Dead Deceiver (2 page)

Already short-handed due to winter colds and flu bugs, both the police and the sheriff’s department were depending on help from surrounding towns and counties. Meanwhile, since the hordes had begun to descend, Lew and her two officers had been working overtime.

“I don’t care
where
he scattered the ashes,” said Lew, continuing to sputter into her cell phone, “the fact remains there is no law against that … Right, Roger. Please tell the property owners if they don’t believe you, they can register their complaint with the police department in the morning. I’ll take it up with the City Council. Now I’d like to finish my meal. Okay?”

Lew paused before repeating herself, “… yes, the City Council. It will require a new regulation … I have no idea what they will do, Roger. But I will bring it up with the mayor in the morning. Tell those people exactly that and ask them to please, settle down. Okay?”

“Jeez Louise,” said Lew, banging the cell phone onto the table. “I put in fourteen hours today and all I want to do right now is eat my dinner. Is that too much to ask?”

“What the heck is Roger up to?” asked Osborne.

Lew took two bites and closed her eyes before answering, “Ohmygosh, Doc, this … is … delicious.” She wiped at her lips with a napkin, then said, “Seems that Myrtle Lund, who passed away last week, stated in her will that she wished to be cremated with her ashes scattered over the lake in front of that lovely home she and Dick owned before he died. The manager for St. Mary’s Cemetery tried to make arrangements but the new owners didn’t like the idea.”

“Really,” said Osborne, helping himself to more potatoes. “Wonder why? Doesn’t sound harmful to me. As I recall, Myrtle had Dick’s ashes scattered over the lake but that would have been before she moved into assisted living. Do the new owners realize she simply wanted to be with her late husband?”

“I don’t know the whole story but apparently Ray Pradt assured the manager, Father John,
and
the Lund family that he would handle it.”

“Uh-oh,” said Osborne. “I imagine that since the cemetery gives Ray plenty of work digging graves when the guiding business is slow, he feels he has to do what he can to help.”

“I understand that,” said Lew. “But late night drive-by scatterings of cremated clients? That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

Osborne chuckled as he scooped up a second helping of coleslaw and said, “Look at it from Ray’s perspective. His grave digging business is way down due to the economy—not to mention the weather. Much cheaper to be cremated these days. No doubt he sees a financial opportunity in helping people with their ashes.”

“I’m not going to argue the economics of the funeral business, Doc. Problem is Ray attempted to execute the scattering of poor Myrtle’s ashes
after
the cemetery manager had been told by the property owners that it was not acceptable.”

“Hmm,” said Osborne, glancing out the kitchen window towards the garage and the floodlight illuminating the driveway. He gestured with his fork, “Look at that snow. I can’t imagine that any ashes wouldn’t have been covered within minutes. How on earth did he manage to get caught?”

“The couple who own the place spotted his headlights, found him parked down by their boathouse and called in on the 911 line. He might be at risk for trespassing,” said Lew, spearing another portion of walleye.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Osborne. “The Lund property abuts the public landing for that lake. In fact, there is a shared driveway. I know because it used to drive old man Lund crazy when people left their boat trailers blocking his way. Lew,” said Osborne, putting down his fork and leaning forward on his elbows, “why do the new owners care so much about a few ashes? How about some basic kindness towards the bereaved family, for heaven’s sake.”

“I’m sure I’ll hear all about it tomorrow,” said Lew with a sigh of resignation. “Ray’s argument, of course, will be that he meant well.”

“He always ‘means well,’” said Osborne, thinking of Ray’s chronic violations of bag limits and fishing private water. The good news was that Ray tended to go over the limit by a half dozen or less—a pretty small number of fish, which ensured that any resulting fines would be affordable.

On the rare occasions that he got caught, Ray’s excuse was always the same: the unlawful catch was intended for those “caring, hard-working nuns at St. Mary’s who could not afford to attend Friday fish fry,” as if religious intent could cancel the law.

But in the northwoods of Wisconsin, private water is private and bag limits are set in the same stone as the Ten Commandments: Not even the good Lord is allowed to violate those laws.

Lew’s cell phone rang again. She answered saying, “For Crissakes, Roger—” Then she paused, listening, a frown crossing her brow before she said, “Oh, sorry, Sheriff. Yes, this is Chief Ferris. I thought you were one of my officers calling back … what is it? Where?”

