Dead Spider

by Victoria Houston

  “Yes, but he’s nowhere near Chuck Pfeiffer,” said Bruce. “The autopsy report came in this morning and there’s no question but that the bullet came from a gun held tight to the head. The guy you’re pointing out is walking by from a distance.”

  Ray leaned forward, focused on the parade of people. “Just watch. He’ll make his move.”

  While everyone kept a close eye on the three men in black, Osborne saw what looked like a forest gnome sidling through the crowd. The petite figure wore a long-sleeved dark jacket that hung to its knees, and a canvas bag, along with a pair of binoculars, was slung across its chest. A wide-brimmed khaki hat obscured the facial features. Male or female? Osborne couldn’t tell.

  The gnome stood out against the summery colors worn by the other tournamentgoers as it moved sideways through the flow of the crowd toward the Pfeiffer booth where it paused beside Chuck, leaned over his head, and reaching out its left arm gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder followed by a playful ruffle of his hair.

  Chuck threw his head back—in surprise or to avoid another too-friendly gesture—as his visitor leaned again to whisper into his right ear before moving off with a wave of one hand. Before the figure disappeared into the crowd, it stopped and turned to look at Chuck once more but all that Osborne could make out of a face beneath the floppy brim of the hat was a chin. A pale, firm chin.

  “Did you see that?” he asked.

  “Did I see what?” asked Ray, irritated that his suspect in the black leather jacket had passed by without pulling a gun and shooting anyone. The last view of Jim Nickel had him swigging from a can of beer.

  It took two more viewings of the video for everyone to see the figure Osborne had seen. The entire interaction between that person and Chuck Pfeiffer took less than sixty seconds—and it was preceded and followed by so many other people nodding toward him or extending a hand to shake his that the episode didn’t stand out. Zooming in didn’t help, either.

  “Seems pretty inconsequential to me,” said Lew.

  “But a good eye, Dr. Osborne,” said Patience from where she was sitting behind Osborne. “You have a very good eye.” Osborne knew when he was being humored.

  They all sat through another viewing of the awards ceremony after which Mike offered to play the video of the crowd scene moving past the Pfeiffer booth again.

  “Heavens, no. This is enough for today,” said Lew, rubbing her eyes. “I wish we had seen more and I’m sure we’ve missed something—”

  “Before you give up on it,” said Patience, “I suggest Mike give Chief Ferris the time stamps for the Nickel gentleman entering and leaving and the time stamps for the figure in the sun hat. Both of those sequences occur, I believe, close to the time during which it is believed the victim was shot.”

  “Good idea,” said Lew. “Thank you.”

  “And I will be happy to review these tapes with you again tomorrow morning before I leave,” said Patience.

  As she spoke there was a knock on the door and Officer Todd Martin poked his head in. “Chief, we’ve booked Wendy Stevenson. Searched her apartment but didn’t find any of the missing articles—drugs, money, guns, jewelry—nothing. And she is not talking. You might have better luck with her than I had.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “I got the flu that’s all,” said the girl sitting across from Lew.

  “Not sure the flu kills people within minutes,” said Lew in a matter-of-fact tone. “You’re lucky the EMTs had Narcan ready when they arrived or you and I wouldn’t be sitting here.” She gave the girl a long, hard look: “You know that.”

  The girl shrugged. The sullen expression hadn’t left her face since Lew had begun the interrogation. “All I know is they didn’t have my permission to use that crap on me and I’m going to sue the bejesus out of ’em.”

  Right then Lew knew she had an idiot on her hands. “Okay. Let’s assume you had the flu, Wendy. Who gave it to you?”

  Again the shrug and silence. Lew sat silent, too. Finally the girl shifted on her chair and said, “I told your people to call Pete Bertrand and he’ll get me out of here.”

  Lew studied the document in front of her. “Yes, I see that Mr. Bertrand arranged for your bail the other day . . . ”

  “Told you.” The tone was triumphant.

  “ . . . and you asked the hospital to call him this morning when you were admitted to the emergency room. But he hasn’t returned their calls.”

