It’s late January and Loon Lake is hosting an International Ice Fishing Festival. Police Chief Lewellyn Ferris and her limited team are busy with the usual headaches and then some, and Doc Osborne is busy studying fly-casting videos in an effort to impress Lew come spring.
But a panicked call from Rob Beltner leads to a sad discovery: his wife, Kathy, is dead of a gunshot wound. Lew barely begins to investigate the shooting before she’s sidetracked by the imposing figure of Patience Schumacher, president of Wheedon Techincal College. Patience is certain she’s being stalked, and as Lew investigates, the uncanny coincidences accumulate like snow on the frozen, deadly surface of Loon Lake …
Victoria Houston fishes and writes in northern Wisconsin. Along with her critically acclaimed Loon Lake mystery series, she has written several non-fiction titles. Visit www.victoriahouston.com for more information.
DEAD DECEIVER
Dead Deceiver
victoria houston
Published by
TYRUS BOOKS
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
4700 East Galbraith Road
Cincinnati, Ohio 45236
www.tyrusbooks.com
Copyright © 2011 by Victoria Houston
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction.
Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-3106-4
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3106-4
This work has been previously published in print format under the following ISBNs:
978-1-9355-6226-9 (hardcover)
978-1-9355-6261-0 (paperback)
For Lesley
It’s a shallow life that doesn’t give a person a few scars.
-Garrison Keillor
CHAPTER 1
Bracing herself on the open tailgate of her Jeep Liberty, Kathy Beltner jammed first one foot, then the other into the leather toeholds of her aluminum snowshoes. She bent to tighten the straps, then shook both feet to be sure the damn things would hold. God, how she hated it when—just as she hit a good stride—one would slip off. But these cost enough that they better stay on.
As she reached for her mitts, she glanced up at the sky. It was already after three, later than she liked, and overcast with plump puffs of snow lazing their way through the crisp air. Key ring in hand, she hit the button to lock the car, then tucked the keys into her fanny pack, adjusted the straps on her mitts and headed into the woods.
Hurrying along, she found the fresh snow light and easy going. The pale scrim of snowflakes that masked the trail was a wonder of silence with only a random swish of her snowshoes to be heard. She smiled to herself. An hour from now she would be in the hot tub, glass of red wine in hand, while Rob cooked dinner. Having a husband who loved to cook and two kids in college miles away was not a bad deal. Except for one miserable stepmother, life was good.
The very thought of Marian prompted Kathy to pick up her stride. No wonder she was out here today: she needed to work off the stress. And snowshoeing five miles at a brisk pace might just do it. On the other hand, Kathy cautioned herself, don’t let dealing with that self-absorbed emotional midget get in the way of enjoying these lovely woods.
But it was tough to keep her mind off the situation. Marian was complaining again that the estate left by Kathy’s late father was so small that Kathy should give her inheritance to Marian. Unbelievable.
Kathy tromped on, shoving snow-laden branches out of her way as if they were Marian herself. The shoving helped a little. She stopped to blow her nose and look around. The sky had grown darker, the snow so heavy now it was hard to see more than ten feet ahead. She had missed the trail, lost in brooding over Marian, and veered onto a deer trail by mistake.
But she was prepared. This wasn’t the first time she’d missed the entrance to the south loop. Of course, the first time it had taken her three hours to find her way back to the parking lot. Since then, she always made sure to bring along a compass. She knew if she headed west, she was pretty sure she could find the west loop on the Merriman Trail System—and once she found that trail, she should be able to connect back to the south loop without losing too much time.
Her only regret was she would miss the lake—she loved the trail along the lake, with its wooden bridge and the point where she liked to pause and say a prayer in memory of her dad.
Checking the compass, she turned towards the west. The snow was so dense she was relieved she had not forgotten to wear her headlamp. Between the overcast sky and the snow, it would have been impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. She checked her watch: after four. Unzipping her fanny pack, she decided to call home and let Rob know … oops, darn. She’d left the cell phone in the car. Oh well, onward.
Bushwhacking through a stand of aspen, she glimpsed a bright light ahead. She headed towards it. A light meant a house, a barn, a garage—it meant someone was around. Someone who could tell her where she was exactly. Maybe ask them to give Rob a call and let him know she was running late.
As she neared the patch of light, the trees gave way and she found herself several hundred feet from a small wooden cabin. Two windows faced her, glowing from within. Attached to one corner of the building was a lantern illuminating a depression in the snow that had been a path winding towards the front door.
Somewhat out of proportion to the size of the cabin, which could not be more than eight hundred square feet, was a crow’s nest jutting from the roof with glass windows on all four sides, almost like a deer stand.
That’s innovative, thought Kathy, but I guess if you’re going to build a cabin this far out in the woods, why not have it do double duty?
The light radiating from the lower windows made the little place looked so cozy, she breathed a sigh of relief as she started towards the cabin. She knew it was silly but when it got this dark and she was all by herself, she had a hard time sublimating her worry over wolves. Though no humans had been approached—yet—everyone in Loon Lake was aware that six packs patrolled the forests along the Merriam Trail. To re-phrase it: bear hunters no longer trained their dogs there.
