“You’re kidding, right?” Brad says. “You can’t live in this town for any length of time and not know Sanderson. He’s a noisemaker.”
“What do you mean by that?” Richmond asks.
“I mean the guy knows how to rattle people’s cages and he doesn’t seem to care who he pisses off. You got to respect a guy like that. He knows what he wants and he goes after it without letting social mores or peer pressures get in his way.”
“Tell me about your marriage to Kirsten,” Richmond says, switching gears.
I don’t know if he’s hoping to rattle Donaldson, but if he is, it isn’t working. “Kirsten and I had a great time of it for a number of years,” he says, smiling fondly. “But in the end I lost her because I tried to hang on too tight. She was a hard one for me to lose. I really loved her. Still do, in fact. But I let my insecurities get in the way of my happiness and I drove her away.”
“She took a lot of your money with her when you split up,” I say.
Donaldson shrugs. “It was our money. She took half and that was fair. We both worked hard for it. Besides, I have more than enough to meet my needs and you can’t take it with you, so why not spread it around and let those you care about enjoy it?”
“What is it you do for a living?” Richmond asks. He already knows the answer, but getting people to talk about themselves is a way of relaxing them and getting them to feel confident. When people are relaxed and feeling confident they tend to slip up and say things they shouldn’t.
“I own a chain of home improvement stores,” he says. “And I do some contracting on the side. It’s a family business that’s been handed down for three generations. My son will hopefully be the fourth.”
“Your son?” I say with a questioning look. “I thought you and Kirsten had two daughters.”
“Kirsten and I do have two daughters,” he says. “My son is the product of a dalliance I had when I was younger, before I met Kirsten. I didn’t know about him until two years ago. His mother died and left him information about me in case he wanted to look me up. Turned out he did and we’ve been trying to make up for lost time ever since.”
“Were you aware that Mr. Sanderson and your ex-wife were seeing one another?” Richmond asks.
Donaldson’s smile shifts ever so slightly, and his brows draw together. The smile is still there, but it doesn’t look as warm or as genuine all of a sudden. “I know she used him as an escort for social functions on occasion,” he says, rubbing one temple with his fingers.
“Apparently it was much more than that,” I say.
Donaldson’s demeanor changes so fast it leaves me stunned. The magnetic smile is gone, his entire face is a red, raging mass of flesh, and his eyes turn cold and mean-looking. He opens his mouth to say something but stops before a single word comes out. His face goes slack for a few seconds and then the charming, captivating Brad Donaldson returns. “Kirsten is free to do what she wants and see whomever she wants,” he says in that wondrous, calming voice.
It’s like someone flipped a switch. And before the Hulk-esque side of Donaldson could fully emerge, it was flipped back again. It’s creepy, curious, and intriguing. I want to flip that switch again.
Apparently, so does Richmond because he says, “Mr. Sanderson and your ex-wife were lovers, Mr. Donaldson. Kirsten told us she slept with Lars on a regular basis.”
I watch Donaldson closely, waiting for him to turn green and bust out of his clothes. There is a faint hint of a thundercloud on his face for a few seconds, but his placid, friendly smile remains in place. “Like I said, she’s free to do what she wants. I no longer have a say in that.”
“So it doesn’t bother you that the woman you love is sleeping around?” Richmond prods.
“I won’t say it makes me happy,” Donaldson says, “but I’ve moved on. I have a new woman in my life now and Kirsten’s life is her own.” His tone and his facial expression read sincere, but the muscles in his jaw are popping like water drops on a hot skillet.
Richmond makes a couple of other statements intended to rile the man, but Donaldson’s self-control is firmly in place and he refuses to be goaded. Tiring of the game, Richmond eventually moves on. “Can you tell me where you were yesterday morning between the hours of five and eight?”
Donaldson thinks a moment before he answers. “I was in bed until around six-thirty, and then I got up, showered, and headed for my store on the west side of Madison. I think I got there around seven forty-five or so, and I didn’t leave there until nearly eleven.”
