Victoria Houston - Loon Lake 14 - Dead Lil' Hustler (20 page)

“Doc, you and Ray were there that night. You know we surprised the hell out of Miguel and the whole crew. They were so panicked by the wolf howls, everyone except Miguel forgot their phones—and we grabbed Miguel’s right away. Alan checked that phone and no calls or texts had been made within an hour of the arrests.”

“Consider the reverse,” said Jake. “What if
not
hearing from Miguel was a signal?”

“Good point,” said Lew, “especially since Alan arrested Bud early Monday on the golf course and we had Miguel under interrogation all that day, too. I’ll check on that. Monday may have been a day when the connections in Mexico expected deposits to be wired south—so when nothing came through, they became suspicious. They sure acted fast, though. Bud was killed less than twenty-four hours after his arrest.”

“Someone flew in from Chicago is my bet,” said Ray.

“Right now they’re looking to find out who in the Chicago financial institution was responsible for wiring the money to Mexico,” said Lew, “but that’s Alan’s headache. My concern is who killed Bud Jarvison and very likely we’ll end up with a victim murdered by ‘parties unknown.’ Murdered by parties unknown and bamboozled into thinking he was going to be a father. According to Alan that was the one time during the interrogation Monday that Bud brightened up—when he admitted to an affair with Angel.”

“But what was that all about… if the woman is Miguel’s wife?” asked Ray. “How could Bud not know that?”

“Consider the drinking,” said Lew. “Bud was never 100 percent alert when he was at the casino. According to Miguel, he had a habit of being three sheets to the wind by the time Miguel and Angel arrived. She would entice him to a room at the casino hotel where she would spike his drink and he’d pass out. When he came to, she would say they had been intimate. Bud, of course, couldn’t remember and not remembering was nothing new to him. Plus Angel and Miguel managed to produce some incriminating photos taken while Bud was passed out.”

“So Angel was Miguel’s insurance… in case Bud ever balked at making the deposits?” asked Ray.

“If Bud hadn’t lost his fortune, I think he could have weathered the paternity issue but he was so close to bankruptcy he was desperate. He could not afford the kind of financial settlement he had made in the past with women, which is why he was reluctant to have Nancy learn about Angel’s pregnancy. That would involve paternity and paternity means money.”

“And as we know,” said Osborne, “Nancy is all about the money. Always has been.”

Two nights later, after deciding the sunset was too fine to miss, Osborne and Lew rushed down the stone stairs to his dock. They made it in time—the sky was magnificent with billows of orange and a pale peach shot with streaks of fire. The warm air was a caress on the skin, the lake still.

As they settled into the cushions on the chaise lounges that Osborne kept on the dock in hopes of nights like this Lew said, “I had an interesting phone call today. I didn’t want to bring it up in the middle of dinner with Erin’s family and ruin our celebration of your grandson’s return to the living.”

“‘Return to the living’ puts it mildly,” said Osborne. “I don’t remember the kid ever having that much energy.” He smiled at the memory of Cody jumping up and down while pumping both arms when Osborne had announced they would be fishing with Ray that Saturday.

Aware that sound would carry easily over the water, Lew kept her voice low as she said, “An insurance executive called me today with a question about Bud Jarvison’s death. Seems there was a $20 million life insurance policy on Bud and his widow would like it to be paid in one lump sum.”

“A recent policy?” Osborne looked at Lew. “That would be interesting.”

“No. It was taken out years ago when Bud was in his early thirties. His father was still alive and the premiums have been paid annually out of the family trust. Nothing suspicious.”

“That means the policy would have been taken out before their son was killed—when the family still had all their wealth. So what was his question?”

“Was I sure that Bud’s death wasn’t a suicide.”

“Your answer?”

“You can shoot yourself in the head once with a .357 Smith & Wesson but not four times.”

“Was he convinced?”

“I believe so. He’s a hunter himself so he knew what I was saying.”

The sound of someone knocking on a door followed by footsteps along the side of the house caused Osborne to sit up to look in the direction of the noise. At the same time, the dog ran toward the stairs, barking loudly.

“Dr. Osborne,” called a woman’s voice. “It’s me, Cynthia Baron.”

“Cynthia? Is something wrong?” Peering up, Osborne could barely make out the woman’s figure standing in the shadows. He hurried up the stairs.

