Dead Tease

by Victoria Houston

  “Bears, fishers, fox, ’coons, porcupines—all my buddies,” said Ray. “Better ’n Letterman some nights.

  “I have the whole shebang set to record a forty-eight-hour loop, then erase and start over. You can watch in real time or fast-forward whenever you want. Fifty bucks sound okay to you?”

  “Yes,” said Leigh, not waiting for a response from her husband. “But how soon can you set it up?”

  “After Bruce and I finish here, I’ll drive back to my place and get all the parts. Should be able to set it up tonight. Be good to test the video in the dark—make sure you can see everything okay.”

  “Ohmygosh, that is just great,” said Leigh with so much enthusiasm that even Ray was taken aback. Only McNeil had a skeptical expression on his face.

  “Did you say you hunt deer?” asked Leigh.

  Ray looked around at Bruce and Lew: “Is this northern Wisconsin?”

  “I have a question for you then,” said Leigh. “When I was twelve my grandfather taught me how to shoot a twenty-two-caliber pistol but I haven’t shot a gun since. Jim keeps a shotgun in the house but I’ve never shot one. I think I’d feel better if I knew how to handle that gun.”

  Oh dear, thought Lew.

  “I’ll take you to the shooting range if you’d like,” said Ray.

  “I would love that.”

  Back in her squad car, Lew radioed in to the station. “Todd,” she said on reaching the night deputy on duty, “I’m on my way in and I’d like you to help me bring Alvin Marski in for questioning on that stolen pickup and—”

  Todd interrupted before she could finish. “Chief, I made a few calls. Roger told me you were hoping to do this but it’s not going to be all that easy. Alvin’s mother is my wife’s mother’s cousin. We happen to know Alvin’s mother kicked him out last spring. He was stealing her prescription drugs.

  “I just got off the phone with Jerry Anderson, his probation officer, who said he didn’t show up for his weekly appointment this morning. Jerry made some calls during the day but no sign of the guy. He figures he’s on his way to Michigan. The Canadian border is so tight these days, we’re pretty sure he won’t risk that.”

  “Okay,” said Lew. “Can you take care of putting out an APB on the guy?”

  “Already did,” said Todd. “Sorry I couldn’t do more.”

  “I’m not,” said Lew. “It’s been a long day. I’m going fishing.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Osborne knew better than to try reaching Mallory before six so he busied himself making dinner for the kids and, hopefully, Lew. A large Ziploc bag of chili from the freezer and fresh corn on the cob with a soft stick of butter and slices of delicious cheesy bread from the Loon Lake Market? Yep, that should do it.

  By the time he had finished husking the corn, setting the table, and putting the bag of chili in hot water to thaw—the cuckoo clock chimed six.

  Surely Mallory would be home by now, he thought as he wiped his hands on a tea towel. On the other hand, even though they had short summer hours at the ad agency where she was a vice president of marketing, he knew she liked to stop by her gym for a workout. Hopefully not today. If he took Beth, Harry, and Lew out on the boat, they might get back too late to call.

  It wasn’t reasonable but he felt an urgency to get Mallory’s input. His abhorrence of Gladys and Cynthia Daniels was pushing him to be more critical than he knew was fair. While he knew Mallory carried a cell phone, this was one conversation he wished to have when she could talk without worry of being overheard.

  He dialed her home number. To his relief, after two rings she answered. “Hi, Hon, do you have a minute?” he asked.

  “Dad? How are you? What’s up? Is this a good call or a bad call?” Mallory rattled off the questions, a hint of caution in her voice. Osborne knew she hoped he wasn’t calling with bad news about anyone: himself or Erin, Mark, and any of his grandchildren. Though the sisters got along, they didn’t talk often on the phone. Nor did Osborne and Mallory chat more than once a month.

  “Research, kiddo. I’m helping Lew out with a sad situation up here. A young woman was found stabbed to death late yesterday afternoon. Jennifer Williams. Did you ever know her?”

  “I’ve known of her but, gosh, Dad, she’s ten years younger than I am. Erin might know her better. One of my high school friends used to babysit for her if that would help. Doesn’t her mother work at the Loon Lake Market?”

