Love 'Em or Leave 'Em Dead Read online

  “To be honest, I’ve had the same thought myself, but the show’s very popular.”

  “Controversial is always popular. Did she have the credentials to give out this kind of life-changing advice?”

  “A master’s degree in counseling. She got her start in a clinic setting, but disliked it and quit. Her husband landed her a job with a small city newspaper doing the lovelorn column. The word spread and some bigger papers picked it up.”

  “Like ‘Dear Abby’?”

  “Exactly, only it was called ‘Sonya Says.’ And because of the popularity of the column, she did a few local guest radio and TV spots, which worked into her own show.”

  “How long has she had this house?”

  “Twelve years. Donald and Sonya built it as a vacation/retirement home.”

  During Sonya’s alleged impromptu speech at the Christmas party, she remarked it had been ten years since her husband died, and it was after this death she became close to Patrice.

  “How often does she come up here?”

  “A number of times each year. Cal, she was in her prime. What if it wasn’t natural causes? Maybe she was poisoned.”

  “An autopsy and a toxicology screen will determine that. Tell me more about her husband.”

  “Donald owned an ad agency in Minneapolis. Handsome, charismatic. She joked about being his trophy wife. By the way, her stepchildren hated her. She has enemies, Cal.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  2

  I WENT OUT TO HELP Doc Swank with the transport cot.

  “Supposed to snow tomorrow,” he said.

  “Heard that.”

  Patrice met us at the door. “As I told Cal, Sonya was a healthy woman. She just had a physical and came out with flying colors. She could have been suffocated or poisoned.”

  “Well, hello to you, too.”

  “Oh . . . sorry. Hi, Doc.”

  “Hello, Sheriff Clinton. Anyway, an autopsy will tell us for sure. We’ll transport the remains to Bemidji.”

  I followed Doc upstairs. He repeated the steps I had taken, plus a few others, including taking Ms. Donovan’s body temperature, making notes on a form clipped inside a leather folder. He also did more lividity tests.

  When he was finished he looked at me and said, “Looks like at least twelve to fourteen hours. There’s foam in her mouth, so we’ll do a thorough blood work up.”

  “What? Overdose?”

  Patrice and her friend’s appearance at the door halted our conversation.

  “Can Justine see her mother before you take her, Doc?” Patrice asked.

  “Certainly.”

  “Justine, this fine-looking gent is Doc Swank, our county coroner, and the big fellow is my ace detective, Cal Sheehan. He’ll handle your mom’s case.”

  Seriously? Ace detective? I shook hands with Justine. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Doc pulled off his glove to hold Justine’s hand. “I’m so very sorry to meet you in these circumstances. You have my sympathy.”

  Justine was short and wide-hipped. She had a high forehead, a button nose, and small chin. Her eyes diverted from Doc to the bed, and as her eyes focused on her mother’s body, she let out a small gasp.

  Doc said, “An autopsy is wise to determine if there was a hidden medical condition.”

  “Patrice says you want to be sure her death wasn’t something other than medical.”

  “Standard practice in an otherwise healthy person.”

  Doc and I stepped back and gave Justine time with her mother. She stood at the side of the bed, her hand over her mouth, as she and Patrice silently shed tears together. Patrice pulled tissues from her pocket and handed one to Justine. After a few minutes, Justine turned and walked out. Patrice followed. Doc finished his work, and I helped him take the body out to his van.

  After Doc left, I told Patrice I was going next door to see my mom for a few minutes, then I’d stop back. As I walked out the door, I heard Patrice ask Justine if she wanted a glass of wine.

  BOBBY LOPEZ’S CONTEMPORARY-STYLE home was by most people’s standards large, but compared to the Donovan’s ostentatious structure, it was modest. I rang the bell and waited a full half minute before I pushed the button again. The heavy wood door opened, and Bobby said, “Calvin, what a surprise. Your mother’s not home yet.”

  “That’s okay. I have a few questions for you.”

