Dead Jitterbug

by Victoria Houston

  Lew smiled at Lillie, then asked, “I assume you’re representing Kitsy?”

  Lillie reared back in surprise. “Not unless she needs me. Kitsy called me this morning because I’ve been the lawyer for the McDonald Trust since Hope’s father was still alive. That’s why I moved up here in the first place—had a client to pay the overhead, and a beautiful place to live.”

  She made a move to leave, then stopped. “Kitsy, call me later, would you please? And let me know if you need anything.”

  “Lillie,” said Lew, “before you leave, I have a question. Since you’ve been the lawyer for the family trust all these years—I’m curious to know what you think may have happened here.”

  Lillie paused and cut her eyes towards Kitsy. “I’ve been thinking that over.” She stared at Lew. That was as much as she was going to say.

  “What’s your schedule like this afternoon?” asked Lew. “Might be wise to sit down with you sooner rather than later.”

  “How about three o’clock?” asked Lillie.

  Kitsy’s answers to Lew’s questions held no surprises. She confirmed that her mother’s behavior had undergone a dramatic change over recent months. “At first, I wasn’t sure what was going on, especially when she insisted upon moving up here in March. She always used to wait for warm weather.”

  “I understand, from your father, that your parents haven’t lived together in years,” said Lew.

  “That’s right, not that my dad has lacked for female companionship,” said Kitsy.

  “Current girlfriend?” asked Lew.

  “I don’t know who he’s seeing now. He ended a ten-year relationship with a woman last fall. A woman five years younger than me.” Kitsy’s face was grim. “You know, we’re not close. I don’t discuss anything personal with him if I can help it.”

  “I understand,” said Lew. “Think anyone on your mother’s staff will know who the current friend is? And I’ll want to check with the former girlfriend, too.”

  “Sheehan might. She knows where the money goes….”

  “Your father said that you will be taking over your mother’s column?” asked Lew.

  “Yes.”

  “So you will need to work together, won’t you?” asked Lew.

  “No more than he and my mother ever did. I’ll do the writing, he’ll do the selling—what little of that there is to handle. We have Sheehan and a publishing director, so he just puts in face time, if you know what I mean.” She broke a slight smile. “We may be dysfunctional, but we function.”

  “I have as possible evidence two sets of paperwork from your mother’s office that appear to be letters and columns,” said Lew.

  “You should have found a set of the columns that I was working on,” said Kitsy. “I wrote those, then left them for Mother to look over and edit. The letters will be new material sent up from Madison.”

  “I’m having copies made, and everything will be returned to you shortly.”

  “That’s fine,” said Kitsy. “I won’t be in the mood to work for a few days anyway.”

  “I’m surprised there are so few letters,” said Lew. “I was expecting to find more.”

  “That’s what the office sends us,” said Kitsy. “About thirty every six weeks. We only run two or three in a column.”

  “What about personal mail?”

  “Whatever you found in her office unless … sometimes she left stuff on the kitchen counter.”

  “Speaking of the kitchen,” said Lew, “every cupboard is crammed with potato chips. This entire house is full of potato chips—shoved under the furniture, and crumbs everywhere. What has been going on here?”

  “She wouldn’t let anyone in for the last couple months. She fired Bunny who cleaned for her for years. She wouldn’t let me touch anything. And, of course, Mother has never had to clean up after herself. I didn’t know about the potato chips.”

  “But her office is in perfect condition—did you straighten it up?”

  “No. I haven’t been here for the last couple weeks….” Kitsy’s eyes teared and she raised both hands to her cheeks. “How great do I feel about that now. But, you know, she was acting so nutty—”

  “When was the last time you talked to her?”

  “Last Thursday. She called me that night and told me to call her the next morning at nine. No earlier, no later. So I did, and I asked her why she wanted me to call. She said she didn’t know—and hung up.”

  “Do you know the name of the man who’s been on the property recently? An older man that the neighbors across the road saw doing some repairs around here.”

  “I know who you mean, but I don’t know his name. Bunny will, I’m sure.”

