Dead Angler (6 page)

Osborne pressed the doorbell again. As they waited, he thought of Ray’s description of Peter Roderick earlier. The man was as homely as his wife was lovely. He was built low to the ground, thickset, with a head that was truly unusual: from the cheekbones up, it was egg-shaped and almost totally bald, while the bottom half was pulled earthward by cheeks that swung loose and low, just like the ponderous ears of a dachshund. Darn Ray, now he would never be able to think of Peter without that image in mind.

Not that that influenced Peter’s own taste in dogs. He was the proud owner of two undisciplined, hyperactive springer spaniels who went everywhere with him—in the fishing boat, bird hunting. When one dog would die, he would rush to replace it with another. Osborne and his early morning coffee buddies would often grouse over how Peter and his springers were a little too synonymous: you couldn’t invite one to fish without getting ‘em all. That would be okay except, barking and jumping, the darn dogs were guaranteed to scare away any fish, not to mention overturn the boat.

On the whole, though, Osborne liked Peter. The man was always happy to see him, eager to hear how Osborne had raised a musky or flushed a partridge. He was a fanatic fly-fisherman and generous with hot tips on the latest hatch. When weather was bad, he would stop by McDonald’s to see who he could persuade to tour the flea markets with him—his abiding passion.

After that first dinner party, Osborne grew to know Peter as a man whose natural earnestness and sweetness of nature were the key to his success as a salesman. He was an optimist who firmly believed that everything would always work out. After all, he was a homely guy who had snagged a beautiful wife, wasn’t he?

If Alicia could make you feel fascinating, Peter could make you feel good. Safe. Yet, in Osborne’s opinion, his optimism was also his undoing. Two years into their friendship, Osborne discovered he had good reason to feel deeply sorry for Peter Roderick.

Suddenly,
an outside wall sconce switched on. Osborne glimpsed Alicia’s eyes behind the fairy princess in the leaded glass. She flung the heavy door wide open.

“Paul?” Alicia stepped forward, surprise and concern in her face and her voice.

She was wearing a long, black dressing gown, the kind Mary Lee had worn when they vacationed at nice hotels. The stark color of the gown set off her honey-streaked brown hair, which fell soft and loose to her shoulders. Tall, slim, and fine-boned, Alicia’s face was deceptively open with a classic, sculpted nose, prominent cheekbones and a wide mouth that could smile graciously when it wanted to.

Her wide-set dark brown eyes glittered for an instant in the golden stream of light from the sconce. She looked, Osborne thought, as she always did: much younger than her years and simply stunning.

“What—?”

The eyes had widened as they shifted from Osborne to take in the meaning of Lew standing beside him, official in her long-sleeved khaki police uniform, black briefcase in her left hand, black holster on her right hip. Alicia stepped back, closed her eyes and thrust her hands in front of her as if forbidding them to be there.

Eyes still closed, she spoke. Her words quiet, deliberate.

“Peter … A plane crash? A car accident?” She held her breath.

“Not Peter,” said Osborne. “Your sister Meredith. We found her in the Prairie River several hours ago, Alicia. She’s dead. We aren’t sure—”

“Meredith!” Alicia’s eyes flashed open. “No! Paul, that can’t be.” Then she closed her eyes tightly, crossed her arms and hunched forwards, clutching her body as if to keep herself intact. The gutteral vehemence in her voice made each word painful to hear, “No … No … No! Not Meredith, Paul. Not my baby sister. She
just
—she can not be dead. No.”

“Alicia …” Osborne crossed the threshold. Taking her elbows gently, he pulled her towards him. Still clasping herself tightly, she let him fold her into his arms.

“Alicia,” he said over her head, “this is Chief of Police Lewellyn Ferris. She has to ask a few questions … and … we can take care of the rest in the morning. I take it Peter’s away?”

“Yes,” said Alicia, her voice smothered in his shoulder. “He’s in Osaka on business. Due back Saturday. I almost wish…,” she stopped. Osborne couldn’t help but wonder if she had been about to say she wished it had been Peter’s body they had found.

As she pulled away, he could feel her body vibrating with tension. Then, she took a deep breath.

“You better come in,” she said hoarsely. She gave Lew’s hand a cursory shake and turned away to flick on the entrance hall chandelier.

“This way.” Her voice was curt. Osborne stepped back to let Lew enter first. They followed in silence as Alicia walked swiftly through the entrance hall, her back to them as she marched towards the formal living room.

Osborne noticed she leaned forward as she walked, a slight hunch to her shoulders. Whether it was that or a weight gain since he’d seen her last, he could see, too, as she paused and turned slightly to adjust a rheostat lighting the living room, that the elegant dressing gown could not disguise a slight pot belly. This was new, she had always been a woman who kept herself in excellent physcial shape.

Lew, in sharp contrast, walked erect behind her, head high, shoulders back, tummy flat. While everything about Alicia exuded femininity, including a faint trail of perfume behind her, Lew was the opposite—her square Irish face free of make-up, her hair a short, black no-nonsense cap of curls.

