NOVEMBER 20âSWENSON
As Lark drove up the driveway, he thought about the Ransons and the trouble he expected was awaiting him somewhere on their property. His first impression of them didn't set off any alarm bells, but he knew to proceed with caution until he could dig further into their backgrounds. He made a mental note to get the details of their inheritance.
To his untrained eye, they had a lovely home. Lark thought about how much Maria would have enjoyed all the quilts and glass. He shook off the memories of his dead wife and turned his attention back to the bones. He stopped his car near the pond. As he tramped through the snow, he noticed several bird and deer feeders at the edge of the woods. Despite the snow and cold, birds and squirrels were everywhere.
He finally reached the area Ann had described. Faint, snow-filled animal tracks meandered from the woods to the edge of the pond. He saw the trampled snow where Ann had fallen. It didn't make sense that a person would retrieve the bones of someone she'd killed and turn them in to the police, but he'd seen stranger things in his career.
Lark studied the Ransons' house as he hiked back to his Jeep. If he
didn't know it was new, he would have sworn the big, two-story, gray farmhouse had been there for decades. Mature trees and landscaping surrounded it. Smoke floated up out of the chimney and an evergreen wreath hung from the bright blue front door. The real show was Big Oak Lake. The twenty-four-hundred-acre lake, the largest in Mason County, spread out behind the house in a sea of white-capped gray
Nothing had changed when he got back to the office; the place was crazy. He grabbed the messages from his spindle and headed for his office. Flo, the dispatcher, yelled that she needed to see him as soon as possible. He told her to stow it until later unless it was an emergency. She glared but waved him away. He noticed that she had changed the color on her claw-like fingernails. They were orange and decorated with decals of miniature turkeys. The new color scheme was an improvement over the green and yellow Green Bay Packer colors she'd been wearing for the last month.
Lark escaped into his office and called Joel Grenfurth. Joel and Lark met when Lark joined the Chicago police force. Shortly after they became friends, Joel got married and moved to Wausau. He had been a detective with the Wisconsin State Police for fifteen years. Lark told Joel about the boot and bones and asked him if anything about this situation rang a bell.
“What a piss-poor time for this to happen,” Joel said. “Can you get the bones and the boot down to our lab? Everything has gone to hell this week. Wisconsin's full of FIB's getting drunk and trying to blow each other's brains out while they're shooting at the thirty-point buck.” Joel paused. When Lark didn't say anything he continued, “You have heard that song about the thirty-point buck haven't you?”
“Yeah, yeah, I've heard the damn song so many times I could probably sing it in my sleep, especially the part about the Illinois lawman. Watch it with that FIB shit,” Lark said, wondering who he could pull off to run to Wausau.
“You're exempt from Fucking Illinois Bastard status. The minute you made the move you became a Cheesehead.” Joel chuckled, knowing how much Lark, a diehard Bears fan, hated the Packers.
“I think I'd rather be an FIB,” Lark grumbled. “Hell will freeze over before I wear a piece of yellow plastic cheese on my head. I'll get the bones down to you in a few hours, but I need the boot back tomorrow morning. Do you have any tracking dogs we could use?”
“Tracking dogs? You think that skeleton left you a trail?” Joel asked. “You've been in boonie-land way too long.”
“The people who found the boot think their dogs dragged it into their yard. They think the dogs can lead us back to where they found it,” Lark said, wondering how stupid this sounded.
“What kind of dogs do they have?” Joel asked. “I've got a black Lab that could probably do the same thing.”
“Golden retrievers.”
“Smart dogs.”
“So you think it's worth a try?” Lark asked, leaning back in his chair.
“Nothing to lose, is there? Otherwise you could be roaming the countryside until spring thaw. I don't think our dogs could helpâthey follow scent trails. Get the bones and the boot down here and we'll get to work on them ASAP. If your officer can wait, he can bring the boot back tonight. We could probably get you a couple of officers tomorrow, but there's no one available today. We're too busy dealing with live, lawbreaking FIBs.”
“Yeah, yeah, Grenfurth, always the joker. I'm not going out on this until tomorrow morning.” Lark glanced out the window. “It's snowing like a bitch. It'll be dark in less than two hours and back down to fifteen below. We're covered over with deer hunters and problems after bar time. If there's something else out there, it can wait till tomorrow. It's been waiting this long.” Lark yelled at an officer passing in the hall and waved him into the chair in front of his desk. “Joel, I'll get this stuff on the road in half an hour and call you tomorrow if we need help.”
