“But I’m in charge here—”
“Not now, you aren’t.”
Lew continued to move toward him, forcing him back. “Way back—into the hallway.” The man, dressed in dark green work clothes, looked undecided until the authority in Lew’s voice and a good look at her khaki police uniform convinced him to do what she said.
“Good. Now, what is your name, why are you here, and will you please stop shouting,” said Lew as she pulled a notepad from her back pocket.
“He’s Fred Smith, my boss,” said Joyce who, along with Roger, had followed Lew out to the hallway. “Fred, I tried to call you right after I called nine-one-one but all I got was voice mail and right then this officer,” she said, pointing at Roger, “came running in and I forgot to leave a message.”
“You forgot to leave a message?” The man’s voice thundered through the hall. “What the hell time was this anyway? You were late again, weren’t you? That’s why you didn’t call. What did I tell you last week? One more time showing up late and you are out of here. I am sick and tired of—”
“No, I was here early. I can show you—”
“Excuse me, mister. I can tell you what time she called. It was two minutes after nine that dispatch called me,” said Roger, holding up his cell phone.
The man named Fred had pulled out a cell phone of his own, ready to challenge the timing, only to pause.
“Is your phone off?” asked Lew.
“No, but I had an HVAC issue next door at Deer Creek,” said Fred in a smaller voice. “I must have set it by my toolkit and didn’t hear the ring. You’re right, Joyce, I see your call now.”
“Enough of this,” said Lew. “I have my deputy coroner and a forensic team from the Wausau Crime Lab arriving shortly. So, Fred Smith, is it? Middle initial?”
“Yes, T for Thomas,” said Smith. He was of medium height with light brown hair in a buzz cut and a mild face, the kind of face you don’t remember. “I’m the maintenance engineer for the Deer Creek Fishing and Hunting Preserve and for this place.”
“All right, Mr. Smith, the first information I need from you is whom do you suggest I contact to get next of kin information on the victims?” asked Lew. “Joyce has identified them as Tiffany Niedermeier, an employee of Buddy’s Place, and the owner, Chet Wright. I’m going to assume you’re familiar with both?”
“Is it okay if I sit down?” asked Fred, his voice shaking. Lew nodded. He took a few steps into the Entertainment Center, reached off to the side for a chair, sat down heavily, took a deep breath, and asked, “You’re not serious? That’s who . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Oh, come on, Fred,” said Joyce. “Who the hell else hangs out here after hours. You know that.”
Lew could not miss the disgust in Joyce’s voice: sign of a healthy working relationship. No doubt the woman kept her job only because she was willing to do garbage pickup.
Fred straightened up. “Joyce is right. Tiffany is one to be drinking here after hours.” He turned toward Lew. “She says she needs to wind down after her performance. I don’t know how late she stays though. My shift is up at nine. Nine in the evening that is. Joyce, here, comes in at nine in the morning to clean up.”
“But what about Chet Wright. Why would he be here?”
Joyce snorted.
From the corner of her eye, Lew saw Osborne coming down the hall. As he got near she called to him, “Doc, you’re just in time. Let me move everyone out of here so you can work. Roger? Will you please escort Joyce and Mr. Smith out to the front hall? Don’t either of you leave until I get back to you, but if you can call someone with information on next of kin that will be very helpful.”
“I’ve got a phone number for Mrs. Wright,” said Fred, jumping to his feet. “I know the Wright family real well. They’re members of Deer Creek and—”
Before he could say more, Lew asked, “Does this club belong to Deer Creek?”
“Um . . . I don’t know . . . maybe sort of,” said Fred, stammering. “Maybe? I’m not sure though. You better ask Mrs. Wright.”
“Okay, forget I asked,” said Lew with a sense she was getting nowhere talking to the guy. “Just get me the number, please,” she said as she walked away to catch up with Osborne.
Chapter Eight
After pulling on nitrile gloves and paper slippers, Osborne climbed the narrow stairway to the upper platform, which put him in a position to look down at the piano and its macabre burden. Steadying himself against a flimsy railing that extended only half the width of the platform he leaned down and forward to study Chet Wright’s face.
