Dead Hot Mama (18 page)

Lew rolled her eyes, then cast a dim eye towards the backseat. “Ray …”

“Mister … David … Theurian … has offered to help yours truly … develop a business plan … to market my Hot Mama. We’ve scheduled a meeting for next week. He wants to see specs and more samples.”

“Seriously, Ray?” asked Mallory. “He came through? I can’t believe it.”

Ray’s smile filled Osborne’s rearview mirror. “Y’- know,” be said, “I gotta tell ya, the guy is something else. He’s not all business, that’s for sure. Would you believe that man takes time out of his busy day … whenever he’s needed … to do grief counseling for their church? And he’s not just going by the book either. Nope—he’s looking for new ideas.

“For example, he’s very interested in how things are done at St. Mary’s. He wants all the details on how we handle burials, our policy on storage and delayed interment—”

“What does that have to do with grief counseling?” asked Lew. “Or
you
for that matter? You dig graves and thaw frozen ground—”

“But I
observe
, Chief. I know how people behave when they’re grieving, I know all the different reactions they can have. Keep in mind, the funeral is one thing, interment is quite another. Serious emotions are at play. As Dave pointed out, I’m a professional bystander …”

“A
what
?” asked Osborne and Lew simultaneously, locking eyes. Ray did have a knack for the conversation stopper.

“You want my advice, Ray,” said Osborne. “Use your head. You better think twice before you get into a business deal with an individual who may be on the verge of a nasty divorce. That’s asking for trouble.”

“I hear you, Chief, but he struck me as a man who has great respect for the individual.”

“Respect for hot blonds and big bucks is more like it,” said Mallory. “Dad’s right. When he finds out about his wife’s affair, who knows what’ll happen? Doesn’t matter if she’s at fault, she still gets half his net worth—and that could be his half of
your
net worth, Mr. Pradt.”

“Ah-h-h, wisdom from the mouth of a babe,” said Ray.

A loud boo echoed through the car.

“Okay, okay,” said Ray, raising his hands. “Just so you know, Dave Theurian is the one talking about putting up money, not me. All I do is provide the design, the field tests, and be willing to have my name on the product. And it’s hardly a done deal—we’ve had exactly one conversation on the subject.”

“Ray,” said Lew, “even a fish wouldn’t get caught if he kept his mouth shut.”

“What does that mean?”

“She means you should be careful,” said Mallory. “Good ideas get stolen every day. Fact of life in the business world. Personally, based on what I’ve learned studying for my MBA, I don’t like the idea that your Hot Mama is hanging on the end of a fishing pole in that guy’s ice house. No patent, no registration of any kind. You’ve handed over your design. Ray—what does he need
you
for?”

“Me! It’s my image that’ll help sell—”

“Ray, sweetheart,” said Mallory, patting him on the shoulder. “Not to hurt your feelings but it takes more than a good-looking guy with a stuffed fish on his head to break into a tough consumer market. I mean, just for starters you need demographics, focus groups, marketing, sales reps, etcetera, etcetera.

“Launching a new product is very, very difficult. Whether you’re selling a Hot Mama or … or
cement
, for God’s sake, you’ve got to know what you’re doing. Or people will take advantage of you.”

Ray looked so wounded and worried, Osborne felt sorry for him.

“So … maybe I should get my lure back?” said Ray.

“I sure would if I were you,” said Mallory. “And I’d ask that girlfriend of yours to do a Google search on the guy. Find out more about him.”

“She’s
not
my girlfriend.”

“Yeah, right.”

As the backseat voices settled into a low squabble, Osborne looked over at Lew. “That was nice, what you said to Lauren … about her father—”

“I lied,” said Lew, turning her face away. “Kid needs hope.”

“Lewellyn, why don’t you let your truck warm up and come inside for a few minutes,” said Osborne after he pulled into the garage. Mallory was already heading for the house. “I have your gift under the Christmas tree.”

“Gosh, I’d love to, Doc, but this has been one heck of a long day.”