  A flash of alarm crossed the girl’s face before the sullenness set back in.

  “So, I guess we wait for Mr. Bertrand. Is that what we do? Or . . . ” Lew paused, “would you like to tell me why he’s not calling to help you this time? Could it be he doesn’t want to be associated with someone known to have abused a very dangerous and illegal drug?”

  “He’s busy is all,” said the girl. “He’ll call.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re so sure,” said Lew, getting to her feet. “Until then you are under arrest for possession of controlled substances and theft. We’ll talk more in the morning after your friend calls.”

  “Theft? What do you mean theft? You can’t prove that.”

  Lew held up the container found in her purse. The girl averted her eyes.

  “You mean I’m stuck here all night?” A string of expletives followed, which Lew ignored. She felt sorry for the kid. Wendy Stevenson wasn’t the first girl they’d seen who’d been too gullible for too long. Lew hoped that she was right and her friend would call. The Loon Lake Police, the county sheriff, and the regional DEA office couldn’t wait to get their hands on that guy.

  Resigned to spending another night alone, Osborne was busy stirring a pot of half-frozen pasta when Ray showed up at his back door, gave a quick knock, and charged into the kitchen. “Doc, I got the answer.” He was holding something behind his back.

  He spoke so fast and without the requisite torturous pauses that Osborne knew something big must be up.

  “Glad someone does,” said Osborne. “What? You’ve unlocked the secret to the universe? Or you know the exact moment walleyes will be spawning?”

  “I know how to persuade Patience that I’m an okay guy even if I do fish—and she’s coming to dinner at my place tonight. Fresh walleye caught, cleaned, and sautéed by these very fingers.” Hands high, he wriggled his fingers.

  “Isn’t that living dangerously? Or has she changed her mind and decided fish don’t have feelings?”

  “Not . . . exactly. I . . . had the great good fortune . . . to stop by the Loon Lake Public Library to see if they have books on fish with feelings when . . . ” he raised his right index finger, “the lovely librarian on duty . . . suggested I read a new book that just came in . . . on talking trees.”

  Osborne set down his wooden spoon and turned off the gas under the pasta. “Talking trees.”

  “Yep, talking trees.” Ray beamed. “This guy in Germany has written a book about how . . . trees communicate.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” said Osborne, leaning back against the kitchen counter and crossing his arms while feeling like Scrooge about to tell a child there is no Santa Claus, “what do talking trees have to do with the feelings of fish?”

  As he asked the question, Osborne wondered what it was in his life—his entire personal history as a health professional, a father, grandfather, and a widower known to enjoy fishing—that made it possible for him to ask such an absurd question?

  “Here it is, Doc,” said Ray, holding out the book he had been hiding. It was titled The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate. “The end of the argument.”

  “I don’t get it, Ray. I mean, what point can you make with trees that will change the woman’s mind about eating fish?”

  “Come on, Doc, think about it. If trees have feelings and we stop cutting them down, then we have no paper. No paper means no books and no books means no education. Right? You can make the same argument that a ban on eating fish has the potential for depriving millions o
f people . . . worldwide . . . of healthy . . . low-cholesterol . . . sustenance.”

  “Hmm, could work,” said Osborne, suspecting “sustenance” may have been a word suggested by the librarian. But Ray’s argument was not bad. He suspected, however, that Patience might have other reasons for not eating fish. Could be she simply doesn’t like the taste of fish.

  Ray was backing toward the door. “Ex-x-x-cellent argument, don’t you think, Doc? Then . . . once she has a bite of my famous walleye . . . ” The screen door closed behind him before Osborne could answer.

  Turning back to the stove, he had to chuckle. Just wait until that young woman gets a look at Ray’s bedroom with hundreds of fishing lures dangling overhead. That is assuming he is able to persuade her to enter a house trailer painted to resemble a predatory muskie: lurid green scales covering the outside of the little place and capped at one end with a row of gleaming razor-sharp teeth.

