Victoria Houston - Loon Lake 14 - Dead Lil' Hustler

by Victoria Houston

  “Yeah, they can enjoy it all they want… I’ll use that bonus to buy me another sandwich… now that I think about it, I am starving.”

  “We’ll get you home soon. But you can be sure that the powers that be will know that it’s thanks to you that we can all take pride in a good night’s work,” said Lew. “That includes all of us—Sheriff Moore’s people, even Alan Strickland, though he did his best to put the kibosh on it. So a huge ‘thank you’ again, Ray. And, look, we’re a block from the hospital.”

  “You’re as welcome as the flowers, Chief. Problem is… it’s four in the morning right now and I’m supposed to be guiding two guys in about two hours… think I have a good reason to reschedule?”

  “When I drop you off, give me their phone number and I’ll call them for you,” said Lew. “Then you call me on my cell when you’re ready and I’ll give you a ride home.”

  “No, Lew, this has been quite a night for you, too,” said Osborne. “I have a better idea. Let’s drop Ray off and you take me back to the station for my car. Then I’ll come back here and wait for him. If he’s got a corneal abrasion like I had, they’ll want to be sure the eye is clean and give him advice on how to help it heal.”

  “You’re sure?” asked Lew.

  “We’re sure,” said the two men in unison. “Yeah, my eye is already feeling better,” said Ray. “I’ll survive.”

  • • •

  Before climbing out of Lew’s cruiser, Osborne turned toward her and instead of his usual quick kiss on her lips, he said, “You know, Lew, there’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. I know it’s late but I’ll feel better if I mention it.”

  “This doesn’t sound good, Doc. Something wrong?”

  Osborne paused before he spoke, a bad feeling in his gut. But he forced himself to say, “Well… much as I care for you, Lew, we aren’t married… so if you find yourself attracted to someone else, I’ll understand.” He held his breath as he waited for the bad news.

  “What?” A stunned expression crossed Lew’s face. “Where is this coming from?”

  “Lewellyn, Jake Barber is a fine man, he’s successful, he loves to fish, he’s much closer to your age, he’s—”

  “Whoa, Dr. Osborne. Stop right there. Yes, Jake is a wonderful person but so are you.” She grinned at him. “You are ever so much more so. You, sweetheart, are my best friend…”

  “I am?” In spite of the early morning hour, the enthusiasm in her voice made Osborne feel wide awake, sixteen, and awkward all over again—and he loved it.

  “Now listen, Doc, I have paperwork to finish before I can sleep so I have to kick you out of my car, but will you promise me this is not an issue between us? Promise?” And she leaned forward to give him the kind of kiss he planned to think about until the sun came up.

  Osborne drove back to the hospital where Ray was just coming out of an examining room. “You were right, Doc. They said I’ve scratched the cornea… but it’ll heal pretty fast. They gave me some drops to use… and sleep will help, too.”

  “Lew called one of your guiding clients a few minutes ago. Afraid she woke him up but he understood. He said they’ll stay over an extra day to fish with you. He was pretty impressed when she told him why you’ve been up all night.”

  “Great. Say, Doc… do me one more favor? Ask Erin to call me and tell me exactly when she’s to pick Cody up to come home… exactly when. I need to know.”

  Osborne gave him a puzzled look. “Sure. I know she feels bad that they can’t take home that hat you gave him. She can barely get him to take it off at bedtime.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Osborne was sound asleep when his cell phone rang at nine the next morning.

  “Hello, Dr. Osborne, this is Cynthia and I apologize for taking so long to get back to you. I was away this weekend but I got your message about that little wooden box. Is this a bad time to talk? You sound like I woke you up.”

  “No, no, this is fine, Cynthia.” Osborne checked the time on his alarm clock and was surprised to see how late it was. “I appreciate your call. Did you find the little box that I mentioned?”

  “I believe so. It’s on the mantel in Mr. Jarvison’s study and I turned it over like you asked. There is a mark in red ink on the bottom. Is that what you were wondering about?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “The Jarvisons are out this morning if you want to stop by and I’ll show it to you. Mrs. Jarvison won’t be back until ten and Mr. Jarvison is golfing.”

