Dead Frenzy (3 page)

Summertime
is crazy time in the northwoods. Even in little Loon Lake with its population of 3,112, midday traffic on a nice day can reach gridlock proportions. Tourists cram sidewalks, intersections, and parking lots as they rush to stock up for cruises on the decks of their pontoon boats, which would soon perpetrate the same gridlock in the narrow channels between lakes. But Osborne had to admit the tourists weren’t the only ones at fault.

Loon Lake is distinctive for being the last town of any size on the way north to Lake Superior. It is also the county seat and—not least—it boasts a Wal-Mart. Add to that two good-sized grocery stores and Main Street is ripe for crowd control. From mid-June to late August, thousands converge for supplies, to see their lawyer, or to visit family and friends.

When it comes to the latter, a small but potent group arrives to visit relatives incarcerated in the brand-new jail adjacent to the courthouse. Though Lew would never say as much, Osborne could tell just from watching and listening during the midmorning cup of coffee they often shared in her office that she was quite proud of the building she had helped plan and design. It certainly raised her profile among the law enforcement professionals in the region—though the effect was not always positive.

More than once she joked about a less welcome effect the new building was having on her career, calling it “the jealousy factor.” She could always see it coming, too—unpleasant assignments that sheriffs from nearby towns, large and small, would try to fob off on her department with the excuse that Loon Lake had the better facility.

“I hear what you’re saying, but it’s your problem, guy,” was her polite but firm response. “Nope … nope … your problem. Sorry, wish I could help you.”

Osborne would do his best not to grin as he listened. She was as deft at dodging her colleagues as she was at dropping a trout fly under an overhang of brush in a narrow creek. And she was adamant. He felt sorry for her competitors as he had yet to see her hedge on her priorities. And those were three: Get the job done for Loon Lake and Loon Lake only, get it done right—and get on with the fly-fishing. He liked to think that one of these days, if he was lucky, he might be added to that list.

Osborne loved to shop for groceries. Not the shopping so much as the other shoppers, which was why he favored the Loon Lake Market. Yes, the newer, bigger North Country Grocer had a wider selection but at the Loon Lake Market he could count on running into friends or former patients—people he could trust to have the latest in local news. Also, the Market’s bulletin board was still the best in town for anyone with something to sell.

This morning he was lucky to get one of the two remaining grocery carts. Hoping that was an omen, he headed to the produce section for packages of fresh basil and tarragon. Also, aware that it was later than he had planned, he wasn’t disappointed to see that the faces of his fellow shoppers were unfamiliar. The strangers crowding the aisles also appeared more affluent than the average Loon Lake resident, an opinion Osborne could safely base on thirty-five years of practicing dentistry in a town where his year-round patients were easily distinguished from summer “one-shots”—in manner, manners, and appearance.

Halfway down the noodles, rice, and pasta aisle, searching for orzo, he found his way blocked by a woman with a young child. He waited patiently as the mother, whom he’d never seen before and who appeared to be in her early forties, let herself be tortured by a little girl in a hot pink two-piece swimming suit. Osborne guessed the child to be five or six years old—old enough to know better.

“Celia, ouch! Please don’t do that,” the woman said as the kid ran their grocery cart up the back of her ankles. It was obvious the mother was a tourist. A Loon Lake parent would have said nothing and whacked the kid. Forget discussion.

Osborne watched a sly smile cross the little girl’s face as she backed up, waited for her mother to look away, then ran at her again. This time she drew blood.

While the mother bent over to reason with the little monster, Osborne edged his cart around them, resisting the urge to prescribe homicide. That was one virtue of being retired from his dental practice: He no longer had to deal with spoiled brats—and the summer patients had been the worst.

Wandering up and down the aisles, list in hand, Osborne was pleased to find every item he needed, including a fresh, creamy-skinned, never frozen, six-pound capon. Then, in an aisle devoted to local farmers, he came upon an unexpected treat: a pint of fresh-picked raspberries for his cereal the next morning. That reminded him he was almost out of milk.

