Dead Angler (27 page)

“You would have fooled me,” lied Osborne. “Those missing fillings were the only reason I suspected foul play.”

“I had a back-up plan,” said Alicia with a tight little smile.

“Don’t tell me,” said Lew. “Blame it on Clint Chesnais, and if that didn’t work … your husband?”

“There you go, Ferris. See, the secret to success in life is to know what you want and have faith you’ll find the way to get it. You must be alert to opportunity.”

“Like George,” said Lew, nodding in appreciation.

“George was
Mister
Opportunity,” said Alicia. “I hired him to work on my kitchen here. He taught me how to win at blackjack. We went to the casino a couple times. George and I … well, we had other things in common. Didn’t take long, he would do anything I asked him to. Anything.

“So I offered him a percentage, and he decided to take the risk. He did quite a nice job, too. Aside from the mess it made, one blow was all it took.”

“Oh, that afternoon was something,” said Alicia, her voice appreciative of her own cleverness. “It was piece of cake to get her out there. I asked her to give us casting lessons. She was so proud of her technique. As if I really cared, you know?”

“Very smart,” said Lew. “No one fishes the Prairie mid-afternoon.”

“I knew that. I knew we had a window from morning until five o’clock. So there she was in that damn river, going on about tippets and leaders and all that baloney, fussing over her stupid trout flies. I will say she knew her stuff. She raised a fish in spite of the flat light and the heat. She got so excited playing a big brown, she never even saw George behind her. Merry never knew what hit her. She’d still be under that damn log if it weren’t for you, Paul. Nope, George was great until he became such a pest.”

“He wanted more money?”

“He wanted more money, and he wanted
me,”
said Alicia. “Ugh,” she shivered, “he couldn’t get it through his stupid head he was just a tool. Right now I miss him—I could use his help with you two.”

“I imagine you’ll figure it out,” said Lew drily.

“I have,” said Alicia, her foot stopped at the height of its bounce. She uncrossed her legs and stood up, “we’re going to take a little walk now, back through the kitchen and down the basement stairs.”

A door slammed suddenly off in the direction of the kitchen.

“Don’t move,” she hissed, her eyes fixed on Lew and Osborne, the pistol unwavering.

“Peter?” Alicia’s voice took on a shrill note as she called out, “Peter! Would you please run to the store for some dog food? Right away, we’re all out. Hurry, hon. Chief Ferris and I are still busy with some paperwork.”

“Howdy, howdy,” Ray came loping around the corner into the room from the hall, a sheepish look on his face and his hands high in the air. Peter Roderick was right behind him with a shotgun aimed at his back.

“What the hell—?” Alicia backed away as Ray walked through the living room as if pushed. Alicia gave a slight wave of the revolver, indicating an antique wooden chair to Osborne’s right, “Pull that close to the sofa next to Paul and sit down,” she ordered.

“He told me he had to let his dogs out of the back of the Rover, next thing I know it’s target practice,” muttered Ray in a low voice as he followed orders. You never mentioned he keeps a twenty-gauge in the back of that hog he drives.”

“My fault, Ray,” said Lew. “Sorry.”

Peter Roderick had stopped just inside the room. He held the shotgun high as he studied the group. “I’m sorry, but this is my home. You don’t shut me out of my own home. Whatever you have to say to my wife, you can say to me.”

“Mr. Roderick,” said Lew. “Let me explain—”

“When I’m finished,” said Peter, his face flushed a dangerous dark red, cheeks swinging as he spoke in a hoarse, strained voice. Osborne expected him to have a heart attack any second.

Keeping her revolver trained on the three sitting on the sofa, Alicia turned slightly, in the direction of her husband. “Peter—just what the hell do you think you are doing? Move over here where I can see you.”

“No, dear. I heard everything you said. I thought I understood you … but I don’t even know you, Alicia. All these years and I do not know you.” Peter’s voice cracked. “Why? Can you tell me? Why?” Osborne saw him looking over their heads, searching to meet his wife’s eyes in the mirror.

“Oh Peter, shut up.” she said derisively.

