Dead Boogie

by Victoria Houston

  “Since she wasn’t familiar with computers, I helped her get started. It wasn’t too difficult—she had the name of the hospital, the date of birth, and she remembered the Catholic girls home where she stayed during her pregnancy. She was able to reach the adoption agency not long after that.”

  As their mother spoke, Osborne’s three grandchildren started to wander into the kitchen, still in their pajamas and sleepy-eyed: Cody, nearly four; Mason, eight; and Beth, on the brink of puberty.

  The eleven-year-old snuggled into Osborne, laying one arm across his shoulders. She was about to whisper in his ear when her mother said, “Beth, you can show Gramps the e-mail in a few minutes. We’re having a grown-up conversation right now. You three—out!” She pointed to the door behind her. “Take Bruno to the backyard. I’ll call when your eggs are ready.”

  As the screen door slammed behind the kids, Erin said, “When it comes to Peg—you never know what’s going to come up, so I’d rather they not be around.”

  “That’s okay with me,” said Osborne. “The details are too grim for kids, believe me.”

  “Mark said you were the deputy coroner at the scene yesterday.”

  Osborne nodded. “I’ve never seen anything like it. He probably told you—it’s a triple homicide.”

  “Yeah, on top of everything else going on around here,” said Erin. “Are you helping out?”

  “Ray and I both are—have a busy day ahead.” He checked his watch. It was only seven-thirty. He didn’t think it polite to call Harold Westbrook before eight.

  “We’re all meeting in Lew’s office with Peg’s sister and her husband at nine. But let’s go back to what you were saying about Peg putting a child up for adoption. I find that very interesting. You’re the first person to mention it.” He reached into his shirt pocket for his notebook and the case with his reading glasses.

  “She told me she didn’t want anyone to know until she was sure she could find him. Dad, it was early last week that she stopped in just to tell me that the adoption agency was being very cooperative because the young man—I think he would be in his early thirties—had been in touch with them, too. He was looking for her. She was so excited. That’s why it’s such a shame that—”

  “You don’t happen to know what his name is?”

  “No. That never came up in our conversations. But I have the information on the adoption agency in my files at the library. I kept a hard copy in case Peg lost hers. If you want, I can get that for you later this morning.”

  “Anything else that you think might help?”

  “Well … she was considering a lawsuit over some plastic surgery that went wrong. Do you know about that?”

  “A little,” said Osborne. “I know she was seeking a second opinion.”

  “Right. She hadn’t been able to get the surgeon who did the work to agree to repair the damage. So the other thing I helped her with was an Internet search to get the names of a few professionals she might approach for a second opinion.”

  “So that’s how she found Gerry Rasmussen!” “Yes.” It was Erin’s turn to be surprised. “Do you know him?”

  “We’ve met through dental circles. When Lew and I were searching Peg’s place last night, we found a letter from his office. I spoke with him this morning. What I’ve been wondering ever since is—what possessed her to go to an oral surgeon? Why not get an opinion from another plastic surgeon?”

  “Ah, Dad. Good question. And I’m the one responsible for putting her in touch with Dr. Rasmussen. More coffee?”

  “Please.”

  “When Peg told me what her problem was, we did a Google search on medical malpractice. One of the articles we found recommended that anyone with questions regarding surgeries involving the head and the neck should consider an opinion from a maxillofacial surgeon in addition to a plastic surgeon. So we went to the Wisconsin Dental Society’s Web site and that’s how we found Dr. Rasmussen.”

  As she spoke, Osborne recalled the conversation he had had earlier that morning with Dr. Gerald Rasmussen, D.D.S. One of the benefits of retaining his membership in the Wisconsin Dental Society was the annual roster with office and home numbers. After placing an initial call to Rasmussen’s office and hearing a voice message encouraging anyone with an emergency to try the home number—he did.

  It was six-thirty when Osborne reached the oral surgeon at his breakfast table. After explaining the reason for his call, Gerry was eager to talk. More than eager: fired up. It seems that Peg Garmin’s request for a second opinion from a maxillofacial surgeon had ignited quite a debate between the two state societies representing plastic surgeons and dentists. And Rasmussen was plenty angry.

