Dead Boogie

Get hooked on Victoria Houston’s
Loon Lake Fishing Mysteries …

Dead Hot Mama

“Enough to make anyone long for the scent of pines. An addictive series … A complicated mystery with plenty of red herrings (and a few muskies) … that will have readers guessing up until the last minute. Another strong entry into a very atmospheric and entertaining series that will have even the most sun-worshipping readers consider digging a hole in the ice, dropping a line in, and hoping for a bite."

—
The Mystery Reader

Dead Frenzy

“Houston has a way with words … Her humor is well-rationed … The good doctor is a pleasant, witty voice. The description of a fishing experience is well-done, depicting the North woods to a ‘T.’ The mystery is plotted well, and there is enough action to keep the reader engaged to the end. The Loon Lake series holds great promise for a pleasurable reading retreat."

—
Books ‘n’
Bytes

Dead Water

“Dead Water
is her best yet … [Victoria Houston] puts me right there in the Wisconsin heat and cold, lets me know what the fish are biting on, lets me spy on the interesting characters of Loon Lake, and most of all, spins an intelligent and captivating tale. I look forward to more and more.”

—T. Jefferson Parker, author of
California Girl

“Victoria Houston’s love for her Wisconsin setting—and her wonderful characters—is evident on every page of her fine series … A great getaway, even if it does keep me up at nights."

—Laura Lippman, author of
To the Power of Three

Dead Creek

“[A] well-drawn regional police procedural … All the subplots smoothly return to the main theme and there are plenty of suspects to keep the audience guessing … With this fine novel, Victoria Houston will hook readers and make them seek her previous stories.”

—Painted Rock Reviews

“What a great story! A book that fishermen of all ages (and species) are sure to enjoy."

—Tony Rizzo, Northwoods fishing guide and author of
Secrets of a Muskie Guide

“Murder mystery muskies!
The X-Files
comes to Packer Land."

—John Krga, dedicated Northwoods “catch-and-release” muskie fisherman

Dead Angler

“Who would have thought that fly-fishing could be such fun? Victoria Houston makes you want to dash for rod and reel. [She] cleverly blends the love of the outdoors with the thrill of catching a serial killer."

—
Orlando Sentinel

“As exciting as fishing a tournament—and you don’t know the result until the end."

—Norb Wallock, North American Walleye Angler’s 1997 Angler of the Year

“Houston introduces us to a cast of characters with whom we quickly bond—as fly fishers and as good citizens—in the first of what I hope will be a long series.”

—Joan Wulff, world-class fly caster and cofounder of the Wulff School of Fly Fishing

“A compelling thriller … populated with three-dimensional characters who reveal some of their secrets of trout fishing the dark waters of the northern forests.”

—Tom Wiench, dedicated fly-fisherman and member of Trout Unlimited

“Should net lots of fans—a good catch.”

—The Muncie (IN) Star Press

“Colorful and eccentric characters … Readers who prefer their fish either in a restaurant or supermarket exclusively will still enjoy this delightful mystery because Victoria Houston hooks her audience from start to finish. The Great Lakes make a wonderful backdrop to fine characters and a delightful storyline … This regional mystery has a powerful (somewhat fishy) taste to it."

—
Midwest Book Review

Titles by Victoria Houston

DEAD ANGLER
DEAD CREEK
DEAD WATER
DEAD FRENZY
DEAD HOT MAMA
DEAD JITTERBUG
DEAD BOOGIE

Dead
Boogie

VICTORIA HOUSTON

For Tom, Brian, and Jack:

Thanks for the excellent advice, guiding me through rivers, lakes, and streams—and sharing your trout flies!

one

All freezes again—
Among the pines, winds
Whispering a prayer.

—Riei, eighteenth-century Japanese poet

The
eagle ate well that day. When Brian’s truck rattled over the hill and, tires squealing, shuddered through a skid, the flurry of action forced the bird into the air—but only fifty feet. Refusing to be intimidated, the eagle lurked high in a nearby tree, convinced he could frighten the intruder away with a rustle of magnificent wings, a stare from a malevolent eye. He would not give up such a kill so easily.

But the man climbing out of the green Forest Service truck had so much on his mind that he barely noticed. Just one more eagle feasting on carrion. No, Brian Jensen’s concern was the overturned car. He couldn’t keep going with a clear conscience unless he was sure no one was trapped inside.

The sight of the vehicle in the ditch stumped him. Other than bird hunters, few people traveled this stretch of condemned road. He’d started using it after a recent field project, during which he’d stumbled onto a shortcut home. He could drive the dead highway to where it intersected a logging trail. After a bumpy two miles, the trail connected to a farmer’s driveway that opened onto County A—just three miles short of his house. Cut fifteen minutes from his drive home.

Even so, he used it only when he was running late and seldom when driving his own car. The loose gravel was treacherous under wheels, not to mention that one stone could crack a windshield and ruin his insurance premium. He was driving it today because the monthly staff meeting had run on way too long. He was due to leave on his vacation at noon—it was already past one. His wife would not be happy.

Catching sight of the metal and glass flashing in the sun, his first instinct was to keep going. But he knew better than that. He might be off duty, but he was still in the Forest Service, a public servant. He could check it out, call in the location on his car phone, and leave a message for one of his colleagues to follow up. It would take five minutes, max.