The eyes were open and bloodshot. Ah, thought Osborne, why was he not surprised that Wright was intoxicated when he died? Or under the influence of drugs, in which Chet was known to indulge?
Of course, he could be wrong but having known Chet Wright since he was a boy growing up in Loon Lake, Osborne had good reason to make the assumption. For the moment, he would keep that thought to himself. Whatever the official reason for the bloodshot eyes would be for the pathologist to decide. Osborne’s decision was the easy one: the man was dead.
Nor was there any sign of life in the woman, whose face was turned away, her body still. One slender forearm was visible from beneath her partner’s body. Taking care not to fall off the platform, Osborne reach down with one hand to test for a pulse. Not a flicker.
Given that Chet was not a small man, Osborne guessed the combination of his bulk plus pressure from the apparatus pushing the piano up against the ceiling likely crushed her to death. But all that he could officially note in his capacity as deputy coroner was the fact that the woman who appeared to be Tiffany Niedermeier was no longer alive. Even then he could not officially record the names of either victim until members of their respective families had identified them. That meant that for the moment his job was done.
Osborne stood upright, stretching, before backing his way down the stairs that led up to the platform. As he felt for each step, he shook his head in quiet amazement. How on earth had he—a widowed, retired dentist age sixty-three going on sixty-four, father of two and grandfather of three—found himself identifying dead bodies? Dead bodies on top of a piano in a strip joint no less?
Not that he minded ramping up his knowledge of dental forensics: he had always loved doing research in his field and dental charts were still the gold standard for identifying dead bodies. But along with this unplanned second career (part-time though it was) had come a warm if not intimate relationship with the law enforcement officer in charge of deputizing him. Getting to know Lewellyn Ferris had changed his world. When she was around something in him opened, something too long shut.
No sir. This was not what he had expected two and a half years ago when he signed up for lessons on how to cast the fly rod he had kept hidden from his late wife, who had considered fishing a waste of time that drained money from his dental practice—money better spent on a bigger house, new furniture, nice clothes, and dinner parties, all the amenities essential to her status in her bridge club. Osborne never knew when it was during the months he courted Mary Lee that he forgot to mention the entire reason he practiced dentistry: so he could afford to fish.
Ruminating on these unforeseen changes in his life, Osborne was halfway down the stairs when he glanced over to his right. He stopped midstair, mesmerized by what he saw.
In a small closet below the stairs and to the right of the stage, cordoned off so it wasn’t visible to the audience, was a workbench that had been built under a blacked-out window. The bench held a white plastic pail containing what appeared to be cleaning supplies. Beside the pail and on the table in front of the window were two footprints. Osborne stared at the prints trying to understand why they would be on top of the workbench unless . . .
“Lew,” he said, raising his voice so he could be heard out in the Entertainment Center, “I mean, Chief Ferris, you better see this, hurry.”
“What is it, Doc?” Lew appeared at the base of the stairs. “C
an it wait? I’m on the phone getting names and numbers of next of kin from the manager over at Deer Creek. When I mentioned the name of the woman, Tiffany Niedermeier, turns out she was waiting tables there up until recently so he’s got her mother’s name—”
“You have to see this,” said Osborne, still perched on the stairs and pointing down. Raising one hand while she finished her phone conversation, Lew waited until she was off her cell phone before pulling back the canvas drop that hid the closet and walked over to the workbench. She studied the tabletop. She leaned down to give the prints a close look.
“Sand. Must be from right outside this window. Hold on while I get Roger on this. I want no one walking around this building until we know how these prints got here. Could be more tracks outside.”
“I would barricade the entire area between here and the Deer Creek Fishing and Hunting Preserve as well as the woods along the west side and up to the road,” said Osborne. “Could be nothing or there could be tracks indicating that someone broke in here recently. And why would they do that? Isn’t this place open until after two in the morning?”
