy black eyeliner à la Cleopatra topped off with green and brown eye shadow. Apparently she is wearing fake eyelashes because the upper lash on her left eye is sticking out from her eyelid at a thirty-degree angle. Her lipstick and blush appear to be the same vibrant shade, and neither one is subtle.

  In sharp contrast to her makeup, Judy’s clothing choices are downright sedate. She is wearing a simple tan-colored blouse over a pair of black dress slacks and plain black pumps, and the only jewelry I can see is a small pendant around her neck with a tiny blue gemstone in it.

  “Good morning,” she greets us in a cheery tone with a smile that looks a tad forced. That stereotypical Midwest politeness is pervasive . . . and oddly annoying at times. “How may I be of help to you nice folks today?”

  Hurley takes out his badge and shows it to her. “I’m Steve Hurley with the Sorenson Police Department and this is Mattie Winston with the medical examiner’s office. I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”

  Judy’s smile fades and her eyes look cautiously concerned as her gaze bounces back and forth between me and Hurley.

  “Is it true that Lars Sanderson is your boss?” Hurley asks.

  Judy shrewdly replies, “Depends on why you’re here.”

  “I’m here because Mr. Sanderson is dead,” Hurley says in a soft tone that counters the bluntness of his words.

  Judy Bennett’s expression doesn’t change much. I’m not sure if it’s because she isn’t reacting, or if it’s because her makeup has her face frozen in place. She stares back at Hurley for several seconds and then finally cracks a smile—and thankfully, doesn’t crack the rest of her face. “Good one!” she says with a laugh. “Who put you up to this? Was it Nash? Sandra?”

  “This is no joke, Ms. Bennett,” Hurley says, wearing his most serious expression. “Mr. Sanderson was found dead earlier this morning out by Coope
r’s Woods.”

  Judy finally gets that this isn’t a joke and her expression turns serious. “He’s really dead?” she says, her eyes disbelieving. Hurley nods solemnly, as do I. Judy looks back and forth between the two of us a couple of times and then says, “Damn. What happened? Did he have a heart attack or something?”

  “It appears Mr. Sanderson may have been killed by a hunter,” Hurley says.

  “He was shot?” Judy says, clapping a hand against her chest. It seems Judy and Kirsten went to the same school of dramatic reactions.

  “Did Mr. Sanderson go hunting often?” Hurley counters, ignoring her question and firing off one of his own.

  “No,” she says, looking befuddled. “Well, not exactly. He’s been known to go out on hunting trips with potential clients and customers, but he doesn’t actually hunt. He told me he doesn’t have the stomach for the killing.” She gazes off into space for a few seconds and then says, “Ironic, I guess, isn’t it?”

  “Do you have any idea why he would have been out by Cooper’s Woods?” Hurley asks.

  Judy shakes her head, but it evolves into a half-assed shrug as her expression grows uncertain. “Sometimes he meets clients out in the boonies if there’s a parcel of land they want to look over.”

  “Did he have something he was working on in that part of the county?” Hurley asks.

  Judy thinks for a minute and then shakes her head. “He didn’t tell me about it if he did.”

  “And would he normally tell you about something like that?” Hurley asks.

  “Heck, yeah,” Judy says. “I’m his personal assistant.” She says this with great pride, announcing it like it’s a formidable, accomplished title. Knowing what I do about Lars from the local gossip and the news articles, I imagine the job has its challenges. “I handle his schedule, all of his correspondence, his books, his personal shopping . . . I’m pretty much his go-to person for anything that isn’t romantic.” She wiggles her eyebrows with this last comment.

  “And you don’t know of anyone he planned to meet this morning?” Hurley asks again.

  Judy shakes her head, looking bewildered. After a moment she looks down and opens a black, spiral-bound datebook. A clip allows her to open it directly to today’s date and her finger runs down both the left and right sides of the pages. “Nope, nothing at all this morning,” she says. “He has a three o’clock with Harry Olsen to discuss a development proposal, and he’s supposed to meet with a contractor for dinner tonight. I had to cancel his date with Ms. Rutherford because of it.”

  “Who is Harry Olsen? And where was Lars supposed to meet him?”

  “Mr. Olsen is the curator of the Sorenson History Museum. He and Lars haven’t always seen eye to eye on some of the projects Lars has done because Harry is all about preserving the history. I believe they were going to discuss Lars’s ideas for some project the mayor is pushing. And they were supposed to meet at Harry’s office at the museum.”

  Hurley looks at me. “Do you know where that is?”

  I nod.

  Hurley turns back to Judy. “And who is the contractor he is supposed to meet for dinner?”

  “Chuck Obermeyer. They were going to meet at Pesto Change-o at six.”

  “Do you have contact info for Mr. Obermeyer?” Hurley asks.

  Judy nods and scribbles the info down on a piece of paper after looking it up on her computer.

  “And finally,” Hurley says, taking the slip of paper, “Ms. Rutherford. What is her first name?”

  “Bridget.”

  Hurley writes it down. “Is that someone he saw regularly?” he asks.

  Judy smiles coyly. Then she seems to remember the reason behind our visit and her expression sobers with stunning speed. “Lars is . . . was seeing several women,” she says. “There are three that he dates with regularity.”

