Dead Boogie (17 page)

“Doc?” she said, her tobacco voice reverberating in the empty aisles. It was ten minutes before closing time at the Loon Lake Market and they had to be the only customers left. Osborne had remembered, as he drove through town after saying good night to everyone and arranging to meet Lew at six the next morning, that he was out of coffee! Of all the bad habits he had managed to give up, caffeine was not one.

Darn. If not for that addiction, he wouldn’t be here—likely to be trapped into a conversation he’d just as soon avoid. Pauline hurried toward him, the boyfriend close behind. Osborne could swear he was still in the same shorts. At least they fit the same.

“Anything new?” said Pauline in a tone so flat Osborne knew that wasn’t her real question. “They’re releasing Patsy’s body tomorrow and I’ve arranged for the funeral to be held on Wednesday. Since you’ve known our family all these years and you were there to help when they found Patsy—I was hoping you might be one of the pallbearers. Fred here’s in charge.”

Too tired to come up with an excuse and well aware it would hurt her feelings if he did, Osborne said, “It would be a privilege, Pauline. Fred, I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, extending his hand. Short Shorts gave a grunt and returned the gesture.

“So, hey now,” said Fred, “sounds like that doctor they was all seein’ is a crook. So you guys better be in the process of investigating that sucker, right?”

If Fred needed to impress Pauline by telling the Loon Lake Police how to do their job, Osborne had no intention of getting in his way. “Yep, you got that right,” he said, hoping that might be where he could end this conversation.

“So nothin’ else new, though, huh?” Pauline looked so sad.

Osborne had a sudden sense that she was already resigned to never knowing who murdered her daughter. That Pat Kuzynski was one of those women whose lives didn’t matter a whole hell of a lot to many people. That her death would be forgotten as soon as a more important crime came along to demand the attention of Lew and the limited manpower of the Loon Lake Police.

“Well, Pauline, we just got a new lead tonight. We’re looking for a fellow whom we know saw them shortly before … he’s got an unusual tattoo on his arm. A praying mantis.” Osborne did his best to make her feel better. “Ever hear of such a thing?”

“Oh, hey, I know the guy,” said Fred. “You’re talkin’ ‘bout Little George Buchholz. Shows up at Nub’s Pub every now and then—not a bad pool player neither. We like to call him Lil’ Georgy.” Fred snorted. “He don’t like that much.

“Yep, George’s got that praying mantis on his arm, all right. Says it’s a symbol for patience. If you ask me, he needs a symbol for funny business. Guy’s got no sense of humor.”

“Buchholz is the name?” said Osborne. “How do you spell that? Any idea where he lives?”

“Buchholz, jes’ like it sounds.”

“Okay.” Osborne resisted rolling his eyes. He could think of three spelling variations right off the bat.

“Last I knew he had a house in that block up behind the junior high. He’s the kinda guy does a little of everything, y’know? Some plumbing, some wiring. I think he mentioned he was fixing the place up to sell. You want to find him—look him up in the phone book.”

Which was exactly what Osborne did.

One night short of full, the moon was bright enough to pick up the blue on the outside of the frame house. It looked like any old house under repair: Plastic was stretched across some windows, the front porch roof was half-finished, the yard was littered with odds and ends of equipment. Off in one corner was a fishing boat on a rusted trailer, its tarp cover ripped and hanging off one end. But no sign of a dark blue truck.

Osborne parked and got out of his car. He saw no light in any of the windows. Up on the front porch, he pressed a buzzer but heard no ringing inside, so he banged on the door. No answer. He walked around the house to the back. An ancient stone garage, its walls crumbling and roof sagging took up half the yard. No truck here either.

A neighbor’s dog barked and he heard a door slamming. He walked back to the front of the house. He recognized the next-door neighbor who had just turned on a yard light as he let his dog out. It was a friend of his son-in-law Mark’s.

“Larry?” Osborne called across the yard.

“Hey, Dr. Osborne, what are you doing over there?”

“I’m trying to find your neighbor. Does George Buchholz live here?”

“Unfortunately. Look at that place. Makes the whole neighborhood look bad.”

“Well—any idea where I might find him?”

Larry stepped off his porch and walked across the lawn. He lowered his voice, “He’s working for some people up near Manitowish, I believe. Managing their properties, is what he told me. But I don’t really know. George is a difficult man to talk to. Hasn’t been around much these last couple weeks.”

