Dead Angler (19 page)

“Late afternoon. I thought it was kinda odd because nobody you wanna know lives out there. You get out past Kubiak’s and you redefine the words ‘trailer trash.’ Know what I mean? Unless you’re into seed potatoes, why would you drive the backroads of Starks?”

“The people who live out there do tend to be a little strange,” said Osborne.

“When you can find ‘em. I think they all live under rocks. I wouldn’t want my wife or daughter on those back roads. Night or day … Just thought you’d like to know.”

Two
minutes before six, Osborne pulled into his driveway. He scrambled into his fishing clothes and threw two cups of dog food into Mike’s dish, hoping to be ready before Lew arrived. Just as he finished a quick brushing of his teeth, he heard the crunch of tires across in his gravel driveway.

“Come in,” he shouted at the knock on the back door. He grabbed his fishing hat from the fireplace mantel and bent to zip shut his duffel. As he straightened up, he glanced through the kitchen window to the driveway.

To his surprise, it wasn’t Lew’s truck he saw parked behind his station wagon, but Peter Roderick’s black Range Rover. Only it wasn’t Peter at his back door.

“Hi, Paul,” Alicia chirped, smiling up at him from the back stoop. She was dressed for fishing: khaki long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up and polarized sunglasses hanging from the open neck, a fly-fishing vest that look brand new, and a pair of bermuda shorts that matched her shirt. A bright red baseball cap with a beige brim completed the ensemble.

“Alicia?” Osborne was taken aback. Did Lew invite her and forget to leave him a message? Then he remembered he hadn’t taken the time to check phone messages. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m standing here like a big dummy.”

Not for long he wasn’t. Alicia stepped right up, backing him into his kitchen as she strode past him. Osborne followed her with an invitation after the fact, “Please, come in, Alicia. Have a seat. Lew isn’t here yet.”

As she plopped herself onto a kitchen chair, Alicia grinned sheepishly, “I know this is a surprise, Paul. I decided to invite myself fishing with you two. Hope you don’t mind.”

She took off her hat and set it on the kitchen table, tipped her head back to run both hands through her hair. Then, bracing her elbows on the table, she dropped her face into her hands. And remained in that position saying nothing.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Osborne asked after a moment. He wondered if she was about to cry.

“No, no, I’m fine. I’m trying to relax. I think my cheek muscles are going to crack from all the smiling I did today.” She pulled her hands away and looked up at him. Osborne could see the strain and fatigue in her face. In spite of her make-up, she looked exhausted. Why on earth was she here?

“Paul, I just needed to get out of the house and away from Peter and all the phone calls. You’re an old friend, I hope you don’t mind.”

Of course not,
thought Osborne,
aside from the fact you just ruined my evening.
He was about to compliment her on the wake, but before he could open his mouth, he heard another set of tires in the drive. This time it
was
Lew. He watched her saunter toward the back door and excused himself to let her in.

“You’ve got company?” she asked as Osborne opened the screen door, shifting his eyes in such a way that she would know he couldn’t say much. Lew gave an understanding nod and stepped inside.

“Alicia Roderick stopped by,” he said. “She’d like to fish with us tonight.”

“That’s nice,” said Lew, walking ahead of him into the kitchen. “Mrs. Roderick, you must be exhausted.”

“Exhausted and all wound up simultaneously,” said Alicia, throwing her hands up and laughing. It struck Osborne she was determinedly cheery. “I’ve always found that fishing is the best way ever to unwind, so I hope you don’t mind my tagging along. And, please, Chief Ferris, call me ‘Alicia.’ “

“Glad to have you,” said Lew graciously. “You should come more often.”

Her enthusiasm helped Osborne relax a little about the situation, though he suspected she was faking it.

“I brought a cooler of beer and soda, and some leftovers from the wake,” said Alicia. “I thought we could take my car.”

“Thanks, but I’ll follow you two in my truck,” said Lew. “I need to have it along for the radio—just in case someone from the department has to reach me.”

