Dead Hot Shot (Loon Lake Fishing Mysteries) (4 page)

Eight feet high and crowned with a brass “R,” a wrought iron gate bordered with stone pillars guarded the entrance to the Reece estate. A security box with a dial pad and blinking lights hung over the drive, a warning to anyone looking to enter — but the gate stood open. So Osborne drove through, twisting along a narrow road that passed a tennis court, a shooting range and a putting green before ending in a circle in front of the Reece mansion.

The house — high, wide and rustic — had been restored in the style of the grand hunting lodges favored by the lumber barons of the late 1800s. But if the style was late 1800s, the materials were strictly post-2000.

What appeared to be a slate roof was in fact concrete, which Osborne recognized immediately. Mary Lee had desperately wanted just such a roof as a bragging point for their home. It took months of arguments, pouts and tears before she agreed that concrete was, for them, too costly. Not for the Reece family. As if to emphasize that expense, the edges of the impressive roof gleamed with copper gutters that had seen few winters.

He couldn’t identify the wood used for the home’s exterior. Whatever it was had been stained dove-grey — a dove-grey not natural to the trees of the north. Nor did the stones in the foundation, unusual in their patterns and colors, resemble any of the rock or boulders native to glaciated northern Wisconsin. No doubt imported — at significant cost.

Though he was in a hurry, Osborne couldn’t help but notice the windows. The vertical lines echoed the height of the pines along the circle drive, glass panels meeting in seamless perpendiculars at each corner with not a post in sight: another architectural detail not offered at a discount.

Just beyond the house was a six-car garage hosting what appeared to be a convention of Land Rovers, different models but all the same sleek grey to match the house. Seeing no place to park, nor any sign of Lew’s police cruiser, Osborne continued along the drive, which now ran beside a high stone wall. Even though he slowed as he rounded a sharp curve, he nearly rear-ended a parked pick-up truck. A battered blue pick-up with a shiny 14-inch walleye leaping from its hood. The very pick-up that shuddered into his own driveway at least once a day.

Braking to a stop behind the truck, he spotted what his friend and neighbor would describe as “new and exciting additions” to the rusty bumper hanging cockeyed off the back of his vehicle: “Honk if anything falls off,” read one sticker. “If you can read this, I lost my trailer,” read the next. Any other time Osborne might have chuckled. Not today.

• • •

Loon Lake Police Chief Lewellyn Ferris did not deputize Ray Pradt unless she had good reason to employ a man whose misdemeanor file was thick enough to merit its own drawer. Even as state and federal penalties for smoking dope were easing, Ray was still a guy who could fire up the blood pressure of certain City Council members. That, plus his habit of poaching private water, kept the game warden on his tail as well — and only enhanced his reputation among certain Loon Lake locals who lived down lanes with no fire numbers.

Eventually the mayor and his cronies would calm down and approve the hiring of the man known to be the best tracker in the region. Keen-eyed, quick and as alert as a deer — the joke over coffee at McDonald’s was always “that Ray Pradt can go into a revolving door behind you and come out ahead.”

But that wasn’t his only talent. You had only to drive down the street behind the blue pick-up and watch everyone wave at its driver: from the MDs who had practiced with his father to the lawyers who’d gone to school with his sister to the kids whose worms he judged during the annual Loon Lake Worm Race and the nuns he charmed with stringers of fresh-caught bluegills. Not least among his pals were the miscreants whom he had entertained with bad jokes while spending random nights in the Loon Lake jail.

“You want to catch a crumb bum, you gotta think like a crumb bum,” Lew would say when arguing her case to hire the guy. “Ray can do that. I’m not saying he is a crumb bum — but he knows ‘em all. And if he doesn’t know the one we want — he’ll find someone who does. And that, gentlemen, is what we pay for: Ray Pradt flips pancakes for people you and I never even see.”

And while Ray could try Osborne’s patience with the dumb jokes and stories that went on w-a-a-y too long, the older man endured the antics of his neighbor, thirty years his junior, with respect and affection. After all, Osborne owed him. It was Ray who had watched and waited for the right moment to talk Osborne — so deeply depressed after Mary Lee’s death that his cocktail hours had started at noon — into the meetings behind the door with the coffeepot on its frosted window.