“So no wife and family living here?”

“That guy?” Larry gave a harsh laugh. “Warm and fuzzy does not apply to my neighbor. Trust me. My wife and I have a hard time working up the courage to ask him to keep his lawn mowed.”

With a sweep of his right arm that encompassed his neighbor’s house and yard, Larry shook his head in disgust as he said, “Do you believe that place? See the front porch with all that plastic in the windows? See the crap in the yard? Guy always does the job halfway. Nothing is ever finished. Hurts our property values, y’know.”

Climbing back in his car, Osborne regretted for the umpteenth time not investing in a cell phone. He couldn’t call Lew until he got home. When he finally did reach her, he could tell he was waking her up.

“I got the name of our man with the tattoo,” he said, determined not to take any more time than necessary. “Talked to one of his neighbors. He lives alone and is not one to attend neighborhood block parties—know what I mean?”

“Tell you what, Doc,” said Lew, her voice drowsy. “Do me a favor and ask Ray to stop by that house in the morning and shoot some photos of whatever tire tracks he can find on the property. Even without the truck being there, he might get some good impressions that we can compare to the casts made by the Wausau boys.”

“Will do. Are you sure you want to get going at six, Lew? Why not sleep in a little? You’ve been putting in sixteen-hour days.”

“Not on your life. We need to beat the Country Fest crowd. By ten tomorrow morning, every highway in the county will be gridlock.”

twenty-four

No angler merely watches nature in a passive way. He enters into its very existence.

John Bailey,
Reflections on the Water’s Edge

They parked Osborne’s
car in the Pole Cat parking lot after deciding to continue on in Lew’s cruiser. The weather report on WXPR as they drove up promised a sunny day and clear skies that night, which lifted Osborne’s spirits. Tonight was the night of the full moon, the night he and Lew were hoping to spend in float tubes with fly rods.

As Osborne slipped into the seat on the passenger side, Lew said, “You haven’t forgotten our plans, have you?”

“You must be kidding.”

“Well, Doc, with a new woman in your life …” Again that teasing grin. Was she really worried about Beebo? Osborne was flattered.

He settled back as Lew pulled off the highway and onto the paved road leading to the Nehlson and Forsyth properties. They hadn’t gone far when a dark green pickup truck came around a bend toward them. Lew flashed her headlights, then pulled alongside.

“Good morning,” she said, “I’m Chief Lewellyn Ferris with the Loon Lake Police. Mind if I ask you your name and what you’re doing back here?”

“Not at all,” said the bearded young man behind the wheel. “Mrs. Nehlson called me late last night to come out and do some cutting for her. I’m Mike Hagen, Chief Ferris. I do work for the folks back here off and on. You know, log a few trees, haul trash, keep ‘em plowed in the winter. Why—is there something wrong?”

“No,” said Lew, “just curious. Up pretty early to cut a few trees, aren’t you?”

A flash of anxiety cramped the man’s face as he answered, “She told me she wanted me here at daybreak. Insisted on it. Left a note on my door last night to make sure I got here. When that lady wants something done, she wants it done. Sure wish she paid me that fast.”

“Okay, no problem, Mike. You go on ahead.”

“Oh,” he said, looking relieved, “well, if you’re goin’ in to see the Nehlsons—good luck. I sure didn’t see anybody around.”

“Say,” said Osborne, leaning forward, “you don’t happen to have that note she left with you by any chance?”

“Yeah—right here.” Mike reached onto the dashboard of his truck and waved a piece of paper.

“Mind if I take a look?” said Osborne.

“You can
have
the damn thing,” said Mike. He handed it to Lew, who passed it along to Osborne. She waved to Mike as he drove on out.

“What’s that about the note?” she said, giving Osborne a curious look.

“I like to study people’s handwriting,” said Osborne. “A hobby I’ve had since I was a kid. Didn’t you ever read those books on how you can analyze a personality through their longhand?”

“Honestly, Doc. This ranks up there with your trying to use hypnosis to relax your patients.”

“C’mon, Lewellyn,” said Osborne, struggling for sternness. “That worked on two people. Bear with me on this.” Lew gave him a dim eye.

