Dead Hot Mama

by Victoria Houston

  Titles by Victoria Houston

  DEAD ANGLER

  DEAD CREEK

  DEAD WATER

  DEAD FRENZY

  DEAD HOT MAMA

  DEAD JITTERBUG

  DEAD BOOGIE

  DEAD MADONNA

  DEAD HOT SHOT

  Dead

  Hot

  Mama

  VICTORIA HOUSTON

  For Madeleine,

  So glad you made it, kid

  Where did that dog

  that used to be here go?

  I thought about him

  once again tonight

  before I went to bed.

  —SHIMAKI AKAHIKO

  one

  For the listener, who listens in the snow,

  And, nothing himself, beholds

  Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

  —Wallace Stevens, The Snow Man

  Head down, shoulders braced, Osborne plunged through the wall of aspen. With one bird in the bag, all he needed were two more and he would be happy.

  It was December 22. Grouse season closed in nine days, and he was eager to have a few more tiny bodies wrapped tight and tucked into his freezer. Nothing tasted better than mushroom-smothered partridge on a frosty winter night.

  Right now, the crisp cold of the forest was invigorating, felt good, and took his mind off Mallory’s pending arrival. Her announcement a week ago that she wanted to spend the Christmas holidays at his house had caught him off guard. While his feelings were changing towards his oldest daughter, he wasn’t sure how the two of them would survive a full week in close proximity. And if Mallory were there, would Lew be reluctant to spend the night?

  Oops! His right foot slipped down a hillock hidden by the snow, which was nearly a foot deep in some spots. That’s enough of that, thought Osborne to himself, time to pay attention, watch where I’m walking—and try to avoid shooting my foot off.

  He wished like hell he had Mike along. Could that dog flush birds or what? Not to mention retrieving any he brought down. But news that bear hunters were training their dogs in the area had forced him to hesitate. Those damn packs wouldn’t know a black lab from a black bear, and he didn’t need to see one of his best friends torn limb from limb. Even now he could hear baying off in the distance. It crossed his mind to wonder if the goddam dogs would know a retired dentist from a black bear.

  Nah. He forced that thought from his mind, too. One blast from his twenty gauge would answer any questions. And it wouldn’t be a warning blast either. Osborne hated bear hunters, hated the idea of treeing an animal with dogs, then taking pot shots from below. That’s not sport. In fact, it is so unsporting that all you have to do is mention someone hunts bear, and you know exactly what kind of moron you’re dealing with.

  The aspen gave way to a logging trail. He stepped down, deciding to walk the trail for a few hundred yards. Recent use by logging trucks had exposed the ruts down to fresh dirt, which suited Osborne fine. It was just that time of day when grouse are apt to leave their cover to scout gravel for their gorgeous little gullets.

  Butt resting under his right elbow, finger near the trigger, the safety on, he moved ahead in near silence, eyes and ears alert. The stroll down the rutted lane was as easy as moving through the dense, young aspen had been hard. Also noisy. Warmer days and colder nights had glazed the snow, producing an icy surface that crackled underfoot. At the same time, multiple early frosts had stripped the aspen, birch, and maple of their leaves, making it much easier to spot a grouse in flight.

  A sudden flutter to his right, and Osborne’s shotgun was up and firing. Yes! He got it on the wing. Osborne watched the bird fall. Oh, he was a happy man. Then off the trail and into a stand of balsam—he had a pretty good view of the bird’s trajectory about forty yards ahead and to the right.

  Trudging forward, eyes focused on where he was sure the bird had landed, he felt his right foot give way too far and too fast. Down he went, down and back, bouncing along on his rump as he struggled to keep his shotgun up and out of the snow. To his surprise, he landed in a very comfortable position cushioned from behind by a snowy hillock and snuggled up against a decaying tree stump.

  Leaning to his left, against the stump, he fished around in the pocket of his hunting vest, hoping to hell he had something he could use to wipe the snow off the butt of his gun. He found a packet of Kleenex. After wiping the wood dry, he was reaching back with the Kleenex, when his eye caught a flash of white inside a hollow in the stump. Mushrooms? At this time of year? He bent forward to take a closer look.

