Dead Angler (18 page)

“Isn’t that interesting,” mused Mallory. “I didn’t know Meredith until junior high so I don’t remember much about Alicia. She was already out of college and married to Peter. But I never liked her. I still don’t. I always thought it was funny she and Mom became such good friends.”

“That was partly because Peter is my age,” said Osborne.

“So they socialized with an older crowd. Speaking of Peter, I need to find him. Excuse me, Mallory.”

Osborne moved through the clusters of chatting guests, shaking hands and exchanging remarks. The group seemed a little more subdued than usual, perhaps because of the questions surrounding Meredith’s death. Peter was nowhere to be seen. It occurred to Osborne to wonder if the man was deliberately avoiding him.

Just then he heard his name called and looked over the crowd to see Alicia waving at him. He made his way through the crowd toward her. “You have a phone call, Paul,” she said. “Do you mind taking it in the kitchen?”

“Not at all.” He stepped into the kitchen with her. She pointed to a wall phone near the back door. Several women were at the kitchen sink, cleaning up platters and plates.

“Hello, Doc, it’s Lew. How’re things going over there?”

“Pretty calm,” he turned away and dropped his voice, aware that Alicia was hovering nearby, wrapping leftovers with Saran Wrap. “A few things here and there.”

“Talk to Peter yet?”

“Nope.”

“I got the lab report from Wausau this morning. They confirmed your reading—a single blow to the back of the head killed her. She sustained two, but the first one did the job. They took some slivers from her skull and sent them down to the Center for Wood Anatomy Research in Madison. They can tell us what type of wooden object was used by the killer, they may be able to ID the specific piece of wood even. Be several weeks until results however.”

Osborne cupped his hand over his mouth. Alicia, now putting away glassware, had parked herself about three feet away. This was worse than trying to have a private conversation on his home party line.

“Any news on Peter?”

“Still working on it,” he muttered.

“What? Oh … you can’t talk now, can you.”

“No.”

“Maybe we should tonight?” “We better.”

“Okay. I was hoping you might have some time to compare notes. I know your daughter is in town—”

“She’s having dinner with her sister,” said Osborne, taking his hand down from his mouth. “Why don’t you come by my place about six, Lew. We’ll cast a few flies from the dock. Maybe you would coach me on my double haul.”

“You want to fish?” her voice picked up in delight. “Let’s check out the Gudegast. It’s only five minutes from your place. We’ll just go for an hour or so.”

“That’ll be fine,” said Osborne, letting his voice return to a normal register. “I don’t expect Mallory home until eight or so. See you at six, my place.”

Alicia gave him a nervous smile as he hung up the phone. “Was that Chief Ferris? Any news?”

“No,” said Osborne, deciding it was Lew’s choice when to share the news, “just confirming a fishing date.”

Alicia gave him a shaky smile and reached toward him with both arms. Osborne gave her as impersonal a hug as he could manage, then drifted back into the party. The woman was really getting on his nerves.

A small but lively crowd had gathered at one end of the living room, some in chairs, some standing, drinks or bottles of beer in hand. Hearing everyone burst into laughter, Osborne recognized a familiar scene: Ray was holding court. As he approached, he could hear Ray’s voice, rising and falling as he built the momentum of his story, pausing for audience appreciation. On cue, everyone laughed again. Then Ray must have delivered the punch line as several people turned away, laughing so hard they had to wipe tears from their eyes.

Mallory was one. Sitting off to the right in a chair alongside the sofa where Ray was ensconced, she was tuned to every syllable, an open-mouthed grin across her face. Osborne could not recall when he had seen her so happy. Sometime in her childhood maybe? The day she caught that big walleye? Osborne stopped at the edge of the group. It was a story he had heard many times.

He watched his daughter. The laughter lingered on her face, and her eyes remained fixed on Ray, even when someone else entered the conversation.

