Dead Spider

by Victoria Houston

  “I know because,” she rolled her eyes as she spoke, “I was watching the awards and I could not believe what she was wearing—”

  “Thank you,” said Lew, interrupting before Charlotte could finish her insult. “That information is just what I need for the moment, but I will be in touch with each of you later. I’m sure to have more questions for each of you as this investigation gets underway.”

  “Not together, I hope,” said Rikki, tightening her lips as she got up from her chair and reached down to pick up a large white leather purse studded with black and silver metallic stars.

  “No,” said Lew, “Dr. Osborne and I will meet with each of you individually. I hope that will be first thing tomorrow morning unless something develops and we need to talk sooner.”

  She waved for Rikki to sit back down. “Sorry, Rikki, but Dr. Osborne needs a few more minutes of your time before you leave—for the death certificate. It won’t take long.”

  “Certainly,” said Rikki, sitting back down. Osborne waited for Lew and Charlotte to leave the small office before raising his pen over the document that needed to be completed. Since Rikki was busy looking for something in her purse, Osborne took a few minutes to study her closely. He could see why Chuck had been attracted to her.

  Even though her face had fallen, whether from grief or exhaustion Osborne wasn’t sure, she was easy to look at. She had classic Scandinavian features: wide cheekbones and the creamy skin, lightly freckled, of a natural blonde. Her generous lips parted easily over perfect white teeth, which Osborne could not help but notice had been recently and expensively capped. Her voice had a nasal but intimate timbre, and he knew, too, that on better days she had a lush, throaty laugh.

  Years earlier, when Mary Lee was still alive, he had taken the family to the Loon Lake Pub for a Friday night fish fry where they had been seated at a table next to the Pfeiffers, who were entertaining friends he didn’t recognize. But while the friends might have been strangers, Chuck’s deep voice and Rikki’s constant laughter were all too familiar.

  The woman’s laugh was so distinctive that his daughter, Mallory, the one who had inherited her mother’s sharp tongue, had said after hearing her father comment on what a striking laugh Rikki had: “Jeez, Dad, trust me, she knows she has a great laugh. She laughs all the time for God’s sake. Even when there’s nothing to laugh about. It’s her act, y’know?”

  No, he hadn’t known, but now he did. He chalked his ignorance up to one more thing he didn’t understand about women.

  That conversation had taken place long after “Rosalyn Thornton” had morphed into “Rikki Nickel.” The surname change occurred after her first marriage to a real estate developer from Wausau, Jim Nickel, who was the father of her son, Bart. To lure investors that poor guy had falsified his financial statements only to find himself parked in a federal prison camp for white-collar bad actors. It took less than six months for Rikki to divorce him.

  She wasn’t single for long. Slim-hipped with a narrow waist and bountiful breasts, she was a magnet for men—and she knew it. She had sorted through her suitors with care until she had found just the right one, the one who could afford her tastes, the one who was burdened with an emotionally disturbed young wife and was ready to appreciate a woman with a throaty, sexy, happy laugh: Chuck Pfeiffer.

  But what had befuddled Osborne then—and still did—was the woman’s lack of class in presenting herself: She didn’t leave much to the imagination. For all the money Chuck Pfeiffer had (not to mention her first husband pre-prison camp), Rikki dressed, as Mallory put it with succinct distaste, “like a hooker.”

  Even today Osborne couldn’t help but be aware that she was wearing shorts shorter than any his granddaughters wore. Her blouse, though currently buttoned three buttons higher than two hours earlier when she had discovered her husband’s body, made it obvious there was little if any upholstery underneath.

  Osborne’s questions took less than five minutes. “I have no idea,” Rikki said in answer to each whether it was Chuck’s date of birth or his full legal name. “I’ll have to call our family lawyer tonight and get you those details. I’m sorry, Dr. Osborne. I’ve never had to pay much attention. Chuck handled all our personal business.”

  “Well, one last question then,” Osborne said. “To the best of your knowledge did Chuck have more than one child? Is Jerry Pfeiffer his only child?”