“I’m so sorry, I know it’s late,” she said as Osborne came around the corner of the house. He pulled open the screen door. “It’s okay. Come in, please. Have a seat at the kitchen table. Something to drink? Water? A soda?”

Walking ahead of him, Cynthia pulled out a kitchen chair, sat down, and cupped her right hand over her eyes as if pushing back tears.

“Cynthia, is someone hurt? One of your children?”

“No, no, no,” she said as she shook her head. She looked up with sad eyes and said, “I am so worried, Dr. Osborne. I have made a terrible mistake.” Cynthia grasped both hands tight in her lap, her shoulders shaking.

“Try to calm down and tell me about it.”

“You must think it’s strange that I’m coming to you for advice but you know me and my family and you’ve helped me before. Last week, when I was working at the Jarvisons’, I heard you say that you help the police, that you’re a deputy.”

“Dental forensics, Cynthia. I help them identify victims through dental records. That’s all. No more than that. I am not a police officer.”

“Can I help?” asked Lew. She had entered the house so quietly that Osborne hadn’t heard her approaching.

Cynthia paled. She threw a look of anguish at Osborne. Glancing crazily from one to the other, Cynthia blurted, “I’m guilty of withholding information. I couldn’t help it. I needed the money. I had to.” She was sobbing before she could finish.

“Doc, would you please run a little cold water on that paper towel by the sink and hand it to me?” asked Lew in a calm voice.

Osborne did as he was told. Lew took the cold compress and held it against Cynthia’s forehead and eyes.

“Kleenex, please.” After a couple deep breaths, Cynthia blew her nose. “Okay, let’s start from the beginning,” said Lew.

“Um, in the middle of the night last Monday, I was asleep in the boathouse at the Jarvisons’ when I heard these explosions. Couldn’t be sure if I heard gunshots or fireworks. I just lay still for a few minutes. When I didn’t hear any more, I peeked through the curtains. I could see Mrs. Jarvison up on the deck outside the kitchen. It was dark but when the moon lit up the yard for a moment, I thought I saw a gun in her hand. She was holding something, I know.”

“But let’s be specific. You’re saying you
thought
you saw Nancy Jarvison holding a gun?” asked Lew.

“I wasn’t sure. She was standing still and then I heard the kitchen phone ringing so I assumed she might have called the cops about the fireworks—she did that a lot.”

“Did you go up to the house?”

Cynthia sighed. “No. When nothing more happened, I told myself maybe all I heard were fireworks and maybe she wasn’t holding a gun. I, um, went back to bed. The next day after they found Mr. Jarvison and the police had gone Mrs. Jarvison started acting really weird. That night she made me help her take his bedroom and study apart. She dumped all his clothes in my car and told me to give everything away.

“Then she took garbage bags and threw everything that was his in the trash—pictures, belts, and cufflinks, all his wood carvings and duck decoys that he kept in his den—everything except his guns. Those she had me take to that auction house in Rhinelander and sell them for whatever they would pay. She didn’t care how much either. She told me she wanted everything of Mr. Jarvison’s gone or destroyed.”

“All his fishing gear?” asked Osborne. “Like reels and lures and—”

“Everything. I saved this little wooden box though. The one you asked me about. She had thrown that into the garbage bags with everything else.”

Cynthia pulled the wooden box from a pocket in her jacket and handed it to Osborne. He turned it over: a red seal marked the bottom. Osborne opened it. Liam’s two trout flies were still there.

“This is Liam Barber’s wooden fly box. His father will be so happy to get this, Cynthia. Thank you. Did Bud ever mention where he found it?”

“After you asked about it, when I was dusting in the den, I asked about it. He said he was walking his property line by some land he owned along the Wisconsin River and found it lying on the river bank.”

Lew snorted. “Property line, my eye. He was walking the shoreline of the Pine River with his business partner, Miguel, checking out the pot plantation.”

“Back up, Cynthia,” said Osborne. “Would you say that you aren’t
sure
if you saw a gun in Nancy Jarvison’s hand that night?”

“Yes. It crossed my mind at the time but I didn’t think about it seriously until Mr. Jarvison was found dead. I mean, as dark as it was, she could have been holding a big flashlight or something.”