Nodding in agreement, Lew glanced at her watch. “How much longer till Ray gets here?” she asked. “I’ll ask him to check for any sign of intruders, although I imagine Joyce and her boss Fred walk around this place a good deal.” She peered through a scratch in the blackened window. “The trash bins are right outside.”
“Ray is on his way but he’s going to be short on time, Lew. He has a meeting with his tournament fishing team at five so he might not have time to do both the photos and the tracking. I know this because he’s hired Mason to help him and I’ve promised to get her to that meeting.”
With a look of exasperation, Lew said, “Are you kidding me? Man, what else can go wrong today? Jeez Louise.”
After a moment’s thought, she calmed down. “All right, good to know. If Bruce doesn’t take forever getting here, I should be able to have him or his colleague take the photos while Ray works the outside. Bruce prefers it that way anyhow.”
A vibration from the walkie-talkie on Lew’s belt caused her to grab the unit and give it a quick glance. “It’s Roger. He needs me—and I need him.”
As Lew headed off, Osborne finished letting himself down the stairs. Then, taking care not to touch anything and to stand in exactly the same space where Lew had stood moments earlier, he took a closer look at the impressions on the workbench. The footprints were outlined in sand and so well defined that, if he had to guess, the individual perched there had been wearing either a hiking boot or a running shoe—footwear with a defined pattern on the sole.
“Dr. Osborne, can you come out here, please?” called Lew from the main room and speaking so formally he knew someone other than Ray or Bruce must have arrived.
Walking back into the Entertainment Center, Osborne found her standing with two people, a man and a woman. He knew the woman. Chet’s soon-to-be ex-wife but now his widow: Karen Wright. He did not recognize the man who stepped forward to introduce himself. “Ty Wallis, Dr. Osborne. I’m the manager for the Deer Creek Preserve. I was able to reach Mrs. Wright—” As he spoke he turned to the woman beside him.
“And I drove right over,” said Karen. Looking up she asked, “Is that the accident Ty called about?”
“Yes,” said Osborne, “we’re in the process of confirming the other victim’s identity but it is a woman. Karen, I’m so sorry about what’s happened here.” He looked over at Lew and said, “Karen is a former patient of mine. We’ve known one another for what—nearly thirty years?”
“Years ago, even before I was engaged to marry Chet,” said Karen. “Yes, we go back a ways, don’t we, Dr. Osborne?” A wisp of a smile crossed her face.
Again she looked up at the piano and its grim burden. “I have no idea what I’m looking at but I’ve been expecting something horrible to happen.” She spoke in such a low voice both Lew and Osborne had to lean in close to be able to hear her better. Her expression struck Osborne as sad but relieved.
Lew’s eyes widened. “Really? You knew about the woman and . . .”
“Woman? Try women. There have been many women,” said Karen, her voice louder. “Chief Ferris, this is hardly the first time that my husband has been found with another woman. Chet and I have lived separate lives for a long time. He’s been living in the guesthouse on our property for over a year now and I filed for divorce two months ago. Dr. Osborne would know that, I’m sure. News travels fast in Loon Lake.”
She gave a grim smile. Looking at Osborne, she said, “Maybe Erin mentioned it to you? I know Dr. Osborne’s daughter,” said Karen at the questioning look on Lew’s face. “I see her at the golf course.
“Given what I’ve learned Chet has been up to recently, I would not have been surprised if you had called to say he committed suicide. But this? This accident?”
Peering overhead again, she shook her head in resignation. “Honestly, I know I should be shocked and horrified, but all I can really say is once again Chet found the easy way out. I’ll bet he was dead drunk and never knew what happened.” She managed a grim, tight smile that looked more resentful than anything.
The room was silent for a long moment. “That may be,” said Lew, “but I doubt the woman up there was planning to kill herself.”
Karen looked more closely at the piano suspended over the stage. “Oh . . . no, you are right about that. I’m sure whoever she is had other things in mind. Too bad she didn’t know Chet better. Would you agree, Dr. Osborne? You’ve known Chet.”
