Dead Angler (25 page)

George
died smoking his last cigarette. That’s what the city engineer from Rhinelander confirmed two days later. Osborne suspected as much as he approached the smoking rock and debris that remained of the old waterworks building.

Gases rushing from the bowels of the old storm sewer system towards the open doorway where George had been standing initiated a series of explosions, building in intensity to a central blast that lifted and shattered the building. George himself was blown back into a pine grove thirty feet away by the first fireball, believed by the engineer to have ignited when George flicked a lighter towards his cigarette.

“I’m not sure if the impact that killed him was the force of the explosion in his face or these trees that he hit traveling at pretty good clip,” said Osborne as he knelt beside the body, which lay face down. George was not in good shape, the state of his body parts reminding Osborne of auto accident victims he had had to identify using dental charts.

But they didn’t need a face to know it was George. Both Osborne and Ray recognized what remained of the Levi’s. Lew was able to pull a wallet from an exposed back pocket. The driver’s license confirmed the victim was indeed George Zolonsky.

“Do you need me to check further?” asked Osborne.

“Do you mind?” Lew turned away, rifling through the wallet.

“All the pockets if you can. I’d sure like to find some indication of where he was going with the drugs.” He wondered if she was hiding the fact the sight made her a little queasy.

“I’ll help, Doc.” Ray stood behind him, “this isn’t too different from dressing a deer.”

Together, gently, they rolled the body over. Ray checked the blood-soaked Levi’s pockets while Osborne patted the sodden shirt. Ray found change, Osborne a small plastic box similar to a trout fly holder. At first glance, he thought the one-inch square held shot pellets for weighting a fishing line.

“Oh, oh,” he said on opening it for a closer look, “We just found Meredith Marshall’s gold fillings.

“What are you thinking?” Osborne asked Lew as she studied the contents of the box.

“I’m thinking George may have been working as a courier for some time, skimming a bag or two each delivery and stashing them here. Meredith caught him, confronted him and he killed her.”

“But why hold on to these fillings?” asked Osborne. “Why go to all the effort when he’s got access to big bucks from the drugs?”

“If you want my two cents,” said Ray, raising his hands, fingers extended, as if ready to tell one of his stories, “and I’m not sure that you do.”

“Go ahead,” said Lew, “I’m listening.”

“George is a detail man and a pennypincher. Fishing for crappies, I never saw him waste a minnow. I think he saw those fillings as real gold that would have pretty high value. Doc said himself, the drill made it an easy operation. Easy to a guy like George anyhow.”

“Maybe,” said Lew. “Maybe he was here to pick up what he had hidden earlier, then swing by his place, then head north to hide out for a long time. If he was just a courier, he didn’t get that much money. Maybe he thought he could use those fillings to blackmail someone.

“I don’t like this,” she kicked at a rock, “this is too easy. If you ask me, George was set up. He’s a chain smoker. If he was using The Stone House as a hiding place, wouldn’t he have lit up in here before? Why didn’t the place explode then?

“You got the plans in the car, Lew,” said Osborne. “Let’s take another look.” They walked quietly back up the driveway to the cruiser. Lew had radioed to Rhinelander for assistance right after the explosion, now they could hear sirens in the distance.

“Sure enough,” said Osborne, running a finger across the architectural rendering. “See along the main corridor here? These manholes were built so any plumber working in the building would know to open them in order to vent the gases before entering. This is exactly what Cynthia Lewis described to us the other day.”

“Now if someone closed those manholes before George got here, if someone knew that he was likely to be smoking while he was in or around the building …”

“Someone turned The Stone House into a time bomb,” said Lew.

“But who besides me and Doc would want to kill George?” asked Ray.

“I can name an angry husband,” said Lew.

“Sad,” added Osborne, “because if it really is Peter, then he looked at Lew and Ray, “it is Alicia’s fault.” He knew Peter was capable, too. He understood the urge.

Late
Friday afternoon, Ray called Osborne at home. He was overflowing with good news: the walleye tournament had launched without a hitch. Every boat was fueled and ready, every locator and acqua cam worked as planned, every livewell carried only water, and, to top the day off, the ESPN crew returned to shoot some more ?-roll of Ray demonstrating his custom walleye jig. The clicks of party-line listeners only added to his pleasure.

