It was the receptionist at the station’s front desk. “Chief Ferris, there is a woman here asking to see you immediately. She said you’d understand why. Her name is Karen Wright.” Lew could tell from the warning in the receptionist’s voice that Karen was upset.
“Is there someone who can walk her down to my office, please?” asked Lew. “She may be quite emotional.”
“Yes, Chief, I’ll bring her down.”
“Ty Wallis called me with the terrible news,” said Karen, eyes stricken. “What on earth? What did you say to Fred? How could you let this happen?” She choked back tears.
“Karen, sit down.” Lew walked her over to one of the chairs by the window. “Can I get you a glass of water? A cup of coffee?”
As Karen shook her head and blew her nose, Lew outlined how the day had begun, from Mason’s hysteria to the search ending at Fred’s hunting shack. “I know the place. We sold it to him. But I can’t believe what you’re telling me Fred did.”
“I know you loved him like a brother,” said Lew, “but did you have any idea how fragile his emotional state might be?” Karen sobbed quietly. Then she lifted her head.
“Who knew it would come to this? But . . . one thing doesn’t surprise me. Fred hated his mother. He never forgave her for leaving him alone the day the house exploded, not to mention all the other days.
“He shared with me once that she had told him she wished he’d never been born. He was a mistake, she told him. Can you believe that’s how Fred’s mother treated him? Frankly”—Karen tried talking while blowing her nose—“frankly, Fred was such a runt growing up lots of people picked on him. Tiffany must have got mixed up in his head with those feelings toward his mom. I’m sure that’s what happened.”
“Tiffany Niedermeier was not discriminating,” said Lew. “She was rude, critical, accusative, and nasty to everyone around her—”
“Except Chet.”
“Right, except Chet.”
“She knew how to handle men okay unless they were of no use to her. Fred did tell me right after he started working for Ty at the preserve that he thought she was trying to get him fired.”
“Karen,” said Lew, “something we are taught during our training for handling violent domestic abuse situations is that a quarrel may appear to be over something small. But if it triggers a memory from childhood, whether it’s feelings of competition, favoritism, power, or lack of power, the reaction can be way bigger than the actual harm done to a person.
“What you might call ‘the old stuff’ is so poisonous, it can be very, very dangerous. That may be why Tiffany triggered such rage in Fred.”
“That makes sense, I guess.” Karen was visibly calmer than when she had walked in.
Lew gave a rueful laugh. “It makes more sense than what I have been thinking. Until this morning I mistakenly assumed it was your husband whom the murderer was after and that Tiffany was collateral damage.”
“Are you saying you thought it was me?” Karen’s eyes opened wide and she sat up straight.
“Five million dollars is a motive. Then there are your boots.”
“What about the boots? You mean the ones I borrowed yesterday? From Fred?”
“Yes, we found evidence of an intruder the night that Chet and Tiffany were crushed to death. The individual pushed open a back window of the building and climbed onto a workbench in front of the window. From there they had an excellent view of the piano and the bodies.
“They didn’t go any further into the club but they left behind a distinctive set of muddy footprints, which were identified by the crime lab as having been made by a pair of Vasque hiking boots—identical to the boots you were wearing yesterday. Even the wear patterns on the soles match. Got the report from the crime lab a short time ago.”
“I borrowed those boots from Fred early Wednesday morning when I knew I would be walking through the swamp to the heron rookery. They were so big I had to wear extra socks.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that when I came to your house with the search warrant?”
“You didn’t ask.”
A short time later, as they were walking out of Lew’s office, Karen paused to ask, “Chief Ferris, will you let me know when Fred’s body will be released from the morgue? Over all the years I’ve known Fred, he has always been there for me, always ready to help however he could. He was odd but I loved him.
“I consider myself his family and I want to bury him. In spite of all that has happened, my friend deserves that respect.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The sidewalk was slick from a light rain as Osborne walked from McDonald’s to Lew’s office. Even though he had downed three cups of black coffee with his buddies he was hoping for one final splash of caffeine with Police Chief Lewellyn Ferris.
“Quiet this morning, Lewellyn?” he asked, peering around the door to her office.
Lew looked up from her desk, eyes happy to see him. “It is, believe it or not. Come on in, Doc. Made plenty of coffee this morning.”
“You look more relaxed than you have in weeks.” And lovely as ever, Osborne wanted to add, but he knew that would irritate her.
Though the summer police uniform of khaki shirt and pants couldn’t hide the curve of her breasts, the rest of Lewellyn Ferris was no-nonsense. Sturdy, wide-shouldered, and generously hipped, she preferred not to be reminded she was a woman in what too many locals still considered a man’s job.
“Sit down, won’t you, Doc? Karen Wright is due here any minute to answer a few final questions. You might be interested in what she has to say, and please don’t hesitate to jump in if you have questions. You’re still a deputy on this case.”
“The boys at McDonald’s are surprised there’ll be no memorial service for Chet,” said Osborne. “Mick Madson from the funeral home is a little put out about that. Between casket, flowers, and a luncheon he had been expecting to make a bundle.”
“Really? I think Karen made the right decision,” said Lew. “Cremation and a private burial in the family plot: end of a sad story. Wouldn’t you agree?”
