Dead Rapunzel

by Victoria Houston

  “I’ll try.” Seconds later he heard a light snore. Moonlight, silvery and silent, filled the room. He slept.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Shortly after seven the next morning, Greg finished his third cup of coffee, pulled on his parka, and headed through the door leading down into the garage. Kenzie would be sleeping for hours and wouldn’t need the car until later that morning. He had plenty of time to change the tire.

  He popped the lid on the trunk and looked down, ready to remove the scrap of carpet covering the chamber where the tire tools were stored. He jumped back.

  Staring up at him from hollow eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses were the slack features of an old man.

  “Oh, God,” he breathed. “Oh, my God.” He staggered over to the stairs leading up to the kitchen and sat down. He dropped his head into his hands. “It can’t be. Why . . . how . . .” He thought he knew his wife and yet it seemed so obvious that she had to have been the one to push Rudd. But . . . it didn’t make sense.

  Everything he had heard Kenzie say about her stepmother had been so positive. She had even sounded pleased when her father told her he was planning to marry Rudd—thrilled even. Greg thought back through all the years since childhood that he’d known Kenzie.

  Yes, he had known her to be manic, depressed, hysterical at times, but that was before the psychiatrist had prescribed the right meds. One thing she had never been was violent. Heck, she was so kindhearted he’d had a difficult time convincing her that mousetraps were a more reasonable solution than live trapping the little stinkers.

  Taking a deep breath, he tried to think back over the details of the morning Rudd died. Funny how little he knew about the accident. He checked his watch. He hoped Judith was an early riser. He rushed up the stairs into the kitchen, grabbed his jacket, and shoved the keys to the pickup into his pants pocket.

  Before leaving the house, he stopped to check the bedroom. Since Kenzie hadn’t gone to sleep until after midnight, he expected her to be zonked out still.

  “Hey, honey,” he whispered. No response: she was sound asleep. He tiptoed over to the chair near her side of the bed where she had carefully laid her jeans, sweater, and lingerie before climbing into bed the night before. He reached into the back pocket of her jeans. His fingers touched the slip of paper with Chief Ferris’s cell phone number. Good. He plucked it from her pocket and crept out of the room.

  Judith, still in her bathrobe, opened the door to the foyer with a look of mild surprise. “You’re moving early, Greg. What’s up? Wait,” she held up a cautionary hand, “before you say a word, can I offer you a cup of coffee? I have a full pot brewing. I was out late last night so I’m a little bleary.”

  “I would appreciate a few minutes of your time if you don’t mind, Judith,” said Greg as he stomped his feet to knock the snow off his boots.

  “Sure,” said Judith. “Mallory just got here, too. She’s upstairs on a phone call so I’ve got plenty of time—though I have to get dressed one of these days. Have a seat, Greg.”

  “Chief Ferris and Dr. Osborne were over late yesterday with questions for Kenzie and me. After they left, I realized I don’t know the details of what happened on Tuesday. I’m hoping you can fill in some gaps. Might make my wife feel better.”

  “Of course. I’m happy to tell you what I know, though it isn’t much.”

  “Thank you. I thought . . . I was hoping you might remember what time the . . . um, accident occurred. Was it early morning? Lunchtime? Maybe early afternoon?”

  Judith set a mug of coffee in front of him. “Do you take cream or sugar?”

  Greg shook his head no.

  She sat down across the table from him. “I know approximately when it happened because I had tried returning a call from Rudd from the road that morning. This was just before nine o’clock. When I couldn’t get through after three tries, I assumed that my cell service was spotty so I gave up. In retrospect that must have been right about the time she was hit.

  “As far as officially hearing about Rudd’s death—I got the call from Dr. Osborne just before eleven. Greg, I’m sure Chief Ferris can tell you more.”

  “I didn’t want to call her so early.”

  “You do know that the driver of the logging truck says that he saw someone push Rudd?”

  “Yes,” said Greg. “Chief Ferris also told us that the dishwasher at the Grizzly Bear Café said he saw an old man running in the direction of the street.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard, too. And Ray Pradt was told by a man who lives on the street behind the café that there had been a red sedan parked in front of his house right about that time.”

