Dead Insider

by Victoria Houston

  “And how did you end up in St. John?” asked Kenton. “That’s quite a ways from Wisconsin.”

  “Our family business has been headquartered there for years. I work for my dad. Besides the art galleries, I mean. The galleries are sort of an indulgence. The fun stuff.” She smiled and reached for a shrimp from the platter that Osborne held out in front of her.

  “Really,” said Mallory. “What do you do for your dad, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I kinda help out where needed. Right now I’m building a social media network to link all our companies.”

  “Companies. What kind of companies?” asked Kenton, sitting up so fast he knocked several crackers off his plate.

  “Plastics are our main focus. We supply all kinds of plastic products to manufacturers worldwide. My great-grandfather started the business and today we have plants in China, Canada, and Brazil. Our communication between sites hasn’t been the greatest, so that’s what I’m working on.”

  “Your great-grandfather isn’t Warren Buffet?” asked Kenton. “Just kidding.”

  “Heavens, no. But both my dad and my grandfather have developed products over the years that have been quite successful. In fact, Dad is interested in an idea Ray has, which is the real reason I drove down for the weekend. Ray, mind if I tell them?”

  Ray nodded as he reached for a shrimp and gave it a careful dip into the sauce. “Go right ahead. I’d like to hear what everyone thinks.”

  Before Christina could say a word, Kenton interrupted. “If you need help planning out your social media development, our firm—”

  “Kenton, hold on,” said Mallory with gentle pat on his arm. “Let’s hear about Ray’s idea. You can talk our business later.”

  “Right, of course. Christina, I’ll be sure to give you my card before you leave,” said Kenton. He threw a dark look at Mallory.

  “So Ray’s idea is to use vending machines to sell worms. One of our companies makes vending machines, but that business has been hit hard lately, so we’ve been looking for ways to reinvent the industry. We’re starting to sell prescription drugs and electronics in them, so why not live bait?”

  “You mean worms and minnows?” asked Lew.

  “Exactly. The machines could be installed in gas stations, convenience stores, bait shops, sporting goods retailers like Cabela’s—”

  “Sounds like one heck of a lot of worms to me,” said Kenton. “What’s your job going to be, Ray? Worm farmer?” He snorted.

  “If you can farm mushrooms, why not worms?” asked Lew from where she was sitting next to Osborne. “I think this sounds like an interesting idea.”

  “It is an interesting idea,” said Christina. “That’s why Dad and myself and Ray are going to sit down next week and talk over the supply options. And who knows? Could be money in worms.”

  “I have a question, Ray,” said Lew. “Those are trophy walleye you hooked today. What were you using? Worms or minnows?”

  “Neither. Used an Insider Jighead,” said Ray. “It’s nifty—got an angled eye and presents upright. Been using it off and on this summer and having good luck with it. Speaking of which, Kenton, you fish walleye? Be happy to take you out on the boat tomorrow. This rain may be a bummer for some folks, but it’s keeping our lakes cool enough so the fish have been biting.”

  “Hell, I wouldn’t know a walleye from a wallaroo,” said Kenton. “I don’t fish. Never have. Mallory’s been twisting my arm to try fly fishing, but I keep telling her I hate the slimy things. I don’t even eat fish. She loves sushi, which I cannot believe,” said Kenton, pointing at Mallory with a shudder. “Yuck.”

  “You don’t eat any fish? You never told me that.” Mallory gave Kenton a perplexed look. “I know you’re kind of vegan, but I’ve seen you eat steak.”

  Kenton shrugged. “That’s different. When a client is willing to pay that much for dinner …”

  “Excuse me, you two,” said Osborne, “but back to Ray’s vending machine for a minute. I agree with Lew, it’s an interesting concept. Has anyone tried it? Seems to me the challenge will be keeping the worms cool if you have a power outage, which happens up here quite a bit in the summer.”

  “Now that is a good point, Dr. Osborne,” said Christina. “We haven’t even thought of that.”

  “While we’re discussing Ray and his entrepreneurial ideas,” said Lew, “I have a question. Ray, your shrimp are delicious. Is this a secret family-only recipe?”