“Fine,” said Lew. “Let’s leave it at this for the moment. If we find other evidence that indicates she may have had a gun, then we can revisit your impression. Meanwhile, you have given me this information with a legitimate caveat that you may be wrong. Cynthia, there’s an old saying in law enforcement that the worst witness is an eyewitness.” Lew smiled and patted Cynthia’s hand. “Meantime, thank you for being brave enough to come forward.”

“There’s more.” Cynthia’s voice steadied.

“More?”

“Yes. One of my duties at the Jarvisons’ is to iron all the sheets and pillowcases. Mrs. Jarvison is a perfectionist and she likes to have their beds changed every day. After the sheets are ironed, they are folded and kept in drawers in the linen closet on the first floor. Once a week I wash and iron the duvet covers for the down comforters.

“I’m always careful to put the linens away just so—in case she checks to see if I’m doing it right. I did it wrong once and she docked me $50 on my pay that week.

“So the Saturday before Mr. Jarvison was shot, I finished the ironing and put the sheets away as always. But Monday morning when I went to check for a fresh duvet cover for her bed, I saw one bunched at the back of the drawer where the covers are kept. And some pillowcases were there that I usually keep in a different drawer—so I was worried I’d made a mistake. I moved those but the lump was still there so thinking that one of the covers had gotten shoved back there by accident, I pulled the drawer out to check. See, if you didn’t open that drawer as often as I do, you would not notice the slight bump. The bump wasn’t a duvet cover—it was a box.”

Cynthia held her hands out to indicate the box was just over a foot in length. “It’s a box with a gun inside. A handgun of some kind. And it looks expensive.”

“Is it there now?” asked Lew.

“Yes, I checked tonight while she was out with friends. The reason I didn’t tell you earlier is because today was my last day. The Jarvisons owed me $1,500 and she wouldn’t pay me until today. I was afraid if I told you anything and she got arrested that I would never be paid.” Cynthia faltered. “I’m sorry. The money I made there this summer, it’s all I have.”

Lew wasn’t listening—she was on her cell phone calling the dispatch center. “Marlaine? Is Todd Donovan on duty tonight? Good, I thought so. Would you reach him and ask him to stand by. I’m going to need his help with a search warrant in, oh, about an hour or so. Thanks.”

Lew punched more numbers on the phone and reached the county judge. Osborne heard her say she would be stopping by his home with a search warrant to be signed. He must have asked an obvious question because she said, “Can it wait? For a murder weapon? I don’t think that’s wise. Thanks, Judge, I’ll be by within half an hour.”

“You’re going to the Jarvisons’ tonight?” asked Cynthia.

“Oh yes,” said Lew. “We don’t want to give anyone time to move that gun.”

“Let me show you right where to look,” said Cynthia. “Dr. Osborne, do you have a piece of paper?”

It was after midnight when Lew and Osborne drove up the long drive to the Jarvison house. As if auditioning for Christmas, precisely planted and trimmed balsams were spaced along the winding road, which ended in the circle drive fronting the house. The house was dark.

Before getting out of the car, Lew checked the map that Cynthia had drawn. It indicated that the linen closet was located at the back of the house. It could be reached through a narrow hall to the left of the kitchen. The foyer and front hall of the house led straight back to the kitchen.

Lew had asked Osborne to accompany her saying, “You know Nancy Jarvison. Having you there may encourage her to be courteous, which—”

“No need to explain,” said Osborne. “I’ve known the woman for years. I’ll take the bullet—just kidding.”

They both knew he wasn’t kidding. They expected nastiness and using Osborne as a target might make it easier for Lew to conduct the search.

A second squad car pulled up behind them. With the flash of his headlights in her rearview mirror, Lew opened the car door.

“Good. We’ve got backup. I told Todd to watch the back of the house, too, just in case. Let’s go in, Doc.”

Lew rang the front door bell. No response. She rang again… and again. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll try the door but let me alert Todd in case a security system goes off.”

No sooner had she spoken than the heavy front door swung open. A disheveled Nancy Jarvison holding a white cotton robe tight against her chest stood blinking in the glare from the police car headlights.

“What on earth do you want at this hour?” She may have been asleep but the slurring of her words indicated more than a little self-medication.

“I have a search warrant, Mrs. Jarvison,” said Lew, holding out the document as she spoke, “for a specific location in your home. Won’t take me more than five or ten minutes.”