Dead Water (7 page)

As if she knew what he was thinking, Lew caught Osborne’s eye. “I don’t want Pecore in on this. I’ll do a point-and-shoot myself and leave the rest to Wausau.”

Bert and Helen had just started to trudge down the road, guests in tow, when a black Range Rover came bouncing across the field.

“Who the hell—? He’s driving right through my raspberries!” Bert put his hands on his hips, his face reddening with anger. “Is this one of your people, Chief Ferris? Please tell them to stay on the lane.”

Lew looked as surprised as anyone. The big, boxy car continued toward them. Finally, Lew could make out the driver. “What on earth is Hank Kendrickson doing out here?” she said. “I hope Lucy didn’t tell him—”

“Hey, there.” A cheery voice came at them from the car window. Behind the driver, their big heads hanging out the open window, were two yellow Labs. As the big car neared the group, the dogs went crazy, barking and bouncing around in the backseat.

“Keep those dogs in the car!” shouted Lew.

The door opened, and the occupant jumped out. “I spotted Roger in town and followed him this direction. I thought I might find you here, Chief.”

Watching Kendrickson advance on Lew, Osborne remembered Ray’s take on the jerk: “a Hemingway wannabe.” Right on, Ray. Not only did the man sport a squared-off blond gray beard replete with a slightly flattened pink nose, but he was perfectly outfitted in crisp khaki pants, a matching fly-fishing shirt, and a spanking-new fishing hat whose brim sported a cluster of colorful trout flies. Osborne knew without asking that the razzbonya would say he had tied them himself.

Hank continued toward them, his gait an insouciant swagger that Osborne found irritating as hell. He recognized the look on the guy’s face, too. It was exactly the type of seductive grin he had alerted his daughters to when they were in their teens, lovely and vulnerable. “Guys like that are dangerous,” was all he had been able to say, too embarrassed to let them know exactly what worried him most. But even as he could at least warn his daughters, he didn’t dare say a word to Lew. He had to hope she knew.

“Oh my goodness!” Hank came to a skidding halt, smile vanishing at the sight of the curled and bloody human form. He yanked his hat off and clutched it to his chest as if to pay his respects to the deceased.

In spite of his big head, he was modest in height and stocky, with a peculiar posture that made him look like he was perpetually leaning into the wind. The bearded face was topped with a stiff frizz of grayish blond hair. At the moment, hair standing on end and eyebrows arched in shock, he looked like he was plugged into an electric socket. At least, that’s what Osborne hoped Lew would think.

Osborne guessed him to be in his late forties. What he didn’t have to guess at was the obvious: Hank Kendrickson had the money to look like he had just stepped out of the pages of
Fly Fisherman
magazine, the kind of money that buys a man time to fish Montana, Canada, the Yukon, New Zealand, probably even Russia. Worst of all, Osborne suspected he was infinitely better at fly-fishing than Osborne could ever hope to be. How could Lew not be seduced by a guy like Hank Kendrickson?

“Who is it? What happened?” Hank started to walk forward, but Lew moved quickly to block him.

“Hank.” Her voice was crisp, blunt. “What are you doing here? I told Lucy to get back to you—”

“Oh, she did, she did. But as I was leaving your office, I heard her send Roger after you.” Hank tried to peer around Lew, but she stepped into his line of vision. “I guess I shouldn’t have followed Roger, but I thought maybe it was just routine stuff, y’know.”

Osborne wondered just what Hank thought was so routine in law enforcement that Lew encouraged drop-ins.

“I need you to leave, Hank.” Lew advanced in such a way that Hank had to back up.

“I-I, well, Lew, I just have to show you something. Hey …” He raised his hands at the hostile expression on her face. “C’mon, Lew.” He dropped his voice seductively as a charming smile crossed his face. Hank gave a nod toward his car and started to walk to it. “You can take a minute, can’t you? I’ve got it right here in the car.” He hurried back to the Range Rover, where the door on the driver’s side stood open, reached for something on the seat, grabbed it, and ran back toward them.

“I really do not have time for this, Hank.”

Osborne had never heard Lew sound so terse. He moved closer, as if his presence could serve as a buffer.