A gentle knock on the open door to Lew’s office and Karen poked her head in. “Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all. Please come in,” said Lew. “Can Doc pour you a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please. With a touch of cream?” She smiled as she sat down and accepted the coffee mug that Osborne handed her.
Once Lew had finished going over the remaining legalities, Karen said, “You may appreciate knowing that thanks to a speedy payment from the life insurance company and help from my accountant, I will be able to pay off most of Chet’s debts. That includes paying back what Chet had overbilled Bert, Jud, and Pete at the club.”
“Overbilled? That’s an interesting way to put it,” said Lew. “Makes Chet’s misbehaving sound less onerous, more like he just made a few bookkeeping errors.”
“My accountant made the suggestion,” said Karen. “I will have my lawyer review it but if I can do that, it will save me months, if not years, of wrangling with lawyers, banks, and credit card companies. I would rather pay the money and have it out of my life.
“Just as important, those three men will be happy and stop bothering me. Although, Dr. Osborne, remember how you asked about my relationship with Pete Kretzler? That got me thinking. Especially as he has stopped by my house two more times recently.” She narrowed her eyes as she spoke.
“Consoling the wealthy widow?” asked Lew, leaning back in her chair.
“You got it. Chief Ferris, I think you and I would make good friends,” said Karen with a chuckle. “Yes, he’s ‘overshared’ the travails of his marriage and I know he thinks I’m worth five million bucks.”
Glee crossed Karen’s face as she said, “Just wait until I tell him all that’s left is enough for me to pay for two years of grad school and a rental down in Wausau. Plus the premiums on the five-million-dollar insurance policy for me are so high that I’ve canceled it. How often do you think he’s g
oing to stop by once he knows that?
“If I’ve learned anything over these years of being related by marriage to people of great wealth, it’s this: Money does not make any man—or woman—a better human being. That includes my late husband and his three less than honorable friends. I don’t mean to sound bitter, but keeping that in mind is a reality check that is helping me get through this.”
Her eyes turned sad as she said, “What I can’t change is how bad I feel about Fred. It was our fault, Chet’s and mine, that he ended up having to work at the preserve and around that—”
“Karen, stop right there,” said Osborne. “The average person would never have reacted to Tiffany Niedermeier’s nastiness like Fred did. His rage came from somewhere deep and dark in his childhood. Please, you need to consider the good years he had thanks to you.”
“Thanks for saying that,” said Karen as she got to her feet. “You make me feel a little better. And thank you for the coffee, Chief Ferris. If there are more questions from the lawyers as I work on settling Chet’s estate, I may have to give you a call. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not,” said Lew, standing up. “Comes with the job.”
“Oh—I have one last question myself.” Karen hesitated in the doorway. “It’s about those hiking boots. If you had not learned that it was Fred who pulled the lever hoisting the piano that night and all you had to work with were the footprints from boots you knew I had worn—could I have been convicted of murder based on circumstantial evidence?”
“No,” said Lew. “There was dried sweat in those boots that indicated more than one person had worn them. Thank advances in DNA testing for that. Once it was determined that those were the exact boots that left the muddy footprints on the workbench, Bruce Peters had the boot interiors tested, too. The test results confirmed a match between the sweat in the boots and Fred Smith’s DNA.
“Added to that were the photos Ray Pradt took of the tracks made by the golf cart Fred used. Those matched as well. I’m sure we would have found more evidence linking Fred to the murders if we had had to continue the investigation.”
• • •
It was five o’clock when Lew’s fishing truck pulled into Osborne’s driveway. Erin’s Jeep was close behind. Throwing open the door of her mother’s car, Mason leapt from the front seat shouting, “Chief Ferris, hey, Grandpa said you have a fishing rod for me?”
“Mason, hey,” said Lew, mimicking her with a big grin as she climbed out of her truck. “To answer your question, I have a fly rod for you to try. Not a fishing rod, but a fly rod, the kind used for fly-fishing. You’ll see there’s a difference. Now hustle inside and let your grandfather know his dates for the evening have arrived.”
“O-k-a-a-y.” Calling over her shoulder, Mason raced for Osborne’s back door. When she had disappeared inside, Lew walked over to where Erin was backing her car around to leave and motioned for her to lower her window.
“How’s Mason doing, Erin? Any more nightmares?”
“Not so far, thank goodness. We followed your advice, Chief Ferris, and Mark and I told her the whole story. How a person whom she doesn’t know and never will was picked on so often during his life that he became so angry he killed someone.
“We assured her she was right to feel that something bad was going to happen. But we said over and over that the person who owned the cabin, that the person who put up the pictures—that person was dead now and could never ever hurt her.”
Erin rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I worry we let our kids watch too much TV. Where she got the idea that she was a witness to a crime and would have to be killed is beyond me but that is what was in her head. You may think we told her too much but it seems to be working.”
“Thank goodness,” said Lew. “I am no child psychologist but I believe in parents being as honest and open as possible. It’s not knowing the truth that can scare a kid.”
“Well, we kept it pretty real.”
