Dead Boogie

by Victoria Houston

  “What’s that about the note?” she said, giving Osborne a curious look.

  “I like to study people’s handwriting,” said Osborne. “A hobby I’ve had since I was a kid. Didn’t you ever read those books on how you can analyze a personality through their longhand?”

  “Honestly, Doc. This ranks up there with your trying to use hypnosis to relax your patients.”

  “C’mon, Lewellyn,” said Osborne, struggling for sternness. “That worked on two people. Bear with me on this.” Lew gave him a dim eye.

  He examined the note Joan Nehlson had written. She was one of those people who jotted in a half-print, half-script pattern. It looked familiar. He tried to remember where he’d seen something similar … felt like it had been recently, too. After a few seconds of trying, he gave up. But he tucked the note into his wallet.

  They drove past the fork in the road toward the Nehlsons’ lodge. Lew pulled off to the side of the big circle drive and parked. The morning sun was rising over the pines behind them, casting beams of sunlight across silvery mosses.

  An expanse of new-mown lawn ran from the house down to the bog’s edge. Like baby Christmas trees, miniature black spruce dotted the hummocks, which extended as far as they could see to the east. Beyond the low, flat bog was a shimmer of sky blue water. “Gorgeous view,” said Lew.

  “Mosquito farm,” said Osborne. Beautiful as they were, he was not a fan of bogs. He didn’t like the surprises beneath: pockets of deep water that could ruin a deer hunter’s day; muck that could suck you in up to your knees if not your waist and ruin good boots in the process.

  They walked across the driveway toward the front door of the big house. Lew knocked and they waited, but no one came to the door. “I guess Mike was right,” said Lew. Osborne followed her over to the four-car garage that was attached to one side of the home. A door on one side was windowed and she peered through.

  “No Lincoln Navigator,” she said. “There’s a sports car here.”

  “No dark blue truck that I can see,” said Osborne.

  “I guess we’ll have to give it up and send you on to your lady friend early, Doc,” said Lew.

  “You want to try Forsyth?” said Osborne. “Right around the corner.”

  “Not yet. Since I’m likely to be interrogating the man in the next day or two, I’d just as soon wait until I have all the details from the investigations in Milwaukee,” said Lew.

  “How about I walk down the drive and see if he knows where the Nehlsons might be?”

  Just then the front door opened and Parker Nehlson stepped out on the porch. He was in a brown bathrobe, his hair uncombed. He looked as if he had just gotten out of bed. Pulling the belt on the bathrobe tighter, he said, “Was that you ringing the doorbell?”

  “Yes, good morning,” said Lew, her voice cheery. “I am so sorry. I think we woke you up. Is Joan here? We have a few questions for you folks.”

  “Joan?” Parker glanced back behind him. “Joan!” he called again and waited. “No, I guess she isn’t—she’s not here.” His wife’s absence seemed to surprise him.

  “Any idea when she’ll be back?” said Lew.

  “Golly,” said Parker, running his hand through his hair. “I really don’t know. She never goes anywhere this early. Maybe she’s next door—having coffee with Ed. Want me to call over there?”

  “That would be helpful,” said Lew, crossing her arms and leaning back against the porch railing.

  Parker disappeared back inside the house for a few minutes, then stepped out again. “No answer over there. Don’t know what’s up.”

  “Okay, thank you for trying,” said Lew. She started to walk away, then stopped to say, “By the way, George who works for you. Where can we find him?”

  “He’s usually here,” said Parker. “Stays in the apartment over the garage rather than drive all the way back to his place. Isn’t his truck parked on the other side of the drive?”

  “Not that I can see,” said Lew.

  “Jeez, I don’t know,” said Parker, appearing more mystified by the moment. “Wait a minute, let me check something.” He walked down the porch to the front of the house, disappeared around the corner, then came back. “The pontoon’s gone. They must be out on the lake.”

  “Early-morning fishing. Good day for it,” said Osborne.

  Again Parker shook his head. “I dunno about that—my wife hates to fish.”

  twenty-five

  Scholars have long known that fishing eventually turns men into philosophers. Unfortunately, it is almost impossible to buy decent tackle on a philosopher’s salary.

