Dead Angler

by Victoria Houston

  “Understandable, kiddo. Say,” he dropped his voice, “Ben Marshall arrived on the flight just before yours.”

  “Oh yeah? I’m sure Meredith’s sister will love that,” said Mallory. “Tell her it’s my fault. I called him after you called me. I knew she wouldn’t. I never thought he’d come.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “A woman? He brought his girlfriend?!” Mallory’s face freshened up at the news like a garden after a summer storm. “Dad, I don’t believe it. What an arrogant pig that man is. Actually, I do believe it, given everything else he’s done.”

  Walking over to Osborne’s station wagon, Mallory peered into the empty crate resting in the back of the car: “Where’s my buddy? Where’s my favorite, Osborne?”

  “Mike? He’s waiting for us in Erin’s backyard. He’s got his ball all slobbered up—just waiting for you,” said Osborne, relieved she was feeling better.

  Moments later, as they pulled onto Highway Eight toward Loon Lake, Mallory said in a business-like tone as she adjusted her dress, “I’m leaving Steve, Dad.”

  Osborne didn’t answer right away, but he felt something lift from his shoulders. It was Ray who put it best during one of their sessions behind the door with the coffee pot: knowing the terror defuses the tension. He was surprised and yet he wasn’t.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he said softly.

  “Later.” Her voice was firm. He glanced at her. Her mouth was trembling. He thought of the slurred messages on the phone, their infrequent, clipped conversations over the recent months. Mallory was in trouble, but she wasn’t asking for help. So far, unlike her mother, she wasn’t whining.

  She looked out the windshield at the gloomy sky, “Great day for a funeral, Dad.”

  Osborne pulled the wheel to the left as he turned up Erin’s street. Great day for a funeral, great day to hear of the death of a marriage, great day for a chat with a killer. Heck of a Tuesday.

  nineteen

  Ten minutes later, Osborne parked his station wagon in front of Erin’s big white Victorian house. His heart lifted at the sight of the open porch with the bright yellow and green trim. Petunias, pansies, and fuchsia overflowed from hanging baskets and clay pots that crowded the stairs. His youngest daughter had a way of making everything around her seem sunny.

  The house was the oldest Victorian in Loon Lake, and Osborne could never get over how much hard work had gone into restoring it—and how much of it Erin and her husband Mark had done themselves. He was always impressed with the energy level of his younger daughter. Wife, mother of three, president of the Loon Lake school board, gardener, cook, and furniture refinisher. And she taught part-time at the Rhinelander Montessori school.

  They were close, he and Erin. They had breakfast together once a week, and he thoroughly enjoyed hearing about the frustrations of daily life in a small town, the kids in school, her husband’s law practice. He’d developed a strong friendship with this daughter ever since Mary Lee’s death. Through her he’d learned it wasn’t the money but the listening that counted. She was happy in her life. He knew that.

  Erin stepped out the front door as they started up the sidewalk. She was dressed for the funeral in a fitted navy blue linen jacket buttoned over a softly gathered creamy skirt that reached to her ankles. Her long blonde hair hung down her back in a braid, and she balanced one-year-old Cody, Osborne’s first grandson, on her hip. While Mallory’s darkness reflected her grandmother’s Meteis bloodline, Erin’s fair skin and white-blonde hair was evidence of the Norwegian grandfather.

  “Hurry on in before it rains,” she waved. “Come share the dregs of the coffee pot, you guys.”

  They followed her into the long, airy living room. The sisters embraced. Osborne loved the picture he saw: his lively eyed, slender-bodied daughters plopping down on an old overstuffed sofa in a room full of interesting and colorful things. Not expensive, traditional stuff like Mary Lee had always wanted, but what Erin called “funky.” Old furniture and antiques, comfortable sofa and chairs, nothing young children couldn’t clamber on. The room was full of life. Erin was full of questions.

  “You can change in a few minutes,” she instructed her elder sister. “We got thirty minutes until we have to be at the church. So tell me—do you think Ben killed Meredith? Why did they split anyway? Does he have another bimbo?”

