Dead Creek

by Victoria Houston

  Osborne looked at her blankly. He was stunned. “Jesus. Let me get Ray over here. Then we’ll talk.” He stood up and motioned over the heads of nearby diners to Ray. The look on his face must have been enough, because Ray stopped in happy midsentence and excused himself to hurry over and sit down.

  “Winnie thinks she knows who the victims are,” whispered Osborne into Ray’s ear as they both sat down. He pushed the list in front of Ray and waited. Ray looked down. Osborne pointed to one name with a Des Moines, Iowa, address. Ray nodded.

  Everyone around the table knew the Dairyman’s Association, known locally as the Dairy. It was the odd name for a very exclusive hunting and fishing preserve whose membership had once been exclusively bluebloods from Chicago. In existence since the late 1800s, the Dairy was a favorite haunt of the wealthy scions of the meat-packing fortunes. Few locals, including Osborne, had ever set foot behind the huge wrought-iron gates.

  “Who the hell are these people?” asked Ray. “These names mean nothing to me.”

  “We checked ‘em in as a group,” said Winnie, ready to launch into her case. “But see how they come from all over the country? They’re members of something called the Young President’s Organization. My boss calls it the YPO.”

  “I know of the YPO,” said Osborne. “Wausau’s got a chapter. There was a gal in Mary Lee’s bridge club whose first husband had been a member of the YPO out of Milwaukee. Mary Lee was quite impressed, but I thought it all sounded pretentious as hell.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t tell Mary Lee that,” interjected Ray.

  “No, I did not,” said Osborne, shooting Ray a dirty look. He was not real happy to be caught capitulating to a woman he was beginning to dislike more and more. Now that Mary Lee was gone and he had the opportunity to spend more time with folks like Winnie and Walter and Ray, he was realizing what a small world he had let Mary Lee restrict them to, small in several senses of the word.

  “Hell, he wanted that meat loaf on the table,” humored Walter. He winked at Osborne.

  “Thank you, Walter,” said Osborne, clipping his words, “confirmed bachelors have no idea how treacherous are the reefs of marriage. But seriously, Winnie, I do know what the YPO is. It’s a prestigious social club for men who become presidents of companies before age forty. Most of them inherit the position from their fathers, but there’s a few self-made types. It’s an upscale Rotary Club.”

  “Why were they staying at the Dairy?” Ray asked Winnie.

  “A two-week fly-fishing clinic,” said Winnie. “We do a lot of those with classes and guides, and we mix in business-type speakers so the guests can write off the hunting and fishing. Sort of silly, if you ask me. These people have so much money the last thing they need is a write-off.”

  Walter interrupted, anxious to keep the conversation on track. “But, Dr. Osborne, no one arrives, then disappears for six weeks, almost seven now, like this group did. That’s what Winnie and I think is so strange. Why did they all leave together one night and never come back?”

  “Right,” said Winnie. “We have all their stuff, we have their clothes, their fly rods, we even have their rental cars…. I finally called one of the wives to see what she knew about it.”

  “And?” asked Osborne.

  “She wouldn’t tell me,” said Winnie. “She said that her husband often went on YPO business and it was confidential. She was concerned about the length of this trip, but she said he had been gone as long as eight weeks before without telling her where he was. She said they were into ‘study groups’ and would ‘go to the source'—whatever that means.”

  “That means they don’t have enough to do, they’re trying to justify being alive, they’ve got too goddamn much moola—that’s what that means,” said Ray.

  Winnie had paused to pour almost a half cup of cream into her coffee, stir it in gently, add a packet of sugar, take a sip, and now she looked around at the men. “I thought that wife actually sounded relieved that her hub-bie wasn’t back yet. She wasn’t making a big deal of it, know what I mean? I’ll tell ya, I thought it was pretty weird she wasn’t even worried!”

  Osborne and Ray looked at each other. Walter leaned forward, his chin cupped in his hand. More hot coffee arrived along with menus, which everyone glanced at quickly. They all ordered the same thing: buttermilk pancakes, ham off the bone, side orders of homemade bread toast, orange juice, and more coffee.

  “Did you meet these men?” asked Ray.

  “I saw them,” said Winnie. “I took their reservation cards and I told them which way their rooms were.”

  “What were they like?”