“Dinner’s on me,” he said grandly, “I’ve invited Lew, too.”

“I sure won’t turn that down,” said Osborne.

He arrived at Ray’s shortly before six, contributing tortilla chips, salsa, and an expensive root beer he rarely purchased.

“Check the cooler,” said Ray from where he stood at the sink husking corn. Osborne lifted the lid of the blue and white box to see three beautiful northern pike. Only Ray could always find the time—and the perfect fishing hole—to hook these tigers. Dining would be exquisite.

“I ran into Lew at the gas station just before I called you,” said Ray, “she was not a happy camper.”

“Really?” said Osborne.

Just then Lew’s truck drove down the lane to Ray’s place. “Let her tell you. I’m staying out of the line of fire.” Ray lifted the first northern into the sink. Lew banged open the door to the trailer. She stomped in without knocking, a paper sack in her arms. In spite of the glowering expression on her face, she looked fit and healthy in a close-fitting pair of khakis and a long-sleeved forest green shirt open at the neck. Her dark hair glistened, curlier than ever in the humidity. Osborne remembered her description of Clint Chesnais and applied to her at this moment: “easy on the eyes.”

“What a lazy bum,” she slammed the sack down on the kitchen table as she yanked out a chair and threw her body into it. “I cannot believe what happened today. I absolutely cannot believe it. Ray—did you tell him?”

“Nope.” Ray flushed bits of something down the drain.

“What—who are you talking about?” Osborne asked as he sat down across from her. Lew leaned forward across the table. Her eyes grim, her cheekbones flushed with color, her lips pressed tight. Osborne could feel the tension. Mary Lee’s anger had always been a passive-aggressive stew of pouting and whining. Not this woman. What you saw was what you got. Right now, she was ready to slug somebody. The way Lew was built, Osborne agreed with Ray: keep out of the way.

“The lab director down in Wausau. He closed my case. Done. Over. End of investigation. For no reason other than he’s a sonofagunlazybum! Nogoodgettingreadytoretirelittle-creep!”

“Settle down, Lew.”

“I’ve been trying to settle down, Doc! For the last two hours I’ve been trying to settle down. I know you two don’t drink. I brought my own beer do you mind?”

If they did, they sure as heck weren’t going to say so.

She didn’t wait for an answer but reached into the bag to pull out a six of Leinenkugel’s Original in the bottles. Osborne took the six-pack from her hands, handed her one and put the rest in the refrigerator. She also pulled out a plastic quart container—”Potato salad.” She set the potato salad on the table a little harder than necessary. Then she twisted the cap off the bottle, took a swig, and followed it with a deep breath.

“I’ve been told that George Zolonsky was responsible for Meredith Marshall’s murder, that finding those fillings on him was plenty proof to close the case and that his death was accidental. Over and done.”

“You disagree with that?” said Osborne.

“Don’t you?” Lew looked at him, her eyes piercing.

Osborne felt an intense need to say the right thing. He did the best he could: he opted for complete honesty, “This may sound silly, Lew, but I think George was hired to kill Meredith by …,” Osborne halted, he hated to say it because he felt so sorry for the man, “… by Pete Roderick. For the inheritance. And he killed George to cover himself and because he knew George was fooling around with Alicia.”

“George
was fooling around with Alicia? I’d say it was the other way around, Doc.”

“Lew … I know what I saw in my friend’s eyes over the thirty years I’ve known him: how happy he was when he made her happy. And how did he do that? With money. Lots of money.

“I saw something once, years ago. A fella from Madison came up for deer season as a guest in our shack. Mary Lee and I had a dinner party the night before the hunt started, and the Rodericks were there. Now this Madison fell was quite well-to-do, old lumber money, and you would not have believed Alicia that nigh. Even Mary Lee said her flirting went a little to far.

“Now,” Osborne leaned across the table and tapped his right forefinger to emphasize his point, “I saw the look on Pete’s face that night. Let me put it this way—I wasn’t going to be surprised if there was a hunting accident that week. A little problem of a gun going off while climbing into the deerstand, if you know what I mean. As it was, nothing happened—but Pete was capable. I saw it in his eyes and it scared the bejesus out of me.

