“No fishing tonight?” asked Bruce.
Lew gave him the dim eye. Delighted with his own cleverness, Bruce’s eyebrows jumped around. With that, they all got to their feet to file out of the office. Lew was the last one out, and she locked the door behind them.
Chapter Nineteen
Lew poured herself an iced tea, and walked down through the field behind her little farmhouse to the wooden swing that looked out over the pond. The sun had dropped behind the tall pines on the peninsula to her right, cooling the night air. Bats had begun to swoop in the shadows, hungry for the mosquitoes that were just waking up.
With the creaking of the swing, her shoulders relaxed. The lemon in the tea soothed her throat. So much talking today—questions from the reporters, the mayor, everyone on staff needing direction. She was tired but satisfied. And tonight, her own bed. A firefly grazed her knee.
She remembered how her grandfather had let her sleep outside on nights just like this: the breezes soft, the distant wailing of a loon. Lew smiled to herself. Ever since getting to know Ray Pradt and his encyclopedia of birdcalls, she didn’t trust herself to judge if it was a real bird or Ray putting her on.
Tonight it was a real loon. That she was sure of, since everyone from Ray to Doc to Bruce had to feel as bone tired as she did. Taking a final swallow of tea, she sensed someone approaching. She turned to look over her right shoulder. A curtain of dusk had fallen across the field behind her. It was empty. She turned back to the lake, her body tensing. She could feel it in her back: someone was watching. She turned around fast. No one.
Then, in her peripheral vision to the left, she saw a dark shadow move along the fence surrounding the apple orchard. But the moment she saw it, it was gone—vanished into the woods. Had she really seen something? Someone?
Lew got to her feet and kidded herself for feeling so vulnerable. She knew the local wolf pack had grown in numbers, and the young were scouting new territory. That must have been what she saw. Nothing to be afraid of; just a wolf.
After setting down his copy of Trout Madness, which he was rereading for the umpteenth time, Osborne turned out the light on his bedside table. The windows were open to the moonlight; a breeze off the lake cooled his forehead. He was missing one thing: Lewellyn. He slept better when she was beside him.
A soft knock on the bedroom door brought him up on one elbow. “Dad?”
Osborne sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Just a second, Mal, hon.” He pulled on his bathrobe and opened the door.
“Can we talk for a minute? I know it’s late, but—”
“No, this is fine. Where’s Kenton? Want to go out on the porch? Cooler out there.”
“No, Dad. I don’t want Kenton to hear me.” She dropped her head, and in the pale glow from the moon, he thought he saw tears in her eyes.
“Dad, what do you think of him—of Kenton, I mean?”
That was a tough one. Osborne hesitated. He had made so many mistakes with this daughter, and only in the last two years had they seemed to find the closeness that had been missing since she was a child. He had to be very careful.
“I guess,” said Osborne, “my question is … is there room for you in his life? He’s always on the phone or on his computer. I’m not sure he hears you when you’re talking to him. I know Kenton has a big job, but he’s just so busy.”
“You think he’s a jerk.”
“Narcissist is a kinder word. It’s all about him, sweetie. The phone calls, the e-mails, the schedule the way he wants it, the likes, the dislikes. I could see he was irritated that Lew asked you—not him—to take charge of the media today.”
“Was Mom like that? Always having to be in control?”
“That’s how I know one when I see one. Experience counts.”
Mallory was silent for so long that Osborne wondered if he had just said the wrong thing. She had been her mother’s favorite for so many years. To the exclusion of Osborne himself, which he hadn’t realized and accepted until he was in therapy during his rehab at Hazelden.
“Kenton’s a lot like my ex, isn’t he?”
“Your mother liked your first husband. I didn’t. I’m afraid I told you that at the wrong time.”
“Yeah, the night before my wedding. Thanks, Dad.” He could see a rueful smile cross her face.
“I am so sorry. Am I doing it again?”
“Heavens, no.” She waved a dismissive hand. “This way I have time to make a change.” She smiled. “And it is a lot less expensive this way. I think, actually I know, that Mom would have liked Kenton.”
