Dead Frenzy

by Victoria Houston

  “You jerk, I mean Paul Smith the British fashion designer.” Hayden giggled and fastened her seat belt.

  “I feel like a sardine,” said Ray, handing the car keys out the window to Osborne.

  Meanwhile, Parker had climbed into a Chevy Suburban with Edith and a great deal of luggage. A second van, to be driven by Rob, was parked behind that one and loaded with video equipment.

  Osborne was happy to have his own car back. Once again, he stashed the accordion file on the back seat. Reaching down to adjust the seat back to where he could reach the brake pedal, he was startled by a rapping on his car window. Parker’s head with its preternaturally white hair loomed over his left shoulder. The man might be a good twelve years younger than Osborne but he sure as hell didn’t look it today.

  “I want to apologize for Hayden’s behavior back there,” he said after Osborne had rolled down his window. “She’s been terrified by these threats and has a tendency to overreact.”

  “Entirely understandable,” said Osborne. Mistaking a tantrum for terror? Parker had obviously not raised children.

  “But this business is almost over—the threatening calls, I mean. We’ll only be needing Ray for a day or so.”

  “Oh?” Lew would be happy to hear that; she could certainly use Ray’s help.

  “Yes, I just hired a firm that has the technology to monitor all incoming and outgoing phone calls—on cells, remotes, everything. They’re pretty sure they’ll be able to pinpoint the source of the threats by tomorrow sometime.”

  “That’ll be a relief.”

  “You bet it will. Hayden is convinced it’s someone up in this neck of the woods. Someone who knew her when she was at camp and has gone off the deep end now that she’s a celebrity.”

  “Well … that’s always possible, I suppose.”

  “If I’ve learned one thing in life, Dr. Osborne, anything is possible. Say, I’m hosting some of the fishing pros and sponsors who are coming in for the tournament at my home Saturday evening. I’d like for you and your wife to join us if you would. Be nice to mix some Loon Lake folks in with the out-of-towners.” Parker smiled his jovial smile again.

  “Thank you,” said Osborne, “but—”

  “Edith will be in touch with the details,” said Parker, waving as he walked off.

  “Excuse me,” Osborne called after him. Parker stopped and Osborne waved him back toward the car. Osborne kept his voice low as he said, “How does Edith feel about being back in Loon Lake?”

  “What do you mean?” The look of surprise on Parker’s face answered Osborne’s question: He knew nothing about the circumstances of her father’s death. “I think she’s pretty happy to be back, to see her family. Why?”

  “Just asking,” said Osborne. “I’ll check with her about Saturday, then.”

  sixteen

  “There’s no taking trout with dry breeches.”

  —Cervantes, Don Quixote

  Osborne made it up to the Lake of the Woods Harley-Davidson dealership in less than thirty minutes. The owner, Gary Skubal, was so happy to see him, he practically pushed Osborne back to his office.

  “I had a long conversation with that Ferris woman this morning,” said Gary, rapping a business card on his desk as he spoke. “I don’t know.” He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and studied the interior as if an answer were lurking there. Finding nothing, he closed the drawer and picked up the business card again.

  “Women police officers, women riding motorcycles. It’s a new world out there.” He squinted at Osborne as he rapped away. “She fishes, too, doesn’t she? She was interested in that new pontoon I got sittin’ out in the drive. Takes all kinds, I guess. Sold four bikes to gals in the last month.” For the life of him, Osborne couldn’t tell if Gary was positive or negative on the subject of women or just revved on coffee.

  He could, from the flat vowels, tell that the man was a transplant from Milwaukee. Gary appeared to be in his late fifties, of medium height, slightly overweight and balding. But even with a Harley-Davidson leather jacket open over his khakis and striped shirt, he looked more like an insurance salesman than someone who sold sin on wheels. He also looked worried.

  “I’ve had thirty thousand dollars in orders for chrome and leather accessories canceled in the last five days, Doc. That’s never happened in the eighteen months that I’ve been open. That’s not the half of it. I had two V-rods, two Fat Boys, and a Heritage Classic sold—and those were just canceled. People gave up deposits of a thousand dollars so they have got to be getting some incredible deal somewhere.

