So Nancy may have been right: A shark may have been circling. Mary Lee never hid her disappointment that Osborne had chosen to take over his father’s dental practice in “backwoods Loon Lake” instead of moving to Milwaukee or Minneapolis where “you can make a lot more money, Paul.”
If Nancy was a good golfer, she was even better at holding a grudge. Mary Lee Osborne was banned from Loon Lake society for two years. Two years of crying herself to sleep after berating Osborne for having done “something” to cause her banishment. Two years during which Osborne made sure that whenever there was a social event to which they were not invited, he went fishing. It gave Mary Lee an excuse for their absence and he got shelter from the storm.
Then something unexpected happened. Osborne’s daughter Erin was assigned to the same second grade class as Christopher Jarvison. Reading and math came easy to Erin, but Christopher struggled.
One day, clueless to the tension between the two mothers, the second grade teacher suggested Erin help Christopher with his math and reading assignments. When Nancy balked, the teacher said in a firm voice, “Erin Osborne is a sweet and friendly little girl. She’ll make it easy for your son. He won’t be embarrassed to try.”
Nancy approached Mary Lee warily only to have Mary Lee pretend that nothing had ever happened between them and agree to whatever play dates might work for Nancy. Whew! Soon she was back at the bridge table, back in the garden club.
Ten years later disaster hit the Jarvison family. For his high school graduation, Bud bought Christopher a bright red ROV, a custom-made recreational off-road vehicle with four-wheel-drive and dual bucket seating. That same week, after a night of partying with beer and single malt Scotch whisky stolen from his parents’ bar, Christopher took a girl out for a ride.
Driving down a steep embankment five miles out of town, the ROV rolled over, pinning Christopher and slicing his femoral artery. The girl panicked and ran home. She told no one about the accident until the next morning when Nancy started calling Christopher’s friends because he wasn’t answering his cell phone. He had bled out.
“Thanks for your concern, Bud,” said Osborne. “I remember your loss but I’m sure you’ll understand this is hard for me to discuss right now.”
Bud reached over to pat Osborne’s knee. “Of course. Was it Chief Ferris who found your grandson?”
“Gosh, no,” said Osborne. “I brought him in. Since I started helping out as coroner when Pecore isn’t available, Chief Ferris has become a family friend. She stopped by to see if she could help.”
“Oh?” asked Bud. He paused as if expecting Osborne to say more.
“Dad,” said Erin, walking into the waiting room. “Can we talk for a minute?”
“If you’ll excuse me,” said Osborne to Bud as he jumped to his feet.
• • •
Bud watched Osborne leave the room, his eyes thoughtful. He decided to increase his visits to his wife over the next few days. He would like to know more about Doc’s “family friend.”
The days when he could call one of the Loon Lake police officers for information on people of interest to him had ended when the Ferris woman became chief of the Loon Lake Police Department. Was this a chance to get back in the loop?
Chapter Seven
As Osborne drove home, he reflected on how the death of a child can change a marriage. When it came to the Jarvisons, it struck Osborne that the loss of Christopher seemed to drain all that was good from that relationship. A certain sourness tainted it from then on. Nancy grew more strident while Bud skirted the edge of boorishness.
Nancy moved on from bullying the women in her bridge club and the Loon Lake Garden Club to engage in ruthless maneuvering to become president or chairperson of every organization that hinted of prestige: the county library, the hospital, one of the Jarvison banks—even the Loon Lake Food Pantry. It was obvious to Osborne that she chose to fill the hole in her heart with people, people, people.
In his way, Bud did the same though he retired from day-to-day management of the new bank-holding company. As chairman, he attended the board meetings but those were sandwiched between full days on the golf course, more hours at the rifle range, fishing trips to Canada, and at least six weeks at deer camp for both bow and rifle seasons.
The few times the Jarvisons appeared together at social events or joined other couples for Friday fish fry they seemed determined to avoid each other. Osborne commented to his late wife that he would see them sit across from one another, turn their gazes in opposite directions, and never say a word to each other across the table.