He examined the note Joan Nehlson had written. She was one of those people who jotted in a half-print, half-script pattern. It looked familiar. He tried to remember where he’d seen something similar … felt like it had been recently, too. After a few seconds of trying, he gave up. But he tucked the note into his wallet.

They drove past the fork in the road toward the Nehlsons’ lodge. Lew pulled off to the side of the big circle drive and parked. The morning sun was rising over the pines behind them, casting beams of sunlight across silvery mosses.

An expanse of new-mown lawn ran from the house down to the bog’s edge. Like baby Christmas trees, miniature black spruce dotted the hummocks, which extended as far as they could see to the east. Beyond the low, flat bog was a shimmer of sky blue water. “Gorgeous view,” said Lew.

“Mosquito farm,” said Osborne. Beautiful as they were, he was not a fan of bogs. He didn’t like the surprises beneath: pockets of deep water that could ruin a deer hunter’s day; muck that could suck you in up to your knees if not your waist and ruin good boots in the process.

They walked across the driveway toward the front door of the big house. Lew knocked and they waited, but no one came to the door. “I guess Mike was right,” said Lew. Osborne followed her over to the four-car garage that was attached to one side of the home. A door on one side was windowed and she peered through.

“No Lincoln Navigator,” she said. “There’s a sports car here.”

“No dark blue truck that I can see,” said Osborne.

“I guess we’ll have to give it up and send you on to your lady friend early, Doc,” said Lew.

“You want to try Forsyth?” said Osborne. “Right around the corner.”

“Not yet. Since I’m likely to be interrogating the man in the next day or two, I’d just as soon wait until I have all the details from the investigations in Milwaukee,” said Lew.

“How about I walk down the drive and see if he knows where the Nehlsons might be?”

Just then the front door opened and Parker Nehlson stepped out on the porch. He was in a brown bathrobe, his hair uncombed. He looked as if he had just gotten out of bed. Pulling the belt on the bathrobe tighter, he said, “Was that you ringing the doorbell?”

“Yes, good morning,” said Lew, her voice cheery. “I am so sorry. I think we woke you up. Is Joan here? We have a few questions for you folks.”

“Joan?” Parker glanced back behind him. “Joan!” he called again and waited. “No, I guess she isn’t—she’s not here.” His wife’s absence seemed to surprise him.

“Any idea when she’ll be back?” said Lew.

“Golly,” said Parker, running his hand through his hair. “I really don’t know. She never goes anywhere this early. Maybe she’s next door—having coffee with Ed. Want me to call over there?”

“That would be helpful,” said Lew, crossing her arms and leaning back against the porch railing.

Parker disappeared back inside the house for a few minutes, then stepped out again. “No answer over there. Don’t know what’s up.”

“Okay, thank you for trying,” said Lew. She started to walk away, then stopped to say, “By the way, George who works for you. Where can we find him?”

“He’s usually here,” said Parker. “Stays in the apartment over the garage rather than drive all the way back to his place. Isn’t his truck parked on the other side of the drive?”

“Not that I can see,” said Lew.

“Jeez, I don’t know,” said Parker, appearing more mystified by the moment. “Wait a minute, let me check something.” He walked down the porch to the front of the house, disappeared around the corner, then came back. “The pontoon’s gone. They must be out on the lake.”

“Early-morning fishing. Good day for it,” said Osborne.

Again Parker shook his head. “I dunno about that—my wife hates to fish.”

twenty-five

Scholars have long known that fishing eventually turns men into philosophers. Unfortunately, it is almost impossible to buy decent tackle on a philosopher’s salary.

—Patrick F. McManus

Osborne
walked in to find Beebo chatting with friends in the lobby of the Dairyman’s main lodge.

“Oh, Paul, I’m so glad you could make it,” she said, extending both arms as she strode across the room to give him a full hug and a peck on the check. Once again she struck him as looking golden—dressed in slacks and a long-sleeved shirt of a tawny color that matched her hair. She was tall and angular with a bone structure emphasized by the jewelry she was wearing.

“This way, dear,” she said, pulling him into the dining room. They took a seat at a table along the windows looking over the lake. Placing her elbows on the table, Beebo steepled her fingers and rested her chin on the peak. With smiling eyes, she said, “Paul, never would I have guessed years ago what an extraordinarily good-looking man you would become.”