  “Just … the usual. Businessmen. Fly-fishing shirts, ironed Levi’s. Very pleasant.” Winnie stirred her coffee again. “Frankly, I barely looked at them. But when I heard you found those bodies, I couldn’t help but think it might be these guys. We’ve just never had guests go off and not return. It’s a big problem, you know. Those rooms were booked for new arrivals, and no one knows what to do. When people pay five hundred dollars a night, you don’t just boot them out.”

  “Five hundred bucks a night!” Ray was incredulous.

  “Yeah, see?” said Winnie. “The wife I called said it was just fine to keep on billing it, too.”

  “Who’s running the Dairy these days?” asked Osborne.

  “They brought in a guy from Minneapolis who used to run one of the big hotels and wanted to semiretire,” said Winnie. “He’s in a panic over this. I guess—now, I don’t know this for a fact—but I think the Dairy has not been doing that well financially for the last few years. So he wants no publicity on this. I’ll be fired if he finds out I’m talking to you. But I was going to call you today anyway.” Walter reached over and patted his wife’s hand. It was clear they’d discussed the risk before approaching Osborne.

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Osborne. “Did they drive themselves off when they left?”

  “Oh, no,” said Winnie. “The college hired Ted Bronk to drive them. That’s the next weird part. A number of us from the Dairy have been calling Ted’s house, but there’s no answer. He seems to be gone, too.”

  Ray looked around the table and scratched at his beard. “Now, why the heck would the college have ol’ scumbag Ted driving some head honchos around? That sure as hell doesn’t figure.”

  “Yeah, Ray, they coulda hired you,” laughed Walter.

  “For their money, yes, they could,” said Ray. Suddenly his eyes shifted to the doorway. “Doc, Lew just walked in.”

  Osborne set down his coffee cup and looked around to wave Lew over.

  “I want you to tell Chief Ferris everything you just told us,” said Osborne to Winnie and Walter. He moved over to make space at the table and motioned to Susan they needed one more place setting.

  “Ted Bronk is a popular guy,” said Lew after Winnie and Walter had cleaned their plates and left Susan’s. Her dark eyes caught and held Osborne’s. “Remember the dancer out at Thunder Bay yesterday? She said our Mr. Bronk took her friend somewhere, too.” Lew looked at Ray and Osborne both as she spread honey on her toast. “Time to talk to Ted.

  “But, first, I have some other news for you two. Sloan was admitted to the hospital this morning with acute pneumonia and a collapsed lung. So I continue to need help. Doc, do you mind staying on as a deputy to work with me on this case? I’m sure it won’t be for much longer.”

  “Me, too,” said Ray, wiping up the last yellow of his yolk with a small piece of crust. “Count me in.”

  “Ray …” Lew looked hard at him, “I’m having a hard time with that. Professionally, I can’t risk it. Sloan reminded me it’s only eighteen months since the warden booked you for smoking dope out on the Flambeau Flow-age.”

  Ray chuckled and looked down at his plate, “I blew that one, didn’t I.”

  Osborne looked surprised. He hadn’t heard. Seeing the look on his face, Ray volunteered, “Yeah, I had some weed on me and there I was out in my boat minding my own business when o
l’ Joe Schmidt rolls up and we haven’t liked each other since first grade and he wants to know what I’m doin’ sittin’ in my boat minding my own business so I said I was fishing for golf balls and wham he hits me with a misdemeanor and wrecks my budget. You know what they say about that asshole: ‘Joe happens.’ ”

  Lew was unimpressed with the excuse. “How do I know you don’t have grass growing on your back porch these days? Ray, I’m not kidding. You cannot work in law enforcement with felonies on your record.”

  Ray shrugged, “Misdemeanors, Lew. I got off, remember?”

  “Only because Schmidt went easy with you after he received a package of frozen venison chops,” said Lew.

  Ray folded his arms and leaned forward on the table. He looked straight into Lew’s eyes and lowered his voice. “Lew, I do certain types of work for people not unlike yourself, relationships that must remain confidential. Dr. Shanley is one I can mention. I’m not breaking any laws unless it suits my purposes, and when it does, I’m protected. I hope that explains something. Please don’t ask me to tell you things I’m not supposed to tell you.”

  “I see,” said Lew. “I’m not surprised.”