  “That’s the family. But I’m not calling about Jennifer so much as some of the people who knew her. Jennifer had been running the graphics department at the new clinic where Cynthia Daniels is a trauma physician in the emergency unit. Cynthia is one of the people I’m calling about.”

  “Right, my best friend. Dad, if there is anyone I avoid with a passion it is Cynthia Daniels. All I know is she somehow managed to get into medical school years ago. Probably slept with the admissions director. So what does she have to do with Jennifer Williams?”

  “Well, for one thing they didn’t get along—”

  “What else is new? Cynthia is all about guys. She is not a ‘girl’s girl’ if you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” said Osborne and grinned into the phone. Once he and Mallory had made their peace after Mary Lee died—finding their way to a friendship that had eluded both while Mallory was growing up—Osborne found her acerbic take on human beings (who deserved it) entertaining and perceptive.

  “Remember, Dad, because she was in boarding school I only saw her summers but we sort of hung with the same crowd. When it came to any of us girls, Cynthia had such a nasty edge to her. She would make cutting remarks about your clothes or your figure or your hair—and always in front of the boys, of course.”

  “Competitive?”

  “To put it mildly. But what amazed me was her behavior toward boys. She was s-o-o-o promiscuous. And boys liked her. At eighteen, who doesn’t want to get laid, you know?

  “The last summer that I saw her, which was after our freshman year in college, she went after this one guy, Greg Cooke, who was a camp counselor at Camp Chippewa. He wanted nothing to do with her. He told me that. In fact, I was dating him that summer—”

  “You were dating a boy that Cynthia was interested in?”

  “‘Interested’ is putting it mildly. She was obsessed. She stalked Greg. One night, she drove down a back road into the camp, waited in the woods until he came out and got into a car with a friend. She followed them into town and into the bars, hanging on him even though he asked her to leave him alone. Several times she did that. Creepy.

  “That fall, when he was back at the University of Wisconsin, she showed up at his frat house one night. Same routine. I remember he called me totally freaked out.”

  “How long did Cynthia keep that up? With Greg?”

  “About six months. He and I stayed in touch for a while so I know he knew she was lurking around. But he played it cool, didn’t respond to her, and the stalking died off eventually. You know, Dad, I haven’t talked to Greg in years. Want me to Google him and see if he’s around? He was a nice guy. I’d love to know how his life has turned out.”

  “Sure, if you’re comfortable with that. But you’ve told me enough to give me some perspective on the woman.”

  “Dad, I feel bad saying so many negative things about Cynthia. I’m sure she’s matured and isn’t so crazy anymore. After all, I’ve had my demons, too. You know that.”

  Yes, he did. And yet, oddly enough, it was through her struggle with alcoholism that he had grown to love her. Or maybe it was the shared struggle that made the difference for both of them. Today, Mallory was a person less perfect than what her mother had wanted. More like him. And he cared for her more deeply than he ever had in her youth.

  “Does any of what I’ve just said help with the investigation, Dad?”

  “It does, and the other reason I’m calling is Gladys. The old lady.”

  “C’mon, Dad, are you trying to ruin my day?”

  Osborne chuc
kled. “No. But here is what’s bothering me: Gladys Daniels alleges she saw the man who killed Jennifer Williams. She says she was walking her dog near the condos where Jennifer lived and claims to have witnessed the assault.”

  “Wow,” said Mallory. “Could she see who it was?”

  “So she says—and that’s just it,” said Osborne, heaving a sigh as he said, “I’m having a hard time believing her. This afternoon Lew and I spent over an hour questioning that woman.”

  “Still the mean old bitch?”

  “Oh-h-h, you better believe it. Managed a few jibes at me right off the bat. But back to the fact she alleges she saw the murder take place—or saw the man who killed Jennifer within moments of the assault. Does it surprise you that I’m having a hard time believing her?”

  “Yes and no. Yes if she really saw something—or someone. But the woman has always been a vicious gossip and lot of it lies. You remember the crap she spread about me that one summer—when I got kicked off the tennis team thanks to her lies?”

  “I’ll never forget that,” said Osborne.