Yes, he did. Osborne knew Chet Wright all too well.
Chapter Nine
Some people are born with a silver spoon. Not Chester H. Wright, Jr. He got solid gold. An angelic-looking child who grew into a strikingly handsome teenager with an engaging smile, Chet parlayed a talent at tennis into an academic “pass,” surviving college as a star athlete while majoring in frat life.
Nor did it hurt that he stood to inherit a bank account that promised to keep him free of worry over the future, a future ensured by the past.
Chet’s great-grandfather, Herman Chester Wright, migrated to northern Wisconsin from Germany in 1876. He and two of his brothers started out as loggers before building and running sawmills. Canny businessmen, they saw the potential in railroads and soon controlled logging and rail operations across the state.
Herman was also one of the half-dozen men who established the Deer Creek Fishing and Hunting Preserve for the exclusive use of their families and heirs. Even as they made their fortunes clear-cutting the northern forests of Wisconsin, they had an ironclad rule that not a single living tree, evergreen or hardwood, could be harvested from their own private Deer Creek land—and one never has.
To this day the Deer Creek Fishing and Hunting Preserve is unique in the Midwest for its stands of virgin timber and walleye-rich private water. And to this day the only access a nonmember can ever have is through employment.
Herman’s son and only heir, Chester Herman, Sr., was Chet’s grandfather and he transformed the family fortune into a conglomerate owning banks, telephone companies, pharmaceuticals, and printing plants. On his death, Chet’s father, Herman, Jr., sold all the family assets with the exception of one large printing plant. When he was killed in an auto accident in Arizona where he had retired, his widow sold the printing plant. She lived two more years before dying of lung cancer, after which her son and only child inherited $60 million.
Chet was twenty-two years old at the time, fresh out of college and recently wed to the cutest girl in his Loon Lake High School graduating class: Karen Riesman.
A tiny woman with slim hips and breasts that had excited the boys in her class since seventh grade, Karen wore her straight hair in a shiny black cap that framed her moon-shaped face. She had eyes black as her hair that danced when she talked to boys.
Dimples in both cheeks guaranteed she would look permanently happy. In high school she was head cheerleader, voted Homecoming Queen, and shared the prom t
hrone with her future husband. No one doubted that Karen and Chet were made for each other.
After their marriage, the young couple hired a Chicago architect familiar to Chet’s late parents to build them a magnificent brick home on property Chet had inherited on the western shore of Loon Lake. A year after they moved into their new home with its matching guesthouse, their dock looked like a marina, with two pontoons (one for parties of twenty or more), half a dozen Jet Skis, a cabin cruiser, and a ski boat. Life was promising.
Three years into their marriage, Chet lost everything in the stock market: a spectacular miscalculation. But just when they thought they would have to sell their home, one of his great-uncles died, leaving behind stock in a Canadian mining company and no heirs. Chet inherited $32 million. An equally spectacular recovery. He was one of those people for whom luck never runs out.
Over the next ten years, he gave up tennis for blackjack and craps—pastimes made easy, as casinos were springing up across the region. Gambling didn’t appeal to Karen. For her it was golf, bridge, and shopping in the cities. What she did lose interest in—following two miscarriages and the news that she could never have children—was conjugal relations.
“I mean, more than once a month? Good grief,” she had confided to her bridge club during one of their gossip sessions. Osborne’s late wife, Mary Lee, had been there and repeated Karen’s comment as a way of letting Osborne know that she wasn’t the only woman who felt that way.
Whether it was his wife’s coolness or the warmth generated by the casino culture, Chet drifted into a social life that didn’t include Karen. He became a regular patron of gentlemen’s clubs, where he drank so heavily that it was not unusual for his wife to find him sleeping it off on the lakeside deck of their beautiful home.
Karen didn’t seem to mind the other women so much as the damage Chet caused: drunk, he parked his car on her newly planted flowerbeds; drunk, he stumbled through the foyer, knocking over a Chinese vase worth thousands.
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