“Just for a few minutes?”

“Tomorrow morning.” Lew laid a hand on his arm. “Please? With everything hitting right now, what I need most is a good night’s sleep. Besides, it’ll be more fun in the morning when we’re both rested. So bring the gift with you to my place—and I’ll see you at eleven?”

If her kiss followed through on its promise, the morning might not be bad. Not bad at all.

Osborne’s
car bounced down the rocky lane to Lew’s farmhouse. Ice freezing, melting, and freezing again made it a challenge to navigate smoothly. Add to that the treacherous winter sun, so low in the sky that the glare off his windshield made it next to impossible to see.

Osborne raised a hand to deflect the rays. Demolishing one of Lew’s treasured Blackhull spruces was all he would need to complete the morning. A morning on which the first mistake he had made was to get up.

Joining Mallory under the tree to open gifts, he had saved the present from Lew for last. Stripping off the ribbons and paper and lifting the lid, what he found inside was not what he had expected.

Mallory caught the look on his face. “What is it, Dad?” He held out the box. “Oh, cool, you’ve never done that, have you? Don’t look so worried, it can’t be that difficult.” She smiled and turned back to her own pile of presents.

Osborne sat there, staring down at a very expensive and very unwanted Renzetti “True Rotary” Vise. Nestled alongside the vise was a selection of tools whose harsh names belied their delicate appearance: a Matarelli Whip Finisher, a Griffin Hackle Pliers.

What on earth made Lew think he’d want to tie trout flies? Soft, fluffy, feathery, slippery, garish, squishy, dead- animal-decorated trout flies. Didn’t she know he loved hard stuff: gleaming surfaces, pointed edges, gold, silver, porcelain. Wire, not thread; teeth, not feathers. His fingers were made to sculpt and polish, not snip and tie. Fishing with someone else’s creation was one thing; fussing with your own quite another.

Looking at the gift, he felt like he had when Mary Lee forced him to accompany her to performances of the Loon Lake Orchestra—three hours in an overheated auditorium on a day ideal for fishing. Right now he felt that same boxed-in dread. Oh dear, how was he going to manage this?

Brunch at Erin’s was okay, though she undercooked the scrambled eggs. Things did not improve with the gift exchange: His daughters must have coordinated their purchases with Lew.

From Mallory, he got a two-hour video on tying trout flies, two rooster necks (one brown, one black), three bucktail pieces (red, white, and yellow) and one Hungarian partridge breast. Erin’s box held a packet of blood maribou, two wild turkey wings, beaver fur, and the flank of some poor wood duck. Also, gaudy strips of something called “crystal flash” and a hunk of “chenille.” All that was missing were directions from Ray on how to shave a dead squirrel.

Osborne knew his daughters needed to feel they had given him something special, so he smiled and smiled. Even when Cody ran over his foot with the left training wheel on his new bike, he smiled. Finally it was safe to leave.

Hurrying home, he pulled on his insulated ice-fishing pants and parka. They would have to double as snowmobile gear. Fortunately, he had saved the helmet from the one winter, a decade ago, when he had tried to get interested in the motorized sleds.

As a sport, he had never liked snowmobiling. His friends who did were men who loved speed. Not Osborne. He was too cautious, always struggling to keep up. The sled he rode didn’t handle curves well, and he found the trails too icy—the hard bumps jarring to his spine. And the noise cut out what he loved most about being in woods.

The sight of Lew’s little red farmhouse outlined against the perfect blue sky lifted his spirits. He’d find a way around his disappointment. After all, hadn’t she promised they would spend some time together before meeting up with Ray? Osborne checked his watch: he was early … maybe … and if that went as well as he anticipated—hell, he could learn to tie a million trout flies. He knew, of course, that she would
adore
what he had for her.

But Lew answered her door dressed and eager to leave, the expression in her dark eyes all business. “I called Ray and told him to meet us earlier than planned—he and Gina should be at the trailhead shortly. Do you mind driving, Doc?”