  “I didn’t think you would be,” said Ray.

  Osborne listened in quiet amazement. He had no idea what they were talking about, and he didn’t think it would be wise to ask any questions at the moment.

  “Fine, then,” said Lew. “I’ll count on both of you, and please stop by the station to do a little paperwork for me later today. The town will pay you, of course.”

  “Do we have the report in from Wausau?” asked Osborne.

  “I’m expecting it any time,” said Lew. “This delay is getting ridiculous.”

  “Excuse me a moment,” said Ray, standing up and wiping his chin with his paper napkin. “Let me use Susan’s phone to try my sister again.”

  He got up and went to the phone back in the kitchen while Osborne watched Lew scarf up two eggs over easy, three pork sausage links, homemade bread toast, and a side of ham off the bone. No wonder she looked so healthy, he thought as he downed another cup of black coffee. He waved to Susan for a refill.

  “Hey, Doc,” warned Lew, “you drink way too much coffee. How many cups have you had just since I’ve been sitting here? That stuff’s gonna rot your stomach.”

  “Lew, it’s my only vice,” said Osborne with a sheepish grin.

  She looked at him and smiled. “We oughta do something about that….”

  Suddenly Ray was back, wearing a big grin on his face, “Sis said Bill remembers the kid well. His name was Robert Bowers, and he was from Kansas City. Parents were very, very wealthy, Bill said, and he thinks the family may still live there. He said that young Rob was a good kid, quiet type. He was a junior counselor Bill’s last year there, and his family paid for him to have his own cabin, which was considered outrageous by the other counselors. But that fits for what we’re looking for, don’t you think? Bowers is the family name. Bill figures the guy’d be about 42 to 43 years old, which is right—”

  “Bowers? That’s one of the names on Winnie’s list,” said Lew, interrupting and pushing back her chair. “Time to call Kansas City. Which one of you has some time? I have a couple calls to make before I can get back to work on this.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Osborne. “An old college friend runs the newspaper in that town. Let me check in with him and see—”

  “Great,” said Lew, “just be sure he knows we have no firm ID yet, and we can’t release anything to the press until that report is in.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Lew,” said Osborne. “Let’s go over a few things right now so I don’t make any mistakes on this.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after Lew’s detailed instructions, Osborne was headed back to Ray’s to get his own car.

  “So how’s the new management at Thunder Bay?” asked Ray as they got in the truck, a twinkle in his eye.

  “What was all that about ‘working for certain people'?” countered Osborne.

  “Oh, that. That was pure bullshit,” said Ray, pulling on his beard and glancing at Osborne with eyes that seemed to be smiling. Osborne thought they also looked sly, and he looked away, uncomfortable. “Now she thinks I do surveillance for the DNR or somebody.” “Do you?”

  “Nah,” said Ray, “that would add stress to this good ol’ boy’s life. But it got me what I wanted, didn’t it?” Ray winked at him.

  Osborne decided not to believe him, but he kept his mouth shut. “Thunder Bay is quite the place,” Osborne said to change the subject. He offered up the details of their visit. Ray got real interested when Professor Bradford Miller showed up in Osborne’s story.

  “You’re serious? The professor walked into Thunder Bay Bar and strip joint with Miss Judy?”

  “We-ell, it was close; you couldn’t swear they were together, but it sure looked to me like she was giving him free beers,” said Osborne.

  “How so?”

  “Of four or five of us around the bar, he was the only one she served and I never saw him go for his wallet.”

  Ray took it all in thoughtfully. “Now, isn’t that an odd pair: Brad Miller and Judith Benjamin? Maybe he swings both ways….”

  “Brad Miller is one of the few people that I really, really dislike,” said Osborne. “He was a creepy little kid, even if he was my best friend’s son, and age has just made him worse. The man is smarmy, if you know what I mean.”

  “Gee, Doc,” Ray looked at his friend, “give the guy a break. At least he’s smart. What does he have—a Ph.D. from Harvard or something like that?”

  “Yeah, well, there’s smart and there’s smart. What I really don’t like about him is just what’s happening now: I feel guilty for thinking the creep’s a creep. Now, why is that? It makes me mad because then you bend over backward to be nice to the guy because you feel guilty, and before you know it, you’ve just about invited him to dinner. I give up.”

