Osborne had to admit: He wasn’t that unhappy that he would be seeing Beebo tomorrow. He could see her at a table across the room with two other couples. Even from a distance, she had a vibrancy unusual for a woman in her early sixties. It would be fun to catch up.
Though the food was good, they did not linger. Given the crowd, they were lucky to be served and get their check before seven-thirty.
“Chief, you’re still up for stopping out at the Happy Daze Pub tonight, right?” said Ray.
“You better believe it,” said Lew. “Thought you said that the woman who served Peg and the girls Wednesday would be tending bar tonight?”
“That’s what the owner told me this morning. Said she’d give her a call and make sure she knew we’d be by.”
Terri Schultz had been tending bar at the Happy Daze Pub for six years. Osborne recognized her face though her name hadn’t rung a bell. A short, chubby woman, Terri wore her red-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, a shapeless red sweatshirt, and black jeans. Since the bar served pizza and sandwiches, she was constantly taking off and putting on a soiled white chef’s apron.
The two gas pumps outside were self-serve so she didn’t have to fuss with anything except the cash and credit cards. The pumps plus lottery tickets plus fishing licenses kept Terri and the other bartender busy.
They took stools at the bar and waited for Terri to finish with a customer. It was a moderately busy night, and as they waited, Osborne remembered what it was that made Terri distinctive: She had a collection of very dirty jokes that she told with relish and a hearty laugh. She was a pleasant woman who made it easy for strangers to linger and listen.
Tonight she was ready to take time with Ray and his party between breaks serving and bantering with her regulars.
“Yep, yep,” she had said when they first got there, “you got it. Those girls stopped by here every Wednesday on their way home. Got a kick out of those three—we called ‘em ‘the karaoke kids.’ Every Wednesday ‘cept January when we close down for a month. Cute, those three. Hate hearing what happened, doncha know. Just makes you wonder. What kinda weirdos do we have around here?” She slammed her dishrag on the counter and gave it an angry swipe.
“So they were here this Wednesday late, right?”
“Yep. The usual. They shared a pizza and a pitcher of beer and gassed up. They always filled the tank of that pretty little convertible and split the cost. Three ways—same’s they did every week.”
“Who else was here? Anybody unusual? Anybody talk to the women?”
Terri thought hard. “Well, down at this end I had ‘pepperoni, black olives, and no onions'—he’s a regular. Nice guy. Carpenter, I think. Over at that table were Jeff Kapelski and his old man having a couple beers after fishing. They’ll be in later tonight, too, if you wanna talk to ‘em. This was late, y’know, and I was in the kitchen working on the books. About eleven-thirty.
“Hold on a minute—Lizzie!” She called down to the other bartender, a slim, fresh-faced blonde who looked about thirteen, though her extremely close fitting jeans and black halter top made it obvious she was older.
Lizzie walked down the bar and Terri repeated the question, then said, “Anybody you notice?”
“Yeah, mantis man was hanging around. Now that you ask—he’s been here the last few Wednesdays. Comes in about eleven usually.”
“What do you mean ‘mantis man'?” said Lew.
“Oh, he’s this guy who has a praying mantis tattooed down his arm. Kind of a cute guy, started coming in this summer. Name’s George.”
“Oh, sure, I know who you mean,” said Terri. “Quiet guy. At least, he’s never had much to say when I’ve been around.”
“So what did he do Wednesday?” said Lew. “Have a couple beers and leave?”
“That’s what he usually did—but this Wednesday, after he left, he came back to make a phone call. I know because I had to get him some change. He was pretty upset over something, too.”
“Was this before or after the women came in?” said Lew.
“Both. He got here before they did, left right after ‘em. Fact, he was talking to the tall one as they walked out the door. They seemed to know each other.”
“Was he sitting with them?”
“Oh no, he stayed down at that end of the bar. Like I said before, he left when they did and later came running in to make that phone call.” She pointed to the pay phone on the wall near the restrooms.
“Any idea how long was he gone?”
