The Bitter Season (Kovac and Liska, #5)(27)

“Clever girl,” Seley said. “Think of all the money she saved not having to change all her monogrammed towels.”

“It’s kind of creepy, if you ask me,” Nikki said.

They drove south on 77, across the Minnesota River, to the suburb of Apple Valley, and to a development where the houses were large and the lots were larger.

“There’s something sort of Stepford about it,” she continued. “Lose your spouse? Pick up a clone! Or were the Stepford wives robots? I forget.”

“It’s biblical, really. Isn’t there something in there about a man having to marry his dead brother’s wife?”

Nikki shuddered. “If I had to marry my ex’s brother, I’d become a lesbian.”

The last Duffy house they had been to could have fit into the current Duffy house twice with room left over. Instead of tired white clapboard, this one was faced in stacked stone and brown stucco. The pillars that held up the front portico looked to be fashioned from massive tree trunks. Prairie style on steroids. The heavy wooden front door was adorned with big black studs and fake strap hinges that looked like they had been hand-forged by some sweating, muscular shirtless artisan with a big hammer.

“It’s safe to assume this brother isn’t living on a cop’s salary,” Seley remarked.

“No. He owns Big D Sports.”

“He’s Big Duff? From the commercials?”

“The one and only.”

The Big D Sports commercials were local favorites featuring Big Duff dressed in Elmer Fudd hunting garb, and a guy in a silly, cheap moose costume: Melvin D. Moose. It was the kind of goofy humor that made guys guffaw. Speed and R.J. loved them and mimicked them, making each other fall down laughing.

“He had just started his first store around the time of Ted Duffy’s death,” Nikki said. “Twenty-five years later, he’s got stores all over the upper Midwest.”

Stores that specialized in hunting equipment, including guns, she reminded herself. But at the time of his brother’s death, Big Duff had allegedly been two hours away, at his cabin near Rice Lake, Wisconsin, getting the place ready for a Thanksgiving weekend party. Ted and some buddies had been set to join him for a few days of deer hunting and hanging out. Pre–cell phone, a family friend had driven to the cabin to break the news in person. Big Duff had reportedly been inconsolable over the death of his twin.

Two years later, he had married his dead brother’s wife.

One big happy.

The heavy door swung open as they approached.

“Mrs. Duffy, I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Barbie Duffy said impatiently.

Nikki’s first thought was that Barbie Duffy did not look sixty. Her hair, which hung just past her shoulders, had been artistically streaked ash blonde and carefully coiffed to look like it hadn’t been done at all—which undoubtedly cost extra at the salon. She’d had work done, but done well—a little lift here, a little filler there, a spot of Botox, a boob job. Dressed in leggings and a yoga top, she had a figure that would have been coveted by most women in their forties.

She had worked as an ER nurse when she was married to Ted Duffy. She had traded up a few economic levels with Ted’s brother. No doubt she had plenty of time to devote herself to all the latest exercise crazes. She probably spun, Zumba’d, and Pilates’d herself that flat stomach and those skinny legs, and CrossFitted herself a pair of toned arms.

Nikki’s second thought was that Barbie Duffy was not happy to see them.

“I don’t see why we couldn’t have done this over the phone,” she said as she led them through the foyer. “I have a barre class at five. I have to be out of here by quarter to.”

It was four o’clock. She was allowing forty-five minutes for the discussion of her first husband’s unsolved murder.

“We’ll try not to take up too much of your time . . .”

. . . trying to figure out who murdered the father of your children.

“What a beautiful home you have,” Seley said, looking around at some designer’s idea of Northwoods chic: exposed timbers, chandeliers fashioned from the antlers of a herd of elk, bronze sculptures of wild animals. “This should be in a magazine.”

“It has been,” Barbie said with the fake smile of a popular girl. “Several times.”

She showed them to a living room with furniture made for giants—huge sofas and armchairs covered in leather and textiles that might have been handwoven by native people in some far-flung corner of the world. Nikki felt like a little kid taking a seat in one of the armchairs. She had to perch on the edge of the cushion or her feet couldn’t touch the floor.

“As you know,” she began, “your husband’s case has been chosen for review by the new Cold Case unit.”

“Yes, I know that. Gene Grider called me days before you did. I don’t understand why he isn’t in charge.” Barbie Duffy sat on the edge of a leather chair, her back ramrod straight, lower legs twisted together elegantly. A stack of bangles rattled on her wrist as she made a gesture. Her manicure was immaculate, her nails painted a perfect fall crimson. “He’s worked on Ted’s case all these years—”

“And the case has never been solved. Why would you want a man who hasn’t solved the case in twenty-five years to be in charge of trying to solve it now?” Nikki asked with a little edge to her voice. “Do you not want the case closed, Mrs. Duffy?”