  “Hold on,” said Mallory, “first I get to hold Cody, then I get coffee, then I talk.”

  “Okay, okay,” Erin jumped up, dropping her son on her sister’s lap. The child promptly rolled off in the direction of a wooden train set scattered across the rag rug under their feet. Erin returned immediately with two cups of hot black coffee. “Not really dregs,” she said, “just brewed in honor of your visit. So—talk!”

  “Well, here’s what I know,” said Mallory, relishing her role as primary source.

  “I remember when Meredith met Ben. They were still in school, and he was a cute guy. Much thinner, of course. And a real party animal. He liked her because she was blonde and she was pretty—”

  “In that order?” interrupted Erin.

  “Pretty much. Personally, I think she married him because he was cute and rich and…,” Mallory paused for effect, “… the first man she slept with.”

  “Ah hah, the ‘good Catholic girl syndrome,’ “ said Erin.

  “Tell me about it,” said Mallory, and the two sisters hooted in laughter. Osborne laughed along, so happy to be sitting and listening. He wasn’t often privy to these sisterly performances so he forgot they shared a directness and a ribald sense of humor that they certainly did not inherit from their mother. Where it came from he had no idea, but he loved it.

  “They did fine until Meredith complained because he went on all these guy trips all the time with his buddies. You know, the usual hunting, fishing, gambling, and drinking rituals that go with being Irish and a commodity trader.”

  “They go with being male and stupid,” said Erin.

  “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

  “Sorry.”

  “So she goes back to school then gets diverted into the cuisine career, etc., etc.—you know all that, right?” “Right.”

  “About five years ago, Ben makes some bad trades in the copper market and loses a lot of money. He then decides to make up for it by churning some family accounts. Unfortunately, he picks a brother and sister who find out what he’s doing, complain to the old man and—boom—Ben’s out of the family business.”

  “I didn’t know this,” said Osborne, sitting forward in his chair. He pulled a pen and a small notebook from inside his sport coat. Mallory looked at him in surprise.

  “Mal, didn’t you know Dad is a part-time cop these days?” said Erin.

  “I knew he found the body,” said Mallory.

  “He’s working this case,” said Erin, a broad grin spreading across her face as she added, “I think he has a crush on the police chief.”

  “I do not,” Osborne protested, feeling silly.

  “He doesn’t know it, yet,” said Erin. “Trust me.”

  “Ooohh, Dad,” said Mallory. “We have to talk.”

  “Hey, the good side is this could cut down his time with the stuffed minnow hat,” said Erin, referring to Ray. Both his daughters were edgy about his friendship with Ray, whom they considered a serious loose cannon.

  “Back to Meredith,” said Mallory, glancing at her watch. “I have to change in a minute. After about six months, Ben finds another firm that will take him in, but he has to invest some of his own money to get the job. By this time, Meredith is making very good money on the restaurant and the book deals. Ben asks her to back him with her cash—and she refuses. I know this because she came to Steve for advice.”

  “Why did Steve tell her not to?” asked Osborne.

  “He’s never liked Ben. He thought the churning was a crooked thing to do, and he basically told Meredith to expect Ben to screw her, too. So she said no, and he got himself a girlfrie
nd.”

  “Did she know that?”

  “Not right away. But she knew saying no would damage her marriage. She was ready to get out. Ben finally wheedled the money out of his mother.”

  “If all this happened four years ago, why didn’t she leave him then?” asked Osborne.

  “She was just too darn busy, Dad. She had two restaurants going, she had the books to write. But when her father got so sick, she realized she was going to have even more money, and she didn’t want Ben to get any part of it. And who knows? Meredith had a weird side to her, too. She told me that before they were married, Ben had a fling with Alicia.”

  “Really,” said Erin, quietly. “Up here?”

  “Yep, the first time Meredith brought him to meet her folks. I don’t know the whole story. All she told me was Alicia came onto Ben in the swimming pool at her place, and there was some kissing, but that was that. She was infatuated with him in those days so she let it go.”

  “Funny she trusted Alicia to go into business with her.”

  “Family meant everything to Meredith,” said Mallory. “In the long run, once she knew the real Ben, she probably thought it was all Ben’s fault.”

