Dead Firefly

by Victoria Houston

  Bruce whistled. “That’s what I was gonna call you about, Chief. I heard about that place when my wife and I were visiting friends in Land O’ Lakes last weekend.”

  “Well, you’re about to find out a whole lot more about it,” said Lew drily. “How soon can you get here?”

  “Within the hour, maybe a few minutes longer. I can use the copter and bring a photographer and my medical examiner along. But, Chief Ferris, you’ve got to nail down the victim’s office as a crime scene, too. We’ll need his computers and phones and—”

  “Got it going already, Bruce. We’re securing this location where Doc found the body as you and I speak—and I’ve got help from the sheriff’s department securing the victim’s home and office. Once we’ve got that done, I’ll get Dani, my IT guru, going on the computers and phones. You remember how good she is. Sound okay?”

  “And Ray Pradt, too. Is he around to photograph the body and site before I get there? Do you have a murder weapon?”

  “Ray is on his way. But, Bruce, Doc and I haven’t a clue as to a murder weapon. Doc is guessing blunt force trauma but that’s just a guess. So, no—no obvious murder weapon.”

  “Could be somewhere on the property up there. You say the victim is in a barn away from his home?”

  “Right. On his property but not in the family home.”

  “Hey, Chief, I don’t have to tell you that none of my people are as good in the woods as ol’ crazy Ray. Can we put him to work searching around the place? I know this is a busy time for his guiding business. . . .”

  * * *

  Crazy Ray. That’s what Bruce Peters had taken to calling the young fishing guide from the day they’d met two years earlier. Ray had shown up to help track a suspect across a swamp filled with bogs and “loon poop,” which is what locals call the quicksand-like pits of swamp muck that can suffocate unsuspecting hunters and hikers who stumble into them. While Ray could boast of tracking skills rarely found in the northwoods, he hardly looked like a serious woodsman.

  A long, lean six foot six, Ray had a unique approach to human movement: his body folding and unfolding in sections with knees appearing to enter a room seconds before his shoulders. The effect was such that Osborne swore his neighbor was genetically related to an accordion.

  It didn’t help that he capped off his lanky, limber physique with a beat-up fishing hat crowned with a large stuffed trout whose head and tail extended out over his ears. As Bruce liked to say: “What the heck do you call a man who wears a fish on his head?” “Crazy Ray” worked.

  * * *

  “I’ll talk to Ray about searching the area,” said Lew. “He’ll be arriving here to shoot in and around the barn any minute. And he had time this morning to help me out on another case, so he might be available. Should I call St. Mary’s Hospital and have their paramedics ready to remove the body once your medical examiner has completed his exam?”

  “No, I’ll send ours. We have to bring the victim down here for the autopsy anyway. Anything else you need right now?”

  “Just your beautiful face, Bruce.”

  “And my fly rod?”

  Lew chuckled. “And your fly rod.”

  * * *

  It wasn’t until after that flurry of phone calls that she realized she and Osborne better make their way to the Pelletier home before someone surprised Chuck’s wife with a roadblock at the end of her driveway. She hurried into the barn to get Osborne.

  He was sitting alongside Chuck when she entered. As he got to his feet, his coroner’s report in hand, they heard an unexpected noise: the call of a loon.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The slow, haunting loon call was coming from across the room under the coffee table. “That has to be Chuck’s phone. It must have flown out of his pocket as he fell,” said Lew as she and Osborne scrambled in different directions for fresh pairs of nitrile gloves. Osborne got his on first but by then the phone was silent.

  Lew reached for the phone and, clicking it on, saw a series of “missed” calls with the most recent being from someone named Molly. “Molly? Who’s Molly?” she asked Osborne.

  “One of his daughters. He’s got two.”

  Lew put the phone on speaker, hit CALL BACK, and waited.

  “Dad?” asked a woman’s voice, sounding petulant. “Where have you been? I tried you three times this morning.”

  “Molly—” Before Lew could say more, she was interrupted.

  “Who is this? Is something wrong? Is my dad there?”

