Dead Insider (2 page)

“Ouch, I see,” said Osborne with a chuckle. “Ray, has it occurred to you that, at the age of thirty-two, it may be time to stop wearing a fish on your head?” Trying to repress a laugh, he snorted.

“Doc,” said Ray, looking hurt. “For heaven’s sake, it’s my trademark, my emblem, my logo. When clients see this hat coming, all they can think is:
Excitement, Romance, and Live Bait: Fishing with Ray
. Doc, the hat is
me
.”

Osborne was sorry he’d been so blunt. “Okay, you’re right. But it looks to me like the cap needs new leather at the very least. Maybe you should start over with a new cap and have someone anchor the fish on that?”

“Nope. I know just the expert who can fix it,” said Ray. “She can fix anything. Hell, she makes those vinyl roofs with windows that they use on cabin cruisers. Leather repair? Piece of cake for old Kaye.”

“You don’t mean Kaye Lund? She butchers my deer every season. I didn’t know she could sew.”

Ray checked his watch. “Oh boy, I’m due at her place right now. I haven’t been able to reach her on the phone, but I left a voicemail saying I’d stop by this morning. She works part-time as a greeter at Walmart; I’d like to catch her before she leaves for her shift.”

“Do you think she could fix my shot bag?” asked Osborne. “Mike got hold of it last winter and chewed off the leather reinforcement where the strap attaches.”

“I’m sure Kaye can handle that. Why don’t you come along?”

As they stepped outside the trailer, Ray waved in the direction of his pickup. “I’ll drive, Doc. Climb in.”

“Thanks, but not this morning,” said Osborne, clamping his khaki fishing hat on his head and adjusting the brim to keep the rain out of his eyes. “I’ll get my car. Meet you up on the road and follow you over to Kaye’s. Have to run by the grocery store later.” With a wave, he hurried up the dirt drive to a gap between the pines where he could cut over onto his own property. The grocery store might not happen that morning, but it was a good excuse. Osborne knew better than to chance disaster riding with Ray. The passenger side door on the old blue pickup was jammed shut, which left you with two options: haul yourself through the window, or climb over the gearshift from the driver’s seat. Osborne preferred holding on to what remained of his manhood, even if it cost him extra gas.

Sheets of rain slammed the windshield of Osborne’s Subaru. Twice he had to slow to a near stop in order to see the road.
Brother, what a day
. He’d better tell Ray to forget the walleyes. On the other hand, Ray Pradt was one of the few men he knew who
preferred
fishing in the rain: wind, rain, and ice fishing were his drugs of choice. Go figure.

Osborne felt his shoulders tense as he hovered over the steering wheel, peering through the downpour in hopes he could recognize the rock pillars guarding the entrance to the Ericsson estate. Just when he thought he had missed the driveway, he spotted Ray’s taillights and turned left to follow the pickup. Though it had been years since he had driven Rolf Ericsson Drive, he remembered that final evening too well: it had been one of the interminable dinner parties that Mary Lee had loved—and he hated. The senior Ericssons were still alive at the time, and had invited fifty of their closest friends to celebrate Eve Ericsson’s sixty-fifth birthday. Both Senator Ericsson and Eve have been dead a good decade or more, now. Even Mary Lee has been gone nearly three years.

While he never would have wished his late wife dead, her untimely departure from this world had allowed more sunshine into his life than he ever expected, including
no more dinner parties
. At least, not those formal, alcohol-infused events studded with the brittle preening of people he had no need to know. The blacktopped road wound down and down through an old-growth forest so ancient and with a canopy of branches so dense that not a single green plant, not even a fern, marred the rust-brown forest floor. Hemlocks at least two hundred years old loomed overhead, their trunks black in the rain. Jagged stumps split by lightning sprang from the shadows like misshapen monsters. In his youth Osborne had avoided woods like these, convinced they were haunted.

Perhaps he had been right. Land like this was a relic of another time and place. Everyone who grew up in Loon Lake knew the history: the first generation Ericssons were lumber barons wealthy enough to be among the few able to protect their property from the clear-cutting that savaged the forests of northern Wisconsin in the 1800s.

Osborne wondered if Jane Ericsson, the fourth generation and only child of the senator and Eve, valued the old-growth timber like she should. One of the few forests of its kind in Wisconsin, it might be modest in size, but it was a priceless gift. He hoped that she had taken steps to preserve it. After all, she was in her late forties, unmarried and without children of her own. When she was gone, who would inherit these glorious woods? A developer? That would be a crime.

He slowed to a stop behind Ray, who had jumped from his truck to move a fallen branch blocking the road. Osborne waited to see if extra hands were needed, but his neighbor tossed the branch out of the way as if it were a toothpick—when you’re thirty-two years old, you can do that.

Falling limbs had to be a constant hazard on the private drive. Was Jane comfortable living out here all by herself? Then he remembered their reason for being there: Kaye Lund lived out here, too. So that was good. Neither was living in isolation.