He hurried toward the dairy section, which was located at the far end of an aisle of frozen juices. Going a little too fast as he rounded the corner, he nearly crashed into what appeared to be a large loon reaching for a quart of half-and-half. It wasn’t, of course; loons don’t drink half-and-half. Able to stop before inflicting injury, Osborne could not help staring at the vision blocking his access to low-fat milk.

The loon-like image was imprinted on a stolid, very tall individual; as wide as it was tall and wearing clothes that offered no clue, the figure challenged Osborne to decide on its sex. Unable to see the face, which was turned away, he finally decided it was female. She wore faded Levi’s and a black leather vest zipped tight over an ample bosom. A leather fanny pack hung off her left hip.

But what was so striking were her arms—tattooed from the wrist up to her shoulders, where they disappeared into her vest. Looking for all the world like the plumage of a mature loon, the arms were covered with dots, stripes, and cross-hatching executed in black and a brilliant white. Osborne was mesmerized. The woman reached for a gallon of orange juice. Then, to his surprise, she just stood there, continuing to block his way. It wasn’t until he looked over at her face that he realized he was himself being observed.

“Dr. Osborne?” The voice was deep, raspy, and familiar. But it was a voice he hadn’t heard in years. And without that voice, he would never have recognized the girl who had once worked for him. She’d been slender then and quite pretty. But slender had given way to burly, and the cheekbones that had once defined a heart-shaped face were bulbous under skin hammered by sun and wind and feathered with smoker’s lines.

But the ice blue eyes were bright and amused. Friendly, even. Much friendlier than the day he had fired her. Even though it had to be twenty years or more since they had last spoken, the sound of her voice and the amusement in her eyes prompted exactly the same reaction he had had that day so long ago: fear. A deep and abiding fear of a young woman half his age. A fear that time had proven to be ridiculous.

“Catherine!” Recognition tinged with guilt. How unfair had he been so long ago?

“Dr. Osborne, you don’t recognize me?”

“I do now. Are you visiting?”

“Hell no, I live up near Manitowish Waters.”

“No kidding. Why did I think you were in Hawaii?”

“That was years ago—fifteen, seventeen maybe. Before moving back here, I lived in San Francisco for seven years and I’ve been here now for almost three.”

“Oh,” said Osborne, unsure what to say next. He reached for a quart of milk.

“How’s Mary Lee—and your daughters?”

“The girls are fine. Erin lives in town with her family. She married Mark Amundson and they have three children. Mallory is single, living in Lake Forest, and Mary Lee … Mary Lee passed away two years ago.”

“Oh,” Catherine stepped back. “I’m sorry to hear that. Was it—?”

“No, no,” said Osborne. “Very sudden. She came down with a viral bronchitis of some kind that went into a killer pneumonia in the middle of the night. By the time I got her to the hospital, it was too late.”

“Whoa, one of those things, huh?”

Catherine didn’t look all that unhappy at the news. Maybe she could see from his face that he was long past grief. Maybe she had been one of Mary Lee’s targets, too. It was only since Mary Lee’s death that Osborne had begun to get some measure of how vicious she had been to so many people.

As if she knew what he was thinking, Catherine said, “Your wife didn’t like me much, Doc. I think she thought I was trying to put the make on you.”

“What?”
Osborne could feel his face flush. He was thankful there were no other shoppers nearby.

“And I was!” said Catherine, flashing a smile that lightened the hardness in her face. “But you didn’t have a clue.”

Osborne was so speechless and embarrassed he didn’t know what to do or say. He just wanted out of there.

Catherine didn’t know how right she was and he would never forget that summer. Mary Lee had accused him of being more than the target of Catherine’s affections. She had been convinced he was involved with her. The only justification she had was Catherine’s lush beauty and her reputation. And Catherine was something in those days. By the time she left Loon Lake, she had scored way too many married men. But the unforgivable sin, in Mary Lee’s eyes, was that Catherine left with her head held high—she married the scion of a wealthy summer family. Yes, she was pregnant but she
was
married.

“Oh, come on,” said Catherine, her eyes twinkling at his unease. He remembered that about her now: She loved to make people uncomfortable. “You were the best-looking man in town. You still are, Doc. What are you … fifty-five?”

