Last Call

by Allyson K. Abbott

  Everyone looked happy and relaxed, and I was greeted with the usual chorus of hellos as I settled into one of the few empty seats. “What are you guys talking about?” I asked.

  “Sonja brought up the situation with her client whose husband died yesterday,” Holly said. “We were discussing how peculiar the woman’s behavior was at the salon, and that segued into unusual grief reactions, and how unreliable such things can be when you’re trying to determine guilt.”

  “Well, I have an interesting update,” I said with a knowing smile.

  “Do tell,” Cora said.

  “Okay, but this information doesn’t leave this room, agreed?” Everyone nodded. “The first leak that comes from here will end my ability to share any information with you guys about the cases I’m working with the police department.”

  “We all understand that,” Carter said. “I think everyone here agreed to the background checks and signed the nondisclosure agreements the police department gave us.”

  “Good,” I said. “So . . . it seems Sonja’s instincts may have been spot-on. We don’t know for sure if the woman killed her husband, but there are definite questions surrounding his death, and it wasn’t as straightforward as it initially seemed.”

  “Are you saying he didn’t die of a heart attack?” Sonja asked.

  “He did not,” I said.

  This information elicited a self-satisfied smile from Sonja. “I knew it,” she said. “Did you do your lie-detector thing and ask her if she killed him?”

  “I didn’t get a chance,” I said. “She lawyered up pretty fast, and while she agreed to answer some questions, the lawyer convinced her to stop before too long.”

  “Did you get any kind of synesthetic reaction to the scene or anything else?” Cora asked.

  “Not really,” I said, recalling the weird sensation I’d felt when I looked at the ceiling of the bedroom where Knutson had died. “Nothing that made any sense to me anyway.” I then explained to them how I’d felt light-headed, or rather light-bodied, in the bedroom. Cora searched her database of my reactions and informed me what I already knew. “That’s not one we have on file,” she said.

  “So what’s the working theory regarding the husband’s death?” Carter asked, shifting the subject.

  “It’s a bit of a puzzle,” I admitted. “There were no signs of a struggle, no evidence of any physical harm, but also relatively clean arteries in his heart, according to the medical examiner. Given that the man was overweight and smoked, the assumption of a heart attack made sense. Now we’re looking more toward the possibility of him being sedated, poisoned, and/or suffocated. He used one of those breathing machines—”

  “A CPAP machine?” Greg asked.

  I nodded. “According to his wife, he wasn’t wearing it when she found him yesterday morning, so there’s a possibility he simply suffocated in his sleep from his sleep apnea. But it doesn’t usually happen without signs of some sort of struggle. The lack of oxygen to the brain tends to trigger enough panic to awaken someone. And assuming we can believe what his wife said, Oliver Knutson was found lying peacefully on his back with the covers in place.”

  “Interesting,” Carter said.

  I looked over at Clay. “Have you come up with anything new on Oliver Knutson or his wife?”

  “Nothing official, but I did dig up some gossip. Rumor has it Knutson and his first wife, Anne, were separated for a year and then had an amicable divorce four years ago, which was somewhat surprising, given all the money at stake. Word is Oliver didn’t ask for any money from Anne; he simply wanted to keep his business for himself, and they split the marital assets down the middle.”

  “When did wife number two come into the picture?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Clay said.

  “I can answer that one,” Sonja offered. “Assuming what Caroline has told me at the salon over the years is true, Oliver hired her five years ago to help with the event planning end of the business. Caroline was already doing something similar on her own, but she was struggling to make ends meet because of competition—ironically, from Oliver himself—and because she was a one-woman show who often overestimated her own abilities. Oliver had seen her work and liked what she did. Caroline said he told her she had a good eye for color and structure and a good head for details. Oliver really liked some of her designs and plans, and that was not his forte. So he hit on the idea of bringing her into his company, thereby eliminating some of his competition and helping Caroline. Of course, I’m sure the fact that he was separated from his wife at the time, and Caroline was an attractive single woman who was fifteen years younger than him and flirtatious, had something to do with it. Anyway, one thing led to another, and as soon as Oliver’s divorce was final, he and Caroline got married.”

  “So is she an employee of the company or a partner?” I asked.

  “Good question,” Carter said.

  “And one I can answer,” Tad said.

  One of the perks of being a trophy husband to one of the richest women in Milwaukee was that Tad’s small accounting business had grown into one of the elite money management firms in the city. All of Suzanne’s wealthy friends and compatriots had come to Tad, and he had done well for them. I’d asked him a few days ago if his clientele seemed stable now that Suzanne was no longer in the picture. After all, she was the one who had brought most of his customers to him. But Tad had assured me the business was still going strong, and his successful management of the portfolios that had been entrusted to him ensured he would continue as before.

