Dead Angler (17 page)

Osborne,
Erin, and Mallory hurried down the sidewalk that ran along the side of the church. The sky was still threatening, and Osborne thought he felt a few drops. Rounding the corner, they rushed up the steps into a crowd of dark-suited men. Over their shoulders, Osborne caught a glimpse of the flower-draped casket.

“No you don’t!” he heard a high-pitched woman’s voice, dangerously close to hysterics.

“Yes … I … do,” came the gruff, uncompromising answer. “This is my wife. Now get out of the way, Alicia.”

Gregg Anderle, owner of the funeral parlor, backed away from the crowd to turn a reddened face to Osborne and throw his hands up in despair. “We’ll never get this show on the road,” he whispered in a hoarse low tone. “I may need two more caskets before this is over.”

“Ben, be understanding…,” Osborne recognized Peter Roderick’s voice.

“Make that three—,” said Gregg.

Osborne jockeyed for a full view of the scene just as Father Vodicka appeared. “What’s the brouhaha?” The priest’s measured question prompted simultaneous responses from Ben and Alicia.

“All right, one at a time,” he said. “Keep your voices down please. This is a house of worship.”

“It is not appropriate for my sister’s
ex-husband
to be a pallbearer,” said Alicia, teeth gritted.

“Whoa—the venom in that voice,” whispered Erin into Osborne’s ear. “Why doesn’t she come right out and accuse him of murder?”

“I am not her ex-husband, Father,” Ben faced the priest calmly, though Osborne could see an artery pulsing across his right temple. “Yes, a divorce was in process …,” he turned to Alicia, “I have been trying to explain that I have received no signed papers. Until then, I am legally wed to the deceased.” Ben looked back at the priest, his face drawn and tight, “My wife and I—I had hoped we could reconcile, Father, and I think it highly appropriate that I be allowed to assist here today. I loved this woman …”

“Oh, give me a break.” This time it was Mallory who whispered in his ear.

Father Vodicka bent his head in thought. He had been the pastor of St. Mary’s for nearly forty years and, Osborne knew, had had more than his own share of run-ins with Alicia.

The year Alicia and Mary Lee had been co-chairs of the holiday art auction had been a nightmare for the poor priest who had had to deal with dozens of calls from irate parishioners whose contributions were sneered at or rudely refused by the two women. “One more duck painting and I’ll vomit,” Alicia had exclaimed in front of a well-known regional artist, member of the church, and potential donor.
Yep,
thought Osborne waiting the decision, the good priest knew the score.

“Alicia,” said Father Vodicka softly, “take your place in the family pew, please.”

Alicia stayed right where she was, glaring at him. She wore a full-skirted black dress with a crisp white silk collar, giving her a distinctive Mother Superior look, a look exaggerated by her haughty expression.

“Alicia …,” the priest refused to be intimidated, his feet planted like tree trunks under his black vestments, hands folded and unmoving. The set of his jaw implied he had faced down Mother Superiors before, and he could do it again.

As if she knew she had pushed as hard as she could, Alicia gave one more round of dirty looks then huffed down the center aisle toward the altar.

“Peter,” the priest pointed to the front of the casket, “you take the right side, Ben, you take the left.”

“O-o-o-h, Round One to Ben.” This was a male voice that whispered in his ear, and Osborne turned to face the entertained eyes of Ray Pradt. “Let’s hope he comes to the wake, huh? Par-r-r-d-e-e-e-e.”

Leave it to Ray to see humor in this horrific situation, thought Osborne. He knew Ray was already thinking of the terrific story he could tell around the bar if Ben was so brazen as to challenge Alicia on her own ground.

Another male voice spoke up from behind Osborne, “Father, I would like to be included, please.” Clint Chesnais stepped forward. Father Vodicka nodded, and Chesnais moved into formation behind Peter Roderick. Osborne saw Peter catch Chesnais’ eye and give a slight nod of recognition. The fourth and final pallbearer was an elderly man whose name Osborne could not recall, though he knew the gentleman had been a manager under Meredith’s father.

At last, Meredith was allowed to proceed to the same altar where she had been baptized, received the sacraments of Communion and Confirmation, been wed and would now be blessed in death.

Blessed? Osborne questioned the concept. What was blessed about that ugly moment when someone, possibly someone attending her funeral today, slammed the life from her eyes? What was blessed about the rage that simmered between the people who had known her best?

