Dead Hot Shot

by Victoria Houston

  She opened her mouth to answer Lew but Josie, sitting across from her sister, spoke up first. “We got dropped off around eight and both of us had school work so we went right to our rooms,” she said. “Right, Frances? Mrs. Taggert always made us go to bed early Sunday nights. She didn’t like how we would come home from the Reeces’ pretty tired after the weekend. We have to get up at five-thirty to catch the bus for school, y’know. I’m right, Frances, right?”

  Frances, eyes still closed, nodded in agreement and then said, “Yes, we got home just before eight. I was in my room here in the house getting ready for school. I heard a couple customers come in but Mrs. Taggert was in the shop and I had the TV on watching Masterpiece Theatre for extra credit in my English class. I didn’t hear anything until that siren …” The girl’s voice cracked with a sob. Gina, sitting beside her, slid a glass of water her way. Every few minutes she would press a cool, wet cloth against the girl’s forehead, which Frances did not resist.

  “I’m worried she’s in shock,” Gina had whispered to Osborne and Lew when they first walked into the warm, well-lit kitchen. But Frances had refused to lie down. She insisted on being at the table.

  Josie, with bright eyes and a face that bordered on cute was two years younger and the opposite of her sister. Where Frances was lanky and awkward, her features cramped in a lopsided grimace, Josie was built much lower to the ground and so compact she reminded Osborne of a raccoon—but maybe that was because he still had Daisy on his mind.

  Her face was broad across the cheekbones and her skull more rounded with features softer, more symmetrical than her sister’s. While Frances seemed half dazed, Josie was alert, eyes darting from Lew to Frances to Gina, then Osborne and back to Lew. Every few seconds, she sipped from a cup of hot chocolate, which she grasped in both hands. Tiny dark hands.

  “Josie, you’re so calm,” said Lew after a few minutes. “This has been a hard day for you and Frances—first the tragedy for the Reece family and now this? Are you sure you’re all right? You know, being too calm can be a symptom of shock, too.”

  Josie, surprised by the question, straightened up in her chair and mustered a half-smile. “But what good would it do for me to like, totally lose it? I’m sorry Mrs. Taggert is … someone has to take care of me and Frances,” she glanced over at her sister, “and I don’t think right now that someone is Frances.”

  Lew gave her long, searching look before saying, “I understand your mother is back on the reservation …”

  “So?” The tone in Josie’s voice was challenging. “I’m not going back there.”

  Frances sat up and stared at her sister. “You didn’t tell me …”

  “I only heard yesterday from Mrs. Reece. Mildred told her,” said Josie, her voice escalating in defense.

  “Well,” said Lew. “How would you feel about calling her? You girls need a place to stay. I can talk to her probation officer and see if he feels that would be appropriate.” Frances shifted in her chair and the color started to come back into her face. She reached for the glass of water.

  “Not an option,” said Josie, her face tightening. “Anyway, I’ve already called our sister.”

  “Your sister?” said Lew. “You girls have another sister?”

  “Blue—I called Blue. She’s on her way over to get us. She said there’s room for us to stay with her and Andy at the Murphys’

  house.” As she spoke, her eyes glittered under the kitchen lights. It struck Osborne that the girl had the eyes of an animal, too. And something else. Raccoons are fierce when confronted. They don’t back down.

  “Chief Ferris,” said Osborne, thinking it wise to change the subject, “do you mind if I ask the girls a few questions for the death certificate?” He opened the file folder of documents and stared down at the blank lines on the top page. “I’ll do my best to take care of a few details here as quickly as possible.”

  “Please,” said Lew, “I’ll check on the status of things outside. The sheriff’s department said they would send over another deputy.” She was out the door before she had finished her sentence.

  “Okay, girls,” said Osborne. “I need Mrs. Taggert’s age, date of last birthday, immediate survivors besides yourselves. Close relatives …” The blank looks he got told him it would be fruitless to ask for much more than confirmation of Mildred’s name, address and phone number.

  “I know she has a will,” said Frances, looking a little stronger but talking in a soft, hesitant voice. “And she uses this one accountant for the taxes—his name is in the file cabinet by the cash register.”