As she turned to shut and lock the door behind her, he slipped the tiny wrapped gift back inside the upper vest pocket of his parka. She was right—later would be better.

“Don’t we look like aliens?” said Gina, swinging her arms and walking stiff-legged towards Lew and Osborne as they got out of the car. Osborne laughed. He always forgot what snowmobilers look like to civilians. With their bulbous helmets, padded snowsuits, and fat, insulated mitts and boots—they do look extraterrestrial.

“Wait until you see where we’re going,” he said. “It’s like a lunar landscape out there. We’ll fit right in.”

“Chief,” said Ray, looking up from where he was kneeling to adjust something on his sled, “maybe we should stop by Thunder Bay first?” Using the wrench in his hand, he pointed across the highway. The trailhead was just down the road from the strip club. “They open in half an hour. No customers yet, if we walk over now.”

Lew looked down the road, then back at the two snowmobiles that Roger had dropped off for her and Osborne. “Good idea. We’ll take the keys and leave the sleds here.”

That suited Osborne fine, he always worried whom he might meet at Thunder Bay. It would sound so feeble to try to explain he was there on official business.

Only one car was parked outside the club, and they had to knock as the door was still locked.

“Come back at noon,” said a woman’s voice.

They knocked again, and someone looked through the door’s curtained window. Then came the sound of the door unlocking.

“Oh, Chief Ferris, sorry. I didn’t know it was you. Come in.”

The woman backed away, opening the door for them to enter. Laura was in her late forties. She was wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a western belt cinched tight at her waist to emphasize her generous bust. Under a head of too-red hair, she had a friendly face.

Osborne knew from his McDonald’s pals that her husband had been killed in an industrial accident at the Rhinelander paper mill, leaving Laura with five kids to raise on workman’s comp.

“Is this about that Tomahawk rider? I hope you found him—he’s a good guy.”

“Not yet, unfortunately. This is a separate matter,” said Lew, pulling off her helmet and gloves. “Only take a few minutes.”

“Oka-a-y … but I told Ray everything I know about Eileen when he stopped by before.” She walked back behind the bar as she talked, reaching down into a sink of soapy water. “Do you mind if I keep working behind the bar here while we talk? I’m behind already, and this place will be crazy later. What can I do for you?”

“Have you ever seen one of these?” Lew set the skimmer on the bar.

“Sure—that’s a card cleaner,” said Laura, rinsing two large, glass beer pitchers at a time. “The fella from Hurley who’s been picking up receipts since Eileen …” she paused, “well, in place of Eileen. He uses one of those.”

“Oh yeah?” said Lew, her manner nonchalant. “So you don’t have one here right now?”

“He comes down on Wednesdays. I guess they do it then because there’s so many people here on karaoke night. He sets it right by the cash register there, and we run every card through. Why?”

“So, you figure he’ll be down this Wednesday?”

“Can’t imagine why he wouldn’t,” said Laura. She stopped and rested both hands on the sink. “I miss Eileen, she was much more pleasant than that jerk.”

“What’s this fella look like?” asked Lew.

“Big guy, chunky. Always wears these funny sunglasses. Dark in here, and he’s still got those damn things on.” Laura shook her head. “Spiky hair—must spend a fortune on mousse. Makes us call him ‘Boss.’ That’s a crock, but we don’t argue.”

“What’s his real name?”

“Who knows? It ain’t ‘Boss,’ that’s for sure—but no one who works here regular calls him anything else. If you want to know, I’d check the Hurley club. He’s a bouncer up there. When he’s down here, we put up with him, figuring no percentage in being on his bad side. He’d report you and wham—no job.”

She waved a soapy hand in the air. “I’ve seen it happen. The only person who ever gave him grief was Eileen … oh.” She paused. “Oh, don’t say I said anything, will you?”

“What kind of grief?” said Lew.

“Nothing specific, she just gave orders is all.” Laura put both hands on the edges of the sink and leaned towards the bar. “That’s really all I ever heard.”