  “Really?” I say, feigning surprise. “Can you give us the names of these women, and any others he might have been seeing on a less than regular basis?”

  Judy nods, takes out a small notepad, and starts scribbling names on it. “It’s just the three as far as I know,” she says.

  “Contact info, too, if you would please,” Hurley adds, and without missing a beat, Judy keeps writing, putting down the name, address, and phone number of each woman, apparently from memory. Kirsten Donaldson is on the list.

  When she’s done writing down all the information we asked for, she hands the list to Hurley. He looks at it a moment and then asks, “Do these women all know about one another?”

  Judy shakes her head and gives him a sly grin. “Kirsten and Lars have an open, casual relationship. She knows, but I don’t think the others do. Lars has always been careful to keep them separate.”

  “Has Lars had any arguments or received any threats from anyone recently?”

  “No, not that I . . . oh, wait.” Judy squints and stares off into space for several seconds. “There was a guy whose mother owned some land that Lars bought last year. He was very unhappy with Lars for talking his mother out of what he referred to as his legacy, his family farm. The place was about to go into foreclosure when Lars bought it from the old woman, so it’s not like the guy would have had anything to inherit anyway. But the lady passed away last month and when her son discovered that everything except the house was gone, he got pretty pissed.”

  “What is this guy’s name?” Hurley asks, pen poised over his pocket notebook.

  Judy screws her face up and frowns. “It was an odd first name. I can’t pull it out right this second. And his last name was different from hers, I‘m guessing because she remarried. Her name was Freda Herman and I know Herman was the name of her husband who passed five years ago.” She reaches up and scratches her head, freeing a few more of the wild corkscrews. “Dang, what was his name?”

  “Don’t you have it written down somewhere?” Hurley asks, looking and sounding impatient.

  “I don’t,” she says with a frown. “But maybe Lars wrote it down somewhere. He was handling that one by himself, and apart from answering the phone a few times when the guy called, I had nothing to do with it.” She pushes her chair back from the desk and stands. “Let me look around in Lars’s office and see if I can find something with the guy’s name on it. I’ll know it when I see it.”

  She doesn’t invite us along, but she doesn’t say we can’t follow, either, so after a quick exchange of looks, Hurley turns on the camera he’s been carrying and hands it to me. Then we fall into step behind Judy as she enters Lars’s office.

  It’s surprisingly barren and plain. The desk is an old wooden thing that looks like it weighs a ton and has been through a major war. It is nicked, scratched, and dinged over most of its surface. The wheeled chair behind it is also old, wooden, and battered. On the other side of the desk is a second wooden chair that looks like a castoff from an old dining room set. Along the side wall is a crooked, pressed-wood bookcase with a mishmash of books and papers stacked on the shelves all willy-nilly. There is institutional beige carpeting on the floor, and it’s covered with dozens of stains in every color imaginable: red, brown, black, green, blue, yellow, and even a hot pink one that leaves me scratching my head, wondering what made it.

  Judy must sense my bemusement over the appearance of the office and she provides some insight. “That pink stain over there is my fault.” She shows me the back of one hand and waggles her fingers at me. “Nail polish incident. The rest of the stains belong to Lars. He’s not much on neatness and, as you can see, his sense of style is seriously lacking, at least here in the office. His home office is much nicer.”

  It certainly is.

  “Why does he have two offices?” Hurley asks. “Isn’t that unusual?”

  “He says it’s part of his method.”

  “His method?”

  “Yeah, he uses his home office to meet with contractors, politicians, and business leaders.”

  “And this office?” I ask.

  “Mostly for meeting with folks he’s buying
land from. I suggested he spruce the place up once and he told me it was perfect just the way it is. He thinks the décor makes the clients feel less intimidated, less taken advantage of. Most of his land deals are with farm folk and they tend to be simple, non-fancy people. So he tries to make it look like he’s just one of them, that the deal is between two entities who are both struggling to maintain and run a business.”

  Judy rummages through the papers on top of Lars’s desk and Hurley watches over her shoulder, eyeing each piece of paper. I aim the video camera at the desk and capture as much as I can. Finally Judy holds up a sticky note and says, “Here it is. Hartwig Beckenbauer. I told you it was a weird name.” She hands the paper to Hurley, who then copies the name and phone number into his notebook.

  Judy frowns at the camera and I wonder if she is worried about us invading Lars’s privacy or violating some search and seizure law. But then she cups a hand along the twisted mass of hostage curls at the back of her head, making a futile attempt to pat some of the escapees into place, and I realize she’s only worried about how she will appear.

  “If you’re looking for suspects,” she says, adjusting a hairpin, “you should probably consider Reece Morton.”

  “Who is Reece Morton and why would he be a suspect?” Hurley asks.

  I manage to beat Judy to the answer. “Reece is a developer who’s been around for years here in Sorenson. He’s been behind a number of projects over the years, including The Square downtown. What is now a charming pedestrian area full of shops and cafés was once an ugly old factory that was abandoned back in the sixties. It stayed abandoned until the nineties, when Reece Morton came along and transformed the area.”

  “And this Mr. Morton would be a suspect because ?”

  “Mainly because he’s old-fashioned,” Judy says. “He’s against modernization and growth, and those are the things Lars strives for. So they butt heads a lot.”