Jim Kryjack slouched into the chair, draping his arms over the armrests. He stretched out his long legs and poked his huge feet underneath the sheriff's desk. Despite all the food he packed into his six-foot-five frame, he was beanpole slim. Straight blond hair was combed to the side but occasionally flopped down into bright blue eyes set wide apart in his youthful face.
Jim could have gotten a law enforcement job just about anywhere but came home because he thought Mason County was the best place on earth. Unlike many of his friends who wanted to escape their roots, Jim just wanted to sink them deeper. His family had lived in northern Wisconsin for more than a century and he couldn't think of anything better than extending that tradition. He went to the University of
Wisconsin in Madison to get a degree in Police Science and came home as quickly as possible. Life in Madison had confirmed that he could not be happy in the city.
He had expected to work at the family resort until there was a job opening in the area, but Sheriff Dodge hired him right out of college. A couple of months later Dodge had his heart attack and Sheriff Swenson was hired. At first, Jim didn't think he would like working with a former Chicago cop. That feeling went away in a hurry when he figured out how much he could learn.
After finishing his conversation, the sheriff turned to Kryjack. Jim agreed to take the evidence to Wausau and bring back the boot. Lark gave him the bag and told him the details.
Jim looked stunned. “We've had the occasional arm or leg taken off in farm accidents, but nothing like this. That was a pretty isolated piece of property until the Ransons came. Old man Wazowski wasn't up here much. He allowed a few of us to deer hunt, but otherwise he was pretty strict about trespassers. Everybody was real surprised he let the snowmobile trail go through.”
“What do you know about the Ransons?” Lark asked.
Jim thought for a minute. “Not much. My sister Janelle, she runs the restaurant part of Pine View for mom and dad.” Jim continued when Lark nodded. “Well, the Ransons were at the Pine View the other night when I was there and I asked her about them. I'd just given Mrs. Ranson a speeding ticket.”
“Speeding ticket,” Lark said, and rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Tell me about it.”
“She was doing seventy on Highway M. I could hear her radio clear back in the cruiser, but she'd turned it off by the time I got to her car. She seemed flustered but didn't try to lie her way out of the ticket,” Jim said, grinning at Lark. “She said she had to stop listening to Motown when she's driving. I thought she seemed a little old to be listening to real loud rock.”
“Jesus,” Lark said, laughing and shaking his head.
“I thought that was pretty funny, too. Anyway, Janelle says the Ransons come out to eat a couple of times a month. They tip well and treat the waitress great. Mrs. Ranson used to be a waitress. Janelle thought they were middle-aged honeymooners until they celebrated their nineteenth wedding anniversary out there this fall. They're involved in this?”
“Yeah, the boot was found on their property.” Lark hustled Jim out the door to Wausau. If the Ransons were middle-aged in Jim's eyes, then he probably was, as well. He sure felt like it at the moment.
He was astonished to find that it was almost four-thirty. Where does the time go, he wondered as he dialed the number for Dan Raeburn, the Madison attorney who had probated Wazowski's will. When he'd told the Ransons he wanted to talk with him about the details of the estate, they had supplied his name and number.
He was surprised to be put right through to the attorney. Raeburn described the Ransons' inheritance just as Ann had. They had befriended one of John's clients, an elderly man named Sam Wazowski, when John remodeled his house in Madison. Ann and Sam shared a fondness for mysteries, art glass, and Italian food. Both the Ransons were estranged from their parents and Sam was estranged from his children, so they became a surrogate family for each other. When he realized how much the Ransons loved to vacation in northern Wisconsin, Sam secretly decided to leave his Big Oak Lake property to them, with the stipulation that they never subdivide it. He also left them an ample trust fund to be used for taxes and property improvements, as well as a couple thousand first-edition mysteries. Raeburn admitted that he had convinced Sam to have the Ransons checked out prior to leaving the property to them, but they had found no financial, business, or social surprises.
It was after five by the time Lark completed his notes. He called Ann and told her they would be out to begin their search at 8 A.M. He leaned back in his chair and massaged the tight muscles in his neck. Sighing, he got up to go deal with the dispatcher's problems before she started a one-woman campaign to have him impeached.