Woodsmoke, pine bough, and fresh air were the only scents likely to be worn by the Loon Lake Chief of Police, especially in August when, she had complained to Osborne earlier that evening, she spent too many of her non-fishing nights crashing underage beer parties. The parties were easy to spot since their adolescent hosts always opted for the same venues: beachside campfires burning a little too close to stands of brush where the fire hazard is highest in the late summer.

Osborne was struck by other differences between these two women who lived in the same small town. One was defined by money and the soft luxuries it could buy, the reality it could buffer. The other was tuned to the wind, the forest, and the water, the rawness of life. A rawness that extended to her work. He shook his head, amazed not only by how different Lew was from women like his late wife but how much he enjoyed being around her.

Entering the lavishly-decorated living room, Alicia paused several times to turn on table lamps. She continue to look straight ahead, saying nothing, not even glancing back.

At first, Osborne wasn’t sure if it was grief or anger she was experiencing. He was open to anything. Sixty-three years had taught him one of the few certainties in life: death hits everyone differently.

He would never forget his own reaction to the unexpected news of Mary Lee’s death—a feeling of standing alone on a road with a massive immovable boulder before him. His grief had been slow to surface, more potent for its lateness. But in those first moments he felt no anger, not even sorrow, just a vast sense of nowhere to go.

The young emergency doctor had placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, but Osborne hadn’t said a word. And he was forever grateful to Ray, who had been sitting beside him and who had said nothing either. Ray had waited while he called his two daughters from the nurses’ stand, then driven him home in an understanding silence. Like now, that death had occurred deep in the night with nothing to be done until daylight.

As they followed her into the living room, light from the lamps and recessed wall lighting illuminated the reflection of Alicia’s face in an ornate wall-to-wall floor-to-ceiling gilt-framed mirror that anchored the far end of the room. Now Osborne could see in her eyes and the fierce set of her jaw exactly what she was feeling: anger. A black, swirling anger.

“I know….,” he offered, flinching at the inadequacy of his words. He felt he should be able to do something to help but he had no idea what. “Alicia, I—”

“How did it happen?” Alicia cut him off with the demand, her back still turned.

Anger at death—that’s a fair response, thought Osborne. Ineffectual but fair. He wondered how long it would take her to work through the initial emotion so they could talk.

As long as it took her to turn around apparently.

She spun towards them, her face drawn but less tense than the mirrored image of a moment earlier. The dark fury in her eyes had vanished.

“I’m sorry, Paul. I’ll be okay. Please …,” she gestured towards a long, English-style leather sofa beneath the mirror as she seated herself opposite them in a dark green wing chair, “everyone sit down.”

“We won’t know exactly what happened until after the autopsy,” said Lew with quiet authority as she opened her briefcase to pull out a narrow reporter’s notepad and a ballpoint pen. She flipped the notebook open as she talked, her eyes on Alicia’s face.

“We found her body in the Prairie River around eleven this evening. Doctor Osborne and I were fishing. It appears she was fishing, too. She was wearing waders and a fishing vest but no sign of her rod and reel. Yet, that is. I’ve got a good thousand yards or more of the river roped off so I expect we’ll find her equipment in the brush along the banks at some point.”

“My sister was an expert fly-fisherman,” said Alicia, with careful emphasis on her last word. “She studied with Joan Wulff on the east coast. The famous Joan Wulff—the champion caster,
the
foremost expert on fly-fishing.” She spoke in a blatantly patronizing tone as if fly-fishing alone would be news to Lew.

Osborne shifted his position on the sofa. He would be surprised if Lew didn’t knew exactly who Joan Wulff was—even he knew that. He found it interesting she said nothing to counter Alicia’s condescension. Having seen Alicia go after many unsuspecting, kind-hearted females in years past, Osborne found himself not unhappy that she might be picking on the wrong one this time.

“That’s one of the reasons she moved back here. She was fanatic about fly-fishing. I warned her about fishing the Prairie at night. I told her that was very, very foolish.”

As she spoke, Alicia had carefully arranged her gown over her knees, then propped her right elbow on one arm to rest her chin in her hand as she leaned towards them, an expression of intense concentration on her face.

“Uh huh,” said Lew, making a note. “Why else did she move back here?”

“What time did she drown?” Alicia ignored the question.

Lew ignored the rudeness. “Well … at first, we thought she drowned, of course, but Dr. Osborne’s initial exam showed her head was quite battered. That and a few more details—”

“Like what details?”

“We found very few bruises on the rest of her body. If she had been in the current for any length of time, there should be significantly more bruising to match the head.”

“That’s it?” Alicia’s tone was ever so slightly scornful.

“Yes,” said Lew. “Anything you wish to add, Doctor?” Lew gave Osborne a look that indicated she did not want to share the details of the missing fillings.

