Ice Blonde

  Ice Blonde

  Copyright © Elaine Viets, 2018

  All rights reserved

  eISBN: 978-1-625673-47-3

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Tara O’Shea

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Also by Elaine Viets

  About the Author

  For medicolegal death investigator Mary Fran Ernst, who set the standards for this profession – and aimed high.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Ice Blonde kept me cool during a long, sweltering summer. I kept thinking back to those freezing Missouri winters. It's a peculiar humid cold that burrows into the bones, and though I live in Florida now, I've never forgotten it.

  Writing a mystery is a group project, and I had a lot of help and advice for Ice Blonde.

  First, thank you to my husband, Don Crinklaw, my first reader and true love, for your help and support, as well as the long discussions about life in Chouteau County. Don swears he went to college with some of its over-privileged inhabitants.

  Thank you to my agent, Joshua Bilmes, president of JABberwocky Literary, for his help and guidance on this project, and his meticulous line editing of Ice Blonde. I also appreciate the efforts of the JABberwocky team, including Lisa Rodgers, literary agent and e-book manager, Patrick Disselhorst, e-book assistant, and the ever patient Susan Velazquez, agent's assistant. Tara O'Shea's ice-frosted cover gave me chills. Thanks to copyeditor Bryon Quertermous for some excellent catches.

  I'm grateful to Bill Hopkins, retired Missouri judge and author of the Judge Rosswell Carew Mysteries, who helped with the legal details. Charles Hutchings, the Bollinger County, Missouri coroner, was on duty over the Christmas holidays to tell me how to defrost a frozen body. Detective R.C. White, Fort Lauderdale Police Department (retired) and licensed private eye, provided boundless help about police procedure.

  Thank you to retired medicolegal death investigator Mary Fran Ernst, one of the authors of the training text, Medicolegal Death Investigator, and to death investigator Krysten Addison, as well as Harold R. Messler, retired manager-criminalistics, St. Louis Police Laboratory. Nurse and mystery writer Gregg Brickman helped with the medical information.

  Many thanks to both Molly Portman and Alan Portman for their invaluable help on teen customs and tech info. Retired teacher MarySue Carl of Bothell, Washington, also gave me a window into high school students' minds.

  Special thanks to Will Graham, author of Spider's Dance. Joanna Campbell Slan, bestselling mystery author and Daphne du Maurier Award winner, along with Susan Schlueter of St. Louis, Jinny Gender of Kirkwood, Missouri, and Mary Alice Gorman and Richard Goldman of revuzeit.com also helped.

  I cannot write without the help of many librarians, including Anne Watts, assistant library director of the Boynton Beach City Library, Boynton Beach, Florida.

  Sarah E.C. Byrne made a generous donation to charity to have her name in this novel. She's a lawyer from Canberra, Australia, and a crime fiction aficionada.

  Thank you Femmes Fatales for your encouragement and advice. Read our blog at femmesfatales.typepad.com. My fellow bloggers at the award-winning Kill Zone have given useful and entertaining writing advice. Read us at killzoneblog.com.

  And finally, any mistakes are mine.

  Any questions or comments? Please e-mail me at eviets@aol.com.

  CHAPTER 1

  Tuesday, December 27, 6:30 a.m.

  Midge LaRouche was the last person I expected to find on my doorstep two days after Christmas. Especially at the insane hour of six-thirty. Midge’s confident upper-crust bray was muted to a tentative peep. Her husband, Prentice, stood behind her as if he feared she’d run away.

  Forty, fit, and tanned, the LaRouches were supposed to be in Telluride, Colorado, the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day. Everyone who was anyone fled Chouteau County, Missouri, to bake on a beach or swoosh down the slopes during the holidays.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked. The LaRouches have never been to my house. The mere mention of my job scared the hell out of them. I’m Angela Richman, a Chouteau County death investigator. I work for the medical examiner, and I’m called to the scene of all the county’s homicides and unexplained deaths. That’s why Midge’s next words were so ominous.