  “Oh? Well, come in and get out of the cold.”

  The spicy aroma of Mexican cooking filled the air. I moved in past this giant of a man, who clocked in at six-foot-five and 250 pounds. His size, rugged face, plus facial scars and a patch on one eye, caused many a stranger to stare. And it was this man my mother chose to love and trust, a secretive newcomer who had surveillance equipment in his house, couldn’t tell us what he did for a living, and left for unknown places for days at a time.

  He wanted me to believe he worked for the government, but I wasn’t at all convinced. All I knew was the man had skills—and connections and access to information even the average law enforcement officer didn’t. I wouldn’t want him for an enemy, so I played the role of his girlfriend’s son where I could keep him in my crosshairs.

  His long, dark ponytail hung down the back of his blue plaid flannel shirt. Jeans and cowboy boots rounded out his winter outfit. In the summer he switched to either white T-shirts or Charlie Harper-type shirts.

  Mom found a renter for her condo, and she and Bobby moved into the lake house early last month. Because the home had been vacant for many months, he talked the owner into letting him rent. They were using his furniture, which was Spanish style, dark and heavy, upholstered in a red-and-olive-green print. I tried to spot my mother’s eclectic hippie taste in the furnishings, but it seemed to be absent. I followed Bobby into the kitchen, where he turned down the flame under two pots.

  “Smells good,” I said. “Are you cooking?”

  “Rosarita is. She hides whenever the doorbell rings—which doesn’t happen very often. We don’t get much company.”

  It was my understanding they didn’t want company. Rosarita was his brother’s mother-in-law and an illegal. He said if we notified Homeland Security, she’d be deported and killed by the cartel. Her husband once had been the chief of police in a Mexican border town. Rosarita and her family fled when her husband’s head was found on a pole placed along the main avenue.

  He went into the hallway and shouted out, “Rosarita, it’s just Calvin.”

  A minute later, Rosarita flitted into the kitchen, her skirt swishing with her rapid movements. I’d never seen her wear anything but a dress or skirt, and like today, she usually wore an apron. After she stirred the pots, she turned and gave me a quick smile. She spoke a few words to Bobby in Spanish.

  He looked to me. “She wants to know if you’ll be joining us for dinner.”

  “No, I can’t. Thanks for asking, Rosarita.”

  Another quick smile and she attended to her pots. Bobby gestured at an opened Corona on the counter.

  “Join me?” he asked.

  “No, I’m on duty . . . investigating a case next door. I just stopped by to see if you had any information about the homeowner, Sonya Donovan.”

  His eyes narrowed to slits. “Only that she refused my offer to buy her house.”

  “Never mind it wasn’t for sale.” Although it could be soon, which I didn’t mention. “Did you see anything suspicious or anybody hanging around the area recently?”

  “The only person I see around both properties is that beanpole by the name of Moore—the man who plows our driveways. What are you investigating? A burglary?”

  I looked him square in the eye and watched his expression as I said, “Ms. Donovan was found dead this afternoon. Thought I’d check to see if you knew anything about it.”

  He cocked his head and said, “My, my. No, I certainly don’t. Never met the woman. She didn’t come a-knocking on my door with a welcome basket, if you know what I mean. But I imagine a celebrity like her wan
ts privacy.”

  “But you met her when you tried to buy her house?”

  “No, I made the offer through my attorney.”

  “Well, all right then. Say hello to my mother. You know how to get in touch with me if either of you should remember something.” I turned to leave. He followed me to the door.

  “Your mother will be disappointed she missed you. Calvin, are the circumstances of Mrs. Donovan’s death suspicious?”

  “I doubt it.”

  He nodded a few times. “Yeah, that’s why you’re here questioning me.”

  “No, really. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “You’re never a bother, Calvin.” He slapped me on the back.

  WHEN I RETURNED to the Donovan house, Patrice and Justine were slurping down wine and sitting on the sofa facing the blazing fire in the massive field-stone fireplace. Patrice asked me to have a seat.