Pausing to check her watch, Kathy had a sudden sense that she was no longer alone. She peered beyond a log pile to her right and caught sight of a tall, dark figure standing, watching her. “Excuse me,” she said in a voice she hoped was loud enough to reach the man in the shadows, “how far is the road from here? Afraid I got off the trail and …”
“You’re on private land.” The low, loud growl was not friendly.
“Well, I’m sorry but—I’m lost. I started out on the Merriam Trail, the south loop, and turned onto a deer trail by mistake. I didn’t realize …
“Who sent you?”
“Who sent me?” She half laughed as she spoke. “No one even knows I’m here.”
As the man came towards her, the only sound was the soft swish of his boots through the snow. She strained to see his face but he wore a hooded sweatshirt under his parka, the hood pulled so far down over his eyes that even with the beam from her headlamp, all she could make out was a chin.
“Turn that thing off—that thing on your hat,” he said, aiming a flashlight into her eyes.
“Sure, sorry about that,” said Kathy, reaching for the On/Off switch. She blinked in the harsh light from his torch, hoping he would return the favor. “If you’ll just point me in the right direction? I’ll get off your property right away. And I am sorry to have bothered you.”
She widened her eyes in apology, her lips
pressed tight in what she hoped was a charming grimace. As she waited for him to answer, disbelief tinged with confusion filled her eyes. He didn’t answer. He raised his right hand. She had a split second to register the .357 magnum revolver: Her dad had owned one of those.
CHAPTER 2
Rob Beltner pulled the roasted chicken from the oven and jiggled one drumstick to be sure it was done. Perfect. He poured himself a second glass of wine and checked the time. Six thirty. Nearly two hours late. Boy oh boy, he hoped Kathy had remembered her headlamp this time.
After folding a sheet of aluminum foil into a tent, he tucked it over and around the chicken to keep it warm. A French baguette, sliced and spread with pats of garlic butter, rested on the counter—ready for warming the moment she walked in. The chopped romaine salad, already tossed and glistening with olive oil, reflected the flames from the candles on the kitchen table.
Rob blew out the candles, picked up the last section of the newspaper and, after re-arranging the kitchen chairs, settled in, feet up, to wait.
At eight o’clock, he called 911.
Lewellyn Ferris had just raised her fork with the first bite of buttery, flaky walleye when her cell phone rang. She checked the number, straightened up as she set her fork down and took the call. Sitting across from her at his dining room table, Paul Osborne watched with anxious eyes, hoping this wasn’t an emergency that might ruin their evening. An evening that up until now had been off to an excellent start.
Fresh-caught walleye dipped in seasoned flour and lightly sautéed in butter was his dinner guest’s favorite dish. Accompanying the golden portions were his own homemade coleslaw and cheesy mashed potatoes: the perfect meal for a cold winter’s night.
Even the day had started well. Osborne’s neighbor, Ray Pradt, had stopped in for his usual late morning cup of coffee only to surprise him with a Ziploc containing what had been a twenty-two inch walleye—filleted and ready for the skillet. “E-x-x-cel-l-l-ent morning for walking on water, Doc,” said Ray, generous with syllables as usual. “Got two for me … one for you … and a couple for the good nuns.” Neither of them commented on the fact that Ray’s catch was double the legal limit.
Lew had added yet another pleasant surprise to Osborne’s day by accepting without hesitation his offer to cook dinner. And dinner at his house meant, under normal circumstances, that she would spend the night. But well aware that the call to her cell phone would have been patched through by the night operator on the Loon Lake Police Department switchboard—and then only because there must be a serious incident of some sort—Osborne held his breath.
“Roger, you cannot ticket someone for a law that doesn’t exist,” said Lew, interrupting the caller in an exasperated tone as she rolled her eyes at Osborne. Her shoulders relaxed as she spoke, her right hand reaching for the fork. Shaking his head as he looked down at his own plate, Osborne repressed a grin. Roger had a knack for driving Lew nuts.
The eldest deputy on the Loon Lake police force, though the newest member and still learning, Roger had decided on law enforcement as a second career, thinking he could coast to retirement writing tickets along Main Street for over-parked tourists. No such luck. Lew kept him on the town streets pursuing over-served ice fishermen, hunters, snowmobilers and other miscreants—an annual motley assortment that needed policing through the winter months.
It was a motley assortment that was swelling in numbers thanks to the pending debut of Loon Lake’s first ever International Ice Fishing Tournament. The tournament promised to bring in ice fishermen from fifteen countries plus vendors of food and equipment—not to mention spectators. Before the week was out, their little town was expected to swell from a population of 3,172 to nearly 10,000, with most of the visitors planning to stay until the end of February, which was a good two weeks away.
Already short-handed due to winter colds and flu bugs, both the police and the sheriff’s department were depending on help from surrounding towns and counties. Meanwhile, since the hordes had begun to descend, Lew and her two officers had been working overtime.