  “Our daughter didn’t come home last night.” Midge’s eyes filled with tears. Her nose was red, but I didn’t know if that was the extreme cold, or if she’d been crying. “Juliet’s only sixteen. She promised she’d be home from the party by midnight.” She brushed her blonde bangs out of the way, and dabbed at her eyes with her ski mittens.

  “Juliet’s very reliable,” Prentice said, as if he was recommending the girl for a job. “We’ve never had a problem. When we give her a time, she’s home. The party was at Arabella Du Pres’s house – her cousin. Bella’s parents were the chaperones. That’s why we don’t understand what went wrong.

  “When Juliet wasn’t home by one o’clock, our housekeeper called the Du Pres home and discovered our daughter had left more than an hour ago,” he said. “Juliet should have been home in ten minutes – fifteen at the most. Mrs. Ellis called the police and the hospitals, but Juliet hadn’t been in an accident. That’s when she called us, and we came straight home.

  “Thank gawd we didn’t have to fly commercial,” Prentice drawled. “Our little plane had us home by five this morning.”

  The blond couple was dressed for the slopes in ski togs and sun goggles, and they needed them. I could see Midge’s breath. I shivered and pulled my old brown robe tighter. His daughter’s missing on the coldest day of the year and he’s bragging that he flew on his private jet.

  “We’ll freeze to death out here on the porch. Come inside.”

  Midge burst into tears and I realized my words were tactless. “That’s why we’re so worried,” she said. I was astonished Midge remembered to wipe her feet on the mat. “I’m so afraid it’s too late for my little girl. Juliet isn’t dressed for this.”

  Midge and her husband followed me to my warm kitchen, bringing their own sub-zero zone with them like a prisoner in custody.

  The LaRouches sat at the table, pulling off their mittens and unzipping their jackets. As I fussed with the coffee maker, my sleep-stunned brain struggled to picture Juliet. The girl was probably blonde and pretty, like most of the local rich kids. She’d have the meticulous good grooming that passed for beauty: straight teeth, steam-cleaned skin, shiny hair. But I couldn’t remember what she looked like.

  “What was Juliet wearing?” I asked.

  “She left the house in a blue velvet strapless dress, high heels and a light-blue velveteen jacket,” Midge said. “She had her cell phone in a little silver purse.”

  “That’s all?” The coffee maker erupted in burbles and belches, giving my kitchen the comforting aroma of fresh coffee.

  “She refused to wear her boots, heavy coat, or eve
n gloves,” Midge said. “She said it would spoil her look.”

  “I remember being like that at her age.” I smiled.

  “I do, too,” Midge said. “But now her vanity could… could…” I mentally finished the sentence Midge couldn’t say: could kill her. Juliet’s mother was fighting hard not to cry again, but tears spilled down her cheeks. Prentice handed her a snowy pocket handkerchief, and she dabbed her eyes. “There, there, old girl.” He patted her shoulder. “I’m sure she’s staying at a friend’s house and this is all a misunderstanding.”

  “I assume you’ve called her friends,” I said.

  “Of course,” Prentice said. “No one’s seen Juliet since she left the party.”

  “And the police?”

  “They’ve already launched their own search and they’re organizing the volunteer search parties—the scouts, school groups, churches. The search is countywide.”

  Chouteau County is ten square miles of white privilege about thirty miles west of St. Louis. Our police exist to protect and serve this enchanted enclave. Chouteau Forest is the main town, surrounded by forested estates. Toonerville, the blue-collar section, is where most of the Forest workers live.

  I was afraid the search was hopeless. People like the LaRouches were barricaded behind wrought-iron gates in their late nineteenth-century mansions. Their estates were sprinkled with horse barns, guest houses, pool houses, topiary mazes, sheds, and storage buildings. I lived on old Reggie Du Pres’s estate, in a former guest house that was my parents’ home. It would take a whole day to search that vast complex. Toonerville was a patchwork of modest houses with small backyards, garages and tool sheds – each one a potential hiding place.