  “Jeez,” said Osborne, “Alicia is what—fourteen, fifteen years older than Ben?”

  “Dad,” said Erin, a tinge of disgust in her voice, “how many years do you have on Miss Police Chief?”

  Osborne started to protest then quit. Time was running out before Mass, and he wanted to know one more thing—”Mallory,” he asked, “why do you think Ben would take a moving van and break into their house?”

  “Control, Dad. She said she was leaving him, and he showed her he could walk back into her life anytime he wanted. He’s not a very nice guy. End of story—where can I change?”

  “Use my bedroom,” said Erin, standing up. “By the way, how’s Steve?”

  “Mr. Sunshine?” said Mallory, a teasing tone in her voice.

  Erin’s room was just off the hall. She left the door open as she changed, calling out to her sister.

  “C’mon,” Erin called back, “how often do I have to apologize for calling him that. He’s just a little dour sometimes, y’know.”

  “He’s real dour these days,” said Mallory. “I filed for divorce yesterday.”

  “Are you serious?” Erin threw a look of grave concern at her father.

  “Quite,” said Mallory. “I’m going back to school. I start next week.”

  “Mallory—why haven’t you called to tell me this?” said Erin.

  “I don’t know,” said Mallory walking back into the room. She wore a tailored black silk short skirt and jacket. “It’s been a hard summer.” Her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. Erin reached out to wrap her arms around her.

  “Look,” said the younger sister, “I’ll send the kids over to Mark’s mom’s place tonight. Why don’t you stay here with me? Okay?”

  “No,” Mallory shook her head, the tears rolling down her cheeks. “No, I want to stay with Dad. I have to talk to Dad.”

  Oh my God, thought Osborne. Oh my God. Erin’s eyes caught his. She had been the daughter who forced the intervention that saved his life. The things that were said during that time had been so painful. The damage wreaked by Mary Lee and his inability to stop it had shamed him. Would he have to face the pain again? Erin’s eyes told him he must.

  twenty

  Osborne, Erin, and Mallory hurried down the sidewalk that ran along the side of the church. The sky was still threatening, and Osborne thought he felt a few drops. Rounding the corner, they rushed up the steps into a crowd of dark-suited men. Over their shoulders, Osborne caught a glimpse of the flower-draped casket.

  “No you don’t!” he heard a high-pitched woman’s voice, dangerously close to hysterics.

  “Yes … I … do,” came the gruff, uncompromising answer. “This is my wife. Now get out of the way, Alicia.”

  Gregg Anderle, owner of the funeral parlor, backed away from the crowd to turn a reddened face to Osborne and throw his hands up in despair. “We’ll never get this show on the road,” he whispered in a hoarse low tone. “I may need two more caskets before this is over.”

  “Ben, be understanding…,” Osborne recognized Peter Roderick’s voice.

  “Make that three—,” said Gregg.

  Osborne jockeyed for a full view of the scene just as Father Vodicka appeared. “What’s the brouhaha?” The priest’s measured question prompted simultaneous responses from Ben and Alicia.

  “All right, one at a time,” he said. “Keep your voices down please. This is a house of worship.”

  “It is not appropriate for my sister’s ex-husband to be a pallbearer,” said Alicia, teeth gritted.

  “Whoa—the venom in that voice,” whispered Erin into Osborne’s ear. “Why doesn’t she come right out and accuse him of murder?”

  “I am not her ex-husband, Father,” Ben faced the priest calmly, though Osborne could see an artery pulsing across his right temple. “Yes, a divorce was in process …,” he turned to Alicia, “I have been trying to explain that I have received no signed papers. Until then, I am legally wed to the deceased.” Ben looked back at the priest, his face drawn and tight, “My wife and I—I had hoped we could reconcile, Father, and I think it highly appropriate that I be allowed to assist here today. I loved this woman …”

  “Oh, give me a break.” This time it was Mallory who whispered in his ear.

  Father Vodicka bent his head in thought. He had been the pastor of St. Mary’s for nearly forty years and, Osborne knew, had had more than his own share of run-ins with Alicia.

