Dead Firefly

by Victoria Houston

  “Okay,” said the officer, “here’s what to look for. The thieves who know what they’re doing go after young birch that are ten to fifteen years old, about two to four inches in diameter, and ten to eighteen feet tall. They take those and leave the stumps.

  “Chief Ferris, the wind does not leave sawn-off stumps. Is the area you’re talking about pretty secluded?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes,” said Lew, “which is why I haven’t walked back in there.”

  “Can someone get a four-wheeler or a truck in there without you seeing?”

  Lew nodded. “Easily.”

  “Then get out there and take a good look at your land. You may not be happy with what you find—or don’t find.” With a grim smile, the officer turned to take another question.

  “How long does it take for the birches to grow back?” asked a woman who was sitting close to where Osborne was standing at the back of the room. He had hesitated to approach Lew during this part of the discussion. He knew she wanted to hear every word; he did, too.

  “That’s part of the problem. Assuming a birch sapling isn’t squeezed out by fast-growing aspen and other aggressive shrubs, it will take a good ten to fifteen years for that tree to grow back. And the shame, aside from the obvious damage to property, is that losing young birch hurts the deer that browse on young forests along with songbirds like pine siskins and chickadees, for whom the young twigs, buds, and seeds are a critical food source.

  “Folks, we’re talking about an illegal harvest of potentially monumental proportions and one that will have a long-term negative impact on our northwoods’ environment. We need your help badly.”

  * * *

  Lew was sitting straight up, eyes and ears glued to the discussion, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. “Lew?” Osborne whispered from where he was standing near an empty chair behind her. He beckoned with one finger for her to follow him out of the room. The expression in his eyes alarmed her and she got to her feet even as she kept her eyes on the slides being shown on the large screen at the front of the room.

  “What is it, Doc?” she asked once they were outside the meeting room. He spoke fast.

  “Okay,” said Lew, “I’ll be out to your place as soon as I can alert the office where I’ll be.”

  “Good,” said Osborne, “see you there.” He hurried toward the door to the parking lot.

  Reluctant to leave the presentation on the birch trees but understanding Osborne’s concern, Lew stepped back into the conference room and picked up a printout with the DNR officer’s name and contact information. She had heard enough to know she needed to get home to her farm and check out the back forty as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Striding into Osborne’s kitchen with a harried look on her face, Lew yanked a kitchen chair out from under the table and plunked herself down. Her obvious frustration, which was unlike her, worried Osborne. This was a woman he had known to tackle the most exhausting, if not dangerous, situations with a stoicism he had to admire. Right now, if something was bothering her, he was sure it had to be his fault.

  “Sorry about asking you to drive all the way out here, Lew, but I know this is serious. Chuck isn’t the type of person to overreact.”

  “Doc, I know you well enough to trust your judgment,” said Lew, leaning forward, elbows on the table, fingers intertwined. “Believe me, I am very interested in what he has to say. And I want to check out his property—the driveway in particular.

  “I hate to say this,” she said, sitting back with an apologetic shake of her head, “but your friend’s wife could indeed be having an affair with this Maxwell person, and the two of them could indeed have been rushing to get her home before her husband suspected anything. But trying to run him over? That could have happened by accident. It wouldn’t be the first time. . . .”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Osborne, knowing as he spoke that he doubted Lew’s scenario. But he didn’t argue. They would find out soon enough. Instead, he set two cold cups of coffee in the microwave, hit the START button, and sat down to join her at the kitchen table.

  Lew shifted in her chair to sit sideways with her left elbow resting on the tabletop. She crossed and uncrossed her legs three times. “You’re nervous,” said Osborne. “Is it this meeting with Chuck? I’ve never seen you so jumpy.”