  —Patrick F. McManus

  Osborne walked in to find Beebo chatting with friends in the lobby of the Dairyman’s main lodge.

  “Oh, Paul, I’m so glad you could make it,” she said, extending both arms as she strode across the room to give him a full hug and a peck on the check. Once again she struck him as looking golden—dressed in slacks and a long-sleeved shirt of a tawny color that matched her hair. She was tall and angular with a bone structure emphasized by the jewelry she was wearing.

  “This way, dear,” she said, pulling him into the dining room. They took a seat at a table along the windows looking over the lake. Placing her elbows on the table, Beebo steepled her fingers and rested her chin on the peak. With smiling eyes, she said, “Paul, never would I have guessed years ago what an extraordinarily good-looking man you would become.”

  “Thank you, Beebo,” said Osborne, shifting his eyes away from hers and hoping she wouldn’t go on too long.

  He was not going to deny that he had a certain distinguished appearance: His black hair was silvered at the temples and, brushed back, was as full and wavy as it had been at the age of thirteen. And at six feet three inches of height, he prided himself on his erect carriage and the flat stomach that eluded so many of his peers. Add to that his Métis heritage of sculpted cheekbones, black eyes, and a deepening summer tan. He was fortunate in his genes and forever thankful. No, he did not look bad for a man in his early sixties. And embarrassed though he might feel, Osborne was happy she noticed.

  “You’ve weathered the years quite well yourself, Beebo,” he said, opening the menu. Though now that he had a chance to see her up close in the daylight, it was evident she had spent a lot of time in the sun. She had one of those permanent tans, which was emphasized by the extreme whiteness of her teeth. And when she smiled, her smile lines didn’t crinkle and curve through the contours of her face. It was as if that emotion had been relegated to the lower half of her face, where it was punctuated with those teeth startlingly bright.

  Osborne chastised himself: Only a dentist would be so critical.

  “… and so we raised our children in Kenilworth—just a few blocks from my mom and dad,” Beebo was saying as Osborne struggled to focus on her words instead of her lower jaw.

  “Oh, Kenilworth?” he interrupted her. “By chance did you ever run into the Garmins—Hugo and his wife?”

  “Paul, please,” said Beebo. “Remember, I’m a year younger than you. The senior Garmins were quite a bit older than Bob and I. Of course I knew them. They went to our church and Mrs. Garmin was in the Garden Club, an emeritus member. Her daughter, Joan, has been a member, too. My little sister went to North Shore Country Day with Joan. Why?”

  “Well, you’ll be surprised to hear that I’ve been working part-time since retiring from my dental practice,” said Osborne. “The Loon Lake Police hire me from time to time. My background in forensic dentistry, you know.”

  “So you’re a police officer?”

  “Oh no—just a deputy. Beebo, we have a case on our hands right now that you might find interesting. The Garmins’ older daughter, Peg, was found murdered earlier this week.”

  “You mean Mary Margaret. Oh … my … gosh,” said Beebo, her eyes widening. “But, you know, the rumors about her ever since she was a kid—you always knew something bad was going to happen.”

  “What did you hear?” />
  “She was wild. Hung out with the wrong kind of guys before she ran off. Later we heard she was a hooker in Chicago. Far cry from Joan, I’ll tell you. Joan, the perfect child—according to her mother, of course.” Beebo gave a mock shudder. “That woman was something else.

  “I’ll never forget my sister, Tory, coming home from an overnight at their house in tears. Mrs. Garmin had told Tory that she would never get into Northwestern and be asked to join the Kappas—like Joan was sure to. ‘You just don’t have what it takes,’ she told Tory. So condescending. Of course, what it took was a pushy mother like Mrs. Garmin.

  “And you know, Paul, I am happy to say that in the long run she was wrong. Joan didn’t get into Northwestern and she was never invited to be a Kappa. I’ve always wondered how her mother handled that. At least she managed to marry the man her mother picked out for her.”