  Osborne thought that over. “No, thank you, Cynthia, I don’t want to get you in trouble. If you don’t mind keeping an eye on that box though, I’ll talk to Bud about it one of these days.”

  After saying goodbye, Osborne leaned back against his pillow thinking, So Bud Jarvison has the wooden fly box that belonged to Liam Barber. That’s curious.

  • • •

  It was late morning when Nancy Jarvison got home from her workout with her personal trainer. The fitness center was in Rhinelander but she didn’t mind the drive. She had to leave before Bud was up and the early morning sessions gave her an opportunity to avoid him, which she appreciated more and more these days.

  When he hadn’t returned from golfing by four that afternoon, she started to wonder. Was he still at the country club bar or hanging out with that woman the nurse’s aides had mentioned? Bud’s drinking had grown so out of control in the last couple years that she couldn’t count how many times he had blacked out and had to be driven home by one of the creeps he had taken to hanging out with—some of those guys could barely speak English. Class was not Bud’s long suit these days.

  At 6:30—with the pork roast and parsley red potatoes that Cynthia had prepared still warm on the dining room table—there was still no Bud.

  All right. This could be it, thought Nancy, grimacing as she tapped her empty wineglass on the table. Tomorrow I see a divorce lawyer. For what that’s worth. The money, most of it anyway, is gone.

  She had only herself to blame—she should have divorced him years ago. At the very least, she should have paid attention to what he was doing with their money, especially after her father’s will had stipulated that her inheritance be rolled into the Jarvison trust.

  Thank you, Dad, for trusting my intelligence, thought Nancy as she refilled her glass with chardonnay. She was at least as smart, if not smarter, than Bud. She would never have invested $6 million in a high-tech start-up that went bust after two years—all because it was the brainchild of the son of one of Bud’s stupid college buddies. The lawsuits on that venture alone cost another couple million.

  And then he goes and puts $30 million in the hands of his fraternity brother, the investment broker running one of the biggest Ponzi schemes in the Midwest. Granted, a lot Bud’s friends lost money on that one, too. And she wasn’t the only wife ignorant of what the not-so-smart boys were doing.

  So if she did divorce Bud, what was left? As of a week ago, the banker managing the family trust said they had 150 grand in stocks and bonds. All the real estate was mortgaged. So what’s left is a measly 150 grand? That does not make for gracious living. Nancy sloshed the wine in her glass. They would go through that in six months.

  But… there is one other asset: life insurance. On Bud.

  The one smart thing she did right after their son was born, and back when the Jarvisons were the wealthiest family in northern Wisconsin, was take out a $20 million life insurance policy on Bud. The trust manager assured her those premiums had been paid faithfully over the years so that was one piece of good news.

  All she needed now was for Bud to drop dead. I wish, thought Nancy. In spite of his heavy drinking and bad diet, Bud was remarkably healthy. Given his genetic history, he would likely live well into his eighties.

  A clatter of fireworks in the distance caught her attention: damn picnickers down at the public beach. For some reason, tourists in the Northwoods felt compelled to celebrate the Fourth through the entire month of July. She ha
d complained numerous times with no results. The word “tourist” spelled money and no one, not even the local police, were eager to ruin a tourist’s holiday.

  But the sound of bursting fireworks gave her an idea.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  It was 7:30 when Bud finally got home, his heavy figure slouching into the family room where Nancy sat curled up on the sofa watching television and reading magazines. His shoulders drooped. Circles of sweat had dried around the armpits of his golf shirt. And the man who prided himself on shaving twice a day looked grungy in his five o’clock shadow. He was not drunk.

  “Sorry to be so late,” he said, dropping his body with a thud onto the ottoman in front of his easy chair.

  “Oh, I’m sure you have a good excuse,” said Nancy, chewing gum while flipping the pages of the Town & Country magazine she held in her hands.

  Bud lifted his head and gave her a long look, the expression in his eyes so dark she felt a frisson of fear. It was a look she hadn’t seen since the day he had to tell her their son was dead.