  Ray laughed, “I think a lot of us feel that way. When we were kids, you knew that he was the guy to pick on, and everyone did. He was such a runt. So I think a lot of people in Loon Lake put up with his BS because they haven’t forgotten they were pretty mean to him way back when.”

  The two men drove along in silence for a while. “But you know,” Osborne finally spoke, “he asked for it.”

  thirteen

  Men lived like fishes; the greater ones devoured the small.

  Algernon Sydney, Discourses on Government, 1698

  An hour later, Osborne parked his station wagon in front of Erin’s big white Victorian house. His heart lifted at the sight of the open porch with the bright yellow and green trim. His youngest daughter had a way of making everything around her seem sunny.

  “Hey, Mike,” he directed his voice at his dog’s crate in the back of the the station wagon, “I’ll be back in about thirty minutes. You be a good dog.”

  And he set off up the sidewalk, humming.

  “Gee, Dad, I think that’s pretty neat,” said Erin. Her long blond hair hung down her back in a braid as she bounced 18-month-old Cody, Osborne’s first grandson, on her knee as they shared the dregs of the coffeepot at the big oak table in Erin’s kitchen. The house was the oldest Victorian in Loon Lake, and Osborne could never get over how much hard work had gone into restoring it, and how much of it Erin and her husband, Mark, had done themselves.

  “Lew said we’ll be paid by the town,” continued Osborne. “I just hope I don’t grow dependent on this new income.” He grinned broadly. He was finding that being paid for his services did make him feel good, even if he also felt a little sheepish: His job description sounded more dramatic that it was.

  “You’re kidding, of course,” said Erin. “You don’t really want to become a police officer, do you, Dad? I mean, not permanently, not after this case. Right?”

  “And ruin my muskie fishing? You know your old man.

  “Say, I’m going to be calling an old college friend of your mother’s and mine. Reme
mber Dick Halstead? He was an editor for the Milwaukee Journal and now he runs the Kansas City Star. Didn’t he have a daughter your age?”

  “Marci. We went to Girl Scout camp together, remember? Hey, Dad.” Erin jumped up. “I’ve got to change this kid’s diaper. Why don’t you call Mr. Halstead from here? Find out what Marci’s up to and get her phone number for me. I’d like to give her a call.”

  “Oh, hon, this is going to be a long call. I don’t want to tie up your phone.”

  “Dad, it’s Sunday afternoon, for heaven’s sake. Take your time. If you don’t call from here, I know you’ll forget to ask about Marci. Here.” Erin pushed the cordless phone across the kitchen table toward him. “I’ll do diapers, you do phone.” With a grin and a flash of braid, she was off to conquer poopy pants.

  Osborne smiled. Then he reached into his left shirt pocket and pulled out the small, dog-eared address book that held what was left of his life. His blunt fingers turned the pages carefully. He picked up the receiver.

  Dick was home. He was nursing a bad cold and glad to hear from his old buddy. Osborne took a good five minutes to catch up on personal news: Dick’s wife was recovering from a hysterectomy, the paper was down to a miserable 20 percent profit margin due to newsprint cost increases, Dick thought their new publisher was a little young for the job, and Marci had a thriving law practice. She also had a phone number. Osborne scrambled around the kitchen for a pen, which he finally laid hands on. He took down Marci’s number before he could forget.

  “Dick, I’ve got a couple of questions for you.” Osborne finally got to the point. “I’m helping out as a medical investigator up here on a murder case, and there may be a Kansas City connection. Are you familiar with the name Bowers?”

  Silence greeted the question. A lengthy silence.

  “I am very familiar with that name,” said Dick. His voice was suddenly subdued, measured. He spoke in a staccato, as if rehearsing facts he had reviewed many times: “An old blueblood family here in town, major donors to the Nelson Museum, money goes way back to the early days when Kansas City was a hub for the rail industry. They made their money in transportation, then diversified. The late Mrs. Bowers was a Cantrell, another old Kansas City name. Her husband worked for her family, then made his own fortune as a very successful commodities trader on the Kansas City Board of Trade. He died a good twenty years ago. His widow passed away about three years ago, leaving the whole kit and kaboodle to their only child, an adopted son. I know all this because I’m a trustee for the museum, along with Robert Bowers.”