  She said, “I was telling Justine your mother lived next door with a big Mexican fella. Did they see anything suspicious?”

  “No.” I turned to Justine. “If you’re up to it, I’d like to hear about your mother.”

  “Sure. Well, she was born and raised in Minneapolis by a single mother. Her dream was to sing and act on Broadway, but the closest she came was landing a gig as a lounge singer at the downtown Minneapolis Radisson—that’s where she met my dad. He was twenty years her senior and married at the time. Six months later, he was divorced, and they flew to Las Vegas, where Mom became the second Mrs. Donovan. By the time she was twenty-two, she had James and me. When we were both in elementary school, she went to college to get a degree in psychology.”

  “Where’s James living?”

  “He was killed in a car crash at age eighteen.”

  The old familiar ache of grief squeezed my chest. “Sorry to hear that. I know how hard it is.”

  “It was truly awful.”

  Patrice shifted in her seat. “I remember the time so clearly. We were juniors in high school.”

  “Do you remember how my mother took to her bed?” Justine asked. “I remember thinking she was going to die, too. Dad said she was trying to sleep away the hole James’s death left in her heart. He forced her into counseling, and after a few months, it was like she flipped a switch. That’s when she decided to get a master’s degree in counseling.”

  “Any recent bouts of depression?”

  “No. She was on top of the world and enjoying her life.”

  “Patrice said your father had children by the previous marriage?”

  “Kent and Natalie were teenagers when James and I were born. There are photos of the four of us kids, but I don’t recall much about that time. I do remember sensing they couldn’t wait to leave when they’d visit for the holidays. I thought it was because they didn’t like me. After Dad died, there was no contact.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “What about his first wife?”

  “Ruth? She remarried and moved to San Antonio decades ago.”

  Patrice refilled Justine’s wine glass, emptying the bottle. She went for another. From across the room she said, “I take it you still don’t want a glass?”

  “Correct.”

  I turned to Justine. “I understand your mother had quite a successful career.”

  “She did. Patrice, did Mother tell you we were working a deal with Bravo for a TV version of the radio show?”

  “No.”

  “She didn’t want anyone to know until the contract was finalized.”

  “What about your mother’s cousin?” I asked.

  “Gary?”

  “Yes.”

  “We don’t see much of him, even though he’s her only one. He lives in Wayzata, single. His stores sell, as Mother put it, expensive junk from third-world countries.”

  “Can you tell me more about the radio show?” I asked.

  “She was on air weekday mornings from nine to eleven. They repeated the broadcast afternoons from four to six.”

  “How did it work?”

  “Her guest hosts would give a short talk about relationships, either why good ones worked or why bad ones failed. Then they’d accept callers for the rest of the show.”

  “Who were the guest hosts?”

  “Usually experts in the field: professors, social workers, authors, psychologists. Sometimes I was able to book celebrities in town for other events. Those were my favorite shows.”

  “And the callers would ask for personal advice?”

  “Usually, yes. Some just wanted to comment about what a previous caller or the guest host had said, but that was kept at a minimum. The screeners tried to pick callers who had the most dramatic issues or questions that would illicit the strongest reaction from our listeners. It boosted ratings.”

  “Where is the radio studio?”

  “Above the garage. Which reminds me, I have to call Thomas.”

  “Thomas?” I asked.

  “Our producer and business manager.” Justine shook her head and sighed. “Gosh, I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to your mother, Justine?”

  “Yesterday around noon. I called to tell her I was waiting until today to leave.”

  “Why?”

  “I had work to get done. Maybe if I’d come as planned, she’d—”

  Patrice raised a hand. “Do not do that to yourself, Justine.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to her, Patrice?” Justine asked.

  “Wednesday evening. We were going to touch base this morning to settle on a time to meet. I called but she didn’t answer. When I still couldn’t get hold of her by four o’clock, I drove out.”

  “Was the door locked?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get in?” I asked.

  “I have a key and know the code. Sometimes she has me check on things.”

