Murder at Spirit Falls

by Barbara Deese

  At this answer, Maki’s eyebrows shot up. “Getting donations?”

  “Yes, you see, Ross often entertains affluent and influential people. We put together the concept of providing them a relaxed atmosphere in which to offer them an opportunity to participate in the financial health of the college.”

  Harley hooted but quickly clamped his hand over his mouth.

  “Okay, so you threw a party to hit some wealthy stiffs up for money. Exactly what was Ms. Dunn’s function?”

  It was subtle when Krause’s composure began to crumble. He didn’t obviously sweat; his posture remained unchanged. But to Harley, it seemed as if Martin Krause was beginning to implode. “As director of Development, Melissa had a knack for fundraising.” Martin drained his cup.

  Maki smiled again. He repositioned the notebook squarely in front of him and flipped a page. “Okay, but here’s what I find a little odd. Wouldn’t this type of fundraising normally be done on your campus?”

  Krause, once more on sure footing, said, “Not at all. It’s not at all unusual to sponsor events in homes of loyal alumni, for instance.”

  “Did Ross Johnson graduate from Bradford?”

  “No.” He gestured to the notebook. “You probably have that in there. He did not, but he holds Bradford College in high regard. He offered his cabin to host this event as his gift to Bradford.”

  “Okay, I can see that. But overnight? Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

  Krause focused on the corner of the room. “Unusual, yes. That was the point. We were thinking out of the box. We wanted to get them out in nature and then explain to them why it was the most natural thing in the world to educate those who—”

  “But why overnight?”

  “Oh, yes, well, there was also the consideration that we served wine and we didn’t want anyone having to drive home.” He flipped his hand. “Liability and all.”

  “What would you say if I told you we know it wasn’t just wine? We know about the drugs, Dr. Krause.” Maki let that bit of information sink in. “Isn’t it true you and Ms. Dunn were using cocaine?”

  Martin’s face blanched. “Wherever you got that information, it was wrong. We had alcohol, yes. But drugs?” He looked directly into Maki’s eyes. “Never!”

  “Okay, so tell me, who were these people?”

  “The people?”

  “Yes, the people at this gathering?”

  “I don’t recall. They were acquaintances of Ross Johnson’s.” Martin’s fingernails picked at the Styrofoam cup.

  “You don’t recall their names, and yet you were hitting them up for donations?” Maki asked incredulously.

  “Ross hadn’t made formal introductions yet.”

  He let the yet slide for now.

  “You didn’t have conversations with any of them?”

  “We, um, it’s hard to describe.”

  Maki tapped his pen on the wooden table as he pondered that answer. “Okay, let’s leave that for a minute. How did Ms. Dunn get to this fundraiser?” His voice was thick with irony.

  “She drove.”

  “You drove separately?”

  “No, I guess I picked her up.” Martin concentrated on the growing pile of Styrofoam chips.

  “Where was that?”

  “What?”

  “Where did you pick up Melissa Dunn?”

  Martin flushed. “At her, uh, apartment. She wanted to change clothes after work and asked—”

  “So you picked her up at her apartment and drove her to Johnson’s. What day?”

  Martin Krause breathed audibly through his mouth. He briefly pressed his eyes shut. “What?”

  “Thursday? Friday?”

  “Uh, Thursday, as I recall. We wanted to get everything set up. You know, caterers and such.”

  “Uh huh. So you were there, just you and Melissa Dunn and Ross Johnson, on that Thursday night. Friday was the big party, right?”

  “Fundraiser.”

  “Yeah, okay. And Melissa Dunn was still there Friday, right?”

  “That’s correct.” Krause splayed his hands on the table, as if bracing himself.

  “And then, at some point, she left. When was that?”

  Martin shrugged. “I don’t know. I never looked at the clock. She just got upset about something and walked out of the room. I had no idea at the time that she’d left the premises.”

  Maki waited.

  Looking down at his hands, Martin took another deep breath. “I don’t know what happened. She appeared quite upset about something and said that she was leaving. She could be mercurial.”

