Dead Firefly

by Victoria Houston

  She would never forget the last time she had seen Lorraine before today: it was the day her divorce was final and she had stopped to say goodbye to the mother-in-law who had always treated her with kindness. As she left Lorraine’s house that day, she was aware that all she had in the world was twenty-six dollars, two kids, and a dog. Oh, and a job as a secretary at the mill for which she had just been hired. But that was then.

  No regrets.

  * * *

  Pushing aside the memories, Lew forced herself to focus on Lorraine’s words.

  “. . . So I couldn’t find their names,” the woman was saying, “but I found this.” She was reaching into her purse when there was a tentative knock on the door before it was eased open. Osborne stood in the doorway, a questioning look on his face. This was the time each day when he would stop in for one last cup of coffee after an hour of coffee with his buddies at McDonald’s.

  “Too busy today, Chief?” he asked from the doorway.

  “Come on in, Doc,” said Lew. She introduced him to Lorraine and said, “Dr. Osborne is helping us with another investigation, but he knows so many people in Loon Lake that let’s tell him what happened to you, in case someone he knows might be able to help.”

  Lorraine had pulled a newspaper photo from her purse and held it in her lap for the few moments it took her to explain to Osborne where her property was and how the two men had pressured her to sell for so little money or risk having it condemned.

  Osborne listened and then said, “It’s interesting that they approached you to sell. Sounds like your land abuts the NFR development—”

  “What’s that?” asked Lorraine.

  “The Northern Forest Resorts development—the area where the Partridge Lodge Fishing and Hunting Preserve is being built. I wonder if they aren’t thinking they can sell your land at a nice profit to that group. Boy oh boy, too bad you don’t have the names of those two real estate agents. Are you sure you don’t have documentation of your sale?”

  Lew signaled him with her eyes. She would let him know later that Lorraine, who had to be over eighty years old, was not only forgetful but also might have more serious cognitive memory problems. “Lorraine has a good friend who is helping her go through papers and things, Doc,” she said.

  “Oh, but I do have this.” Lorraine held out a photo from the local shopper. “I found this yesterday when my friend and I were clipping coupons—that’s one of the men. The man on the right.”

  She handed the photo across the desk to Lew. Osborne walked around to look over Lew’s shoulder. The photo was of two men standing side by side at a Rotary luncheon. Lew studied the photo, then shook her head. “Not familiar to me. You know him, Doc?”

  * * *

  Even though the page of newsprint was creased through the center of the photo, Osborne had no difficulty recognizing the guy in the business suit. Standing much shorter than the man to his left, the individual who bought Lorraine’s land had a distinct appearance: he had a head full of dark wavy hair that appeared to stand a good three inches straight up from his forehead. And, if Osborne had to guess based on the one time they had met, it was fixed in place with a spray of concrete-strength mousse.

  The hair was the defining feature as the eyes were dark and close set and the nose and chin firm in a bland Caucasian sort of way. Although his petite size also made him memorable—at least enough that one of Osborne’s McDonald’s buddies, who had met the man at a Chamber of Commerce meeting honoring the presidents and CEOs of local firms, had chortled over coffee the next morning: “I couldn’t believe the guy—he wears lifts in the heels of his shoes. Kid you not.”

  * * *

  Osborne looked up from the photo. “I know the man,” he said, “I’ve seen him once. We met about two months ago. I was picking Chuck up at his office for an evening of fly fishing and Chuck introduced us—that’s Gordon Maxwell.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Osborne asked Lew after Lorraine had left.

  “Need to know more about our friend Maxwell,” said Lew. “Did you recognize the man in the photo with him?”

  “No, but that could have been a candid photo shot at the luncheon, with those two having no connection other than standing in line at the salad bar. Let’s make a copy of that photo and I’ll show it to my friend Herm. He’s in Rotary, he’ll know.”

  “Are you feeling better, Doc?” asked Lew with a touch on his elbow.

