Dead Tease

by Victoria Houston

  DEAD

  TEASE

  A LOON LAKE MYSTERY

  VICTORIA HOUSTON

  Also Available in the Loon Lake

  Mystery Series:

  Dead Deceiver

  Dead Renegade

  Dead Hot Shot

  Dead Madonna

  Dead Boogie

  Dead Jitterbug

  Dead Hot Mama

  Dead Frenzy

  Dead Water

  Dead Creek

  Dead Angler

  For Melanie

  “It’s a shallow life that doesn’t give a person a few scars.”

  ~GARRISON KEILLOR

  Chapter One

  Buckling his belt as he leaned across his desk to peer out the office windows, Jim McNeil spotted Jen ambling her way to the hospital employee parking lot—a soft, satisfied expression on her face, which made him smile. As if she knew he would be watching, she came to an abrupt halt, turned toward the window, and flashed him a grin.

  McNeil laughed, though he doubted she could see through the reflection of the early evening sun on the windows. But he knew she knew he was there. Fun. Boy, that girl is fun.

  “Ah-h-h,” he sighed as he straightened the pillows on the office divan and shoved the sheets into a blue plastic bin. Sliding the bin back into the coat closet, he set a stack of business magazines on top. He had learned a long time ago it was wise to keep the night janitors in the dark as to the bin’s contents. Then he stepped into the bathroom.

  When he accepted the CEO position at the small but prestigious Northwoods Medical Clinic, he hadn’t counted on his office having a private bathroom, but what an indispensable perk it had become. Opening the medicine cabinet, he reached for a comb. Leaning into the mirror, he smoothed the shining waves of black into place, patted the graying sideburns, and with a slight smile examined his features.

  You old devil, McNeil. He parted his lips and turned his head side to side checking his teeth. How many times have you been told you look just like George Clooney? You devil, you.

  He wiped at a smudge of lipstick near his ear, grinned again, closed the cabinet, and checked his watch. He’d be home a half hour late but no big deal. Leigh never seemed to notice. Slipping his suit jacket off the hanger behind the closet door, he started down the hallway humming.

  If only Leigh had a body as slender and tight as Jen’s. But where Jen was lean and supple, Leigh was a pillow: wide and plump and so cushioned it was hard to get traction.

  McNeil knew better than to complain. After all, his wife was easy to live with: eager to please, a darn good cook, and she took care of everything. At least she did until recently. The last few weeks it seemed something was up. Maybe her mother was sick. Or her silly worry that someone had been peeking in their windows.

  “Oh, come on, kid, don’t let your imagination run away with you,” he had cautioned.

  Shaking his head as he slid onto the front seat of the new forest green BMW convertible (he’d added a few of his own dollars to the allotment for a company car), McNeil reminded himself of the one sure way to go broke: divorce. Not on his agenda no matter how tight, cute, and fun. Been there, done that.

  McNeil hit the buttons to raise the roof and snuggled into the driver’s seat for a pleasurable drive home. The August heat hung heavy in the air as he coasted through the residential blocks of Loon Lake toward the highway.

  Less than ten minutes later, he could feel the breezes off the lake as he neared their drive. Ah-h-h. Life is good.

  Jen opened the sunroof on her Jeep Liberty and undid the top buttons on her shirt. Head back and eyes half closed, she waited for the light to change. God, the air feels great. She let her mind drift back over the afternoon.

  Oh, man, guys like Jim McNeil are so easy to read. If she played this right, when he got bored and ready to try out the next new nurse, she would “understand” her way right up to running the department. No fool Jen Williams.

  Still, she had to keep an eye out for crazy Cynthia down in ER. The bitch might have M.D. after her name but it ought to come with a C.N., too—“Certified Nuts.” No sign of her today according to Jim. Not even a text on his phone. He better not take that for granted. She’d be back. Jen knew the type: they don’t give up easy.

