Authors: Victoria Houston
“Really?” asked Lew. “What are you telling people?” “That my wife died at home of undetermined causes—and that we’ll have a press release sometime in the next few days. Are you aware the Packers fired their coach last night, and the president was rushed to the hospital with chest pains? Hope’s death is not likely to be high on any news budget today.”
“The coroner’s filing will certainly spark interest from local reporters,” said Lew.
“Taken care of. Called your man Pecore at the morgue right after my plane landed this morning. Wanted to make sure he records Hope’s death under her legal surname, which is Catherine Hope McDonald Kelly. I doubt the local press will make the connection.”
“Well, you’ve got everything under control,” said Lew. “Fast work.”
“I’ve been preparing for this,” said Ed with a grimace. “You see,” he pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow, “this spring my wife was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s—early stages but….” He gave a heavy sigh. “We were told to expect a swift decline.”
The room was quiet. A robin trilled. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Lew.
Ed nodded. “Not as sorry as we were.”
“Ed,” Osborne asked, “if that’s the case, why was she living here all alone?”
“That was about to change. We—meaning my daughter and I—were hoping to hire nursing staff to care for her. But she has been damned difficult to deal with these past weeks. There were good days when she was herself—then she’d go wacko on us. This is not a predictable disease, you know.
“Kitsy has been driving back and forth from Madison since mid-May. But she needed a break. We thought Hope would be okay on her own for just a week while Kitsy finished moving into her new house.”
“Two
weeks is how long your daughter has been in her new home,” said Lew. “Maybe you can help me with something, Mr. Kelly. I’ve been trying to figure out why this house has bags of potato chips stashed everywhere. I went through it this morning with the team from the crime lab, and we were dumbfounded.”
“Potato chips?” Ed looked surprised. “What do you mean?”
“Under the furniture, on every kitchen shelf, in clothes closets, linen closets,” said Lew. “Everywhere you look there are bags of potato chips. Some opened, some not. There are potato chips in the bathrooms!”
Ed opened his mouth to protest, but Lew put up her hand—“Let me finish. Oddly enough, Mr. Kelly, your wife’s office is the only room where
there are no potato chips.
And it’s quite tidy—as if someone came in and straightened it up.”
Ed threw his hands into the air. “I don’t know. Since this all started it’s been one bizarre act by Hope after another. Hell, she accused me of having another family hidden away, of stealing from her—who knows what she’s been up to around here!
“Kitsy and I have been doing our level best to keep her mother’s column going until we could make a formal announcement. Maybe Kitsy straightened the office.”
“If she did that, why wouldn’t she take a look around and do something about all the potato chips?” Lew shook her head. “This house must be overrun with mice, not to mention squirrels and chipmunks.”
“She’s been very busy with her new home. Hope had a housekeeper, but she fired her.”
“Who was that?” asked Lew.
“Bunny DeLoye. She’s working for Kitsy now.”
“Back to the office for a minute,” said Lew. “I found paperwork, which I turned over to the crime lab. One batch is letters that appear to be from readers of your wife’s columns. Then typed pages that I think must be columns that Hope was working on. No computer, only an old Selectric typewriter. Could her computer be missing?”
“That’s how Hope worked—on the typewriter. We never could persuade her to make the change to a computer or e-mail. What you found are the letters for the columns that need to be written, and the typed pages would be drafts of the columns due next week. She always turned them in to her syndicate editor six weeks ahead of time.
“I need those back. We’ve planned for Kitsy to keep the column going.”
“Certainly, once I have a chance to look them over. Right now the crime lab is checking for fingerprints. But that was all we could find. There must be more somewhere.”
“Damn right. Tens of thousands, but they’re stored in Madison. Walls and walls of file cabinets full of letters. We have a six-person staff who do nothing but read the three to four thousand letters that arrive every day and discard hundreds, but they still add up. Why?”
“I’d like to know if your wife received any threats in the mail, a letter from a reader who may have been mentally or emotionally unstable. Any red flag that might help us find the killer.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Ed. “Hope’s mail has always been full of letters from people in emotional distress—but not threatening to
her.
I don’t recall her ever receiving anything like that.”