  Thirty-two teeth greeted him: a full set of dentures. The upper set carefully on the lower.

  Osborne stared at the disembodied grin. Now that was damn strange. And they were set so carefully, too—not like the wind had blown them into place or an animal had stashed them. No, some human had set these dentures down quite carefully.

  Osborne looked overhead and all around. Had there been a deer stand here? Flat-line winds two years ago had reconfigured the forest, and he knew many hunters who had lost their stands in the blowdown. Losing a deer stand was one thing, losing your teeth was another. He hadn’t heard of any locals with that kind of bad luck. But then, he was three years into retirement and out of touch. The more he thought about it, he decided maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised.

  For one thing, this region was heavily hunted, starting with bird and bow hunters in the early fall, then packed with deer hunters into mid-December and now stragglers like himself. Several hundred had probably cruised through here, many stopping to eat or grab a quick nap. And this was a comfy bowl where he had landed. If it were early in the fall when temperatures were in the seventies, he could see a hunter, older than himself of course, deciding to remove his dentures for a short snooze. Add to that forgetfulness. If you wake up, relieve yourself, then start hunting again only to remember you forgot your teeth—well, once you’ve walked fifty feet in this well-logged terrain, all stumps look alike.

  Something else he was aware of: More people over age fifty misplace their teeth than lose their eyeglasses. One of those little-known facts that allow dentists to retire early.

  Osborne reached into the hollow. Even without his reading glasses he could see the teeth were finely made. Not his work; he knew that the instant he felt them. He had never had a patient who would pay for materials of this quality. He’d bet anything they were imported.

  Again, he looked around—this time checking the snow cover for signs of recent visitors. But all he could see were the paw prints of a large dog. Damn bear hunters.

  Osborne turned the dentures over, tipping them this way and that, but the light was too dim for him to make out either the owner’s name or the Social Security number, which he knew he would find somewhere inside each.

  Oh well. He took out the Kleenex packet again and wrapped each section with care, then tucked the dentures into the upper left pocket of his vest. He could check for the identification at home, then get in touch with the owner or their dentist. Someone would be very pleased.

  Grabbing the branch of a nearby balsam, he pulled himself to his feet. The sun was dropping fast, and he’d better hurry if he wanted to find that bird and get out be fore dark. He scoured the shallow ravine in front of him but no sign of the grouse. Maybe he could see better from the rise behind him.

  Osborne turned to start back up the hill. Looking up, he was startled to find he wasn’t alone.

  two

  The best part of hunting and fishing is the thinking about the going and talking about it after you got back.

  —Robert Ruark

  Topaz eyes bored into his, their brilliance heightened by a setting of ebony fur.

  Osborne had never been so close to a wolf. He had
never wanted to be so close. The animal could not be more than twenty feet away. The forest that had felt so familiar, almost cozy, moments ago was now stone silent, watching.

  He stepped forward with his right foot, praying the wolf had the instincts of a deer and would bolt. Not even a flinch—nor did the eyes leave his. Osborne raised his gun, knowing he wouldn’t fire but hoping the broader movement might frighten the animal.

  No such luck. He remembered now that the Department of Natural Resources had recently reported a pack moving into the region, but he never imagined one would stalk a human being. Still, he had no urge to argue the issue. He backed away slowly, moving to the right until he felt hidden by the stand of balsam. When he reached the logging trail, he ran. Ran hard.

  Ran until he was safe in his car with all four doors locked. Breath held, heart pounding, Osborne waited, eyes fixed on his own tracks in the dusk-gray snow. No sign of the wolf. He let a solid sixty seconds pass before he let his shoulders relax. Only then did he reach back for his gun case.