“Voilà!” Hank waved a piece of paper at her. Osborne looked over Lew’s shoulder as she accepted the photo, scanned it, nodded, listened for a polite moment to Hank’s excited bragging, and then, her left hand on his shoulder, walked him back to his car and shoveled him into his vehicle. He kept talking and gesturing until she could slam his door shut.

Arms on her hips, Lew blocked the drive as she waited for the Range Rover’s engine to purr back into life and for Hank to put it in reverse. Only when the car was moving did she back away.

“What was that all about?” said Roger, emerging from his vehicle as Lew headed back toward the body, a set look on her face.

“Mr. Important caught a trophy trout this morning,” said Lew. “A big brown … twenty-six inches, seven pounds. He says. He’s on his way to the taxidermist with his photo. And it is so special that he had to track me down at a crime scene.”

The irritation in her voice made it clear that Big Bucks Hank had just made a big mistake. With luck, it was one from which he might never recover. Osborne relished the moment. Maybe he should feel ashamed at his delight over Hank’s faux pas, but he didn’t.

“Oh, it gets better,” said Lew. “Told me he caught it about ten o’clock last night, fishing the Deerskin … south of the dam.”

“Really?” said Osborne. “Did he have a witness?”

“Oh yeah, he got some kid who works for him to sign off on the catch. Sign off or lose his job, probably.” Lew was quiet for a few seconds as the two of them walked back toward the victim. Then she muttered, “I hate fishermen who lie. Especially fly-fishermen. Comes with the sport, I guess, but I don’t like it.”

Osborne felt positively gleeful. That should cement her feelings for Hank Kendrickson now and forever. Of course, the guy had caught a hell of a fish, and Osborne could understand why he would want to show it off. Osborne would do the same but within limits. What he wasn’t sure about was how Lew knew Hank was lying, but he sure wasn’t going to demonstrate his own ignorance and ask.

“Can’t agree with you more,” he said. “At least he released it.” That was the good news about new techniques in taxidermy. A close-up photo made it possible for the taxidermist to replicate a fish using a basic model. The actual fish was not necessary in order to document your trophy catch. In fact, the new process was not only less messy, but it reinforced efforts at conservation. Even so, it was, as a man like Hank would know, a more expensive technique.

“But to push your way in where I’m working, when it’s obvious I’m busy?” Lew shook her head. “Men like Kendrickson never take women seriously. No matter what. And that’s what I really don’t like.”

Osborne bit his lip. He took her seriously, way too seriously. A condition from which he was beginning to think he might never recover.

“Lucy reached the van driver just south of Gleason,” said Roger. “He’s turning back.”

nine

“The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but obtainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope.”

John Buchan

Down
at the house half an hour later, Helen escorted Osborne and Lew to the dead woman’s room. She unlocked the door. “I haven’t been in here since she left last night.”

It was a spacious room with a double bed tucked into the far left corner. A casement window with ruffled white curtains tied back stood open to the immediate right. A white chenille spread on the neatly made bed matched the color of the curtains. Under the window was a small, round oak table covered with a checkered tablecloth and two chairs next to it. A straw purse was sitting on the table. Along the wall beside the bed was an old oak dresser, and to the right of that was a luggage stand holding an open suitcase.

“Here’s the bathroom….” Helen opened a door to their left. Small but pristine with white ceramic tile and crisp white towels hanging on the log walls, the bathroom looked unused. Cosmetics and a hair dryer were neatly set out on the counter around the sink. “And the closet.” She opened a door next to the bathroom. A black jacket hung in the closet. It looked like silk to Osborne. “Ashley arrived Sunday and was planning to leave tomorrow.”

“Do you mind if we take a few minutes to look around?” Lew implied she would like Helen to leave.

“Not at all. When you’re ready, I’ve got the file with the name of a person to contact in case of emergency,” said Helen. “Did you want to make that call?”

“Yes,” said Lew, looking around. “Is there a phone in here?”

“None of our rooms have phones. You may use my office.”

“Thank you. I’ll want to see your phone bill for the last few days, too.”

