Dead Angler (23 page)

“My wife took up gambling two years ago. I didn’t pay attention at first. She would go to the casino with some of her women friends. But that was the beginning of the end. I didn’t know until it was too late that she had run through our joint savings account. Then she managed, somehow, to get access to my profit-sharing from the company. Our retirement savings.”

As he spoke, Osborne felt helpless and hollow, witness to an accident he could see coming but do nothing to stop.

“I didn’t know until the money was gone. After a while, she lied about her trips to the casino, telling me she was playing bridge or shopping in the cities with friends. For the last few years, she has made a big deal of my letting her pay all the household bills, a feminist kind of thing, so I was in the dark until the bank called one day.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Oh, nine months ago. Not too long after her father died. Then she banked on her inheritance to get us out of the hole. But at the same time, she kept gambling. I take responsibility for this, by the way. I should have been able to help her.”

“How bad is it, Peter?” asked Lew.

“We are well over a million in debt,” he said softly. “Well over.”

“And you’re losing the house?” Lew continued.

“I’m not sure. Alicia told me the other day that she had managed to make a payment out of her salary from her little business with Meredith.”

“Were you surprised that she was cut out of the will?”

“So you know about that.” Peter’s eyes shifted in surprise at Lew’s comment on the will.

“Yes.”

“That was a blow.”

“Why did the old man do that?” asked Osborne from the side.

Peter looked over at him. “I have no idea, Paul, except that Alicia was always treated unfairly by her family. Her stepmother played favorites and would deliberately leave Alicia out of family events. She had a very unhappy childhood. Her father was cold. I have never understood how two adults could be so miserable to a young girl but they were downright mean to Alicia. This will, this leaving everything to her sister—that was unconscionable.”

Peter sat up straight now, his face flushed with anger, “All those years that Meredith was living in Lake Forest, who took care of the old man? Alicia. And I helped her. We were there for him. And he was not a pleasant man. Doc, you know that old codger was a crotchety sonofabitch.”

“Yes he was,” said Osborne. “He was a patient, and I agree with you. He was a miserable human being.”

“Why were you staying at The Willows? Did Alicia know you were there?” asked Lew.

“Oh no,” said Peter, “she had no idea. I haven’t had the heart to tell her that I tried to get my old job back, but they didn’t want me. I’m too old, y’know. The company doesn’t want a guy in his sixties on the road. I couldn’t tell her. I just couldn’t.”

He dropped his head, “I couldn’t bear to see the look on her face. So instead I lied and said I was traveling abroad.” He looked up now, his cheeks waggling, “I went up to my old hunting shack, and I drank. That’s all, I just drank. One day, I needed some food so I drove over to Land o’ Lakes to the little convenience store there and ran into Meredith. Or she ran into me. She knew right away I had been drinking.

“She and I have always been able to talk, you know. She got the truth out of me and then she insisted that I come stay with her. She made me get into rehab but I … I’m not well yet.

“You must know one thing,” he said suddenly, emphatically, “I love my wife. This is not her fault. She is an addict, she is sick. Her gambling is an addiction just like my drinking. But things are going to be okay now.”

“They are?” said Lew. “How on earth can that be?”

“Because we’ll have the money. Alicia is next of kin—so she’ll receive her inheritance after all. Don’t you see?”

Lew looked at him long and hard. “Is that why you killed your sister-in-law?”

“No. Of course not … I didn’t … why …? Oh. Oh …” he said again, the logic of his statements dawning on him. “No, I did not kill her. I really didn’t have reason to even if it looks that way. See, Meredith told me she would help us financially. So I knew things were going to work out if only …”

“If only what?” asked Lew.

“Ah,” Peter hesitated, he inhaled deeply, then repeated himself, “if only … if only …”

“If only what, Peter?” said Lew quietly.

“… I stopped drinking.” A swell of despair in his voice made Osborne think those weren’t the words he had intended at all.

“Believe me, I could never have killed Meredith,” said Peter, his eyes beseeching Lew, “she was helping me. She was a good and kind woman. She loved Alicia, and she loved me. I loved her … like a sister.”

Osborne caught Lew’s eye to make sure it was okay to interrupt. “Pete,” he said, “how did Alicia feel about Meredith?”

Again, the eyelid flickered.

“Paul,” said Peter, “how can you even ask such a question? Alicia adored Meredith. She worshiped her from the moment she was born. She was her big sister, her guardian angel.”