  “Yeah,” said Christina. “Mind sharing the recipe?”

  “Well …” said Ray, stroking his beard as if deep in thought.

  “Oh, oh,” said Mallory with a chuckle. “Here it comes.”

  Ray ignored her: “First, you buy the shrimp …”

  “Of course. Come on now,” said Christina with a laugh. “We’re serious. We want to know. Right, Chief Ferris?”

  Osborne noticed that as Ray teased the women, Kenton rolled his eyes, a sneer settling on his face. Ray caught the look on Kenton’s face and paused. “Tell you what, Christina,” he said, “I’ll show you the spice blend I use for the boil when we’re back at my place later. Chief, I’ll make some up for you.”

  “Great,” said Christina. She turned to Mallory. “So you live in Chicago? I love that city. What do you do there?”

  Before Mallory could open her mouth, Kenton said, “She runs a small division for our firm. I work on the big stuff, like advising on the Senate race here in Wisconsin.”

  “I didn’t know you’re working on that, Mallory,” said Osborne. “For Jane Ericsson, or for her opponent?”

  “Mallory’s not involved. I hope to be running a team advising on key media strategies—not the day-to-day stuff,” said Kenton.

  He stood up, cell phone in hand, and walked over to the swing where Christina and Ray were sitting. He leaned over Christina and held the phone out so she could see, but Ray had to twist to get a look. “Here’s a photo from our pitch meeting yesterday. That’s me at the head of the conference table, Jane Ericsson beside me, and next to her is this incompetent woman that she’s hired as a campaign manager. Totally incompetent. I cannot wait till we can replace her.”

  Christina took a dutiful look, then leaned closer. “That the campaign manager? The one next to Jane?”

  “Yes,” said Kenton, “why? Do you know her?”

  “I think I’ve seen her before. What’s her name?

  “Lauren Crowell.”

  “Crowell … Crowell.” Christina shook her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Funny though, I swear I’ve seen that woman somewhere … recently, too.”

  “Kenton,” said Lew, “what makes you so negative about this Crowell woman? I’ve heard good things about her from my colleagues in law enforcement, and from several people on our Loon Lake city council. They say she’s smart and tough. Well-organized. The sheriff and I had to assign deputies to help with a motorcade she organized last week. We had no complaints.”

  “Chief Ferris,” said Kenton with an exasperated sigh. “I spent six years as a reporter covering politics in Massachusetts for the Boston Globe. Trust me, I know a grandstander when I see one. The fact is, Jane Ericsson is a shoo-in. Not only does she have an impeccable record as a corporate attorney in one of the state’s most prestigious firms, but add to that the wonderful family heritage: her father was one of Wisconsin’s great leaders. She can’t lose. Unless Lauren Crowell bungles it. The woman is pushy, noisy—downright obnoxious and likely to turn off key donors, not to mention voters.”

  “Ah,” said Lew, “I imagine you know someone who can do her job better?”

  “Me—or someone on my staff. Don’t mean to be blunt, but you asked.”

  “In which case, assuming Jane Ericsson is elected, you and your firm would have an inside track in Washington. Is that a reasonable assumption?” asked Lew.

  “Something like that.” Kenton looked a little uncomfortable.

  “I have a non sequitur question for Christina,” said Osborne, eager to defu
se the tension in the room. “Then I’ll get dinner on. Christina, you mentioned hair extensions earlier. What on earth is a hair extension? Sounds like something you’d find in a beauty salon, not an art gallery.”

  “True,” said Christina, “except the hair extensions we carry are works of art. They’re about this long,” she said, holding her hands twelve inches apart as she spoke. “These extensions are long, colorful feathers that women clip or bind into their hair. It’s a fad that’s been around for about a year now. We buy the feathers from the same farmers who produce them for the people who tie trout flies, and I have two women, artists really, who weave them into extensions. You know how one feather is called a hackle and a bunch are called a saddle?”

  “I do,” said Lew, interrupting. “I tie trout flies so I know all about that. And I have to tell you that the cost of buying good hackles has skyrocketed.”

  “Sorry. My customers are the guilty parties,” said Christina. “Right now I cannot keep enough hair extensions in stock—we sell out almost daily. It is amazing how popular they are.”

