This Little Piggy Went to Murder (9 page)

“Come on in then,” said the woman, kicking a bunch of dirty cloths out of their path. “Saturday is cleaning day. As you can see, I haven’t started yet.” She leaned down and removed a stack of magazines from a chair. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” Sophie perched uncomfortably on the edge of a bright orange recliner rocker and looked around the small, cluttered room. Bram would have felt right at home.

The woman fell onto the threadbare sofa opposite her. “Do I know you? You look kinda familiar.”

“I don’t think so.” Sophie hesitated. She didn’t know how to begin. “Actually, I mean, I know this may sound strange, but … what I wanted to ask was —”

“Let me guess.” The woman tugged at her tight tank top. “You want to know what I saw last Thursday night.”

Sophie’s eyes widened.

“I’m right, aren’t I? You’re not the first person to ask, you know. Don’t look so surprised. I’ll tell you the same as I told him.”

“I don’t understand. Who else has been around asking you about this?”

“No one’s been around. I got a phone call. Yesterday afternoon. At first I thought it was one of those obscene things. I just hate it when they start that heavy breathing crap. But the guy just wanted some information.”

A tiny white poodle crawled out from under the sofa and sat down, batting at its sleepy eyes with furry paws. It looked up at Sophie and whined.

“This is Ducky Darling. She’s very old.”

“Why is she whining?”

“She wants you to feed her.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. Normally, she liked dogs. She and Bram had one of their own at home: a large black and brown mutt named Ethel. This poodle was the smallest she’d ever seen. And the most rotund.

The dog’s manner changed abruptly when she saw that Sophie was not getting up. She glared as if Sophie were an imbecile.

“Nice Ducky Darling,” said Sophie, reaching down to pat Ducky Darling’s head.

Ducky Darling growled.

“Be a sweet Ducky and give mummy a minute to talk to the lady.” Dolores grabbed the dog and dropped her somewhat absently into her lap. Ducky Darling began to lick her paws. Unlike the rest of her fur, the mouth and feet were a distinct orange color, undoubtedly a result of the brand of canned dog food she ate.

“What were we saying?” asked Dolores. “Oh, yeah. About Thursday night. Well, to be honest, I don’t remember much. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I’d had too much to drink.” She fluffed her curls. “I work — or I should say, I did work — at the university. I was fired shortly after lunch on Thursday. We won’t go into the details, but suffice it to say that I was completely innocent of any wrongdoing. Anyway” — she sniffed, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the back of the couch — “I got to the Mudlark about two. And I proceeded to get smashed. It seemed the appropriate thing to do.”

“Did you see anything unusual?”

She pulled on the dog’s ears. “Depends on what you mean by unusual. It
is
a bar, after all.”

“Well, then, anything out of the ordinary.”

She laughed. “Funny, you know there was a guy there I wouldn’t have expected to see in a place like that. He was talking kinda intense to some woman at a table in the back.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Sure do. It was Lars Olson. You know him? He used to be chancellor at the university. I was a secretary in the administration department. Before he left to go work for that shipping company, I saw him just about every day. A real jerk.”

“Why do you say that?”

She snorted. “Ask any woman under the age of sixty who ever worked with him. That randy asshole hit on everyone with a pulse. He was just about to get around to me when he quit. Lucky for him. I’m not the silent type. The powers that be would have gotten an earful. And such a scrawny little bastard, too.”

“Who was he talking to?”

“Beats me.”

“Can you describe her?”

Dolores thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Slim. She had something around her head so I didn’t get a very good look at her. Sorry. They talked for a while and then they both left together.”

The dog began to snore.

“I suppose you know that Lars Olson was murdered on Thursday night.”

She nodded. “Saw it in the Duluth paper. Can’t say that I found it a tragic loss. It is kinda funny though. I mean, I saw him twice that day.”

“Really? When was this other time?”

“Later the same night. Yup. Just like I told the guy on the phone. I went home for dinner about six, but was still so depressed about being canned that I grabbed Ducky Darling and headed back to the Mudlark. By the time Olson came in it must have been close to ten. I was pretty blitzed by then, but I couldn’t help notice that he seemed to be waiting for someone. He stood at the bar and ordered several drinks, but he kept looking at his watch and then over at the door. By eleven I’d decided to call it a night. Since it was apparent to everyone there that I was in no shape to drive, Jerry, the owner’s son, offered me a lift back here. I do seem to remember seeing Olson get into a car about the same time I was leaving.”

“Was it his own?”

“I don’t think so. His car was still in the parking lot the next morning. And anyway, someone else was driving.”

“Can you describe that person? Or the make of car?”

She shook her head. “Sorry I can’t be more helpful. My mind was a little too foggy.”

“Do you think the young man who took you home might have seen anything?”

Ducky Darling flipped over on her back and continued to snore, her nose twitching sporadically.

“He couldn’t have. I was standing on the deck when Lars came past. He bumped into me and never even excused himself. I remember that much. God, he was an arrogant asshole. With that thin little mustache and his slicked-back, greasy black hair, he looked like a silent movie villain. He said it was natural, too — the hair color. Just like Ronald Reagan,” She snorted at the comparison. “Anyway, getting back to Thursday night, it’s all pretty blurry. Jerry was around the side getting his car. He couldn’t have seen anything.” Dolores began rubbing the dog’s tummy. “I suppose the police are going to want to talk to me.”

Sophie nodded. “I would think so. You may have seen Olson get into the car with the same person who later murdered him.”

Dolores’s hand stopped its rubbing motion. Ducky Darling’s eyes glazed over with pleasure.