Ray looked remarkably good. Having his hair and beard professionally trimmed for the ESPN appearance had inspired him to outfit himself appropriately for a change. Gone was the stuffed minnow hat and the fishing khakis. In their place, dark brown gabardine slacks and a nicely fitting slubbed silk tan sport coat. A crisp white shirt, open at the neck, highlighted his deep tan. The star fishing guide and stalwart grave digger looked almost like a college professor. But it was a big “almost”—he wore a fuchsia tie emblazoned with a brilliant lime-green leaping walleye.

Tearing his eyes away from the lurid fish on Ray’s chest, Osborne realized with a start what that look on his daughter’s face meant. As he watched her, Mallory stood up, reached for Ray’s empty glass and left the room. She returned with it moments later. Setting it down in front of him with her left hand, she let her right hand linger on his shoulder. There was no doubting the significance of the touch. Ray appeared not to notice, until she turned away to sit down again. The look on Ray’s face told Osborne his hunch was right: Mallory was flirting with Ray. And Ray was as surprised as her father.

Surprised and concerned. Much as he loved Ray and considered him one of his closest friends, he knew Ray’s faults. And he sure as heck didn’t favor having him as a family member.

Osborne mulled over a few tidbits he might share with Mallory to curb her interest. For example, he could bring up Ray’s long-standing liason with Donna, the faithful standby who mends his shirts. Or his obsession with the high school girlfriend turned fashion model, the elegant beauty who flies back every summer in her private jet to visit her mother … and doesn’t sleep at her mother’s every night.

Osborne’s eyes had drifted up to the mirror over Ray’s head. Suddenly he realized two deep-set, unhappy eyes had been staring at his reflection from the back of the room. He turned and walked back quickly, determined to greet the man face to face.

“Pete, I am so sorry about Meredith. Alicia seems to be holding up okay. How ‘bout yourself? I hear you just got back from Japan to all this.”

“Thank you, Doc,” said Peter. He might be the well-dressed host, but he smelled like one of the old whiskey stills they uncovered back behind the deer shack. Osborne backed off ever so slightly. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Gee, I don’t think so,” Peter looked around the room vacantly, shaking the ice cubes in his empty glass. “Alicia’s got it all organized, y’know.”

“As always,” offered Osborne in a friendly tone. “You know, Pete, I was surprised when she told me you were traveling. I thought you retired a few months ago.”

“I did.” Peter’s weary eyes avoided Osborne’s. His cheeks seemed to hang lower than ever, the mouth was pursed. “I had some opportunities that were too good to pass up,” he said, pushing enthusiasm into his voice.

As if to tell his old friend he didn’t believe him, Osborne said, “Pete, you look tired.” It was an understatement. He looked dead. “Come by McDonald’s tomorrow for coffee.”

“I’d like that,” Peter raised his glass. “I need a refill.” He started to walk away, then he stopped. Without looking up, he said simply, “This is not a good time, Paul. Not a good time.”

Osborne turned back to Ray’s crowd, but Mallory had disappeared. He found Erin in the dining room, wrapped up in earnest discussion over the pending school budget referendum.

“Erin, where’s Mallory?” asked Osborne.

“She left, Dad, said she was going to visit an old friend. Don’t worry, she’ll be at my house for dinner at six. We’ll drive her out to your place later.”

Osborne
walked from the Rodericks’ house back to Erin’s sweating all the way. Gray clouds laced with feathers of white scudded so low to the treetops that he kept an eye out for funnels. The air had turned the peculiar green that telegraphs tornado activity.

Not surprised to find the interior of his car blistering hot, he quickly lowered all the windows, hoping the sky wouldn’t open up while he was inside getting the dog.

Erin’s babysitter had all the windows and doors wide open. As Mike barreled toward him from the kitchen, he shouted a warning back toward the family room where the teenager was watching television with his grandchildren.

“Trish, you better be ready to close everything up. If you hear sirens, take the kids down to the basement …” She waved at him and leaped up to follow his instructions. He wasn’t worried. She was a responsible kid and tornado warnings were a familiar phenomenon over Loon Lake summers. Osborne and Mike headed home.

It was four-fifteen when he turned down Loon Lake Road and coasted past the year-round homes that had replaced cabins over the years. At Greystone Lodge, one of the few remaining resorts, he slowed to check out the cars parked in front of the main lodge and the housekeeping cottages.