Pushing her plate away, Lew got to her feet. “I’m on my way.” Snapping the phone shut, she handed her plate to Osborne and said, “Doc, please, put it in the fridge. We’ll nuke it when I’m back.”

“What’s up?” said Osborne as he helped her slip into her parka.

“Missing skier out on the Merriman Trial. Sheriff is shorthanded just like we are. I’m the only available officer. Doc, I’m sure I’ll be back within an hour or so. One of the forest rangers is meeting me there with a couple snowmobiles. I can’t imagine we won’t find the skier shortly. Very likely she had an equipment failure and is walking out.” She stood on her tiptoes to give him a swift kiss.

Watching Lew’s squad car back around to leave his driveway, Osborne turned to the black lab sniffing around the dining room table, coveting the unfinished plates. “Not so fast, Mike. I’m hoping she’ll be back—or it will be a long, cold night once again.”

Grinning at the sound of his master’s voice, the dog sat back on his haunches, eyes happy and tail thumping on the floor.

“Thanks for the offer, fella,” said Osborne, “but I prefer you stay in your own bed.”

C
HAPTER
3

A
s she pulled into the parking lot at the trailhead, Lew saw three vehicles parked at a distance from one another: A black SUV, a maroon van, and a Forest Service truck with its tailgate down. Two snowmobiles had been unloaded from the truck and a figure bulked out in a dark green parka, padded gloves, and a white helmet with a Forest Service emblem was climbing onto the driver’s seat of one of the sleds—an industrial-size snowmobile with a stretcher on runners attached.

Pulling her squad car alongside the truck, Lew gave a quick wave and parked. Reaching under the seat for her warmest pair of gloves, she popped the lever for the trunk and climbed out of the car. Wet, cold snow hit her in the face. Hurrying around to the trunk, she retrieved a snowmobile helmet and turned towards the rider on the approaching snowmobile. The rider raised her helmet shield as she spoke, “Chief Ferris, Ranger Lorene Manson. Appreciate you’re giving me a hand.”

Lew recognized the forest ranger, a broad-faced woman with reddened cheeks, strands of straw-colored hair plastered against her forehead and a dripping nose, which she wiped at with one finger of a heavily padded glove. Lorene Manson spent most of her time fining cross-country skiers who had not purchased trail passes. She did not look happy to be out this late.

“Happy to be of assistance, Lorene. You know where we’re going?”

“Somewhat. The husband of the missing woman is keeping warm in his van over there. We’ll take him with us since he knows the route his wife usually takes.”

“Does he have a helmet?” said Lew.

“I brought two extra besides the one I’m wearing. I gave him one and strapped the other onto that stretcher back there along with some blankets. You all set?”

“Almost. Give me a minute to get familiar with this sled, will you?”

“Take your time, Chief. I’ll have Mr. Beltner ride behind me. Man, this snow is not helping,” said Lorene, pushing at the snow falling in her face as if she could make it go away.

As the ranger spoke, a tall, angular man in a bright red ski jacket of the type worn by cross-country skiers got out of the van, and paused to pull on the Forest Service helmet and adjust a small backpack he was wearing before striding over to the where the women were waiting. His helmet shield up, Lew could see dark, worried eyes. “Rob Beltner,” he said, holding a hand out towards Lew. “It’s my wife we’re looking for.”

“Chief Ferris with the Loon Lake Police,” said Lew. “You called in the 911?”

“Yes, twenty minutes ago. She should have been home by four thirty.” His voice cracked on the last two words.

“I’m assuming one of those two vehicles was driven by your wife?” Lew pointed a gloved finger towards the van and the SUV.

“The Honda CRV is Kathy’s,” said Beltner. “She always parks here, snowshoes the trail for an hour or two and returns to her car. It was locked when I got here. That’s a good sign, maybe? That no one broke into the car? Her cell phone is there, too. My wife always forgets something. She tends to do that when she’s in a rush.”

“Now which trail does she ski?” said the ranger, motioning for Beltner to climb onto the seat behind her. As he did, Lew turned the ignition key on her sled, revved the throttle and tested the brakes. Then, letting her sled idle, she waited for Lorene to take the lead.