  “Molly, this is Chief Lewellyn Ferris with the Loon Lake Police. Yes, something is very wrong.”

  “What? Is my dad okay?”

  Lew took a deep breath, threw a quick glance at Osborne, and said, “I’m afraid your father is . . . he has passed away. I’m here with Dr. Paul Osborne, who found him. We’re not sure of the circumstances, but we’ll know soon enough.” She paused for a moment. “Where are you calling from?”

  “Evanston. I live here and I was just getting packed to come up for a visit with my dad . . . he was . . . he was fine when we talked yesterday. What on earth? How did he die?”

  Her voice had gone flat, as people’s voices do when confronted with unexpected, devastating news.

  “We don’t know yet—”

  “A car accident? Where are you? Where is my dad right now?”

  “We’re in the barn at the back of your father’s property—”

  “You mean that room where he hides all his fly-fishing stuff? He loves being in there. Maybe he had a heart attack?”

  Osborne motioned for Lew to hand him the phone.

  “Molly? This is Paul Osborne, a good friend of your father’s up here.”

  “Yes, he’s told me about you. I know you were close. Were you with him when—” She couldn’t finish.

  “No. But I saw him earlier this morning and we’ll talk when you get up here. But you need to know that we just found your father and we haven’t had a chance to let your stepmother know what has happened. So please wait until we do.

  “After Chief Ferris gives her the news, one of us will call you right back. And, Molly, I am so sorry but this just happened. . . .”

  “Sure, sure, I understand, but I have to tell Jessie—my sister. So . . . um . . . when can I tell her?” A sharp breath as she held back a sob. Osborne could hear the young woman swallowing hard.

  “As soon as we call you back. Shouldn’t be long.”

  “Okay, but I’m going to throw some things in my bag and fly up there right now.”

  “Of course,” said Lew, taking the phone back. “I’ll arrange rooms at the Loon Lake Motel for you and your family—”

  “If you mean Patti, don’t call that woman ‘my family,’ ” said Molly. As she spit out the two words, Osborne caught Lew’s eye: they got that message loud and clear.

  “Fine. I’ll arrange to have separate rooms, in that case, for each of you.”

  “And my sister. She and I can stay together, but, Chief Ferris, why can’t we just stay at my dad’s place? Jessie and I have bedrooms there. . . .”

  “I’m afraid the house will be off-limits until the crime lab forensics team has completed—”

  “What? My father was murdered? Oh, my God—”

  “Look, Molly,” said Lew, “we’ll talk more when I call you back. In just a few minutes. Stay by your phone. Okay?”

  Molly gave a strangled “okay” before Lew ended the call.

  * * *

  A minute later, she walked out to her cruiser where she reached into the trunk for a paper evidence bag. She was slipping the phone into the bag when Ray Pradt’s battered blue fishing truck came rumbling up the two-lane road to the barn, the brass walleye mounted on the hood glinting in the sun.

  Lew gave a nod to Osborne. “All right, Doc,” she said, her voice grim, “with Ray here to stay with the body—time to see Mrs. Pelletier. Let me give him instructions and we can go.”

  Five minutes later, as Osborne was opening the door on the passenge
r side of Lew’s cruiser, Lew saw the expression on his face and said, “Maybe I should handle this alone, Doc. This has to be hard for you.”

  “No,” he said firmly, “I want to see how Patti reacts. After everything Chuck told me, I am curious to see. . . .”

  Lew was silent as they drove to the house. Though she had offered to notify the widow by herself, she was relieved to have Osborne along. Given his close friendship with the woman’s husband, especially his knowledge of Chuck’s grief over the loss of his first wife and their shared battle with alcoholism, he was likely to pick up on nuances in Patti Pelletier’s behavior that she might miss.

  * * *

  “Mrs. Pelletier?” Lew asked the slight, thin woman who appeared behind the screen door.

  “Yeah,” said the woman, “why?”