“I’ll be double-checking with her staff,” said Lew. “I have a call in to Sheehan Davis, your wife’s office manager.” “How do you know about Sheehan?”
“All the notes and memos in your wife’s desk. Pretty easy to tell who does what. Since you seem to be out of the office quite a bit, I think it’s prudent to touch base with the people handling the day-to-day operations.”
Again Ed opened his mouth to say something but before he could, Lew asked, pen poised over her notebook, “Tell me again what your daughter’s role has been these last few weeks?”
“All right,” said Ed, unclasping and clasping his hands as if he was going over something for the umpteenth time. “Chief Ferris, my wife’s business goes far beyond her daily column. We publish booklets on etiquette and other areas of behavior that require advice—not to mention four
books.
‘Ask Hope’ is a multimillion-dollar enterprise—and I have had no intention of losing the business because of Hope’s health. The plan has been for her to retire and hand over the column, under the same title, to our daughter. A seamless transition that can still happen—
will happen.
This is not brain surgery, you know.” He took a swallow of his drink. “Anyone can write this crap.”
Neither Lew nor Osborne said a word. He took another swallow. “I’m sure I strike you as a hard-nosed businessman—”
Lew snorted and said, “You strike me as a man with a low opinion of his wife’s talent.”
“Come on, it’s girl stuff, I’m sorry. You read one, you’ve read ‘em all.”
“I disagree,” said Lew, tipping her head, her eyes intent on Ed. She paced her words. “Back when I was a young wife and mother, I read ‘Ask Hope’ every day. I looked forward to it. You never knew what to expect, but you knew it would be interesting. Funny and warm. Always sympathetic and full of common sense.
“No, I really, really disagree, Mr. Kelly. Your wife made a difference in people’s lives. I rarely found ‘Ask Hope’ to be …” Lew paused, searching for the right word, “frivolous.”
Ed turned his head to look out a window, his face working. Osborne knew derision when he saw it. Ed had hated Hope. Right now he was having a hard time being civil to Lewellyn Ferris, too. A few more swallows and things could get interesting.
“Well, good of you to say so, Chief Ferris,” said Ed, turning to her with a tight smile. “Can we move on?”
“Certainly,” said Lew. “I have a few questions, and then I expect your daughter in about thirty minutes. I want to cover a few basics now, and we’ll talk again later when I have the crime lab reports.”
“Fire away.”
“Let’s start with where you’ve been for the last few weeks.”
“Madison,” said Ed. “And if you need people to vouch for my being there, I have my secretary putting together a list of names and phone numbers for you.
My
home is on Lake Monona and every afternoon the weather is decent, I golf with the same foursome. Evenings I play cards at my club. Home by eleven.”
“Morning schedule?”
“In the office by nine thirty to check on things. Then lunch at the club and on to the golf course.” He took another swallow.
“Your
home,” said Lew, looking down at her notes. “Doesn’t Mrs. McDonald live there, too? During the winter months when she’s not up here?”
“No. Hope and I haven’t lived together for twenty-seven years. Not since the death of our son. That’s not to say we haven’t entertained as a couple, put forth a public image as a couple. But we haven’t
been
a couple for a long, long time.
“I’m comfortable telling you this, by the way. Better you hear it from me than someone else.”
Lew studied him before asking, “How would you characterize your relationship? Amiable? Contentious? I mean, why not divorce?”
Ed grinned. “You’re kidding, of course. ‘Ask Hope’ divorce? Be serious. Look what divorce did to Ann Landers’ column. We picked up two hundred newspapers after that made headlines. No, no reason to trash a thriving business just because two people don’t want to share the same bed. And for the record, Chief Ferris,” he shook a finger at Lew, “I know
lots
of couples who lead parallel lives.”
“I would like a list of everyone who has worked on this property over the last few years,” said Lew.
“Underway,” said Ed. “When you talk to Sheehan, she should have that for you.”
“I understand there’s been a handyman working here within the last few days. Do you have his name?”
“No,” said Ed. “Sheehan should have that. Every check Hope wrote went across her desk. Kitsy might know.”
“The last question I have for you right now,” said Lew, “is whether or not you have any idea who might have killed your wife.”
