Dead Angler (22 page)

Roger was dozing, feet on his desk. He looked up as they ran in.

“Lookin’ for Lew? She’s gone fishing,” he said.

“Where! We’ve got to find her,” said Osborne.

“Y’know, all she said was somewhere north of Watersmeet with Ralph,” said Roger.

“This is critical—can’t you reach her?” asked Ray. Osborne knew the answer to that.

They ended up driving out to Lew’s farmhouse and leaving a note stuck in her door. Osborne knew she wouldn’t want a word of this spoken on his phone so he asked her to call if she got back before eleven, and they could rendezvous or meet him at McDonald’s first thing in the morning. Then Ray dropped him off back at his house.

Osborne turned on the TV and tried to find something that would take his mind off Lew. Not to mention Ralph. Ten o’clock rolled by, then eleven. No phone call.

He gave up and went to bed. He must have fallen asleep instantly.

Ralph’s Trading Post was brightly lit. Osborne walked through the front doors, skirted a man and a woman selecting postcards, and turned left down the aisle with fishing rods. At the end of the aisle was the counter where Ralph kept ammunition and his custom-made flies under lock and key.

From behind the tall shelves stacked with reels and lures, Osborne could hear Ralph’s nasal British accent. The sound of that pretentious all-knowing voice pushed him over the edge. Hatred, pure and black, coursed through his arteries, pumping up his already racing pulse. No turning back now, he knew what he had to do.

Osborne examined the fly rods carefully. He selected a Sage rod, a 4-weight, 8½ feet, with a long cork handle. No, too light. He put it back. He picked up a Winston 5-weight, 8½ feet. Ah, the rod with the thumb groove on the handle, the Joan Wulff Favorite. That’s the one Lew had. He held it. Felt good. He looked around.

Ralph never saw him coming. His back was to Osborne as he adjusted a .22 pistol in the display behind the counter. Osborne raised his arm and brought the fly rod down hard on Ralph’s head. Again, he raised the rod, grasping it this time with both hands to slam it down with all his might. His anger was so intense, his arms so powerful, the man’s skull had to split in two.

Then his hands melted, the rod turned into a glutinous sac of fish eggs.

Ralph stood up, turned around and smiled his condescending smile.

The banging that woke Osborne wasn’t the authorities arriving to lock him up. He was still in his own bed, Mike barking loudly at the back door. Osborne threw off the light cotton quilt and stumbled from bed. It was dark, from his living room window the lake surface was invisible behind an early morning fog.

Ray was at the door. “Get dressed, Doc. We’re driving south.”

They
sped down Highway 45 in Osborne’s station wagon. With a thermos of hot coffee and some donuts they could pick up on the way, Ray figured they could reach the boat warehouse and be back in Loon Lake by three or four o’clock that afternoon.

“Dick Johnson, the tournament chair, is calling ahead this morning to make arrangements for the boats to be loaded and ready to go,” said Ray. “He’s as upset about this as I am.”

“Where the heck is George?” said Osborne, “you told me every day this week he was on his way.”

“That’s what they kept telling me,” said Ray, shaking his head. “His daughter promised me yesterday afternoon that George had picked up the remaining boats and was due at home at dinnertime. His sidekick, Ned Larson, drove one rig. He showed up yesterday with five boats. Guess who never showed with the other five.”

“Did you call the warehouse?”

“I called the warehouse, Dick called the warehouse. Doc, the entire pro-am tournament has called the warehouse. George has been in possession of a hundred thousand dollars worth of boats since Monday afternoon. Only no one has seen him since. So the head office for the national walleye tournaments has gotten involved. Otherwise, there would be no boats.

“Even when I get the darn things, Doc, I still have to have help removing the packing, installing motors, locators, and acqua cams—not mention being sure everyone’s got cold drinks and snacks on board.”

“Ohmygod,” Ray ran his hands through his hair, “why did I ever agree to do this? What a nightmare. Don’t slow down, Doc.”

For six short blocks, the highway became the main drag of the town of Crandon. Two construction workers were setting up barriers in the early morning haze, preparing to work on the traffic light that dangled over the crossroads at the center of the small town. The haze promised another hot day.

“Ray, the speed limit is 25 mph. We do not need to complicate matters running red lights and maiming innocent citizens.”

“Yes we do.”

“Try to settle down. I need to stop at the next open gas station to call Lew,” said Osborne. “I wasn’t able to reach her yesterday. As far as I know, she’s still in the dark on the affair between Alicia and George, and what you heard from the lawyer on the Sutliff estate. I’m worried I’m letting her down.”

“Doc, get us to the warehouse first. Then call. Okay? This boat situation has me in knots.”

“Ray, I have never seen you so tense.”

He sympathized with Ray. The Loon Lake Pro-Am Walleye Open had become the biggest fishing event in the region. They had fought hard to wrest it from a town in North Dakota, and the last thing anyone wanted was to see the regional prestige and a million tourist dollars slip from their fingers. All because of George Zolonsky.