  Osborne tried to grin. “A little. I do realize Chuck was bound and determined to handle that conference call, but that’s the last time I act against my better judgment. So don’t try any funny stuff, Lewellyn.” Again the attempt at a grin.

  “You’re a good man, Doc,” said Lew, buckling on her gun, walkie-talkie, and cell phone. “Let’s go meet the daughter. She wants to see where her father died.”

  * * *

  As Osborne pulled his Subaru up next to Lew’s cruiser, he saw a young woman standing with Bruce near the entrance to the barn. Also, off to one side, was Patti Pelletier. She appeared to be watching as Bruce was explaining something to the young woman.

  On seeing Osborne get out of his car, the young woman walked toward him, her arms out. Without a word she embraced him, then stood back and said, “I’m Molly Pelletier, Dr. Osborne. My dad told me so much about you. You really helped him, you know?” She wiped away tears. “He needed a friend and you were someone he could trust. Thank you.”

  “I am so sorry—”

  “S-h-h-h, no more,” she said. “Dad’s gone and what I have to do now is find out why. Mr. Peters was just filling me in on how Dad died. Now I want to see where.” Shoulders back, Molly turned to Bruce, who had been waiting. “Show me the entry and exit route again, please?”

  “Me, too,” said Patti from where she was standing off to the right.

  “No,” said Molly, turning on her. “You stay far away from me—and from Jessie. We want nothing to do with you. Understand?”

  “But . . . the funeral?” Patti’s voice faltered.

  “I’m handling it. You keep your goddamn nose out.”

  “But, legally . . .” Patti’s voice was growing fainter with each word.

  “He’s my father and if you get in the way, I’ll see that you get nothing out of his will. It was never signed, you know. I checked. He’s never made a will at all; he never felt he had to when he was married to our mother.”

  Osborne wasn’t completely convinced that she was right about that—it seemed odd to him that Chuck had never thought about such things when his kids were young—but her words certainly had the desired effect. With a stricken look on her face, Patti leaned back against the barn. She made no move to follow Molly, Lew, and Bruce Peters into the barn.

  Entering the barn after the others, Osborne was impressed with Molly’s strength. It wasn’t just that she was so well spoken but she looked strong, too. She was of medium height and sturdy with solid bone structure and the muscles of an athlete—a hockey player perhaps? Maybe soccer. She reminded him of Lew: a woman who carried weight but not fat; a face open, honest, attractive but not pretty, at least not in a traditional way; and a voice that echoed authority.

  Molly gazed down at the diagram that outlined where her father had fallen. She looked around the room. “Something’s missing,” she said.

  Bruce and Lew looked at her quizzically. “See that empty hook on the wall there?” She pointed to a hook in the midst of a display of unusual pieces of driftwood. “Dad collected driftwood from all over and one we found together one year when we were sailing on Chesapeake Bay is gone. That’s odd.”

  “Maybe your stepmother knows—”

  “No. She was never allowed in here.”

  “Isn’t that rather odd?” asked Lew.

  Concerned that Patti was standing right outside the barn, Molly lowered her voice. “My dad was so lonely after my mother died that he married too soon. You know, he and Patti have only been married about a year and a ha
lf. Right after they moved here, he called me. He said he had made a mistake, but it wasn’t her fault.

  “You have to know that my parents loved to fly-fish together. Dad had so many wonderful memories from those days and he decided to make this room his way to spend time with my mom. Sad, I know, but I like to think those hours made him happy.”

  “What did the piece of driftwood look like? Maybe it’s around here somewhere,” said Bruce.

  “It looks like a cane—a long, smooth piece of wood with a round knob on one end. Dad and I thought it looked like the leg bone of some prehistoric monster,” said Molly with a laugh. “It’s old-growth wood that is waterlogged and heavy as a rock—so tough you can’t even carve on it.”

  As they walked out of the barn, Molly asked Lew, “When do you think the crime lab will return Dad’s body? My sister and I need to make arrangements for him to be cremated.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Bruce before Lew could answer. “I talked with our pathologist and forensic tech today. I’m sure Chief Ferris and Dr. Osborne can help you with those decisions.” He glanced over at Lew who nodded in agreement.