  “Yes,” said Rikki. A look crossed her face as if she realized what that meant. “Dr. Osborne,” she said, her voice tightening, “that means I’m the one who gets all his money, doesn’t it?”

  “Now that is a question you have to ask your lawyer,” said Osborne. “I can’t imagine Chuck doesn’t have a will. I’m sure his son Jerry will share in the estate—”

  “But Chuck was rewriting his will. See, he and Jerry . . . well,” she hesitated and Osborne waited, silent, watching her face. Had she said too much? “Um . . . he was not going to leave Jerry and Charlotte . . . um, what he had planned to.

  “So I get it . . . all, I guess. Maybe,” she raised her eyes to Osborne’s and they were frightened eyes, “maybe I’m next?” Her hands shook as she reached down for the purse she had set down by her feet. “I’m calling my son to pick me up. Then I’ll call the lawyer for that information you need.”

  Trudging down to the pavilion area where he had spotted Lew, Osborne heard a gruff voice call his name. He turned toward the parking lot. An old man sitting on a bright yellow three-wheeled motorcycle waved for him to come over.

  “Sorry, Harvey,” said Osborne, walking toward the parking lot. “I’m busy right now. Can we chat some other time?”

  He was peering into a face so ravaged by years of sun and wind that the old man looked like a potato left too long in the field. But it was a familiar face. Harvey was a patient he had inherited from his father. The guy had to be eighty-five at least but tough enough still to be riding a motorcycle, even if it was a trike. And he had most of his teeth—two were implants but the rest were functioning.

  “No, came by to give you a warning, Doc.” The old man was not smiling.

  “A warning? About what for heaven’s sake?”

  “One of those grandkids of yours. The girl. You know, the tall one.”

  “You mean Beth? She’s fifteen.”

  “She’s got a boyfriend—”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that—” said Osborne cutting him off, worried the old guy had jumped to some disturbing conclusions.

  “I was down by the river back of the Loon Lake Market a half-hour ago and one of the sheriff’s guys was arresting her and the boy. Somethin’ to do with drugs. Thought you should know.”

  Osborne was stunned. “Are you sure it was Beth? Beth Amundson?”

  “I’ve known your family for years, Doc. Yeah. The girl. The tall one.”

  “Okay. I’ll see what it’s all about. Thanks, Harvey.”

  The old man had started to wheel his bike around to leave the parking lot when Osborne asked, “How did you know where to find me?”

  “I didn’t. I was jes’ goin’ by and saw you walk outta the bar. My place is right down the road from here.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks, Harvey.” Osborne paused on his way to the pavilion to check his phone for messages but there were none. He trotted along the path by the dock to catch up with Lew.

  “Do you have anything on the scanner about a drug bust down behind the Loon Lake Market?” he asked.

  “No, why?” She gave him a puzzled look. “All I’ve had in the last half-hour is some nutcase calling for an ambulance to come and get him because ‘he can’t stop drinking’ and, Doc, I am not making that up.” She started to smile but when she saw the worry in his eyes, she stopped. “Let me check with the sheriff’s department . . . ”

  “I see,” she said to the dispatch operator. “Thank you.”

  Turning to Osborne, Lew pursed her lips and said, “It’s kids and marijuana but no arrests. At least not yet. Parents have just been called
to come meet with the sheriff’s deputies who picked the kids up. And, yes, Beth is one of them, Doc. Sounds like they’ll be cited but no arrests. They’ve been trying to reach Erin and Mark but they aren’t answering their cell phones or the home landline. They’re keeping her in custody until they can reach them.”

  “I’m sure the family is out on Mark’s pontoon with their phones off or no cell service. I better go into town, Lew. Sorry.”

  “Of course, Doc. Call me when you know more, please?” She grabbed his arm as he started to leave. “Don’t jump to conclusions. There is so much weed in town these days that your granddaughter may be an innocent bystander . . . ”

  “Or not,” said Osborne. “Good try, Lewellyn, but I’ve raised two daughters who sure as hell didn’t get through their teens without trying . . . ” He was so upset he couldn’t finish his sentence.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Slumped back against the long wooden bench with her arms crossed tight to keep from shivering in the air-conditioned room where the sheriff’s deputy had told her to wait, Beth stole a look at the girl sitting at the other end of the bench. Dressed in a short black skirt, sleeveless black blouse, and lace-up black leather boots, she had scarlet and black tattoos running up both arms and down both legs. Beth wondered what artwork might be hiding under the clothes.