At his own driveway, he stopped the car, leaving the motor running, and got out to let Mike into the house. He headed back toward Greystone. Seconds later, he pulled into the parking lot. Chances were good he might find Ben Marshall at the bar, since he and Meredith had often stayed there in the past.

Just as he stepped out of the car, Julie, the owner’s daughter ran toward him from the entrance to the bar. Even in a white tank top and cut-off shorts, she looked hot and unhappy. A chubby brunette in her late twenties, Julie’s face was red, loose strands of dark hair plastered damply to her forehead.

“Dr. Osborne,” she called, “are you in the volunteer fire department?”

“No, why?” Osborne, walked toward her and the bar.

“Oh shoot.” she said. “Do you know anybody who is? We’ve got a guest missing. I just hope we don’t have a drowning. I tried Chief Ferris, but she’s out and both deputies are tied up, so I have to call for volunteers. Oh good, here comes somebody now. They musta heard me on the phone.”

Like Osborne, the lodge was tied to the party line serving all the residents along the shoreline. More than one household managed to eavesdrop pretty steadily on conversations. Whenever Osborne thought he was being too mean-spirited in suspecting such busybodies, something like this would happen and confirm his suspicions.

A battered black Jeep pulled in behind Osborne’s car, the yellow signal beam identifying a volunteer fireman flashing behind the windshield. Julie ran to talk to the driver while Osborne opened the door to the bar.

Julie’s father, Larry Snowden, was behind the bar on the phone. “Calm down, sweetheart, everything’s going to be okay,” Osborne heard him saying. A shrill female voice echoed from the phone, which Larry now held away from his ear, raising his eyebrows in frustration. He let the screaming go on for about ten seconds.

“Look sweetheart, cursing me out isn’t going to find your boyfriend any faster. I’ll tell ya what, you come up here to the bar … no, no, just come on up. We need you anyway to give a description.”

Then he hung up and turned to Osborne, “Jeez, I’m gonna cancel the rest of these damn Chicago reservations. These people are impossible. Can’t walk from their cabin to the dock without getting lost. And the abuse from their women—unbelievable.

What can I get ya, Doc? The usual?” Larry was already reaching for a mug.

Osborne was contemplating his frosty mug of ginger ale when the woman slammed through the doorway. He hadn’t had a chance to ask Larry if Ben Marshall was registered there. Now he didn’t need to—the woman on the edge of hysteria was the same blonde he’d seen with Ben at the airport. She was wearing a variation on her theme: low-cut black top, tight white slacks. Only this time she looked upset.

“Listen, big guy,” she drilled her words at Larry, “I demand you call the state police this instant. I’m going to stand here and watch you do it, damn it. You have exactly two people out looking for Ben, and that is not enough!” She banged her fist on the bar. “He’s been missing for hours, he’s dead, he’s drowned.”

“He went for a walk, Miss. We know he’s not on the water. He’s been a guest here before. I assure you he’s off enjoying himself somewhere like you do when you’re on vacation—”

“Don’t ‘Miss’ me, you … you …,” she stammered. “I may be blonde, but I’m not a bimbo. I … I’m a purchasing agent!”

“Wait—Ben?” Osborne interrupted, looking from Larry to the blonde and back to Larry. “You aren’t talking about Ben Marshall, are you?”

“Yes!” the blonde almost landed on him with both feet. She thrust her face into his, “Have you seen him?”

“At lunch at the church.”

“Oh,” her face sagged, and she backed off.

“When was the last time you saw him?” asked Osborne, standing up. “Maybe I can help.”

“Sit down, Doc.” Now Larry interrupted, “I got it under control.” His back to the blonde, he rolled his eyes so only Osborne could see.

Larry Snowden was a short, wizened man, bald with a blunt beard that made him look like one of the Seven Dwarfs. He was a long-time friend of Osborne’s and one of the few bartenders who not only shut him off when he’d had too much during those terrible months after Mary Lee’s death, but on more than one occasion drove him home and somehow got him into bed.