Ray, who had taken a place on a bar stool with Gina alongside, gave a low whistle. “Whoa, look at those fingernails. Show Chief your hands, Laura. Now where the heckaroonie did you get that amazing artwork done?”

Laura looked sad as she thrust her hands out so everyone could see. “Eileen did these for me, the day she disappeared. I was supposed to pay her, but…”

Osborne stared at the woman’s hands: dark blue background, tiny silver Christmas trees edged with glitter. Holiday nails.

Osborne
struggled to see through his helmet as their snowmobiles moved down the trail. Though the sun had moved higher, every time the trail turned south, the glare off the snow made it impossible to see.

Finally, right hand on the throttle, he used his left to shove the plastic face guard up. He’d rather freeze his cheekbones than blindside another sled at a crossing—or vice versa. Pushing with his mitt, he was able to nudge his neck warmer up over his chin.

They’d left Thunder Bay after learning that Eileen had painted the nails of two other girls, both dancers, working at Thunder Bay—but not her own. She’d told Laura that she had trained a friend in Hurley to help her finish hers, as she could do one hand but not both.

“You don’t want to tell Laura about the skimmer? What if she uses it again?” asked Ray as they walked out of Thunder Bay.

“Sounds to me like it’s only used down here on Wednesdays,” said Lew. “I want to collar that bouncer before he gets word we’re onto him. I called in a bulletin this morning alerting all the law enforcement in the region to the potential for credit card fraud. Marlene is checking with the Feds to see who notifies the credit card companies.

“Terry is on duty at three today. I left a message with Marlene for him to get the names of all the employees at the Hurley club—try to avoid alerting our man until we can do some more checks.”

“Are you going in later, Chief?” asked Gina.

“I hope not,” said Lew, smiling at Osborne. “I have a Christmas turkey in the oven.”

“Do you mind if I work in your office for awhile this evening?” asked Gina. “I promised Ray I’d do a computer search on his new business partner before they meet tomorrow.”

“You two are meeting
tomorrow
?” said Osborne, turning to Ray. “I thought it was later in the week.”

“Theurian called just before we left this morning and said he would be driving Lauren down for her date with Nick. He wants to get a sandwich and talk it over.”

“But I agree with Mallory,” said Gina. “Ray needs to know more about the guy before he lets him near his Hot Mama. I made him call back and tell Lauren to bring her lure down with her. On the pretense of going fishing—but just to be on the safe side.”

“You and Mallory—you’re such cynics,” said Ray. shaking his head.

They were thirty minutes down the trail, which had taken them to the edge of Little Horsehead Lake, when Ray pulled off to the right and stopped. The lake was surrounded by state land, which meant the shoreline was free of cabins and year-homes.

Not the same for the ice: It looked like a town in miniature. Fishing huts of all shapes and shades dotted the expanse, some in clusters, some off alone. Their confetti colors against the white surface turned the hard water into a giant Monopoly board.

Leaving Gina on the back, Ray walked back to Lew and Osborne, pulling off his mitts and helmet. “Be very, very careful as we cross,” he said. “Do not go off the trail—this lake is riddled with deadheads and boulders. One reason the state has claimed all the land around here is they want to keep boats out—too hazardous.”

Pushing up the face plate on her helmet, Lew said, “Can you see where we’re supposed to leave the trail and make a hard right?”

“Yep,” Ray had the map that had been downloaded from the victim’s Blackberry in his hand. “Looks like we cross the lake, then off to the right a quarter mile, and keep an eye out for a large boulder to our left.”

“Then what?”

“Assuming there’s a trail, we follow it.”

No trail, but a snaking expanse of white about six feet wide. Again Ray stopped. He walked back to the sleds holding Lew and Osborne, new snow squeaking under his boots as if it were confectioners’ sugar. Though three or four inches had fallen over the last forty-eight hours, stiff winds had crimped it into drifts, exposing a crusty surface.

“Up this streambed from the looks of it. And other sleds have been down here, but it’s been awhile.”