Quick to admit to being an overly protective father and grandfather, Osborne could not help but be bothered by the idea of a woman living alone down a long road in a house hidden from the sight of passing motorists. This worry he applied to one woman in particular: Lewellyn Ferris. More than once he had admonished her that she was risking danger living so far from town in a little farmhouse located a half mile from the highway, and well out of earshot of neighbors.

“You could call for help, sweetheart, but no one could ever hear you,” he must have said a dozen times, partly hoping to persuade her to spend more time at his place.

“Doc,” Lew would respond with a pat on his arm, “I appreciate your concern but I have a badge, a cell phone, a walkie-talkie, a twenty-gauge shotgun by my kitchen door, and a Sig Sauer nine millimeter on my hip. I got it covered.” Rolf Ericsson Drive wound for half a mile—past a decaying tennis court, past the remnants of a shooting range, past a putting green that appeared to have been restored—before reaching the original lodge, which had served the senior Ericssons as their summer retreat from Lake Forest, Illinois. The main house, built with timbers harvested on the property, had been closed for years, its river rock chimney crumbling, the slate roof green with moss.

The road skirted a brick walkway thick with weeds before ending in a circular drive fronting a wide white stucco structure adorned with an orange-red metal roof. The construction was so recent that no landscaping had been done. Wooden planks, laid over dirt, led up to a makeshift set of stairs that ended in front of a massive wooden door, intricately carved and as red as the roof. The place was humongous.

Osborne was mystified. Was this a home? Or a country club?

Ray had not stopped but turned onto a gravel road leading to the rear of the new building, where there was a four-car attached garage. A late-model black Jeep was parked in the drive near a rear entrance to the house.

Still Ray did not stop, but continued on the gravel road as it wound back to end at the old caretaker cottage for the Ericsson estate. The wood-frame two-story house was in need of a paint job, and had been for years. Faded blue shingles set off slivers of dark green trim around the windows. A cement stoop at the front door appeared to have been green in another century.

On the far side of the house was parked a beige Ford Taurus, its exterior pocked with rust over the wheel wells. Just beyond the sedan was a barbed wire fence surrounding a vegetable garden, well kept and fruitful, with tomatoes hanging heavy over triangular wooden cage supports.

After parking his truck behind the sedan, Ray jumped out and ran back toward Osborne who had pulled up behind him. Holding a dark green camouflage rain poncho over his head, he motioned for Osborne to roll down his window.

“Holy cow,” said Osborne, baring his face to a spray of rain, “that’s one heck of a roof on that house back there.” He jerked a thumb at the stucco structure. “Haven’t seen one of those before. That Jane Ericsson’s new home, or is she turning the property into a golf club?”

“Not exactly Northwoods, if you ask me,” said Ray with a shake of his head. “But that’s her house all right. I hear it’s amazing inside. Windows facing the lake are twenty feet high, and those suckers curve ’round so she’s got a 180-degree view without a seam. Heard that from a buddy who worked on the construction crew.”

“Okay for me to park right here?” asked Osborne. “If that’s Kaye’s car—”

“Yep, she’s home.”

As they ran for the house, Ray sheltered his hat beneath the poncho. Before they could knock the front door opened, and a large-knuckled, weathered hand beckoned them inside.

“Come in, come in, Ray Pradt, you rascal. And Dr. Osborne? What on earth brings you two out here on such a lousy day?”

Kaye Lund was a legend in Loon Lake. The only child of a young couple who owned a small potato farm east of Rhinelander, she was four years old when her father said he was going to the grocery store for cigarettes one night and never came home. Unable to manage the farm on her own, Kaye’s mother moved them into Loon Lake and cleaned houses for a living before settling in as the housekeeper for the Ericssons. She died of cancer when Kaye was in her twenties.

Kaye was too pugnacious to attract men, much less a husband. An aggressive hockey player with a hot temper in her teens, in her twenties she nursed a reputation as a heavy drinker who could be downright frightening when over-served—but she redeemed the bad behavior with hard work.

Because she was strong enough to maneuver massive cylinders of paper, Kaye Lund was one of few women ever employed on the floor of the local paper mill. She liked to brag that at summer’s end, she could pull a wooden dock in from a lake all by herself, a job known to require at least two men.

After her mother’s death, she gave up the mill job to become both caretaker and housekeeper for the Ericssons’ big house and the lake property: she settled down.

Too late. Wind, sun, alcohol, and cigarettes—not in that order—had done their damage. While Osborne knew from his patient records that Kaye was only fifty-three, she looked seventy. The skin around her eyes was wrinkled, jowls swung from her cheeks, and she had the torso of a black bear. More than once, on entering the Loon Lake Market behind a slow-moving burly lumberjack in stained Carhartt overalls, Osborne had been taken aback to find he was following Kaye Lund.

He had become familiar with Kaye and her history during the few years that she had attended the same sessions he did—the meetings in the room behind the door with the coffee pot on the front. She eventually stopped coming, but he and Ray would still call once in a while to see if she needed a ride. “Conquered that demon so far, fellas,” she would say and decline.

