DEAD
INSIDER
A Loon Lake Mystery
VICTORIA HOUSTON
F+W Media, Inc.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Also Available in the Loon Lake Mystery Series:
Copyright
For Nicole and John
“Loathing is endless. Hate is a bottomless cup; I pour and pour.”
—MEDEA; MEDEA
Chapter One
Watching from the window on her right, Jane Ericsson stared down as the Challenger jet circled the landing strip. How many times had she flown into Loon Lake since she was a kid? A thousand times, at least. Yet she still could not tell which lake was which.
Big ones, little ones, potholes, peninsulas, and islands she should recognize but couldn’t. Then again, the town of Loon Lake had over 300 lakes within a five-mile radius. So much water. So many trees. So many reasons to call this land “God’s Country.”
And if she won this election? Her father would be so proud. He might forgive her, his only child, for being a girl. Too bad he isn’t alive—
The jet landed with a thud on the airstrip, sloshing her drink onto her lap. She brushed the liquid off her slacks with a distracted air. It was her third bourbon, and the first two had taken effect, so it was no great loss.
“Hey, you guys, take it easy next time, will you?” she said in a voice loud enough to carry to the cockpit. “Dry cleaning is not one of my reimbursable election expenses.”
“Sorry, JT,” said Curt, calling her by her childhood nickname. He had been her late father’s pilot, and had known her since she was a teenager. A surrogate big brother, Curt knew the family secrets and had still been willing to help her out—a demanding flight schedule for a man in his late sixties.
“We got winds gusting to sixty miles per hour,” said Curt. “Should be a lot better flying tomorrow. See you back here at ten-thirty, right? You take care driving home, you hear? The forecast shows another severe thunderstorm moving in from the west—could hit any minute.”
“I’ll be fine. All I need is a good night’s sleep,” said Jane with a sigh as she reached for her purse and briefcase. “We did great this week, guys. What did we manage, eighteen appearances in the last four days?”
She sighed again as she fumbled her way down the narrow stairs to the concrete runway. What had she been thinking when she’d decided to run for the Senate seat her father had once held? Today a senatorial race required three to four times as many appearances as when the old man ran; he’d had it easy, thirty years ago. That was before the age of YouTube and the 24/7 news cycle. This race was costing her millions to reach voters, not to mention every hour of her every day.
As she hurried across the airstrip and through the gate leading to the parking area for the owners of private planes, a sheet of warm rain hit her face. She wrenched open the door to her Jeep and clambered inside just as hail hammered the roof. Whew! They had landed just in time.
She was reaching to throw her briefcase onto the floor in front of the passenger seat when a knock on the driver’s side window caught her attention. Curt, still in his pilot’s gear, gestured at her. She hit the window button, letting the rain blow in. “What now?”
“Just want to be sure that you’re okay to drive. I can drop you off if you want. Brad is happy to follow us if … if you’re as tired as I think you are.”
“And you’re getting drenched standing there. Thanks, Curt, but no, I’m fine,” she said, making sure she didn’t slur any words. “See you boys in the morning.”
With a wave, he ran off. Before putting her key in the ignition, Jane turned around to check the rear compartment of the car. She did not need another unpleasant surprise. It was a month since she had walked into her dark garage and strapped herself into the driver’s seat only to have the sudden sense that someone—or some thing—was in the car.
She would never forget what she had seen. Forcing herself to turn around, she had confronted a mound of debris: thousands of her campaign posters had been chopped to bits and crammed into the back of the Jeep. Nor were the posters just slashed: the intruder had taken the time to carve a large black X across every photo of her face … and her face was on every poster.
Somewhere, somehow, the vandal had managed to steal the posters and deface each one before slicing it up. Whoever it was then lay in wait to hide the hideous results in her car. It wasn’t the cost of the ruined posters that bothered her; it was the hate that must have fueled the act that she found frightening. Who could be so angry with her that they would do such a thing?
She knew from observing her father’s campaigns that politics, like religion, could trigger strange and powerful emotions in people. And so it was that not a day had gone by since the chilling discovery of the vandalized posters that she didn’t search the faces of the people attending her political rallies, watching for the one person who might stand too close, stare too long, or rant too loudly. So far, though, nothing more had happened.
She was grateful to one of the young staffers in the Loon Lake campaign office who had taken the time to thoroughly clean and vacuum the car so that only the memory remained. Jane sighed. Just thinking about the campaign office added to her fatigue.
What is this pesky issue with campaign funds? The accountant is sure someone is pilfering money from the campaign account, but Lauren thinks he’s nuts. She insists that she’s got everything under control. Given that Lauren has been doing a great job managing the entire campaign, it’s likely she has a better handle on that situation than the accountant does. With eight offices now open across the state, Lauren has the better opportunity to track who is doing what and for how much. At any rate, that’s one problem that can wait until Monday.
Tonight, with the back seat down, it was easy to see into cargo compartment: no weird luggage left on board. She turned the key in the ignition, slipped the car into gear, and backed out slowly. The combination of a driving rain against the glare of her headlights made it difficult to see.
