Dead Angler

by Victoria Houston

  “Ah, so he was older when Meredith was born,” said Lew as she sat back down on the sofa.

  “Yes. Dorothy was forty-two. She’d been Pop’s secretary,” added Alicia. “My mother was a Claywell from Farmington, Connecticut.” Osborne almost chuckled. Alicia’s inflections left no doubt as to her opinion of Dorothy. Poor Dorothy, thought Osborne, Alicia would have been serious competition even as an adolescent.

  “What has Meredith been doing since her return?” asked Lew.

  Alicia’s eyes brimmed with tears. She reached for one of the paper napkins she’d set out on the plate with the cheese and crackers.

  “We…,” she bowed her head and crunched the napkin to her eyes, then she inhaled deeply and looked up, fighting back the tears. “We were business partners,” she said. “That’s how I know about the divorce and the final dates. We signed the incorporation papers this week after waiting until the divorce was final so Ben could have no claim against our business.”

  “Which was—?” Lew’s voice held an edge of fatigue. Osborne didn’t blame her for trying to rush Alicia along. A glance at his watch had shown him it was nearly 3:30 in the morning.

  “We’ve been catering for the last six months,” said Alicia. “A select clientele from Manitowish Waters and Land o’ Lakes. We planned to open a restaurant in early October. Meredith was the chef, the creative genius, while I am—was—the business manager.”

  “So that’s why she bought The Willows?” asked Osborne, remembering now all the speculation by the McDonald’s crowd over Meredith Marshall’s purchase of the property. The old estate, built in the 1930’s by a Chicago mobster, was a mansion on a magnificent peninsula in Cranberry Lake that came with many legends attached. Legends and, according to Loon Lake lore, ghosts.

  “Yes. Meredith has been remodeling the boathouse, turning it into The Willow Inn,” said Alicia. “Now … all our plans are … dead, I guess.” She emptied her wine glass and started to stand up.

  “Was Meredith living at the Willows?” asked Lew. “She moved in two months ago. She didn’t close on it until last week.”

  “I see,” said Lew, tapping her pen on her notepad. “Alicia, is there anyone besides Ben who might have had an unhealthy interest in your sister?”

  “If you put that way, yes,” said Alicia. An odd expression crossed her face, an expression that struck Osborne as a mix of indecision and delight.

  “She was dating—actually, she was intimate with this creep from the Lac Vieux Desert casino up in Michigan,” said Alicia, picking her words with ladylike care. “Supposedly he’s a gardener and she wanted him to landscape The Willows.”

  “I take it you have your doubts about this fellow?” Lew’s pen worked busily across the page.

  “I told her she was crazy to even talk to the jerk,” said Alicia, rolling her eyes in disgust. “But he has these cheap good looks. She thought he was cute.”

  “He’s a landscaper?”

  “He’s a waiter at the casino who says he’s a master gardener.

  Frankly, he’s a gigolo,” said Alicia. “And his name, for the record, is Clint Chesnais.”

  “French Canadian?”

  “Indian. Off the res up there. Creep.”

  “But what could he possibly get from your sister?” asked Lew.

  “Money. She opened a landscaping account and put him on as co-signer,” said Alicia. “I told her not to but she did it anyway.”

  “How much money is in the account?”

  “I have no idea. That was her personal business, not connected to the restaurant.”

  “Mrs. Roderick,” Lew stood up and flipped the narrow notebook closed, “If you are up to it, I would like to take a look at your sister’s house tomorrow.”

  “I think that would be all right,” Alicia nodded, standing. The three of them walked back through the living room towards the front hall.

  “Let’s meet at the hospital at nine for the identification, if that’s all right with you,” said Lew. “Then we can go to the house immediately afterwards.”

  “Oh—could we do that later in the afternoon?” asked Alicia. “I have a doctor’s appointment at one and I’ll have all the burial arrangements …”

  “I understand,” said Lew. “Would three o’clock work for you? At the Willows.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Wait for me in the driveway,” said Lew. “And please, don’t enter the house if you arrive before I do.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Alicia. “I won’t. See you tomorrow morning, Chief Ferris,” she said, shaking Lew’s hand as she opened the front door for Lew to leave. Then she turned to Osborne, brushing his shoulder lightly with her hand to stop him. She let the door close behind Lew, watching her as she went, then stepped back into the hall.