As they neared the tiny hamlet of Laona, the Beaver Lake Casino came into view at the base of a long, winding hill. Even though it wasn’t even 7
A.M.
yet, the parking lots were full. As they drew closer, Osborne had to slow for a car turning onto the highway in front of them. He always marveled at the steady stream into the casinos day and night. The parking lots were never empty, not even on the most beautiful of days.

Suddenly, Ray sat up straight, yanking his head back to look behind them. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Stop! Turn around, Doc. I see a rig with boats back there. I’ll bet that’s George.”

“Okay, okay, settle down. I’m going to pull over then swing back around. I don’t need to kill us both in the meantime.” He pulled onto the shoulder and let the one car behind them pass, then crimped the wheel to turn around and head back to the casino. He took a right turn into the parking. “Over there.”

Ray pointed to a semi-trailer rig parked in the RV section. It was loaded with walleye boats. George Zolonsky was nowhere in sight.

“Are you sure this is George?” Osborne parked the car. They got out and walked around the rig.

“Tracker boats. Has to be. You stay here, Doc. I’ll see if he’s inside.”

Ray ran across the parking lot to the main entrance of the casino. He was inside less than a minute before running back out.

“Yep. It’s George all right. He’s at the blackjack table. Looks like hell. I’ll bet the guy hasn’t slept in days.”

Ray walked around the front end of the rig. The trailer was as shiny and new as all the boats. “Can’t believe they trusted this to Zolonsky after they took one look at him,” muttered Ray.

He knelt to run his fingers along the inside of the front bumper. “Let’s hope he follows tradition, Doc.”

Osborne hoped, too. North Woods sportsmen, whether hunting or fishing, have a habit of tucking their car keys up under their bumpers or on top of the rear wheels of their vehicles. It may be a bad habit but it is the only way to be sure you don’t drop your car keys in water or lose them in the woods. If you hunt and fish enough, it becomes an automatic response, especially if you have your mind on something else.

Ray walked to the back of the rig. Once again, he knelt and slipped his fingers along the back section of the trailer to which were attached the brake lights and the license plate.

“Bingo!” Ray stood up, a set of keys in his hands.

“I’m outta here,” he said as he unlocked the door of the rig and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Meet me at the marina and help me unload these will ‘ya?”

“What about George?”

“What about George.”

“Doc, where are you?” said Lew, “I stopped at McDonald’s hoping to catch you this morning.”

“I’m in Crandon. Calling to report a stolen vehicle.”

“What? Your car was stolen?”

“No, no. Ray and I found Zolonsky and the boats about a half hour ago. Parked at the Beaver Lake Casino. Strictly speaking, Ray stole the boats and the rig—with my help.”

“Without telling George?”

“He was at the blackjack table. Neither one of us wanted to get into it with him, know what I mean? As it is, Ray will be working all day and night in order to have those boats ready in the morning.”

“I’ll take care of it on this end. Wasn’t he due in here days ago?”

“Oh yeah.”

“I’ll tell the state guys that if George calls in, he’s the offender. Don’t worry about it. But, Doc, I’ve got Peter Roderick coming in late this morning. Is there any chance you can join us? Having you here might loosen him up. I’ve got to be hard on him, Doc. I’ve got to break him.”

“I’ll be there,” said Osborne, checking his watch. “Then I’ll give Ray a hand getting the boats set up. But I have some information you need, Lew.” He gave her the details of Mallory’s report of the affair between George and Alicia, and Ray’s news on the Sutliff estate. When he was finished, Lew gave a low whistle.

“Cynthia Lewis left a message on my machine, too,” said Osborne. “I haven’t had a chance to get back to her.”

“She’s coming in at ten,” said Lew. “She called me, too.”

“Lew,” said Osborne, “before you go, how was fishing last night?”

“Good, not spectacular. Ralph got six brookies. I got two on my salmon stone fly. But tonight should be better. We’re supposed to get some rain and a cold front. I’d like to get back up on the Deerskin.”

“Going up with Ralph?” his voice felt tight.

“I don’t think so,” said Lew.

As Osborne drove back up Highway 45, he thought over his dream. Hammering Ralph with the fly rod was as close as he had ever gotten to homicide. He sure understood the urge.

Lew’s office was an airy, well-lit room with generous windows along the south wall. The window ledge held six clay pots brimming with nasturtiums in full bloom. On the opposite wall, she had juxtaposed a series of framed photos of sunsets she shot on the lake where she lived in a tiny farmhouse. Just inside the doorway, on an old square wooden table, sat a Mr. Coffee. Beside it was the Loon Lake telephone book, the cover featuring a close-up color photo of a sleeping fawn. The photo credit read “Ray Pradt.”

Today, the windows were pushed up as far as they could go, and warm breezes ruffled the papers on Lew’s desk. She had centered her desk against the west wall, leaving space behind for a long table that held her computer, two framed pictures of her children, and several neat stacks of paperwork and files. Two wooden armchairs with dark green leather seats had been pulled up in front of her desk, another was set off to the side along the inside wall. She had directed Osborne to that chair.

Cynthia Lewis sat facing the desk. Behind it sat Lew sat in a high-backed swivel chair. She was leaning forward on her elbows, hands folded under her chin, attentive to every word of Cynthia’s.