  “The thing I told Ferris that’s got me convinced we can nail somebody if we act right now is that every one of those customers is coming up for the Tomahawk Rally. I had so much business booked, I put on extra mechanics to work over the weekend. Now this.” He tossed the business card over his shoulder. “She has got to do something.”

  “Chief Ferris told you the Illinois authorities just informed her that they have known there’s a chop shop operating up here, right?”

  “So? Why didn’t she know before?” said Gary. “What’s she been doing all summer—ticketing crossing guards?” Osborne said nothing, figuring the belligerence was just a cover for worry. Gary picked another business card out of the plastic stand sitting on his desk.

  “My mechanic who got the tip was told to get in touch with a woman named ‘Cheryl’ if he wants anything. He was told she shows up now and again at The Two Sisters bar over in Eagle River. I’m parkin’ my butt over there all night tonight, tomorrow night, the next night … Will you be there?”

  Osborne ignored the question as he stood up. Cheryl.

  That was the name of the woman calling Mark at his office.

  “Excuse me, may I borrow your phone?” he asked.

  “Sure.” Gary handed over a remote. Osborne punched in Erin’s number. Disappointed when all he got was her answering machine, he knew his voice was more than a little terse as he left a message. “Erin, when you see Mark tonight, ask him who he bought his bike from. Get as much detail as you can. Please, don’t forget.” God, he hated sounding like a father.

  “Something ring a bell, huh?” Gary looked hopeful for the first time since they had been chatting.

  “Worth a try,” said Osborne. “How do you think people hear about this place?”

  “That’s easy. Word of mouth through the H.O.G. chapters for one.” At the confused look on Osborne’s face, he explained: “Harley Owners Group. And the different clubs. A lot of the people who come to a big rally like this will ride in a group; all it takes is one person to get the news out to hundreds. Ferris said you don’t ride but you’re taking the class starting tomorrow, right?”

  Osborne nodded.

  “You’ll see what I mean when you get there. Harley-Davidson stands for more than just a bike, it’s a lifestyle. Everyone who rides a Harley is your friend, and friends do friends favors. Come on, let’s get you all set up.”

  Out in the shop, Gary had set aside what he called “leathers” for Osborne to try on. Chaps, a vest, a well-padded jacket. The clothing fit okay but it was heavy. Osborne looked at himself in the dressing room mirror. Not bad. With the boots, a leather headwrap, and goggles, he barely recognized himself. But he liked what he saw.

  The leather headwrap combined with his black eyes and the Meteis cheekbones that he had inherited from his grandmother to give him a lean, dark profile. The silvering sideburns and his black hair that had looked so distinguished in the dental office now looked … dashing. What would his grandchildren say? Better yet, Lew?

  “Ferris was worried you would look too clean-shaven,” said Gary, back in his office with Osborne’s leathers draped over his arms. He seemed determined not to use her title. “But that deep tan of yours works. You look like you’ve been riding for a month. All you need is a little windburn and you’ll get that over the next couple days. How’d you get so tan? You golf?” As he asked the question, he reached for a box sitting on the floor.r />
  “Fishing. I get out almost every day. Fly-fishing, a little muskie fishing. What kind of fishing do you do off that pontoon boat of yours? Walleye?”

  “Yep. That reminds me…. ” Gary, in the midst of pulling a helmet from the box, stopped and walked over to his desk. Leaning over a laptop computer that stood open, he punched a few keys.

  “I thought I remembered that right. Two of those canceled accessory orders were from guys coming down from the UP to fish as amateurs in that bass tournament next week. Mention that to Chief Ferris, will you? Tell her we have a strong crossover market with bait fishermen. Many of the guys who ride Harleys fish—walleye, bass, muskie, panfish. Our consumer base is so similar to the big boat manufacturers and the inboard and outboard motor companies that I buy their mailing lists for my winter promotions.”

  “So they’re not all Hell’s Angels chugging beer?” Osborne was joking. He knew better. Joel Frahm, the dentist who bought his practice, owned a Harley. He and his wife rode every weekend the weather was good.

