Dead Madonna (18 page)

“But ya know what?” he said, slurring slightly as he ordered a fourth whiskey. “I’ll fix ‘em. Just you wait. First, I’m take’n a trip all ‘round the world—just me, see. All by myself. Spend a lotta money on the way. Then when I get back … big surprise.”

He didn’t say what the surprise was. Osborne assumed he was thinking divorce and, in a way, he was. So Dr. Bloomquist did exactly what he said he would. After selling the practice, he traveled for six months. But it was his final trip—the one he took after the rehearsal dinner—that ruined the day for the women in his life. Killing himself in the bathroom of the newly redecorated master bedroom suite that was so important to the mother of the bride made for an awkward wedding day. He could not have better revenged himself.

But Gwen Curry did not appear to have had revenge visited on her. Yes, her face was drained of color and her eyes were red and puffy from tears. And, yes, she seemed stunned. But she was surprisingly calm. The denial and anger, not to mention anguish, that Osborne had come to expect when arriving to perform the duties of deputy coroner on the occasion of an unexpected and sudden death, were absent.

Lew and Osborne had arrived to find her sitting on the stairs of the house they had rented on Mirror Lake, still in her red shirt and black leggings. Saying nothing as they walked towards her, she held out a sheet of paper.

“I had no idea,” was all Gwen said, arms crossed and body still, as Lew scanned the page. “I knew he kept copying checks but I thought they were payments from the exhibitors. I had no idea they were counterfeit.”

“And that girl …” Gwen dropped her face into her hands, then raised her head with a fierce shake. “Why didn’t I pay attention? I should have known, but I trusted … I thought it was all DeeDee, but no, no, no, NO. They were in it together. I’m a fool, such a fool. And now I’m to be blamed, aren’t I?”

“Hard to say, Gwen,” said Lew, turning to Osborne. “Doc, just to be on the safe side, would you hand me a pair of those Nitrile gloves and put on a pair yourself before I hand you this?”

“Sure,” said Osborne, “and an evidence bag, too?”

“Yes, thank you. We’ll want to keep the chain of evidence tight on this as we enter.”

“It’s a suicide, not a crime,” said Gwen, taken aback.

“Yes, but your husband is confessing to a crime—this piece of paper will be evidence needed by the court and it’s my job to see it handled by as few people as possible.”

Gloves on and holding the typewritten document at the edges, Osborne read down the page as Lew said, “Gwen, do you know where the money is?”

Gwen raised her hands and dropped them. “No idea. I found Hugh with that,” she pointed to the sheet of paper, “on the bathroom counter. Obviously he did it on the computer and printed it out before … Not sure what to do, I called 9-1-1 and walked out here. Been sitting here waiting is all. Didn’t even cross my mind to look for the money. Does that surprise you?”

“No,” said Lew. “When someone takes their own life nothing surprises me. I know it’s a shock and I can only try to understand how you must feel.”

Osborne glanced up as she spoke. Hugh was a good typist and his message was clear: Opening accounts in job seeker’s names, depositing counterfeit checks from companies participating in the job fairs, then leaving town before companies and banks got wise to his scheme, he had managed to siphon nearly eight hundred thousand dollars from a dozen banks—four in Iowa, five in Minnesota and three in Illinois where they worked their scam before arriving in northern Wisconsin. And after he met DeeDee Kurlander, it appeared that he had decided it was all for a new life with that young and beautiful woman.
“I loved her, Gwennie. She was so, so sweet and so pretty. And she listened to me. She loved me, too. She said I made her laugh.”

But DeeDee betrayed him. On a night when he had told Gwen he was working late at the Chamber, he had waited for DeeDee to leave the office and followed her, hoping to tell her he had all the money ready so they could run off together—only to see her meet and embrace another man. It was obvious they were lovers.

“All she wanted from me was the money,” he wrote. “She destroyed me. I waited until her lover drove off and then I couldn’t help myself. She ruined me!!!! Now the banks are closing in, too. Gwennie, I did love you. I did, maybe I still do. I’m so confused. All I know for sure is I deserve to die. I think that if you show that woman police officer the checks I used she’ll know you had no part of this. You’ll find them in the cab of my truck, under the back seat. Please, Gwennie, forgive me. You deserve better.”
That was it. No signature.