Erin smiled as she said, “She is pretty darn excited today. Very nice of you to take the time to show her how to cast. I know how busy you are, Chief Ferris.
“Mark heard that Trout Unlimited will be holding a two-day kids fly-fishing camp next month where members will show them how to cast, how to tie trout flies, how to identify insects, and lots of other fly-fishing stuff, so we’ve signed her up for that, too.”
“Great. We’ll get her started today. At least she’ll know what a fly rod looks like.”
“Sounds fun. Will you let Dad know I’ll be back at eight to pick her up?”
“Sure.” With a wave, Erin drove off.
Half an hour later, Lew and Mason had taken over Osborne’s backyard. Sitting on the stoop in front of his back door, Mike panting happily beside him, Osborne watched as Lew demonstrated for Mason the basic mechanics of the back cast, the power snap, and the forward cast. Then she had Mason try each move.
“Very good,” said Lew after half a dozen attempts by the eleven-year-old. “But that’s enough up here on the grass. Let’s go down to the lake.”
“Really? Really?” Mason jumped up and down. “Think I’ll catch a fish?”
“Maybe not quite yet,” said Lew with a wink at Osborne. “Fly-fishing takes practice but you seem to have a knack for it.” Then she added the words of encouragement she always used on Osborne and Bruce when they were flailing away: “You may not be expert yet but you will catch fish.”
“Say, Doc,” said Lew walking over to where he was sitting. “Let’s have Mason pull on those waders you bought her and we’ll continue this lesson down in the water. While she gets changed, I’m going to walk over to Ray’s and borrow that fishing kayak. I’m curious to see how it works.”
Ten minutes later, Lew came paddling around the bend in the shoreline between Osborne and Ray’s properties. She glided soundlessly to within a few feet of Osborne’s dock. Mason was standing on the beach and waiting for instruction before wading in.
“Nice waders,” said Lew, scrutinizing her garb. “I like those wading boots.”
“Glad you approve,” said Osborne from the dock. “They weren’t cheap.”
“I’m sure not,” said Lew. “Next time the city gives me a raise, I’ll get myself a pair of waders just like those. Mine have holes beyond patching.”
Osborne made a mental note to surprise a certain someone on her birthday. After all, since he’d felt like he was going broke spending $500 on his granddaughter, why not empty the bank account and spend $500 more on his favorite fly-fisherman? What’s the old saying? You can’t take it with you.
Coaching from the kayak, Lew got Mason into the water waist high. After having her go through the motions of casting for a good half hour, she said, “That’s enough for now. You’re off to a good start, Mason.
“Before I paddle back to Ray’s, I want to tell you something important. This kayak is made for fishing smaller fish like trout or bass or walleye. Not muskies. Even a small muskie can be long enough and weigh enough to make fishing from here difficult.
“This kayak might skim beautifully across the water, but it doesn’t have the weight to counter the pull, much less the attack, of a big fish. I can’t believe you held on to Buster as long you did without hurting yourself. You are a brave girl.”
Mason blushed, grinning with pride.
• • •
After midnight, Osborne heard the wind pick up. He got out of bed and ran to the porch to close windows before the rain hit. Scrambling back under the summer coverlet, he lay beside Lew. Together they watched the lightning flash as rumbles of thunder grew nearer.
Suddenly with a loud crack and pounding rain, the storm hit with all its fury. Osborne pulled Lew close and she curled into him.
“Isn’t it fine,” he said, “to feel so safe in a thunderstorm?” He felt her smile in the dark.
Acknowledgments
It is high time I say “thank you” to the hard-working professionals who have helped Dead Loudmouth, the sixteenth book in my
Loon Lake Mystery series, find its way to mystery-loving readers.
A first thank-you goes to my agent, Martha Millard, who is with Sterling Lord Literistic, Inc. Over the years she has always been there for me with advice and encouragement whether I was writing nonfiction or fiction. Her instincts have proven to be impeccable and she is one tough negotiator. I have been fortunate to be among her clients.
My publisher, Ben LeRoy of Tyrus Books/F+W Media, has been a true friend and champion of this author. Insightful, innovative, and intrepid—Ben has not hesitated to challenge a marketplace too often overshadowed by mega-publishers. I have been lucky to have Ben in my corner as he has built Tyrus Books into a publishing house highly respected in the competitive field of crime fiction.
But it is the editorial talents of Ashley Myers and her predecessor, Alison Dasho, who have fine-tuned my rough copy and provided the guidance that has helped to make the words sing. And thanks, too, for the unswerving attention to detail provided by Tyrus Books’ expert copyeditor, Heather Padgen.
First impressions count and I am grateful for the lovely, haunting jacket design provided by Stephanie Hannus. A final thank-you goes to Bethany Carland-Adams, whose excellent and indefatigable publicity efforts continue to generate coverage from key reviewers and media nationwide.
A heartfelt thank-you to everyone in my publishing family: You make me look good.
About the Author
Photo credit: Marcha Moore
In her teens and twenties, mystery author Victoria Houston was the classic hometown girl who couldn’t wait to leave her small Wisconsin town. She has not only returned to her hometown, Rhinelander, but she has based her popular mystery series in the region’s fishing culture.
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