  “A red sedan.”

  “Yes. But that’s as much as I know, Greg. Is any of this helpful?”

  “Oh, you have no idea,” said Greg, pushing back his chair. “Gotta go.”

  “But you haven’t finished your coffee,” said Judith, standing up as he ran from the room.

  Mallory appeared on the second-floor balcony just as the door closed behind Greg. “What was that all about?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Judith, taking a sip of coffee and staring at the door Greg had slammed behind him.

  Out in his truck, Greg punched a familiar number into his cell phone. “Dad? Are you still home?”

  “Yeah . . . ” said Vern, his voice thick with sleep. “I’ll be in by ten. Had a few too many beers with Tim last night.”

  “Small emergency here. Kenzie locked her keys in her car with the motor running. We’re hoping you might have a spare from when you borrowed her car a few weeks ago.”

  “Yeah . . . I do. Got it on my key ring right here.”

  “Great. Be by in a few.”

  Greg’s first impression was relief that Kenzie had not, in one of her OCD moments, informed her father-in-law that they kept a set of spare keys for all their vehicles on a hook by the door leading to the garage. But then, Vern never did pay much attention to anything outside his own world.

  Greg punched in the number that Chief Ferris had left. When he heard a woman’s voice ask, “Kenzie?” he was thankful to have reached Chief Ferris so quickly.

  “No, Chief Ferris,” he said. “This is Greg Steidl. Sorry to call so early.”

  “That’s okay, Greg,” he heard Lew say. “Did you find the mask? Hold on a second, I’m going to pull off the road here while I have good reception.”

  Phone to his ear, Greg waited for Lew to pull her cruiser to a stop. “Okay, Greg,” she said within a few seconds. “Why are you calling? Did you find the mask?”

  “Yes,” said Greg. “It’s in the trunk of Kenzie’s Honda, which is in our garage. She’s still asleep and isn’t likely to wake up until ten at the earliest, maybe eleven. She tends to sleep until noon. I thought you should know.”

  He waited while Lew didn’t answer for a long moment. “This isn’t good, Greg.”

  “I know. But I also know someone who borrowed her car Tuesday morning. Took it while she was sleeping.”

  “Are you sure?” The police chief’s voice tensed. “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m not yet. But I’m working on it.”

  “Don’t do that, Greg.” Chief Ferris’s voice was loud in his ear. She repeated herself: “Please, do not do that.”

  Greg clicked his phone off and powered it down. He wanted no interruptions.

  Seconds later Lew pulled into the parking lot at the station. She ran through the doors. “Who’s on patrol right now?” she shouted at the dispatcher.

  “Officer Donovan.”

  “Get him for me ASAP.”

  Greg let himself through the side door of his father’s house, which was on the west side of Loon Lake. Even though his finances had improved over the years, Vern had stayed in the small house he’d bought after marrying Greg’s mother. Greg often thought he hadn’t cleaned it since, either.

  He found Vern, as he had expected, lolling on the sofa in his darkened living room, where he appeared to have slept in a
pair of soiled sweatpants and a torn long-sleeved T-shirt. Chatter from a sports channel filled the air.

  Over the five years of working for his father, Greg had developed a sense of revulsion every time he saw the man. Initially, he had felt guilty for having such feelings for the man who was responsible for his existence. Not today. Not ever again.

  “Dad, you did it, didn’t you,” he barked. It wasn’t a question.

  Vern lifted his head from the sofa pillow. “That key is on the kitchen table.”

  “Forget the goddamn key.” Greg marched into the room, picked up the TV remote, and clicked off the television.

  Looking down at his father, he said, “You snuck over Tuesday morning and took Kenzie’s car, didn’t you. You wore that mask and pushed Rudd in front of the truck. Then you killed that poor kid who saw you.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Vern struggled to sit up.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” said Greg as he started back toward the kitchen. He stopped and turned to face his dad, hands on his hips. “God, you disgust me.” He was so angry his voice trembled as he spoke. He knew he had to get out of the house before he strangled the man—or worse.