  “Paul, you’ll keep some of what you heard tonight confidential?”

  “Of course, Alicia, I’m deputized to work with Chief Ferris on this case. Everything is confidential.”

  “Oh fine then,” said Alicia. She turned her face up to him with a tight little smile on her lips, “You know, someone should tell Mrs. Ferris that girls with bottoms that broad really shouldn’t wear khaki … know what I mean?” She winked as if Lew’s bad taste was to be a private joke between them.

  “Good night, Alicia,” said Osborne curtly. “I am very sorry about your sister.”

  “I just remembered something very interesting,” said Osborne as he opened the door of the cruiser, “Ray mentioned earlier tonight that Peter Roderick has been travelling a lot lately, but the last time Peter and I fished together, he told me he was retiring this summer.”

  Osborne could hear himself talking a little too loudly and too fast, but he was hoping against hope that Lew had not heard Alicia’s snipe.

  “You didn’t mention she was an old girlfriend of yours, Doc,” said Lew, not letting him off the hook.

  “She’s not,” said Osborne, “what do you mean?” He was trying to figure out why he felt guilty as he spoke.

  “I heard her through the open windows,” said Lew, pulling the car away from the curb. “She made sure to say it just loud enough.”

  “Don’t take it personally, Lew. That’s Alicia. She’s always had that nasty side to her—”

  “That was more than nasty, Doc, that was a warning to me: ‘hands off.’ “ Lew turned to him, a half-smile on her face, “you don’t get it, do you?”

  “I guess not,” said Osborne, unsure if he could possibly feel more embarrassed.

  “I may be a cop, Doc, but I’m also a woman. Women have signals. Unmistakable signals.”

  Osborne said nothing. Little did she know how aware he was that she was a woman. Better she shouldn’t know.

  “Wait until you hear how she talks to her husband,” said Osborne, anxious to change the subject. “You played her well, Lew. You played her like those brook trout you caught tonight.”

  “Hah!” Lew snorted. He loved her snort—it said it all.

  “What do you mean, Doc?” He knew she was fishing for the compliment.

  “You know exactly what I mean, Lew,” Osborne looked out the window as he spoke. “You teased her in, you let her run, and you teased her again … The only thing missing in that living room was a double taper fly line running from the sofa to Alicia’s chair.”

  Lew chuckled. “Actually, I needed thirty pound test, Doc. I felt more like I had a musky on the line.”

  “You fish musky, too?”

  “Oh sure,” she said, “right after trout season ends next month, I’ll be out row-trolling for that ‘ol’ shark of the north.’ “

  “No kidding.” Osborne liked the sound of that. Ralph Kendall wouldn’t know beans about muskies. Osborne made up his mind, he would definitely invite Lew to fish his weed beds.

  “But, Doc,” Lew interrupted his thoughts, “there’s a big difference between Alicia Roderick and a musky.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  They headed down Ojibway Drive again, this
time towards the jail and Lew’s office where Osborne had left his car.

  “Yeah. One is a shark. Something I don’t understand, Doc,” said Lew, “how can a woman be so pretty, have all that money and security—and be so damned unkind? Was her sister like that?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask my daughter.”

  Lew swung the cruiser around a corner. “What was it you were going to tell me about that front door of theirs?”

  “Oh that. Right,” said Osborne, nodding happily, “That door was Alicia’s first and, possibly, most famous stunt as Peter’s wife. Now that you’ve met her, you’ll understand. Right after they were married, she ordered that thing from England. Never said a word to Peter until it was here and was hung. So he admires it, opens it, closes it. He finds out the damn thing is something like 250 years old. So he asks how much it is. Alicia tells him and he can’t believe she did it. He told her it had to go back.”

  “Which it obviously did not.”

  “That door cost $20,000 in 1964,” said Osborne. “Can you imagine spending that kind of money on a door?”

  “Guess we know who’s boss in that family.” said Lew. “She seemed to think she was running the investigation for awhile there tonight.”