“I am sure she would. He’s good-looking, he has the impressive title, and he will make a lot of money. But, Mallory, do you want to be right? Or do you want to be loved?”
“Dad,” she said, “I want what you and Lew have—you have fun together, you have a great friendship, such an appreciation of each other. What’s the secret, Dad? How do I find that?”
“Take fly fishing lessons?”
Mallory laughed. “You’re right. No easy answer.”
“Sorry if I’m hard on Kenton, but you asked my opinion.”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you wanted an honest answer?”
“I did. I guess the problem is me. I’m just not sure any more if I’m any good at judging people.”
Osborne said nothing. He couldn’t help her there. He was the one who had spent over thirty years married to a woman who grimaced at the sound of his voice.
“Good night, and thanks, Dad.” Mallory stood up, gave him a peck on the cheek, and opened the bedroom door.
“Good night, sweetheart … I love you.”
Too late; she was out the door, and hadn’t heard him.
The next morning after breakfast, while his guests took the dog for a walk, Osborne went downstairs to be sure there was enough toilet tissue in the bathroom that Kenton and Mallory were using. Both bedrooms were in use: Mallory had moved out of the one she had been sharing with Kenton.
Chapter Twenty
Osborne left the house early Monday on a hunch that Lew would be at her desk before seven. He was right. Not only was she was there, but the coffee pot was half empty.
“I thought I would finish my paperwork on the victim recovery yesterday,” he said, walking into her office. Lew glanced up. “Want me to work here,” he pointed to a chair in the corner behind the table, “or in the conference room?”
“In here, if the phone and the scanner don’t bother you, Doc. I just left a message over at the Inn for Lauren Crowell. I want to meet with her first thing this morning—”
As she was speaking, the phone rang. Lew picked up. “Yes, Marlaine, that’s fine. Put her through.” Lew signaled with her eyes that it was Lauren. “Morning, Lauren. Say, we had a development late yesterday that Dr. Osborne and I would like to discuss with you. How soon can you meet with us here in my office? Yes, the Loon Lake police located right behind the courthouse. The front desk will be expecting you. Thank you, Lauren.”
“What’s new since last night?” asked Osborne.
“Nothing yet. We’re waiting on the results of the samples that Bruce sent down south, and Ray will be spending today scouring the Ericsson property. In the meantime, I want to get a handle on anyone who may have been in that house Friday night.”
Lauren arrived within half an hour. “Sorry if I look bad,” she said as she took a chair beside Osborne in front of Lew’s desk. In fact, thought Osborne, she looked rested and relaxed. Maybe she thought she should look bad.
“Lauren,” said Lew, “a thorough investigation of Jane Ericsson’s house indicates that she died there sometime during the night Friday. We’re hoping you can tell us the names of any people—workmen included—who may have been in or around Jane’s house during the day or later that evening.”
“Let me think about this for a minute,” said Lauren, concentration wrinkling her forehead. “Well … you have me down in Madison, though I was in the house until around noon
Friday before leaving to drive down. I don’t remember seeing any workmen around, though that doesn’t mean they didn’t come by later.”
“We’ve learned that Jane had plans to meet with a Mike Kelly that evening. Does his name mean anything to you?”
“Oh, that guy. He was a pest. He showed up at almost every rally. But Jane was due home so late that it doesn’t make sense she would have made an appointment to see him. I suggest you ask him about that—if you can find him.”
“What do you mean, ‘if we can find him’?” asked Osborne.
“He lives in his van, I think. I can’t imagine that he can be reached very easily—except by phone, of course. I can assure you, no one on staff has his number. We tried to ignore the guy. Like I said, he was a pest. And a nut case, in my opinion.”
“Anyone else, Lauren?” asked Lew.
The woman gave a heavy sigh and said, “Well, of course, that old frog next door might have tried something. She used to come in and out all the time, without knocking. Even though Jane tried to put an end to that, she may have found a way to get in.”
“You’re referring to Kaye Lund, I assume?” asked Osborne, his voice stern as a parent. Lauren’s snarky comments about Kaye were wearing on him.
“Were locks changed recently?” asked Lew.