“Peter, there is always some resentment among siblings,” said Lew. “It’s perfectly natural. Alicia had more than enough reason—”

“Alicia had nothing to do with Meredith’s death,” said Peter. “I know she didn’t.”

“How do you know that?” challenged Lew.

“Because she was home that night. All night.”

“And where were you?”

“Watching her.”

“You were at the home?”

“I was …,” Peter closed his eyes and spoke slowly, “I was … outside … my home.”

The office was perfectly still. In the distance, through the windows, Osborne heard a car honk down on Main Street.

“I love my wife,” Peter said again. “This has been a hard time for us. In my drunken stupors, I imagined she was having an affair,” he raised his head as if proud that he had finally confessed. “I was spying on her. That’s how I know she was home.”

“You realize you are a suspect in the death of your sister-in-law, Peter?” said Lew, standing up and walking around her desk.

“I can understand that,” said Peter, his eyes looking off into the distance as if he was waiting for yet another blow.

“I want you to stay in Loon Lake,” said Lew matter-of-factly. “I may have some more questions.”

“I’m not going anywhere except home.”

He pushed himself up from the chair, reached for his suit coat, raised his hand in a slight wave and started to let himself out the door. Then he turned back. “I haven’t told Alicia that I don’t have a job. Would you let me handle that?” “That’s your business, Peter,” said Lew.

“Poor Pete, said Osborne once the door had closed, “what a sad, beaten man. But certainly not dangerous …”

“No?” said Lew. “I’m not so sure.”

“I just … I feel so sorry for him,” said Osborne.

“Doc,” said Lew straightforwardly, “we choose our delusions just as we choose our addictions.”

“I guess you’re right,” he said, wondering how it was she and Ray knew so much more about people than he. He may be older, but wiser was in question. “Do you think he did it?”

“I really don’t know.”

With that, Osborne stood up to leave her office. Lew walked over to refill her coffee cup. Watching her pour, he resisted the urge to ask why, since she had her own pot, she had to have coffee with Ralph every morning?

“Say, Doc,” said Lew, opening the door for him to leave, “I’ll be by the marina later. I’ve never seen one of those acqua cams, and I just heard the DNR is planning to ban them. We have a meeting on it next week. Ask Ray if he would have time to give me a demonstration later, would you?”

“Sure.”

Then it dawned on Osborne, this was his opening. “Maybe he would loan us one after the tournament is over.” “Really? Why?”

“Well … ah,” he stammered, “I’d like to pay you back for all your help with my fly fishing. I was wondering … I mean I know Ralph is first on your list, of course … but if … when … if you ever want to I would really like to take you out on my weed beds with a musky rod. And the reefs, we can test the acqua cam on the boat. See what we see, y’know. Got some 50-inchers in there, Lew. Oh well, you’re probably booked solid with Ralph …” He finished lamely, trying to figure out exactly what it was he had just said.

An expression of amusement had settled on Lew’s face. “Doc,” she said, “I don’t know what you’re getting at exactly but Ralph Kendall is not ‘first on my list.’ He is a good, good friend, but he’s not my type. You know Ralph—he talks too much. And it’s always about Ralph. If he’s first on anybody’s list, he’s first on Ralph’s list.”

“Really? That’s how you feel about the guy?”

“Yeah. A little bit of Ralph goes a long way, but he knows his stuff, so I put up with him. He has his good points, y’know?”

“Oh sure, sure,” Osborne couldn’t agree more.

“I’m not booked solid with anyone. Yeah, sure, I’d love to do some musky fishing with you—but after trout season winds up next month, okay?” She seemed pleased with the invitation. “I fish musky in deep water myself. Gave up on weedbeds years ago. Maybe you can change my mind.”

“I’d like to try,” said Osborne. “See you later.” Shutting the door behind him, he resisted the urge to skip down the hall.

As Osborne drove through Loon Lake to the marina, he reflected on the meeting with Peter. In his opinion, Lew had let the man go without asking any number of key questions, not the least of which was what led Peter to think his wife was having an affair? The more Osborne mulled it over, the more the spoken word paled beside the unspoken.