Ashley Olson lived in Kansas City and, according to her business card, appeared to own a marketing firm, Olson & Associates. Her driver’s license, checkbook, and wallet were in the straw bag on the table. A second check of the bathroom produced a pair of black pants and a sleeveless black blouse hanging behind the door as if the victim had planned for any wrinkles to steam out while she showered after her run.

“Silk. Expensive,” said Lew, examining the woman’s clothes. “She was planning to look good for someone.”

A small bottle of cologne stood among the cosmetics. “That someone likely to be a man?” offered Osborne.

“You never know,” said Lew. “If I’ve learned anything in the last ten years, it’s never to presume everyone is heterosexual, Doc.”

Osborne noted out loud that the victim had brought along an electric toothbrush, base and all, and she had two packets of floss in her cosmetic kit.

“What does that tell you, Doc?”

“She’s health conscious, a woman of habit. Why else would you haul around the base for your electric toothbrush?”

The rest of her luggage included an extra-long T-shirt with matching leggings, a pair of khaki shorts, and two more T-shirts. An interior section of the soft-sided suitcase held three pairs of good-quality cotton panties and a small velvet case. Lew opened the case. In it gleamed a pair of gold earrings, oblong hoops, and a wide gold wedding band.

“Now that’s interesting.” Lew’s dark eyes caught Osborne’s. “Why wasn’t she wearing her wedding ring? She must have brought it for a reason. She’s obviously a woman of some wealth and must own more jewelry. But all she brings is one pair of earrings and this wedding band….” The room was quiet as the two of them pondered the ring.

“Doc, who do you know has a wife living in Kansas City?”

“Or an ex-wife?”

“Or a fiancée?”

“I doubt that,” said Osborne, “you don’t get married in black. Certainly not in pants.”

“Oh yeah? Rick Streater and his wife got married in their turkey camouflage—”

Helen knocked at the door. “I’ve got a name and number for you when you’re ready.”

As they walked down the stairs, Lew checked her watch. “Oh, golly, it’s after three, and I need to see the Herres. I should have been there an hour ago. This is not good, Doc. That family is in agony.”

“Lew.” Osborne put his hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t I make this call? At the very least, I’ll get enough information for you to follow up on later. That way you can get to Sandy’s folks right away.”

“Thank you.” Lew looked relieved. She paused at the front entry to the lodge. “Tell you what, Doc, if you’ve got the time later, I’ll have Bernie’s Bakery drop off a bag of sandwiches at my office. We can grab some sodas and compare notes while casting a few over in the Tomorrow River flats. Unless you’ve got plans?”

“Heck no, that works fine.” Osborne was surprised and pleased. The last thing he had expected that morning was to end the day fishing with Lew.

As he sat down to pick up the telephone in Helen’s well-organized office, Osborne couldn’t help thinking as he did more often these days: Lewellyn Ferris made him feel like a teenager again. Who would ever expect that a man who’d seen sixty could feel sixteen?

But the happy thought was followed by an equally familiar regret: Why did this have to happen so late in life? Why did she have to be so much younger than he? Hank’s age, probably. Osborne resolved, as he always did, to keep his secret.

ten

“The fish are either in the shallows, or the deep water, or someplace in between.”

Anonymous

“Metro
desk, Palmer.” The female voice was tight, curt.

“Hello? This is Dr. Paul Osborne from Loon Lake, Wisconsin—”

“Loon
who?
Gimme a break. I’m not in the mood for crank calls.” The strident, East Coast accent hit Osborne’s ear like a hammer.

A loud click. Osborne held the phone away in amazement. He punched in the number again.

“Yes!” The same voice barked.

“I’m calling to report the death of someone you know.” Osborne spoke through clenched teeth, his voice low, measured, and insistent.

This time there was a slight pause. “O-o-kay … tell me about it. No, no, wait a minute. Is it someone who lives on this planet?” Her skepticism was a draft of cold air he could feel through the telephone. Did she get calls like this all the time?

“I’m assisting the Loon Lake Chief of Police—”

Again a long pause. The woman on the other end of the line was obviously convinced he was some kind of nut.

“So where the hell is Loon Lake?”

“Northern Wisconsin.”

“You’ve got the wrong newspaper, bud. This is the
Kansas City Star.
Call a Wisconsin newspaper, would ya?”