  “Bad to the bone in their dreams,” said Gary. “My bikes average twenty to thirty thousand before they’re chromed up. A huge percentage of my customers are professionals—doctors, engineers, businessmen, you name it.

  The one thing they have in common is they love to ride: the wind, the sun, the absolute freedom of the road.”

  He reached again for the box holding the helmet. As he pulled it out, Osborne could read the price on the box. “Wow, four hundred bucks?”

  “Most expensive in the shop. Ferris and I decided you should look like you spend too much money on your appearance and not enough on your bike,” said Gary. “That’s typical of a certain type of new Harley owner. They want to look the part, but they don’t know that much about motorcycles yet.”

  “I’m supposed to look rich and stupid, is that it?” Osborne wasn’t sure he liked this role.

  “No, we want you to look like you need help getting your bike chromed to the max. We want you to be a target, someone who appears to have easy access to cash and, with a bare-bones bike, is an excellent candidate for accessories like chrome front wheels, fringed saddle bags, parts that might interest you—especially if they’re cheap.”

  As he spoke, Osborne remembered the open box by Bert’s bed in the RV. Those carefully packed chrome parts were beginning to make sense.

  Minutes later, Osborne was standing out in the sunny driveway. The shop door went up and Gary emerged, wheeling a black and green monster. “I’m riding that?” Osborne backed off ten feet.

  “Electra Glide Ultra Classic,” said Gary, leaning the big bike on its kickstand. “Black and suede green. Twenty-one thousand dollars. We chromed up the front just a touch, but you still need lots of accessories on this baby. My average customer for this bike would have put on an extra five thousand dollars without flinching. See these chrome nuts here on the wheel—those go for ten dollars each.”

  “And I thought a dental chair was expensive,” said Osborne. “You do realize I’ve never ridden a motorcycle. What if I tip this over?”

  “You don’t ‘tip it,’ you ‘drop it,’“ said Gary with a rueful chuckle. “Don’t worry, I put engine and bag guards on so you won’t damage the engine if that happens.”

  “It’s not the engine I’m worried about,” said Osborne.

  “Look, that won’t happen. That’s what your motorcycle safety class is all about. Wait till you see how many grandmothers take it.”

  “Really?”

  “You’ll be surprised. It’s a two-day intensive course; they start you out on small Japanese bikes and you get plenty of riding to build your confidence. Ferris told me you can handle it.”

  That helped … a little. Gary grinned at the look on Osborne’s face.

  “C’mon,” he said. “Forty-eight short hours from now, you’ll have the basics down cold. When you get on this bike, the only difference will be size and stability. You won’t believe how stable this bike is—impossible to drop unless you’re on sand or gravel. Trust me.”

  “Trust me.” The words echoed in his mind all the way back to Loon Lake, but they didn’t do much to keep second thoughts from crowding in, too. That was one big motorcycle. It wasn’t until Osborne turned into his own driveway that he realized it was after four and he hadn’t had any lunch. Boy, was he was hungry.

  Mulling over the contents of his refrigerator and with Mike bumping at his knees, Osborne almost missed the note taped to the screen door.

  Written on a sticky note bordered in light blue and highlighted with daisies, the note read: “Thought you might enjoy one of my yummier hot dishes—put it in your oven on warm. Freezes great, if necessary. Happy day! B.”

  Osborne shut off the oven with an angry twist, then pulled out the covered casserole. Chicken potpie. The same recipe Mary Lee used to make from the St. Kunegunda Women’s Auxiliary Cookbook. Not only that, it was baking in a good ceramic casserole dish, which he would have to return, of course. The woman was not subtle.

  In spite of his irritation, the creamy dish with its golden crust was too seductive. A ferocious sense of hunger overwhelmed him and he lifted a fork. She was right; it was yummy. Within minutes he had made a large dent in the small pie.

  Loading up a third helping along with a big glass of milk, he let himself and Mike out onto the patio. Setting the plate and glass down on the table, he went back for the accordion file. He tipped the papers onto the table and started to sift through as he ate.