  A silver ring hung from her nose and long silver earrings dangled from her ears. She had short, spiky black hair that looked dyed and silver studs outlined her ear lobes. Sitting with one leg crossed over the other, the girl made no effort to hide that she was bored out of her mind.

  Acutely aware of what she herself must look like with her wheat-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail, no make-up, and wearing white tennis shorts, a white T-shirt, white tennis shoes, and nary a body piercing in sight—Beth felt like a little kid in the presence of a witch goddess. She was afraid to say a word. Having never seen the girl before, Beth assumed she had to be from the cities—Minneapolis or St. Paul. Maybe Madison. Places where the action is.

  “Can’t even have a goddamn cigarette?” the girl demanded of the quiet room. She turned to Beth, eyes glowing behind dark rims of eyeliner. “What you in here for? Go through a stop sign on your way to church?”

  “No,” said Beth, belligerence surging. She was her mother’s daughter after all. She didn’t have to let herself be intimidated. She made an instant decision to exaggerate what had put her in this awful spot. “Caught dealing.”

  “Oh yeah?” The girl’s eyes brightened. “Like . . . oxy? Meth? What?”

  “Just weed,” said Beth offhandedly, working hard to sound like she considered marijuana small-time stuff.

  “You don’t look like a dealer,” said the girl, a challenge in her voice.

  “That’s the secret,” said Beth. “I teach little kids tennis. No one would expect me—”

  “Then how’d you get caught?” The girl looked at Beth with a mix of curiosity and admiration.

  “One of my friends has a big mouth—”

  “Man, do I know that story.” The girl slid down the bench to sit closer to Beth. “You at the high school here in Loon Lake? Ever meet a guy named Pete?”

  “Yeah, I go to Loon Lake High,” said Beth, “but the only Pete I know is Peter Dondoneau who’s on the tennis team.”

  “God, no, the game Pete plays is craps.” The girl grinned. “But he is cool.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “Yeah, I guess. He got me all these tattoos.” She held out her arms.

  “Nice,” said Beth. “What are you in here for?”

  The girl grimaced. “They got me for prescription drugs with no prescription. Pete’ll get me out, though. He knows the system. It’ll all be hunky-dory.” She sounded confident that a few hours from now life would be good.

  Beth nodded. She knew better than to mention that her father was the district attorney. He knows the system, that’s for sure. Her problem? Nothing in her life was going to be “hunky-dory.” Not for months.

  Tears pressed against her eyelids. Truth was she had not been dealing. Truth was she had never smoked marijuana or even wanted to. Truth was she was sure she would lose her summer job, her cell phone, and she would be grounded for the summer.

  “What’s your name?” The girl’s question interrupted Beth’s thoughts.

  “Oh, I’m Beth Amundson. What’s yours?”

  “Wendy. Wendy Stevenson. We should get together sometime. I know Pete would like to meet you. He’s always looking for people on the inside at Loon Lake High. Hey, do you know Jake Cook?”

  “Not really,” said Beth, starting to wonder if this new friendship was a good idea. The boy Wendy had mentioned was one of the stoners that Beth and her friends avoided. As the boy rarely came to class, avoiding him was not difficult.

  The door opened and a woman in uniform beckoned to Wendy. “This way, miss, I’m a deputy sheriff and I want you to follow me, please.”

  “About time,” said Wendy, getting to her feet. “Maybe now I can have a ciggie?” She pointed a finger in Beth’s direction. “I’ll be telling Pete about you. See ya ’round, girlfriend.”

  Twenty minutes later the deputy returned to the room. “You’re next, young lady,” said the woman. “Come this way, please.” Her noncommittal tone held a hint of kindness that had been missing in her directions to Wendy. Following the deputy down a long hallway to a small office, Beth wondered how much worse the day could get.