  Josie looked at her sister with a stunned expression. “How do you know all that?”

  Frances averted her eyes and shifted her shoulders. “She had me doing the bookkeeping is all.” Josie continued to stare at her sister.

  “Oh yeah, well how come—”

  “How come what?” said Frances, her voice strong. Osborne hadn’t raised two daughters not to know when tempers were on edge.

  “Girls, look, let’s drop this for now—we’ll deal with this first thing in the morning. Frances, I’ll arrange with Chief Ferris for you to have access to the file cabinet and any documents—”

  But Frances was looking past him, through the kitchen window. She jumped to her feet and bolted out the door. A quick look through the window showed Osborne that the EMTs were about to lift Mildred’s body onto sheets they had laid across a stretcher. Frances was running towards them.

  “Gina, we better see what we can do to help,” said Osborne as he hurried from the kitchen.

  “Wait! You can’t go there,” cried Lew as Frances pushed past the EMTs.

  Too late. The girl threw herself onto her knees beside the body of the old woman and, fingers caressing the silver hair, she murmured in a voice so low that Osborne and Lew could barely make out her words: “I’ll take care of things. I’ll find Daisy for you. I’ll run the shop like you showed me. And whoever did this—they’ll pay. I’ll make them pay.”

  Before she could say more, Lew grasped the girl by the shoulders and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go, Frances,” she said, her voice kind but firm. “You and Josie come with me into the house so we can get you an overnight bag. I expect Blue will be here any moment.”

  CHAPTER 15

  It was nearly two a.m. before Osborne got to bed. The house was quiet, Mike lightly snoring and Osborne staring at the ceiling. He thought of everything left undone: Mildred’s death certificate and an extensive search of her house, the shop and the old barn. And that was only the beginning.

  Nor was it his list. It belonged to Loon Lake Chief of Police Lewellyn Ferris. Standing near her cruiser with a rueful smile, she had first apologized for ruining his holiday. “I’ll make it up to you,” she’d said. “Ralph Steadman called yesterday and invited me to go fly fishing in Jackson Hole next June—it’s an invitation for two. He’s owed a freebie from an outfitter there. All we have to pay is transportation there and back.”

  “Whoa,” said Osborne, “that sounds too good to be true.” Lew gave a happy shrug. “Give it a thought, Doc.”

  It was Ralph’s Sporting Goods that had connected Osborne with Lew two years earlier when Osborne had asked Ralph to recommend a fly fishing instructor. Ralph, the instrument of good fortune at that time, had turned out to be of questionable value since. Though married, he was often seen with ladies other than his spouse in expensive restaurants in Boulder Junction and Eagle

  River. Not likely venues for selling lures, minnows or trout flies. And Osborne was well aware that Lew got more than a passing glance and a bonus trout fly from the guy. But while she might laugh off Ralph’s flirtatious ways, guys know guys. Osborne would not miss that fishing trip.

  “I’ll have to check the calendar,” he’d said in a lame voice, knowing full well every day for the rest of his life was available.

  “Yeah, you do that, Doc,” said Lew with that funny smile of hers. She knew she had him hooked. Her eyes turned serious then
and she urged him to head home for some sleep in spite of what was left undone. “I’m planning on you helping out tomorrow, too, if that’s okay. Either that or I’ll have to have a panic attack,” she said with a laugh before kissing him goodnight.

  “With that list of yours, we should be in the office by four, five a.m. at the latest, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, not that early,” she punched him in the arm. “See you at seven.” Her laughter and the unexpected invitation got him all the way home with a light heart.

  He scrunched the pillow under his right ear, then under his left, then back again. He lay on his back, staring up. He told himself that if he didn’t sleep, rest alone would be good. He decided to let his mind drift to where he had hoped to be: in Lewellyn Ferris’s double bed, the old brass bedstead with the quilt her grandmother had made and the crisp sheets under which she loved to sleep naked. Even when he was there. A nice thought. but it didn’t lead to sleep.

  He gave up. He put on a pot of coffee, let Mike out onto the frost-covered grass in the backyard and pulled his winter parka on over his thermal long underwear. Pouring a mug of coffee before the pot had finished filling, he made a mess on the hot plate and dabbed at it with paper towels.