Richmond asks, “Can anyone verify that you were home between five and seven?”
Donaldson shakes his head and his smile broadens. “Nope,” he says, “because I wasn’t at home. I was at Liz’s house.”
“Liz?” Richmond says.
“Liz Markham, my girlfriend,” Donaldson says. He takes a business card and a pen from his coat pocket and writes something down on the back of the card. Then he pushes it across the table toward Richmond. “Here’s her number. Call her. She’ll vouch for me. And just to clarify, I was there until about seven-thirty. Her house is located on the west side of Madison, only a few miles from my store.”
Richmond places the card on the table in front of him. “Mr. Donaldson, do you own a bow and arrow of any type?”
“Yes, I do,” he says. “Why?”
“May we take a look at them?”
Donaldson contemplates this request for half a minute or so, and the silence in the room is so great, I can hear the second hand on the wall clock ticking its way around. “I suppose so,” he says finally. “They’re at my house. Do you want to go look at them now?”
“That would be great,” Richmond says. “Why don’t you drive there and we’ll follow along behind.”
I’m surprised Donaldson has agreed to Richmond’s request and I half expect him to change his mind. But he doesn’t. We send him out front to his Hummer while Richmond and I head out the back door to his car. Richmond throws me the keys—a first. “I’m going to call the girlfriend,” he says. “You can drive.”
As soon as we are in the car I say, “Wow, did you see how Donaldson changed from smooth operator to insanely jealous ex-husband in the blink of an eye?”
“Sure did. He’s a charming guy but I have to say it’s not hard to imagine that green-eyed version of him killing someone.”
“And yet he got it under control really fast. I don’t know who his therapist is but I’d bet money he’s been seeing one and he or she is really good. Either that or Donaldson is on some kickass meds. Maybe it’s both.”
I find Donaldson waiting for us at the parking lot entrance in front of the building and I wave him on. He pulls out and I fall in behind him as Richmond dials the girlfriend’s number. He puts the call on speaker and lets me listen in as he identifies himself and then asks his questions. Liz basically supports Donaldson’s time line, though her times are estimates that fall within five or ten minutes of his. Liars and people who know they have to cover something up tend to get their stories very straight, so I suspect she’s telling the truth.
Donaldson lives in a lakefront home located ten miles outside of town. A few decades ago, many of the homes in the area were small summer cottages that served as second homes to those who could afford a lake house. But during the housing boom of the nineties the cottages gave way to tightly packed palatial homes, and now the wealthy and the upper middle class rub elbows along the lakefront year-round.
The outside of Donaldson’s house is a stunning stone and wood mansion that hogs up most of the lot space. On either side his neighbors’ houses are only about ten feet away. I pull into Donaldson’s driveway behind his Hummer and alongside a garage. Once we’re out of our cars, Donaldson says, “I typically keep my archery equipment in a basement storeroom, but at the moment it’s in my pickup.”
“Why is that?” Richmond asks.
“It’s deer hunting season,” Donaldson says in a Captain Obvious tone.
Donalds
on walks over to the garage door and punches in a number code on the lock. The door rises, revealing a shiny, metallic-blue Ford F-150 king cab. Donaldson opens the door to the truck and sticks his head inside. A moment later he comes out with a puzzled look on his face. “They’re gone,” he says, looking at us.
Richmond and I exchange looks, and then Richmond asks, “Who would have access to your garage?”
“No one but me,” he says. “Wait, my son might. He’s been here several times and I told him what the passcode was so he could use the truck. Maybe he came by to borrow the stuff. Turns out he likes archery and took some lessons when he was a kid. In fact, he still has the bow and arrows he used when he was little. I’m getting him some new equipment for Christmas.”
“Can you give me your son’s name and contact information?” Richmond asks, taking out his notebook. He sounds irritated and I can’t say I blame him. It seems like every step forward in this case requires two steps back.