  “I’ll tell ya,” said Osborne turning to Lew and shaking his head, “I know more about antique radios thanks to that go-dawful woman—”

  “Now why’s that?” Lew glanced at him, “what on earth are you talking about?”

  “Peter Roderick. He’s got this antique radio fetish—he drives hundreds of miles to find them. And if you have the misfortune to sit near him at a dinner party or the fish fry at the Pub, you will hear every detail. Which I have.

  “Actually,” Osborne raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, “I have done so on purpose, Lew. You feel so sorry for the poor guy—the way Alicia takes him apart in public.

  “I’m not the only one. A number of us go out of our way to listen to the man, strictly out of sympathy. He’s good-hearted, but brother can he be a bore. There are times, I tell ya, when I’ve been fishing with the guy, I’ve been desperate to get out of the boat. Between the minutae of the radios and those crazed dogs of his—”

  “Say, Doc. What about the dogs? Where were they tonight?”

  Osborne looked at Lew. “Good question. Now that’s odd, Lew. If Alicia’s so worried about someone breaking in? Why doesn’t she have the dogs around?”

  “Back to Peter, Doc. So all these years he’s taken all this abuse? Been humiliated in front of his friends? Why would a guy do that? Why wouldn’t he just walk out?”

  “Those of us who know Peter have speculated on exactly that issue for years, Chief,” said Osborne. “To the point that the one time he stood his ground, we gave a party. We all went out to Rick French’s deer shack for some poker to celebrate.”

  “Really,” said Lew.

  “Did you notice that mirror in the living room?” asked Osborne.

  “You mean the mirrored wall,” corrected Lew.

  “We call it Peter’s Revenge,” said Osborne. “Everyone knows it came out of an old brothel up in St. Germaine. He picked it up for about twenty bucks at the auction when they tore the place down, then he forced Alicia to hang it in the living room. Absolutely put his foot down. She fumed over that for years.”

  “I’m starting to wonder if someone murdered the wrong sister.”

  Lew angled the cruiser into a parking spot beside Osborne’s station wagon. It was still dark, not quite 4 A.M. They opened their doors and got out.

  Osborne fished his car keys out of his pocket and had turned towards his car when Lew’s soft voice stopped him. She stood behind his car, her briefcase swinging in her left hand.

  “So, Doc,” she said, “I think it’s time we go home and get ready for bed, don’t you? I don’t know what your plans are. I thought I’d put on a little make-up, my best nightie, some hair-spray. Whadda think?”

  Osborne stood in stunned silence, his car key in his hand. What on earth? Then the note of irony in her voice registered. “Lew. You’re right. I thought Alicia was looking pretty good tonight. It never occurred to me—”

  “Of course not, Doc. It takes a woman’s eye.” Lew leaned back against the cruiser, cradling her briefcase in her arms. “When I followed her back to the kitchen, I could see she had that wine bottle with two glasses and the cheese and crackers already set out. She wasn’t happy that I walked in on her either.”

  “Just who do you think she was expecting?”

  Loon Lake was still dark when Osborne pulled his station wagon into his own driveway. He could hear Mike barking a wild welcome inside the house. He was such a good dog, Osborne was sure there had been no accident, even though he should have been back to let Mike out hours ago.

  He hurried through the back porch and opened the kitchen door to let the bounding black Lab through. “C’mon, guy, let’s go down to the lake.” The dog rushed by. Osborne stepped into the dark kitchen to open the refrigerator. He reached for a can of ginger ale, poured it into a tall glass, added an ice cube, then turned to follow the dog down to the dock.

  That’s when he saw the sheet of yellow note paper tacked over the sink: “Doc, I need you in the morning. The ESPN guys asked me to bring a client who can demonstrate while I talk walleyes—you’ll make me look good. Pick you up at nine. Love you forever, Ray.”

  Stinker, thought Osborne. Ray knew darn well he wouldn’t be getting to bed much before dawn. On the other hand, it made him feel good Ray would single him out for the TV thing. It would be fun. Something to talk about at McDonald’s.

