Ray pointed to a dark hole in the ice near the shoreline. Above it a chrysalis of ice hung from the underbrush overhang. Something had been splashing up and out from under the ice. Beaver, perhaps.
“No cabin,” he said after doing a 360-degree turn. “But this is where the map ends.”
“Doc, this is the spring pond I was talking about last night,” said Lew. “I recognize it by that point of land with the row of balsam. Year to year, I’m never sure I’ll find it again. But this is it, all right.”
“Can’t you just wade upstream from the lake?” asked Osborne.
“No way,” said Ray. “I’ve seined minnows in here, and I can tell you that creek has deep holes and spots where the loon poop is five, six feet deep. You don’t even hike in here without a compass.” Osborne could see why. Between logging and beaver damage the terrain would be in constant flux: woods one day, swamp the next.
“That’s why it’s got such big brookies,” said Lew with a wide grin. “Nobody knows about it.”
Ray plunged through the snow toward an opening along the shoreline, his boots breaking through a good foot or more. Once on shore, under the trees, it wasn’t so bad. He disappeared for a few minutes then waved them forward.
“Easier by sled,” said Lew, hitting the ignition button. Gina climbed into Ray’s seat and followed with Osborne taking up the rear.
“Someone’s been here recently,” said Ray. He was right. Now that they were in shadow, it was easy to see ruts under the new snow that led back into the forest. “Looks like a logging road from way back, because this is pretty good second growth,” he looked around. “No one’s done any selective cutting in a while, so no loggers have been using this. Maybe some hunters—season’s not over until Saturday.”
“What do you think, Chief? Shall we keep going?” he asked.
“Excuse me, everyone,” said Gina. “I feel the call of nature. Don’t leave without me.” She marched off down the logging lane.
Osborne had walked back onto the pond, curious to see what was causing a series of irregular patterns in the drifts near shore. “Looks like someone’s been fishing here, Ray. Ouch!” He staggered over a sharp-edged boulder hidden under a drift.
“Wow, be glad you didn’t hit that with your sled, Doc,” said Lew. “I’ve had people kill themselves on rocks like that going less than thirty miles an hour. Flip you right over.”
“You think someone’s been fishing?” asked Ray, walking over to the spot Osborne pointed out. “Looks to me like they got a sled frozen into the ice.” Ray looked back towards shore. “Sure—because those tracks look more like a small truck.”
“We’ll have to ask Clyde if this is where those two sleds got stuck. You know, the ones where the woman read him the riot act.”
“Hey! Hey!” Gina came running down the logging road. “Hurry up! Someone’s back here.” Helmet swinging from one arm, jacket flapping, Gina clutched the front of her snow pants. She hadn’t waited to zip.
Gina was wrong. The snowmobile suit that had been flung across the sled so that it appeared to be a body slumped over was empty, although the helmet resting on the hood added to the eerie effect.
“I was looking around and saw the black tarp,” said Gina. “When I pulled it back, man, I thought that was a dead body.”
They were staring at three snowmobiles someone had stowed under the heavy tarp. “Same type of sleds that those two victims were riding,” said Lew. “I want to check the model numbers.” She had her cell phone out and was trying to reach Marlene on the switchboard. Three times she tried then shut it down in frustration. “No service, dammit.”
“Battery’s too cold,” said Ray.
“Can’t be,” said Lew. “I keep it inside my jacket.”
“Your friend Clyde’s got a phone, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah,” said Ray. “We’re pretty close to his place. Want to head over?”
“Can we keep him from shooting at us?” asked Osborne.
“Ah, he was fooling around,” said Ray. “He’d never hurt anybody. Don’t worry about it.”
“Ray, what do you think of all these tire marks?” asked Lew, waving him over to where she was standing. She had walked about twenty feet down to a clearing. “When we get to Clyde’s, tell me if these look like the tracks from the tires on his truck, will you?”
“Just eyeballing it, you’ve got more than one vehicle backing in here,” said Ray. “That’s a wide wheel base—you might be better off looking for a van or one of those longer sled trailers. Clyde’s got a pickup the size of mine. These tracks are from a bigger vehicle for sure.”