“Oh, gee …” said Lizzie, jamming her hands into her back pockets as she tried to remember. “Well, we close at one. So for sure he was back before then. I gave him the change, then I was down at the other end of the bar washing glasses so I wasn’t listening until he started cursing.”
“Any chance you heard what he said then?”
“Oh, yeah—his language was so bad, I walked down to tell him to put a lid on it, y’know. That’s when I heard him say a couple things like ‘What the hell do you expect me to do with three thousand pounds?’ Then he made reference to just what they could do with it themselves. Like ‘shove it,’ y’know?” Lizzie was hesitant to repeat exactly what he had said.
“Shove three thousand pounds, you mean?” said Lew.
“Right. But then he calmed down and I heard him say, ‘Okay, okay, but I’ll do it tomorrow—I don’t have anything with me to make that happen tonight.’ ”
Both Lew and Gina had been taking notes while Lizzie talked. Now Gina walked over to write down the number of the pay phone.
“What else do you know about him, Lizzie?” said Lew. “Any idea what kind of car he drives? His last name? ‘Bout how old do you think he is?”
Lizzie shook her head and said, “Oh, gosh, early thirties. Maybe older. He’s got that weather-beaten look so it’s hard to tell. Don’t know his last name—only know he’s George ‘cause I asked him once. He drives an old, dark blue pickup.”
“Big, medium, or little like a Toyota?”
“Big. Like a Ford, kinda.”
“Lizzie, this is a big help,” said Lew. “If you remember anything else he may have said that night, or any night, will you call me right away? Or if he walks in here later tonight—call me immediately. Here’s where I can be reached.”
Lizzie looked down at the card Lew handed her, then said, “Is there something wrong with this guy? He’s real cute.”
“We don’t know yet. But he may have been one of the last people to see the women before they were killed so I’d like to ask him some questions.”
A quick check with the other patrons in the bar turned up nothing. No one knew anything more about George than the two bartenders. None of the men had even noticed him.
Lew started for the door then stopped and walked back to the bar. “One last question, Terri,” she said. “Any idea why those women would have taken the dead highway home?”
“Oh sure,” said Terri. “I’m the one told ‘em that shortcut. First time they stopped in here. They always went that way—cuts fifteen minutes off getting to Loon Lake. Have to watch for deer and it might get your car a little dusty, but you get back to town good and fast.”
“A guy with a praying mantis on his arm—that’s a fashion statement,” said Gina as she opened the door of the bar to head outside. “I think I prefer Ray’s hat.” Osborne was right behind her. He turned around, anxious for Lew to get out of the bar.
“I know the guy,” said Osborne, the minute Lew stepped through the bar’s screen door. “The guy with the praying mantis—he’s the caretaker for Ed Forsyth and the Nehlsons. I ran into him out there today. Not very friendly.”
“Has to be the same guy that my buddy at the casino told us about,” said Ray. “The one that drives Forsyth and Nehlson to the casino.”
“Why would he do that?” said Gina.
“So they can drink and not worry about getting picked up,” said Ray. “I wouldn’t be surprised if one or both those two aren’t close to losing thei
r drivers’ license if they got stopped—this state is tough on drunk drivers. That’s my guess, anyway.”
Lew had pulled out her cell phone and was checking her notepad. She found what she was looking for and punched in a phone number.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” said Osborne as she waited for someone to pick up.
“Very likely,” said Lew, listening. “I want the guy’s name and where he lives so we can check the tread marks we picked up on the road near where the women were killed …” She quit the call and punched in the number again. “Match those tread marks against this George fellow’s tires. Trying the Nehlsons right now …”
The phone kept ringing. “No answer.” Lew snapped her phone closed.
twenty-three
It is not a fish until it is on the bank.
—Irish proverb
Osborne was in baby food on his way to coffee when he rounded the corner of the aisle and nearly bumped into Pauline Leffterholz and her short-shorts boyfriend. His first inclination was to duck past the end cap of potato chips in hopes of not being seen, but it was too late. Pauline spotted him.