Donaldson hesitates, frowning, but finally complies. “His name is Jeff Hunt, but he can’t have anything to do with this. He doesn’t even know Lars Sanderson.”
“Address?” Richmond says.
Donaldson’s frown deepens. “He lives in Portage in his mother’s home. He inherited the place when she died.” He then provides us with the street address.
“Are you sure your equipment isn’t in the house?” I ask. “Maybe you took it inside and don’t remember doing it.”
“If I took it anywhere, it would have been to the basement storage room,” he says.
“Mind if we take a look there?” Richmond asks.
Donaldson thinks about it for a moment, sighs, and then nods. We leave the garage and head between Donaldson’s home and the neighboring one on the left until we reach the backside of the house. The lot slopes down toward the waterfront and on the second level, which would be the main level if entering from the street side of the house, there are floor-to-ceiling windows in what I assume is a living area. No doubt they provide a stunning view of the lake. Donaldson enters the house through a ground-floor entrance into a finished basement area furnished as a game room. There are several pinball machines along one wall, and a beautiful mahogany pool table with maroon felt and a stained glass lamp overhead in the center of the room. Deeper in I see a Foosball table, an air hockey table, and of course, the requisite large-screen TV with a variety of gaming equipment. I wonder if the basement has always been furnished this way or if Donaldson added this stuff after he found out about his son.
We follow Donaldson through the game room and out a door at the far end that takes us into an unfinished storage area. Here we find various types of outdoor play equipment: set-ups for badminton, volleyball, and croquet, plus fishing gear, kites, ski jets, and some archery targets on hay bales. But nowhere can we find any bows or arrows.
When we are done, I pull Richmond to one side. “Should we ask him if we can look through the rest of the house?”
Richmond nods, and then does just that.
“I think I’ve been quite accommodating thus far,” Donaldson says, looking troubled. “But I am concerned that my equipment has gone missing, and I’m guessing such equipment has significant meaning in this case. So until I have some time to think about the consequences, I’d like to hold off. If you want to paw through the rest of my life, you’ll have to get a warrant.”
Richmond looks annoyed and tired. “Fine,” he says. And without another word, he turns to leave.
I scramble along behind him and when we get back to the car he grumbles, “Give me the keys.”
I do so and get in on the passenger side.
“This case is tweaking my nerves,” Richmond mutters.
“Did you see those targets on the hay bales? That’s what Reece Morton said he had in his storage locker. Is there any way to tell if the ones Donaldson has might be Morton’s? There were pieces of hay on the floor in that storage unit. Maybe there’s away to match it to the hay in those bales.”
Richmond thinks about it. “Maybe, but first we have to get access to them and Donaldson is done accommodating us for now. I’ll have to try for the search warrant and hope for the best.”
“What do you want to do in the meantime?”
“Are you up for a trip to Portage?”
“Sure, but I want to take my own car in case something comes up with Emily.”
“That’s fine. We can caravan. Besides, it will be fun to watch people’s reactions as you drive that hearse through town.”
Chapter 24
Forty-five minutes later Richmond and I are in Portage pulling up in front of a cute little yellow Cape Cod with a red front door. There’s a newer model SUV in the driveway and a two-car detached garage that looks newer than the house and is nearly as big. The reason the SUV is parked in the driveway is apparent because the garage door is open. It’s already dark outside and the garage is lit up inside. In it is a mid-sized boat on a trailer, a motorcycle, a snowmobile, and an ATV. A man who looks to be in his late twenties is kneeling beside the snowmobile working a tool in the engine compartment, and various mechanical parts are scattered around him on the floor.
As Richmond and I walk up the drive, I lean over and say, “Do you think it’s fate that this guy’s last name is Hunt?”
Richmond chuckles and, in response, the young man inside the garage looks up, sees us, and smiles curiously.
“Are you Jeff Hunt?” Richmond asks as we reach the garage opening.