The small church was nearly full. As the guests proceeded forward to take Communion, Osborne let his eyes wander across the lines and beyond to the pews behind him. Cynthia Lewis was there with her husband and children. The fellows from the hunting shack and most of the McDonald’s coffee crowd.

Other familar faces were folks who would have known the family over the years, maybe attended high school with Meredith or Alicia. A smaller group, easy to spot because they were a little too casually dressed, had to be the curious. Those who had heard that foul play was an option and wanted an up-close view. The same idiots that always rushed to the scene of a car accident.

More interesting, he thought, was who didn’t attend: George Zolonsky, recipient of a very healthy check from Meredith. When he pointed that out later, Ray responded that George’s absence was a good sign: “Means he’s on the road with my boats, Doc. Pre-fishing begins 8:00
A.M.
tomorrow. If he’s not here, he sure as heck better be there.”

Planning to drive himself and his daughters out to the cemetery for the interment, Osborne left the family pew a few minutes early in order to bring his car around to the front of the church. He walked quickly back down the aisle to the front of the church and through the swinging doors into the vestibule. At the same time, the doors on the other side swung open, and a young man in his early thirties waved at him.

“Dr. Osborne,” he said. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

“Certainly,” Osborne kept moving out the main doors. The man ran down the steps alongside him.

“I’m Tom Chandler, a lawyer here in town,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve met, but I understand you are working with Chief Ferris on this case. I had a case on the docket at the Court House yesterday and heard about it through the grapevine.”

Osborne stopped to look at him. He wasn’t surprised. The Court House adjoined the jail and Lew’s office. Since all the cigarette smokers took their breaks at the same spot, any news in any office spread instantly through both buildings. “Yes, I’m somewhat involved. Why?”

“I’m a fly-fisherman, and I was fishing the Prairie that night, too. I think I might have waded that stretch where you found the body about two or three hours before you did. I always park near the old bridge and work my way down and back.”

“Really? I didn’t see any other cars …”

“I left before you got there—I don’t like to fish in stormy weather.”

“I learned the hard way,” said Osborne with a wry chuckle.

“At one point, I climbed out of the river to take a short break. I walked back into the brush about forty feet—I needed a little privacy, y’know. And I found something back in the bushes that I didn’t think much about at the time, but since I heard that the victim may have died from a blow to the head, I thought you should see it. My car is behind the church, which way are you going?”

“Same direction,” said Osborne. The car was parked in the direction of Erin’s house. “Let’s take a look.”

The two men hurried over to Chandler’s Jeep. He opened the rear door and pointed. Osborne looked down at a four-foot length of wood nearly identical to the slender trunks he’d seen the day before. “My fiancée and I silkscreen fish prints, and I love to use this particular wood for the frames, which is why I picked it up in the first place.

“It’s black spruce,” said the lawyer. “I was pretty delighted to find it. But see how it was hand-cut? That’s strange. I’ll tell you something else—I have never found black spruce growing along the Prairie. And I look for it all the time.”

“May I have this?” asked Osborne. “And I’d like Chief Ferris to hear what you have to say, too.”

“Of course.”

The burial at the cemetery proceeded without incident, Ben keeping his distance from Alicia and Peter. Osborne and the girls stood off to one side with other family friends. From that distance, Peter Roderick appeared to be his old self though maybe a touch more grizzled and hang-dog than usual.

A luncheon followed, served by the church ladies in the school cafeteria as was the custom after a funeral Mass. As was the custom, too, Father Vodicka had invited everyone attending the funeral service, so the cafeteria was crowded.

Lunch was simple: tuna fish casserole, Parker House buns, a watery coleslaw, and chocolate pudding for dessert. Ben elected to sit with Osborne, Mallory, and Erin. Everyone dedicated themselves to polite discourse, avoiding all mention of murder, mayhem, divorce, and adultery. Osborne was particularly proud of Erin’s restraint, as he knew she was bursting to drill Ben. He was grateful, too, that Ray, responsible for filling in the gravesite, did not appear. Who knows what he would have said to Ben.

Across the room were Alicia and Peter. Osborne kept trying to get a glimpse of Peter, but the constant parade of sympathizers shaking either his or his wife’s hand made it difficult. He gave up and resolved to wait to talk with him at the wake.