  “I keep telling her I’m busy—think she gets the message?” Jim McNeil had asked Jen over drinks after the medical technology conference in Madison, where they had hooked up for the first time. He had admitted to a brief affair with Cynthia, whom he now found repellent.

  “Doubt it. Better be prepared for her to call your wife.”

  “Oh? You think she’d go that far?”

  Jen had shrugged. The woman was twice divorced and not even thirty-five yet, hardly the sign of a stable personality. And she was a bully who would not take being dumped easy. Jen’s female colleagues at the clinic had been watching the developments between the CEO and the doc. They knew fireworks were brewing.

  But Jen said nothing more about Cynthia. Romance is never kindled with negative remarks, and she had plans for McNeil. He might be a serial womanizer, but he was also a solid step on her way up.

  At the top of the hill just before the turn into the condo parking lot, Jennifer spotted the old woman walking her little dog along the roadside. She could set her clock by that old lady, but maybe she walked that dog all day.

  Walked her dog and, no matter how warm the day, she always wore purple: a purple trench coat with silver studs for buttons. Hopefully that would change when winter came. Purple is hard to see in the dark.

  Jen drove down the slope and around the curve leading into the parking lot. On one side of the driveway was a grove of young balsam. On the other side was a bank of thirty mailboxes. Some guy she’d never seen before but pleasant-looking in jeans and a blue Oxford shirt was standing near the mailboxes and studying the names. He watched as she pulled her car into her parking spot, then walked over to check her mailbox.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. He looked to be about her age, mid-twenties, and very tan under dark brown curly hair. Kinda cute. Maybe he was moving in? Jen smiled.

  “Maybe. You Jennifer Williams?”

  “How did you know?” She held out her right hand.

  The knife slid cleanly, silently through her shirt and between her ribs. She slumped toward him—the open smile sagging into a soundless scream. He pushed her down and back under the hanging branches of balsam. He waited. No sound. He ran.

  Chapter Two

  As promised, the money was in an envelope under the driver’s seat. He hadn’t told her he would be borrowing the truck. But after he described it and where it would be parked, she assumed it was his. That was good. Even better—she followed through on her end of the deal.

  Alvin tore open the envelope and counted, slapping the bills onto the ripped upholstery beside him. Wait. He counted again—only thirty bills? Fifteen hundred in fifties. Did that bitch short him five hundred bucks?

  He peered into the envelope to be sure. Nope. No more bills. Okay, lady, you are asking for trouble. Big time. I don’t do shit like this for nothin’. No sirree, no way, no how. He was so angry his heart pounded in his throat.

  After cramming the money into his back pocket, Alvin tossed the envelope onto the floor and got out of the truck. Reaching for the knife that she had insisted he use, he walked to the back of the truck. It was a dandy knife, one he would like to keep, but he knew better than that. You don’t watch CSI for nothin’.

  Digging under a dirty tarp covering a heap of shingles in the bed of the rusted-out pickup, which he had borrowed from Jimbo, his buddy at the tavern where they did odd jobs, he found an oily rag and used it to give the knife handle a good wiping. Then, grasping the knife by the tip of the blade, he drew his right ar
m back and let fly. He watched as the knife sailed over the spindly aspens crowding the clearing.

  Only then did he remember she had wanted him to return the damn thing. Oh well. They could discuss that when he stopped by for the rest of his money. If she wants it that bad, she can come out here and look for it herself.

  Hey—that’s right. Alvin pointed his index finger as if the woman was standing in front of him. He won’t tell her where the knife is until she comes up with the cash. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

  The top branches of the aspens shook with a rustling sound and he turned to see a blur of neon reds, lime greens, and acid yellows coming at him. His heart stopped. It took a fraction of a second for his brain to register he was looking at two kids on mountain bikes barreling toward him. He jumped out of the way as they raced by hunched over their handlebars, legs pumping.