“Yes. But that didn’t help. Jane often left her doors unlocked—especially when she was drinking. I got so mad at her for that.”
“I’m sorry,” said Lew, “I think I asked you this before and forgot to write it down, but who did you say you had planned to stay with in Madison? Before you got the news about Jane.”
“Phyllis Cook. She’s a good friend who always has a spare bunk for me.”
“Would Jane have stayed there, too?”
“Heavens, no. She was to stay with the Winters at their home in Maple Grove. They were hosting the event on the pontoon. That’s why I wanted her to fly into Madison instead of spending the night up here. If only she had taken my advice, but no, she insisted on staying here Friday; said she was exhausted. May I ask what makes you so sure that Jane was … that she died in her home?”
“Sorry,” said Lew, “that’s confidential until I have all the results in. Doc, do you have any more questions for Lauren?”
“Will you be at the memorial service tomorrow?” asked Osborne. “Kaye told me it was scheduled for ten A.M.”
A wave of irritation crossed Lauren’s face before she answered. “Of course. I’m giving the campaign staff their final notices later today, so I’m sure many of them will be there, too.” Lauren stood up. “I have one thought, by the way. Our campaign got so much attention all these months that someone I never knew or saw might have targeted Jane. She was in the public eye so often, who knows what deranged person might have decided to …”
“Good point,” said Lew. “I’ll be in touch when we can allow you back in the house for the rest of your things.”
Early that afternoon, Bruce poked his head around Lew’s door. “Chief Ferris, got a minute? Just had an e-mail from my sister at the pediatric genome lab—the DNA samples all match. We have one victim. Just one.”
“What about the blood samples that you found at the Ericsson house?”
“The DNA in the blood is a match to the other samples. No question in my mind that that is where the Ericsson woman was killed and her body dismembered.”
“Have we heard anything from Ray yet?”
“Nothing new. He has laid out a grid pattern with ropes to be sure he works the entire area. Told me he’s hoping to finish before dark.”
“Well, you two,” said Lew, rocking back in her chair. “Looks like we’re stalled for a while.”
“Kenton texted me a few minutes ago asking if Dani has run the background check on Lauren Crowell yet,” said Osborne.
“Oh, right,” said Lew, sitting up fast. “My mistake—I forgot to tell her to run Crowell’s name along with all the local staffers through the NCIC. Someone broke into the pharmacy across from the sports bar during the storm Friday night, and she has been up to her ears trying to find current addresses for our local meth abusers. I’ll have her run that check as soon as she’s done with the other.”
Bruce checked his watch and said, “Say, guys, I don’t expect the pathology report on the victim found in the van for awhile. How about a couple hours in the trout stream?”
Lew’s face brightened then fell. “I can’t fit all three of us in my pickup.”
“I’ll drive,” said Osborne. “Bruce, did you bring your fly rod?”
“You must be kidding,” said Bruce with a pleased chortle.
In the thirty minutes it took Osborne to drive out to his place, change clothes, pack his fishing gear into the back of his Subaru, and drive back to the police department, Lew had changed out of her uniform and into dark green fishing shorts, a tan T-shirt, and her fly fishing vest. She and Bruce, also dressed for action in the water, were sitting on the stoop at the back door to the station as Osborne pulled up. After stowing their gear in the back, they scrambled into the car.
“Got waders?” Osborne turned sideways to ask Bruce. He didn’t have to ask Lew. She drove her pickup in to the department every morning, except in the dead of winter, with her gear (which included a half-inflated float tube and a bike pump) at the ready for fishing on a moment’s notice.
When Osborne kidded her for never leaving home without a fly rod, she would laugh and say, “Hey, when you live this close to water, you never know when you can snatch half an hour here or an hour there. No better way to take your mind off a day’s problems and let the old subconscious work.”
An excellent excuse, and maybe even true, thought Osborne. After all, he liked to say he practiced dentistry so he could afford to fish.
“Yep, got waders, got a couple new dry flies, and a box of #16 Adams that I tied myself,” said Bruce, slouching happily in the back seat.
“We’re heading for my favorite stream north of here,” said Lew to Bruce. “It’s less than an hour away, in case something breaks on the investigation and we have to get back fast. But it’s also secret water that few people know about.”