  Vern sat on the edge of the sofa, legs akimbo. “Settle down, will you? I can explain—”

  “EXPLAIN!” Greg thought his head would explode.

  “Look, there is a way out of all this.”

  Greg stopped breathing. He could not believe what he was hearing. Vern took his silence as a signal. “See, everyone knows Kenzie is schizophrenic—”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Tim. He knows a doctor who will testify that she was legally insane at the time that she pushed Rudd. She’ll have to get psychiatric care for a while, but then they’ll let her out. She’ll be fine.”

  “But she didn’t push Rudd.” Greg tried to sound calm: He wanted to know more.

  “We know that, but—”

  “But why? Why did you do this?”

  “What do you mean ‘why’? Fifty, sixty million dollars is why. That’s what that land is worth. Minimum. The field around that house has acres and acres of Northern White sand. Tim said oil frackers are desperate for it.”

  “So Tim is in on this, too?”

  “Well, there was some miscommunication, but it’ll work out.”

  “Miscommunication?” As the conversation went on, Greg’s nerves steadied.

  “Yeah, when we first started thinking about this Tim talked to a lawyer in Bonaire who assured him the lawyer could break the trust so that if Rudd was out of the way, the entire estate—money and land—would go to Philip’s heirs.

  “That means you, son. You and Kenzie will have a fortune. Now you can start that business you keep talking about . . . ”

  “And some of that will go to you? How?”

  “Tim will take care of me. But,” Vern shook his head as he stood up, “turns out the lawyer was wrong. You heard from Judith Fordham that only half the estate will go to the family, but that’s still a lot of money. All that has to happen now is for Judith to find who pushed her friend.”

  “So we sacrifice Kenzie.”

  “I told you. That will work out.”

  Greg turned around to leave. “Where are you going?” asked Vern as he rolled off the sofa onto his knees. He reached under the sofa.

  “I’m not going to let you do this.” Greg walked through the kitchen to the side door, his back to the living room.

  As Greg opened the door leading out to the driveway where he had left his truck, Vern said, “You forgot something—the key.”

  Greg turned to answer but no words came out. Astonishment flashed across his face. The blast from the shotgun forced him back against the door.

  The Loon Lake Police squad car pulled into the drive seconds after Vern had sped off in his truck. Todd Donovan rushed into the house. He called for an ambulance.

  Then he reached Lew: “Looks bad, Chief, but he’s alive . . . ”

  “I’m on my way. Keep him awake. Don’t let him—”

  “I know.” Todd knelt beside Greg. “EMTs’ll be here any second, guy. Stay awake. You gotta stay awake—we can’t let your blood pressure drop. Please, man, stay with me now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Doc, I need help.” It was Lew calling on her cell phone from the hospital where Greg was in surgery. Talking fast, she explained what had happened to Greg. “But I haven’t had the time to reach Kenzie and I may need help handling her.

  “Can you meet me here at the hospital and we’ll drive over together? Bruce is going to meet us there, too. I’ll give you the details when you get here. Right now I’m standing by to see if they can stop the bleeding.”

  Osborne caught up with Lew in the ER waiting room and they hurried out to her cruiser. Once they were on the road, Lew said, “I knew after the call from Greg that he was headed either for Tim or for his father. I wasn’t sure which, so I directed Todd to Vern’s place and I was on my way to Sloane’s, where Tim has been staying.”

  “Where’s Vern now?” asked Osborne. He had been having his last cup of coffee at McDonald’s when Lew’s call came in on his cell.

  “Who the hell knows? He drove off somewhere. I had Roger scout the parking lot for Steidl Construction. He’s keeping it under surveillance, but no sign of Vern’s truck. He could be hiding in one of the warehouses. I’ve briefed the sheriff’s department, so they’re checking those locations.”

  She pulled into the driveway in front of Greg and Kenzie’s house. The garage door was open and the red sedan was parked inside with the trunk wide open.

  “If you’ll go through the garage and knock on the door to the kitchen, I’ll try the front door,” said Lew. “Greg said she sleeps very late in the morning, so we may have to wake her.”