“Are we on a trail?” asked Lew.

“Hard to tell—nothing’s very well marked out here. It wasn’t easy finding the marker by the lake. But I do know one thing,” said Ray. “We’re heading back towards Clyde’s.”

“How far from his place?” asked Lew.

“Third of a mile, I’d say, maybe less. He’s off the lake just far enough to save on property taxes.”

“Might be wiser if we were to go in from the other side,” said Osborne. “Stop by Clyde’s place and let him know it’s us coming his way.”

“Tell you what,” said Ray. “Let’s go down a short distance to where the map indicates a cabin—then decide.”

“I like that idea,” said Lew.

Again, they moved forward on their sleds. Even though the sun was already tipping into the west, patches of snow glittered as they glided in and out of the shadows cast by the white pine, spruce, and balsam crowding the stream.

Osborne had lowered his visor now that they weren’t traveling directly into the sun. More than one branch slapped hard against his helmet, even as he ducked.

The ride was smooth across the ice, partly because they were off-trail and partly because the police department sleds were new and easy to maneuver. And quiet. Osborne was struck by how less invasive these snowmobiles felt.

He had forgotten that the snowmobile, for all its sins, had one virtue: It took you back into territory where few humans ventured. Not even hunters and fishermen got back here. Fishermen were limited by water, hunters by land, hikers by existing trails. But the sleds could go anywhere: bounce across swampy hillocks, speed down shallow waterways, and shoot across the smothered mounds of underbrush that normally kept humans out.

As they emerged from the streambed onto a broad white plain, Ray slowed his sled. When he stopped, they all stopped. Osborne got off his sled, removed his helmet, and looked around.

The pond was guarded by elegant cedars, tall dowager queens, whose branches sloped earthward, draped with needles dense as velvet. One point of land thrust its way past the ancient cedars to set the stage for a cluster of rogue balsam. Young, stalwart, and swathed with garlands of snow, the balsams swayed in the wind like ballerinas en pointe. And all was silent: a cathedral of peace.

Ray pointed to a dark hole in the ice near the shoreline. Above it a chrysalis of ice hung from the underbrush overhang. Something had been splashing up and out from under the ice. Beaver, perhaps.

“No cabin,” he said after doing a 360-degree turn. “But this is where the map ends.”

“Doc, this is the spring pond I was talking about last night,” said Lew. “I recognize it by that point of land with the row of balsam. Year to year, I’m never sure I’ll find it again. But this is it, all right.”

“Can’t you just wade upstream from the lake?” asked Osborne.

“No way,” said Ray. “I’ve seined minnows in here, and I can tell you that creek has deep holes and spots where the loon poop is five, six feet deep. You don’t even hike in here without a compass.” Osborne could see why. Between logging and beaver damage the terrain would be in constant flux: woods one day, swamp the next.

“That’s why it’s got such big brookies,” said Lew with a wide grin. “Nobody knows about it.”

Ray plunged through the snow toward an opening along the shoreline, his boots breaking through a good foot or more. Once on shore, under the trees, it wasn’t so bad. He disappeared for a few minutes then waved them forward.

“Easier by sled,” said Lew, hitting the ignition button. Gina climbed into Ray’s seat and followed with Osborne taking up the rear.

“Someone’s been here recently,” said Ray. He was right. Now that they were in shadow, it was easy to see ruts under the new snow that led back into the forest. “Looks like a logging road from way back, because this is pretty good second growth,” he looked around. “No one’s done any selective cutting in a while, so no loggers have been using this. Maybe some hunters—season’s not over until Saturday.”

“What do you think, Chief? Shall we keep going?” he asked.

“Excuse me, everyone,” said Gina. “I feel the call of nature. Don’t leave without me.” She marched off down the logging lane.

Osborne had walked back onto the pond, curious to see what was causing a series of irregular patterns in the drifts near shore. “Looks like someone’s been fishing here, Ray. Ouch!” He staggered over a sharp-edged boulder hidden under a drift.