  “A sacrilege is what it is,” said Lew, keeping her voice soft to defuse the harshness of her words. “Let me explain why I say that. It isn’t easy to breed roosters with feathers that are supple, long, and pliable enough to be used for trout flies. Takes more than a year for a rooster to grow those. I used to be able to buy feathers for a couple of bucks—the cheapest I saw the other day was over twenty dollars. For a rooster feather!”

  “I know,” said Christina with a sympathetic nod. “Our hair extensions start at a hundred and fifty dollars for browns and neutrals. The dyed ones run a couple hundred or more. Whatever the market can bear is what we charge.”

  “On that note, please excuse me while I get dinner on the table,” said Osborne. “Kenton, did you mean that about not eating fish? I have peanut butter and eggs.”

  “Great,” said Kenton, “a peanut butter sandwich would be just fine.”

  “Ray,” said Osborne with a jab of his finger, “you’re with me. Someone has to fry that fish.”

  Chapter Seven

  Lew watched Kenton lean far forward in his chair as he checked to be sure that Ray and Osborne had made it to the kitchen and were out of earshot. That’s curious, she thought. I wonder what it is he doesn’t want them to hear?

  When he appeared satisfied that he could speak in confidence, Kenton turned his attention back to the women sitting with him on the porch. “Help me out here,” he said. “During our drive up from Chicago, Mallory filled me in on her family and friends here in Loon Lake. She talked about Ray and how his family was prominent—his old man was a doctor, and his mother was in the Junior League before they moved up north from Milwaukee. Right?”

  Mallory, nodding as he spoke, said, “So?”

  Kenton ignored her question, saying, “And she said that his brother is a hand surgeon and his sister has recently made partner in a prestigious Chicago law firm. Am I correct?”

  Again Mallory nodded. Christina had relaxed back on the swing, which moved back and forth with a low swish.

  “So what the hell happened to him?” Kenton’s words hung in the air.

  “If you’re referring to Ray,” said Mallory, “I think you need to realize he doesn’t just fish. He’s got lots going on—”

  “Like his vending machine project,” said Christina, sounding eager to defend her date.

  “And he harvests leeches for local bait shops, which is not easy and pays well,” said Mallory. “Leeches are prize bait up here. Not many people know where and how to find them. Plus you’ve got his photography, which is excellent. Right, Christina?” asked Mallory with a hint of desperation.

  “He has a great eye,” said Christina.

  “Ray is always busy,” said Mallory. “Even when the things are slow. Like he helps out at St. Mary’s … um … the cemetery.” Knowing she had just said the wrong thing, Mallory tried to swallow her words.

  “You mean he digs graves,” said Kenton with a cackle.

  “People still pass away, you know,” said Mallory in a small voice. Christina had stopped pushing the swing and sat silent, listening.

  “R-i-i-ght. Plenty of job security there,” said Kenton. “Can’t argue that.” Mallory’s face reddened.

  “On a serious note, Kenton,” said Lew, keeping her tone brisk, “and one which you as a former investigative reporter will appreciate: Ray Pradt is the best tracker in the northern region. He’s what we call ‘a man who can track a snake across a rock.’ The Loon Lake Police Department, our county sheriff and his deputies, game wardens—and the boys from the Wausau Crime Lab—we all rely on Ray when we need help apprehending a perpetrator, finding a missing person, or investigating an outdoor crime scene.

  “Christina mentioned his ‘great eye.’ Well, Ray is the only man I know who can tell from the sign on a forest trail if a person or an animal has been there, and for how long. And, Kenton, by ‘sign’ I mean the tiniest evidence such as a broken twig or a patch of disturbed pine needles on the forest floor. Ray can read the sign and tell you if it was a human being, a deer, a bear, or some other critter that had passed that way. Now,” Lew paused, “I’m not sure how that talent—and it is a talent—would translate to a desk job.

  “I’m not finished,” said Lew, with a wave at Kenton, who had opened his mouth to interrupt. “Twice he has saved my life—and Dr. Osborne’s—in situations when he could have been wounded or killed. And these were situations where he had a choice: he didn’t have to help us.