  Beebo looked into Osborne’s eyes. “I wish I was a better person and could tell you I feel sorry for her, but to be perfectly honest, Joan’s got what she deserved. Just like her mother, she is a snob and a know-it-all. It reached a point in the Garden Club that I refused to be on any committee she was on—a lot of my friends, too. Life’s too short, Paul, just too short to put up with people like Joan Nehlson. Though I do feel a little sorry for her—she’s toed the line for that mother of hers and still come out on the short end.”

  Beebo leaned forward and dropped her voice. “I don’t think she’s very attractive either. For all the work she’s had done. Have you met her?”

  “Yesterday for a brief time. Her husband seems nice enough,” said Osborne, raising his fork over the omelet and slices of Nueske’s bacon that had just been placed in front of him.

  “Nice but not very bright,” said Beebo. “Frat boy type. You know the kind I mean—as kids they always had the new sports car, always drank too much and promptly wrecked it. In college they pledged the animal house. And when it was time for a career, they went into the family business because no one else would hire them.”

  “Is that what Parker did?”

  “Uh-huh. His grandfather made their money in railroads and built a small train museum in honor of himself, I guess. Parker has been director of the museum for as long as I’ve known him. Though I hear that may be coming to an end.”

  She paused, then waved her fork over her plate of pancakes and said, “I’m being unfair. When Bob and I would run into the Nehlsons at social events, Parker has always been sweet to me. It’s Joan I have a problem with. She’s pushy and such a social climber, which is what my mother always said about her mother. Family tradition, I guess. Poor Parker. I’ll bet you anything he gets the brunt of it in that household.”

  “That’s all very interesting,” said Osborne. “You know they have quite a nice piece of property on the Pickerel chain about half an hour from here.”

  “Not for long they don’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Word is they’re close to bankrupt. Joan inherited quite a bit of money when the old man died but she gambled it all on tech stocks a few years back. Lost millions. We don’t think she ever told her mother either. I mean, would you? So when the old lady died six months ago, Joan got a very rude awakening. Her mother left her share of the Garmin fortune to the church and nothing to Joan.”

  “That’s not exactly true,” said Osborne. “Peg got forty-eight million dollars.”

  Beebo looked at him. “You must be kidding.”

  “No,” said Osborne. “Forty-eight million dollars.”

  “Well, well, well—she must have had a reason for that,” said Beebo. “I do know that after Hugo died, Mrs. Garmin became much more active in our church. She attended early Mass every day of the week. Do you suppose she felt guilty for how she treated Mary Margaret years ago?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “We always had the impression that Mrs. Garmin tried to avoid the fact they had an older daughter. Never talked about her.”

  “Beebo,” said Osborne. “As a child, Peg was a victim of sexual abuse. Did you know that?”

  “No!” said Beebo. She stared at Osborne, stunned. “Well, Mrs. Garmin would never have admitted to any such thing happening in their household—that I know for sure. That’s the way Joan is, too. When things go wrong, it’s always someone else’s fault.”

  “Funny you say that Joan hid her financial losses from her mother,” said Osborne. “Sounds like hiding bad news was a family tradition.”

  “I’m shocked, Paul. Forty-eight million dollars to Mary Margaret? Ohmygod, with all the financial problems they’re having, Joan must be going berserk. I know their Kenilworth house is on the market. And I hear she’s gone to work up in Milwaukee for Ed Forsyth. At least they have Parker’s money, but even that looks a little shaky if you ask me. Last I heard his museum building was up for sale, too.”

  “So you know Ed Forsyth?”

  “Oh, heavens, yes. My friends and I—he was our favorite plastic surgeon until he up and left two years ago. It was an overnight thing. One day he had an office in Evanston, the next thing we knew he was in Milwaukee. I’ve got friends who still drive up there for treatments. He used to do my work. Very personable man.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what kind of surgery Forsyth did for you?” said Osborne, studying her face.

  “Yes, I mind, Paul,” said Beebo with a laugh. “That’s one secret a girl gets to keep.”

  He didn’t have the heart to tell her, the secret was obvious. Her smile, locked tight below those cheekbones, said it all.