  Whoa. Osborne cranked his ignition. Would he have a tale to tell over morning coffee at McDonald’s. First the teeth, then the wolf. His buddies wouldn’t believe it. Osborne made a mental note to check his wallet—the guy with the best story buys the coffee. Of course, he knew darn well what one of those razzbonya pals of his would likely say: “What’s your problem, Doc? You got a gun—all that wolf’s got are two canines.”

  As he drove home, he started to rethink what he had done. Maybe he should have left those dentures right where they were. The more he thought about it, he couldn’t be sure that someone had actually forgotten their teeth. No, chances were better that someone had hidden them deliberately. If he had learned anything in his thirty-three years as a small-town dentist, it was that people do strange things with teeth.

  More than one patient had saved the dentures of their dear departed. Now that he thought about it, he could see a bereaved widow or friend—in lieu of scattering ashes—carefully tucking away a loved one’s dentures near their favorite hunting ground. He’d better put those teeth right back where he found them.

  Tomorrow. No need to challenge a wolf guarding a fresh kill.

  And why on earth had he locked his car doors? Wolves may be capable of acts of violence, but breaking into cars is not on their list of canine felonies.

  By the time Osborne was nearing his driveway, he was feeling pretty silly. But he forgot everything when he saw his house—lights blazed from every window. The place was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “Grampa! Grampa! Can I walk Mike on the lake? Please, please?” Eight-year-old Mason was jumping up and down at the back door as he approached. Behind her, Mike levitated in unison.

  “Better check with your mom first,” said Osborne.

  “Whaddya think, Dad? That ice is thick enough for her to walk the dog on, isn’t it?” said Erin from inside the kitchen.

  “Ray’s been ice fishing for three weeks—had his truck out there the other day,” said Osborne from the back porch, as he emptied the unused cartridges from the pockets of his hunting vest. The lakes in the region had frozen over by Thanksgiving, and Loon Lake already sported a solid twelve inches.

  “All right with me, kiddo—you better check with Mike,” said Osborne, ruffling Mason’s light-brown hair as he spoke. “If it’s too cold on his paws, he’ll let you know.”

  “I know,” said Mason. “If he dances on three legs, it’s way too cold, and I’ll bring him right back, Grampa.” She spoke with such serious authority that Osborne had to hide a smile. He helped her pull a bright red and yellow stocking cap down over her ears and watched as she thrust her hands into matching mitts.

  “Mason, you look like a sausage in that outfit,” said Osborne, grinning at the sight of the little girl, her red parka zipped tight over quilted bib overalls. The combination of an ecstatic dog and a well-padded youngster heading out the back door jarred memories. How many times had his mother done exactly the same with one of Mike’s predecessors? Life has a wonderful way of repeating itself, he thought as he watched Mason dash after the dog.

  Entering the warm kitchen, Osborne found both his daughters seated at the kitchen table, mugs of hot coffee steaming in front of them. Mallory looked up from a pad of lined paper in front of her, “Surprise, Dad. I got in earlier than I thought I would.” She set down the pen that was in her hand and stood up to give him a hug and a light kiss on the cheek.

  “Great, hon, how’re you doin’?” Was it his imagination, or did Mallory pause for a split second? “Easy drive?” he asked. She would have left her new apartment in Evanston, a solid six hours away, early that morning.

  “Not bad, but I’m glad I drove up today. Sounds like a major winter storm heading this way. I’ll bet the roads will be icy tomorrow.”

  “Oh?” Osborne poured himself a cup of coffee. “The weather forecast must have changed since I heard it around noon.”

  “Dad,” said Mallory as she sat down again, “Erin and I are planning Christmas Eve dinner—standing rib roast with Mom’s wild rice casserole okay with you?”

  It was obviously a rhetorical question, as the two women resumed making their list before he could answer. The sight of their heads bowed, one blond and one dark brown, made his heart feel full. A flash from the past reminded him how lucky he was that he hadn’t lost his family.

  As if she knew what he was thinking, Mallory lifted her eyes to his briefly. “Feels good to be home, Dad. We’ve ordered in pizza. Mark’s bringing it out after he picks up the other kids. Is that okay?”