“I loved you so much. We could have had a good life. I was putting it all back together. Together we—”

Facing the mirror, Alicia rolled her eyes in disgust, “I do not need—”

“Stop,” said Peter softly.

Before she could finish, the shotgun blast tore through the room.

The twenty-gauge didn’t carry a slug. The impact carried Alicia towards them, a look of total surprise on her face as she flew forward, knocking over the coffee table. She hit the floor and did not move.

Nor did Osborne and Lew, they sat perfectly still in stunned silence. Ray lowered his hands to his knees.

“Pete, old man,” he said softly. “We are friends.”

“Stay where you are.” Peter walked over to look down at Alicia’s still form. He fired again.

Then he reached into his pocket for two cartridges. He loaded the shotgun.

“Yes, you are friends,” he said. “Please, I am not going to shoot anyone.” He waved one hand weakly as he sat down heavily in the chair where Alicia had been moments earlier, the butt of the shotgun on the floor, the barrel pointing to the ceiling.

Peter looked at Ray and Osborne, “No grave, boys. Cremate both of us. I don’t care what you do with her. Me?” He breathed deeply. “Me, I’d like to blow in the wind by our deer shack, Doc. Maybe you would take me back by the blue heron rookery?”

“I can do that for you, Pete.” Osborne didn’t raise a hand to wipe the tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Pete, c’mon,” Ray’s voice was soft, “you don’t have to do this.”

“It’s my call, Peter,” said Lew. “Justifiable homicide.”

“No,” Peter shook his head slowly, a deep sadness in his voice, “it’s my call. I call it ‘nothing left to lose.’ Please, all of you. Leave the room.”

Before they could enter the hallway, they heard the gunshot.

Twelve hours later, they sat at the Loon Lake Pub. It was nearing midnight after the long, long day. Even though a lively Saturday night crowd buzzed around them, no one at their table of three had spoken since ordering. Now they sat staring at their dinners: luscious cheeseburgers, cooked medium, buried under slabs of Wisconsin Cheddar Cheese.

“I reached Wayne’s mother,” said Ray. “It wasn’t easy. I told her he felt no pain. Maybe that helps.”

“Thank you, Ray,” said Lew. “I’m sure you handled it well.” She sighed, “I’m relieved the crew found him as quickly as they did. Did I mention the Wausau lab called late this afternoon? They estimated the time of death for Meredith Marshall between two and five
P.M.
Sunday.”

“What did they say when you told them about the Rodericks?” asked Osborne.

“I didn’t yet. The weekend team was on duty. I’m saving my report for Monday morning—and making sure it arrives on more than one desk.”

“That should ruin someone’s day.”

“I certainly hope so,” Lew shook the salt shaker very carefully.

“Why do decent people have to die because of the craziness of others?” Osborne squirted ketchup over his french fries. He wasn’t sure he could even eat them.

“May I have that when you’re done?” asked Lew. He handed over the bottle. Lew slammed her palm against the base of the ketchup bottle, making a small pool in one corner of her plate, “Some days life is unfair, Doc. Other days it works out. No one gets more than a 50-50 chance.”

“I don’t accept that answer, Lew,” said Osborne. “Wayne was a good man. Meredith had just put her life together. Pete—he tried so hard.”

“C’mon, Doc,” said Ray matter-of-factly as one finger tap-tapped the pepper slowly over his side dish of cottage cheese. “The water is always dark. You never know. Now Wayne. His last days were quite fine. It’s not like he died of cancer. Me? I would not mind going by surprise.”

“Don’t forget, Doc,” Lew finished with a thin swirl of Dijon mustard on the inside of her bun. “Meredith had hooked a big brown, remember? You and I both know you don’t see many browns in the Prairie. She had to be thrilled.

“The way I see it,” Lew raised her burger towards her mouth, “the victim died happy.”

About the Author

Victoria Houston lives, works and fly fishes in Northern Wisconsin. She also hunts grouse with her black lab, Cyber. Currently plotting her third Loon Lake mystery, she can be e-mailed at
[email protected]
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