  “Okay, she told you she was leaving. Did she take your car?”

  He appeared to consider the question. “I assume she took off on foot.”

  “Did you try to stop her, reason with her?”

  “At first I surmised she’d come back when she was done with her little snit, but then when the storm moved in, I went out to look for her. I never did find her. By the time I returned, I was told a couple people had left, and may have taken her with them.”

  Maki began clicking his ballpoint pen. “Let’s assume that actually happened. What did you think when she didn’t report to work?”

  “I just figured that she was taking a few days off.”

  “Is she in the habit of doing that?”

  “I really couldn’t answer that.”

  “Didn’t your secretary, Amy Nguyen, inform you of Miss Dunn’s unexplained absence?”

  “I believe so.”

  “I see. Did you suggest to her that she call Miss Dunn at home?”

  “Ms. Nguyen did that on her own. There was no answer, as I recall.”

  “Right. And after a few tries, she called the emergency contact in Ms. Dunn’s file—her mother—did she not?”

  “I have no reason to question it if Ms. Nguyen says so.”

  “At any point, were you yourself concerned enough to call the police?” Maki asked matter-of-factly.

  “No.”

  In the next room, Harley shook his head in disbelief.

  “Let me explain to you the Rule of Holes, President Krause. The Rule of Holes,” Maki explained. “When you find yourself in one, stop digging!”

  20

  The sheriff blew into his office as if propelled by the wind. At her desk, Brill kept her head down but rolled her eyes up to look at him. “Going for the Paddington Bear look?” She chuckled to herself.

  Harley peeled back the hood of his yellow vinyl slicker and stamped his boots.

  “They say it’s gonna clear out by this evening, but I don’t believe it,” she said, eying the white paper bags in his hand.

  Harley plopped one on her desk, and immediately she plunged her hand in and removed the Double Whopper, squeezed three packets of ketchup on it and took a man-sized bite. A red blob dropped onto her pants. She lifted it off with her finger, put it in her mouth.

  “Anything from Madison yet?”

  “A fax came in about an hour ago. I put it on your chair.” Brill had learned long ago not to place important papers on Harley’s desk. He had his own quirky system for putting order to what looked to her like utter chaos.

  He motioned to her. She stuffed her mouth with french fries, looked regretfully at her deeply scalloped burger, and followed him into his office.

  Harley flung his raincoat in the direction of the wall-mounted coat rack, and it caught.

  Grabbing the papers from his chair, Brill placed them in his hand. “The paint comes from a Mercedes, a beige one.”

  When he sat, she leaned over his shoulder. “See, right here it says—”

  “Thanks, I’d like to read it myself.”

  Ignoring his comment, she continued. “Paint color is weizengelb, number 681, manufactured by Glosser, to be precise. Problem is they discontinued it in 1985. I’ve already checked with Lois at the DMV. No match in the entire county.” She looked pleased with herself.

  Harley almost grinned. “Then check the surrounding counties.”
>
  “Will do.”

  When he was done reading the full report, he began tapping out a search on his keyboard.

  Brill returned with her own search results. “Nothing in the three-county area.”

  He hit a new button and waited for his underpowered computer to chug out its answer. “Then call the Minnesota DMV.” He glanced at his screen that now informed him he’d committed a “permanent fatal error.” Each time he read that stupid, hyperbolic phrase, he pictured himself pulling out his service revolver, pressing it against the side of the monitor and pulling the trigger. “Go ahead. Make my day,” he said between clenched teeth.

  The phone rang. The caller identified himself as Detective Maki from the Roseville P.D. Harley listened for a moment. “Well, if that don’t beat all!” he said. Cradling the phone on his shoulder, he grabbed a notepad and pen, took some notes. “Thanks Detective, I’ll fax the affidavit over to you this afternoon.

  Hanging up, Harley called out the door, “Guess who owns a 1984 beige Mercedes?”

  It was properly overcast the afternoon of Melissa Dunn’s wake. Four of the No Ordinary Women decided to attend, each, in her own way, feeling a sense of responsibility to this young woman whose body had been so carelessly deposited on the shore of Tamarack Creek—the very shore where, more than once, they’d sat on beach chairs and sipped margaritas. Below Spirit Falls, the very falls where, last year, they’d shed about forty years apiece along with their bathing suits.