  I stayed quiet. Sometimes people would say more if I was patient.

  Patrice tilted her head and smiled at me, then put a hand on my arm. “Don’t I have handsome deputies?” she said, turning to Justine.

  “Yes, you do.”

  Heat rushed to my face. I scratched the sudden itch on my chin.

  “Cal, you’re blushing. Did I embarrass you?” Patrice said.

  Justine set her glass down. “Ah, it’s an inside joke. David makes constant remarks about her being surrounded by handsome young men.”

  Joke or not, my boss had way too much vino.

  “So, Justine, back to your mother. Did she have employees?”

  “Several.” She ticked off on her fingers as she recounted. “Beside me, and I’m her executive secretary and publicist, she has a cook, a housekeeper, and a groundskeeper. Then, connected with the studio, there’s the business manager/producer, a sound guy, and two screeners.”

  Patrice said, “They live in Kenwood, a beautiful area in Minneapolis with wonderful old homes.”

  “I know about Kenwood, Patrice.”

  She cocked her head and said with a snarky smile, “Oh, I wasn’t certain . . . you being a country boy.”

  I gave her a long, hard look. About now, this country boy wanted to tell his boss to shove it. “How about this place? I noticed it’s spotless.”

  Justine answered, “She’s anal about tidiness. Up here, she does her own cooking, but her cleaning lady also does her laundry and stocks food. Her husband is the groundskeeper—does the mowing, plowing, some gardening and maintenance.”

  “Moore?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Why don’t you try to find a phone number for the Moores?”

  “Sure.”

  When she returned, she handed me a Post-it note. “How long will the autopsy take?”

  “Depends,” I said. “A couple days, but the toxicology screens will take more time. And I should head out.”

  “Do you want to stay for dinner?” Patrice asked.

  “No, thanks.” I
couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.

  ONCE IN THE EXPLORER, I took three deep breaths. What was that crazy shit about? Patrice had purposefully embarrassed me in front of her friend. Country boy, my ass. And the ace detective, handsome deputy bit? She would hear about this the next time I got her alone.

  I put in my Chris Botti CD and tried to decompress while I drove the forty-five minutes home.

  Bullet, my yellow lab, met me at the backdoor. It’d been too long since he’d been let out. He rushed through the door and did his business, then was begging to come in. His supper was late, and he lived for food.

  As he scarfed down his chow, I foraged for mine. Clara Bradley, my housekeeper and nanny, was kind enough to store leftovers in the freezer for such occasions. I pulled out a glass container labeled “lasagna” and threw it in the microwave for eight minutes, per instructions on the lid.

  I ate in the silence of my empty house. There were times I welcomed the quiet—but not tonight. The twins’ sweet innocence, the sounds of their voices and laughter helped me escape the ugly side of my occupation. With the fifty-fifty split custody, Clara traveled back and forth between the houses along with the kids every other week. When they were gone, I missed them greatly. When it was my week and I had time, I’d come home and eat lunch with the Twinks, my pet tame for them, because Twinkies also come in packages of two.

  I cleaned up my dishes, then went up to bed early. I turned on an old John Wayne western, but the image of Sonya Donovan’s dead body kept popping into my thoughts. I’d never seen a corpse lying so straight, unless they were on the medical examiner’s table. Perhaps Patrice was right, and the toxicology would come back with evidence she was poisoned. But who would want her dead? Her daughter? A secret lover? Bobby Lopez? He could have killed her in order to get her house. He knew stuff—like poisons that wouldn’t show up in a routine tox screening. Oh, man, just erase this bizarre shit from your mind, Cal.

  3

  Saturday, December 13

  BECAUSE IT WAS FREAKING COLD outside, Bullet got only a short walk before I headed into work. The department gym was crowded for a Saturday morning. I spent thirty minutes on the treadmill, thirty minutes on the machines, briefly chatted with some guys, showered, then went up to the investigations office to start the paperwork on last night’s call.