“Here, young lady,” he shoved a whiskey straight-up at the blonde who had settled two stools down from Osborne. “On the house. You cool your jets for ten minutes until the rest of the search team gets here. Then you brief everyone on what he’s wearing and so forth and so on. They’ll take it from here because we know he’s not on the lake.”

“How do we know that?” she demanded. “He said he was going fishing.”

“I told you before. No one takes a boat out without signing for it. I do not have Ben on the list for a boat. See for yourself.” He shoved a yellow legal pad at her.

Just then a huge crash of thunder rattled the building. And the sky that had been threatening all day burst. Sheets of rain blew across the lawn that ran down to the swimming beach, visible through the big picture window at one end of the bar. That did it for the girl, she burst into tears. The two men just looked at each other. Osborne knew what his eyes said, and Larry’s seemed to match his: “Summer women—a little always goes a long way.”

Larry kept wiping the bar slowly while he handed over a box of Kleenex. Rain thundered on the roof, lightning flashed rapidly outside, and the blonde kept weeping. Osborne sipped his ginger ale and waited patiently for her tears to let up. He had a couple questions he wanted to ask.

“Are we in a tornado?” the blonde finally sobbed from inside a clutch of tissues she had mashed against her face.

“No-o,” said Osborne, gently, “just a good Wisconsin thunderstorm.” He introduced himself. She shared the fact her name was Karen. Osborne was mildly surprised. Alicia had alleged she was named “Tiffany.” But then, when it came to Ben, Alicia did not hesitate to exaggerate.

“Did you know Ben’s ex-wife?” she sniffled. “This is such a small town, I’ll bet everyone knows everyone.” She seemed relieved to talk.

“Yes, I did,” said Osborne. “In fact, I stopped in here to see your friend. I was a little concerned for him after the luncheon. Did he seem okay when he returned?”

“No. Not at all. He came back mad. Then he called home and got madder.” Conversation was calming her down. “He’s been waiting for his divorce papers, and it turns out they arrived last week but nobody told him.”

She downed the shot of whiskey like a pro, pushing her glass forward for a refill. A good match for Ben, thought Osborne.

“The truth is he was at my place all last week, and his housekeeper doesn’t open his mail, so she couldn’t tell him they had arrived. It wasn’t her fault. But he was mad. And then this idiot police woman calls and tells him he has to be in her office at the crack of dawn tomorrow. So he starts to holler at me, I holler back—none of this is my fault, for heaven’s sakes—then he ran out the door. That was four, five hours ago.”

“Three,” said Larry. “I’ll tell ya, sweetheart, he’s in town at one of the bars on Main Street putting away the booze. I would be.” Then he reached over to pat the young woman’s hand, “Now you stop worrying, we’ll find him. Julie’s checking the local bars and the entire volunteer fire department will be here as soon as this rain lets up.

“Hey, look—here comes someone,” said Larry, pointing through the screen door to a masculine figure, head hidden under a rain poncho, running up the path from the marina.

“That’s Ben!” shouted the blonde. She ran to the door.

She was right. The rain poncho tipped back and the heavy face of Ben Marshall looked around bar. “Who-e-e-e! Excitement out there. But I got a 37-incher in the livewell. He hit me hard about fifteen minutes before the sky opened up. I was way up on Fifth Lake, too. Hell of time getting back against that wind.”

“Hey, man, I didn’t have you down for a boat,” Larry said. “You were s’posed to sign out.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ben gave the shrug of a man who didn’t think it necessary to follow the rules. “Sorry about that. Nobody was down there, Larry. I took that new Ranger you got. Thought I’d see what 150 horsepower could do.”

“What’re you drinking?” Larry dropped the subject, but his body had tensed. Osborne knew why. Ben had taken a boat that belonged to one of Larry’s friends, not one of the resort rentals. It was a very expensive boat, and if anything happened to it, Larry was liable. Liable and, right now, irritated.