Brian pulled the truck over and opened the door, leaving the engine idling. He jogged toward the ditch and the overturned car, the shrill of grasshoppers pulsing in the August heat. As he approached the car, he could see it was a powder blue Chrysler Sebring convertible and that it had rolled with its top down. Ouch. A sudden breeze carried a whiff of bad air. And it wasn’t the smell of gas.

He paused to listen … no sound—just grasshoppers and the low hum of his truck.

Brian walked the length of the car, then got down on hands and knees to peer under the front end, back toward the steering wheel. The reaction from his stomach was spontaneous. Jumping to his feet, he reeled back, retching as he ran. The eagle cocked his head and shifted from one talon to another.

Hands shaking, Brian hit the walkie-talkie button on the car phone. “I don’t care if he’s in a meeting,” he said, “put me through! This is an emergency.”

“Okay, okay, slow down, son,” said Bob Miller, his supervisor. “Now start over. What did you say the condition is?”

“DRT,” said Brian, inadvertently using their office acronym for a road kill of any kind: Dead Right There.

two

Heaven seems a little closer in a house beside the water.

—Anonymous

Arms
crossed as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, Paul Osborne pondered the two pints of fresh-picked raspberries sitting on the table in front of him. He was considering making an angel food cake. Angel food topped with fresh raspberries. Can’t beat that. And you have to share.

He liked that thought. Good reason to invite a certain woman to dinner. Well, maybe an hour or two in the trout stream first and then some dinner. Followed by—who knows? He could get lucky.

So far the northern Wisconsin weather was cooperating. Unseasonably cool temperatures paired with winds out of the northwest may have disappointed tourists that August, but they sure kept the fly-fishermen happy. Cool, windy weather meant fewer bugs, which meant hungry trout. Add fresh raspberries to that equation and Osborne had an excellent excuse for an invitation.

He reached for the beat-up three-ring binder in which his late wife, Mary Lee, had kept family recipes. The angel food cake recipe was from his Aunt Olive, his mother’s sister. She had taken over the household after his mother’s death. He was six that year—the year she lived with Osborne and his father. The following year, thank the Lord, his father sent him off to boarding school.

Angel food cake was the only pleasant memory he had of Aunt Ollie, a sharp-tongued, sharp-faced woman who seemed older than her years. Rail thin and tall, she had towered over him as she raged. In contrast, the Jesuit boarding school with its rules and regulations was a relief. At least you knew what was going to happen—and why.

Osborne scanned his aunt’s faded script. Her list of ingredients looked simple enough. But did he have the utensils? He could still see her beating the egg whites in the big old ceramic mixing bowl. She beat them by hand. She beat him by hand, too.

A pan. He needed the right pan. Osborne wheeled around in his chair, then knelt to dig through one of the lower cupboards. He was sure there was an angel food cake pan in there somewhere. Ah! Reaching way to the back, he found it.

He stood up. Egg whites—he would need a special whisk. Certainly he could use the electric mixer, but he wanted to do this the old-fashioned way. How well he remembered the magic of those egg whites billowing up. And Aunt Ollie had insisted on a certain kind of whisk for angel food. He thought Mary Lee had used one just like it.

Searching through the utensil drawer, it dawned on him that Aunt Ollie and his late wife had more in common than just a whisk. Was that why he’d married Mary Lee? Because the coldness and criticism felt familiar? He shook his head. At least he didn’t have that to worry about anymore.

He found a whisk, but it was rusted. Ray might have one. If his neighbor could keep an antique phone booth in the living room of his mobile home, why not an old whisk in his kitchen drawer?

Glancing out the window, he was reminded that the day was sunny and warm—just right for a walk. Since it was early afternoon, chances were good Ray would be home. A fishing guide, he tended to book clients in the early morning and after dusk. Of course, if he’d been called to dig a grave or two that day, he might be out.

What the heck—Osborne decided to amble on down to Ray’s. Mike needed the exercise and the black Lab loved racing through the woods with Ray’s yellow Labs, Ruff and Ready, whose antics with Mike always put a grin on Osborne’s face.

Just as he opened the screen door to let the dog out into the yard, the phone rang.

“Doc?” The lean, quiet voice lifted his heart.

“Lew—you caught me just in time. I was about to walk out the door—”

“Anything you can cancel?” she said, interrupting him. “I need help and I need it now.”

“Sure, what’s up?” Osborne said, walking back into the kitchen and reaching for a notepad. He’d been half-expecting a call. Half-hoping was more like it.

Just that morning over coffee with his buddies at McDonald’s, they had been grousing about the Loon Lake Country Music Fest Every third week of August it happened: total gridlock. Main Street, restaurants, bars, even the Loon Lake Market overflowed with people wearing too much suntan lotion, too little clothing, and reeking of alcohol.

For nearly a decade, twenty-two thousand country music fans had been descending on Loon Lake, Pop. 3,412—cramming trailers, RVs, pickups, and cars into the campgrounds and motels surrounding the little town. For six days the wail and thump of country music would echo across the water. Great for the local economy, but it made for one long week for Loon Lake’s law enforcement team.

Even with reinforcements from the sheriff, the exuberance generated by the music and the round-the-clock consumption of beer, beer, and more beer would overwhelm Chief Lewellyn Ferris and her three-man Loon Lake Police Department. From fender benders to fist fights, the list of alcohol-fueled incidents left no room for anything more than routine police work.

“Nothing serious, I hope,” said Osborne.

“Oh-h-h, it’s serious. The Forest Service called in to report a car accident. Fatality. One of the rangers found it back on that abandoned road north of County A. You know where I mean?”