Walking back and forth, the icy ruts crunching under his boots, he stooped to brush snow away in several spots, then said, “Been coming and going over a period of time, too. I’d bet someone was here as recently as Friday.”
Since Ray was so sure that Clyde wouldn’t be patrolling with his shotgun, Osborne made sure that his neighbor led the way. They followed the logging road up to where it connected to yet another lane, which circled around several small, unpopulated lakes. Ray rode with enough authority that Osborne was sure he knew where he was going. Finally, they hit a plowed road.
A few minutes later, at the head of an unmarked drive, Ray pulled his sled over. He set his helmet on his seat and reached into a small compartment on the back of his sled. He pulled out his hat with the fur earflaps and the stuffed trout.
“Probably a good idea I let Clyde see me coming,” he said, looking into the rearview mirror on his sled to adjust the hat to just the right angle. “His place is about fifty feet past that curve there. Gina, you stay here with Doc and Chief Ferris. I’ll be right back.”
“Ladies, be prepared for living quarters like you don’t see in the magazines,” said Osborne, crossing his arms and leaning back against his sled as Ray ambled off.
“So long as he has a phone,” said Lew. “That’s my only concern.”
“By the way, Doc,” said Gina as they chatted while waiting, “you had asked me to check on those snowmobile accidents. Very few occur off trail. Very few. Maybe one a year. Does that help?”
“Why did you want to know that, Doc?” asked Lew.
Before he could answer, Ray came around the corner. This was not the man who had strolled off moments earlier. This was a man much older, a man who put each foot down in a deliberate, defeated way. He didn’t even see the branch that knocked his hat off. Nor did he stop to pick his hat up. He just kept coming until they could see the flat sadness in his face.
“Ray …?” Before the word left his mouth, Osborne knew the answer to his question.
twenty-nine
Fly fishermen spend hours tying little clumps of fur and feathers on hooks, trying to make a trout fly that looks like a real fly. But nobody has ever seen a natural insect trying to mate with a Fawning Ginger Quilt.
—Ed Zern, Field & Stream
Bending from the waist, Lew straddled what was left of Clyde. She placed both palms under his arms. “Warm enough,” she said. “This had to have happened within the last couple hours.”
Ray was at the window, as if looking out meant he could refuse to accept what would be confirmed by the end of the day: Someone had used Clyde’s own shotgun to end his life.
“Does this place always look like this? I mean, aside from the obvious,” said Lew, stepping carefully around the pooled blood to look for the phone. Either Clyde was an unprincipled pack rat or a whirlwind had passed through the spacious one-room cabin. Clothing, papers, dishes, food, and tools were strewn everywhere.
“No,” said Ray, squeezing his eyes to keep from weeping. “Clyde … um …”
As he struggled, Osborne reached out to grasp his friend by the shoulders. “He loves order, y’know. He keeps everything … ah … everything right where he wants it.”
“Then it’s been ransacked,” said Lew.
That was as much as Ray could manage. Falling into a beat-up, dark brown easy chair near the fireplace wher
e the coals of the last log still smoldered, Ray dropped his face into his hands and wept.
Gina, who had said nothing since entering the room, stood to his side, gently rubbing his back. “Just tell me how I can help,” she said.
“The best thing you can do is stay out of the way,” said Lew. “The less we disturb the better.”
What remained of the afternoon flew by. Lew finally located Clyde’s phone, an old rotary dial number, under a pile of newspapers on the counter near the small refrigerator. She asked Marlene to patch her through to Terry at his home.
It took him less than ten minutes to make it into the department and review the files. He confirmed that two of the snowmobiles under the tarp sounded like those belonging to the victims whose legs had been severed.
The other matched the description of the sled belonging to the missing rider, the man from Tomahawk. Lew gave him a description of the empty snowmobile suit and the helmet and asked him to check with the man’s family. “Polaris,” she said. “It’s a red and black Polaris suit with a checkerboard design across the back.”