  A lot of the documentation was faded and difficult to read, mainly reports filed by the two police officers working for the little town at the time. Finally, he found what he was looking for: the coroner’s report. Osborne knew better than to expect too much.

  Irv Pecore had been the Loon Lake coroner for thirty-three years. That was thirty-three years too many for residents like Osborne and Lew Ferris, who kept hoping he would retire from the appointed position. Unfortunately, as the son of one of the most powerful dairy farmers in the northwoods, he had a sweetheart deal that was too good to give up.

  Not the most respected pathologist, Pecore had a habit of letting his golden retreivers roam his office and lab areas, a habit that many Loon Lakers found so atrocious that on the few occasions an autopsy was necessary, they went along to be sure the canines didn’t get too close to their beloved family member.

  But twenty years ago, Pecore’s reputation was more respected. Questions were seldom raised. It was Lew’s predecessor, John Sloan, who blew the whistle on Pecore after too many inconsistencies in his reporting. Sloan couldn’t remove Pecore, but he did his best to get cases requiring solid analysis into the hands of the crime labs in Wausau or Madison. The Schultz case predated Sloan, and it appeared, as Osborne reviewed page after page, that Pecore was the only coroner to be involved.

  His plate clean, Osborne took his dirty dishes into the kitchen, then returned to the deck. Putting his feet up, he settled back in the chaise longue to look through the file again. The late afternoon sun threw a soft haze through the tops of the pines. Light filtered down onto the deck, a fly droned over the crumbs on the table. An outboard motor throttled low across the water. A lazy, hazy, drowsy afternoon.

  Osborne turned to what appeared to be the last report from Pecore in this file. On the line requesting “Cause of Death” was scrawled one word: “Undetermined.” A few more handwritten squiggles on the page seemed to indicate where Pecore was filing the physical evidence “until further review.” And there was a date.

  That was all? Osborne leaned back and closed his eyes. Something was missing. There must be another file or at least another report from Pecore somewhere. Jack Schultz did not commit suicide over a cause of death ruled “Undetermined.”

  The date, what was it about that date? Ah, yes. That was Mary Lee’s birthday. It all came back now. In the days following the discovery of the body in the woods across the road from their home, dozens of curiosity seekers had parked up and down their road. He and Mary Lee had in
vited friends for barbecue the afternoon of her birthday. She was quite upset when everyone had had difficulty parking, so upset she had called the police.

  Osborne raised his head to check the date on Pecore’s report. This was Pecore’s final report. With the girl dead and her alleged assailant dead, that jabone had simply quit working on the case. Dashed off the report and headed up the street for a beer. That would be Pecore all right.

  Osborne leaned back. The sunlight was soothing on his forehead.

  A phone shrilled. Up out of the lounge chair and through the sliding screen door into the kitchen, Osborne bumped his way with Mike at his heels. The unexpected nap left him feeling a little groggy.

  “Doc,” said Lew. “Did you forget about our meeting?”

  Osborne looked at the clock. “Oh, gosh, Lew. I’m so sorry. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  seventeen

  “Yet fish there be, that

  Neither hook nor line

  Nor snare nor net,

  nor Engine can make thine.”

  —John Bunyan, Pilgrim’s Progress, 1678

  Osborne swung around the corner and into the UPS parking lot. As he pulled in, he was shocked to see the big green-and-black motorcycle parked near the entrance to the building. Caressed by the setting sun, the big bike gleamed with all the flash and dazzle of a silver spoon muskie lure. And the sight of it had the same effect on Osborne’s heart as the strike of a big fish: life-threatening heart fibrillation.

  Lew was waiting for him in a tiny cubicle behind the receiving desk at the UPS station. She was in uniform but wearing the black leather jacket he’d seen her in that morning. Leaning up against the wall, arms crossed, she motioned for him to take the stool beside her.

  Osborne sat down. Smiling over at him from where she sat on a folding chair next to a well-worn card table was Lucy Priebe. Actually, the prim, tight line of Lucy’s lips was an attempt at a smile. While her mother had been a patient up until he sold his practice, Osborne hadn’t seen Lucy since she was in high school. She hadn’t been happy to see him then, either.