  “And I’ll find Bunny at your place?”

  “Yes. She has her own apartment over the garage. I’ll let her know you need to talk to her.”

  “Were you at home Sunday night?”

  “Yes. Then the last two days I attended a fishing clinic with Ray Pradt. Dr. Osborne was there.”

  “She’s got an alibi for Tuesday, all right,” said Osborne.

  “Anyone who can confirm your whereabouts Sunday—and Saturday?”

  At the look on Kitsy’s face, Lew raised her pen. “This doesn’t mean that you are a suspect in your mother’s death. I’ve had to ask your father exactly the same.”

  “I’ve a friend visiting who’s been here since last Friday,” said Kitsy. “We’ve been doing stuff together. Julia Wendt is her name. She’s at my place now.”

  “That gun you carry in your backpack—do you have a license to carry it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you carry a weapon, Kitsy?”

  “Umm, I was seeing a man a couple years ago who, when I said I wanted to break up, started stalking me. He would show up at my place late at night. He broke into my car. That’s when I got the gun. I’ve just kept it since. I—this sounds dumb—I like the holster, it’s cute.”

  “We’ll need to check it out.”

  “Sure, it’s in my backpack in the car. What kind of gun was used to kill my mother?”

  “Not sure yet,” said Lew. “Last question, Kitsy …” Lew’s voice softened. “Do you have any idea who might have murdered your mother? It could have been an accident….”

  Kitsy’s shoulders sagged, she looked sad and defeated. “I’m sure my dad told you he thinks I did.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “Because I killed my brother.”

  eighteen

  It is just possible that nice guys don’t catch the most fish. But they find far more pleasure in those they do get.

  —Roderick Haig-Brown

  “That’s what he likes to believe anyway. And I’ve no doubt he’ll find a way to blame me for this, too,” said Kitsy.

  “So what you’re saying is your father accuses you of killing your brother.”

  “Yes.”

  “But did you in fact?”

  Kitsy shrugged. “It’s all in how you look at it.”

  “When was this?” asked Lew.

  “Long time ago. I was five and Brian was two and a half. My parents were having a party here at the summer house, and my little brother and I were playing down by the lake with our baby-sitter.”

  “That was Sandy Biermier,” said Osborne. “I used to fish with Sandy’s dad, so I certainly heard their version of what happened.”

  “That’s right, our sitter’s name was Sandy,” said Kitsy. “I remember the day was really hot, and Brian and I were playing in the sand near the dock. We had our swimsuits on and were doing what little kids do on hot days. You know, splashing in the water, then running on the beach. The grown-ups were all up on the deck with their party.

  “Except my dad came walking down to the dock with some people. They were all talking and drinking beer. Dad finished his, handed the bottle to Sandy and told her to run up and get him another one. So she left. Then he walked back up to the house with the people, leaving Brian and me in the sand. My little
brother was filling a bucket full of sand and he wanted to mix some water in it, so he went out on the dock.

  “I didn’t pay attention—I was busy with my own sand pile. When Sandy came back after giving Dad his beer, she asked me where Brian was. I said he was on the dock, she said he wasn’t. I said he was, too. We walked out to see if he’d fallen into one of the boats or something. Dad had a lot of boats in those days.”

  Kitsy closed her eyes. “I will never forget … he was floating in the water facedown. Sandy screamed for help and jumped in to pull him out, but he was unconscious. He died on the way to the hospital.”

  As if to shake the memory, Kitsy pulled off her headband and ran her fingers back through her hair. “All I know is from that day on, I have always felt my parents blamed me. No,” she said with a bitter laugh, “I know they blamed me.”

  “How could they?” asked Lew. “You were five years old.”

  “If anyone should be blamed,” said Osborne, “it’s a grown-up telling a baby-sitter to leave two youngsters alone near water. Idiots know better than to do that.”

  “It doesn’t change the fact that my father has never forgiven me,” said Kitsy. “When he came back from the hospital that afternoon, he screamed at me that I was the one who should have been watching Brian. Once when he was drunk, he accused me of pushing my brother off the dock on purpose.”