Lewellyn Ferris’s final argument in favor of hiring Ray was always the same: “That guy’s got the ears of a wolf — he can hear a cloud pass by.” But she was only half right. Osborne knew that the driver of the battered blue pick-up with the walleye leaping off its hood could hear beyond the whispers in the sky. Tuned to the desperation than can cloud a heart, he was the person to whom Osborne owed his self-respect, if not his life.

• • •

As Osborne walked quickly past the blue pick-up, a long arm in a rust and green plaid sleeve waved from the window. “Doc, tell Chief I’ll be right there,” said the driver, pointing to the cell phone glued to his right ear.

“I’d hurry if I were you,” said Osborne, wondering for the umpteenth time how it was that a guy who lived in a house trailer and dug graves when money was tight managed to own the latest in electronic devices: a cell phone that rang with the sound of birds twittering, an iPod stuffed with vintage rock’n’roll — and satellite radio in his bassboat! All that expensive gear even as Ray jury-rigged his plumbing to fertilize the roses planted by Mary Lee — an act that had so infuriated Osborne’s late wife that if she hadn’t died of a severe bronchial infection, apoplexy might have done her in.

Osborne shook his head. He knew the source of Ray’s electronic surplus: women. The ladies he charmed, bedded and somehow managed to convert to “just friends” loved to shower him with gifts.

“Now how the hell does he do that?” was a familiar refrain among men who might fancy themselves wealthier and wiser — but were never so lucky.

• • •

Osborne hurried down the drive, now steep and curving on its way to a large boathouse. Beyond the boathouse he could see a wide, dark green deck that narrowed to a dock that jutted out over the water. An ambulance was parked next to the boathouse, and leaning up against it, arms crossed as they chatted with Deputy Todd Martin, the younger of Lew’s two full-time officers, were two EMTs from St. Mary’s Hospital. Osborne gave a silent wave as he rushed by.

Just beyond the deck and standing on the shoreline to one side of the dock was Lew Ferris, her back to him as he approached. She was engaged in conversation with two people — a tall, slim young woman with very short hair that stood stiffly on her head and a pudgy man of medium height who, in spite of the cold wind blowing off the lake, was wearing tan Bermuda shorts, a navy blue sweatshirt, black socks and sandals.

A crumpled khaki fishing hat had been crammed onto his head and under the hat was a round face heavy with jowls. Thick-rimmed glasses magnified his eyes, making them appear larger and darker than normal. As he registered the man’s pudginess, the glasses, the shorts and the black socks — Osborne couldn’t help thinking he looked like a nerdy school kid out of a Far Side cartoon.

The lanky girl standing beside the man, one arm tight across his shoulders and leaning forward as she listened to Lew, appeared to be in her early twenties. She was dressed for the weather in jeans, a black fleece jacket and hiking boots. It was the girl who spotted Osborne approaching and pointed his way.

Only then, as all three turned towards him and Lew stepped back, did Osborne see the dark figure lying at their feet.

Oh, good, it’s you, Doc,” said Lew as Osborne walked up. She glanced down at her watch. “Say, you didn’t happen to see — ” “Yes, I did. He’s on his way down,” said Osborne. “Taking a phone call — I told him to hurry.”

“Thank you. It’ll be dark in three hours and he needs to get started.”

Osborne did not miss the grim resolve in her voice. Two years of assisting the Loon Lake Police Department on murder investigations had taught him Lew was convinced that “if you don’t find your best evidence within the first 48 hours, you may never find it.” Given that these late November days made for limited hours of good light, Ray better show up fast.

“Dr. Osborne, this is Andrew Reece, the victim’s husband, and her daughter, Eleanor — ”

“Blue, I go by Blue,” said the girl, stepping forward to grab Osborne’s hand with a grip so strong his knees nearly buckled. She was at least six feet tall, broad-shouldered and, if her handshake was any indication, a very strong young woman.

“Dr. Osborne,” said her father, shaking Osborne’s hand with a grip as limp as his daughter’s was fierce. “The name is Andy — only the IRS knows me as Andrew,” he gave a weak smile as if embarrassed to be attempting humor but unable to resist, “so, please, call me Andy.” His voice was one of those male baritones — fuzzy, deep and so low Osborne could barely hear him.