Within a year of Christopher’s death Nancy changed her style, too. From a woman who had always worn what Mary Lee called “tailored clothes,” she began to dress more seductively. It was no secret that she worked out with a personal trainer almost every day, which led Osborne to theorize she was simply trying to capitalize on her own good health. That was until one fateful day in his office.
Nancy was in the dental chair for a final polishing of a crown that he had made for her when he happened to glance down and see that the white paper bib pinned to protect her clothing had slipped to one side. The shirt below had been left unbuttoned to expose the landscape of her torso from neck to navel. Osborne was so stunned that for a long moment he sat without moving. Unsure as to whether or not the bib had been deliberately positioned, he gave a nod to his dental assistant and the two of them excused themselves from the room.
“Do you see that?” he asked the young woman assisting him.
“I sure do. I’m assuming you got us out here to give her a few minutes to rearrange herself, Dr. Osborne.”
“That is exactly why we are here,” said Osborne. “Now if we go back and that bib is not back where it belongs—”
“I’ll take care of it,” said the assistant.
“Thank you. You’ll save me the embarrassment. I’m sure it’s an accident.”
“Really?” From her expression on her face, it was obvious his dental assistant didn’t think there was anything accidental about it at all.
Back at the chair, Osborne was relieved to see that Nancy’s bib had been slightly readjusted. He refused to check the buttons on the blouse, hoping that as he reached for an instrument his assistant would be wise enough to straighten the napkin further—which she did with a wink in his direction.
Later that afternoon, Osborne puzzled over the woman’s behavior. What on earth could she possibly want from him? Surely Bud Jarvison was a better provider and always would be. They were a handsome couple, too.
What became clear over the years after Christopher’s death was that Nancy Jarvison excelled at holding a grudge. In fact Mary Lee may have been one of few women to regain her friendship once Nancy had decided to shut her out of Loon Lake’s social circles. And even though she protected her ownership of her husband, she made it a habit to snipe at the man she blamed for her son’s death. Over the years, the rancor between the two escalated to a point that even Osborne’s McDonald’s coffee buddies would comment on how uncomfortable it was to be in a gathering where the two Jarvisons were together.
But if Bud took the abuse in public, he got his revenge: the drinking, the flagrant womanizing, and snide putdowns of his wife when she wasn’t around.
When it came to understanding why those two stayed together, Osborne felt the most telling moment may have been Bud’s joke on the last night that Osborne spent at deer camp with the guys.
“What’s the one surefire way to lose most of your money?” Bud had asked the group while puffing on a cigar.
“Gambling?”
“The stock market?”
“Build a shopping mall?” All were suggestions offered by the other hunters.
“No, oh no,” said Bud. “Divorce.”
Chapter Eight
“The tests show Cody’s meningitis is viral, Dad.”
“I hope that’s good news,” said Osborne, putting an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. She had calmed down
but her voice was shaky.
“Not sure. It means no antibiotics but the most the medical staff can do is try to keep him stable. The specialist…” her voice trembled and Osborne drew her closer. Erin took a deep breath and said, “… um, the infectious disease guy said they can’t tell if he’ll make it or not.” She pursed her lips, determined not to break down. “Could take days before they’ll know… Dad?” She buried her head against his chest and sobbed softly. After a moment, she pushed away and wiped at her face. “This doesn’t help, does it?”
Erin tried a smile and Osborne gently tugged at the long, blond braid falling over her right shoulder.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked, feeling helpless.
“How about you go home and take care of things so you can come back later. Mark and I are staying here for now. I talked to Beth. She’s got Mason with her so they’re okay. Then if you will come back at six, we’ll leave and take the girls to get a bite to eat. I’ll be back by eight and stay the night. They’re putting a cot in Cody’s room. Is that okay?”
“Whatever works for you and Mark is fine. Call my cell if anything changes. Love you, sweetie. I’ll let Father John know, too—ask him to say some prayers.”