  “Dr. Osborne?” asked Molly. “Would you mind if I stopped by to talk to you later? You were the last person to see my dad alive and—”

  “I would like that, Molly,” said Osborne. “I’ll give you my address. In fact, why don’t you come to my place for dinner this evening?”

  “My sister is getting in later this afternoon. Would it be all right if she came along?”

  “I’d like to be included,” said Lew. “Doc and I fish together and I met your father several times. If you don’t mind, I may ask you and your sister some questions regarding your family history and recent conversations you and your father may have had.”

  “Anything we can do to help you figure this out,” said Molly. She stepped closer to Osborne and leaned up to whisper, “Please don’t include my stepmother.”

  “That’ll be fine,” said Osborne louder than necessary and hoping Patti, still leaning against the barn but watching everyone, hadn’t heard Molly’s request.

  * * *

  Ray kept his boat at a low throttle as he made pretend to search for the right spot to anchor off the submerged sandbar in the middle of the lake, the “honey hole” for walleye that had served him and his clients well until “those three goombahs from Milwaukee” had closed in on him.

  He had gotten on the water shortly after three that afternoon, having completed shooting everything around the Pelletier property, both barn and outdoors, that Lew and Bruce had wanted. An official photographer from the Wausau Crime Lab had since taken over the photography to work with Bruce while he directed the on-site investigations of the house and Chuck’s office.

  Ray wasn’t unhappy to see the pesky fishermen. He had a plan: they would see him leave after an hour, return to his dock, and tie up his boat. What they wouldn’t see was Ray grab his tackle box and muskie rod, throw them in the back of his pickup, and drive up to the boat landing over on Silver Bass Lake.

  Late the night before, he had arranged to borrow a boat from his buddy, Emil Hjelt, and from there he would find his way to Osborne’s secret pool on the Loon River. He couldn’t wait. It took all the patience he could muster to stay anchored for a full hour, but if he didn’t, the three idiots wouldn’t believe he was giving up for the day.

  Once at the Silver Bass landing, he climbed into Emil’s fishing boat, started the outboard, and headed up across the lake and through the channel under the county highway. The river was calm and the boat sped along with a low murmur. Ray scanned the shoreline for the eagles’ nest, found it, and cut the motor. He would row the rest of the way so he could study the weed beds below, look for sunken logs that might damage a propeller, and mentally prepare for a fine afternoon of fishing.

  When he felt lined up, he dropped anchor, stood up, and cast. The bucktail sailed high and landed in with a soft “plop.” Just above the spot where the lure had landed, Ray saw movement. A man was squatting on all fours on a rock not fifty yards away.

  “Great—another goddamn nosy son-of-a-bitch,” said Ray under his breath. He couldn’t believe his bad luck.

  The man onshore waved and shouted across the water, “Can I ask you something?”

  Ray retrieved his lure, set down the muskie rod, and dipping the oars into the water, he made his way slowly, diagonally toward the shoreline, taking care not to cross the pool into which he had hoped to cast. As he neared the figure on the rock, he could see the man was dressed in khaki shorts and a T-shirt. He had fair skin and hair and when he stood he appeared to be about Ray’s height but likely older.

  “Thank you,” said the man, walking toward Ray, who was still sitting in the boat. “I want to know what you are fishing for if you don’t mind.” He stuck his hand out. “Peter Bailey from New Zealand. Thinking about fishing here but not sure what I’m after. We got salmon and trout down under.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Ray, relieved at the sound of the stranger’s accent. “Whereabouts in New Zealand?” he asked as he climbed out of the boat and reached to shake the newcomer’s hand. He was open to chatting now that he could tell the man was only after simple information. In fact, maybe—if he handled this well—he might even have a new client.

  “North Island. Are you familiar with New Zealand?”