Anxious to have Clyde’s body and the crime scene photographed as soon as possible, she tried Bud Michalski, but there was no answer. “What’s the point?” She shook her head. “He’s supposed to be available at all times. I’m calling Arne tonight—I don’t care if it is Christmas.”
She reached Bruce at his mother’s outside Stevens Point. He offered to head north immediately. Moments after they had spoken, he called back to announce that he had been able to arrange for a pathologist from the Wausau crime lab to drive up with him as well. Lew was relieved, but Osborne couldn’t help feeling that Bruce was horning in again. Even his enthusiasm seemed more than a little over the top. After all, this wasn’t a party. A decent man was dead.
Lew spent the rest of the afternoon at Clyde’s. Both she and Ray refused to leave until Bruce arrived. She assigned Ray the task of going through Clyde’s belongings in hopes of finding out if he had any relatives in the area.
Meanwhile, she asked Osborne and Gina to get the snowmobiles back to the trailhead near the Corner Bar. Roger would pick them up there. They then drove Ray’s truck and Osborne’s car back to Clyde’s. After stopping by Lew’s farmhouse to pull the roasted turkey from the oven and leave it out on her unheated porch where it could cool safely, Osborne dropped Gina off at Lew’s office.
Before driving home, he stopped at Ray’s to feed Ruff and Ready, Ray’s dogs. He knew without asking that Ray would stay with Clyde until the old man was at rest in the morgue. When he walked in his own back door, it was nearly six.
No one was home. A note from Mallory said she was spending the night at Erin’s. Osborne pressed his lips together in an attempt at a smile. Of course she thought she was giving him an opportunity to spend an evening alone with a dear friend. Not necessary now. Hell, he’d even forgotten to leave his gift at her house.
Osborne made himself a sandwich from the leftover roast beef, but he wasn’t very hungry, so Mike got half. He wanted to be in Wausau by seven the next morning. The Dental Society annual meeting panels usually started at eight. That would mean getting up by five. He decided to turn in early.
At nine-thirty, he tried Lew at home. No answer. He called the office, but Marlene said she was still with Bruce and the pathologist. She also said that Lew had asked if he could help out in the morning. Osborne asked Marlene to remind her he had the Dental Society meeting and would call as soon as he got back.
A final call to Ray went unanswered.
The drive south in the morning dark didn’t help his spirits. He was so preoccupied that he almost forgot to bring along the dentures he’d found in the forest. By the time he parked, he had decided to cancel his reservation for dinner that night.
He was worried about Ray. Clyde might have been an eccentric and stingy with his recipes, maybe even smelled bad, but he was a close friend of Ray’s. At a time like this, his neighbor would need him.
“Paul Osborne, you razzbonya,” a deep voice over his left shoulder so startled Osborne that he spilled half his coffee into the saucer, “how the heck you doin’?” Rob Kudla had ten years on Osborne but was still practicing in Stevens Point. He was one of the reasons Osborne enjoyed attending the annual event even though he was retired. No better time to catch up with old friends.
“Well, pal, since you asked,” said Osborne, and proceeded to give Rob a full report. He started with the fly- tying dilemma and ended with poor old Clyde.
“Certainly not boring up there, is it?” chuckled Rob. “I got a suggestion for the fly tying. This is a gift from a woman, right? So you can’t return it.”
“Both statements are accurate,” said Osborne.
“Think pink squirrel,” said Rob. He sat back, fingers laced over his chest and a look of infinite wisdom on his face. A skinny man, his brown hair white now, Rob had a sharp nose and black brown eyes that were always laughing. Had been laughing since Osborne met him in dental school at Marquette forty years earlier.
“Forget that—I haven’t had a drink in two years,” said Osborne. “Can’t stand ice cream drinks anyway.”
“My pink squirrel is not a drink,” said Rob. “You do what I tell you—whoever she is will be convinced you’re a master fly tyer—and you’ll only ever have to learn to tie one damn trout fly in your entire life.”
“Sure. And if I buy that, what else can you sell me?” said Osborne.