Once on the highway, visibility was better. She relaxed. Thoughts of the coming day made her smile. Chuck Winters had organized a pontoon party on Lake Monona for the donors to her Thousand Dollar Club. Chuck had already arranged for donations totaling well over a hundred thousand, and now he was giving her the party … and more. She liked his idea of “more”—especially since he had implied that the current Mrs. Charles Winters was soon to be history.
Plus, she liked Madison. Interesting people, great restaurants—should be a fun weekend.
Pulling into the driveway and hitting the button to open the garage door, she planned ahead: pack for the morning, then change into her pj’s, another drink—or two. And bed.
The garage door didn’t move, stuck again. Screw it, thought Jane, the car needs a wash anyway.
Sh
e was awakened by a rustling in the kitchen and checked the time on her alarm clock. Oh man, it was only ten-fifteen. She lay listening. Damn mice. Kaye must have forgotten to put out traps. Oh, that’s right, Kaye isn’t helping me any more. Who’s that new guy Lauren hired? Did he forget to put out traps?
More rustling. Okay, maybe she could shoo ’em out the kitchen door. Better than letting the critters find their way into her bedroom.
She threw back the coverlet, reached for her robe, and staggered down the hall toward the kitchen. Her head did not feel good—one too many bourbons.
Jane blinked against the glare of the kitchen lights: the mouse seemed as tall as a person, its head in shadow. She blinked again. Double vision didn’t help. The mouse swung, and a jet plane hit her temple.
Chapter Two
“Hey, bud, am I late for breakfast?” After knocking twice, Osborne pulled open the screen door and walked through the jaws of a giant neon green muskie.
While it might appear that Dr. Paul Osborne, retired dentist, widowed father of two and grandfather to three, was about to become a piscatorial treat, it was an illusion. The huge fish was a painting that adorned the entire length of his neighbor’s house trailer.
Breakfast, however, was no illusion. Earlier that Saturday morning, as a summer rain murmured outside, the smell of bacon frying had drifted up through the pines to where Osborne’s kitchen windows were open and susceptible. But while he was indeed hungry for one of Ray Pradt’s cosmically delicious and guaranteed cholesterol-elevating meals, he was also on a mission.
“Come on in, Doc. You are as welcome as the flowers,” said Ray from the stove where his six-foot, six-inch frame was hunkered over a cast-iron frying pan. “Got Nueske’s bacon, fresh eggs from the farmer’s market, and some loverly … loverly raspberries, picked by yours truly.”
“Wild raspberries?” asked Osborne, wondering if Ray would fess up to his penchant for poaching. Fish, berries, or wild game: in Ray’s world, food always tasted better if it came from private property. “Private” meaning not his, not public, either—and that went for land or water.
“Wild are the best,” said Ray with a wink.
“Wild keeps you out of jail is more like it,” said Osborne in a dry tone as he plucked a fat berry from the bowl on the kitchen table. “Yum, ripe to perfection.” He reached for another. He refused to speculate on whose berry patch Ray might have raided that morning, likely before dawn.
“Oops, I’m leaving a puddle on your floor,” said Osborne. He walked back through the modest living room, past the antique phone booth with its equally antique but functional landline, to open the screen door and shake the rain off his poncho before hanging it on an antler of the deer mount that Ray used as a coat rack.
Returning to the kitchen, he stepped behind Ray to pour himself a mug of hot coffee from the coffeemaker on the counter, then walked back to pull out a chair at the kitchen table. Before he could cross his right leg over his left, Ray asked, “Doc?”
Osborne glanced over to find Ray watching him with a question in his eyes and two large brown eggs clutched in his right hand, poised over the frying pan. “One or two?”
“By all means, two, please,” said Osborne. With one flick of the wrist, two eggs plopped into the hot bacon grease. “Ray, I came down to ask a favor,” said Osborne as he reached for another berry. “Boy, these are good.”
“Ask … and ye shall receive. “When Ray was in good humor, his speech pattern could hold his audience hostage to the point of tears.
“I could use a nice catch of walleye for dinner tonight—”
“Sure, and … what time did you want to go? All this rain—it rained like hell all night, and it just keeps on coming. The client I had booked for the day canceled last night. Wife’s making him go shopping.”
“Well, I was hoping not to go out in the boat myself,” said Osborne.
Ray’s eyebrows rose.” Are you upset with me or something?”
“Gosh, no. Mallory is driving up from Chicago this morning with that new guy she’s been seeing. Some executive she met at the office. I promised her I’d put together a classic Northwoods dinner this evening. When I suggested the walleye and said I was pretty sure you could help me out, she told me to include you.”
“Really? You sure about that?”
“And you may bring a guest should you so wish. My suggestion being female, educated—you know what I mean—someone who’ll fit in.”
“Now … why the dickens would you say something like that?” Ray looked over at him with a sly smile.
“You know why.” Osborne had learned the hard way that unless otherwise instructed, Ray had a habit of showing up with some real conversation stoppers: fellows who lived down roads with no fire numbers. Good at heart, short on teeth.