  Midge said, “We also called the Hobarts, the Du Presses, the DeMuns – no one’s seen her, but they’re organizing search parties, too.”

  “I’ll get dressed and join them,” I said.

  “That’s not why we’re here,” Midge said. “We wouldn’t expect you to search. Not with your health issues.” I saw her avid eyes. I hated talking about the six strokes, coma and brain surgery.

  “How old were you when you had the strokes?” she asked.

  “I’m forty-one. That was almost two years ago. I’m fully recovered.” I was glad the coffee maker gave a final blurp, and a satisfied sigh. I poured three mugs of coffee, then set creamer, sugar and spoons on the table. Prentice sipped his coffee black and Midge sugared hers and then warmed her hands with the mug.

  “Where are the searchers starting?” I asked.

  “With our area first,” Prentice said. “That’s the logical way. The people Juliet knows. Most of us have security, so we know who goes in and out and what time. That’s how we knew exactly when Juliet left the Du Pres house.”

  “At 11:42,” Midge said.

  “So how can I help?”

  “Well, you’re a Chouteau County…” Midge stopped. “You investigate… uh, you look into… you work for…”

  Midge couldn’t bring herself to say the two terrible words of my title, and Prentice didn’t try.

  “I’m a death investigator. I handle –”

  Prentice cut me off before I could say “homicides.”

  “Yes, yes, we understand. But right now we need your contacts. You work with the Chouteau Forest detectives. The two best are Ray Foster Greiman and Butch Chetkin.”

  “They’re certainly the most experienced.” I thought Butch was the best and Greiman couldn’t find sand in the Sahara, but I kept those opinions to myself.

  “We need one of them to lead the search for Juliet,” Prentice said. “The chief has called in the entire force, but he says Chetkin and Greiman are not available.”

  “Can’t you talk to them?” Midge asked. “This is important.” Her teary brown eyes were pleading. I was afraid she’d start crying again.

  “Ray’s out of town,” I said, “and he doesn’t answer his phone for anyone – not even the chief – when he’s on vacation. Poor Butch has the flu. I doubt if he can stand up, much less lead an investigation.”

  “That means we’re stuck with the new hire.” Midge was not happy.

  “What’s wrong with Jason Budewitz?” I asked. “I haven’t worked with him yet, but he comes highly recommended. He worked as a detective in Chicago.”

  “That’s the problem,” Midge said. “He’s used to dealing with those people, not with our kind.”

  “Our kind?” I knew my kind definitely wasn’t Midge’s.

  “She means Budewitz is used to dealing with a rougher element than we have here in the Forest,” Prentice said. “Toonerville has some scruffy types, but not like the people he’s encountered in Chicago.”

  “Dope dealers, prostitutes, killers and worse,” Midge said.

  “Then Detective Budewitz will appreciate working with nice, polite people even more,” I said.

  “That detective asked if Juliet had her tongue pierced! That’s disgusting. What will people think if they find out he’s asking questions like that?” I saw real fear in Midge’s eyes, but I wasn’t sure if it was for her lost daughter or her possibly lost reputation.

  “People will know you’re not asking that. They’ll understand the police have to ask difficult questions.’”

  The LaRouches looked doubtful. I tried to reassure them. “Mr. and Mrs. LaRouche, the detectives don’t work for me. I work with them. We don’t have the same bosses. I answer to the medical examiner, and their boss is the police chief. I don’t have the power to influence the police or their schedules in any way. Is there anything else I can do?”

  “Yes,” Midge said. “We want to know if you remembered any teenagers tearing around on the roads here around midnight.”

  “No,” I said. “I went to bed about ten and didn’t hear anything. Did you check with the guard at the entrance to the estate?”

  “He wasn’t on duty last night,” Prentice said, “but he said there were no reports of drag racing.”

  “Old Reggie has cracked down on that since his granddaughter was killed in a drag race on the estate,” I said. “I promise I’ll keep an eye out for Juliet. But I’m not sure what she looks like. Girls grow up so fast.”