Liar,
thought Osborne, vividly recalling Lew’s determination to never have a car phone or radio in her fishing truck. On the other hand, he was relieved they would not be wholly hostage to Alicia. The big question in his mind at the moment was whether or not Lew would follow through on their initial plan and share her secret spot on the Gudegast now that Alicia was along.

Continuing to tweak the truth, Lew honed in on that very subject with, “So, Alicia, where do you suggest we fish? Doc and I were planning just an hour off the dock here on Loon Lake—”

“Well, if you’d like,” said Alicia, matching gracious for gracious, “Peter and I have a membership at Silver Bass—if that’s close enough.” Lew looked at Osborne for his input.

Silver Bass was an exclusive hunting and fishing club located twelve miles outside of town. As far as Osborne knew, Peter Roderick was the only local who was a member of the club, which was rumored to have an annual membership fee of ten thousand dollars and an initiation fee triple that.

Members got their money’s worth if you liked your sport dumped in your lap: Silver Bass Lake was the best-stocked lake in the region and one Ray Pradt delighted in poaching when he was short on time but hungry for a mess of bluegills, lightly breaded, sauteed in butter. Ray could pull thirty fish out of there in less than an hour.

One secret to his successful poaching was leaving a percentage of his catch at the door of the club manager, a gentleman who did not mind inventory abuse of his neurotic, complaining club members so long as he shared in the benefits. The other secret was that Silver Bass Lake, being private water, was darn difficult to find.

Osborne checked his watch, “Fine with me so long as you ladies don’t mind that I have to be back here by eight to meet my daughter.”

“C’mon, Cinderella, you’re on,” said Lew, leading the way out the door.

Twenty minutes later, Alicia pulled the Range Rover off the highway onto a paved road running due south. She must have been counting the number of unpaved lanes running off it as she suddenly swung right onto a one-lane drive that had no marking, not even a fire number that Osborne could discern.

She had turned so quickly, she had to stop for a minute to let Lew, who shot past the turn, reverse and catch up. This lane ran back and back, the Range Rover living up to its name as it heaved and pushed its way over boulders and slash that had blown onto the road. The forest changed dramatically as they drove along.

What appeared to be millions of slender maple trees reached high for the sun, their leafy canopy allowing enough sun through to blanket the forest floor with the rich green leaves of saplings. This light and pretty forest gave way to the rough bark and dark, twisted shapes of ancient pines. Down into the cavern of this uncut woods rocked and swayed the two vehicles.

Pulling to one side of the lane, Alicia cut the engine. “We park here and walk the rest of the way,” she said. Osborne got out of the car and looked around. He whistled softly, caught Lew’s eye and pointed.

“These white pines must be well over a hundred years old,” he said. “Just look at the trunks on those trees. When was the last time you saw a tree trunk five feet wide?”

“The hemlock. I haven’t seen hemlock like these in years,” said Lew.

“Nor have I,” said Osborne, struck by the vast openness beneath the overhead branches. The towering fine-needled trees filtered out sunlight, leaving the forest floor exquisitely spare. No slash, no underbrush, not even a mushroom grew from the soft decades of needles. No birds sang, no breezes whispered through the eerie stillness. And all was in shadow.

Looking past the massive trunks into the gloom, Osborne refused to let his imagination work overtime. Logic told him the looming figures with limbs stabbing into the dark silence were only moss-covered timbers. It wouldn’t be for another hour that a thought grounded in reality would occur to him: no one knew where they were or with whom.

“We
call this ‘the hemlock cathedral,’ “ said Alicia. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Thank you for bringing us here,” said Lew softly. “I had no idea such a magnificent uncut forest could be found so close to Loon Lake.”

Following Alicia’s example, they gathered up their gear and walked after her about a hundred yards to where a clearing opened to a bog. The brush grew thicker, closing off the forest. Someone had built a planked walkway, which they followed over the bog to the shore of Silver Bass Lake. It was a smallish, lake, long and narrow.

The storm had cut the oppressive humidity. A light, cool breeze blew toward them from the west, causing ripples on the lake surface to shimmer gold as the sun dropped behind the tall pines. The club kept the shoreline undeveloped except for the massive log and stone lodge at the far end. The result was a scene of pristine beauty, of nearly perfect wilderness.