“What stream is it?” asked Bruce.
“Secret Stream,” said Lew.
“Oh, all right, I get the message,” said Bruce with a pout. “It’s still so warm—do you think we’ll see any brookies?”
“Depends if there’s a hatch or not. This time of year, that’s iffy. The rain should have cooled the water down, but you never know. It is August, after all.”
Following Lew’s instructions, Osborne pulled off the highway and down an unmarked country lane before parking alongside some farmer’s fence. Moving quickly, they piled out of the car and grabbed their gear.
Ten minutes before Osborne and Bruce had finished threading their fly lines and tying on new leaders, Lew was ready: waders belted, fly rod in her right hand, polarized sunglasses perched on the curls crowding her forehead, and two boxes of trout flies tucked into her shirt pockets. She waited patiently before leading them down a narrow path to enter the water near a beaver dam that had been pulled apart by earlier visitors.
“This is when I love life,” said Bruce as he splashed into the stream. Osborne agreed. The afternoon sun was hot on their shoulders, but a steady breeze eased the heat. The water in the stream was running fast and clear, burbling around large boulders and spilling over shelves of rock and stone left by the glacier as it had carved its way through the Northwoods.
“No hatch,” said Lew with a shrug. “Doesn’t mean it isn’t dinnertime somewhere.” She smiled. Hatch or no hatch, she was happy.
After forging upstream forty feet, Bruce made his first cast. “Oh, dear,” said Lew. “Do that again.” Bruce raised his right arm to send the fly line up, back, and forward where, instead of unfurling thirty to forty feet ahead … it puddled at his feet.
“Too much wrist,” said Lew. “I didn’t teach you that. And, Bruce, your back cast sucks—you got loops, when t
hat line should flow straight back on a nice, level plane. And your stance … honestly, Bruce, you have picked up some bad habits. Watch me,” she said, “try to be more fluid in your movement. Even Doc back casts better than you.”
“Thanks,” said Osborne drily, though he was tickled with the backhanded compliment.
Lew waded into the middle of the stream to demonstrate. With her right arm at her side, she set her right foot slightly behind as she held her fly rod at a forty-five-degree angle, then turned her hips and shoulders, keeping her elbow firm and not elevated. The fly line whipped back and forth on a level plane until she stopped the rod abruptly, letting the fly line unfurl nearly sixty feet and drop her dry fly with such delicacy, there was not even a whisper as it landed.
“You got a better rod than I do,” said Bruce, sputtering. “You got that Joan Wulff-designed rod with the thumb groove.”
“No excuses, Bruce,” said Lew. “You can make a good cast no matter what rod you’ve got. Remember the three rules I taught you—or tried to teach you. One: if you’re right-handed, your right foot should be positioned to the rear. Bruce, that’s the first thing you forgot. Two: be sure your casting-hand thumb is positioned behind the rod handle. And three: do not raise your elbow on the cast. I know it’s counterintuitive, but think of keeping your elbow on a shelf that’s as high as your elbow—no higher. Okay, try again. This time, watch that wrist!”
Bruce tried, and tried … and tried. After half an hour, while Osborne busied himself casting further upstream, Lew finally said, “Better. You’re still letting that rod tip drift up too high, but it’s coming.” She sighed. “You will catch fish, Bruce, but you’ve still got a lot to learn. I want to see your casting improve.
“You, too, Doc,” she said, loud enough for Osborne to hear. “I want to see that back cast of yours parallel to the ground. All right, you two, I’m heading upstream. See you later.”
Each in their own world, they fished until dark. As the full moon rose through the feathery fingers of tamarack growing in the bogs along the rushing water, Osborne found himself in a section where the stream narrowed to less than ten feet wide. A patch of brush on one side held ripening wild raspberries. Even as he relished the thought of a luscious berry or two, he realized they would have more appeal to another denizen of the woods: a bear. Maybe a young bear. Maybe a young bear followed by a hungry wolf. Osborne knew he was letting his imagination get the better of him, but he was also hungry, and not a little fatigued.
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