  Kitsy leaned back and glanced sideways out the window. Following her gaze, Osborne could see Ed Kelly down on the dock, drink in hand, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking out over the water.

  Kitsy sighed. “Growing up with a father who hates you. Who looks at you like he wishes for all the world you weren’t you—that you were the son he could take fishing, the son he could teach to play golf. You feel so helpless, you know. Like he said when Lillie walked in—'you always do it.’ What he means is I always screw up, I always ruin things.”

  “I doubt that’s true,” said Lew, her voice brisk.

  “Believe me, I’ve the therapist bills to second your opinion,” said Kitsy. “But that doesn’t stop his treating me the way he does. I’m just sure he’ll find some way to make me feel responsible for Mother’s death. Like I should have been sleeping here instead of at my place—whatever. It’ll be my fault, you wait and see.”

  It was noon before Lew finished questioning Kitsy. After turning Kitsy’s gun over to the team from the crime lab, she and Osborne headed back into Loon Lake together. He’d left his car in the lot behind the police department.

  “Not much to go on, Doc,” said Lew, pulling onto the road outside the gate. “Still no sign of a break-in. I have to hand it to the Wausau boys—they’re doing a helluva job. That old place has more doors and porches than an Advent calendar and they’ve been checking and rechecking every possible point of entry: house, garage, dock area, front gate, deck, upper decks, everywhere. Whoever got into the house also had to get by the locked gate. We figure they had to have a key.”

  “At least you have shell casings from the murder weapon,” said Osborne. “That’s something.”

  “Yeah,” said Lew without enthusiasm. “I gave Kitsy’s pistol to the boys for analysis. It’s a twenty-two, all right.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “We’ll see. Intuition tells me she’s not a likely suspect.” Lew snorted. “Not that my intuition hasn’t failed me on occasion.” She grinned at Osborne. “How many times have I been skunked trying to tease a big old brown trout out of a good hole? I’ll match the hatch perfectly, drop my fly with absolute precision, know in my gut he has to take it … nada.”

  Osborne smiled. He liked her like this: intent on her work but happy.

  “Tell you one thing, Doc,” said Lew, interrupting his reverie, “I do not like guns of any kind in the hands of people who are chemically dependent. I may have to revoke Kitsy’s license. Although …” she paused to glance over at him, “I’m kinda glad she had that today.”

  “Why? I would think the opposite.”

  “You don’t hold on to a pistol you just used to kill someone. You throw it in the woods. You throw it in the water. You bury it in the garbage.”

  “Lewellyn, what if she did do it and doesn’t remember …?”

  Lew gave him a long look. “For the record, Doc, I will be heartily surprised if the shell casings we found at the scene match Kitsy’s gun.”

  “How soon will you know?”

  Lew shrugged. “I’ll ask Gordon when I talk to him later. In the meantime, I’m hoping his lab is able to rush the analysis from the autopsy—I sure could use a decent estimate of the time of death. That, and a lead from those letters I found, although I figure that’s a long shot.”

  “I don’t know, Lew. Between the letters you found here, and what they’ve got down in Madison, who knows? Just the fact that anyone could use the Internet to find Hope McDonald’s home addresses—not to mention phone numbers—is creepy. Reminds me of the guy who shot John Lennon. People get fixated on celebrities, people like Hope.”

  “Which reminds me, Doc. Marlene radioed that the photocopies of the letters found here are on my desk. But I’ve got to take some time with Roger before I can go over those. He’s picked up at least twenty of those marked bills around town. I have to figure out what we do next about that situation.”

  “Too bad you can’t put it on hold for a few days. Your hands are full with this investigation.”

  “Unfortunately, the word is out, and Marlene’s had calls from the tribal council. Someone over there is convinced that the fact the bills are showing up in such numbers could mean that the two guys who robbed the bank are from the area.”

  “The tribal council? What’s their problem? Surely that cash was insured….”