With Erin’s plan in mind, Osborne headed home to feed the dog. Mike was a well-behaved black lab but he did get hungry. Pulling into his driveway, Osborne glanced down through the stand of red pine bordering his property. He was startled to see one of the Loon Lake Police squad cars parked in front of his neighbor’s house trailer. Too bad, he was under the impression Ray Pradt had been on good behavior lately.
Curious to know what was up, Osborne hurried to set out fresh water and food for Mike before scurrying through the trees to Ray’s place. Although an average person might be branded a busybody, Osborne’s status as a deputy coroner made it okay. He might be on call when Pecore was “disabled” so he qualified as staff.
Approaching the trailer from the rear, he could hear the murmur of voices—one was female. Had to be Lew.
Though the early afternoon sun was high with a light breeze from the west, no one was outside. That was unusual. For the last two summers Ray had preferred to let his dock double as his office. One of his guiding clients had contributed a patio umbrella so he could work there in bad weather unless the temperature dipped below forty. Today it was eighty-two. Something was up.
“Anybody home?” asked Osborne as he pulled open the screen door that doubled as the mouth of a lurid green muskie that had been painted on the outside of the house trailer. Ray and Lew looked up from where they were leaning over a Wisconsin Gazetteer map open to a two-page spread on the table.
For an instant Lew smiled as if the sun had just come out and she was basking in it. Those eyes, that smile always tugged at Osborne’s heart. Then her eyes darkened as she asked, “How’s Cody?”
“Yeah, Doc,” said Ray, straightening up and turning toward him. “Chief Ferris just told me about little Cody. How’s the kid doin’?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Osborne. “The good news is he doesn’t have a bacterial infection but the doctors said they won’t know for days how bad the virus is. Erin sent me home so I could take care of the dog—”
“Doc, just call. I’ll see that Mike’s okay,” said Ray.
“Thanks. I might do that—have to go back to the hospital later. What’s happening here?” He looked at Lew.
“Two kayakers found a skeleton in a snowmobile suit half-submerged in the Pine River. Pecore and I drove to the site and, sure enough—it’s the remains of a Wausau man who’s been missing since February. The snowmobile he was riding is at the bottom of the river. I’ve got the Wausau boys out there now.
“Curious to know where he might have accessed the river since it is not marked as one of the county’s official snowmobile trails. I thought Ray might know someone familiar with the area. It’s all national forest back in there—pretty remote.”
“I might…” Ray paused to study the ceiling above the kitchen table. “Just might…” He nodded up and down. “… know a woman…” Again he paused, deploying a speech pattern of random starts and stops guaranteed to drive most listeners nuts.
People who knew Ray Pradt learned to be patient. They might be held hostage for the moment but they also knew that the thirty-two-year-old fishing and hunting guide was familiar with the Northwoods from the inside out.
When Osborne’s buddies gathered ’round for their early morning coffees at McDonald’s, they would nod their heads in solemn agreement that whatever his ethical failings, “Ray Pradt’s got the eye of an eagle and the ear of an owl. Desperate to find your wounded deer? Call Ray: He can track through twigs.”
Further, given a history of misdemeanors he attributed to “youthful discretions (no, that word is not misspelled),” Ray had spent enough nights in the Loon Lake hoosegow that he had earned the respect of folk familiar with the perpetrators, places, and events occurring beyond the purview of most law-abiding Loon Lake residents.
More than once Chief Lewellyn Ferris had confided in Osborne that she valued Ray’s tracking skills as much as his access to the bad actors in the region.
And so Osborne pulled out a kitchen chair to sit while he and Lew waited for Ray to finish his thought. After a long moment, Ray said, “Let me… make a call. Something…” he stared up at the light fixture over the table as if the answer might be dangling there, “does come to mind.” Punching buttons on his cell phone, he stood up and headed toward the door. “You two wait here.”