  “So Mary Margaret was murdered,” said Beebo, waving at the waitress for a refill of her coffee. “Any idea who—”

  “Who killed her? We’ve got a few leads but nothing conclusive yet.”

  “Well, those two sisters couldn’t have been more different,” said Beebo. “It was always Mary Margaret who was bad, bad, bad, and Joan who was good, good, good. At least to hear the mother talk. But enough of this, Paul. Let’s talk about us.”

  Osborne gave an inward groan. This would be the hard part of the day.

  “I have three lovely homes,” said Beebo. “Why don’t you think about visiting me this fall—I’m right on the golf course outside Scottsdale. Then I have a summer place in Lake Geneva, and of course, my home in Kenilworth. You would enjoy my friends so much. Everyone is retired. Some of the men are still on boards, of course.

  “But we just have the best times together. Every day is planned. We check in by phone to see who’s golfing, who’s playing tennis, who’s going to the theater that evening. Or an art opening. Or a dinner party. Just a wonderful life.”

  It sounded to Osborne like the life Mary Lee had always wanted. Every day is planned. Jeez Louise, is that a jail sentence or what?

  He managed a smile and said, “I’ll definitely give that some thought, Beebo.” He checked his watch. “Oops, time for me to get going. Thank you for brunch but I have a meeting with Chief Ferris back in Loon Lake—”

  “Is that Lewellyn Ferris—the woman you were with at dinner?”

  “Yes, she’s the head of the police department—” “Very … healthy looking.” The put-down was a little too obvious. Thirty years of hearing Mary Lee and her women friends snipe made it easy for Osborne to interpret her words: no makeup, no jewelry, and a sturdy, muscular frame make for “healthy looking.” In Beebo’s world, not a compliment.

  “Outdoorsy, I imagine,” said Beebo, adding, “I remember Mary Lee. She was such a lady. Wonderful sense of style.”

  “Yes, that was Mary Lee,” said Osborne, getting to his feet with one thought in his head: How fast can I get out of here?

  “Paul,” said Beebo as they approached his car, “when will I see you again?”

  Beebo’s eyes searched his and he could see the loneliness. Planning every day wasn’t the answer. But she was no longer the girl of his dreams.

  “I’m not sure, Beebo. Life is so busy right now. But we’ll stay in touch.”

  “I’ll s
end you an e-mail every now and then, Paul—through your granddaughter.”

  “That would be nice.” Looking into his rearview mirror as he drove out, he saw her waving. He felt bad.

  twenty-six

  Here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.

  —William Shakespeare

  “How on earth did you find out about that?” Osborne heard Ray saying to Gina as he walked into the small conference room down the hall from Lew’s office.

  “Get outta here,” said Gina, punching Ray in the arm. “C’mon, Ray. Do I ask where you catch your fish?” Seeing Osborne, she said, “Hi, Doc, I’m trying to educate our friend here to the fact that the rules of fishing apply to reporting: Never reveal the source.”

  Ray gave a sheepish shrug. “I get the point.”

  It was ten minutes after two when the four of them pulled out chairs to gather around the conference table. “Gina, you’re on first,” said Lew.

  “You got it,” said Gina. “Okay, folks—everybody ready?” Gina checked around the table, her eyes lively as she made sure she had everyone’s full attention.

  “To begin with, I checked all personal records available on-line relating to our three victims,” she said. “Nothing earthshaking. Minor late payments on bills, no significant bank deposits or withdrawals. Chief Ferris found more documentation on Peg Garmin’s inheritance when she went through the entire contents of her home today. So we know she had significant assets, but we knew that before.

  “Things got more interesting when I checked into Dr. Edward Forsyth. Seems that he had at least two previous situations where patients filed medical malpractice suits and those suits were settled with no details reported to the National Practitioner Data Bank, which is a government-run facility set up as a central repository for malpractice information.

  “In itself, that’s not unusual,” said Gina. “Hospitals have a habit of removing doctors’ names from claims, which means a payment doesn’t have to be reported. However, both suits were filed three years ago—during the time that Forsyth was practicing in Illinois. That helps to explain his move to Wisconsin, where he was licensed to practice almost immediately and opened the clinic in Milwaukee.