Dead Angler

by Victoria Houston

  “I’m a fly-fisherman, and I was fishing the Prairie that night, too. I think I might have waded that stretch where you found the body about two or three hours before you did. I always park near the old bridge and work my way down and back.”

  “Really? I didn’t see any other cars …”

  “I left before you got there—I don’t like to fish in stormy weather.”

  “I learned the hard way,” said Osborne with a wry chuckle.

  “At one point, I climbed out of the river to take a short break. I walked back into the brush about forty feet—I needed a little privacy, y’know. And I found something back in the bushes that I didn’t think much about at the time, but since I heard that the victim may have died from a blow to the head, I thought you should see it. My car is behind the church, which way are you going?”

  “Same direction,” said Osborne. The car was parked in the direction of Erin’s house. “Let’s take a look.”

  The two men hurried over to Chandler’s Jeep. He opened the rear door and pointed. Osborne looked down at a four-foot length of wood nearly identical to the slender trunks he’d seen the day before. “My fiancée and I silkscreen fish prints, and I love to use this particular wood for the frames, which is why I picked it up in the first place.

  “It’s black spruce,” said the lawyer. “I was pretty delighted to find it. But see how it was hand-cut? That’s strange. I’ll tell you something else—I have never found black spruce growing along the Prairie. And I look for it all the time.”

  “May I have this?” asked Osborne. “And I’d like Chief Ferris to hear what you have to say, too.”

  “Of course.”

  The burial at the cemetery proceeded without incident, Ben keeping his distance from Alicia and Peter. Osborne and the girls stood off to one side with other family friends. From that distance, Peter Roderick appeared to be his old self though maybe a touch more grizzled and hang-dog than usual.

  A luncheon followed, served by the church ladies in the school cafeteria as was the custom after a funeral Mass. As was the custom, too, Father Vodicka had invited everyone attending the funeral service, so the cafeteria was crowded.

  Lunch was simple: tuna fish casserole, Parker House buns, a watery coleslaw, and chocolate pudding for dessert. Ben elected to sit with Osborne, Mallory, and Erin. Everyone dedicated themselves to polite discourse, avoiding all mention of murder, mayhem, divorce, and adultery. Osborne was particularly proud of Erin’s restraint, as he knew she was bursting to drill Ben. He was grateful, too, that Ray, responsible for filling in the gravesite, did not appear. Who knows what he would have said to Ben.

  Across the room were Alicia and Peter. Osborne kept trying to get a glimpse of Peter, but the constant parade of sympathizers shaking either his or his wife’s hand made it difficult. He gave up and resolved to wait to talk with him at the wake.

  Just as they were finishing up and Osborne was enjoying the last spoonful of pudding, a beefy man with a rugged face under his sandy crew cut, tapped Mallory on her black silk shoulder. She turned, a look of pleasant surprise crossing her face.

  “Randy!” she stood up to take a warm hug from the man. “Dad, you remember Randy Nuttle. He took me to the Junior Prom. We double-dated with Meredith and Jeff Danner. Gee, Randy, you’re looking good …”

  As she turned back to Randy, chattering enthusiastically, Osborne caught Erin’s eye. They knew Randy Nuttle too well. He was the new owner of Thunder Bay Bar. Osborne knew, too, that Lew’s drug dealer “tip list” for Wayne would likely have one name right at the top: Randy Nuttle. Osborne remembered his relief years ago when Mallory’s interest in Randy had finally fizzled, but only after she left for college. Until then, he’d been worried, and Mary Lee had been furious—Mary Lee’s fury serving only one purpose, of course: to goad Mallory on.

  Suddenly, pushing Randy aside and speaking in a sharp shrill voice that reminded Osborne of his late wife, Alicia loomed over their table, shaking a finger at Ben: “You’ve got Mother’s diamond brooch and I want it back.”

  As if he’d seen her coming, Ben looked up from his pudding with no change of expression. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he swallowed the spoonful and slowly dipped for more. Osborne thought Alicia was going to take a swing at him. She stood there, her eyes fixed in fury. “I want those diamonds, Ben—and I want you out of here. Now!”

  Ben stood up, shoved his chair into the table. He faced her off, his eyes pinpoint black, the artery throbbing at his temple. “You want too much, Alicia. You always have. Now you’ve got it. But you’ve lost the only person who ever truly loved you.” He wiped his lips with his napkin and threw it down on the table, “Meredith loved you in spite of your nasty little habits. I never understood why. But she did—ain’t life crazy?”