“She doesn’t ski,” said Beltner, shouting over the low rumble of the sleds, “she snowshoes and there is only one trail—that one.” He pointed towards the rear of the parking lot.

“You holding on, Mr. Beltner?” asked Lorene with a tip of her head towards her passenger. “This may not be the smoothest ride.”

“I’m ready,” said Beltner, resting gloved hands on the ranger’s waist, “just
please
—can we get going?” His words ended in a sob.

“Mr. Beltner—” said Lew. “Rob.”

“Okay, Rob,” she said, adopting a reassuring tone. “The sheriff’s department rescued a skier out here just last week. He’d broken the binding on one ski and was chilled but otherwise okay. It’s a long walk if your equipment malfunctions back in on one of those loops. I’m pretty certain the worst that can happen to your wife is hypothermia.”

“Or a broken leg,” said Rob, his tone grim.

“Like I said—hypothermia.” Lew reached over to pat him on the shoulder. “Aside from our concern right now, is your wife in good health?”

“Excellent health. She snowshoes five miles twice a week. That’s how come I know she always takes the south trail to the lake.”

The two snowmobiles charged onto the trail, snow billowing off into the darkness. The lead sled’s strong headlight made it possible for them to maintain a good speed as they hurtled past the trunks and bare branches of oaks and maples guarding the snowshoe path.

Soon, as the forest morphed from hardwoods to evergreens, the trail closed in on them: snow-laden branches of balsam and spruce hung heavy overhead. Twice they had to skirt sagging limbs blocking the way.

Ten minutes down the trail, Lorene’s headlight exposed a wooden railing. She stopped so quickly that Lew had to pull off to one side in order to avoid running into the stretcher.

“Sorry, Chief,” said the ranger after jumping off her sled and running back towards Lew. She shoved her helmet shield up and leaned forward: “There’s an access road used by loggers back in here. We should check it in case our person decided to take that route out.”

“Right,” said Lew, switching off the ignition on her sled. Leaning into the wind, Lorene tackled the drifts skirting the access road and Lew started after her, their boots crunching through over a foot of frozen layers hidden beneath the soft surface.

After a few yards, she looked back to see Rob Beltner, flashlight in hand, heading towards the wooden railing, which ran for a distance along a snow-covered boardwalk to end in at a ten-foot-long bridge over a burbling spring-fed stream. Lew knew the spot from years of fly fishing in the area—just as she knew a small lake lay beyond the bridge and that the springs kept the water flowing all winter long.

“Someone has been here within the last few hours,” said Lorene, pointing to a series of depressions still discernible in spite of the new snowfall.

“Yep,” said Lew, pausing to study the depressions. Definitly the tracks of someone’s boots, not snowshoes. They seemed a little large for a woman—though Kathy Beltner would have had to remove her snowshoes in order to leave these tracks, and she was likely to be wearing an insulated boot. Of course, Lew and Lorene were both wearing heavy snowmobile boots that would leave large holes in the snow. Before Lew could speculate further, the depressions ended at a disappearing set of parallel tracks.

“Looks like an ATV to me—” Before Lorene could say more, a shout came from the direction of the boardwalk. They turned to see Rob Beltner staggering through the deep snowdrifts towards them.

“Blood,” he gasped, pulling his helmet from his head. “I think I see blood in the snow along the bank by the bridge.” As they followed him back towards the bridge, Lew’s flashlight picked up more depressions, more boot prints in the snow. The tracks led down an incline and along the stream bank.

She looked up. Rob was hanging over the wooden rail and pointing at a snow bank on the opposite side. The creek, ignorant of human worry, bubbled merrily under the bridge, which cleared it by two feet and allowed the water to rush pell-mell into the lake, whereupon it disappeared under the ice.

As the beams from their flashlights raked the snow bank, Lew could barely make out a dark stain etching its way through the new snow. It appeared to start from a high point somewhere under the bridge to flow in a sharp diagonal down across the bank before disappearing into the lively water. One hour later and that stain would have been buried under fresh snow.

C
HAPTER
4

“R
ob, stop! You
must
stay on the bridge,” said Lew, her voice fierce as she tried to keep Rob from scrambling down onto the snow-covered humps of swamp grass lining the stream.