Victoria Houston - Loon Lake 14 - Dead Lil' Hustler
Page 17
He had ended up buying a half-pint of worms instead.
“Yep. The report was in when I stopped by my office on my way out here. Took a couple days for the Wausau boys to hear back from their firearm and toolmark examiner. But Bruce said that using a comparison microscope, the examiner was able to prove that the bullets Bruce dug out of the wood paneling on the boat as well as the two found in Bud’s body during the autopsy came from the same firearm. There is no question that the rifling in the barrel, which is unique to Nancy Jarvison’s .357 Smith & Wesson, matches the impressions on the bullets.
“Nancy’s arrogance didn’t help either,” said Lew. “She never even took the trouble to wipe her prints off the gun. Hers are the only ones on it.”
“So if Cynthia hadn’t alerted us to that box in the linen drawer the FBI and the DEA would have assumed he was a victim of Miguel’s drug cartel cronies?” asked Osborne.
“Made sense. To me, to all of us. And that conclusion made everyone’s job easier so it was tempting. Of course, Nancy is convinced she’ll get away with this. She’s hired one of the top criminal defense attorney teams in Wisconsin.”
“I suppose the real question,” said Osborne looking up from his tackle box, “is can she bully a jury the way she’s bullied her way through life?”
“That, dear heart, is the question,” said Lew with a slight smile, her eyes still closed. “She’s got the money to pay the lawyers. That life insurance check arrived right on schedule so she’s got twenty million in the bank—or what’s left after she pays off all Bud’s debts.”
“Yes and one other interesting note is this—remember how Cynthia thought that she may have heard fireworks that night and then she was under the impression that Nancy had called in to complain to the sheriff’s department? Well, I checked yesterday and there is no record of her calling in a complaint that night. For what that’s worth.
• • •
“Hey, Doc… do you have the cooler with sodas down there?”
The voice was Ray’s, hollering down from the picnic table where he and Cody were attempting to organize Ray’s fishing gear. At least Ray was trying to organize things. Cody, eyes barely visible under his “magic fish hat” was so excited that when he wasn’t running in circles around Ray and the table, he was jumping up and down, elbows pumping.
“Cody… buddy,” warned Ray, his tone gruff but friendly. “You have to settle down and help me carry these rods… please?”
Listening, Osborne couldn’t help but think that Ray’s parents, long deceased, would relish seeing their son put through the rigors he had wreaked on them. What goes around comes around.
“Yes, we have the cooler with sodas and sandwiches here on the boat,” Osborne shouted back. He turned to Lew. “Can you believe that one week ago we weren’t sure if that little guy would make it?”
Indeed, more information had come out in the press in recent days as there had been outbreaks of spinal meningitis on the east and west coasts with some cases resulting in loss of hearing, brain damage, and amputations. The more news Osborne saw, the more grateful he was.
“He certainly has an appetite,” said Lew. “I could not believe what he ate for breakfast. Ray is an excellent cook but even so—eleven sausages, two eggs, and five pancakes! Don’t let the kid fall out of the boat, Doc. He’ll sink.”
Twenty minutes later, as the pontoon slowed for anchoring on the edge of Ray’s secret spot for big muskies, Osborne reached into his tackle box for the Styrofoam cup of worms and held it open for Cody to take one. The boy’s face fell. “Baby worms, Grandpa? I thought we were going to use nightcrawlers.”
“They aren’t babies,” said Osborne. “These are grown-up worms and they’re all the bait shop had today.”
“Hold on,” Ray interrupted. “I’ve got nightcrawlers.”
“You do? Where did you get ’em?” asked Osborne. “I called around to every bait shop in the county—couldn’t find a single crawler.”
“Ah ha,” said Ray. “If you and Chief Ferris didn’t retire so early…” His wink was so broad that Lew punched him in the shoulder. “I…” said Ray with a triumphant wave of his index finger “went out… with my flashlight… at midnight… and… voilà!” He reached down under the pontoon’s steering wheel for a paper sack from which he pulled a large Styrofoam container. He uncapped it to expose a wriggling mass of big, fat nightcrawlers packed in dirt.
With a loud squeal, Cody bounced up and down, rocking the pontoon so severely that all three adults shouted in unison: “Settle down!” Cody giggled and did his best to sit still on one of the boat cushions.
“All right, Cody… watch me do this now,” said Ray. “Then you can try. First, I hook the worm through the nose… push the barb out the bottom like this… and rebury the hook dead center in the nightcrawler—see? Try not to have the hook point exposed… when you feel a bite… you want to make sure you strike hard enough to move the hook into the fish’s mouth.”
“Let me do it,” said Cody, jumping to his feet. “Please?”
“Sure, little man, your turn,” said Ray, handing Cody his spinning rod with a bare hook and a sinker tied to the end of the fishing line.
After pushing back the stuffed fish hat on his head so he could see better, the little boy’s face was dead serious as he knelt to work with the fishhook and the nightcrawler. When he had finished, Ray examined the result.
Cody held his breath until he heard Ray say, “Good job.”
Osborne, who had been watching over his grandson’s shoulder, said, “Cody, you have excellent small motor control. You work so well with your fingers—maybe you’ll grow up to be a dentist.”
“Oh no, Grandpa, I want to be just like Uncle Ray.”
If ever a kid looked blissful as he cast his spinning rod with its big, fat nightcrawler it was Cody. He never saw the horror on his grandfather’s face.
Copyright © 2014 by Victoria Houston.
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