  She made no move to open the door. Through the screen door Lew could see she was wearing tight-fitting flowered shorts and a pink top with a scoop neck edged in frills that exposed an overtanned breastbone. The shirt was stretched tight over not-so-subtle hints of full breasts. Lew could tell the woman thought she looked sexy—but it was “scrawny with fake boobs” that popped into Lew’s mind.

  “Mrs. Pelletier, I’m Chief Lewellyn Ferris with the Loon Lake Police Department. Dr. Paul Osborne is here with me—I believe you know him—and we need to talk to you. May we come in?”

  “What? No, sorry, of course. Come in.” Patti stepped back as Lew opened the screen door. She stared at Osborne, black-lined eyes questioning with no hint of coyness this time.

  Standing in the foyer, Lew delivered the news gently, saying only that Osborne had found her husband dead in the barn. She added that since he did not appear to have died a natural death (“though we cannot be positive about that until after the autopsy”), the house and the barn would have to be immediately vacated until the Wausau Crime Lab’s forensic team could conduct a search of the premises.

  “What do you mean he didn’t die a natural death? What exactly does that mean?”

  “Only that how he died is not obvious. Until we know if there was an accident or some other cause, there has to be an investigation and an autopsy. That’s why we need you to leave your house immediately.”

  Patti looked stunned. As if refusing to believe what Lew had just told her, she shook her head several times before asking, “You mean me? I have to leave my house? Now?”

  Osborne couldn’t tell what upset her more: the news of Chuck’s death or that she had to get out of the house.

  “I’ll watch while you pack an overnight bag,” said Lew. “Then I’ll arrange for you and Chuck’s daughters to stay in town.”

  “Wait, may I sit down for a minute?” Patti reached a trembling hand for a nearby straight-backed chair. “I just . . . I need to think about this.”

  “Certainly.” Lew motioned to Osborne and said, “Dr. Osborne will stay with you while I step outside to make two phone calls. Take your time, Mrs. Pelletier. We know this is a shock.

  “Just so you know, the first call I’m making is to Molly Pelletier, your stepdaughter. She happened to call on your husband’s phone shortly after we found him. That’s how she knows about his death. And now that we’ve informed you, I need to let her know that she can notify her sister.

  “Do you want to talk to her when I’m finished?”

  Patti shook her head no.

  * * *

  After Lew left the foyer and was standing out on the walkway leading up to the front door, Patti looked up at Osborne and said in a small voice, “What am I going to do, Paul? I have no money.”

  “That doesn’t make sense, Patti,” said Osborne. “Chuck has been making a very good living—”

  “But we haven’t finished making our wills. I don’t have anything of my own. This wasn’t supposed to happen. . . .” She paused. Osborne said nothing. He wondered if she had stopped short of saying “yet.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bruce Peters arrived at the barn within an hour, along with a photographer from the crime lab. They were accompanied by the medical examiner, a tall, cheerful woman in her early thirties, who introduced herself right away to Lew and Osborne. “Hi, I’m Eloise Sanderson,” she said, “but you can call me Ellie.” She stuck her hand out.

  Before they could say a word in return, she said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll get right down to work, as I have our van arriving pretty darn soon to take the body down to Wausau for the autopsy.”

  With that she knelt down to open the red Craftsman toolbox she had carried into the barn. Peering over her shoulder, Osborne was impressed with the contents, which were quite different from the dental instruments he carried in his black bag.

  Ellie saw him studying the assortment of knives, scalpels, forceps, and scissors. She chuckled. “I see your surprise, Dr. Osborne,” she said, “but I’m trained to work on ‘decomps’—victims who are in much further stages of decomposition than our friend here. You know, like the hunter who has a heart attack in the woods and can’t be found for days because he left his phone in his truck? That’s my specialty.” She gave Osborne a wide smile.

  “Ah, Ellie, just so you know, this man was a friend of mine,” said Osborne, trying to sound matter-of-fact as she started to work on Chuck’s body. “A very dear friend.” With some difficulty, he resisted the urge to ask her to be gentle.

  “Then perhaps you should leave the room,” said Ellie, her voice kind. She sat back on her heels and waited for him to answer.

  “Yes, I think I should,” said Osborne. “But will you let me know right away once you know what caused his death?”