  “What makes you think she might be lying now?” asked Mallory. “I mean, that’s a hell of a story to tell if it isn’t true.”

  “After Lew and I heard the details of what Gladys insists she saw, she launched into a series of snide remarks about the murder victim.”

  “You mean Jennifer Williams?”

  “Right. Remarks that were not necessary.”

  “That is weird. I wonder why?”

  “So do I. That’s why I’ve called. You’ve known both these women since you were a kid. But here’s the other issue, Mallory: Can Cynthia be trusted?

  “Lew and I are both ready to discount anything Gladys says. We think she’s a nut case. Plus, Lew is always hesitant to trust eyewitness accounts.”

  “That’s wise. Recent court cases down here in Illinois prove that. But why are you questioning anything Cynthia says about all this? So what if she didn’t get along with that young woman? No reason to murder someone.”

  “My sense is that Cynthia knows something that can help with the investigation—but so far she has stonewalled us or we’ve gotten conflicting stories from her and a couple of her colleagues. We understand from one person close to her that Cynthia despised Jennifer. And she has deliberately lied about her whereabouts at the time the murder occurred. Something doesn’t fit.”

  “Dad, when it comes to Cynthia, lying may be genetic. I think Gladys and Cynthia are two of a kind: people who think not getting caught in a lie is the same thing as telling the truth. But I doubt she would commit murder. Why do you need to even deal with her?”

  “Good question. Maybe I’m making too much of the fact that Cynthia and Jennifer worked in the same environment and there was bad blood between them. But why would Gladys rant about a young woman she barely knew?

  “Gee, Mallory, I’m sorry to bother you with this. The more I talk about it, the more confused my thinking.”

  “No, it’s okay, Dad. You know, what I remember most about Cynthia and her mother was Mrs. Daniels’s insistence that Cynthia be perfect. She always had the nicest, most expensive clothes, her folks bought her a convertible when she turned sixteen—and then there was the plastic surgery. Remember that?”

  “No, but I do remember Gladys wanting Cynthia’s teeth straightened for strictly cosmetic reasons. Her bite was fine and I told her orthodontia might cause more problems than it could fix. When I refused to recommend it, she went to Wausau and had it done anyway. What was the surgery?”

  “This was after college, and I only heard about it from friends. Apparently Cynthia had her nose done. Gladys didn’t like the result, so she insisted on another nose job. And another. Three nose jobs before she was happy with Cynthia’s face.

  “Oh, and then there was the abortion.”

  “What?” All this was news to Osborne.

  “During her senior year in college, Cynthia got pregnant. Gladys met with the boy and his parents, didn’t like them, said they didn’t have enough money and insisted Cynthia end the pregnancy and the relationship.”

  “Ever hear how Cynthia felt about that?”

  “Umm, my impression has always been that she takes orders from the old lady. But that may have changed. She doesn’t live with her mom, does she?”

  “On the same property. In the guest house.”

  “Really? Cynthia is in her late thirties, making a ton of money, and living at home?”

  “I rest my case,” said Osborne. “Too many weird elements. Jennifer Williams’s death aside, the fact that these two women are in any way connected to the crime just bugs the hell out of me.”

  “Sorry I can’t help you more, Dad. Keep me posted on this, will you?”

  After talking with Mallory, Osborne checked the driveway for bikes. No sign of Beth and Harry yet. He checked his watch, looked over Erin’s list regarding Beth and her schedule, and decided to follow instructions and check on the status of Beth’s cell phone and her texting. After reaching the 800 number and following the prompts in Erin’s note, he got the total of text messages sent and received.

  He was surprised: Beth’s texting over the last two days was less than half what her mother allowed. Well, he wondered, what was Erin worried about?

  Then it dawned on him: Beth and Harry were spending too much time together. So close they didn’t have to text. Whoa. He better put a stop to that. But how to handle it in a diplomatic “grandfatherly” kind of way? Yikes. He’d ask Lew—she would know.

  Osborne set a pan of water on to boil the corn and a sauce pan to heat the chili, and, in spite of the nutritional compromise, he ripped open a bag of tortilla chips to have with a jar of salsa. It might not add years to their lives but at least they would get enough to eat. And he had ice cream bars in the freezer.