  The stone stairs that led down to his dock were glazed with ice, forcing him to hold onto the banister with one hand. A mist had fallen and November seemed ready at last to let winter in. Though it was hours before dawn, the sky was suffused with a glow from the moon wherever it was hidden. Standing on the dock and gazing around, he felt he was looking into heaven—the lake brimming with a dove grey cumulus bordered in blue. The surface was still: iridescent, deep and serene. The water had seduced the sky.

  He heard a swish and looked down. He saw a face and hands. A person swimming up from beneath the opaque surface but unable to push through. Water sprayed and a huge northern pike leapt at him, shivered in the icy air and fell back. Dead.

  He woke to a soft snore from the dog. It took a full minute to convince himself that he was under his own blankets, in his own home, safe.

  CHAPTER 16

  Osborne arrived at McDonald’s shortly after six a.m. Only two of his regular coffee buddies were waiting in the usual booth. “These November mornings are too darn chilly, way too easy to sleep in,” said Herb Anderson, retired mill manager and Osborne’s former duck hunting partner. Always a long, lanky man, Herb struck Osborne as growing thinner and longer with age. Every time he saw the skinny guy he would remember sitting in freezing duck blinds, fingers clutching a thermos for warmth. That was one sport he sure as hell didn’t miss.

  “Yep,” said buddy number two, Jim Craigemeier, “we’re the diehards. We’re the crazy ones, doncha know.” Jim, more rotund than he should be, completely bald and widowed like Osborne, had recently retired from the accounting firm, now run by his sons, that he had started right around the time Osborne opened his dental practice. With offices across the street from one another—and Jim’s located above Marty’s Bar—the two men had shared way too many end-of-work-day brewskis.

  “Morning, Jim,” said Osborne, sliding into the booth with a large coffee in hand. “Say, didn’t you used to do tax returns for Mildred Taggert?”

  “Still do. She’s one of thirty clients I’ve held on to. Been doin’ their taxes for years and Milly’s one of ‘em. Why?”

  Osborne shared the details of the night before and when he was finished the two men stared at him, mouths open. “Mildred Taggert?” Herb blinked. “That woman kept a shotgun under her cash register. No way she got robbed—unless someone jumped her. Mildred didn’t trust anyone, you know that. How the hell—”

  “Well it happened,” said Osborne. “What mystifies me is the fact she was shot and no one heard gunfire,” said Osborne. “One neighbor thought he heard a backfire is all. How does that happen? In city limits, no less.”

  “You know what, Doc,” said Jim, pausing to rip the edge off a packet of sugar and dump it into his coffee, “I’ll tell ya exactly how it happens.” He shook his right index finger at Osborne, “I would bet you every weekend I hear what sound like gunshots—but they’re these damn kids shootin’ off fireworks.

  “You know my place up on the river there. We have city streets, city water. I’m not out in the country. And we’ve got all that noise. Take a look around—see all the fireworks stands we got now? They’re everywhere! Year ‘round. Used to be you only saw ‘em Fourth of July. Most of what they sell is illegal—I think. But that doesn’t stop anyone. Hell, some kids in my neighborhood were shooting ‘em off last night. Thanksgiving, for crissake.”

  Herb, shaking his head, said, “Now who would pick on poor old Mildred? An old woman for heaven’s sake.”

  “And they shot her pet raccoon,” said Osborne. “It wasn’t until I mentioned that to Chief Ferris that it occurred to me that killing her pet might have been a warning to Mildred. Who knows? Maybe that was just a coincidence and not the same person. Likely not, now that I think about it. Not the same gun anyway. Looked to me like a .22-caliber pistol was used on the animal. Ray found a couple bullets dropped, we think, by the person pulling the robbery—.233-caliber.”

  “Oh, jeez,” said Herb. “One of those black rifles. My son-in-law has one of those.”

  “I doubt your son-in-law was lurking in Mildred’s parking lot last night.”

  “Of course not, but a lotta the guys he hunts with got those guns.”

  The three men sat silent over their tall paper cups of hot coffee, mulling the bad news.