“Do we look anxious to leave?” asked Lew, giving him the dim eye. “Just make the damn call, would you please?”
After the screen door banged closed behind Ray, Osborne asked Lew, “Were you referring to that banker who disappeared from his deer camp? Wasn’t he running one of the Jarvison banks? You know, I saw Bud this morning. I wonder if he’s heard about this?”
“I doubt it,” said Lew. “We haven’t released any information to the media, though who knows what Pecore has said to anyone. That guy never keeps his trap shut.” She rolled her eyes in frustration. “Oh, by the way, numbnut is having a hip replacement this week.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake’s. Did you just find out today?”
Lew nodded. “Watch. The minute he goes under anesthetic, I’ll have a dozen people pass away.”
“If that happens, call me.”
“You’ve got your family to worry about.”
“True—but I need something to take my mind off a situation about which I can do nothing. Helping you with a death certificate or calling for an autopsy will allow me to do something productive. But, Lew, back to that banker—was it Peter Corbin’s remains?”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“I remember hearing that he was missing and the news stuck with me because he grew up in Loon Lake. The Corbins were patients of my father’s.”
Osborne got up to pour himself a cup of coffee, and then sat down again. “So what do you think happened? Had he been drinking and ran his sled over bad ice? We must have a dozen of those every winter. Most riders are able to scramble out of the water. Hypothermic but alive.”
“That’s what I don’t know,” said Lew. “Pecore tried to say the victim drowned but it looks to me—and I could be wrong—like he may have been shot. The helmet was badly damaged. Half the skull is missing. Pecore argued that critters or current could have the same effect. That’s why I called in the Wausau boys.”
“That old man running the show give you trouble?”
Lew grinned. “Not this time. I outsmarted him.”
More than once Osborne had witnessed Lew’s struggles with the head of the Wausau Crime Lab. Fred Boettcher was in his late sixties and, being old school, of the opinion women did not belong in law enforcement: “Certainly not in my jurisdiction.”
Determined to make the life of Loon Lake Police Chief Lewellyn Ferris difficult, he instituted a two-stage torture template. Initially, he had accused her of
overreacting to a potential crime scene saying, “Come on, Ferris, we see bullet holes through the skull all the time: It’s a suicide for chrissake.”
The first time he tried that, Lew persisted and an autopsy proved her right. The entry wound was at the back of the skull, which made it highly unlikely it was self-inflicted.
Undaunted, Fred then forced her to complete hours of unnecessary paperwork before he would grudgingly assign one of his investigators. That such a delay could compromise a crime scene didn’t bother Fred.
After suffering through that process several times—and discovering she was the only law enforcement professional who was required to complete the bogus requests—Lew learned to e-mail her tormentor that the paperwork was “in process,” then contact Bruce Peters directly.
Bruce was in his late twenties, well versed in the forensic sciences, and new to fly-fishing—so new that he was fanatic. Once he discovered that Chief Ferris was an expert in the trout stream, he jumped at every chance to work with her.
Lew knew the drill. Every time they worked together, she made sure he got time in the stream. “Bruce, stop muscling that fly line. A good cast is all about touch—not strength. Try it again.”
And so Lew had learned to alert Bruce when she needed help—and let him finagle the assignment to a Loon Lake Police investigation. Fred had no clue.
“Today was my lucky day, Doc. I got Bruce on the phone right away. He jumped in his car and he’s at the site now. He called in two scuba divers to help search the river bottom—”
Before she could say more, Ray banged through the screen door. “Okay, I got hold of Sherry. She and her husband are home today and I told her we’d be right over—”
“Who’s Sherry?” Lew interrupted.
“An old girlfriend,” said Ray. “She married Russell Kelliher and they raise Plott hounds for bear hunters. She said the DNR has declared a four-mile buffer zone along that stretch of the Pine River—right where you said that body was found. Hunters lost seven hounds to wolves there last winter.
Victoria Houston - Loon Lake 14 - Dead Lil' Hustler Page 4