The unspoken was like a fishing line left loose. Like the technique for drawing in a trout that is called “dancing the fly.” That delicate move in which the fly fisherman chooses not to reel in but simply dance the dry fly across the downstream currents to tantalize the big ones lurking below. Yes, indeed, casting no shadows that might frighten her prey, Lew had let out just enough line to dance her fly across the current.

The question: who would strike and when?

The
parking lot at Murphy’s Marina was crammed with huge cardboard boxes, some ripped open, others still taped shut. Ray had just walked outside, Wayne beside him, as Osborne drove in. He pulled up, his window down.

“Hi, Doc,” Rivers of sweat were running down Ray’s face. Wayne, too, looked flushed and hot. “It’s coming together, but I need you to give me a hand with these outboards, okay?”

“Sure. Lew asked if you would have time to give her a demo on one of those acqua cams later.”

“I don’t think I’ll have those hooked up till pretty late this afternoon.”

“That oughta work.” Osborne parked and walked back to where Wayne was struggling to pull one of the big moters from its packing. He reached for the sides of the engine, steadying it as Wayne tossed the styrofoam forms aside.

“We install these first,” said Wayne. “Ray got a couple of the guys from the marina to help us get the boats into the water inside the boathouse. John is letting us use all ten slips so we can lock up tonight.” He wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his T-shirt. “I’ll tell you, this is amazing stuff these tournament guys get to use. Digital everything and
expensive.
Jeez, ya gotta be a millionaire to fish walleyes these days!”

“I don’t know about that,” said Osborne, tugging away on a few final strips of heavy strapping tape. “You always have choices, Wayne. I know plenty of fellas are happy with little Lund boats, twenty-year-old casting rods, and a carton of nightcrawlers.”

“I hear ya, Doc. Funny, y’know,” Wayne kept talking and grunting as they hoisted the outboard motor onto a dolly, “I like this area. Did Ray tell you yesterday I put a deposit down on a little cabin over there by you guys?”

“No kidding, Bob Baker’s place?” Osborne knew there was only one lakefront lot with a cabin available on Loon Lake. He also knew only a Chicagoan would even consider the list price. They walked the dolly through the boathouse entrance and down to one of the slips. Wayne cut away the protective padding on the stern so they could ease the big outboard onto the boat.

“Yep,” said Wayne, “I really like it up here. This is the time for me to make a move if I’m ever going to. I’m single right now, and I love to fish. I really never took the time before …”

“You never had Ray Pradt to get you hooked,” grinned Osborne.

“You’re right,” laughed Wayne. “Takes a guy like Ray to show you what the good life really is, y’know? It isn’t money, it isn’t the big job, it’s being able to hear the wind in the pines as you fall asleep at night.”

“Listen to the loons while you have your morning coffee,” added Osborne.

“Break open a cold beer after racing off the lake before a thunderstorm hits,” said Wayne.

“That’s why I decided to practice up here,” said Osborne. “I’d have made a lot more money elsewhere.”

“I talked to Chief Ferris, too,” said Wayne. He had a happy gleam in his eye. “She said a full-time position may open up when that deputy, Roger, retires. Something could come up in Wausau, too.”

Osborne chuckled softly as they headed back to the parking lot for the next engine. “Wayne—you’re changing your life.” “I’m tryin’.”

“But won’t Loon Lake be boring after Chicago?”

“Hey, with what I saw in the police files, I’d say not. You got plenty action up here, Doc. By the way, did Chief Ferris tell you I checked out the Sutliff family—that was quite interesting.” It was Osborne’s turn to grunt as they hoisted another outboard. “Watch your back, take it in your knees, Doc,” cautioned Wayne.

Osborne stepped back and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “The Sutliffs had a file?”

“Just one item. Police report from years ago. A Mrs. Sweedberg reported seeing Alicia push her baby sister’s buggy into an oncoming car from the sidewalk in front of the family home.”

“I never heard this,” said Osborne.

“The file was marked confidential,” said Wayne. “The driver of the vehicle was able to stop so nothing happened. Alicia, who was fifteen at the time, didn’t deny it, but she said she was hurrying to cross the street, stumbled, and the buggy flew out of her hands. However, this Mrs. Sweedberg insisted she saw the girl wait for the car to approach, then give it a deliberate shove.

“Interesting detail in the report. The father was very upset and accusing of his daughter. Apparently, he made quite a scene in the police station, and he wanted to file charges.”