“I am dead serious.” Rob scooted his chair forward. He pulled out a pen and started sketching on the back of the program he was holding.
“The pink squirrel is my signature trout fly. I can guarantee it’ll catch bluegill, bass, trout, steelhead, perch, crappie, sunfish, suckers—even carp. I’ll bet you I’ve tied four thousand over the years. It’s the only fly I ever tie—I can do twenty an hour.
“Once I teach you a double whip finish, you’ll look like a pro. All you need is a couple hundred #12 Mustad hooks from Cabella’s, some brass beads, a pile of coral pink chenille pills, and some toilet ring seal wax. If you can afford it, I prefer a #14 scud hook, but they’re pretty expensive. Tell you the truth, the Mustad 3906 works fine.”
“Toilet ring seal wax?”
“Yeah, you mix that with beeswax and stick it in a Chapstick container. Real easy to use. I’ll write down all the directions for you. See me at lunch.”
“And that’s all you ever tie—a pink squirrel?”
“That’s all I ever fish with! Sounds crazy, I know, but I got twenty years of pink squirrels to prove it. Works under all conditions. ‘Course, you still have to read your water, steal along quietly enough and make a decent presentation. Trust me, you will always catch fish … and the girl, too.
“Paul, you gotta give it a try. I’ll be in your neck of the woods for some ice fishing next weekend. If you want, I’ll stop by your place and tie a few up to show you how.”
“Toilet seat wax, right?”
“Toilet ring seal wax. I’ll give you a list and the directions at lunch.”
The day was looking brighter. “Say, before you go, Rob—what do you think of these?” Osborne unwrapped the dentures. “Not porcelain, these are human. Would you believe I found them out in the woods?”
“Know who you should show these to? Remember Ed Wallace from our class? He’s working on a history of dentistry for the National Dental Society. See what he thinks. He’s here with his wife somewhere.”
Osborne knew Ed well. He was retired from a practice outside Milwaukee, but he had grown up in Rhinelander where his parents owned a small resort. They’d hunted and fished together often when they were in their mid- twenties. Even now, Ed’s wife, Maddie, made sure Osborne always received the Wallace family Christmas card.
Draining his coffee after Rob left, Osborne checked the morning program. He choked, spewing coffee across the table. One of the early panels was titled “Using Allograft Tissue in Your Dental Practice.” He checked his watch. He had ten minutes. A fresh cup of coffee
in hand, he hurried down the hall.
Ninety minutes, a slide presentation, and two handouts later, Osborne was convinced Gina Palmer was right, Bruce was wrong, and Lew had something more sinister than credit card fraud on her hands.
According to the tissue expert conducting the panel, the cadaver femur was in great demand. More and more dentists were using products made from the shaft: cortical bone was ground into powder or gel form and used for grafting tissue into the mouth during periodontal surgery. Even a skin-based matrix could be used in dental surgery. One of the dentists in the audience mentioned hearing that these procedures were proving to regenerate bone growth.
The first handout listed the key panel points, but it was the second handout—the one citing allograft tissue sources—that stunned Osborne. High on the list of providers of cadaver femur products was a firm with which he was familiar—Theurian Resources Inc. The man was in cement all right: bone cement.
thirty
Inspired by the beauty of trout, Franz Schubert composed the “Trout Quintet.”
He didn’t have to search far for Ed and Maddie Wallace. They were six people ahead of him in line for the Holiday Inn luncheon buffet.
“Is this seat taken?” He beamed down at Maddie. She was darn cute in her twenties when they had first met, and time had been good to the petite brunette—the brunette might be fading to white, but she was still easy on the eyes. Ed was looking good, too. Age spots aside, his face was as fine-boned as ever, his eyes kind, and the set of his shoulders firm.
Osborne felt a touch of envy as he set his plate down next to Ed’s. The Wallaces were one of those rare couples who had weathered well together. They exchanged a few pleasantries, then Osborne reached into his pocket for the dentures, which he placed with care a decorous distance from everyone’s lunch. “Rob Kudla suggested I show you these, Ed.”
Dead Hot Mama Page 20