  Robin arrived alone, and saw there were rent-a-cops directing traffic in the parking lot. The death of a young person usually brought out the crowds, and this young person was no exception. Inside, a sign directed her to the largest room of the funeral home, although all she had to do was follow the odor of Stargazer lilies and roses.

  Melissa’s parents stood by the flower-bedecked casket, their shoulders resolute. He was freckled, like his daughter, with thinning hair. Her hair was freshly colored and matched Melissa’s, seen in the numerous photos on a display board nearby. Displaying simple elegance, they greeted the hundreds who had come to pay homage to their only child. They neither cried nor smiled, clearly determined to conduct themselves with decorum, but in their faces it was obvious that gravity pulled more heavily on them than on the other mourners.

  Robin, wearing a simple navy dress and flats, went directly to the greeting line, and when it was her turn, she hugged Mrs. Dunn and pressed the borrowed photos into her hands. Her throat closed when she tried to speak.

  “I know, dear, I know.” Carol Dunn patted her arm. Robin had always found it odd, but she’d noticed before how so often those who grieved the most took it upon themselves to comfort others.

  Robin placed her hand over her heart, her eyes moist. “I’m so sorry.”

  Carol nodded and introduced Robin to her husband.

  After muttering her inadequate words to the father, Robin turned to see Foxy at the back of the line, her reddish-brown pantsuit exactly matching the color of her hair. In the foyer, Grace, sporting a flattering new hairdo that framed her face with wisps, was signing the guest book.

  Dramatic in an aubergine silk ensemble, Cate entered through another door. She ambled up behind Grace without acknowledging her, signed the book, and followed her into the room. Once surrounded by the crowd, Grace pointed out to Cate the young man with a sleek ponytail who stood far off, talking to no one.

  Cate meandered through the crush of people toward him. It was several seconds before he glanced in her direction. She dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief, letting her sleeve fall away to reveal the jewelry on her wrist.

  The man Grace had identified as Todd gave her a sad smile and nod. She returned it. Nothing on his face indicated he recognized the bracelet, so similar to the one Melissa had owned. He seemed lost in his own misery.

  But even though Melissa’s hapless boyfriend paid her little attention, Cate sensed someone else watching her. She looked over her shoulder and saw Sheriff Harley’s eyes fixed in her direction. They both looked away. He was not in uniform, of course. Cate had read enough mysteries, watched enough TV, to know that police always go to the funerals of people whose deaths are suspicious. She scanned the crowd, looking for the other plainclothes.

  Cate’s eyes were drawn to a handsome couple. Martin Krause looked much like his photo on Bradford’s website. The skinny, too-tanned woman with streaked blond hair and delicate jewelry next to him fit Grace’s description of Brenda Krause. Martin steered his wife through the crowd with a hand on her elbow as if it were a rudder. With the other hand, he pressed a white hanky to the back of his neck. They worked the crowd in that quadrant of the room, looking a bit too much as though they were campaigning. Cate observed two distinct clumps of people she supposed were Bradford employees.

  Grace, she saw, had zeroed in on the Krauses. Cate watched as introductions were made. She saw Brenda touch Grace’s hair, saw the smile and nod of approval for the new look. Another glance in Harley’s direction told her that he, also, was interested in the threesome. She decided to work her way over to them.

  Standing near Grace and the Krauses, Cate heard nothing of import. As she smoothed back her hair, however, Martin’s attention was suddenly focused on her exposed wrist, which tingled with the intensity of his stare. The bracelet. Her heart began to beat rapidly, a memory picture coming back to her: the man with intense eyes, hastily picking through her jewelry at the Uptown Art Fair, choosing a bracelet, pulling a wad of cash out of his pocket, then quickly, guiltily, stuffing the purchase, wrapped only in tissue, into his breast pocket.