“I assume the victim is Mrs. Reece, and her first name is — ?” asked Osborne as he knelt and reached into his black bag for a notebook and pen. He stood up, ready to listen.

“Nolan Marsdon Reece,” said Reece with a quick shove at his horn-rimmed glasses. “I was just telling Chief Ferris I cannot count how many times I warned my wife not to go down near the dock when there was lightning — ”

“Andy thinks she was hit by a rogue lightning strike,” said Lew, maintaining a poker face familiar to Osborne: willing to listen, not likely to believe.

“You know a guy out fishing on Lake Tomahawk last month was hit. Not a cloud in the sky,” said Reece. “Not a mark on him either until they opened him up — internal organs were — ,” the big eyes behind the dark glasses misted and the voice cracked as Reece said, “just. cooked.”

“Well,” Lew cut him off before he could say more, “no need to get all upset about things until we know exactly what we’re dealing with here.”

Osborne glanced down at the body lying on the sandy shore. As if wrung by giant hands, the woman’s wet, black clothing was twisted tight along the length of her body, outlining sizable buttocks, a torso of significant diameter and broad shoulders. The legs, in contrast, were long and surprisingly slim: the classic apple shape that Osborne associated with people prone to heart attacks.

The corpse lay on its side, head turned away so he couldn’t see the face. Stiff breezes had dried the shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair, which was fluttering in the wind — the hair as active as the body was still.

“She was found in the water by Mr. Reece early this morning and he pulled her in to shore. She hasn’t been moved since,” said Lew, explaining the body’s position.

“You tried CPR?” said Osborne to Reece. “Ah, no. It was pretty clear to me that, ah, it was too late for that.”

“I helped Dad pull her in,” said Blue, stepping forward. “No question my mom was — ” Her voice faltered.

• • •

Dead is a difficult word to use. Osborne knew that. At the hospital the night Mary Lee died, he had placed the call to each of his daughters but had to hand the phone to Ray when it came to delivering the unexpected news. Ray, who had awakened from a sound sleep to answer Osborne’s frantic call for help in the middle of a raging blizzard; who had staggered through knee-high drifts to attach his plow to the pick-up and drive the Osbornes over snow-bound roads to the emergency room. Ray, whom Mary Lee had done her best to drive off his property because his trailer obstructed the views from the north side of her new deck, had not hesitated to help save her life. And it was Ray, one arm grasping Osborne’s shoulders, whose gentle, calm voice had been able to pronounce that difficult word.

• • •

“Doc, I have a sketch that indicates where Andy found the victim,” said Lew with a wave of her notebook.

“Right there,” said Reece, turning to point towards the dock. “She was floating just this side of that shore station with the bassboat — and about four, maybe five feet out from the dock.” He looked at his daughter for confirmation.

“Yes, that’s where we found her,” said Blue. “Our lake is so down that there’s less than three feet of water there. That’s why I don’t think Mom drowned — so maybe Dad’s right and it was lightning?”

“You can tell us for sure, Dr. Osborne,” said Reece, “but I heard thunder off in the distance late last night. Lightning can strike without rain, you know. Like I said — my wife had a ridiculous habit of always coming down to the dock before she retired, no matter the weather — ”

“Thing is — this is November,” said Lew, interrupting. “We’re more likely to get snow than rain. I don’t recall any thunderstorms predicted for last night and weather is something I pay attention to. Our muskie season ends Saturday. With that plus opening deer season, I anticipate lots of traffic on the roads so I’ve been watching the forecasts.

“But enough conjecture. We’ll know soon enough. Now, Dr. Osborne, will you please explain to Mr. Reece and his daughter what you will be needing from them.”

“Certainly,” said Osborne, as anxious as Lew to get the process underway. “First, I am responsible for documenting that a death has occurred — not cause of death. That’s up to the pathologist and that could take some time, depending.” Catching a look of caution from Lew he decided to skip the usual patter on whether or not an autopsy would be required. Given she had made that decision in spite of the cost to her budget, he saw no need to open the issue for discussion. “. on their schedule,” he wound up instead.