“C’mon, honeybunch, shush now,” Ben kissed the blonde’s forehead as she started in exclaiming her worry over his absence. He laid a finger over her lips, “You go back to the cabin and get ready for dinner. We have reservations at six-thirty. Get beautiful, huh?” She resisted, but he put both hands on her shoulders and nearly shoved her toward the door. “Hurry, the rain let up a little.”

Still, she resisted, “Let me finish my drink, Ben.”

“Karen.” The banter became a warning. She got the message and banged out the door almost as hard as she had coming in.

“She was worried about you,” said Osborne when she was gone.

“Yeah, well, I was worried about me, Doc.” Ben slipped onto the stool next to him. “That damn Alicia.” “I thought you might like to talk.”

Ben laughed a mirthless laugh, “Hell, talk is just what I shouldn’t do. What am I? Suspect Number One?”

The two men sat in silence. Larry leaned back against the bar a short distance away. He remained silent as well.

“I knew those papers were signed,” said Ben after a long pause. “Meredith’s lawyer called a few weeks ago on final details …”

“Were you hoping to reconcile?”

“No. I said that to yank Alicia’s chain. She sure yanked mine plenty over the years. No, I figured the papers were signed, but I hadn’t seen them. When I got the news from Mallory yesterday, I did hold out a little hope there had been some kind of delay …”

“Why?”

“Why, Doc?” Ben looked sideways at him with a slightly incredulous look on his face. “Six million bucks why. That’s what she inherited from the old man.”

“Is that why you came up?”

“Partly. Partly that since it wouldn’t hurt to appear bereaved if the will could be challenged. But partly …,” and with that Ben sighed deeply.

He looked over at Osborne. The smart-aleck attitude had disappeared. The eyes Osborne looked into were the eyes of man in pain.

“I love it up here,” he said. “I love going up that stretch of the channel where you don’t see a house or a cabin for miles. I love the tamarack against the sky. I loved my wife … we were together for fifteen years, Doc, and nine of those years were probably the best years of my life …” He stopped. Osborne waited.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, Doc. People change, marriages just get old.”

Osborne nodded over his ginger ale, “Yep, they do.”

“So I figured the funeral was the last excuse I might ever have to come up here. And, to be perfectly honest,” he said, as if in answer to the expression on Osborne’s face, “I do have to meet with the authorities. Better sooner than later, I figure.”

He stood up. “What do I owe you, Larry?”

“You got that boat back in one piece?” Larry didn’t smile. “Five bucks.”

“For Karen, too?”

“She’s on the house. Just keep her out of my hair, okay?”

Ben started toward the door, then he stopped and came back to the bar. He leaned forward on his elbows and stared into Osborne’s face.

“I didn’t kill her if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I believe you, Ben,” said Osborne, and he did. “But who do you think …?”

“I can’t imagine. Maybe a nut, huh?” Ben stood erect. “One other thing. I have no recollection of this diamond brooch that Alicia accuses me of keeping. I do not have it, I do not remember ever seeing any such item from her family. I gave Meredith diamond earrings as a wedding gift. They should be with all her other jewelry.”

Osborne believed him. He had a sudden thought, “Ben, do you keep old records like your personal articles insurance policies from years back?”

“I should.”

“Why don’t you look through those when you get back and give me a call.”

“Sure, Doc.” He looked a little puzzled but agreeable. “Oh, I see, a good check against what’s listed in the estate?”

“Something like that. See if anything jumps out at you. Here’s my phone number,” said Osborne, scribbling on a bar napkin and shoving it over.

“Doc, something you should know since you said you’re helping Chief Ferris,” said Larry as Osborne stood up to follow Ben out the door. “That Meredith Marshall? I ran into her two or three times this past month way back in the woods behind the Starks potato fields. Now what do you suppose she was doing back there?”

“Starks?” Osborne was puzzled. “I take it she was driving?”

“All by herself in that Jeep of hers. Only plum-colored one in town, hard to miss. I buy eggs from a fella’s got a chicken farm way the hell out,” Larry gestured toward a gallon jug of pickled eggs that rested on the bar. “Usually do some dumping when I’m back there, too. So I was back on one of those unmarked dirt roads by Kubiak’s Landing when she went by going the other direction.” “What time of day?”