  “Have a seat, Beth,” said Sheriff Peterson as she walked into the room. “I know you were caught in a difficult situation and I’m sure your parents will have plenty to say to you. No arrest but you will be cited for being in the presence of an illegal drug sale. Your father can explain what that means exactly.” He gave her a sympathetic glance.

  A knock at the door prompted the sheriff to say, “Dr. Osborne? Come in.”

  Osborne walked into the room and took the chair next to Beth. “I heard you were here, sweetheart,” he said. “The sheriff’s department couldn’t reach your parents. They took Mason and Cody for a ride on the pontoon to celebrate Mason’s award and must be somewhere the cell service is bad. I’ll be taking you home.”

  “Not quite yet, though, Doc,” said the sheriff. “I need to ask Beth a few questions first.” The phone on his desk rang and he picked it up. He listened then gave Osborne and Beth a quick look. “Sorry, have to take this. I’ll be right back,” he said and left the room.

  “Beth,” said Osborne, his voice somber as he turned in his chair to face his oldest grandchild, “I need you to tell me what happened. How did you get here?”

  Dropping her face into her hands, Beth started to cry.

  “Ssshh, it’ll be okay,” said her grandfather, leaning to reach over and rub between her shoulder blades. “This is not the end of the world.”

  Beth sniffed hard and wiped at her eyes. “Umm, Gramps, you know my friend Kevin, right?”

  Osborne nodded. “Good kid. I know his folks.”

  “Well, his cousin, Philip, is visiting from Colorado and he brought some marijuana with him. It’s legal there, y’know.”

  Eyes hopeful, Beth waited for assurance that her grandfather knew the legality of marijuana was a matter of dispute. Osborne nodded, “I do know that, Beth. And it is legal in a number of other states—but not in Wisconsin.”

  “So Kevin and my friends, Larry and Colin, were going to buy some from him. I went along ’cause Kev and I are, I mean we were, going to play tennis after.” She wiped at her face again.

  “We all met in the parking lot out back of the market ’cause Kev’s been working there this summer and he was getting off at four. I was just standing there waiting for Kev. That’s all.” She couldn’t help a quick sob.

  “So you did not buy any?”

  “No. And I didn’t smoke any, either.”

  Hmm, thought Osborne, not yet anyway. He knew better than to expect any of his grandchildren not to experiment eventually. But he believed Beth.

&
nbsp; “It isn’t the smoking that I worry about, Beth. It’s the people you find yourself being around. That’s why I want you to be careful. And it happens to all of us. For my generation it’s been alcohol. Perfectly legal but something that can easily get out of control . . . ” He paused.

  His granddaughter had averted her eyes and he realized she must have heard her parents talking. Talking about Osborne and his own descent into an abyss of heavy drinking after Mary Lee’s death when her bronchitis had turned deadly in the middle of a winter blizzard. That had been a bad, bad year.

  Only now could he look back and see that even though he and Mary Lee had drifted into parallel and not always friendly lives that the patterns of those lives had been his moorings. When she was gone, his world was shaken. And bottle in hand he had swooned. Only a courageous intervention undertaken by his two daughters had helped him shake the miserable choice he’d made. Months in rehab had followed—and saved his life.

  “You know what happened to me, don’t you?” he asked. She was old enough to know the truth however ashamed he might feel. Beth raised her eyes to meet his.

  “Yes, but I’m—I’m just trying to tell you I didn’t smoke.”

  “Sorry, maybe I’m overreacting here,” said Osborne with a weak smile. “It’s because I love you and I worry. Can’t help it,” he smiled again. “I’m your grandfather.”

  “I know, Gramps,” she said, patting his hand. “It’s okay. I know you’re just trying to help.” Her understanding took him aback: Which of them was the older and wiser?

  At the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, Osborne said in a low tone, “Okay, Beth, here is what I want you to do and this is very important. When Sheriff Peterson asks why you were in the parking lot with the boys, all you say is that you were meeting Kevin before going up to the high school to play tennis. That’s all. You do not mention any names: not his cousin, not Larry, and not Colin.