  Shit! Had they seen him throw the knife? As fast as they had appeared, they were gone: a boy and a girl. Only now did he see evidence of bikes being used on this old dead end logging lane. The trail was barely visible but it was there. Damn. He should never have parked here. He’d have to hope …

  Alvin stood still, his mind replaying the last few minutes. No, he was pretty sure they came riding through after the knife had landed. But he didn’t like that they had seen him and the pickup parked out here. He struggled to remember their faces but they had flown by so fast, he’d caught only a glimpse. Oh well, he’d be long gone even if they did report him.

  “Where’s the knife?” she said, looking over his shoulder like she always did to be sure one of the old beaters he drove wasn’t parked in her precious driveway.

  “The knife is in a safe place and the truck is parked back behind that old barn down the road—just like you said.”

  He lied, but she wouldn’t know. He’d left the truck right where it was parked while he took care of business. The walk to her house was less than a mile anyway. He needed that truck to get out of town. Jimbo wouldn’t miss it ’til tomorrow for sure. Too late! He’d be in Michigan.

  “Now where’s the rest of my money? You told me two grand. I only got fifteen hunnert’ in here,” said Alvin, patting his back pocket. As he spoke, he felt his knees begin to tremble and his mouth go dry. He teetered as the ground shifted beneath him. He would need something soon.

  “You don’t look so good. You’re so white—are you sick?” She motioned for him to follow her around to the back of the house.

  “Not exactly.”

  Pausing as she reached the stone patio, she eyed him: could he be one of those meth creeps they say are everywhere these days? Probably just plain weird. Didn’t matter either way, but she did need to get him off her property as soon as possible. While she wasn’t expecting anyone, you never know in the Northwoods: people love to stop by.

  “We agreed—two grand,” he repeated, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide the trembling.

  “Do I get the knife back?”

  “When I get the money—” he said, grinding out the words.

  “Okay. It’s okay,” she raised both hands to settle him down, “my mistake. I thought we had agreed on fifteen hundred but if I was wrong—”

  “You bet your ass.” Alvin wiped at the spittle on his chin.

  “Al, you sit down, okay? Just relax. I’ll be right back. I got cash in my purse.”

  He thought about following her and taking all her cash. Every penny. But he was too dizzy—his gums hurt and he was sure he had a fever—or maybe the day was hotter than he thought. Whatever. It was a relief to sink down on the wrought iron bench.

  Stretching his right arm along the back of the bench, he closed his eyes, laid his head on his right shoulder, inhaled deeply, and waited. The distant hum of a motorboat made him drowsy. Good idea: get paid, get stuff, take a nap.

  She opened the top drawer of the dining room buffet and reached under the linen place mats for the aluminum case Marv had hidden there for occasions like this. Well, kind of like this. He would be astonished to see her now.

  She picked up the revolver. Nothing had changed since she had checked it last week: she could see it was fully loaded.

  Funny. As she walked back toward the patio and the dumb shit waiting for her, it was amazing how every detail of the Women’s Self-Defense training on the shooting range came back with absolute clarity. She snorted at the irony: she might have trouble locating her car keys thirty minutes from now but she sure as heck could remember how to use this handgun—and she took that class five years ago!

  The memory of Marv had jogged another good thought: the freezer. He’d kept a bear in there once, and Alvin Marski was no black bear: he’d fit. She could figure out what to do about the freezer later. She paused at the sliding door to the patio. How to get the little creep into the freezer? She was strong but not that strong—and the last thing she needed was to put her back out.

  Well then, she would just have to ask for help, wouldn’t she. With that thought, she stepped through the doorway onto the patio. “Here, Alvin, exactly what I owe you. Please count it to be sure.”

  With a startled nod, Alvin took the bills and pushed himself up from the bench. A quick glance showed the money was there. He shoved the money into his back pocket and turned to leave.

  “Oh, and Alvin,” said the woman, “would you do one eensy-teensy favor for me before you leave? I have to move a box of frozen venison steaks from the freezer in the basement and it’s so heavy. Do you mind just carrying the box up to the kitchen for me?”