  “The cash was insured, but not the goodwill. The tribe owns the bank, and their insurance company is putting pressure on them to either build a new building or pay much higher premiums. Not to mention all the business they’ve lost since the robbery. No, Doc,” said Lew, “I can understand the tribe’s position. Would you put your savings in that bank right now?

  “Also, finding these bills is a break for the Wausau boys. I can see why they want to act fast. They’ve been waiting a year for some to surface. The first bills were used at the Best Buy in Wausau, then the Wal-Mart over in Rhinelander—that was last month. Now, to have so many showing up in Loon Lake …”

  “What I don’t understand,” Osborne asked, “is why a year after the robbery? Why now and not months ago?”

  “Whoever the guys are, I’m sure they thought that waiting a year before using the cash would make it safe. This time of year—what with the tourists throwing money at everything—they figure merchants won’t take the time to eyeball their twenty-dollar bills. You gotta remember, these are two men who made a major mistake during that robbery. No reason they can’t make another. Greed helps, doncha know?”

  “What mistake—besides robbing a bank in the first place?”

  “Oh,” said Lew, “I guess I didn’t tell you this. This case goes way beyond one bank robbery and the tribe’s loss. These two jabones have robbed seventeen banks over the last four years and every time, they have threatened the tellers not to put in the dye packs. Only this time, they got so excited when they saw they had the duffle with all the cash from the casino, they forgot about the dye packs. “What’s so silly is that of all the cash that was taken that day, only three thousand in twenties is marked. Now, you would think that with three million bucks unmarked—couldn’t you just toss the three thousand? But, no, they have to make every penny count.

  “And Gordon is right: the window of time for using that marked money is limited. Since he’s got his boys working overtime on my case, the least I can do is sit down with Roger, give Gordon call, and see what he wants us to do next. Isn’t it always this way, Doc? Especially during tourist season: everything at once.”

  “Would you like me to take a look through Hope’s letters—see if there’s anything tha
t jumps out at us?”

  “I never thought you’d offer,” said Lew, her voice light. “That would make my day. But weren’t you planning to get out on the water?”

  “Gosh, no,” said Osborne. “Supposed to hit ninety this afternoon. Too hot to fish. I’ll just sit on my deck and read through those.”

  “If you’ll do that, I’ll be in touch with the office manager in Madison,” said Lew. “See if they’ve flagged any disturbing letters on their end.”

  “Nice of Ed Kelly to detour the press. At least you don’t have that to worry about.”

  “Not yet anyway,” said Lew. “But that can change the minute I have an arrest. No matter how much control Mr. Important may think he has, there are a few things money can’t buy. The press is one.”

  “Try harmony in the family,” said Osborne. “What a razzbonya—dumping his guilt on a five-year-old.”

  “I suppose it helps explain his daughter somewhat,” said Lew. “You have to wonder what motivates a woman to want to look so … so … hydroponic.” Lew swung the car off the highway and onto a city street. “I found it hard not to stare—that woman exposes more skin than my daughter did when she was working as a stripper at Thunder Bay. And now she takes over advising eighty million people on how to manage their lives? ‘How to make it through the night’ from a woman who spends her own nights blotto on painkillers so potent she can’t remember a thirty-minute conversation with a police officer informing her of her mother’s death?” Lew shook her head. “Unbelievable.”

  “If Kitsy Kelly is capable of shooting anyone, I would hope it would be her father,” said Osborne. Lew looked over at him as she pulled the police cruiser into the parking spot next to his car.

  “I’m looking for a killer consumed with rage….”

  “Well, if it were Kitsy, don’t you agree the target would have to be Ed Kelly, not her mother?”

  “Can’t be sure of that.”

  Osborne thought of his own daughter, Mallory, and the coldness between them for so many years. Years when she and her mother had shut him out. Maybe Lew had a point. Now that he and Mallory were working hard to find their way toward each other with a friendship that might even turn into love someday—he could see her questioning the things her mother had done and said. Between AA and therapy, Mallory was learning that he wasn’t quite the bad guy Mary Lee had made him out to be.