“Doc?” she said, her tobacco voice reverberating in the empty aisles. It was ten minutes before closing time at the Loon Lake Market and they had to be the only customers left. Osborne had remembered, as he drove through town after saying good night to everyone and arranging to meet Lew at six the next morning, that he was out of coffee! Of all the bad habits he had managed to give up, caffeine was not one.
Darn. If not for that addiction, he wouldn’t be here—likely to be trapped into a conversation he’d just as soon avoid. Pauline hurried toward him, the boyfriend close behind. Osborne could swear he was still in the same shorts. At least they fit the same.
“Anything new?” said Pauline in a tone so flat Osborne knew that wasn’t her real question. “They’re releasing Patsy’s body tomorrow and I’ve arranged for the funeral to be held on Wednesday. Since you’ve known our family all these years and you were there to help when they found Patsy—I was hoping you might be one of the pallbearers. Fred here’s in charge.”
Too tired to come up with an excuse and well aware it would hurt her feelings if he did, Osborne said, “It would be a privilege, Pauline. Fred, I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, extending his hand. Short Shorts gave a grunt and returned the gesture.
“So, hey now,” said Fred, “sounds like that doctor they was all seein’ is a crook. So you guys better be in the process of investigating that sucker, right?”
If Fred needed to impress Pauline by telling the Loon Lake Police how to do their job, Osborne had no intention of getting in his way. “Yep, you got that right,” he said, hoping that might be where he could end this conversation.
“So nothin’ else new, though, huh?” Pauline looked so sad.
Osborne had a sudden sense that she was already resigned to never knowing who murdered her daughter. That Pat Kuzynski was one of those women whose lives didn’t matter a whole hell of a lot to many people. That her death would be forgotten as soon as a more important crime came along to demand the attention of Lew and the limited manpower of the Loon Lake Police.
“Well, Pauline, we just got a new lead tonight. We’re looking for a fellow whom we know saw them shortly before … he’s got an unusual tattoo on his arm. A praying mantis.” Osborne did his best to make her feel better. “Ever hear of such a thing?”
“Oh, hey, I know the guy,” said Fred. “You’re talkin’ ‘bout Little George Buchholz. Shows up at Nub’s Pub every now and then—not a bad pool player neither. We like to call him Lil’ Georgy.” Fred snorted. “He don’t like that much.
“Yep, George’s got that praying mantis on his arm, all right. Says it’s a symbol for patience. If you ask me, he needs a symbol for funny business. Guy’s got no sense of humor.”
“Buchholz is the name?” said Osborne. “How do you spell that? Any idea where he lives?”
“Buchholz, jes’ like it sounds.”
“Okay.” Osborne resisted rolling his eyes. He could think of three spelling variations right off the bat.
“Last I knew he had a house in that block up behind the junior high. He’s the kinda guy does a little of everything, y’know? Some plumbing, some wiring. I think he mentioned he was fixing the place up to sell. You want to find him—look him up in the phone book.”
Which was exactly what Osborne did.
One night short of full, the moon was bright enough to pick up the blue on the outside of the frame house. It looked like any old house under repair: Plastic was stretched across some windows, the front porch roof was half-finished, the yard was littered with odds and ends of equipment. Off in one corner was a fishing boat on a rusted trailer, its tarp cover ripped and hanging off one end. But no sign of a dark blue truck.
Osborne parked and got out of his car. He saw no light in any of the windows. Up on the front porch, he pressed a buzzer but heard no ringing inside, so he banged on the door. No answer. He walked around the house to the back. An ancient stone garage, its walls crumbling and roof sagging took up half the yard. No truck here either.
A neighbor’s dog barked and he heard a door slamming. He walked back to the front of the house. He recognized the next-door neighbor who had just turned on a yard light as he let his dog out. It was a friend of his son-in-law Mark’s.
“Larry?” Osborne called across the yard.
“Hey, Dr. Osborne, what are you doing over there?”
“I’m trying to find your neighbor. Does George Buchholz live here?”
“Unfortunately. Look at that place. Makes the whole neighborhood look bad.”