  “So, Jim,” said Osborne after a few sips, “would you happen to know if Mildred kept much cash in the store?”

  Jim took a swig of his coffee. “Always looked to me like she kept a cash drawer with no more than what she needed. Years in the business taught her that. She made deposits twice a week. I know because when it came time to do her taxes, the books she kept were meticulous. You don’t know what a pleasure it is to do that woman’s taxes.”

  “Spoken as a true accountant,” said Herb with a chortle. “Who the hell else does taxes for fun?” Jim gave him the dim eye.

  “Any idea who her lawyer might be?” said Osborne, anxious to cross one item off Lew’s list.

  “No lawyer that I know of, why?”

  “Well, I need more information for the death certificate than the Dark Sky sisters have been able to tell me so far.”

  “Why didn’t you say so right away, Doc? I’ve got everything you need.”

  Osborne gave Jim a startled look. “You do? How’s that?”

  “Guess I’ve been the closest thing she’s ever had to a business manager. Between the two of us, we kept all her deeds and tax records in a safety deposit box and I have one of the two keys. She wanted me to have it. Just in case, y’know.”

  “Do you know if there’s information in there on relatives we need to contact?”

  “That old lady was married once many years ago. No children. Divorced the guy. Don’t know his name—she mentioned him only once as ‘that sonofabitch.’ You know Mildred turned ninety-three this year.”

  “Jim, I know nothing. Is there any legal reason I shouldn’t get this documentation from you? Those poor girls—”

  “Whoa, hold on, my friend. Those ‘poor’ girls are not so poor. At least one isn’t.”

  Osborne studied his friend’s face. He thought of Daisy and of Mildred’s collection of stuffed raccoons, of Josie and her tiny little hands. “Let me guess, she left her estate to the young one—Josie.”

  “Now what makes you think that?”

  “Because she’s a charmer.”

  “That may be true, but Mildred told me she was lazy. She had me witness a new will for her last spring. Divided her estate in two: half goes to Frances Dark Sky, the other half to an animal rescue shelter. Not a penny for Miss Josie.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” said Herb. “I recall Mildred buying some land from the mill years back. Likely that’s worth a pretty penny.”

  “
She owned land here and in Rhinelander that she did real well with,” said Jim. “You could learn a lot from old Mildred if you just paid attention. She sold a couple parcels to Wal-Mart, some to Home Depot. Doc, that land was tag alder swamp when you and I first moved here. But Mildred was canny—had a real eye for spotting traffic patterns. Always thinking ahead. Yep. One smart lady.” Jim nodded his head in approval, then sipped from his coffee.

  “Jim,” said Osborne, “just answer Herb’s question—how much?”

  “I’d say Miss Frances Dark Sky woke up this morning worth something close to a million maybe.”

  “Holy cow,” said Herb.

  Osborne was stunned. “Do you think those girls had any idea how much their foster mother was worth?” said Osborne.

  “I doubt it,” said Jim. “Far as I’m aware, Mildred and myself are the only parties who knew her net worth. She never used a banker, even when she bought property. Paid cash. She made me sign an agreement I would never discuss her finances unless she died or gave me permission.

  “You know, Doc, there is something funny about all this. Mildred called me last week. She asked if I had my key for the safety deposit box and would I mind putting a letter in the box for her. Her arthritis had gotten so bad she didn’t like leaving the shop. So I took care of that for her.”

  “Did you read the letter?”

  “No, I did not. Never did anything she didn’t ask me to. But she did say she was keeping a copy in the shop somewhere as well.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Lew was on the phone when Osborne walked into her office. Even though it was early—only seven thirty—the papers strewn across her desk made it obvious she had been in for at least an hour already.

  “Very good, Miriam,” Lew was saying as she glanced up at Osborne, “I appreciate your cooperation. Tomorrow then. Ten a.m. at your home.” She hung up, rolled her chair back and slapped both hands on top of the papers in front of her. “Doc, making headway here. That was Miriam Murphy, mother of Blue’s fiancé. The family is catching a flight this evening and will be ready to meet with us in the morning. Do you mind joining me for that last round of questioning the party guests?”