  “Okay,” he said with a wheeze even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. “Where is it?”

  Hoping he wouldn’t trip—he was so dizzy—he followed her down the stairs to the workroom where a tall, wide upright freezer stood at one end. Walking over he yanked the door open. At first he thought the freezer was empty, but when he blinked and cleared his vision, all he saw was something wrapped in plastic on the only shelf, which was just above his head. “That it?”

  “No, down there.” Standing close behind him, the woman pointed to a cardboard box resting on the bottom and shoved to the back of the unit. Bending over, he leaned into the freezer to grab it.

  Holding the gun in her right hand, left hand supporting her right wrist (exactly as she had been taught), she brought the revolver up and held it two inches behind his head. She pointed the muzzle at the base of his skull behind the left ear.

  The first shot went in nicely but her instructor had said that small handguns don’t kill, so she kept on firing until the double-action .22 Smith & Wesson 317LS revolver clicked on a spent round. She waited, breath held, but the target was not moving. She leaned over his shoulder, and checked for a pulse. Bleeding but not alive.

  She checked his pockets. After slipping her money from his back pants pocket, she was able to push his torso farther into the open freezer. It helped that the kid wasn’t huge. After some pushing and shoving, she managed to wrangle the box of venison off to one side, then out of the freezer. Now she could tuck the legs in, too. Very little blood had escaped the interior of the freezer, which made for a much easier cleanup than she had expected.

  Less than fifteen feet away was the industrial double sink that Marv had installed years ago—a godsend she hadn’t even counted on. After attaching the hose she used for cleaning her gardening tools, she was able to spray away the blood splatters on the floor and the outside of the freezer. She worked until the stream of water flowing down the floor drain was clear.

  In less than thirty minutes she was ready to do one final check. Alvin was well situated in the freezer: curled up, head between his knees, he fit fine. She could see pools and splatters of blood inside the unit but nothing outside. She would check later to be sure there was no leakage. Otherwise: a clean job.

  Surveying her handiwork, she spotted the carcass of a fox wrapped in plastic on the top shelf. She paused, then shrugged, closed the door, and fastened the padlock. If no one has claimed that critter in the four years since it was set in th
ere, they aren’t likely to now.

  Up in the kitchen, she checked the time. Cocktail hour. Wonderful. She mixed a gin and tonic and strolled back out onto the patio. The stones had dried under the hot sun. Sitting in her favorite chair, she thought back over the afternoon and smiled to herself: she could not have done better planning ahead.

  Of course, he must have left the knife in the truck, but that was parked behind an old abandoned barn. Forget it. Who would go looking there? And if they did, Alvin Marski was all over it anyway.

  Gazing around her yard and along the wooden stairs leading down to the lake, she remembered the tree man: George. Not only was he cheap when it came to cutting trees but twice now he had been happy to cart away worn-out appliances and dispose of them in such a way that she had been able to avoid outrageous landfill fees.

  Of course! She sipped her drink.

  He had charged her ten bucks to dump the old Maytag washer. This might be worth an extra five, though—that freezer is heavy. And if she told him she’d lost the key to the padlock on the door, he wouldn’t care. Plus he’s too dumb to notice. But she better make it twenty just to keep him happy.

  Ah, yes, she sipped again. It was nearly eight o’clock and the sun was dipping below the pines but the night was warm. August warm.

  Only one obstacle remained: that fat wife.

  The ice in her drink clinked as she raised the glass to toast herself. Her eyes, fierce as an eagle’s, glittered in the fading light.

  Chapter Three

  “Doc, if you will hold this sucker steady here, I’ll pull the cord over and around and try not to lose an eye doing it….”

  On his knees in the sand beside the dock, Paul Osborne’s neighbor struggled to rig a bright yellow fiberglass kayak with a long black bungee cord tipped with a red metal hook that appeared capable of springing loose and taking critical body parts with it.