  Osborne shut the screen door quietly behind him and followed the dog down to the lake. As Mike busied himself, Osborne sipped at his ginger ale. He looked west over the still-dark lake. The tall tamarack that ringed the eastern shore delayed the early light of dawn, especially in late August as the days shortened. Osborne didn’t mind, he loved the absolute stillness. A soft forest breeze drifted across from the far shore.

  Life was so funny. In less than a year, he’d gone from being a man whose empty days and hours yawned like an abyss to someone whose life overflowed with friends and family and unexpected excitement. Poor Mary Lee was fast becoming a faded, rather crabby, memory. He was happier now than he’d ever been, he thought.

  Even the prospect of getting up to go fishing in less than four hours didn’t bother him. Years of rising at 3 A.M. to go duck-hunting had conditioned him to short nights for the sake of great sport.

  What did bother him were the missing fillings. He swished the ginger ale in the glass as he mulled over that situation. Alicia’s blatant accusation of her ex-brother-in-law didn’t fit, thought Osborne. A business man whose company sees revenue in the millions would not be desperate for a few extra thousand in gold inlays.

  Or would he? A memory that had tugged at the back of his mind ever since he examined Meredith’s mouth suddenly came into focus. Richard Campbell. The resort magnate from Manitowish Waters. Of course, thought Osborne. Why hadn’t he remembered earlier?

  The Campbells had moved up from Chicago in the late 60s, buying one of the North Woods’ finest and largest resorts with money made in the stock market. Richard’s wife had had some of the softest teeth that Osborne had ever seen. Even though the days of gold inlays were fast coming to an end, Richard had insisted on the best for Harriett. Just a year after Osborne had finished all that work, she died. Breast cancer. Richard had called him from the hospital.

  “Paul,” he’d said, “I can’t bear the thought of all that money six feet under. What can we do about it?” Osborne had helped him out, of course. Richard wasn’t desperate. Richard was frugal. It was how he made his fortune in the first place.

  Osborne called to Mike. Slowly, he and the dog ambled back up to the house. Could Ben be that kind of guy? Osborne figured, conservatively, Meredith’s mouth had held ten to fifteen thousand dollars worth of precious metal. Maybe. Made more sense if a man with a lot less money was
involved.

  Osborne slipped off to sleep instantly, deeply. But when he woke to the ringing of his alarm at 8:30, the dream was as vivid as if he were still in it. The cold body on the steel drawer. The lean, well-toned body with its pale breasts. Only this body carried not the face of Meredith Marshall, but a face he knew intimately: Mallory Osborne Miller.

  Osborne whipped off the alarm and jumped to his feet. Ray would have to wait a few minutes. He had to call his daughter.

  nine

  Twenty minutes later, teeth freshly brushed, coffee percolating in his battered old Mirro pot and the party line finally clear so he could have a turn, Osborne stood in his kitchen, by the wall phone, and geared himself up to talk to his oldest daughter. He hoped his neighbors would accord him some privacy and not listen in.

  Osborne let the Lake Forest line ring and ring. Finally, Mallory’s answering machine kicked in. Whispery clicks on the line made him fairly certain someone was listening. Oh well, Loon Lake had to hear about the tragedy sometime. He waited for the beep, “Mallory, it’s Dad. Please call me as soon as you can. It’s urgent, hon,” Osborne started to hang up. Suddenly he heard Mallory’s real voice.

  “Dad? Hold on, let me turn this off.” As Mallory dealt with her answering machine, Osborne let his breath out in relief. Her voice was spirited and clear, not the slurred, slow cadence he’d come to expect when he called in the evenings. Mallory worried him these days. She appeared to be following a family tradition, one he was reluctant to discuss with her. Close as he was to his youngest daughter, Erin, he had always been distant with Mallory. She was Mary Lee’s child. It had always been so.

  “Dad—you caught me running out the door for a tennis match. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got some sad news, kiddo.”

  “O-o-h …,” her voice tightened. He could feel her prepare herself, “not Erin or Mark or the baby, Dad?” She named her sister’s family.

  “No, no, everyone is fine. An old friend of yours, Meredith Marshall, died yesterday.”

  “Dad! That’s not possible. Tell me that’s not true—Meredith! We had lunch just a few weeks ago. She looked like a million dollars. Was she sick? What happened?”