Dead Insider (3 page)

“Yeah … I was sixteen, and, um …”

The rocker creaked. “Stop mumbling.”

“Umm … Jane was here for a stretch that one summer. It was right after …” Ray choked on his words. A minute went by, but he remained silent.

Osborne gave him a funny look. He couldn’t remember the last time Ray had been tongue-tied.

“It was right after her divorce. Then what happened?” said Kaye. “The rest of the story, or I won’t fix your hat.”

“
You
and Jane Ericsson got together?” asked Osborne. “Ray, the woman must have been—”

“Thirty,” said Kaye. “She was thirty, wasn’t she, Ray?” Kaye spoke with a smirk on her face. Osborne felt a growing sense of discomfort. The Kaye Lund badgering his friend—a man he knew to be guilty of grievous mistakes, but never one of unkindness—was not the Kaye Lund he knew and liked.

Ray’s face had turned so red, Osborne felt sorry for him. “Listen, you two,” said Osborne, “my granddaughters have a saying: ‘TMI.’ It means ‘too much information.’ I have heard enough, okay?”

Rocking her chair with a vengeance, Kaye chortled. Osborne turned his attention back to the photos on the wall, determined to ignore any new details that might be offered. After a minute had passed with no further commentary from the rocking chair, Ray gave a low sigh of relief. Of the two black-and-white photos on the left, the top one must have been a high school graduation portrait. The girl in the picture had a shy smile and straight dark hair cut in bangs across her forehead. She wore a dark sweater and a single strand of pearls. The second picture, just below, was of the same woman but a few years older. This time the camera showed her standing in heels and a dark-colored dress against a lilac bush in full bloom. In her arms she held a baby wearing a white christening gown that flowed down to the mother’s knees. Osborne didn’t have to ask who the baby was.

Over the center of Kaye’s kitchen table hung three enlarged photos—these in full color—that had been taken in the summertime. In the first picture, Kaye appeared to be about ten years old, and the other youngster maybe four or five. The photographer had captured the girls in midair, leaping side by side over a bright red wheelbarrow, eyes shining with delight.

Next was a picture of the same two girls in swimsuits, older now, diving simultaneously from a raft into the brilliant blue of a lake. The third photo showed them standing on a dock, still in their swimsuits, with arms entwined as they smiled for the camera. Osborne guessed Kaye to be around fourteen in the latter two photos, while the younger girl, though taller, had the string-bean awkwardness of an eight-year-old.

“I didn’t know you had a sister, Kaye,” said Osborne as he studied the pictures.

“I don’t. That’s JT, back in our sister days.”

“JT?” asked Osborne.

“Janie, you know, Jane Ericsson. Growing up, we called her JT—short for Jane Therese, which is what her mother insisted on calling her. Funny you ask if I had a sister. Until her folks sent her away to school, I felt like she
was
my little sis.

“But things change, always change, can’t beat change. Umm …”
With a yank of her teeth, Kaye pulled a thread that released the trout from its anchor on top of the leather cap. Setting the fish in her lap and letting the cap dangle from her right hand, Kaye leaned back in the rocker as she spoke. “My very first job was babysitting JT. I couldn’t have been more than ten, and she was four—a smart aleck little kid.” She grinned at the memory.

“Brother, did we have a good time in those days. I taught JT where to catch the biggest crappies, how to shoot a .22, how to catch fireflies. My mother was close by if we needed anything, but mostly we had all day to ourselves.

“Yep, I took care of JT every summer till she turned twelve. That picture of us diving—that was the year we named ourselves ‘the summer sisters.’” Osborne heard sadness in her voice.

“You two are still close, aren’t you?” asked Ray. “Taking care of the property the way you do, getting everything in that big new house into tip-top shape when she comes to stay? That must be kind of fun. I imagine you’re getting quite a kick out of her running for her old man’s seat in the Senate.”

The rocker stopped. “She fired me. Six weeks ago. Out of nowhere. JT stopped talking to me, told me to stay away from the house, keep my nose clean. Hired Choppy Pulaski to take over upkeep on the property. Choppy, of all people.” Kaye snorted. “Can’t keep his pickup running, much less a chainsaw. But I heard what she said. Haven’t seen her, spoken to her since.

“When it comes to that campaign she’s running, all I can say is she’s got some beauts workin’ for her. Real beauts. But, hey it was bound to happen. You boys know what they say …”

Ray was quiet. Osborne hesitated to breathe. He watched as Kaye pushed herself up from the rocking chair. She staggered slightly as she started to cross the living room. Setting her feet wide apart, she paused to get her balance. Lowering her big head to stare at Osborne and Ray, she repeated her words: “You know what they say—the goddamn apple don’t fall far from the tree. Dr. Osborne, you, me, and Ray here, we know: the woman’s a drunk. Just you watch—she’ll screw up.”