“Wow, be glad you didn’t hit that with your sled, Doc,” said Lew. “I’ve had people kill themselves on rocks like that going less than thirty miles an hour. Flip you right over.”

“You think someone’s been fishing?” asked Ray, walking over to the spot Osborne pointed out. “Looks to me like they got a sled frozen into the ice.” Ray looked back towards shore. “Sure—because those tracks look more like a small truck.”

“We’ll have to ask Clyde if this is where those two sleds got stuck. You know, the ones where the woman read him the riot act.”

“Hey! Hey!” Gina came running down the logging road. “Hurry up! Someone’s back here.” Helmet swinging from one arm, jacket flapping, Gina clutched the front of her snow pants. She hadn’t waited to zip.

Gina was wrong. The snowmobile suit that had been flung across the sled so that it appeared to be a body slumped over was empty, although the helmet resting on the hood added to the eerie effect.

“I was looking around and saw the black tarp,” said Gina. “When I pulled it back, man, I thought that was a dead body.”

They were staring at three snowmobiles someone had stowed under the heavy tarp. “Same type of sleds that those two victims were riding,” said Lew. “I want to check the model numbers.” She had her cell phone out and was trying to reach Marlene on the switchboard. Three times she tried then shut it down in frustration. “No service, dammit.”

“Battery’s too cold,” said Ray.

“Can’t be,” said Lew. “I keep it inside my jacket.”

“Your friend Clyde’s got a phone, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” said Ray. “We’re pretty close to his place. Want to head over?”

“Can we keep him from shooting at us?” asked Osborne.

“Ah, he was fooling around,” said Ray. “He’d never hurt anybody. Don’t worry about it.”

“Ray, what do you think of all these tire marks?” asked Lew, waving him over to where she was standing. She had walked about twenty feet down to a clearing. “When we get to Clyde’s, tell me if these look like the tracks from the tires on his truck, will you?”

“Just eyeballing it, you’ve got more than one vehicle backing in here,” said Ray. “That’s a wide wheel base—you might be better off looking for a van or one of those longer sled trailers. Clyde’s got a pickup the size of mine. These tracks are from a bigger vehicle for sure.”

Walking back and forth, the icy ruts crunching under his boots, he stooped to brush snow away in several spots, then said, “Been coming and going over a period of time, too. I’d bet someone was here as recently as Friday.”

Since Ray was so sure that Clyde wouldn’t be patrolling with his shotgun, Osborne made sure that his neighbor led the way. They followed the logging road up to where it connected to yet another lane, which circled around several small, unpopulated lakes. Ray rode with enough authority that Osborne was sure he knew where he was going. Finally, they hit a plowed road.

A few minutes later, at the head of an unmarked drive, Ray pulled his sled over. He set his helmet on his seat and reached into a small compartment on the back of his sled. He pulled out his hat with the fur earflaps and the stuffed trout.

“Probably a good idea I let Clyde see me coming,” he said, looking into the rearview mirror on his sled to adjust the hat to just the right angle. “His place is about fifty feet past that curve there. Gina, you stay here with Doc and Chief Ferris. I’ll be right back.”

“Ladies, be prepared for living quarters like you don’t see in the magazines,” said Osborne, crossing his arms and leaning back against his sled as Ray ambled off.

“So long as he has a phone,” said Lew. “That’s my only concern.”

“By the way, Doc,” said Gina as they chatted while waiting, “you had asked me to check on those snowmobile accidents. Very few occur off trail. Very few. Maybe one a year. Does that help?”

“Why did you want to know that, Doc?” asked Lew.

Before he could answer, Ray came around the corner. This was not the man who had strolled off moments earlier. This was a man much older, a man who put each foot down in a deliberate, defeated way. He didn’t even see the branch that knocked his hat off. Nor did he stop to pick his hat up. He just kept coming until they could see the flat sadness in his face.

“Ray …?” Before the word left his mouth, Osborne knew the answer to his question.