Just as they were finishing up and Osborne was enjoying the last spoonful of pudding, a beefy man with a rugged face under his sandy crew cut, tapped Mallory on her black silk shoulder. She turned, a look of pleasant surprise crossing her face.

“Randy!” she stood up to take a warm hug from the man. “Dad, you remember Randy Nuttle. He took me to the Junior Prom. We double-dated with Meredith and Jeff Danner. Gee, Randy, you’re looking good …”

As she turned back to Randy, chattering enthusiastically, Osborne caught Erin’s eye. They knew Randy Nuttle too well. He was the new owner of Thunder Bay Bar. Osborne knew, too, that Lew’s drug dealer “tip list” for Wayne would likely have one name right at the top: Randy Nuttle. Osborne remembered his relief years ago when Mallory’s interest in Randy had finally fizzled, but only after she left for college. Until then, he’d been worried, and Mary Lee had been furious—Mary Lee’s fury serving only one purpose, of course: to goad Mallory on.

Suddenly, pushing Randy aside and speaking in a sharp shrill voice that reminded Osborne of his late wife, Alicia loomed over their table, shaking a finger at Ben: “You’ve got Mother’s diamond brooch and I want it back.”

As if he’d seen her coming, Ben looked up from his pudding with no change of expression. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he swallowed the spoonful and slowly dipped for more. Osborne thought Alicia was going to take a swing at him. She stood there, her eyes fixed in fury. “I want those diamonds, Ben—and I want you out of here. Now!”

Ben stood up, shoved his chair into the table. He faced her off, his eyes pinpoint black, the artery throbbing at his temple. “You want too much, Alicia. You always have. Now you’ve got it. But you’ve lost the only person who ever truly loved you.” He wiped his lips with his napkin and threw it down on the table, “Meredith loved you in spite of your nasty little habits. I never understood why. But she did—ain’t life crazy?”

Alicia opened her mouth to retort, but Ben raised his hand, “Don’t say a word. I’ll see you at the lawyer’s tomorrow. If those papers weren’t signed, you won’t see a penny, babe.”

With that he walked from the table and out the swinging doors of the cafeteria. The entire room was silent after as he left. Then a polite buzz picked up. Alicia turned to Osborne and his daughters, her face pale but set, “You’ll join Peter and me at the house, won’t you?”

One hour later, Osborne was glad of one thing: the Rodericks’ house was air-conditioned, the only Loon Lake residence that was. Outside, the threatening storm had continued to build, air growing heavier by the minute, the humidity so high that nearly everyone arriving for the wake entered patting foreheads and temples with handkerchiefs or Kleenex.

Loon Lake loved wakes. The house was already crowded with friends and neighbors eating and drinking. Osborne and Mallory stood munching brownies in the cavernous dining room as Erin chatted nearby.

“That cost plenty,” said Mallory, surveying the brass chandelier that hung over the long mahagony table. “She must have picked it up in Chicago. It certainly isn’t early Shultz,” she laughed, referring to Loon Lake’s only furniture dealer.

Erin waved them over to a side table in a small alcove where Alicia had set out a leather-bound family photo album and a silver-framed photograph of Meredith that must have been from her college graduation.

“Hey, Mal,” she said, flipping the album open enthusiastically, “I’ll bet you’re in some of these—weren’t you and Meredith best friends in junior high?” Osborne watched over their shoulders as they turned pages carefully. “Yes! Look,” said Mallory, excitedly. “Girl Scout camp. Oh my gosh, aren’t we funny looking?” Erin held the album page up so Osborne could see.

Mallory continued turning the pages after Erin drifted off to talk to another friend. Most of the photos showed Meredith with her mother, but several were of the senior Sutliffs with the two girls: Meredith around age five, blonde and angelic, Alicia in her late teens, stick thin and looking awkward.

“Is it my imagination,” Osborne asked Mallory, “or does Alicia look unhappy in these? Look—” He took the album from Mallory and flipped back to a shot of what appeared to be the family at Thanksgiving dinner, everyone smiling at the camera except Alicia. “And here, see this?” He paged ahead to a summer photo taken at a cabin somewhere. In both pictures, Meredith and her mother looked happy and relaxed. Not Alicia. Staring straight at the camera, she glowered, a sullen anger evident in her features. The photos had faded slightly, but her eyes burned right off the page.