  “As luck would have it, I provided money management services to Oliver Knutson,” Tad told the group. “I can tell you that his estate is worth millions, and his wife is a partner in the business. However, the agreement made when she became a partner limits her access to a lot of Oliver’s money, money he made before they married.” Tad paused a moment and then added, “I’m not privy to any prenuptial agreements. Caroline became a partner before the marriage, and her funds were limited to whatever portion of the business she brought in with her end of things. And, as I understand it, she was primarily in charge of the event planning. The monies from the party supply stores were held by Oliver in separate funds that Caroline didn’t have access to.”

  “I’ll have to check with Duncan to see if he can find out what kind of prenup might exist,” I said. “I’m sure the detective in charge of the case must have access to that sort of information.”

  I spent another half hour or so with the group, discussing various aspects of the case, including some potential poisons Caroline might have used. That led to me sharing my discussion with Roberta about smelling the stomach contents of Oliver Knutson.

  “That’s a pukey job,” Cora joked.

  “And one I’d rather avoid,” I added. “I’m hoping the stomach contents will be negative for any coffee, so it won’t be necessary.”

  On that note, I excused myself from the group and headed back downstairs to my office to see what Duncan was up to. He was on his phone when I entered, seated behind my desk, tapping away on my laptop. I settled on the couch and waited for him to finish, not even bothering to try to hear the other end of the conversation this time.

  “That was Mal,” he said once he had disconnected the call.

  I frowned, wishing I had known that before he hung up. I would have liked to have said hi to him. “Is he doing okay?”

  “He is. He says he feels stronger, and his wound is healing. I asked him about this woman who was seen at Sheldon Janssen’s place, but he says he doesn’t know of anyone fitting that description in Janssen’s life. But he did say he didn’t think it was a girlfriend, because the only woman Sheldon Janssen ever dated or talked about was a heavyset woman with blond hair. Apparently, he had something of a casual relationship with this woman. No commitments, just the occasional hook up.”

  “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t seeing someone else on the side,” I pointed out.

  “True.”

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p; “Have you heard anything back from Roberta on the stomach contents of Oliver Knutson, or the details of the prenup?” I asked him.

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” he said. “I spoke to her right before I talked to Mal. The prenup specified that in the event of a divorce, Caroline was only entitled to the funds she brought into the company during the time she worked there. And Bobby found a will.”

  I could tell from the look on Duncan’s face that the will was going to be an interesting piece of this puzzle. “And?” I prompted.

  “Oliver Knutson was in the process of changing his will when he died. Bobby—”

  “She prefers Roberta,” I said.

  “Sorry. Habit. Anyway, she found some emails between him and his lawyer specifying the changes he wanted. They had been deleted recently, but the tech guys were able to resurrect them. I would assume the lawyer had copies as well, so deleting them wasn’t a smart move. The original will left all Knutson’s money and the stores he owned to his offspring, should there be any. There weren’t, and in that case, all the money was to go to Caroline. The new will states that all his money and the stores should go to a children’s charity and a church.”

  “Did he sign the new will?” I asked.

  Duncan shook his head, giving me what I can only describe as a gotcha smile.

  “So Caroline definitely had motive, assuming she knew about the changes he was going to make.”

  Duncan nodded, and his smile faded.

  “Why so glum?” I asked.

  “There’s no evidence that points to her, at least none that’s worth anything,” Duncan said. “All we have is supposition. We weren’t able to find Caroline’s fingerprints on Knutson’s computer, and there’s no evidence they’ve found on her computer to indicate she had access to his email account. And we still don’t know what killed him.”

  “What about the stomach contents?”

  Duncan frowned, shaking his head. “There was no coffee in his stomach. In fact, there was nothing in his stomach at all except some bile. The ME said he can analyze the liver tissue and look for traces of some poisons there, but according to Bobby, er, Roberta, he didn’t sound hopeful.”

  I made a face that matched Duncan’s frown. “So what’s next?”

  He shrugged. “Roberta thought it might be helpful to chat with some of Knutson’s employees, to see if they know anything. She said you and I are welcome to come along.”

  “When?”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “Okay, then. After that, do you think I might be able to see Felicity?”

  Duncan cocked his head to one side and smiled at me. “That little girl really got to you, didn’t she?”

  “If by got to me you mean I’m interested in seeing that she’s properly cared for, then yes.”

  “You told me you want to have kids of your own,” Duncan said, his brown eyes darkened to nearly black. His breathing sped up a notch. “Want to go practice making some?”

  “You’re putting the cart before the horse here, aren’t you?” I teased, my heart starting to pound.

  “It’s just practice,” he countered.

  I debated all of a nanosecond. “Let me go see if my staff will close up for me.”

  “I already talked to Billy, and he said he’d be happy to.”

  I arched my eyebrows at him. “That’s rather presumptuous of you, isn’t it?”

  He got up from his seat and came around the desk to me, pulling me up and into his arms. His breath was warm on my face, and he held me so close I could feel his heart pounding in his chest. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Mack,” he said, just above a whisper. “And I can’t imagine my life without you in it. I admit I’m a little gun-shy after my experience with my last relationship, but if you can give me a little time, I think you and I have a long future together. That is, if you’ll have me.”