Sophie glanced up at Dolores just as her last words seemed to sink in. Hadn’t she already come to the same conclusion? By her reaction, it would appear not. But was that it? The note Sophie had found on her car last night apparently did have something to do with Olson’s death. But why had someone tipped her off about this woman? The police would find out about her soon enough, so what was the point? It didn’t make sense.

“I think I should get going,” said Sophie, standing up. “I’m sure you’ve got things you want to do.”

“You know, it’s too bad Ducky can’t talk,” said Dolores. “She probably saw everything.” She set the dog down on the floor and gave her a little pat.

The dog shook herself for a moment and then, on cue, she began to whine.

He told her he would stop by about seven-thirty. Checking his watch as he entered the impressively marbled foyer of Chelsea Jorensen’s luxury condo (her top floor suite overlooked the Duluth harbor), Ryan Woodthorpe stopped in front of a mirror to check himself out. Everything had to be just right. His rich brown hair, short on the top but long in the back, emphasized the strong bones of a classically Roman face. His well-muscled body fit perfectly into the working-class jeans and denim jacket.

Ryan knew he was a chameleon. He could easily be many things to many different people. Yet the image he felt most comfortable with was a man of the people. Just one of the guys. It was something he had aspired to all his life, even though he rarely fit anywhere, especially with the young jocks he envied in high school and later in college. Ryan was a natural athlete, but since he was too small for most team sports, he was never admitted to the easy camaraderie of The Giants, as he came to call them. Even though he detested cheap pop psychology, he often wondered if his nearly obsessive desire to win hadn’t come in some way from his diminutive size. It struck him that perhaps the real battle in life was not between the rich and the poor, the strong and the weak, but between the tall and the short. Time had yet to disabuse him of that notion.

Standing a second longer in front of the mirror, Ryan adjusted his chambray shirt. He knew he was a vain man, but didn’t care. He was young, almost twenty-eight, and he’d already written two extremely popular books on the nation’s eroding environment. Just recently he’d begun work on a third. And last year he’d been elected president of one of the largest environmental lobby groups in the country. Life radiated with purpose. His future looked bright. And he was about to reel in one of the most fascinating, sexiest women he had ever met. Even though marriage had never interested him, Chelsea Jorensen might just change his mind. He pushed the elevator button and waited, thumbs hooked around his belt, for the door to open.

Chelsea would be expecting him. She’d probably prepared some of those little cheese and spinach appetizers she knew he loved so much. After she’d gotten over her initial curiosity about his vegetarianism — “I’ve never met a
vegetarian
before” — she began taking an interest in finding him foods he liked. She was almost as obsessive about her life as he was about his own. That made her special, set her apart, and at the same time drew Ryan to her. The fact that she was heir to her grandfather’s shipping company only sweetened the pie. Ryan knew he was not an avaricious man. Money was only a means. One day he intended to attain something far more important than wealth. Simply put, Ryan wanted power.

Chelsea’s uncle, Jack Grendel, was just another means to that end. Unfortunately, Ryan knew he had one glaring flaw in his own, rather perfectly balanced makeup. It was something he had to watch carefully. The problem was, he truly believed in the righteousness of his cause. The environment had to be saved — at almost any cost. He was intelligent enough to know that single-minded zealots had created just about all the chaos the world had ever known. He didn’t want to be a fanatic. He tried to cover the depth of his feeling with reason and methodology, citing a study here, an expert there. He’d worked hard to become a good wordsmith, and for the most part he’d succeeded at eliminating his more radical statements. Right now the biggest problem was his age. He was too young for elected office. That was why he’d begun speech writing for Jack Grendel. Grendel presented the perfect opportunity to learn the ropes. He believed firmly in the importance of a safe environment. The only problem was, Jack was a pragmatist. Down the line somewhere, Ryan knew that would present a problem. But he had a plan. If he played his hand very carefully, he might be able to apply just the right pressure at the right moment. Only time would tell.

The elevator door opened and Ryan got on. A moment later, he stepped out into the expensively decorated yet intentionally sparse living room of Chelsea’s suite. A large Navajo rug sprawled across the natural wood floor. The furniture was leather. Cold and yet unmistakably sensual. It never occurred to him before, but the interior was a lot like Chelsea herself. A huge, round, salt-glazed pot sat on top of a simple glass table, a spray of dried weeds erupting from the top. Two highly dramatic air-brushed canvases swept from floor to ceiling, dominating the empty white plaster walls. From the kitchen doorway he could hear the sound of a radio playing softly. It was a news station. The announcer was talking about Herman Grendel’s murder last evening.

Ryan found Chelsea standing on the balcony overlooking the lights of the distant harbor. Her back was to him. In her right hand she held a wineglass. Her soft, honey-gold hair fell around her shoulders. She was wearing a thin, cream-colored robe. And she was barefoot.

“I’m sorry about your grandfather,” he said, his deep voice a soothing whisper above the radio’s hiss.

Chelsea turned around. Her features were so like her mother’s. Yet the piercing, almost unnerving blue eyes were the distinct legacy of her father. Ryan knew Herman Grendel liked to suggest Chelsea was the progeny of some other man, but to know Luther, his quirkiness, his restless inability to ever feel satisfied, was to know Chelsea.

“Ryan,” she said, acknowledging him with a half smile, “come over here.”

He picked up a clean glass and the half-empty bottle of zinfandel and joined her.

“Grandfather’s left me everything.’“ Her voice was steady, but the hand holding the glass trembled.

“I know.”

She slipped her arm around his waist. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine.”

He could feel the warmth of her body through the thin silk. She was standing with her hip pressed tightly against his.

“Did you get it?”

Ryan shook his head. “I looked through all the files. Nothing.”