“If I have learned anything in all my years, Lew, it’s that good people are not always rational. As much as Pete might have appreciated Meredith’s help—and you heard him say this: he still believed Alicia when she accused her parents of favoring Meredith, of shutting her out. I think he felt her hatred of Meredith was justified somehow, that Meredith, kind as she was, was still the source of the problem. Then, when he learned of Alicia’s affair with George—he lost it. That pushed him beyond reason. All Pete could see was his whole life, everything he loved, everything he had worked for, being stripped away. I think he did it, Lew. I really do.”

Lew studied Osborne for a long thirty seconds, “You are dead wrong, Doc. Alicia hired George. Alicia baited George. Alicia is a vicious, grasping woman. I don’t care what she says, she hated her sister. Always did. But I have no solid proof. I’ve sent the checkbook out for a handwriting analysis, which will take weeks. I would love to find she forged those checks. But that’s as close as I can get right now. If only I could catch her in one little lie … what do you think Ray?”

“Jeez Louise,” said Ray from the sink where he was filleting the pike. “I take the fifth. My mission is to fry these fish and be sure you two watch me on ESPN tomorrow morning at seven.”

“That’s all you have to say, Ray?” Osborne couldn’t get over how tense and angry Lew was.

As if she knew what he was thinking, Lew threw her hands up in the air. “Okay, okay, why am I so upset? Who really cares? Bozo down in Wausau has a nice clean desk on Monday, George Zolonsky won’t be breaking up any more marriages, the dope dealers got screwed …”

“Peter Roderick gets to keep his house,” Osborne reminded her. “What happens to the drugs and those names and phone numbers we found on George?”

“Wausau told me to turn it all over to the Illinois authorities. But that doesn’t bother me.”

“Anybody else come out ahead on this?” asked Ray as he plopped a quarter pound of butter into his black cast-iron frying pan.

“Mallory is making a few life changes after being up here for the funeral,” said Osborne.

“Really,” said Ray, looking over at his friend with a quizzical smile.

“Clint Chesnais will be a very rich man,” said Lew matter-of-factly. Her words hung in the kitchen, which was suddenly quiet.

“Does he know yet?” asked Osborne.

“I’m not sure.”

“We should tell him.”

“Yes,” said Lew, leaning forward again. “Excellent idea. May I use your phone, Doc? “With my party line?” “This call is harmless.”

She reached Chenais at the casino. He said he would be at the Farmers Market in the morning. Could they talk then?”

“But you’ll miss me on ESPN,” said Ray, distressed, when she hung up.

“Tape it,” said Lew. Her face had brightened considerably.

Osborne inhaled deeply as he pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot just after seven-thirty the next day. This Saturday morning was North Woods perfect: the sky deep blue to match the lakes, fluffy white cirrus clouds drifting high. Green was still dominant in the leaves and pine needles, though the tamarack was hinting of change. In just a few weeks, the entire countryside would be golden … then white for many, many months. Yes, thought Osborne, this was a morning to savor.

Lew was waiting at a bench outside the little building, capped cups of coffee in hand. She marched quickly towards his car, official in the smooth beige tones of her summer uniform, black-holstered revolver strapped to her belt. Osborne saw three of his coffee-klatch buddies watching through the window. He chuckled. He would have to answer a few questions tomorrow morning.

“Am I late?” asked Osborne as she climbed in.

“No,” she said, “I was early. But I want to see Chesnais before the market opens at eight. Thanks for coming along, Doc. I want your take on his reaction.”

The Loon Lake Farmers’ Market was set up in a bank parking lot just two blocks away. They parked across the street and walked over, strolling briskly past the card tables set up by local farmers. The last of the summer corn was heaped in bushel baskets, mammoth zucchini lined the tables, orange-red tomatoes, their skins bursting, were piled everywhere. And the first apples of the season caught Osborne’s eye.

At the very end of the line, they spotted Clint, the back of his truck open to showcase with pots of mums, packets of gladioli bulbs and a few evergreen shrubs that Osborne didn’t recognize. He looked relaxed as he leaned against his red pickup, sipping a cup of coffee. He was talking to a slender, sandy-haired man.