  It was the first time he’d spoken of any sort of commitment, and it literally made my heart skip a beat. “There’s a problem,” I said, and he stepped back from me, looking both hurt and confused. It probably didn’t help that I then laughed at him. “Not a problem with you and the future, silly,” I clarified. “A problem with the here and now.” His look of confusion deepened. “My apartment has been taken over by the O’Reillys, remember? And our basement bedroom isn’t exactly private during the bar’s open hours. Anyone could come down there.”

  His relief was obvious in the smile on his face, the relaxing of his shoulders, and the retaking of the space he had opened between us moments before. “So let’s go to my place,” he said.

  And that’s what we did.

  Chapter 21

  I awoke the next morning alone, temporarily confused as to where I was. Understandable, given that I’d slept in a different bed every night for the past three nights. After a few seconds, I remembered, and then the smell of fresh coffee reached me. I smiled, and let myself luxuriate in the other smells around me before getting out of bed.

  It was early for me, only a little past eight, but I felt well rested and relaxed. There was a bathrobe draped over the bottom of the bed and I shrugged into it, smelling Duncan’s scent as I wrapped it around me. I shuffled out to the kitchen, where I found Duncan standing before the stove, whipping up some bacon and eggs.

  “I hope you don’t mind a cholesterol-laden breakfast,” he said over his shoulder. “Coffee is in the pot over there.”

  I walked over to where he indicated, found a clean, empty mug in front of the pot, and poured myself a cup. I was resigned to drinking it black, figuring Duncan wouldn’t have any of the heavy cream I liked, but I was wrong.

  “There’s cream in the fridge,” he said.

  Half an hour later, I was fully awake, fully sated, and ready to tackle the day. “What’s on our agenda?” I asked him.

  “Do you need to go by the bar this morning?”

  I shook my head. “Debra and Pete can handle things. So I’m yours for the time being.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Duncan said with a wink. He drained his coffee cup, got up, and carried it and both of our plates to the sink. “I already showered, so it’s all yours,” he said. “We’ll head out whenever you’re ready. Our first visit is going to be with Mr. Klein.”

  Forty-five minutes later, we arrived at the construction site where Klein’s mobile office was located, which was not, Duncan informed me, the place where Mal had been working. We discussed our approach to the man along the way, but it was a brief conversation because the site—one of several Klein was currently managing—wasn’t far from Duncan’s house. This particular site was a commercial building being put up in an industrial park. The site was half a block long and still in the early stages of construction: three stories high with girders, some flooring, and sheets of plastic covering parts of the interior. Duncan had to park near one end of the building, and we walked along the front of it to get to Klein’s mobile office, which had been parked in a small gated lot at the other end of the building. The lot, and much of the street in front of the building, was filled with other vehicles.

  Duncan had called ahead, and Klein greeted us at the door and invited us inside. I’m not sure what I expected the mobile office to look like, but I was surprised by how well organized it was. It reminded me of some of those tiny houses I’d seen on the HGTV channel, small monuments to multiuse functions, smart planning, and clever use of space. The trailer itself wasn’t very large, yet when we went inside, I didn’t feel like the quarters were tight. It was easy to recognize the items Mal had described: the desk, the chairs, and the filing cabinet. I wondered which of the drawers contained the books Mal had mentioned.

  Klein himself was a small man—slender but fit-looking, and about five-foot-seven—and that may have contributed to the perception of space inside his office. In direct contrast to his small stature, his personality was large. He greeted us with a big smile, a booming voice, and a vigorous handshake. His hair, which was mostly white, though the origi
nal red could be seen in spots, was fashioned in a military-style crew cut. Freckles, some of which had merged into larger, sundamaged areas of skin, dotted his face.

  Klein invited us to have a seat, and Duncan and I settled into two metal folding chairs that he had removed from a cabinet and placed beside his desk. The desk was positioned near the middle of the space, against one of the side walls. There was a louvered window—the only one in the trailer—above it that kept Klein from having to stare at a wall. It also, depending on how the louvers were angled, provided him with a view of anyone who was approaching the entrance.

  It was chilly inside the office, so we kept our coats on. Based on the insulated undershirt I saw peeking out of the neck of Klein’s flannel shirt, which was covered by a quilted vest, I guessed it stayed chilly most of the time. The walls were thin, and most likely Klein and others were frequently going in and out the door, which would make it hard to maintain any heat inside.

  “How can I help you, Detective?” Klein said once we were all seated. I noticed his desk chair was a metal folding one like ours. “I assume you’re here to talk about Sheldon?”

  “That is correct,” Duncan said. “I’m hoping you can provide us with some details about Mr. Janssen’s life, both here at work and during his off time. The better I can get to know him, the easier it will be to figure out what happened.”