  The phone rang. “Doc?” asked Lew. “It’s just six thirty. Am I too late for dinner?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I figure we have two more hours of light,” said Osborne, looking up from where he and Lew were busy organizing the muskie rods and tackle while waiting for the kids. The evening sky was a periwinkle blue streaked with dove gray scribbles: the brushwork of a celestial painter gone berserk.

  “I’m bringing one fly rod along,” said Lew. “I tied a dry fly this winter that I’m hoping works on big muskies. We’ll see. Whose is this?” she said, reaching for a spinning rod that someone had set on the bench at the end of the dock.

  “That’s young Harry’s muskie rod,” said Osborne. “After I invited him to go along with us, he biked home and got his own gear.” Osborne glanced up toward the house. “What on earth is taking those kids so long? Beth,” he hollered, “you and Harry need to get down here. We’re ready to go.”

  “Here we come, Gramps,” said Beth, tripping down the stone stairs with Harry close behind.

  Even with four fishermen on board, the boat moved easily over the water. Ripples shimmered in the setting sun as Osborne steered up the east shoreline, through the channel, and into the stretch of river connecting the Loon Lake chain.

  He slowed as he neared a small bay and cut the motor. The boat rocked quietly in its own wake. With a whoosh, Osborne dropped anchor.

  “Doctor Osborne, why are we stopping here?” asked Harry. “My dad said a good muskie fisherman always works the weed beds along the shoreline.” The boy looked over both shoulders then turned to Osborne. “This doesn’t look right to me.”

  “Well, Harry,” said Lew with an easy grin. “Shore beaters have their virtues, but Doc and I are going for suspended muskies tonight. We’re anchored over a forty-foot pool that’s fed by a cold spring at the bottom. Just you watch, because if we’re lucky enough to hit a window when they’re feeding—could be a big girl just waiting for us.”

  “Forty feet down?” Harry looked dubious.

  “Not that deep,” said Lew. “She’ll be lurking around fifteen, maybe sixteen feet. No wind tonight, so it won’t matter which direction
you cast.”

  With a shrug, as if he was willing to try the impossible, Harry pulled a Red RizzoTail out of his tackle box and hooked it on to the end of his fishing line. Standing up behind Beth, he cast toward shore.

  Osborne was planning to use his old, reliable bucktail, but first he rigged Beth up with a neon-green crank bait that he knew would stand out in the tannin-stained water. He glanced over to see Lew getting ready to tie on her new muskie fly.

  “Check it out, Doc,” she said, holding the bright purple dry fly in her hand. “It’s my variation of a Rainy Carp Tease, size eight. I added color because of this dark water. It’s designed to imitate a dragonfly. Just what a big girl is hungry for—I hope.”

  Lew grinned over at Osborne. She was so happy fishing. All the strain left her features, her black eyes sparkled, and that smile—there were a great many things he would do for that smile. Fishing came second.

  As the boat swayed with their casts, the four murmured in soft voices so as not to spook any monsters below. “So, you two,” said Lew, false casting twice before letting the dry fly at the end of her leader soar nearly fifty feet toward the far shore, “Doc said you’ve been doing basketball camp and biking this week. Either of you got summer jobs?”

  “No, darn it,” said Harry, “I’m not sixteen yet, so I couldn’t apply many places. I wanted to make some money, too.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” said Beth with a cast of her spinning rod that made her grandfather proud. “At least I’ve been doing some babysitting.”

  “Where are you biking?” asked Lew. “The highways?”

  “No. Off-road, mostly, like the Bearskin, the snowmobile routes, and some of the logging lanes,” said Harry.

  “Well, keep an eye out,” said Lew. “The Forestry Service will pay twenty bucks for any old, rusty machinery or vehicles you might see back in the woods. You find it, they’ll pick it up and pay you. Could be some easy money.”

  “Hey, Beth, you hear that?” asked Harry. “What about that old pickup we saw yesterday—on the bike trail behind the condos? I didn’t see anybody around, did you? Maybe somebody just left it there. We should check it out.”