  “No, it isn’t your friend.” A morose look swept across Lew’s face. “But once I have a better handle on what’s happening with him, I need to run out to my place. I think I’m one of the people who’ve had birch trees cut down and stolen. In fact, the more I think about it, the surer I am. But,” she said with a wave of her hand, “that damage is done. Getting there sooner rather than later won’t make a difference, so I need to settle down. Is that coffee ready?”

  “Not sure that’s the answer,” said Osborne with an understanding pat on her shoulder as he handed her a cup of hot coffee.

  * * *

  The New York hedge fund had arranged for Gordon Maxwell and Chuck Pelletier to lease a small office building abutting the Partridge Lodge development properties. The building, less than ten years old, had decent Internet and phone systems—a benefit for which Chuck gave thanks every time he walked in. Good cell service, not to mention a reliable Internet connection, was hardly the norm in the northwoods, where you can drive a quarter mile and lose even your ability to call 911.

  Hurrying into the conference room just minutes before New York was scheduled to call, Chuck was relieved to see that Gordon wasn’t there. No surprise, really. Gordon liked to brag to investors and contractors that “I’m the big-picture guy. My buddy, Chuck here, handles the small stuff, the day-to-day bullshit. You know how it goes. All those details can get so complicated they get in the way of critical decision making.”

  Too complicated? Really? Chuck kept his mouth shut but each time he heard Gordon say that, he wondered if the real reason was that the man couldn’t read—much less understand—financial statements.

  Not having Gordon on the conference call that morning was also fine with Chuck because it meant he wouldn’t have to listen to the excuses he suspected would be made regarding the episode earlier that morning: “Hell, Chuck, you got that blind curve on your driveway. I didn’t see you till the last minute. . . .”

  And why was Patti in his car? Chuck found it easy to imagine that excuse: “On my way to the office, she waved me down in front of the fitness center—her battery was dead. Just being a Good Samaritan, y’know.”

  If he’d been forced to listen to that baloney, Chuck would have nodded in understanding, hiding the fact that he knew the truth. In one fleeting instant he had seen the look of grim determination on Gordon Maxwell’s face as he drove at him: the man had known exactly what he was doing.

  Waiting for the call from the hedge fund executives, Chuck struggled to get his mind on the reports in front of him. Experience had taught him the health of a project was in the details—“the small stuff.” A long career as “the numbers guy” on the building of seven hotels, two airports, twelve churches, and numerous commercial buildings had taught him what to look at and why.

  Unlike Gordon, he prided himself on being an expert on reading financial reports. More than once his expertise in discovering buried cost overruns and kickback schemes had saved a project from going bankrupt.

  As it was, one bridge and connecting roadway under construction for the Partridge Lodge development had caught his attention: the cost of supplies and contractor fees were mounting at such a rate that he had half-humorously called Gordon on it saying, “These costs are so high, makes me wonder—are we building a bridge to nowhere?” Gordon, who had recommended that particular contractor, had promised to look into it.

  Once the conference call started, Chuck was able to focus as he and the two financial managers who were based in the hedge fund’s home office reviewed the status of construction under way on the main lodge, a network of new roads being designed to look like ancient logging lanes, a
n assortment of service buildings, two stream-rebuilding projects, and three bridges—along with the contractor fees, invoices for supplies, bids needing to be posted, and, finally, the selection of construction materials made by various contractors.

  Here was where Chuck kept a close eye in order to flag kickbacks. It wasn’t unusual for a contractor to bill for quality goods but, instead, purchase substandard materials and pocket the difference. Chuck knew he wasn’t popular among some of the local contractors when he questioned such purchases, but it wasn’t his job to be liked.

  One of the finance guys on the call mentioned the high cost of the bridge that Chuck had questioned. “Yes, I’m wondering about those costs, too,” said Chuck. “I’ve asked Gordon to look into it, as he signed that contract. Should hear something in the next day or two.”

  Once the call ended, and even though Chuck knew he needed to get back to Osborne’s ASAP, there was one last item he wanted to check on while Gordon was out of the office.