  He had that same furtive look now as he leaned over and spoke in his wife’s ear. Brenda glanced at him, nodded, then continued her conversation with Grace.

  As Martin Krause headed for the exit, a man and woman slipped out the door behind him.

  Cate decided to join the parade, which led only to the men’s room. The man, a slender Nordic type with tinted glasses, followed Martin in. The woman, tall, fair and hard-bodied, attached herself to the wall of the corridor. Rather than join this woman, whom Cate had pegged as a detective, she used the ladies’ room to reapply lipstick.

  Robin joined her almost immediately. “What’s up?”

  Cate bent to glance quickly for feet in the bathroom stalls before saying, “It’s him! President Krause was her secret lover. I remember him buying her the bracelet!”

  Robin’s eyes widened. She bit her lip and nodded, letting the information sink in. It made sense. “We’d better tell the sheriff. Did you see him?”

  Cate nodded. “You go out first. I’ll try to find him.”

  Reentering the crowded room, Robin felt the silence. In priest’s garb, a youthful yet balding man gestured to the Dunns to take a seat. Those who could find a seat, sat. The others remained standing while the priest intoned, “Hail Mary, full of grace.” A strangled groan came from Mr. Dunn. His wife’s lips moved, trancelike, with the priest’s as she fingered her own rosary beads. In his words of comfort, the priest described Melissa’s death as a “homecoming,” and reminded them of their responsibility to care for one another. The funeral, he informed them, would be held the next day at two o’clock at Saint Matthew’s.

  Robin futilely searched the room for Cate and Sheriff Harley. The Krauses stood at the back, hands clasped in front of them, heads bowed. Martin wiped his nose with his handkerchief.

  “Amen,” the priest said, and Martin, again maneuvering his wife by the elbow, slipped out the door.

  Robin stepped out behind them and scanned the parking lot. Grace and Cate had somehow gotten there first. Harley was nowhere in sight, but the man and woman who’d followed Martin to the men’s room were now bearing down on him as he approached his Mercedes.

  The man called his name and Martin turned. A short conversation ensued and badges were produced.

  Brenda’s hand flew to her mouth. The detectives paid little notice.

  From where she stood under the awning of the funeral home, Robin could h
ear nothing. She saw Martin nod in submission. Walking between the two officers, he got into the back seat of another car, an unmarked squad, she figured, where he sat with his head in his hands. The female returned to Brenda, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  Grace strode over to where they stood. “Is everything okay?”

  Clearly shaken, Brenda didn’t answer immediately.

  “Please step back,” the detective said tiredly, as if she were telling her kids to take their feet off the coffee table.

  “It’s okay,” Brenda, composed once more, said to Grace. “They just want to talk to my husband. Standard procedure, I’m sure.”

  But Grace saw the lie in her eyes.

  “Would you like me to drive you home?” the woman asked.

  Brenda stared at the pavement, dazed. “That’s okay. I can drive.”

  The policewoman studied her. “Mrs. Krause, we’re impounding your car.”

  Brenda’s eyes snapped up. She opened her mouth, but no words emerged.

  “I’d be happy to take you home,” Grace offered, putting an arm over Brenda’s shoulder. Brenda nodded.

  Cate and Robin exchanged a look before Robin slipped back inside, where she found Foxy and gave her directions to a nearby coffee shop.

  Outside of the quaint two-story house turned coffee shop, Robin, Cate, and Foxy sat at an iron patio table. Despite gloomy skies, the air was warm. A slight breeze kept it from feeling sultry. Robin pulled a small notebook from her purse and clicked a pen open. “Go ahead, Cate.”

  “Martin Krause, Melissa’s boss, was also her lover,” Cate began. She told them how her bracelet had evoked divergent reactions from Melissa’s acknowledged boyfriend Todd and from Martin, her boss and illicit boyfriend. “And Sheriff Harley was there, taking it all in.”

  Foxy chimed in to say she’d spotted the two detectives immediately. So much for undercover.

  “They took him in the police car,” Robin said, “and Grace drove his wife home.”

  “Oh, that Grace!” Foxy shook her head. “How does she do it?”