  Osborne knew women often found his neighbor irresistible but would Patience Merrill? A woman skilled at looking beyond the obvious?

  Realizing that spending the evening alone would give him a chance to complete his plan for Lew’s workroom, Osborne reached for his most recent Orvis catalog. It was wedged between an old plat book and a plastic box of trout flies on the bookshelf behind his television. As he pulled it out, a framed photo, which had been shoved behind the stack, fell on the floor. Picking it up, he saw that it was one of Mary Lee’s from years ago—a group photo of her bridge club. Seated at the table with his late wife was Harriet McClellan, a thirty years younger Harriet that is.

  Her angular features and the haughty angle of her head brought back grim memories. While Harriet’s stature may have shrunken with age, she still had that same mean look, a look in which all the lines in her face seemed to run downward. With a shiver, Osborne set the photo aside. He had the urge to toss it but knowing that his daughter, Mallory, was putting together an album of old family photos, he decided to show it to her first. She might want to include it if only as a record of her mother’s love for the game of bridge.

  Opening the catalog, he paged through until he reached the section on fly-tying supplies. While he knew that Lew had her own tools, he wanted to be sure to outfit the room so she wouldn’t have to think twice before sitting down to work.

  Ah hah, he thought, at the sight of a birch and cherry fly-tying desk—that would be perfect. He placed a check mark by the desk, then another check mark by a setup called a Regal Vise. He was getting excited at the prospect of surprising her with these. Another check by an item called the Ty Wheel, which would hold her tools in one place, and, finally, an epoxy dryer. Contemplating his choices, Osborne felt as pleased as he had when he’d caught a largemouth bass that May while fly-fishing with Lew up on a lake in Sylvania.

  He circled the Orvis phone number on the back page and set the catalog aside. He would call in his order first thing in the morning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Thursday morning was dark, wet, and gloomy. Pulling herself out of bed, Beth walked across the bedroom to look out the bedroom window. She was relieved to see wet pavement. Yippee—no tennis today. After three weeks of assisting the coach plus her early morning practices, she was ready for a break. She jumped back into her bed, pulled the light summer quilt up to her chin, and fell back to sleep.

  She woke to music from her cell phone. “Beth?” It was Coach Moore. “Hey, kid, it’s still overcast but I checked the courts and they’re dry. Can you meet me here in half an hour? The boys’ tennis team is coming to have their serve speeds checked with our radar guns.”

  “Sure,” Beth managed, hoping she didn’t sound too sleepy. “I’ll hurry.”

  “Thanks, Beth.”

  There were six boys on the team and three radar guns on tripods. While the coach stood back watching the boys serve, Beth knelt at one side of the net to be sure the serves registered. Every few minutes she had to scoot in and adjust the guns.

  When all the boys had been tested and it was nearly time for lunch, the coach apologized saying, “I’m sorry for the hassle, Beth. You’re a good egg to help me out with this.” He winced and said, “But I have one more favor to ask—” he checked his watch. “I’m supposed to meet my wife for lunch—it’s her birthday. Do you mind putting the equipment away?”

  “Of course not,” said Beth. She grinned and said, “On the condition I get an extra half-hour lesson—just kidding.”

  “Kidding or not, it’s a deal,” said her coach as he jogged off to his car.

  Humming happily, Beth gathered up the radar guns, slipped them into their cases, and headed for the storage shed at the far end of the tennis courts. She was on her tiptoes maneuvering the last of the boxes onto a top shelf when she heard what sounded like a squirrel skitter behind her.

  She turned to scoot the darn animal out of the shed but the squirrel was six-feet tall, dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt that exposed ropes of tattoos running up both arms. That’s all she saw before something hard landed on the side of her head.

  Beth had no idea how much time had passed before she became aware of lying on her side on the floor of a car that was bumping its way over rough road. With each bump she felt a stab of pain on the left side of her head. She tried to move off of whatever was hitting the side of her head but she was wedged in too tight. She opened her eyes but all she could see was the back of a car seat. A small wooden box was on the floor in front of her face and within reach of the driver. The fact she could see anything was hopeful: It had to be daylight still, though late in the day given the soft glow coming through the car windows. Maybe seven or eight o’clock?