NOVEMBER 20âTHE RANSONS
Ann spent the afternoon unpacking the antiques they had purchased for their friends. John came home just before six, and they ate dinner and watched the news, thankful that there wasn't a story about the boot. There were, however, several deer hunting stories, including two shots of the medical helicopter landing at the hospital. They groaned when they saw the story about Pete Williams being transferred to Rhinelander. Everyone knew that the only reason someone went from Mason County Memorial to Rhinelander was for drug or alcohol rehab or a psychiatric evaluation. They were just clearing the table when the phone rang.
Ann got off the phone just as John put the last of the dishes in the dishwasher. “That was Myra. She's running over to pick up their books. She says Joe can't wait to dig into the Big Little Book. It's one he's never seen before.”
Ann hurried into the family room. John followed her and picked up the tiny book, leafing through the pages.
“Tarzan and the Jewels of Opar.
I can't figure out what people see in these books.”
Ann snatched it from him and slipped it into a small plastic bag. “You're messing with forty dollars' worth of book and that's a good buy Joe should be tickled to death.”
“Those two are as bad as you with their books,” John chided as he picked up the Nancy Drew books Ann had found for Myra. Ann had just finished the invoices when the doorbell rang.
Myra breezed in, all four foot nine inches encased in an ankle-length mink coat and diminutive, black leather, high-heeled boots. Her short black pageboy peeked out from under a mink hat.
“How about something to drink?” Ann asked as Myra slipped out of her coat and boots.
“Thanks, but I can't stay. David's driving up from Madison with a friend and I want to get back as soon as possible.” Myra and Joe were in their late fifties with three of their four children married and out of the house. David was the baby. Myra was collecting sets of Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books for her future grandchildren, the first of which was due any time. Joe swore he was collecting Big Little Books for the same reason, but Myra was sure that the grandchildren were just an excuse for his collection.
“Well, at least come in and take a look at your books,” Ann said as she and Myra sat down in the living room.
The Banskis were big city escapees just like John and Ann, only they were rich, early retirement escapees. They just couldn't seem to stay retired. Joe had inherited the family neighborhood bar and steak house right after he and Myra got married. Over the next thirty years, they turned it into a Chicago tradition, adding several branches throughout the city and suburbs. Their oldest son, Joe Jr., now ran the Chicago business. Ten years ago, Myra and Joe built their summer home on twenty acres of waterfront property adjacent to the Ransons' and moved up four years ago. Joe made it through one year of retirement before he gave in to the temptation to go back to work when one of the local supper clubs came up for sale. To keep Myra from killing him, he bought the restaurant with his daughter and son-in-law. Banskis' had become one of the most popular restaurants in the northwoods.
“Joe's gonna love this,” Myra gushed as she leafed through the Tarzan book. “You've also found two Nancy Drews I don't have. I can't thank you enough,” she said as she wrote out a check. “Hey, I heard the sheriff was over here today. What did you think of him?”
“How'd you know he was here?” Ann asked.
“Come on, Ann. A town this size with a single guy that gorgeous? Someone mentioned it when they made dinner reservations just a little while ago.”
“I hear he's from Chicago. Do you know anything about him?”
“He's been in the restaurant a couple of times when I've been tending bar. He's always alone, and eats at the bar. He seems like a real nice guy. I asked Joe Junior about him. He said he was a detective on the Chicago police force and took early retirement after his wife died a few years ago. I don't think they had any children. I've tried to fix him up but he always has an excuse not to go. He's quite nice about it, he just doesn't seem interested. Well, gotta run, I want to be home when David gets in.” Myra walked into the hall and sat down on the bench to pull on her boots. “Hey, you forgot to tell me why the sheriff was over here.”
“It was nothing, just some trouble with hunters,” Ann said. She hated lying, especially to friends, but if she told Myra the truth, all of Big Oak would know about it by tomorrow morning. Myra was a world champion gossip who couldn't keep a secret if her life depended on it.
“Well, honey, this is sure the week for that,” she said, hugging Ann on her way out the door. “The helicopter has flown over so many times this week I feel like I'm back in Chicago, and that damn O'Hare's stuck in the mother of all holding patterns.”