  Ellie looked over at Lew, who nodded that that would be okay. “Dr. Osborne is deputized to help me with this investigation,” she said. “I have only two officers and an IT person part-time. Dr. Osborne is our acting coroner and he will assist in other areas of the investigation, including interrogations. He understands the chain of custody better than Loon Lake’s appointed coroner.”

  “But if he knew the victim?” Ellie asked.

  “Eloise, everyone in Loon Lake knows everyone,” said Lew.

  * * *

  Within an hour of the arrival of Bruce Peters and his crew, Lew’s officers, along with two sheriff’s deputies, had been able to secure the house, the barn, and Chuck’s office with only one wrinkle.

  “I’ve been stopped by Mr. Pelletier’s secretary and told I can’t enter his office even though I have a warrant to do so,” said Officer Adamczak by phone to Lew. “She wants me to call the CEO for permission.”

  “You know that’s not necessary,” said Lew, stepping outside the barn to stand near Osborne who was waiting by his car, “but put her on the phone. I’ll explain the situation.”

  “Hello, Chief Ferris, this is Marion Hunter, Mr. Pelletier’s secretary. . . .”

  Chuck’s secretary was very quiet once Lew informed her of his death and the legality of the warrant to establish the office as a crime scene. She went on to say that Dani Wright, an IT specialist also with the Loon Lake Police, would arrive shortly to pack up any computers used by Chuck Pelletier for transport back to the station for further investigation.

  “Are you copied on his e-mails?” Lew asked the woman.

  “No, only what he forwards to me. Do you want my computer?”

  “We may, eventually, but not at the moment.”

  “Shouldn’t you talk to Mr. Maxwell, too?” she asked after a long moment. “He’s our boss. . . .”

  “Is he next of kin to Mr. Pelletier?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then he can hear the news when I’m ready to share it with the public. By the way, where is Gordon Maxwell? Is he nearby? Officer Adamczak said you are the only person in the office at the moment.”

  “Mr. Maxwell is in Las Vegas. Flew out there on his private plane late this morning.”

  “What time exactly?”

  “I’m not sure. He just said he was leaving to meet in Las Vegas with two investors from Chicago and he would be back
sometime tomorrow. Chief Ferris, thank you for discussing this with me. I feel much better letting Officer Adamczak take care of things here. Please let me know what else I can do to help.”

  She hesitated before managing to say through soft gulps, “Mr. Pelletier . . . he was a special, kind person. I am . . .” She broke into tears.

  Lew finished the call and clicked off her phone with a heavy sigh. “Oh, Roger, Roger, Roger,” she said, “how is it you’ve been on the force for seven years and you still don’t know the protocol for securing a crime scene?” She threw Osborne a despairing look.

  * * *

  Lew knew as she ended the call with the secretary that she better check back later to make sure Officer Adamczak had followed through correctly. She had learned the hard way that the former life insurance agent was not real swift when it came to details.

  Roger Adamczak had started out as an insurance agent only to find that he lacked the instincts of a good salesman. So he joined the Loon Lake Police thinking that writing up traffic summonses and handing out parking tickets would make for an easy route to a decent pension.

  What he hadn’t figured on was what life would be like under a no-nonsense chief of police like Lewellyn Ferris, a woman determined to let no drug deal or attempted robbery go unpunished. Investigations in Loon Lake had ramped up 100 percent after she took over—especially during the summer months, when miscreants from the cities thought a small town in northern Wisconsin an easy mark.

  Poor Roger. He could count on one hand the number of days he’d been able to hand out parking tickets.

  * * *

  A few minutes after speaking to the secretary, Lew had another thought and called her back. “Marion, did Mr. Pelletier have any visitors this morning?”

  “No. He arrived a little late but in time for his conference call with New York, I mean with the executives with the hedge fund who own NFR and the Partridge Lodge development. That call lasted over two hours. I know he was busy in his office and made one other brief call before leaving the office. Otherwise, I’m sure he left the building then because I saw him head to the garage, where he keeps his car.”