“Want me to check the truck?” said Osborne.

“Later. Let’s take a look at the body before the EMTs get here.”

“I have to keep this, Gwen,” said Lew, as Osborne slipped the confession into the evidence bag she held open.

“I know,” said Gwen. She clenched her eyes shut. “Oh, God—how he must have hated me. You know,” she raised one hand, “I sensed something was wrong these last few weeks, but Hugh has always been a tense person when the fairs are going on. It’s so much work.”

“Where will we find him, Gwen?” said Lew. “Dr. Osborne has to confirm the—”

“Master bath,” said Gwen, averting her face. “We rent this place so I’m sure the landlord won’t appreciate what’s happened.”

With effort, she pushed herself to her feet. Osborne felt bad but he had a definite reluctance to reach out and help her. “You go ahead. I’ll wait in the kitchen. I can’t—I can’t look at him again.”

“You have a dog,” said Lew, “in the house?”

“Don’t worry about Choppy, he’s out back.”

“That Ford,” said Lew, pointing to a dark green truck parked next to the white Toyota pick-up in the driveway, “that is your husband’s, correct?”

Gwen nodded and opened the door to the house for them to enter. The wail of an ambulance could be heard in the distance.

C
HAPTER
24

The Curry’s house was the type of expensive seasonal rental that came fully furnished, including a dock and small boathouse on Mirror Lake. The lake, which branched off the Loon Lake chain, could be reached by canoe or kayak through the shallow stream that Mason called her “secret passage.” Too small for the bass boats with their 250-horsepower outboard motors and surrounded with acres of wetlands that discouraged development, Mirror Lake was a popular destination for kayakers and canoeists eager for herons and turtles.

The Currys appeared to be canoe enthusiasts. As Lew had pulled into the drive that ran alongside their house, Osborne had spotted a long metal canoe beached near the dock. A lifejacket and a paddle lay on the ground nearby, as if someone, jumping from the canoe in a hurry, had thrown them there.

Moving past Gwen to enter the house, they stepped into a spacious “lodge” room with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the lake. On the immediate left was an open kitchen with a cooking island fronted with a breakfast bar and four chairs. Straight ahead was a large living room with a beamed ceiling and river-rock fireplace. Sofas, chairs and tables were scattered around the room, though they would not be easy to use as they were fully occupied.

The house was crammed with stuff. Every counter, every end table, even the coffee table held piles of papers that appeared to have been set down and shoved around at random. Unopened envelopes, bank statements, bills, brochures, magazines, newspapers, half-eaten cookies, used glasses, crumby paper plates, crushed napkins, clumps of used plastic wrap, lipstick-smeared coffee mugs and opened beer cans littered the place.

The kitchen sink was crowded with dirty dishes and the counters held even more papers, along with half-empty bottles of gin and vodka. But it was the piles of papers sliding every which way that amazed Osborne. He resisted the urge to walk through the room and straighten up the stacks. As far as he could see, there was only one item in the room currently free of clutter, though he was sure that would change. Just inside the front door and off to the right was a large, unopened cardboard box stamped, “Fragile.”

Gwen, who had followed them in, walked over to the breakfast bar where she paused to move a pile of stuff onto the floor and hoist herself onto a chair, her back to them. Catching Osborne’s eye, Lew raised one brow in silent comment, “do you believe this mess?

“Down there,” said Gwen, with a wave towards a hallway that Osborne assumed led to the master bedroom. On their way down the hall, they passed two other rooms also in disarray, with papers strewn about and clothes tossed over chairs.

One appeared to be the office Gwen had referred to, since a long table against one wall held a computer and a cordless phone on its base—along with a slew of discarded bottles, cans, mugs and an open box of chocolate chip cookies. Shoved to the side of a table holding a printer was a commercial-size shredder that, judging from the contents spilling from a black garbage bag next to it, got plenty of use. But this room did have some order to it. A path through boxes and litter led to an office chair stationed in front of the computer.

Pausing in the doorway to the office, Osborne shook his head in wonder. Any attempt to make sense of the mess in this house would be as challenging as tracking a wounded deer through a cedar swamp dense with dead trees, fallen limbs and treacherous hillocks. He shuddered at the thought of the bacteria growing in the discarded bottles and cans.