“I don’t care where he scattered the ashes,” said Lew, continuing to sputter into her cell phone, “the fact remains there is no law against that … Right, Roger. Please tell the property owners if they don’t believe you, they can register their complaint with the police department in the morning. I’ll take it up with the City Council. Now I’d like to finish my meal. Okay?”
Lew paused before repeating herself, “… yes, the City Council. It will require a new regulation … I have no idea what they will do, Roger. But I will bring it up with the mayor in the morning. Tell those people exactly that and ask them to please, settle down. Okay?”
“Jeez Louise,” said Lew, banging the cell phone onto the table. “I put in fourteen hours today and all I want to do right now is eat my dinner. Is that too much to ask?”
“What the heck is Roger up to?” asked Osborne.
Lew took two bites and closed her eyes before answering, “Ohmygosh, Doc, this … is … delicious.” She wiped at her lips with a napkin, then said, “Seems that Myrtle Lund, who passed away last week, stated in her will that she wished to be cremated with her ashes scattered over the lake in front of that lovely home she and Dick owned before he died. The manager for St. Mary’s Cemetery tried to make arrangements but the new owners didn’t like the idea.”
“Really,” said Osborne, helping himself to more potatoes. “Wonder why? Doesn’t sound harmful to me. As I recall, Myrtle had Dick’s ashes scattered over the lake but that would have been before she moved into assisted living. Do the new owners realize she simply wanted to be with her late husband?”
“I don’t know the whole story but apparently Ray Pradt assured the manager, Father John, and the Lund family that he would handle it.”
“Uh-oh,” said Osborne. “I imagine that since the cemetery gives Ray plenty of work digging graves when the guiding business is slow, he feels he has to do what he can to help.”
“I understand that,” said Lew. “But late night drive-by scatterings of cremated clients? That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?”
Osborne chuckled as he scooped up a second helping of coleslaw and said, “Look at it from Ray’s perspective. His grave digging business is way down due to the economy—not to mention the weather. Much cheaper to be cremated these days. No doubt he sees a financial opportunity in helping people with their ashes.”
“I’m not going to argue the economics of the funeral business, Doc. Problem is Ray attempted to execute the scattering of poor Myrtle’s ashes after the cemetery manager had been told by the property owners that it was not acceptable.”
“Hmm,” said Osborne, glancing out the kitchen window towards the garage and the floodlight illuminating the driveway. He gestured with his fork, “Look at that snow. I can’t imagine that any ashes wouldn’t have been covered within minutes. How on earth did he manage to get caught?”
“The couple who own the place spotted his headlights, found him parked down by their boathouse and called in on the 911 line. He might be at risk for trespassing,” said Lew, spearing another portion of walleye.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Osborne. “The Lund property abuts the public landing for that lake. In fact, there is a shared driveway. I know because it used to drive old man Lund crazy when people left their boat trailers blocking his way. Lew,” said Osborne, putting down his fork and leaning forward on his elbows, “why do the new owners care so much about a few ashes? How about some basic kindness towards the bereaved family, for heaven’s sake.”
“I’m sure I’ll hear all about it tomorrow,” said Lew with a sigh of resignation. “Ray’s argument, of course, will be that he meant well.”
“He always ‘means well,’” said Osborne, thinking of Ray’s chronic violations of bag limits and fishing private water. The good news was that Ray tended to go over the limit by a half dozen or less—a pretty small number of fish, which ensured that any resulting
fines would be affordable.
On the rare occasions that he got caught, Ray’s excuse was always the same: the unlawful catch was intended for those “caring, hard-working nuns at St. Mary’s who could not afford to attend Friday fish fry,” as if religious intent could cancel the law.
But in the northwoods of Wisconsin, private water is private and bag limits are set in the same stone as the Ten Commandments: Not even the good Lord is allowed to violate those laws.
Lew’s cell phone rang again. She answered saying, “For Crissakes, Roger—” Then she paused, listening, a frown crossing her brow before she said, “Oh, sorry, Sheriff. Yes, this is Chief Ferris. I thought you were one of my officers calling back … what is it? Where?”
Pushing her plate away, Lew got to her feet. “I’m on my way.” Snapping the phone shut, she handed her plate to Osborne and said, “Doc, please, put it in the fridge. We’ll nuke it when I’m back.”
“What’s up?” said Osborne as he helped her slip into her parka.
“Missing skier out on the Merriman Trial. Sheriff is shorthanded just like we are. I’m the only available officer. Doc, I’m sure I’ll be back within an hour or so. One of the forest rangers is meeting me there with a couple snowmobiles. I can’t imagine we won’t find the skier shortly. Very likely she had an equipment failure and is walking out.” She stood on her tiptoes to give him a swift kiss.
Watching Lew’s squad car back around to leave his driveway, Osborne turned to the black lab sniffing around the dining room table, coveting the unfinished plates. “Not so fast, Mike. I’m hoping she’ll be back—or it will be a long, cold night once again.”
Grinning at the sound of his master’s voice, the dog sat back on his haunches, eyes happy and tail thumping on the floor.
“Thanks for the offer, fella,” said Osborne, “but I prefer you stay in your own bed.”
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