  “It has not been a good day.” He dropped his gaze, studying the floor as he talked. “I was on the seventh hole at the club when a couple Federal agents walked up. They arrested me.”

  Nancy looked up from her magazine, startled. “I’m sorry. Did you say arrested?”

  “Jeff was in my foursome,” he said, referring to their family lawyer and his good friend from college days. “He got me out on bail. They’re picking me up in the morning and taking me to Federal Court in Green Bay.”

  Nancy was quiet. She swung her legs off the sofa and sat up straight. She spat out her gum, tore off a corner of the magazine cover, and wrapped her gum in it. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s blackmail. I made one mistake, just one little mistake.” Bud looked at his wife, shaking his finger.

  “What do you mean ‘blackmail’?” asked Nancy. “The police are—”

  “Not the police—it’s the FBI and the DEA. They’re accusing me of money laundering and drug trafficking.”

  A long silence hung in the room.

  “Bud, does this have anything to do with that drug bust I heard about on the Channel 12 news tonight?”

  “I was just trying to help some migrant workers start a business.” He looked down at the floor again.

  “You? Start a business? What—a pot-farming business?” Nancy’s voice grew shrill.

  “I didn’t know,” he threw up a hand. “You know I’m no gardener.”

  “And I’m no idiot. Did you know what you were doing when you impregnated that girl?”

  “How do you know about that?” Bud’s head snapped up. “She’s a sweet kid. Miguel’s sister and—”

  “No details, please. Talk to Jeff and arrange the usual settlement.”

  “Wish I could. Too late.”

  “Bud, just tell me how you got roped into this?”

  “It started with the girl, Angel. I got together with her a couple times at the Thunder Bay Bar. Next thing I knew her brother—that’s Miguel—heard I owned banks and told me he would tell you about the pregnancy if I didn’t help him out. I felt so bad after I lost all that money, I couldn’t stand the thought of him telling you that, too. So I agreed to deposit cash for him that he could wire down to his people in Mexico. That’s all I did—I just deposited the money. I thought it would be just the one time but he kept insisting.”

  Nancy stared at Bud. Something didn’t fit. He’d been guilty of indiscretions before and been chagrined when she found out—but then he would breeze on to the next one. Truth was people always fixed things for Bud, whether it was a lawyer, a friend—even herself. For one simple reason: it had always been worth it. Now that she thought about it, over the past few months Bud had been spending as if he still had millions. He had rented a huge yacht on Lake Superior for two weeks that cost $20,000, and he had treated five buddies to a week of walleye fishing in Canada at one of the fancy lodges up there—another big chunk of change.

  “Tell me, what exactly did you get out of this arrangement besides keeping your little secret?”

  “Twenty percent. That’s how come I didn’t have to drain the trust to pay our taxes and I bought you that diamond tennis bracelet. I mean, Nancy, I’m down to our last hundred grand. We’re broke. I had to do something.”

  “I see. So what happens next? You go to prison?”

  “It’s all about what happened earlier today. Miguel is cooperating with the Feds. He’s hoping to get asylum or in the witness protection program so he’s telling them everything. And, yeah, I guess I’m going to prison.”

  “For money laundering.”

  “And drug trafficking and murder.”

  “Murder?”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Jarvison?” Cynthia poked her head through the door from the kitchen. “Do you need anything more before I—”

  “Oh, for chrissake!” Nancy threw up her hands in exasperation. “How stupid are you? Don’t you know when people are having a private conversation? No—I don’t need a goddamn thing. Now leave us alone.”

  “Sorry,” said Cynthia, ducking as she pulled the door closed.

  “A couple people were killed when they got too close to where Miguel’s people were growing things and were shot. I’m considered an accomplice. Like I said, it’s been a bad day.” Bud heaved a sigh.

  “So you go to prison, I pay your legal bills, and what else?”

  “I have to pay a fine. But it is tax deductible.”

  “Well, isn’t that a glimmer of good news,” said Nancy, dripping sarcasm. “How big a fine?”