  The year Alicia and Mary Lee had been co-chairs of the holiday art auction had been a nightmare for the poor priest who had had to deal with dozens of calls from irate parishioners whose contributions were sneered at or rudely refused by the two women. “One more duck painting and I’ll vomit,” Alicia had exclaimed in front of a well-known regional artist, member of the church, and potential donor. Yep, thought Osborne waiting the decision, the good priest knew the score.

  “Alicia,” said Father Vodicka softly, “take your place in the family pew, please.”

  Alicia stayed right where she was, glaring at him. She wore a full-skirted black dress with a crisp white silk collar, giving her a distinctive Mother Superior look, a look exaggerated by her haughty expression.

  “Alicia …,” the priest refused to be intimidated, his feet planted like tree trunks under his black vestments, hands folded and unmoving. The set of his jaw implied he had faced down Mother Superiors before, and he could do it again.

  As if she knew she had pushed as hard as she could, Alicia gave one more round of dirty looks then huffed down the center aisle toward the altar.

  “Peter,” the priest pointed to the front of the casket, “you take the right side, Ben, you take the left.”

  “O-o-o-h, Round One to Ben.” This was a male voice that whispered in his ear, and Osborne turned to face the entertained eyes of Ray Pradt. “Let’s hope he comes to the wake, huh? Par-r-r-d-e-e-e-e.”

  Leave it to Ray to see humor in this horrific situation, thought Osborne. He knew Ray was already thinking of the terrific story he could tell around the bar if Ben was so brazen as to challenge Alicia on her own ground.

  Another male voice spoke up from behind Osborne, “Father, I would like to be included, please.” Clint Chesnais stepped forward. Father Vodicka nodded, and Chesnais moved into formation behind Peter Roderick. Osborne saw Peter catch Chesnais’ eye and give a slight nod of recognition. The fourth and final pallbearer was an elderly man whose name Osborne could not recall, though he knew the gentleman had been a manager under Meredith’s father.

  At last, Meredith was allowed to proceed to the same altar where she had been baptized, received the sacraments of Communion and Confirmation, been wed and would now be blessed in death.

  Blessed? Osborne questioned the concept. What was blessed about that ugly moment when someone, possibly someone attending he
r funeral today, slammed the life from her eyes? What was blessed about the rage that simmered between the people who had known her best?

  The small church was nearly full. As the guests proceeded forward to take Communion, Osborne let his eyes wander across the lines and beyond to the pews behind him. Cynthia Lewis was there with her husband and children. The fellows from the hunting shack and most of the McDonald’s coffee crowd.

  Other familar faces were folks who would have known the family over the years, maybe attended high school with Meredith or Alicia. A smaller group, easy to spot because they were a little too casually dressed, had to be the curious. Those who had heard that foul play was an option and wanted an up-close view. The same idiots that always rushed to the scene of a car accident.

  More interesting, he thought, was who didn’t attend: George Zolonsky, recipient of a very healthy check from Meredith. When he pointed that out later, Ray responded that George’s absence was a good sign: “Means he’s on the road with my boats, Doc. Pre-fishing begins 8:00 A.M. tomorrow. If he’s not here, he sure as heck better be there.”

  Planning to drive himself and his daughters out to the cemetery for the interment, Osborne left the family pew a few minutes early in order to bring his car around to the front of the church. He walked quickly back down the aisle to the front of the church and through the swinging doors into the vestibule. At the same time, the doors on the other side swung open, and a young man in his early thirties waved at him.

  “Dr. Osborne,” he said. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

  “Certainly,” Osborne kept moving out the main doors. The man ran down the steps alongside him.

  “I’m Tom Chandler, a lawyer here in town,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve met, but I understand you are working with Chief Ferris on this case. I had a case on the docket at the Court House yesterday and heard about it through the grapevine.”

  Osborne stopped to look at him. He wasn’t surprised. The Court House adjoined the jail and Lew’s office. Since all the cigarette smokers took their breaks at the same spot, any news in any office spread instantly through both buildings. “Yes, I’m somewhat involved. Why?”