The two were laughing together as Osborne and Lew walked up.

“Hello, Chief,” Clint straightened up. He didn’t look like a man who had just inherited a million dollars. He was casually dressed in jeans and a worn navy-blue T-shirt. “I’d like you to meet Jeffrey Winick here, he sells chickens.”

“Chickens, pork, bacon—I’ve got fresh eggs, too,” said the sandy-haired man with a lively smile.

“Chickens, huh?” asked Lew. “Raise your own?”

“You bet. Free range, grain-fed. I got an eight-pounder if you’re interested.”

“Jeff was raising the chickens for Meredith’s restaurant,” said Clint.

“Boy, I sure hate to lose that business,” said Winick, his smile fading. “I built up my operation this summer, planning ahead. What’s the story? Will Alicia be opening the restaurant?”

“You know Alicia?” asked Lew.

Winick raised his eyebrows in an expression of pain, “Unfortunately. Thank goodness her sister taught her a few things about the wholesale butchery industry before the accident. That woman—whew! I still have five birds on ice that she ordered two weeks ago, and she refuses to return my phone calls. She owes me whether she takes ‘em or not.”

Lew had been walking around as he spoke, peeking into his freezer, opening a carton of eggs that set on the table with his cash box. Now she stood staring at the side of his truck. “You are ‘Winick Farms’?” she asked, reading the magnet sign attached to his door.

“Yep, that’s me. Freshest eggs, finest chickens you can find out Starks way.”

“Whereabouts in Starks?”

“Down aways from Kubiak’s Landing. I moved up here from Chicago five years ago. I got forty acres, some cows, a few pigs—”

“Meredith drove all the way out to buy from you?”

“You would be surprised how many people do,” he said. “All the chicken in the grocery stores today is prepackaged. Here, take my card,” he handed cards to each of them. A bright green rooster perched on a fence that carried the words “Winick Farms” in orange lettering. “I have wonderful turkeys coming along for Thanksgiving.”

He continued, “I did steady business with Meredith and Alicia. That day she died, they stopped by for some blackberries my kids picked for Meredith. They were going fishing, the three of them. I figure I was one of the last people to see her alive. Kind of an eerie feeling, y’know.”

“Three of them?” Lew’s voice stayed markedly casual.

“Some guy named George was with them. Never saw him before,” said Winick, “but I don’t know many people around here.”

“What time of day was this?”

“Late Sunday morning. I remember because it was a beautiful day before that storm rolled in.”

“Did you know about this?” Lew turned to Chesnais.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I work the casino Sundays, that’s a big day for us. Meredith and I usually fished during the week.”

“Hmm. Did she fish with her sister very often?” said Lew as she walked over towards Clint’s truck.

“I didn’t know that she ever did. She didn’t mention it,” said Clint.

“Clint,” said Lew, “may I speak with you in private?” She stepped towards the cab of his truck, leaving Osborne standing with Winick.

“That George fella looked out of place with those two women,” said the farmer. “I kind of wondered what was going on, but Mrs. Marshall seemed okay with it all, so I didn’t say anything.”

“Were they in one car?” asked Osborne.

“Two. Meredith’s Jeep and a black pick-up.”

From the corner of his eye, Osborne could see Lew talking with Chesnais. Looking up at him, she said something that caused Chesnais to step back quickly as if startled. Seconds later, she shook his hand, then turned to walk towards Osborne. Only her eyes gave away her excitement. Behind her stood Chesnais, watching her walk away with a stunned expression on his face.

“Good,” she said. “He had no idea he was the beneficiary on the life insurance policy.”

“You changed his life, huh?”

“The good farmer changed mine. I feel so stupid, Doc. From the get-go I assumed Meredith Marshall had to be fishing earlier that
night.
It never occurred to me she might be on that river in broad daylight. Nobody fishes the Prairie in the heat of the day. Nobody.”

“Lew, don’t beat yourself up. You and I both know that the most elementary-level fly-fisherman knows better than to waste a casting arm on a hot, sunny day.”

“Maybe they weren’t fishing.”