“Well—any idea where I might find him?”
Larry stepped off his porch and walked across the lawn. He lowered his voice, “He’s working for some people up near Manitowish, I believe. Managing their properties, is what he told me. But I don’t really know. George is a difficult man to talk to. Hasn’t been around much these last couple weeks.”
“So no wife and family living here?”
“That guy?” Larry gave a harsh laugh. “Warm and fuzzy does not apply to my neighbor. Trust me. My wife and I have a hard time working up the courage to ask him to keep his lawn mowed.”
With a sweep of his right arm that encompassed his neighbor’s house and yard, Larry shook his head in disgust as he said, “Do you believe that place? See the front porch with all that plastic in the windows? See the crap in the yard? Guy always does the job halfway. Nothing is ever finished. Hurts our property values, y’know.”
Climbing back in his car, Osborne regretted for the umpteenth time not investing in a cell phone. He couldn’t call Lew until he got home. When he finally did reach her, he could tell he was waking her up.
“I got the name of our man with the tattoo,” he said, determined not to take any more time than necessary. “Talked to one of his neighbors. He lives alone and is not one to attend neighborhood block parties—know what I mean?”
“Tell you what, Doc,” said Lew, her voice drowsy. “Do me a favor and ask Ray to stop by that house in the morning and shoot some photos of whatever tire tracks he can find on the property. Even without the truck being there, he might get some good impressions that we can compare to the casts made by the Wausau boys.”
“Will do. Are you sure you want to get going at six, Lew? Why not sleep in a little? You’ve been putting in sixteen-hour days.”
“Not on your life. We need to beat the Country Fest crowd. By ten tomorrow morning, every highway in the county will be gridlock.”
twenty-four
No angler merely watches nature in a passive way. He enters into its very existence.
John Bailey, Reflections on the Water’s Edge
They parked Osborne’s car in the Pole Cat parking lot after deciding to continue on in Lew’s cruiser. The weather report on WXPR as they drove up promised a sunny day and clear skies that night, which lifted Osborne’s spirits. Tonight was the night of
the full moon, the night he and Lew were hoping to spend in float tubes with fly rods.
As Osborne slipped into the seat on the passenger side, Lew said, “You haven’t forgotten our plans, have you?”
“You must be kidding.”
“Well, Doc, with a new woman in your life …” Again that teasing grin. Was she really worried about Beebo? Osborne was flattered.
He settled back as Lew pulled off the highway and onto the paved road leading to the Nehlson and Forsyth properties. They hadn’t gone far when a dark green pickup truck came around a bend toward them. Lew flashed her headlights, then pulled alongside.
“Good morning,” she said, “I’m Chief Lewellyn Ferris with the Loon Lake Police. Mind if I ask you your name and what you’re doing back here?”
“Not at all,” said the bearded young man behind the wheel. “Mrs. Nehlson called me late last night to come out and do some cutting for her. I’m Mike Hagen, Chief Ferris. I do work for the folks back here off and on. You know, log a few trees, haul trash, keep ‘em plowed in the winter. Why—is there something wrong?”
“No,” said Lew, “just curious. Up pretty early to cut a few trees, aren’t you?”
A flash of anxiety cramped the man’s face as he answered, “She told me she wanted me here at daybreak. Insisted on it. Left a note on my door last night to make sure I got here. When that lady wants something done, she wants it done. Sure wish she paid me that fast.”
“Okay, no problem, Mike. You go on ahead.”
“Oh,” he said, looking relieved, “well, if you’re goin’ in to see the Nehlsons—good luck. I sure didn’t see anybody around.”
“Say,” said Osborne, leaning forward, “you don’t happen to have that note she left with you by any chance?”
“Yeah—right here.” Mike reached onto the dashboard of his truck and waved a piece of paper.
“Mind if I take a look?” said Osborne.
“You can have the damn thing,” said Mike. He handed it to Lew, who passed it along to Osborne. She waved to Mike as he drove on out.
Dead Boogie Page 13