“As deputy coroner, my role is to confirm that a death has occurred, state whether it is natural or unnatural, and note the apparent circumstances. With your help, I’ll complete an initial draft of the death certificate that will be finalized following the autopsy. And I believe,” he turned to Lew, “that Chief Ferris has arranged for the autopsy.”

Lew nodded, “Yes, Mr. Reece is aware I’ve made those arrangements.” Again the look of caution directed at Osborne.

“Please, please, Chief Ferris, Dr. Osborne, the name is Andy.” Reece raised his voice to the booming level as he said, “The formality of ‘Mr. Reece’ is just — unsettling. No one who knows our family calls me ‘Mr. Reece.’” He pushed at his glasses, jammed both fists into his pockets, and swayed back and forth on his sandals.

“Right, right, I’m sorry — Andy it is,” said Lew with a quick, tight smile as she jotted a note into the narrow reporter’s notebook that spent calmer days in her back pocket. “Andy. Blue,” Lew nodded towards each of them as she spoke, “once Dr. Osborne has examined the victim, the EMTs will handle the transport to St. Mary’s. The deceased will be kept in the hospital morgue and I am sorry but you won’t be allowed access until the pathologist has completed the autopsy.” “How soon will that be?” said Andy.

“Today’s a national holiday, which delays things a bit, but I’m hoping to have it completed sometime tomorrow,” said Lew. “When we’ll have the results depends on the nature of any tests they may have to run.” As she spoke, Osborne realized the reason for her cautionary looks: she did not want to disclose that the pathologist she had requested perform the autopsy was not one affiliated with the hospital but an expert from the Wausau Crime Lab.

“I’ll let you know as soon as Mrs. Reece can be released to the funeral home. Will you be taking the remains back to Illinois?” Lew’s pen was poised over her notebook.

Andy Reece looked at his daughter with a blank expression on his face. Again the push on the glasses. “What do you think, Blue?”

“Dad, she would hate that. We better wait and see if she put anything in her will about it. You know if we do it wrong.” Blue paused. Osborne couldn’t help but think she had caught herself about to say that if they didn’t follow orders, her mother would rise up in anger and rejoin the living. Blue’s words hung in the air.

“Well, let me get started here — you people have waited long enough,” said Osborne in a tone identical to the one he used to alert patients they would feel a slight prick as he injected a local anesthetic.

“Very good,” said Lew. “Now, Andy and Blue, would you please wait for us up in the house? Don’t anyone leave or come down here until we’ve finished. This shouldn’t take long and then Dr. Osborne and I will come up and go over — ”

“So you still need to talk to us even though we’ve told Chief Ferris everything?” said Blue, looking at Osborne.

“Yes, I will need information for the death certificate,” said Osborne, “your mother’s age, last birthday, place of residence and a list of her first-degree surviving relatives.”

“And after Dr. Osborne completes his exam, I may have more questions for each of you as well,” said Lew.

“I see,” said Andy. “Blue, I’ll need your help locating our family records in your mother’s files — may have to call Vern Pokorny for some of that information.”

“You mean Vern Pokorny here in Loon Lake?” said Osborne, surprised at the mention of a familiar name but also at the fact that Andy might not have the most basic information about Nolan right at hand. Were they not husband and wife?

“Vern handles all my wife’s affairs locally and he’s in touch with her legal team in Chicago, too,” said Andy. “Certainly the news of her death — he needs to be told ASAP. This could affect the company stock price, you know. She may have sold the company but as a major shareholder — ”

“I’d like you to hold off making that call,” said Lew. “We don’t need reporters out here.”

“But it’s only an accident,” said Blue. “Why would they be interested?”

“Two reasons, Blue. Not only is your mother a prominent figure, but in a small town like Loon Lake even accidents are news,” said Lew. “And for the record, young lady, we don’t yet know how your mother died.”

Blue looked from her father to Lew to Osborne. “But Dad said lightning.”

“We don’t know anything for sure,” said Lew.

Blue stared at her, then asked, “Should we be afraid?”

“I can’t answer that,” said Lew. “Please, go up with your father and let us do our work here.”

As Blue turned towards the stone stairs leading up to the house, she glanced past Osborne. A stunned look crossed her face. With a yelp, she bolted across the deck.