  “Not really,” said Ray, “hear about it on the news once in a while. You have earthquakes, don’t you?” Before the man could answer, Ray decided to pitch his services. “I’m fishing for muskie, which is a trophy fish in these parts. Hard to catch. The females are the big ones and we call ’em ‘the fish of ten thousand casts.’

  “Not to sound immodest, by the way”—he introduced his signature pause—“but . . . I’m a local . . . expert. For example, this afternoon, if . . . all goes well and the wind is to my back and . . . the good Lord overhead . . . I might land a forty-incher weighing over twenty pounds.” He waited for the look of astonishment sure to cross Peter Bailey’s face.

  “I get brown trout weighing twenty-two pounds.”

  “No. Trout? That big?” Ray was the one astonished.

  “Yes, and I understand the trout around here are much smaller. . . .”

  “I got people you need to meet,” said Ray. “No kidding. A twenty-two-pound trout? Then why the hell are you fishing in the northwoods of Wisconsin for God’s sake?”

  “Working up here for the Northern Forest Resorts operation. I’m designing their fly-fishing preserve.”

  “You mean the Partridge Lodge development?”

  “Right. We have some extraordinary hunting and fishing lodges like the Huka Lodge outside Taupo on the North Island. That’s my field—designing preserves like that. When I leave here, there’s a new place in Montana I’ll be working on. I’ll be in the States another nine months or so.”

  “Did you know the fella that was killed yesterday?” asked Ray.

  “What are you talking about? I haven’t heard a thing. I took yesterday and today off to get in some hiking, which is how I found my way here. Have had my phone off, too. So, tell me, who was killed? And how? An accident?”

  “The CFO for the company you’re working for—Chuck Pelletier. He was found dead late yesterday morning. The medical examiner has pretty much said it was foul play. Do you know the guy?”

  Peter gave Ray a long, searching look. “How do you know this?”

  Ray raised a hand, as if to excuse what he was about to say. “It’s a long story but I’m often deputized to help with investigations. I’m not a bad photographer so the Loon Lake Police will have me shoot a crime scene since the nearest crime lab is an hour away in Wausau and, since we have a woman chief of police, the crime lab director likes to drag his feet responding to her requests.”

  Ray grinned. “I help her get around that razzbonya by not letting so much time go by that trace evidence gets compromised. Chief Ferris appreciates my efforts enough that she doesn’t bug me if I have a joint or two.”


  Peter did not return Ray’s grin. Instead his eyes had darkened. “So you were there this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ray,” Peter spoke deliberately, “this man who was killed is someone with whom I have been working closely. We were scheduled to meet tomorrow and I’m hoping he wasn’t killed because . . .” He paused. “I should meet with your authorities.”

  Ray shrugged. “I hear you, man. Much as I was planning to cast a bucktail or two, I think you better come with me. Got a car nearby?”

  “No. I hiked down here from where I’m staying, next-door to the offices where Chuck was working.”

  “Got a backpack or anything? You’re coming with me in the boat after I make this call.”

  * * *

  Lew answered her personal cell phone, spoke with Ray, and then turned to Bruce. “Looks like you better follow me to Doc’s place. Ray just met up with someone who may know something related to Pelletier’s death.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Osborne sat down in the IT office assigned to Dani to watch her scroll through the e-mails in Chuck’s laptop computer. “Tell me if you see one you want me to pause so you can read it,” said Dani.

  “I will,” said Osborne. “Chief Ferris asked me to review these with you in case I recognize something but I don’t know his business per se so the only ones I’m likely to flag are any from his colleague, Maxwell Gordon, or from his family like his wife and daughters. You tell me if you see some we should examine more carefully.”

  “Here’s what I think, Dr. Osborne,” said Dani, her fingers dancing over the computer keys as speedily as if she were one of Osborne’s grandchildren texting on a cell phone, “since neither of us know what we’re looking for exactly, let’s get familiar with all the e-mails that he’s received over the last week.

  “As Chief Ferris and Bruce or any of the techs from the crime lab learn more and tell us more, then we can go back through with a better idea of what we’re looking for. Make sense?”