“Be careful what you believe,” said Osborne, “much as I am not fond of Alicia Roderick, Helen Sweedberg was nasty. She was a vicious gossip. I imagine John Sloan, who would have been chief of police at the time, did not consider her the best witness.”

“In this business,” sighed Wayne, “we learn early on the worst witness is an eyewitness. Still, interesting, huh?”

Ray walked up with two large plastic cups filled with ice cubes and ginger ale, “Break time, you razzbonyas.”

Osborne took his cup and sat down on a bench just inside the boathouse. He looked around as he inhaled the cool drink. The old boathouse was a classic, built in ways no longer allowed by new shoreline restrictions. Essentially a large wooden barn jutting out over the water, the exterior was a deep blue-red, a hue common to many of the old structures found along North Woods shores and impossible to duplicate. Time and weather burnishes the underlying coats of paint with a glow that can’t be duplicated. The interior walls were black with age.

Built at the turn of the century, there was space for a dozen boats inside, each with its own slip and double doors opening out into the lake. The building stood at the end of a wide twenty foot dock and cantilevered out over the water yet another thirty feet. Because it was in a bay on the northeast side of the lake, it was protected from winter winds and ice floes. This year, the summer rains had been so plentiful that the lake was much higher than usual. So much so that the floor inside the boathouse seemed to float a bare two to three inches over the lightly lapping waves.

“Why is this water so black?” asked Wayne, standing at the edge of one of the slips and looking down.

“Tannin from the pine trees,” said Osborne, “plus we’re in the shade. This lake has a mucky bottom, too, which doesn’t help.”

“How deep do you think it is?”

“Right here? Five feet, maybe deeper.” Osborne studied the water, “this dock was built for a water level a good six inches to a foot lower than what you see. This is so high they may have winter damage when it ices over.”

“Do fish swim in here?”

“Oh, sure. Rock bass, suckers—you’ll hear them jump. They come after any insects the wolf spiders haven’t eaten.”

“Wolf spiders,” said Wayne. “So you get those up here, huh.”

“Oh yeah, hundreds of ‘em under a dock like this and big as a puppy,” Osborne teased. He relented when he saw the distress on Wayne’s face. Funny what reduces a tough guy to jelly. “Don’t worry, Wayne. You’ll get fair warning. From tip to tip, a wolf spider measures four to five inches—you won’t miss one,” said Osborne. “They aren’t poisonous, but they are a very good reason to watch where you put your hands when you work around a dock.”

Wayne shook his shoulders in a mock shiver. “Ee-yuck. Give me a car thief any day, Doc.”

By five-thirty, they had almost all the boats outfitted. Outboard motors were hooked in and tilted high, fuel tanks readied, locators and acqua cams plugged in, tested and operating. Ray assigned one final chore: remove all the packing tape from the storage units and fill the livewells with fresh water.

Osborne was just uncoiling a length of hose, when Wayne shouted from where he crouched in one of the boats, “Hey, wait a minute. Doc, you better take a look at this.”

“Got a problem?”

“Somebody’s got a problem.” He held open a livewell, and Osborne looked down. It was full, neatly packed with packages wrapped in white freezer paper. Wayne had slit open one of the packages with his jackknife. He pointed with the tip of his knife: “Ever see bulk cocaine before?”

They checked the next boat. That livewell was empty. The next one was full. In all, four of the ten boats had livewells that needed emptying.

“Ray—get out here!” shouted Wayne.

“Ho-o-ly Cow! So that’s what old George was up to—he was waiting for his connection,” said Ray two minutes later. He was standing in one of the boats, staring down at the cache in front of him. The look on his face changed from amazement to chagrin.

“Now what do I do?” He threw his hands up in disgust. “Next you’ll tell me you have to put everything in quarantine or something stupid like that? That’s it, y’know. That wrecks the tournament. We’ll have to cancel. Thank … you … George.”

“Not so fast, my friend,” Wayne put a comforting hand on Ray’s shoulder. “You pulled some strings for me, I can pull a few for you. You got that camera of yours in the truck? Go get it. While you do that, I’ll call in. I want someone on George Zolonsky’s butt right now.

“We’ll shoot photos of these for evidence. Since you and Doc are deputies for Chief Ferris, you can unload. But we have to get her out here right away. We need her to document the unloading, and, of course, she needs to take possession. She and I can handle the paperwork on this.”