“No.” He sloshed his drink and took a deep breath. “I wish I did because it would save us all time—but I don’t. And while I appreciate your wanting to check the letters, I doubt you’ll find anything there either.”
“I’ll have those returned to you shortly. The crime lab is making photocopies so we can keep the originals. Since we found them here and they could be evidence, it will be best not to break the chain of custody.”
“Fine. Just so Kitsy has something she can work with to complete those columns.” He checked his watch. “You need me to identify the body, don’t you? Shall I meet you in town?”
“Not necessary,” said Lew, folding her notebook shut. “Dr. Osborne and your wife’s current dentist took care of that early this morning. Given the condition of the body, I felt it would be wise to spare you and your daughter if we could. I don’t mean to say you’re not welcome to view the body if you wish. That’s up to you. The pathologist from Wausau expects to complete his autopsy this afternoon—”
“No,” said Ed, raising a hand. “Not if you’ve got what you need.”
The sound of tires through the open window prompted the three of them to turn and look out. A white Lexus SUV had pulled into the circle drive. Following the slam of a car door, footsteps could be heard heading their way.
“Hey, pipsqueak!” said Ed, pulling himself up from the chair as Kitsy Kelly appeared in the doorway. She was dressed all in black, though Osborne wasn’t sure her choice of garments was entirely appropriate: a tank top with no underwear to hinder the exposed cleavage, and snug black pants. A black sweater was flung over her shoulders and a black headband held her hair high and away from her face. She did make one concession to death: No jewelry aside from simple hoop earrings.
Ed walked over to her, his arms open. He gave her a quick hug, which Kitsy, arms clenched to her sides, did not return. Ed bent his knees to peer into her face. “Pipsqueak, your face is so red. Are you running a fever? Allergies?”
“Try crying, Dad. Has an effect. Not that you would know.” She pushed his arms away and walked across the room as Lew and Osborne stood up.
“Dr. Osborne,” she said, extending a hand. “Sorry we meet again under such awful circumstances.” She turned to Lew. “I’m Kitsy Kelly, Hope McDonald’s daughter.”
“I know,” said Lew. “We spoke last night. I stopped at your home to give you the news. Don’t you remember?”
Kitsy stared at her, “You did?” She closed her eyes. “Oh, God, vaguely. I was so out of it. I am so sorry. I took a painkiller and a muscle relaxant and that just knocks me out. I’m having a reaction to my last Botox injection, and I’ve got pain all down one side of my head.”
Ed refilled his drink. “If you folks are finished with me, I think I’ll take a walk down to the water. Is that allowed?”
“Yes,” said Lew, “the area’s been checked out. Where can I reach you later? At your daughter’s?”
“No,” said Ed, “I’m staying over in Rhinelander—at the Claridge. That Northwoods Golf Course they’ve got over there is just excellent.”
“God forbid he stay with family,” said Kitsy, crossing her arms and walking over to stare out the window.
“Hey!” Ed swung around, shaking a finger at his daughter. “Remember what we discussed this morning? You stay on an even keel, you hear? We have work to do. Now, when you’re done here, I’ll see you over at your place. I want to go over the arrangements for your mother.”
The sound of tires was heard again. A vintage black Cadillac pulled up next to the white Lexus.
“What the hell?” asked Ed, looking out the window. He turned to his daughter. “Who the hell told Lillie Wright to come out here?”
“I did,” said Kitsy with a satisfied smile.
The ice cubes in Ed’s drink clinked but not because he sloshed it: his hand was shaking.
seventeen
Fly making gives us a new sense almost. We are constantly on the lookout, and view everything with added interest. Possibly we may turn it into a bug of some kind.
—Theodore Gordon
Osborne
knew the car. Everyone in Loon Lake knew the car. The car and the fierce old woman who drove it, and who was now marching through the front door, across the kitchen floor, and toward the room where they were all waiting.
She paused in the doorway and looked around. “Chief Ferris, Doc,” she said with a slight nod. When her gaze landed on Ed, she said, “Very sorry to hear of your loss, Edward.” She sounded less sorry than angry.
“Thank you, Lillian, but who the hell told you—”
“I called her, Dad,” said Kitsy, her chin thrust up and out. “Right after you left my place this morning, I called Lillie to see if she had a copy of Mother’s will.”