  He pulled up Gordon Maxwell’s résumé: the one posted on the Partridge Lodge website, the one designed to impress potential investors and, eventually, guests willing to pay twenty-five-hundred dollars a night to sleep, eat, hunt, or fish at the Partridge Lodge. At Chuck’s request, his secretary had been able to find an e-mail address for one of Gordon’s partners on a past project—a condo complex with an attached shopping mall in Naples, Florida, which (according to Gordon) was a huge financial success.

  After identifying himself and his role in the Partridge Lodge project, Chuck e-mailed a series of questions to the former partner. Hiding his questions in wording that was matter-of-fact and businesslike, he hoped to learn if Gordon Maxwell had been the “big-picture guy” on that project, too. Deliberately disengaged from the day-to-day details, the nitty-gritty of finances and planning? How had they used his talent for planning such a massive undertaking?

  Of course the questions he really wanted to ask but didn’t dare were just two: Did Gordon Maxwell’s résumé exaggerate his role in the Florida project? Had he lied?

  To cover his reason for e-mailing the partner, Chuck explained that he was leading a review of the Partridge Lodge project’s organizational chart and wanted to be sure the management team maximized Gordon’s role.

  After sending that e-mail and as he was heading for his car in the garage, Chuck made a mental note to call his lawyer immediately after the meeting with Doc Osborne and Chief Ferris. For the first time since his marriage to Patti, he had the urge to be sure his daughters were protected financially should something happen to him. Molly and Jessica didn’t need to find that Patti, his wife of less than two years, had inherited the bulk of his assets.

  * * *

  It wasn’t only what had happened that morning that had him thinking about Patti and their marriage. In the last few months, he had been learning more about her in little ways. For example, her hysterics when he criticized her for spending twenty thousand dollars on a stove they didn’t need. “Honestly, Chuck,” she had wept, “you can’t expect me to be a good cook on an electric stove!”

  While he agreed she was an excellent cook—early in their relationship her apple pie had been way too seductive—he knew gas stoves didn’t have to cost that much. Nor did they really need to spend a hundred thousand dollars on furniture for the new house. After all, he and Lois had owned beautiful antiques, furniture he loved and that was now buried in the basement.

  But maybe it was discovering that while he loved to read books on the outdoors, on history and politics, even crime fiction—Patti devoured romance novels. Only romance novels. When she wasn’t watching Real Housewives on TV.

  Small grievances, he knew, but they were adding up to feelings of resentment if not downright dislike. Until this morning he had been trying not to admit the obvious: he had made a big mistake.

  * * *

  Chuck hurried into the office building’s attached garage, where he was privileged to have one of three parking spaces for senior executives. Parking in the garage kept his car out of the hot sun, which he appreciated, since he liked to keep a fly rod, his fly-fishing vest, and a couple boxes of trout flies in the SUV—always hoping to escape the workday for an hour or two of fly-fishing.

  Reaching for the door on the driver’s side, he was surprised to find it unlocked. He must have been so preoccupied that morning he forgot to lock it, something he usually did automatically. As he slid into the driver’s seat he checked his watch. Good, he would be back at Osborne’s within twenty minutes.

  After latching his seat belt, he was reaching overhead for the button that opened the electric garage door when he felt something hard and cold press against the back of his neck.

  A nasal whisper he didn’t recognize gave him directions.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  When forty-five minutes had passed and they were still sitting at the kitchen table with no sign of Chuck, Osborne was ready to give up. “Damn it, Lew,” he said. “I am so sorry about this. I was sure Chuck would be here by now.”

  He picked up their empty coffee cups and set them in the sink. “I’ll try his office and cell phone once more and if I don’t reach him this time, you should go.”

  When Chuck didn’t answer his cell phone, Osborne tried the office number. “No, Dr. Osborne, Mr. Pelletier hasn’t been back,” said the secretary after Osborne apologized for calling her a third time. “Like I said before, he left the office over an hour ago.”