At the look on Ray’s face, she raised a hand, “Don’t argue with me, kid. Takes one to know one.”

The fierceness in Kaye’s demeanor sapped the room of the camaraderie that had warmed it.

A heavy drinker, Jane’s father had been forced out of office after leaving the scene of a drunk driving accident in which a family of five was killed. He was spared a prison sentence only because of his influence and money, which bought an expensive but effective legal defense out of Madison.

The senator was also an inveterate womanizer. One of Osborne’s coffee buddies, Ike French, had captured the senator’s habit succinctly as they commiserated over steaming cups of coffee at McDonald’s one winter morning. It was Ike who said (and had been quoted so often since that he worried it would be etched on his headstone): “Our esteemed leader has so many notches in his belt it’s amazing the damn thing can hold his pants up.”

The remark got a rueful laugh, as more than one of the men sitting around the table that morning had wives, sisters, daughters, or nieces who’d been targets. And too often targets successfully seduced in spite of warnings. The late senator may have been a sinner, but a sinner who radiated charm.

One day the charm ran out. Late on a cold November Saturday, after a University of Wisconsin football game (Wisconsin lost), his body was found in the gutter of a back street in Madison. It was rumored he had been with a prostitute when something went wrong. Cause of death was a stroke that had occurred approximately three hours before the body was found.

On the plus side, as a leader in legislation benefitting the timber industry, potato farmers, and cranberry growers, Senator Rolf Ericsson III had represented Wisconsin’s economic interests well for over twenty years. And he contributed to the local Episcopalian church, which had redeemed him in the hearts of some Loon Lake residents.

“I’m only living in this house because the senator deeded the house and the land it sits on to my mother after he bought our farm,” said Kaye with a growl. “No sirree, the candidate doesn’t want to see me, and I do not wish to discuss this further.”

“Well,” said Ray, “I guess that means Doc and I don’t get a tour of the mansion, right?”

Kaye glared, then melted. “Sorry, boys, not your fault you hit the wrong button. Get up and follow me to my workroom. Let’s see what we can do about this hat.” She opened a door off the living room that led to garage-like space with a low ceiling, concrete floor, and double doors opening off the far end. The room was divided into two areas. One side held an old ping-pong table with an industrial-type sewing machine bolted down at one end. On the other side of the room was another long table, which was supported by sawhorses. Along the wall behind that table were hung tools that included a butcher handsaw, a rack of black-handled knives, and a white metal cabinet. A meat hook was suspended from an overhead beam, and two rolls of white butcher paper leaned against the cabinet. Near the double doors at the far end of the room was a large upright freezer.

The double doors were familiar. Osborne would hang the buck or doe that he had shot from the large hooks on the waiting wooden rack outside those doors, and knock to let Kaye know it was there. They had an annual ritual: the door would open and Kaye, clad in a bloody apron, would wave, saying, “I’ll put your tag on it, Dr. Osborne. Never fear.”

Days later a box of venison ground with pork, cut into chops or roasts, all wrapped in white butcher paper, would appear at his back door, each package with its contents marked and dated. Kaye was such an expert at dressing a deer, not to mention making sure you got
your
deer back, that hunters called months before the season opened to be sure they were on her list.

“Welcome to my domain,” said Kaye, her good humor restored, as she shuffled toward the table with the sewing machine. She pointed at the table. “Nice, isn’t it? I found it at a flea market a few years ago and Butch Stevens fixed it up for me. Makes it so easy to cut materials.”

Behind the sewing table was open shelving filled with rolls of fabric. Osborne could see plastic and vinyl, and materials likely used for upholstery. Thinking of his chewed shot bag, he scanned the shelves for leather but didn’t see any.

“Now, Ray, I don’t have to be at work until noon today, so I’ll get a start on your hat. I’m going to replace the leather across the top and re-anchor your buddy here. Have it for you first thing Monday morning.”

“Wow, that fast?”

“That fast. You’re lucky; I have leather just the color we need. Made some chaps for a Harley guy’s girlfriend and had plenty leftover.”

“Say, Kaye,” said Osborne, “my dog chewed a hole in my best shot bag right where the leather is reinforced—”

“Bring it on, Dr. O.” She smiled up at him. “That’s an easy fix.”