  Moving slowly in an effort to stretch out from the cramped position in which she lay, she realized that her wrists, ankles, and knees were taped together. Her mouth was taped but she could breathe through her nose. She stirred and found her feet could press against one side of the car. Only for an instant though as moving her head hurt so much she felt a wave of nausea. She fought it back, terrified of throwing up with the tape over her mouth. If that happened, she could die.

  “I hear you back there, babe,” said a male voice from the driver’s seat. “Don’t be a stupid girl ’cause we’re gonna have some fun. Sorry to hit you so hard but it worked, didn’t it?” He leaned his head to one side and gave a quick glance back toward her. “I didn’t have time to talk things over with you. Got to make a delivery up north. I’ll have big bucks after that. Spend a little on you if you behave.”

  The nausea swept up again. Beth held her breath, forcing herself to stay calm—if only she wouldn’t vomit. At least she knew where she was: in the back of Pete Bertrand’s Jeep Wrangler. He must have hit her with a flashlight or something to make her pass out long enough to get her into the car and tied up. Another bump and her head throbbed with sharp staccato bursts of pain—so painful she couldn’t think straight. Not even to panic.

  In a flash, she remembered a kitchen conversation between her parents, which she had overheard two years ago when her father was prosecuting a man who had kidnapped a ten-year-old girl. The girl had been able to outwit the kidnapper and escape unhurt.

  The conversation popped into her head as vivid as if she had heard it moments ago: “That was one smart little kid,” Beth could hear her father saying. “She played along with the creep no matter how weird he acted until he let down his guard and—bam—she was out of that van.”

  I will play along, thought Beth through the pain. I will play along. Closing her eyes, she felt hot tears pressing against her lids but she refused to let herself cry. I will play along. Steeling herself, she made a noise deep in her throat that she hoped sounded friendly. “Humm-humm?”

  “Fun. Told you we’re going north for fun.” Pete twisted his head to stare down at her. “You feeling better?”

  The nausea hit full force and Beth couldn’t choke it back. Twisting and turning, she slammed her feet against the side of the car. Later she realized she must have looked like she was con
vulsing.

  “Shit—” Braking hard, Bertrand jumped from the car, ran around to the side, opened the door, and yanked Beth out onto the grass. He ripped the tape off her face and hands and stepped back as she rolled onto her side and threw up.

  “Are you all right? Are you all right?” he kept asking as she vomited again.

  Beth lay back and took a deep breath. She reached up with one hand and felt the knot on her head. “No, I’m not all right,” she said with short breaths. “Why did you hit me?”

  “I had to—or you would have screamed.” The bravado had disappeared from his voice.

  Play along.

  “I wouldn’t have screamed,” Beth whispered, afraid that speaking in her normal voice would make her head hurt worse. “I was going to call your friend, Wendy, and see if I could talk to you . . . ”

  “Oh yeah?” He seemed to think about what she had just said, then in a new voice, a voice with a more intimate tone, he said, “Y’know, girl. When you saw me yesterday and didn’t squeal or run, I figured you might be up for something. Was I right? Huh?”

  “Not sure now.” Beth touched her head again. “I was going to see if you still wanted me to sell some weed for you but now I don’t feel so good. Whoa, I’m going to be sick again.” And she threw up. “Where’s my purse? I need to wipe my face.”

  “Not here.”

  “My phone?”

  “Nope.” After helping her into the passenger seat, Bertrand handed her a clump of paper towels. “Here this’ll help.”

  “What will really help is some ice,” said Beth. “I had a concussion when I was a little kid. My toboggan hit a tree and ice really helped. Could we go somewhere and get some ice? Please?”

  “Maybe. How about cold water? I’m on a logging road and we might go by a lake or a river . . . ”

  “Not the same.” Beth thought she heard a hint of trust in his voice. The concern in his eyes when she was vomiting was real. Play along.