“Well,” said Lew, “well, well.” She looked back to admire the towering hemlock and white pines ringing the lake behind them. She thrust her hands into her pockets and inhaled deeply. “What a magnificent forest.”

Alicia was quite pleased that her fishing site was appreciated. “This end of the forest was protected by the founders when the club was established in 1882,” she said. “They made a deal with the state. Unlike most of the other forests around here, this one has never been clear-cut. Only selective cutting ever, if that.”

She pointed off to her right, “I like to wade the north shoreline down to the lodge.”

“No wonder you fish here,” said Lew. “How often do you get out—a couple times a week?”

“Heavens no, I haven’t fished in years,” said Alicia, apparently forgetting her earlier statement. “I sent Meredith over last month with that weird friend of hers. That Chesnais creep. Boy, do I hope you’ve questioned him …” Her tone had turned derisive and pushy, ruining the spell of the moment, and she looked to Lew for a response.

“Really. So much for how often
you
need to relax, huh?” said Lew lightly, catching her in her lie and ignoring the not so subtle probe. She turned away, carefully set down her rod, and prepared to pull on her waders and boots.

Unaware that Osborne was watching, Alicia stared at Lew’s back. An angry, calculating expression flashed across her features, reminding him of the face he had seen in the photos of the adolescent Alicia earlier that day. It was, he realized, the same expression he had seen in the mirror when she was dealing with the news of Meredith’s death.

Lew was right. Alicia Roderick was a bully of a woman. Her aggression might be indirect but no less damaging: gossip and innuendo can kill as effectively as a bullet.

“I think I’ll try a ‘Dancing Frog,’ Doc,” said Lew, her back still turned as she slipped the straps of her waders over her shoulders, “it’s the only bass fly I’ve ever used. What about you?”

Before Osborne could answer, Alicia interrupted. “Say, Chief,” she said brightly, now fitting her rod sections together, “what did you hear from Wausau on cause of death?” She kept her head down as she attached her reel. The studied casualness prompted Lew to throw a quick glance Osborne’s way, a signal not to say anything.

“Nothing yet,” said Lew, matching brightness for brightness. Osborne had to tuck his head to hide a grin. Lew was going to look like Pinocchio if she wasn’t careful.

Osborne pulled a long purple bass fly from a box he found at the bottom of his duffel. “Hey, ladies,” he held it aloft, “check out my ‘Whitlock Hare Grub.’ I oughta see some terrific action with this.”

“I don’t know, Doc, that’s awful fancy,” said Lew. She gave him a big grin and winked. Like himself, she had decided to treat this as a lark rather than serious fishing.

Alicia busied herself pulling up her waders. Again, the studied casualness as she cinched her wading belt: “Did you talk to Ben Marshall today, Chief?”

“Uh, uh, tomorrow morning,” said Lew. She looked directly at Alicia, “Today was my day to go back up to The Willows and take a few hours to look through your sister’s place.”

“Oh?” That caught Alicia off-guard. “I thought you were going to let me know …” Osborne saw her hands start to shake. “So, really, you went in, huh. Find anything?”

“I’m not sure,” Lew tone was noncommital. “Your sister was an exceptionally well-organized woman. Her bedroom, her dresser drawers, even her desk was quite tidy. Unusually tidy for someone going fishing on the spur of the moment. Most of us leave clothes around, papers stacked here and there, a coffee cup in the sink. Know what I mean?”

Lew braced her rod against her shoulder and doubled her fly-line to thread it through the guides. “Of course, you had Cynthia Lewis in to clean and you went through a few things …” All three of them knew exactly what she was really implying: Alicia searched and reorganized everything Monday morning before Roger arrived.

“My sister was a compulsive organizer. That’s how she got so much done.” Alicia’s voice had taken on a slightly defensive tone. “So … you did find something?” She stepped in front of Lew, blocking the path down to the water, demanding an answer.