“What do you think, Wayne?” asked Osborne. “Is this what you came up here for?”

“We hooked a big one, boys,” said Wayne. “No catch and release on this mother,” he looked at Ray and Osborne with a wide, wide smile of satisfaction. “This is a career-maker, men, this has to be one of the biggest coke busts north of Milwaukee. Ever.”

“Ever?”
said Ray, starting to lighten up. “Jeez, I may be on TV again.”

“I guarantee you’ll be on TV,” said Wayne, “but we need to hustle if you want to be on the lake in the morning.”

“Okay, okay,” said Ray, jumping up onto the dock from the boat.

Just then the door to the boathouse swung open. Osborne saw the barrel of the shotgun before he recognized the figure holding it. By the time, his brain had registered the face, the force of the deer slug had blown Wayne over the back of the boat and into the dark, oily water.

Osborne never did remember making a conscious decision to do anything. All he knew was he was flying, too, over the edge and down into the murky blackness.

Opening his eyes, he strained to see through the dark water. Even though the afternoon sunlight lent a brownish glow to the surface, he could see less than twelve inches in front of him. Reaching down he pulled at the laces of his fishing boots. Up he went for a quick gulp of air, then down again. Boots off, he thrust his hands out and around, desperate to find Wayne before the detective’s boots and sodden jeans would drag his unconscious form down to the muddy bottom.

Arms flailing through the dark water, he searched until he couldn’t stand it any more. He burst through the surface for air. A slug thudded into the water by his right ear. Down, down, he pulled his arms furiously. Looking up, he could see the bottom of the boat but no sign of a floating body, no Wayne. Nor could he touch bottom, it was so deep. The muffled crack of two more slugs hit the water over his head.

He kept kicking, reaching around him, hoping to make contact with something. His foot hit a piling. Quickly, he grabbed the slimy timber. Grasping desperately with both hands, refusing to let his fingers slide off, he pulled and kicked until he knew he was under the dock, then eased up slowly, slowly. He had to breathe, but he didn’t want to die doing so.

Struggling to keep all movement minimal, knowing that the slightest change in the sound of the lapping waves would give him away, he let himself float up and up. Just when he thought his lungs would burst, the top of his head bumped the underside of the dock. Easing back, he raised his chin, letting his face break the surface. There couldn’t be more than two inches of clearance but it was a life-saving two inches. Silently, he hoped, he exhaled, then inhaled, then waited.

Submerging his mouth and tipping his head back and forth to breathe through his nose, he looked around between breaths. Cracks in the boards overhead let light sprinkle through. A wooden lip along the edge of the dock made it impossible to see into the slips, but he could hear the nearest boat rocking.

Heavy feet shuffled as someone banged their way through the boat.

Osborne backed into the black recess under the dock, pushing overhead with his hands. The soft body of a wolf spider moved beneath his fingers, and he felt cocoons that he would have avoided any other time, crumbling as they dropped into the water around his face and eyes.

With a sudden roar, the outboard motor in the slip beside him revved up, churning the water with such force that it put anyone within a fifteen-foot range at risk of being sucked into the powerful blades. It also churned a wake that would have drowned Osborne if the ledge along the edge of the dock weren’t there to break the wave action. As it was, the water lapped up against the undersurface of the dock, forcing him to take hasty breaths between the swells. The swells were a blessing: their steady rhythm helped Osborne force down the urge to panic.

The outboard stopped as suddenly as it had started. Silence. Osborne tried to remain perfectly still, pumping only his legs to tread water, hands loosely circling the piling. He waited and hoped to hell Wayne had regained consciouness and was out of danger. In his gut, he knew otherwise.

“George … take it easy, George …” he heard Ray’s voice, steady, reasonable.

“Shaddup, Pradt. You’re next,” the boots clumped on the boards directly over Osborne’s head. “I see one floating out there. Where’s the old man? Where’s he, huh?” said George, speaking so fast Osborne could barely understand him.

“I think you took ‘em both out, George,” Ray drawled evenly. “That last slug, I saw blood, you got ‘em.”

“Yeah? Nah, you’re foolin’ with my head, Pradt. That sonofabitch is down there.” George’s boots clumped along the planking. Osborne could see him through the cracks in the dock. Or rather he identified him from the waist down: bow-legged in Levi’s worn low on his lean frame. A white band of Jockey shorts showed above the waist of the Levi’s.