  While Lew was talking, Bruce drove up in his SUV. He got out and walked toward the garage and the open trunk. He looked down, then went back to his car for an evidence bag and nitrile gloves.

  Lew banged the brass doorknocker several times but got no response. She walked back around to the open garage door. “Any luck, Doc?”

  “No response, but I tried the door and it’s open. What do you want to do now?”

  “Hold on, let me see what Bruce thinks.”

  Bruce was holding the mask of the old man in his gloved hands. With care, he turned back the neck section and peered into the mask. “Excellent,” he said, eyebrows moving rapidly. “If we’re lucky, I’m looking at dried saliva. At least it looks like it to me. Let’s hope we got enough for our DNA guys to work with. I’ll have this couriered down to the lab ASAP.”

  “Good,” said Lew. “Officer Donovan is at Vern Steidl’s place right now and could use your help securing the site.”

  “Will do.”

  “Doc,” Lew waved to Osborne, “let’s go wake Kenzie.”

  The door to the bedroom was ajar and Osborne could hear the sound of someone stirring as they approached. Lew put out a hand to halt them both. “Kenzie?” she called from the hallway.

  “Wha-a—Who’s there? Is that you, Sloane?”

  “Kenzie, it’s me, Chief Ferris. Dr. Osborne is here with me, too. We have to talk to you. Are you dressed?”

  The door opened wider and a sleepy-eyed Kenzie, wrapped in a blue chenille bathrobe, her hair askew, blinked at them. “Is something wrong?”

  As Lew spoke, Kenzie’s eyes widened. “Vern? Vern did this?” Her voice dropped to a whisper as if she didn’t risk breathing: “Greg? He isn’t . . . is he—”

  “No. He is alive, but he is in surgery at St. Mary’s Hospital. The doctor is optimistic, Kenzie. So as soon as you can get dressed, we’re taking you to the hospital.”

  “Oh, okay,” she said in a weak voice as she sank down into an armchair beside the bed. “Sorry, I’m shaking so bad.” She reached for a bottle of pills on the table beside the bed. Her fingers were trembling so violently that she spilled water from the glass on the table as she t
ried to swallow her medication.

  “Should we call your therapist?” asked Osborne. “Would that be a good idea?”

  “No, I’ll be okay,” said Kenzie. “Maybe later, but right now I want to see Greg . . . ”

  That did not seem like a good idea to Osborne. “Tell you what,” he said, “if you’ll give me your therapist’s name and phone number, I’ll give them a call. You’re dealing with a great deal of stress, Kenzie. It isn’t going to get easier, either.” He didn’t mention the fury likely to set in once she saw the extent of Greg’s wounds.

  “All right,” said Kenzie. “It’s Dr. Sharon O’Hearne and her number is on the wall by the phone in the kitchen.”

  “Good, I’ll take care of that while Chief Ferris helps you get ready.”

  Moments later, Osborne had the therapist on the phone and he quickly told her that Greg had been shot and was in surgery. “I’ll be driving Kenzie to the hospital in a few minutes,” said Osborne. “I’m worried about her, though—”

  “How’s she doing right now?” asked the therapist. “Hysterical?”

  “No. But shaken. Very shaken.”

  “And her husband. Is he going to make it?”

  “The doctor thinks so. He’s lost a lot a blood and infection is a risk. The good news is the shooter was far enough away that the buckshot was dispersed and did less damage than it might have. No vital organs appear to have been damaged, but the pellets are the problem. The surgeon was still working on him as of half an hour ago. He’ll be in surgery for hours . . . ”

  “Look, Dr. Osborne, I’ll meet you and Kenzie at the hospital. Tell Kenzie I’m cancelling the rest of my Friday appointments. I need to be there for her.”

  “Do you really think that’s necessary? I thought maybe a tranquilizer—”

  “No. I don’t want her taking more medication than she does already. But I also don’t want her going into a severe panic attack. That will set her back months and that won’t help her poor husband. If I can talk her through these next few hours, she should be able to manage.”