  “Fine,” said Osborne. “Excuse me a moment, would you? I almost forgot something.” He hurried back out to the porch. From the back of the vest, he pulled out the breast of the one partridge that he’d dressed in the woods. Using the utility sink on the porch, he rinsed it and dried it with a paper towel. Then he took white freezer paper out of the drawer next to the sink and ripped off a sheet.

  As he had since he was a boy, he tucked the ends of the paper neatly around the carcass and rolled it up, securing it with tape, which he kept in the drawer with the freezer paper A black marker was there, too, which he used to date the bird. After slipping the package into a small Ziploc bag, he set it carefully inside the freezer of the porch refrigerator: the fourth in a small stack of mummies.

  Only four birds, but enough to offer an excellent excuse for dinner with Lew. Pleased with that thought, he smiled as he closed the door and walked back into the kitchen.

  “More coffee, Dad?” Erin stood up to refill her mug.

  “Just a touch. Now listen, you two, let me in on some of this planning. Lew’s daughter is coming up from Milwaukee for New Year’s, and I’d like you to meet her and her family.”

  “Oh ho!” said Mallory, rocking back in her chair with a sly grin on her face. She might be thirty-four years old, Osborne thought, but she looked twelve at the moment.

  “Told ya,” said Erin, two years younger than Mallory and just as devious. The two sisters chortled.

  “Jeez, you razzbonyas. You don’t make it easy on the old man.”

  Just then Erin stood up and walked off through the living room. “Excuse me, Dad, I want to check on Mason.” She peered through the large window at the front of Osborne’s living room. “What’s that mound of snow out there?” she called back. “Two docks down on the left.”

  “The Kobernots are icing up a rink this year,” said Osborne. “We had black ice, which makes it easy,” he said, referring to one of the rare times that the lake froze over with no wind blowing. Craig Kobernot was a neurologist at St. Mary’s Hospital. He and his wife, Patrice, had two boys in their early teens who were on the Loon Lake High School hockey team. “The kids will have to bring their skates out.”

  “Dad.” Mallory laid a hand on his as he sat down at the kitchen table. She dropped her voice. “Would it bother you if I did my AA meetings with the group over in Minocqua?”

  “Not at all,” said Osborne, “so long as you d
on’t mind the drive and keep an eye out for deer. You doing okay these days?”

  “Pretty good. Every day isn’t a great day, but you know …” Again, that pause.

  “I know.” Osborne gave her hand a quick pat. He was relieved that she wouldn’t be joining his group in the room at the top of the stairs, the room behind the door with the coffeepot. Why he wasn’t sure, but he was. Maybe because Ray was there?

  “Dad, you don’t have your tree up yet, why not?” said Erin, walking back into the kitchen. “That expensive one that Mom bought in Minneapolis that time? That’s a pretty nice tree for an artificial.”

  “Nice, but fake,” said Osborne. Both daughters caught the edge in his voice and gave him sharp looks. He curbed the impulse to tell them it wasn’t the only thing about their mother that had been fake. “I’ve decided this year I want a real tree.”

  “Then you better act fast,” said Erin, “the Boy Scouts are selling them down in the bank parking lot, and I know they don’t have many left—not if you want something decent.”

  “A real tree is one you cut yourself,” said Osborne. He turned to Mallory. “Got plans tomorrow? I could use a little help.”

  “D-a-a-d, I would love that. We haven’t done that since I was a kid.” Mallory’s face was so radiant, Osborne felt like Santa Claus. A smart Santa to boot—he could find a Christmas tree and return those dentures all at the same time.

  “Boy, I found the darndest thing—” He had just begun to tell the girls about his discovery, when the back door slammed.

  Mason ran into the kitchen, her eyes wide with worry.

  “Grampa, something’s really wrong with Mike! He’s down by that big pile of snow where those boys are skating. He won’t come when I call him. He just keeps giving these little barks—like something’s hurting him.”

  A chill traveled down Osborne’s back. He knew his dog. And it wasn’t the dog that was hurt.