  “Not sure. I’ll know later—maybe tomorrow.”

  “Bud, give me a hint. When this is all over will we have anything left?”

  He didn’t answer and he didn’t look up. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take a shower, then go down to have one last drink in the boat—or maybe six. Might be the last night I get to enjoy it.”

  “Have six, Bud,” said Nancy, relaxing back on the sofa. “You deserve it. You have had a very bad day.” She gave a soft chuckle. “What the hell—at this point all we can do is laugh, right?”

  “I guess so,” said Bud with a rueful chuckle of his own. Before he left the room, he paused to kiss her on the forehead.

  Watching him leave, Nancy realized that was the first time in years that they had laughed together. Years.

  She waited until she heard the shower running, then she ran outside, across the lawn, and down the stairs to the dock. Moving fast, she checked the boat storage areas to be sure Bud hadn’t stashed a gun somewhere. With the exception of three bottles of Jack Daniels and glassware in dire need of a good washing, she found nothing. Satisfied, she ran back up to the house. The last thing she needed was for him to commit suicide.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  It was 1:30 in the morning when she peered through the kitchen window and down across the sloping lawn. The boat was dark. Clouds obscured the moon, turning the lake black. A light breeze in the warm air sent ripples toward shore. Nancy hoped it wouldn’t rain: This was one night when she needed tourists enjoying a boozy late night on the beach. Her .357 Magnum Smith & Wesson was loaded and ready, its walnut box with the velvet lining open on the kitchen table.

  She had owned the gun since she was seventeen and inherited it from her grandfather. When she was a girl of eleven, he had taught her how to shoot a .22 pistol, arguing that she needed to be able to defend herself against the overly attentive, be it men or mother bears. He had felt it important that a woman be able to do two things: ride a horse and shoot a gun. He was pleased when she proved she could do both.

  When he died, she had asked her father for her grandfather’s .357 Smith & Wesson. It was a beautiful gun with a handsome wood grip. And it held six rounds. More than what she might need. Tonight the hard part would be steadying the gun: Her left shoulder was still sore.

  She crept down the stairs and onto the dock, hoping the wooden planks wouldn’t give her away.
She needn’t have worried. The loud snoring from the interior of the boat covered any noise she might make.

  Cautiously, she slipped down the ladder into the boat. Bud was asleep on the padded bench behind the table where he and his buddies played poker. He lay on his back, his head on a canvas pillow, mouth open, snoring loudly. One of her Baccarat cocktail tumblers had fallen onto the carpet under his dangling left hand, leaving a wet stain.

  Aiming at his forehead, Nancy fired once. The years of anger surged as she stood there and she fired again. And again. Once more. Fireworks always went off four or more times. She climbed back out of the boat and started up the stairs toward the deck off the kitchen. Just as she turned to look back at the boat, the moon escaped from the clouds. A curtain in the boathouse apartment moved.

  She had forgotten Cynthia was sleeping there. Nancy shrugged. Probably just the wind. If not, Cynthia could be persuaded she’d heard fireworks. Meantime, the house phone, an eighties-style landline she kept in the kitchen, was ringing.

  “Mrs. Jarvison,” said a voice gravelly with sleep. “Doug Stafford two docks down from you. Did you hear all that noise? Sounded more like gunshots than fireworks and awfully close to your place. Should we call someone?’

  “You know, I think it was some idiot down on the public beach with bottle rockets but I called the cops, Doug. They’re checking it out. And thank you for your concern. I appreciate it.”

  Setting the cordless phone back on its stand, she considered her next move. No doubt she would have been wise to throw the gun out into the lake—that’s what criminals always did on TV. On the other hand, the lake was so shallow near their dock that the gun could be found easily. Found is putting it mildly, thought Nancy. Their lake was so crystal clear that you can stand on the dock and see everything on the bottom a good twenty feet out and then some. No, she would be better off getting rid of it somewhere else. And then only if she really had to: after all, it had belonged to her grandfather, the only man who had never betrayed her. A rush of sadness caught her off guard. Thank goodness her grandfather was dead. He would have been so disappointed to know who she had become.