“Paul—how on earth did you get involved with this?” demanded Alicia. “You’re not a coroner.”

“Doctor Osborne is deputized to help me with forensic dental exams when Doctor Pecore is tied up,” said Lew matter-of-factly—as if they had been working together for years, not hours.

“Alicia, I did some forensic work during the Korean War though I’m certainly no expert,” said Osborne, “Like she said, I just help Chief Ferris on an as-need basis. But I can tell you, Alicia, this was no drowning. Chief Ferris sees at least one drowning a season out of rivers like the Prairie, and those bodies exhibit stresses on all extremities not just—”

“Well—you’re both wrong,” said Alicia, waving her hand and a snide tone of dismissal in her voice. “Everyone knows the nightmare currents of the Prairie River. No one in their right mind fishes that river in weather like we had here tonight. Don’t you think Meredith might have slipped and fallen and hit her head on one of those submerged boulders? I mean, really. I fly-fish, Mrs. Ferris, I know how dangerous a rushing river can be.”

Osborne caught her deliberate refusal to use Lew’s official title. Classic Alicia, he thought, still nasty after all these years.

“There is something else,” said Lew, reluctantly. “Please keep this confidential?”

“Absolutely,” said Alicia, leaning forward more intently and dropping her patronizing tone.

“Meredith’s body was wedged under a log. Deliberately wedged—no question about it.”

“I see …,” said Alicia. She sat in thoughtful silence for a long minute, then she sighed deeply and stood up. “You know, I could use a drink—can I get anyone anything? I can make up some coffee …?”

“No, thank you,” said Lew.

“Nothing for me,” said Osborne.

Alicia left the room. Lew and Osborne looked at each other but said nothing. They waited. Lew doodled on her notepad.

“You know, on second thought, I could use a glass of water,” she said, jumping up and following Alicia back to the kitchen. Five minutes later, they returned. Lew with a tall glass of ice water and Alicia with a goblet of white wine in one hand, a plate of Wisconsin cheddar and Ritz crackers in the other. She set the plate on the coffee table in front of them.

“I’m sure you’re right,” she said rearranging herself in the chair, “I just find it so difficult to imagine anyone wanting to kill my sister.”

Her attitude had changed markedly. Her tone, her manner, made it clear she had decided to be cooperative. Very cooperative. But if she had changed her attitude, her tension level was still tuned high. Osborne could almost see the vibration he’d felt earlier.

He was ashamed of his next thought, but knowing Alicia as he did, he wondered what she had up her sleeve.

“And you
are
sure it’s Meredith? I know that bodies can change in the water….”

“Alicia,” said Osborne, shifting his position on the sofa to lean forward on his elbows, hands dropped between his knees, eyes fixed on hers. “I know your sister. Remember, she grew up with my oldest daughter. I did all her dental work until she went away to college. Even in recent years, when she was visiting in the summer, she would drop by the office if she had a problem, a loose filling usually. I wish I could say otherwise, but I know the victim is Meredith.”

“The body appears to have been in the water a very short time, plus the Prairie runs cold,” added Lew. “In spite of Doctor Osborne’s certainty, I do need you to identify the body, Mrs. Roderick. And I’ll need your permission for the autopsy.”

“Hmm,” Alicia was thoughtful. “An autopsy? What a shame.” Then she started up from her chair, “Tonight? I better change—”

“No, oh no,” said Lew. “In the morning will be fine. We’ll set up a time to meet at the hospital morgue.”

Alicia settled back and took a sip of her wine. She turned to Lew and waited expectantly. “You have questions, Chief Ferris?”

“If you can give me a few details, Mrs. Roderick, we can go over much more tomorrow. But any personal background you think is important may help me jumpstart this investigation,” said Lew. “First, some nitty gritty. Her age. Does she have children? Did she work? Daily routines? Any fishing partners?”

“Meredith was fourteen years younger than me,” said Alicia. “So that makes her thirty-eight. We were half-sisters. My mother died when I was six, and Pop didn’t marry again until I was about twelve.”

“Your father was John Sutliff.”

“Yes. Pop was chairman of the mill until his retirement. He passed away about eighteen months ago, which may interest you. Our father was quite wealthy and he left everything to us—me and Meredith—we’re his only heirs.”

“How much are we talking about?” asked Lew.

“He left an estate of six million dollars to be shared between us.”

“That’s a lot of money,” said Lew, jotting notes.

“Yes it is,” said Alicia, “with her inheritance, my sister had a net worth of close to five million because she had money of her own already.”

“Children?”

“None. She never had time. My sister was a remarkable woman, unusual from the day she was born,” said Alicia. She took a sip of her wine. “As a child, she was absolutely beautiful. Blonde curls so thick you couldn’t get a comb through them.” Alicia smiled, “She looked like Shirley Temple. The children’s shops in Rhinelander would always ask Dorothy if she could model for them …” “Dorothy?”