  “Those of us who are board certified in O.M.S. practice are sick and tired of what we’re seeing in the field of cosmetic surgery. I’ll tell you, Paul, the damage some of these fools are doing …” said Gerry, so apoplectic he was choking.

  “It is audacious—just incredible some of the mistakes I’ve seen. One idiot stopped just short of setting a lower jaw outside the mouth.”

  “Now, Gerry, aren’t you exaggerating just a bit?” said Osborne.

  “I wish I were. I tell you, Paul, there is so much money to be made in cosmetic surgery that you get these commodes who have an M.D. degree and minimal surgical training who hang out a shingle for plastic surgery. They aren’t board certified, but hell, that doesn’t stop them.

  “That Forsythe fellow is a perfect example. I don’t know how the Garmin woman found him, but boy oh boy, did he do a lousy job on her face. And I will bet you anything she isn’t the first. But that’s for her lawyer to determine.

  “I find the whole thing disgusting, Paul,” said Rasmussen, speaking with such intensity that Osborne stopped trying to interrupt with questions. It was hopeless to do anything but listen as he ranted, “I am sick and tired of the attitude I’m getting from some of these plastic surgeon types. You want to know why I am happy to offer my services as an expert witness? That’s why: the arrogance of some of these guys.

  “Look at the reality for a minute. Someone is in a horrible accident, half their face torn off, and who’s called? Me. I go in, I reattach every muscle and piece of skin and bone. I do all the follow-up surgeries to be sure everything is perfect. Right? Meanwhile, I’m paid half what a plastic surgeon is for the same work.

  “But if someone comes in with a bad nose from birth or from some previous surgery—I’m not allowed to touch it. All of a sudden all I am is the guy who can pull teeth and treat a lower jaw fracture.

  “Well, I’ve had it,” said Rasmussen, “and I’m pushing to expand the definition of dentistry in this state. For heaven’s sake, professionals like me have four to seven years of post-dental-school surgical hospital residency. We are the head and neck experts.”

  Rasmussen paused to take a breath and Osborne jumped in: “Gerry, do you mind going back to Peg Garmin for a minute? What went wrong exactly?”

  “Sloppy technique. That’s what went wrong. And I’ve heard other complaints along the same line. Same guy, too.

  “See, Forsythe is big on injections. When you do that, you work with a sharp needle, which means technique is crucial. In the Garmin case, he was giving her an injection in the face, the needle slipped, and an artery was pierced. The fat that was being injected blocked some capillaries, shut off the blood flow, and caused the soft tissue on one side of the nose to die and slough off.

  “Poor woman. She looked like half her nose had caved in.”

  “Okay, Beth, you can come in and show your grandfather that e-mail now,” said Erin, opening the back door. The youngster came flying up the steps and into the kitchen. She grabbed Osborne’s hand and pulled him back to the family room. Giving him a big smile, she settled herself on the stool in front of the family’s computer, hit a key, and waited.

  The e-mail was from a woman whose name Osborne had not heard in nearly fifty years: Beebo McElhenny Rowland, sister of his best friend at the age of fourteen. The
e-mail was addressed to Erin, who used “Osborne” as her middle name.

  “I think you may be related to Paul Osborne, the dentist,” wrote the stranger. “I’ve been able to locate your e-mail address but can find nothing for Paul. If you know him or if you are related, would you please pass on this message for me?

  “Years ago, he was the best friend of my older brother, Bud. They were roommates at boarding school, Campion. Paul spent several vacations with our family. The last I heard about Paul was that he had married and opened a dental practice in northern Wisconsin.

  “My husband passed away two years ago and I’ve been having a wonderful time reconnecting with old friends. Please let Paul and his wife have my phone number—if I do indeed have the correct Paul Osborne. Tell him I apologize for hunting him down but I have fond memories of him from those days …” The e-mail carried the name “Beebo Rowland.”

  Beth looked up expectantly. Erin, standing quietly behind him, gave Osborne a teasing poke in the ribs. “Okay, Dad, what do you want Beth to say? How should we respond?”