“I’m not sure. It may be nothing,” said Lew, shrugging and walking around Alicia. “But I don’t want to discuss it until I’ve been able to question Ben Marshall … and your husband.”

“My husband?!” Alicia’s voice cracked on the last word, and she coughed. “Excuse me, I swallowed a bug.” Osborne knew she didn’t swallow anything. “Why on earth do you need to talk to Peter? He wasn’t even in the country when this happened.”

“Alicia, do you always wear a red hat when you fish?” asked Lew, changing the subject.

“I dunno. Why?”

“A little bright in my opinion.” If Lew had full-scale torture in mind for the woman, she was doing a great job. Alicia was going to rue the day she barged in on this little get-together, thought Osborne. Rue the day. Lew was loading on so much innuendo, the woman would toss and turn all night trying to figure out what was happening with the investigation.
Yep,
thought Osborne with satisfaction,
Alicia was finally learning to keep her nose clean, the hard way.

“Alicia, do you
have
to wear that hat?” chided Lew as Alicia kept walking toward the water. “I think you’ll spook the fish.”

“Oh, phooey. That’s an old wive’s tale,” said Alicia, “fish are color-blind.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” volunteered Osborne in a lighthearted tone, but Alicia was in no mood for humor.

“Oh, hell,” she said, marching back up to the open window of the Range Rover. She yanked the offending hat off her head and threw it onto the front seat of the car. Again Lew winked at Osborne. She was having a great time.

Hurrying after them, Alicia waded into the lake with the grace of a rhinoceros, stirring up the mucky bottom as she pushed weeds and water noisily out of her way. No one said a word, but any fisherman knows fish can hear. Lew just shook her head and moved forward and away from Alicia as quickly as she could.

If any doubt remained about Alicia’s fishing prowess, her technique said it all. Her casting was a marvel of loose-elbowed jerkiness, and Osborne had to admit he wasn’t entirely unhappy to watch the wind knots multiply exponentially on her leader. More than once, her fly flew alarmingly close to his head. For all the money she may have spent on fishing equipment, she spent precious little time on etiquette or skills.

But none of this bothered the Silver Bass Lake fish. All Osborne could imagine was they were used to klutzes. Over-accessorized fishing klutzes. Maybe they were paid to bite! The monsters practically jumped into her pockets. Osborne swore he saw Alicia hook bass of varying sizes at least every five minutes. His estimate was conservative. Forty-five minutes later, she announced with grim pride that she had caught and released seventeen fish.

Osborne didn’t do so bad either, releasing eight. Lew counted thirteen.

“Bet this beats your trout streams, doesn’t it?” said Alicia.

“Sure does,” said Lew. “Nothing like a stocked lake.”

“I like my fishing quick and easy,” said Alicia. “Last time I was here, I caught forty-two fish in ninety minutes. What’s the most you ever caught, Lew?”

“I guess I’m a little less into the numbers and more into the challenge,” said Lew. “I like to work on presentation.”

“Boring. I like to score.” Alicia struggled out of her waders. She appeared to have given up on getting anything out of Lew. She no longer looked so determinedly pleasant, nor did she seem at all relaxed.

“I’ll catch a ride back with Chief Ferris,” said Osborne.

“Fine,” said Alicia.

Minutes later, he was standing a few feet away as she tossed her waders into the back of the Range Rover. Just as she slammed the door shut, he glimpsed a long, rust-colored padded case: a shotgun. A shotgun out of season. The forest seemed suddenly darker and their location very remote.

“I do hope,” she looked at Lew grimly, “as the family member in charge of this entire situation that you will keep me informed at some point. And I cannot fathom why you have to question Peter.”

Osborne saw a shadow pass behind her eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was that, the sight of the gun, or an unexpected cool breeze that sent a shiver down his spine. But he was doubly happy Lew had her truck along and had left Alicia with the impression she stayed in touch with her department.

“Alicia,” said Lew in a patient tone, “I have to answer to Wausau. I need clearance from them before sharing details of the investigation with the public. They call the shots, they can overrule my decisions. Any conflict between Wausau and my department can have serious budget ramifications. I’m sorry, but we are a business like any other.”