“I am,” the man says, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands. He gets up from the floor and takes a few steps toward us. “Can I help you?”
Richmond flashes his police badge and I show my ME’s badge for good measure. “I’m Detective Bob Richmond with the Sorenson Police Department,” Richmond says. “This is Mattie Winston with the ME’s office. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Regarding what?” he asks with a tentative smile.
Rather than answering this question, Richmond looks around the garage and nods approvingly. “You’ve got some sweet toys here,” he says. “I’m a little envious.”
Hunt looks around the garage and his smile broadens.
“Are they all yours?” Richmond asks.
Hunt nods. “They are. The boat is new. I just bought it this past summer. I’ve had the motorcycle and the ATV for a little over a year, the snowmobile for two.”
Richmond looks back out at the driveway. “The car looks new, too.”
“Bought it in the fall,” Hunt says, his smile fading. “Look, I own all of this stuff, if that’s what you’re getting at. I didn’t steal any of it. My father purchased the boat and the car but the titles are in my name.”
“I don’t think you stole anything,” Richmond says. “That’s not why we’re here. But as long as we’re on the subject, what do you do for a living?”
“I work for my father managing his stores.”
“What kind of stores?” Richmond asks. We, of course, already know the answer but I’ve learned from watching Richmond work that he likes to chat people up on seemingly innocuous matters and then toss out the occasional zinger. It’s effective. Most folks end up experiencing a seesaw of calm and anxiety that keeps them unsettled. And unsettled people often say interesting things.
“Home improvement stores,” Hunt answers. “My father is Brad Donaldson and he owns a chain of twenty stores throughout central Wisconsin. I manage the ones in this region—four stores all together—as sort of an internship. Dad is grooming me to eventually take over for him and run the company.”
“Wow,” Richmond says. “That’s a lot of responsibility for a young man. How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven. I have an MBA,” he adds, sounding a bit defensive.
Richmond gives him a look of grudging admiration. “That’s impressive. How come you aren’t working today?”
“Tuesday and Wednesday are my days off because I work every weekend and I have to process payroll on Mondays. The weekends are our
busiest days at the store. That’s when all the weekend warriors come in.”
Richmond chuckles. “I’m betting some of them keep you busy asking a million questions, right?”
Hunt shrugs. “Sometimes, yeah. What is it you’re here for again?” he asks with a hint of impatience.
“We’re looking into the death of a man in Sorenson that might have been a hunting accident. Do you hunt, Mr. Hunt?” Richmond asks in an amused tone.
“I’ve gone out a time or two with my father, but we’re solely bow hunters.”
“You don’t use a gun?” Richmond asks.
Hunt shakes his head.
“Well, then,” Richmond says with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“I’ve never hunted with a gun,” Hunt says, “and, to be honest, I’m not a big fan of hunting in general. I only went because I was trying to bond with my father. And I do love archery. My dad and I both do.”
“Bows and arrows?” Richmond says with a hint of excitement in his voice. “That’s fascinating. I’ve always wanted to take lessons in archery. Are you any good?”
“Decent enough,” Hunt says with a hint of boastfulness. “My mom gave me lessons when I was little, so I’ve had some practice.”
“Do you own your own bow?”
“An old worn one,” Hunt says. “The same one I used when I was younger. It’s in my storage shed out back.”
“Can you show it to me?” Richmond asks. Hunt looks hesitant, so Richmond adds a little incentive. “It sounds like you’ve got a good handle on the sport and it’s something I’ve always wanted to do. Any chance you could give me a five minute crash course on the basics?”
Hunt frowns and scratches his head, leaving a faint grease smear on his ear. Finally he smiles, shrugs, and says, “Sure, why not? But don’t expect much. My set is far from state of the art.”
He turns and leads us through the garage, out a back door, and into a small yard. Some thirty feet behind the house is a small utility shed. As we start to cross the yard toward it, I hear the sound of a cell phone ring behind us in the garage.
Stiff Competition Page 24