Her flattery pleased and alarmed him.

“I’m at least your father’s age,” he said, responding in his most professional, authoritative tone. He wasn’t, of course, but he was desperate to change the subject. “So, Catherine, now that you’re back—are you retired?” He didn’t dare ask if she was married. God forbid he find out she was single.

“Oh, God no,” she said, concern crossing her face as if it were her turn to decide exactly what to say. “I build docks.”

“Docks? What kind of docks?”

“Custom docks—you know, with pilings.”

“They sound expensive.” Osborne inched his cart away, anxious to end the conversation.

“They are—but that area up around Manitowish Waters, Winchester, Boulder Junction. People are building ten-thousand-square-foot log homes. They can afford my docks. You should come up and see ‘em someday.”

“I should.”

“We’ve got a big sign on the road—just drop by if you’re ever in the neighborhood.”

Whew, thought Osborne, she said “we.” Thank goodness.

“I’ll do that,” he said. “Nice seeing you, Catherine.”

Ten minutes later, as he carried his groceries to his car, he heard the voice again. Just his luck—Catherine’s van was parked three spots down from his own car.

“Doc! I want you to meet my husband,” she called, waving as he walked toward her. She had opened the back doors to a silver-gray van and was loading groceries inside. As he neared, she walked to the front of the van and yanked opened the driver’s side door. “Jimmy, get out, I want you to meet someone.”

A leg clad in grimy jeans reached for the ground as a chunky figure backed out from behind the steering wheel with all the grace of a garbage truck. Jimmy was one of those men who wear their pants so low that you see things you never want to know about. Osborne kept his eyes averted, concentrating on the lurid pattern stenciled onto the back of the black leather vest facing him.

Both feet on the ground at last, the man turned to face Osborne. Unlike Catherine’s, his vest was open, exposing an impressive acreage of hairy chest and belly. The landscape could hardly be ignored given that it featured black and white tattoos identical to those running up both Catherine’s arms. And his own, though Jimmy’s arms were thicker and wider, allowing for more variation on the theme. Hard to miss these two.

Osborne extended his hand. “Glad to meet you, Jim. Paul Osborne.”

“He’s the dentist I used to work for—I’ve told you about him,” said Catherine, poking her husband with her elbow. Osborne cringed. Discussed by this pair? That wasn’t a happy thought.

“Oh, yeah, I know who you are.” Jimmy reached down to slip both thumbs under his waistband. Once his pants were safely anchored over his hips and under his belly, he offered a four-fingered, half-handshake, the kind that Ray liked to call a “sucker grip.”

The lower half of Jimmy’s face was hidden behind a short, ragged light brown beard that matched his hair, which was long and pulled back in a ponytail. His eyes were red-rimmed and half-focused somewhere over Osborne’s head as they shook hands. Osborne had spent enough time around Ray to know when someone was stoned. This jabone was on another planet.

“Those are quite the tattoos, you two,” said Osborne to Catherine. She grinned and pointed to a decal on the side window of the metallic silver van:
take pride in your hide
. Other, ruder decals decorated the window as well. Osborne made an instant decision to avoid Manitowish Waters for the rest of his life.

“We got these done in Italy last year,” said Catherine, holding her arms out and twisting them from side to side to display the full effect. Cost five thousand bucks.”

“I can believe it,” said Osborne. “The dock business is thriving, I take it.”

“The what?” said Jimmy. He looked back and forth between his wife and Osborne. “The duck what?”

“The
dock business
,” said Catherine loudly, as if the man were hard of hearing. “I told Doctor Osborne we build custom docks.”

“Oh,” Jimmy grunted as he backed his way into the van, shoveling his butt onto the driver’s seat. Catherine walked Osborne to the back of the van, where she slammed the doors shut.

“Really nice running into you, Doc. Hey, are you still practicing? I just broke a crown.”

“Oh no, I’m retired. Very nice seeing you, Catherine.”

Back in the safety of his own car, Osborne sat quietly for a moment. He watched the van back out and drive off. Catherine was something else, always had been. Building docks? With that animal? Something smelled less than fresh: the thought of those two in a legitimate business.