Now that was not a lie. During his exam of Meredith’s corpse, Lew had made it clear just how frustrating that relationship was. Because she was held hostage to their crime lab services, the Wausau officials tended to behave as though they were the decisionmakers. They were not. Lew was. Nor did she report to them. Her bosses were the mayor of Loon Lake and the town board. Period. Still, there were times when she was unable to rebuff their meddling.

“Alicia,” said Osborne hastily changing the subject, “do you have any idea why Meredith would have been driving around Starks these last few weeks? I saw Larry Snowden today, and he told me he’d seen her back in there recently, way back by Kubiak’s Landing.”

“Starks?” Alicia sneered. “Meredith had no business in Starks. He must have seen someone else.”

“He’s positive it was Meredith.”

“Well, I’m just as positive it wasn’t.”

“Come on now, Alicia,” Lew countered in a reasonable tone, “you weren’t in a position to know every move your sister made, were you?”

“Of course not. But Starks? She had no reason to go there. None.”

“But you could be wrong,” said Lew. “I doubt it,” snapped Alicia.

“So much for going home relaxed,” said Lew as the Range Rover’s tires spun out of the clearing.

“You didn’t exactly give her what she wanted.”

“I refuse to be bullied, Doc. She can do it to her husband, maybe to her friends, but I don’t buy that routine.” Lew opened the door on the driver’s side of her truck as Osborne climbed into the passenger seat. She backed out and pulled Nellie up onto the road in the direction of Loon Lake.

“She had a shotgun in the back of her car.”

“Really? In a case?”

Osborne nodded.

“Nothing illegal about that, Doc.”

“This is an odd time of year to be driving around with a shotgun.”

“Maybe she had it in for cleaning and just picked it up. Anyway, it’s her husband’s car, maybe it’s his gun.”

“All I know is I didn’t like it, Lew. No one except Alicia knows we’re back in here. Keep an eye out.”

This time Lew didn’t argue. She drove slowly, watching for signs of tires that might have pulled off the lane. “The ground is soft enough after this rain, Doc, we’ll spot anything unusual.” But it wasn’t until they reached the highway that Osborne felt the tension leave his shoulders. Lew’s soft exhalation told him she felt it, too.

“Do you mind if I ask if you did find something up at The Willows today?” asked Osborne, once the truck was on the highway.

Lew looked at him, a hint of a smile betraying her satisfaction, “Not at all. I found Meredith’s personal checkbook, and I think Alicia missed it.”

“Really?”

“I think that’s what she was looking for yesterday. Meredith kept a brass box up on one corner of her desk in that room off the kitchen. It was full of bills for the house and the construction on the boathouse. I pulled out the phone bill to check her long-distance calls—and found the checkbook. It must have fallen or been accidentally shoved into the envelope with the bill.”

Lew looked over at Osborne, “During the two weeks before she died, Meredith wrote three checks to Alicia, each for twenty thousand dollars. That’s a lotta cash, Doc.

“Then, upstairs, I found a file that Peter Roderick left behind. Actually, he was keeping it under his mattress. It’s a loan application completed a month ago. The man is broke. Stone cold broke. A bank out of Minneapolis has a lien on that house of theirs. If that loan didn’t come through, he was looking at receiving an eviction notice any day now.”

“The Rodericks evicted? That’s unbelievable. Do you think he’s been hiding this from Alicia?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Doc. Now what was all this about Starks?”

As they neared Loon Lake, Osborne filled her in on his conversations with Ben Marshall and Larry Snowden, finishing up just as Lew pulled into his drive.

“Something else important, Lew,” said Osborne. “Wait here.” He ran over to his station wagon and retrieved the length of black spruce that the lawyer had handed him after the funeral. “You should talk to him for a better description of exactly where he found it,” said Osborne. “You know that territory better than I do.”

Lew looked at Osborne. “Given what we learned from Chesnais, George Zolonsky is a little too close to the action. At least, it’s starting to look that way. Does he fish trout?”

“I have no idea.”