But even as arthritis cramped her spine and shortened her gait, her eyes remained shrewd, her smile quick and wide, showcasing front teeth with just a smidgen of nicotine and caffeine stain. Contrary to expectations, given her sketchy lifestyle, Kaye’s mouth was one of the healthiest Osborne had treated: a good bite, no cavities, no gum issues.

Because she knew she was born lucky when it came to her teeth, Kaye had never failed to show up for regular cleanings. And every time, as she gazed into the mirror after Osborne had finished, she would say, “You know, Dr. Osborne, I may not be pretty but I got a helluva smile.” She did indeed. As Osborne got to know her over the years, he considered that generous grin a testament to a wild but kind heart.

Because he was never hesitant to barter with patients who did not have the money to pay for his services, he and Kaye had made a deal early on: she would butcher his deer in return for six-month cleanings and checkups, an arrangement she had insisted on even after his retirement. Kaye took pride in the butchering, which was a tough job few women tackled, much less women her age.

“Honest to Pete, Kaye, don’t you check your phone messages?” asked Ray, shaking the rain from his poncho as he stepped through the doorway.

“I got a new phone with a new number. Lost my other one in the lake when I was out jigging for panfish couple weeks ago. Have to jig these days, y’know, the shoulder is so bad. Why, what’s up, kid?”

Glancing back over his shoulder, Ray grimaced at Osborne. “Kaye has been calling me ‘kid’ since I was five years old.”

Holding his hat out to her, he said, “Kaye, it’s what’s
down
is the problem. See where this is worn? And how my beautiful fish slumps over to one side?”

Kaye took the hat from Ray and gently flipped the stuffed trout back and forth. Osborne heard the fabric rip. “Holy cow, this hat is in awful shape,” said Kaye. “Could be this fish deserves to be released?” She poked her hand through a hole that had appeared behind the fish and waved her fingers.

Ray blanched. “A disaster, huh?”

“No,” said Kaye, “just a fish with a hat problem. What do you think, Dr. Osborne? Should we truss this sucker up with dental floss?”

It was a silly tease, but it was clear Kaye enjoyed toying with Ray. “I assume you’re planning to pay me in bluegills?” She winked at Osborne.

“Cold, hard cash,” said Ray. “Up front if you want. But,” and he flinched as he spoke, “I’m afraid I really need it fixed right away—if that’s possible.” Ray held his breath. Worry had trumped his habit of stretching out sentences. Or maybe he didn’t want to risk annoying a person with control over one of his most precious possessions.

Kaye pointed toward a yellow Formica-topped table that filled the galley kitchen behind her. “You boys sit down there while I take a good look at this critter.”

Ray’s hat in hand, she hobbled toward a rocking chair in the corner across from the kitchen. Sitting down, she reached for a pair of glasses on the table beside her. With deft fingers, she pushed and pulled at threads holding the crown of the well-worn cap in place.

Ray pulled out a chair, sat down and exhaled.

Before taking a chair at the table in the small kitchen, Osborne leaned forward to study a group of framed photographs hanging on the wall. On the left were two black-and-white photos of a woman that he guessed were taken sometime during the 1950s.

“Kaye, is this your mother?” asked Osborne.

Kaye looked up from where she was working on the hat. “If you mean the pictures near the fridge, yes. I had those framed years ago. I never looked much like my mom; guess I took after the old man. You know, short and fat.” She barked a laugh.

“Kaye,” said Ray, “that’s not true. My dad told me you were really something as a girl.”

“Your dad, huh. Well, maybe. We all have our window, don’t we?” Kaye yanked at a loose thread. “I don’t know who sewed this sucker for you but I swear they used fishing line—one-hundred-pound test, dammit.” She gave the cap a shake, then said, “Jeez Louise, trying to get a hold on this without crushing the fish ain’t easy.”

She looked over at Ray, a crafty expression on her face. “Speaking of windows, kid, you had yours, did you not?” She winked. It wasn’t a question, and Osborne had the odd sense that someone new had just entered the room.

“What are you two talking about?” he asked. He doubted they were discussing anything he didn’t already know about Ray: the file of misdemeanors in Lew’s office relating to the inhalation (if not growing) of a certain controlled substance, the incidents of poaching on private water, the violations of bag limits on walleyes …

A warning glance from his friend caught him off-guard. “What?” asked Osborne, confused. As Ray’s face fell, Osborne realized he should have kept his mouth shut.

“You tell him, or I will,” said Kaye.

A sheepish expression on his face, Ray said in a low voice, “Oh, just something that happened … when I was a kid …”

“Six-t-e-e-e-n,” said Kaye, her voice ringing across the small room. “You were sixteen. Now, be honest, Ray.” Osborne glanced from Ray to Kaye, and back to Ray. A belligerence had crept into the woman’s voice. So much so that he wondered if she had started drinking again.