  “I—I don’t know,” said Osborne. The last time he saw Beebo, she wasn’t much older than Beth. Thirteen at the most. But thirteen going on thirty. She was the first girl he ever kissed. The first girl he had enjoyed thinking about in ways that made for embarrassing moments in the confessional. For over a year, Beebo had been his first and last thought of the day.

  “Well … what do you think?” he turned to Erin.

  “Go for it, Dad.” She grinned.

  “Gee … I don’t know,” said Osborne. “I’ve got my hands full helping Lew right now—”

  “Dad,” said Erin, “a phone call? You can manage a phone call, for heaven’s sake. She sounds sweet. And, Dad, you never know. Besides, she thinks you’re married. So what’s wrong with catching up with an old friend?”

  sixteen

  It is just possible that nice guys don’t catch the most fish. But they find more pleasure in those they do get.

  —Roderick Haig-Brown

  Osborne hurried up the paved walk leading to the front door of the elegant red brick home. Before he could knock, Harold Westbrook opened the door.

  “Paul, come in,” he said. “I heard about Peg on the news last night. But I didn’t know whom to call. I tried the police—the woman on the switchboard wouldn’t tell me a thing. The sheriff’s office knew nothing.

  “Can you tell me how it happened? She was—” Pressing his fingers to his eyes, he choked up and motioned for Osborne to follow him through the spacious foyer, past the formal living room to a den off the kitchen.

  Half the room was neatly outfitted with equipment and supplies for tying trout flies. The other half held an old roll-top oak desk, a high-backed chair with an ottoman—both facing a wall-mounted flat-screen television—and a small leather sofa guarded by an impressive elk mount. Two mallards in flight haunted the wall above the desk.

  “How much time did you say you had? Need coffee?” Harold’s hands shook as he spoke and his eyes were bloodshot.

  “No coffee, thank you. Chief Ferris and I are meeting with the family at nine—Peg’s sister and her husband. So we’ve got some time, Harold.”

  Osborne checked his watch. It was eight-fifteen. After reaching the widower by phone a few minutes earlier, he had decided it would be just as fast to walk from Erin’s house. The Westbrook residence was only two and a half blocks away and Harold sounded anxious to see him.

  The retired physician was tall and large-boned with wide shoulders. He looked strong, which was typical of other thoracic surgeons that Osborne had known, and he walked with the stride of a man much younger than eighty. This morning, however, he looked his age: his shock of white hair whiter than ever against the flush of his face. It was obvious he had been crying.

  Harold waved Osborne toward the sofa, then seated himself in the armchair.

  “I missed the news,” said Osborne. “What did they say?”

  “They interviewed the father of one of the other women,” said Harold.

  “That would have been Ralph Federer, Donna’s father,” said Osborne. He wondered if Lew knew that Channel 12 had scored after all.

  “He said there were three victims in the car and foul play was suspected. Not much more than that. But when he mentioned the names of the women and I heard Peg’s …” The old man’s reddened eyes searched Osborne’s. “She was a dear, dear friend … what more you can tell me?” His voice cracked with sadness.

  “I’ll tell you what we know so far,” said Osborne and took him briefly through the details. “Now, none of this is public knowledge, Harold.”

  “I’ll respect that, Paul. And I will assume you will keep some of what I tell you in confidence unless it is material to Chief Ferris’s investigation? I have been an expert witness myself enough times to know complete privacy may not be possible, but I want to do whatever I can to help find who did this.”

  Sitting back in the armchair with his legs crossed and his hands resting in his lap, the man was somber and poised. Osborne regretted he had never taken the time to get to know him better.

  “My relationship with Peg …” Harold’s voice trailed off. Osborne shifted in his chair, uncertain what to say. How do you ask a man about his mistress? Worse, how do you ask him about the other men in her life? Harold saved him the effort on the first question.

  “I started seeing her after my wife died four years ago. That’s never been a secret in this town. And yes, it started as a physical relationship, which I very much wanted at the time. Was willing to pay for.” He gave a grim laugh.