  Midge pulled a photo out of her purse. “Here’s her picture, the latest one, taken at the Holly Dance.” The Holly Dance was the social event of the holiday season at the Chouteau Forest Academy.

  Juliet was stunning, a rare ice blonde. Her straight, shoulder-length hair was so white it looked like moon glow. Her black velvet gown set off her pale skin and long, slender form. Her eyes were summer sky blue. Juliet stared at the camera with a hint of a smile. If Midge hadn’t said her age, I would have guessed Juliet was a sophisticated twenty-one. I wondered how her hearty, ordinary-looking parents had created this delicate creature.

  “Does Juliet have a boyfriend?” I asked.

  “Absolutely not,” her father said, as if that was a decree.

  “Juliet told us that she’s not really dating,” Midge said. “She says dating is old school. She just hangs around with friends.”

  Friends. Right. One look at that picture and I knew Juliet was no wallflower. “Any of those friends boys?”

  “I’m sure they are, but there’s no one in particular,” Prentice said. His wife nodded.

  Her parents had bought Juliet’s story. In my experience, teens didn’t tell their parents everything, especially about their love lives.

  “We wanted Detective Budewitz to put out an Amber Alert, but he said Juliet didn’t meet the criteria because there was no proof she’d been abducted.”

  “He’s right,” I said. “Missouri has strict rules for Amber Alerts.”

  “Instead, he signed her up for a Missouri Endangered Persons Alert. That’s useless.” Midge’s voice was warped with pain. She was crying again. Through her tears, she said, “All an Endangered Persons Alert does is let the police and the media know Juliet’s missing. An Amber Alert has text messages that go to thousands of people, but an Endangered Persons Ale
rt has nothing like that. What does it cost to put out a text alert for a missing girl who’s not properly dressed for the freezing weather? We don’t text much, but we know texting is how young people communicate. You know what this Budewitz advised? Posters! Posters in this day and age! How backward is that? Look at this stupid poster they did.”

  Midge opened her cell phone and there was a poster notice: “MISSING! SAVE ME! ENDANGERED PERSONS ALERT. Juliet LaRouche. Last seen December 26, 2017, 11:42 P.M.”

  Juliet, in her breathtaking black ball gown, smiled at the information about her last location: Chouteau Forest, Chouteau County, Missouri, her date of birth and other vital statistics, from her height to her hair color. “If you have any information on this child, call these numbers,” the poster said, then listed numbers that could be contacted twenty-four hours a day.

  I didn’t know what to say. Midge was right. Posters were no match for a high-tech alert.

  “We printed the posters at a twenty-four-hour copy shop,” she said. “We’re supposed to put these posters everywhere. The detective says they work.”

  “They do, Midge,” I said. “They’re your best chance.”

  Prentice squeezed his wife’s shoulder. “She’s right, old girl.”

  “Will you retweet the link to the poster and her photo?” Midge sounded lost.

  “Of course.” I gave the worried woman my contact information. Midge gave me the photo and texted me the poster, then glanced at the kitchen clock. “We should be going. It’s almost seven. Thank you for your time, Angela.”

  “Would you like some coffee for the road?”

  “No, no, we have a TV interview and a radio interview. Officer Budewitz thinks a personal plea from us will help, too.” Midge zipped up her ski jacket, then slipped on her mittens.

  “I’ll do everything I can to help find Juliet,” I said.

  The couple carefully picked their way down the snow-slick concrete stairs, then trudged through the snow to their Range Rover. They seemed to be holding each other up.

  As I watched them drive away, I wondered about their information. I thought Prentice was hiding something. He knew more about his daughter’s disappearance than he was saying. He sounded defensive when he told me Juliet didn’t date. And behind his fear was a deep undercurrent of anger. What fueled that? Juliet was dazzling. I couldn’t believe the sixteen-year-old wasn’t involved with a boy. Did she run away from her overly strict parents? Did her father know she was seeing someone unsuitable? Worse, was she suicidal? Teenagers had to deal with raging hormones. A disappointment in love at that age could be catastrophic.