At the end of the hall, they arrived at the master bedroom—or at least an unmade king-size bed indicated that was its likely use. An L-shaped nook—intended to serve as a dressing room, though it appeared to be just one more dumping ground—led to a door, which was closed.

“This has to be it,” said Lew, smoothing the Nitrile gloves tight along her fingers.

Osborne braced himself. The 9-1-1 call had come in just as—in hopes that the search warrant might arrive any minute—he and Lew had finished wolfing down take-out cheeseburgers from the Loon Lake Pub. Right now that seemed like bad timing.

The scene in the bathroom was unsettling. While the shotgun pellets may not have exited, the blood had. The bathtub and the white ceramic tiles surrounding the tub held a collage of neon blue fabric, clots of tissue, fragments of hair and teeth, and a human frame recognizable from the shoulders down—all soaked crimson. What remained of the man they had last seen in grimy shorts and a Hawaiian shirt was slumped sideways over the barrel of a 12-gauge shotgun—a gun that would need a professional cleaning if it were ever to be used again.

After several moments of silence as he and Lew took in the scene before them, Osborne knelt to do his job. But a careful prodding of the soggy shorts yielded only a small comb and loose change.

“No wallet?” said Lew.

“Nope.”

Before leaving the bathroom, Lew used her cell phone to call the Wausau Crime Lab. The EMTs were just entering the bedroom as she was patched through to the pathologist on call. “Yes, we’ll need an autopsy,” she said, then listened. “Good, I’ll have you talk to one of the EMTs so they handle everything correctly, and we’ll send the body down first thing in the morning.”

Turning towards the three men who had just walked into the room, she said, “Who’s in charge here?” After arranging for the lead EMT to call Wausau on his phone for instructions, she made one more call—to Dan Wright on his personal cell phone.

“Dan,” she said, “Chief Ferris here. You impress your girl’s dad with those trout flies?” As she listened, a smile crossed her face. Osborne found himself grinning at her pleased expression. “Great. Well, Dan, you owe me—right?”

Talking fast in a low tone, she described the events of the last few hours and Hugh Curry’s confession. “That said, Dan, is there any chance you could make it up here tomorrow? I sure could use the help … great. Good. See you at ten in my office.”

Gwen had cleared herself a more comfortable spot on one sofa, where she now sat, quiet and composed. After moving a few piles themselves, Osborne and Lew were able to find room to sit, too. Osborne started in with the same questions he had asked Marcy Kurlander. Gwen’s voice, so abrasive earlier in the day, was now a low purr of grief as she responded. “No need to rush on the funeral arrangements,” he said finishing up. “We don’t know how soon they can complete the autopsy.”

“What do you mean, autopsy? I didn’t ask for any autopsy. It’s obvious my husband committed suicide.” The purr was gone. Back was the bark—with a hiss. She spoke with a sibilant “s” that Osborne hadn’t noticed before. Another case of bad dentistry? He wasn’t sure she didn’t deserve it.

“State law requires an autopsy when a death is not the result of natural causes,” said Lew.

“Oh,” said Gwen, “as if everything isn’t bad enough already.” With a heavy sigh, she slumped back into the sofa.

“You know, Gwen,” said Lew, “I’ve been watching you and wondering if we shouldn’t have you checked by a physician. I’m worried you could be going into shock.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You have some of the symptoms.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you’re unusually calm, very precise in your movements, and that can mean—”

“No—I’m fine,” said Gwen firmly. “I’m just … I’m doing my best to deal with all this. I mean, what good would screaming and crying do? Maybe later—when it hits me.” She pressed her lips tight. “I do not need the emergency room.”

“Okay, then,” said Lew. “I hate to make things more difficult for you, but since your husband did not die of natural causes, we have work to do here—”

“I understand,” said Gwen with a dismissive wave of one hand. “Do you need me to leave?”

“Yes, we’ll have to secure the house and the property,” said Lew. “But, Gwen, I may have more questions so I do have to ask that you remain here for the time being. Please don’t touch anything until we’ve completed our investigation. That includes all the telephones, your computers, everything. Is that clear?”

“Certainly, but I’m surprised—well, I assume I can gather some overnight things?”

“Not yet, please. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a couple phone calls.”