  “My wife and I were of a generation that did not believe in divorce. I think I bored my wife. I know I bored my wife.”

  “You mean she wasn’t into tying trout flies?”

  Harold looked at him in amazement for a split second, then burst into a loud guffaw. “Tying trout flies was the least of what she wasn’t interested in.” He paused, reflecting, then said, “You know that old quote—'Some men lead lives of quiet desperation …’ ”

  Osborne nodded in understanding. Complete and total understanding.

  “So early on in my marriage I became familiar with women like Peg. Or so I thought at first—that Peg was like all the others.

  “The thing is …” Harold hesitated as if he was still trying to figure something out. “She was different …” He paused. “I’m not sure how to put this … she had an ethereal quality to her. She didn’t have that edge. We got along. From the very first, we got along. It was nice. She was nice.

  “Before I knew it, we had moved from having sex to just enjoying our conversations. That’s the best way I can put it. And that doesn’t happen that often—with anyone. You know?” Harold gave a slight smile as he spoke.

  “I know exactly what you mean,” said Osborne, thinking of his hours driving, in the trout stream, or just being with Lew.

  “You may find this difficult to believe”—Harold dropped his head, then raised it as if challenging Osborne’s opinion—“but under that gloss of makeup and dyed hair was a delicate human being. Delicate … thoughtful … kind. One of those rare people who knows how to be a friend. A good, good friend. She seemed to enjoy listening to me for hours—loved to hear about my work, loved hearing how my fishing went, my golf game.”

  He uncrossed his legs, shifted in his chair, then said, “We had a routine, you see. On Sunday evenings, she came for cocktails and I cooked dinner. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, she came for cocktails—and she cooked dinner. Gosh, how those evenings flew by. Peg was a good conversationalist. She read a lot, she was well educated. She was just …” His voice trailed off. Osborne waited.

  “So some nights she slept here, some nights she went home. Maybe we drank a little too much—but we enjoyed one another. As companions. You know, Paul, at my age it doesn’t hurt to have a woman in your bed simply to hold you.”

  “Harold,” said Osborne, “would it help if I told you that you’re not the only person I
know who thought the world of Peg Garmin? Who loved her?”

  “Really? I’m glad to hear that. I wasn’t sure anyone else knew her as she really was.”

  “You used the word ‘delicate,’ “ said Osborne.

  “Yes. I came to think of her as my delicate angel with the damaged wings.” Harold nodded, affirming the fact. “Very damaged.”

  “And what made you think that?”

  “Well, these conversations we were having—after a time, she began to open up to me about her life. I wanted to hear, you know.” Harold’s expression darkened. “Paul, how familiar are you with her background? Before her marriage to that Frank fellow?”

  “We don’t know much,” said Osborne. “Going through her belongings last night, Chief Ferris and I found some photos—”

  “I’m talking about her childhood.” Harold slammed his fist on the arm of his chair. “She was adopted and abused. Molested by the father of the family that adopted her, which I guarantee was the root cause of all the other problems.”

  “She told you that?”

  “The story eked out over time. I don’t know what hurt her more—the actual abuse or that no one in that family believed her. She was trapped. I know she ran away as soon as she could and spent most of her adult life estranged from those people.

  “In my opinion that’s why she slipped into prostitution. Why else would that happen? The woman came from wealth. You do know she was one of the Chicago Garmins, right?”

  “Yes,” said Osborne. “But not many people in Loon Lake have made that connection.”

  “She didn’t want them to. She didn’t want to have anything to do with those people. But six months ago they came barging back into her life.” “What do you mean?”

  “Ah,” said Harold, “you don’t know about this? Good. Then I do have something to contribute. One day Peg gets a letter in the mail from the old lady: the classic deathbed plea for forgiveness.

  “Old Mrs. Garmin, on the brink of dying from cancer, decided to admit to knowing all along that her husband had abused Peg. Then she tried to make it right with money.” Harold snorted. “Isn’t it always about money?” He shook his head in disgust. “As if money could make a little girl whole again.”