“Great, I’ll drop it off later this week. Ray, you ready to get going?” Osborne checked his watch. “I have to get to the grocery store before noon.”

“Out of here, you two. I got work to do,” said Kaye, herding them back into the house. Just as Osborne reached to open the front door, Ray stopped and turned. A second later, the trill of a spring robin filled the room. Kaye laughed.

“Wait, you two,” she said. “Open the door and listen.”

Osborne did as she said, and the two men stepped onto the front stoop. Kaye pushed past them, raised both hands to her face, and let loose with a strange cry. Osborne recognized the howl of a wolf. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. The first time he had ever heard that sound was when he had been hunting grouse alone on a deserted logging lane east of Loon Lake. The wolf had seen him first and was waiting, ears up, lips curled back, teeth bared, staring. Osborne had fired his shotgun into the air, but the animal hadn’t flinched. It just stared.

Later he would learn the significance of that stare—it was a challenge—but even not knowing that, it was enough for Osborne. He would never forget how fast he had run for his car. As he had fumbled his key in the lock, he heard the howl. A low-pitched long, long howl: a cry for the pack. So piercing, so loud, so unrelenting was Kaye’s howl that it had to carry for miles. Osborne half expected a wolf pack to come roaring at them from the woods behind the old house.

“My God, Kaye,” said Ray when she dropped her hands. “What on earth was that?”

“My war cry.”

As they crossed the front yard toward their vehicles, Osborne stopped Ray to ask in a low tone, “Do you think she’s been drinking?”

Ray shrugged his shoulders and said, “One thing’s for sure: I wouldn’t want to be Jane Ericsson right now.”

Osborne backed out, then turned to lead the way down the long drive to the county road, through the steady downpour of rain. As he drove he thought about Kaye’s behavior.
What was she thinking? Why embarrass Ray like that? She adores the guy, for heaven’s sake
.

Then it dawned on him: The news media would go berserk with a story that Wisconsin’s leading candidate for the Senate had seduced a teenager when she was a young divorcée twice his age. That could be a death sentence for Jane Ericsson’s political career. Yes indeed, a death sentence.

Well, Ray certainly wasn’t likely to mention it to anyone. Was Kaye thinking that Osborne would? Or was this an early warning to Ray that she would be telling others?

As he passed the black Jeep parked in the rear driveway of the big house, Osborne felt a wave of sorrow for a sisterhood broken.
After all these years
. He shook his head and drove on.

By three o’clock that Saturday afternoon, eight inches of rain had fallen in less than twenty-four hours. And that was on ground already saturated from two weeks of rain or drizzle, off and on.

While the moody, wet skies might cool the August lakes and keep fishermen happy, their families grew frustrated. Loon Lake had only one movie theatre and a day’s worth of shops selling ice cream and souvenirs. Rain dampens tourism.

In the offices of the Loon Lake Water Utility, tourism was the least of their worries. The unexpected heavy rainfall posed a serious threat to the nascent storm sewer system, which was only partially completed. Several intersections in town were completely flooded, and entire neighborhoods were discovering water rising in their basements.

But what was keeping the water utility manager, Bert Gilligan, working around the clock was the fact that some engineer had miscalculated the potential flow of storm waters from the network of streams emptying wetlands within the town limits. The result? A deep, black, fast-flowing river had replaced a half-mile of backyards. Lawns that once hosted picnics had disappeared under the churning waters. A brick doctors’ office tilted sideways as the rushing water ate away at its foundation.

The Saturday morning downpour compounded the risk of flooding, and prompted Gilligan to issue a town-wide alert for Loon Lake residents to avoid the streets around the impromptu riverbed. Volunteer firemen were pulled in to keep watch, should the water crest above the culvert that was supposed to carry the runoff into the Tomorrow River. The culvert, due to be replaced, ran under sleepy little Woodland Avenue, which had morphed overnight into a bridge with no guardrails.

To emphasize the danger, Gilligan instructed the volunteer crew to park their trucks on the bank beside the river and to stay in their vehicles. “If that road gives way, if we get a flash flood—I don’t want anyone getting swept into the water.
You may not survive
.” Of course, the warning had the opposite effect: a multitude of Loon Lake residents and tourists, cell phones held high, gathered on the street, in awe of the angry water.

That was the scene on Woodland Avenue at three
P.M
. that Saturday. So wild was the water that no one noticed two white packages, each the size of a three-pound roast, that were swept through the culvert. Hard to spot amid the tangle of brush, cans, plastic garbage bags, and other trash that was pushed along by the swirling river, the packages bobbed along en route to the Tomorrow River.