  Alicia opened her mouth to retort, but Ben raised his hand, “Don’t say a word. I’ll see you at the lawyer’s tomorrow. If those papers weren’t signed, you won’t see a penny, babe.”

  With that he walked from the table and out the swinging doors of the cafeteria. The entire room was silent after as he left. Then a polite buzz picked up. Alicia turned to Osborne and his daughters, her face pale but set, “You’ll join Peter and me at the house, won’t you?”

  One hour later, Osborne was glad of one thing: the Rodericks’ house was air-conditioned, the only Loon Lake residence that was. Outside, the threatening storm had continued to build, air growing heavier by the minute, the humidity so high that nearly everyone arriving for the wake entered patting foreheads and temples with handkerchiefs or Kleenex.

  Loon Lake loved wakes. The house was already crowded with friends and neighbors eating and drinking. Osborne and Mallory stood munching brownies in the cavernous dining room as Erin chatted nearby.

  “That cost plenty,” said Mallory, surveying the brass chandelier that hung over the long mahagony table. “She must have picked it up in Chicago. It certainly isn’t early Shultz,” she laughed, referring to Loon Lake’s only furniture dealer.

  Erin waved them over to a side table in a small alcove where Alicia had set out a leather-bound family photo album and a silver-framed photograph of Meredith that must have been from her college graduation.

  “Hey, Mal,” she said, flipping the album open enthusiastically, “I’ll bet you’re in some of these—weren’t you and Meredith best friends in junior high?” Osborne watched over their shoulders as they turned pages carefully. “Yes! Look,” said Mallory, excitedly. “Girl Scout camp. Oh my gosh, aren’t we funny looking?” Erin held the album page up so Osborne could see.

  Mallory continued turning the pages after Erin drifted off to talk to another friend. Most of the photos showed Meredith with her mother, but several were of the senior Sutliffs with the two girls: Meredith around age five, blonde and angelic, Alicia in her late teens, stick thin and looking awkward.

  “Is it my imagination,” Osborne asked Mallory, “or does Alicia look unhappy in these? Look—” He took the album from Mallory and flipped back to a shot of what appeared to be the family at Thanksgiving dinner, everyone smiling at the camera except Alicia. “And here, see this?” He paged ahead to a summer photo taken at a cabin somewhere. In both pictures, Meredith and her mother looked happy and relaxed. Not Alicia. Staring straight at the camera, she glowered, a sullen anger evident in her features. The photos had faded slightly, but her eyes burned right off the page.

  “Isn’t that interesting,” mused Mallory. “I didn’t know Meredith until junior high so I don’t remember much about Alicia. She was already out of college and married to Peter. But I never liked her. I still don’t. I always thought it was funny she and Mom became such good friends.”

  “That was partly because Peter is my age,” said Osborne.

  “So they socialized with an older crowd. Speaking of Peter, I need to find him. Excuse me, Mallory.”

  Osborne moved through the clusters of chatting guests, shaking hands and exchanging remarks. The group seemed a little m
ore subdued than usual, perhaps because of the questions surrounding Meredith’s death. Peter was nowhere to be seen. It occurred to Osborne to wonder if the man was deliberately avoiding him.

  Just then he heard his name called and looked over the crowd to see Alicia waving at him. He made his way through the crowd toward her. “You have a phone call, Paul,” she said. “Do you mind taking it in the kitchen?”

  “Not at all.” He stepped into the kitchen with her. She pointed to a wall phone near the back door. Several women were at the kitchen sink, cleaning up platters and plates.

  “Hello, Doc, it’s Lew. How’re things going over there?”

  “Pretty calm,” he turned away and dropped his voice, aware that Alicia was hovering nearby, wrapping leftovers with Saran Wrap. “A few things here and there.”

  “Talk to Peter yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “I got the lab report from Wausau this morning. They confirmed your reading—a single blow to the back of the head killed her. She sustained two, but the first one did the job. They took some slivers from her skull and sent them down to the Center for Wood Anatomy Research in Madison. They can tell us what type of wooden object was used by the killer, they may be able to ID the specific piece of wood even. Be several weeks until results however.”

  Osborne cupped his hand over his mouth. Alicia, now putting away glassware, had parked herself about three feet away. This was worse than trying to have a private conversation on his home party line.

  “Any news on Peter?”

  “Still working on it,” he muttered.

  “What? Oh … you can’t talk now, can you.”

  “No.”