“I’m not sure why I didn’t tell you this the other day,” said Cynthia. “I guess I was still in shock. But I talked it over with Bud, and we agreed I better let you know about this.

“When Meredith learned that I do the books for Bud’s office, she asked me to help her out. Balance her checkbooks and set up a basic accounting system for the restaurant and for the property. She had three separate accounts that I managed for her. Even though I only did the books for two months, we’d made a list of everything she needed to get taken care of. One was her will, the other was her health and life insurance. She had me do all the insurance paperwork …”

“I believe the divorce agreement cancelled her previous will,” said Lew, “isn’t that correct?”

“Right,” said Cynthia. “She had an appointment next week to have a new one drawn up. I knew that, and, I think, Alicia knew that, too. But her life insurance we did take care of. I don’t think Alicia knows about that.” She looked at Lew, “I … Clint Chesnais is the beneficiary.”

“How much is the policy?”

“A million dollars.”

“And he knew that.”

“No, he didn’t. That’s just it. He didn’t know about the policy, nor did he know she was planning to marry him … eventually.”

“I see …,” said Lew, nodding thoughtfully.

“She told me she wanted to be around him for another year before she said anything, but she really liked him. I do, too. That’s why I held back, I guess.” Cynthia looked stricken as she talked. Her face was white, her manner very deliberate.

Osborne said nothing. It intrigued him the two women could talk about Meredith’s plan as if keeping Chesnais in the dark was totally acceptable. It made him wonder how many men had their marriages planned out for them long before they knew anything about it.

“Alicia found two of the checkbooks,” continued Cynthia, “but I hid Meredith’s personal checkbook. I shouldn’t have, I know. But something about her frenzy that morning made me cautious. I need to tell you where it is.”

“I found it, Cynthia,” said Lew. “What about those checks to Alicia? The two for twenty thousand each that Meredith wrote last week. Do you know what were those for?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“When was the last time you saw Meredith’s accounts?”

“Friday before she died.”

“And no checks had been written to Alicia at that time?”

“Not that I’m aware of. She was a co-signer on the restaurant account, but she had no privileges on Meredith’s personal account.”

“Did you know that Mr. Sutliff cut Alicia out of the will?”

“Meredith told me,” said Cynthia. “She felt badly about that. I was under the impression she was planning to gift some of the money back to Alicia.”

“Had she talked to Alicia about it?”

“I don’t think so. Don’t forget Meredith had that complicated divorce settlement going on. Between her divorce, the restaurant opening, and the work on The Willows, she was stretched pretty thin.”

“Well,” Lew rocked back in her chair. “Some of what you say points a finger at Clint Chesnais …”

“I hate this,” said Cynthia. “I just … I don’t think Clint Chesnais murdered Meredith. And I don’t know how he would have known he was a beneficiary because Meredith asked me to keep it confidential.”

“She could have told him, and you wouldn’t know.”

Cynthia’s black eyes rested on Lew’s, her shoulders slumped. “What a terrrible situation.”

Twenty minutes later, Peter Roderick sat in the same chair. Osborne still occupied the chair against the wall.

“Mr. Roderick…,” Lew leaned forward as she opened their meeting, “thank you for coming in this morning. I know this is a difficult time for you.”

Her face was set in a pleasant expression, her dark eyes centered on Roderick’s face. Peter looked away and cleared his throat.

He was wearing a gray business suit with a shirt and tie. If Osborne didn’t know him as well as he did, he would think he looked like a successful business man: authoritative, yet casual; unconcerned, yet attentive. However, Peter Roderick was normally not that way. He was a sloppily casual man, given to slacks and open-collared shirts with the sleeves rolled up, his belly rounding over a loose belt. Even the clean-shaven crispness of his appearance was offset by a rheumy redness around the eyes. And Osborne detected a sweet whiff of whiskey circulating with the breezes in the room. This was not the Pete Roderick that he knew and liked.

“May I call you Peter, Mr. Roderick?”

“Certainly,” Peter cleared his throat and re-crossed his legs.

“Peter, I know you have not been telling your wife the truth. No …,” she raised her right hand as he started up in his chair, “… let me finish. I know, Dr. Osborne knows, we both know that you have not been travelling as you said you were. You have been staying at The Willows. We know you have been distressed. We know …,” she enunciated her words carefully, keeping a gentle tone in her voice, “your sister-in-law was helping you,
trying
to help you anyway. You can save us all a lot of time if you’ll tell us about it.”

Peter just stared at her, his left eyelid flickering.

“The game is over,” said Lew simply, filling in the silence.

“I’m broke,” he said in a dead voice. “I’m flat broke, and my wife hates me.” He did not take his eyes from her face. “Now you tell me. Where do you go with something like that.”

The pain in the room was palpable. The heavy cheeks had never looked so pale, his skin so loose and waxy.

“Do you mind?” He stood up, took off his jacket, loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. “It’s a rather brief tale,” he said, carefully laying his jacket on the seat of the empty chair beside him.