  “Now,” said Lew, dropping her voice conspiratorially as she made eye contact one by one with Mallory, Christina, and Kenton, “please, all three of you—can you keep what I’m about to tell you in confidence?”

  Like kindergartners at story time, they all nodded, eyes wide.

  “For his expertise as a tracker, Ray Pradt is … very … well … paid.” Lew emphasized each word before adding, “On a state, federal, and local level.” Glancing at the serious faces before her, she could see the point had registered.

  “And that, Kenton,” said Lew, sitting back in her chair, “is why Ray can afford to fish as much as he does. He may not be wealthy; he may not fit your standard of success. But he is doing what he loves. Ray Pradt is a happy man. And who can argue with that?”

  A soft smile spread across Mallory’s face. Christina’s swing swished. Kenton looked flustered.

  If Lew hadn’t grown so irritated with Kenton Harriman’s posturing, she wouldn’t have hijacked the conversation. True, she might regret it later, but at the moment she enjoyed making Ray out to be a highly paid professional investigator, even if it wasn’t quite true. At least he was paid; that part was true.

  On the other hand, she left out a couple of ambiguous qualifications in his resume, including the one that the squeamish head of the Wausau Crime Lab would always use to challenge her when she invoiced for Ray’s work after a successful investigation—the one to which her response was always the same: “So why didn’t you say so before we put him on the case?”

  At issue was the fact that Ray was effective at tracking down certain people because his own history of misdemeanors (not to mention brief stints in the county jail) had led to familiarity with a number of questionable characters. Among that crowd, he had a reputation of being “one of our own” who could be trusted. Looking for someone who does not pay taxes? Who has access to bath salts (not the type used in your Jacuzzi)? An individual who can fence a stolen smartphone within an hour? Very likely Ray Pradt will know someone who knows someone who will know right where to find the bad actor in question.

  And then there was Ray’s unique take on public relations: only he could commiserate, tell a couple of tasteless jokes … and score the tip that Lew or one of the Wausau boys might be searching for, without anyone getting hurt.

  But Kenton didn’t need to know everything. Nor Christina.

  As for Mallory? Lew wasn’t sure how much Doc’s daughter knew, but she was smart e
nough to keep her mouth shut.

  When the pie had been decimated and chairs pushed back from the table, Osborne exhaled in a combination of pride and relief. The fish could not have been flakier, the potato salad more satisfying, and the pie … well, Lew’s peach pie was the highlight of the meal. With the dishes cleared and coffee cups refilled, the candles he had lit softened the faces around the table while the rain drummed a soothing monotone through the windows.

  “Well done, Doc,” said Ray, resting his right ankle on his left knee as he stretched both arms overhead. “That … was very tasty … if … I may say so myself.”

  “Kudos to Ray for the delicious walleye,” said Lew, raising her coffee cup in a toast.

  An impish look crossed Christina’s face as she said, “Earlier, when we were discussing Ray’s many virtues—” She paused to give Ray an affectionate jab with her elbow. “—we forgot to mention that he is an accomplished collector of fishing lures.”

  “Oh, right,” said Mallory with a knowing chuckle. “So you’ve been introduced?”

  “Kind of,” said Christina. “Now, it so happens my father collects fishing lures, too, but his are for saltwater fish and they are meticulously stored in custom-made walnut boxes. Not this guy’s—” She poked Ray again.

  “Would you believe he hangs his lures from the ceiling over his bed? I mean—” Christina shifted in her chair to stare at Ray. “—Mister Pradt, you are never going to get lucky. What girl wants to roll over on a Red Rizzo Tail, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Or an Insider Jighead.” Ray answered her challenge with a smile that implied he had not found dangling lures to be an impediment to his love life.

  “If you don’t mind, let’s continue this analysis of Ray’s love life another time,” said Lew, getting to her feet. “Some of us have to work tomorrow, so if you’ll excuse me …”

  “Doc … it’s been real,” said Ray, pushing back from the table. “Time to head over to my place and find Christina a safe place to bunk. Say, Sparky,” he said, looming over Kenton who was still sitting at the table, “I’m taking Christina out on the boat in the morning. Care to join us?”