  Setting down his cell phone, Osborne glanced over at Lew before saying, “Something doesn’t feel right. He was so shaken this morning. I’m sure he would call me if he’s changed his mind.”

  “Doc, so much emotion is involved in situations like this,” said Lew. “Could be he wants to sit down and talk with his wife before he raises legal issues that could complicate both their lives. You don’t accuse someone of attempted murder without being sure. . . .”

  “I know, I know,” said Osborne. “Look, you go check on your property and I’ll drive over to Chuck’s place. I’d like to be sure he’s okay.”

  “No. That is not wise, Dr. Osborne,” said Lew, addressing Osborne in the tone she used for bad actors. “This is a couple who may be having a hard time and you need to stay out of it. If there’s anything those of us in law enforcement approach with extreme care, it’s domestic disturbances.” Osborne got the message.

  “Promise me you’ll wait here until you hear from your friend. Okay? Agreed?” Osborne nodded and Lew got to her feet. He could tell she was anxious to get out to her place.

  “Agreed, Chief Ferris,” said Osborne with a rueful smile. “I’ll call you the minute I hear from him.”

  Osborne watched Lew’s cruiser back out of his driveway. He decided to wait thirty more minutes before trying Chuck’s cell for the fourth time. But half an hour later, there was still no answer.

  That’s it, thought Osborne, I’ll just drive by the house and see if his car is there. If the car is there, I’ll relax and mind my own business.

  But there was no “driving by” the Pelletier home, as it was set back so far from the main road that neither house nor garage could be seen. A stand of pines hid the property from anyone driving along the main road.

  Osborne decided to drive in a short ways, enough to get a quick look. That was a mistake. As he came around a blind curve, he found himself in front of the house, where Patti was watering pots of petunias lining the sidewalk. She glanced up with a smile and waved.

  Too late, thought Osborne. He better come up with a good story. Also, he wondered if Chuck’s car might be in the garage, the entrance to which faced away from the front of the house.

  “Hello, Doc,” called Patti as he got out of his car. “What brings you out here? Chuck isn’t home. You can find him at the office.”

  “I tried there but he was out,” said Osborne. “I was hoping he was here so we could finish planning a fishing trip up to the Middle Ontonagon River this Saturday.” It was a lie but it worked.

  *
* *

  Osborne did not find Chuck’s wife attractive. He had met her only twice before and each time he couldn’t help but notice her eyes, which appeared bulbous under streaks of black lining the lids top and bottom. Her eyebrows were penciled on with the same heavy black line. That plus a long nose over lips smeared an unnatural shade of scarlet prompted an unkind thought: the woman reminded him of a monkey.

  Before retiring from his practice, when he had female patients who wore that much makeup, he had the urge—also unkind—to caution them about getting in a boat. Mrs. So-and-so, he would think to himself, if you were to go overboard wearing all those cosmetics, you might sink.

  * * *

  Osborne turned back to his car, ready to leave, now that he knew Chuck wasn’t home. But Patti had other plans. After setting down her watering can, she sidled over to him, gazing up with a coy smile, eyes lowered seductively. Osborne found the coyness irritating. All he had wanted to know was if her husband was home.

  “Chuck should be home for lunch soon. Come on out to the patio—let me get you an iced tea,” she said, batting the awful eyes.

  “Thanks, Patti, but I’ll check with him later,” said Osborne, climbing into his car. He put the car into reverse, gave a quick wave, and headed back down the long, curving driveway toward the main road.

  Now he was more worried. Where was his friend?

  The house sat on five acres and he knew from a previous visit with Chuck that there was a back road that led to a small, abandoned barn. They had walked the road one day and Chuck had shown him the barn. It was where he stored two float tubes and an impressive collection of fly-fishing gear. He had even outfitted a small room for tying trout flies: “Quiet out here, Doc. No TV.” It was obvious he used the barn as a retreat.