He was aware, too, that Ray had just broken up with a woman he’d been seeing until her husband got wind of it. Given that situation. Osborne figured it was highly unlikely Ray would arrive with a member of the opposite sex, which suited Osborne fine. The challenge of the evening would be best met if Ray came alone. “Okay.” That was all Ray said as he dropped two slices of bread into the toaster on the counter to his right, then eased Osborne’s eggs over with a touch as light as when he slipped the hook from the mouth of a fish without a tear in the delicate membrane.
When the eggs were done to over-easy perfection, he reached overhead for a warmed plate onto which he scooped the eggs, added two slices of bacon, and popped the bread up from the toaster. Not a gesture was wasted, nor another word spoken.
Watching his friend, Osborne wondered if the not-so-distant history between Mallory, his eldest daughter, and Ray had anything to do with his silence. Maybe Osborne’s invitation was a mistake, and Ray would rather not come to dinner with Mallory’s new friend? Maybe he should go and buy some shrimp instead? It was about this same time two years ago, not long after her divorce, that Mallory had driven north nearly every weekend, and did not sleep in her own bedroom. For a time Osborne had worried that Ray might be his next son-in-law. He loved the guy, but thank the Lord it hadn’t happened. The affair was over by hunting season, and the two appeared to have reached a comfortable détente: friends, not lovers. But given Ray’s silence, maybe Osborne was asking too much. “Lew will be there too,” said Osborne. “Be just the five of us. But if you have plans …” Still no response. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just thought … well, in some ways you know Mallory better than I do. She said she wants our opinions on this guy—”
“You sure about that?” said Ray, filling his own plate and bringing it over to the table.
Osborne nodded. “Yes, but I understand if you’re not comfortable. Forget the fish, I’ll stop by the market for some shrimp.”
“Don’t do that, Doc. I was just thinking … you said I can bring a guest, right?” Ray reached for the pepper. As he tapped the shaker, slowly, deliberately, with his right index finger, a smile spread across his lips.
Oh oh, thought Osborne, someone is up to something.
Osborne kept a close eye on his neighbor as Ray devoted himself to smearing thimbleberry jam on his toast. Something was out of kilter, but what? Then it dawned on him: the hair!
The explosion of auburn curls guaranteed to add an inch or two to Ray’s already tall frame had been tamed, as had the matching beard; it no longer served as a catchall for crumbs. Now, isn’t that interesting, mused Osborne. While Ray liked to boast of cutting his own hair, the neat trim along the back of his neck confirmed Osborne’s suspicion: this had to be a professional job.
“Are you saying that you have someone you’d like to bring?” he asked with a raise of his eyebrows. “Should I plan for six?” Osborne worked hard to keep his voice casual, but curiosity was killing him.
“Mmm,” said Ray through his toast.
“Okay, then, six we are,” said Osborne. “You and your friend—whoever that may be—myself, and our honorable chief of police, along with Mallory and Kent. Maybe it’s
Kenton. Not sure what the guy’s name is.”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll bring fish for six,” said Ray, scooping up a forkful of egg. “What time you want us there?”
“How about five or so? Let the ladies have a glass of wine. Give everyone a chance to get acquainted before we eat. That reminds me; Mallory said Kent’s interested in learning to fly fish while he’s up here. Darn, I forgot to ask Lew if she has the time—”
“For heaven’s sake,” said Ray, smearing jam on yet another piece of toast, “I can’t imagine she does. August is peak tourist season. The Loon Lake police have to be busier than heck right now. Even with me behaving,” he said with a smirk.
“Incidentally … Doc, have you noticed that ever since Jane Ericsson’s crew opened their campaign headquarters, the traffic on Main Street has been horrendous? Just yesterday I must have had seven cars ahead of me at the light on Main and Davenport. When’s the last time that happened?” Reaching for Osborne’s empty plate, Ray stood up to walk over to the sink. “Anyway, it’s August—the water’s too warm for trout. Too warm for any fish right now.”
Ray sounded glum, and Osborne sympathized. Ray’s clients, the fishermen who came north from Chicago and Milwaukee, expected to get big fish, like muskies. And if they didn’t hook a monster, they might never re-book. Such was the peripatetic life of a Northwoods fishing guide.
“You’re right about the water being too warm for fly fishing. I’ll run it by Lew this evening and see what she says. She’s bringing dessert.” Crumpling his napkin and tossing it onto the table, Osborne glanced over at Ray. “Mallory really wants her to meet Kent … Kenton … whatever his name is. Thinks Lew’s a good judge of people.”
“You’re kidding,” said Ray as he poured half a cup of coffee. “I would seriously, seriously question that, given the old coot she hangs out with.” The twinkle in Ray’s eye caught Osborne off guard. He blushed.
Any mention of his relationship with Loon Lake Chief of Police Lewellyn Ferris had the potential to embarrass him, perhaps because he could never be sure if she cared as much for him as he did for her.
Dead Insider Page 1