  “Maybe we should tonight?” “We better.”

  “Okay. I was hoping you might have some time to compare notes. I know your daughter is in town—”

  “She’s having dinner with her sister,” said Osborne, taking his hand down from his mouth. “Why don’t you come by my place about six, Lew. We’ll cast a few flies from the dock. Maybe you would coach me on my double haul.”

  “You want to fish?” her voice picked up in delight. “Let’s check out the Gudegast. It’s only five minutes from your place. We’ll just go for an hour or so.”

  “That’ll be fine,” said Osborne, letting his voice return to a normal register. “I don’t expect Mallory home until eight or so. See you at six, my place.”

  Alicia gave him a nervous smile as he hung up the phone. “Was that Chief Ferris? Any news?”

  “No,” said Osborne, deciding it was Lew’s choice when to share the news, “just confirming a fishing date.”

  Alicia gave him a shaky smile and reached toward him with both arms. Osborne gave her as impersonal a hug as he could manage, then drifted back into the party. The woman was really getting on his nerves.

  A small but lively crowd had gathered at one end of the living room, some in chairs, some standing, drinks or bottles of beer in hand. Hearing everyone burst into laughter, Osborne recognized a familiar scene: Ray was holding court. As he approached, he could hear Ray’s voice, rising and falling as he built the momentum of his story, pausing for audience appreciation. On cue, everyone laughed again. Then Ray must have delivered the punch line as several people turned away, laughing so hard they had to wipe tears from their eyes.

  Mallory was one. Sitting off to the right in a chair alongside the sofa where Ray was ensconced, she was tuned to every syllable, an open-mouthed grin across her face. Osborne could not recall when he had seen her so happy. Sometime in her childhood maybe? The day she caught that big walleye? Osborne stopped at the edge of the group. It was a story he had heard many times.

  He watched his daughter. The laughter lingered on her face, and her eyes remained fixed on Ray, even when someone else entered the conversation.

  Ray looked remarkably good. Having his hair and beard professionally trimmed for the ESPN appearance had inspired him to outfit himself appropriately for a change. Gone was the stuffed minnow hat and the fishing khakis. In their place, dark brown gabardine slacks and a nicely fitting slubbed silk tan sport coat. A crisp white shirt, open at the neck, highlighted his deep tan. The star fishing guide and stalwart grave digger looked almost like a college professor. But it was a big “almost”—he wore a fuchsia tie emblazoned with a brilliant lime-green leaping walleye.

  Tearing his eyes away from the lurid fish on Ray’s chest, Osborne realized with a start what that look on his daughter’s face meant. As he watched her, Mallory stood up, reached for Ray’s empty glass and left the room. She returned with it moments later. Setting it down in front of him with her left hand, she let her right hand linger on his shoulder. There was no doubting the significance of the touch. Ray appeared not to notice, until she turned away to sit down again. The look on Ray’s face told Osborne his hunch was right: Mallory was flirting with Ray. And Ray was as surprised as her father.

  Surprised and concerned. Much as he loved Ray and considered him one of his closest friends, he knew Ray’s faults. And he sure as heck didn’t favor having him as a family member.

  Osborne mulled over a few tidbits he might share with Mallory to curb her interest. For example, he could bring up Ray’s long-standing liason with Donna, the faithful standby who mends his shirts. Or his obsession with the high school girlfriend turned fashion model, the elegant beauty who flies back every summer in her private jet to visit her mother … and doesn’t sleep at her mother’s every night.

  Osborne’s eyes had drifted up to the mirror over Ray’s head. Suddenly he realized two deep-set, unhappy eyes had been staring at his reflection from the back of the room. He turned and walked back quickly, determined to greet the man face to face.

  “Pete, I am so sorry about Meredith. Alicia seems to be holding up okay. How ‘bout yourself? I hear you just got back from Japan to all this.”

  “Thank you, Doc,” said Peter. He might be the well-dressed host, but he smelled like one of the old whiskey stills they uncovered back behind the deer shack. Osborne backed off ever so slightly. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Gee, I don’t think so,” Peter looked around the room vacantly, shaking the ice cubes in his empty glass. “Alicia’s got it all organized, y’know.”

  “As always,” offered Osborne in a friendly tone. “You know, Pete, I was surprised when she told me you were traveling. I thought you retired a few months ago.”

  “I did.” Peter’s weary eyes avoided Osborne’s. His cheeks seemed to hang lower than ever, the mouth was pursed. “I had some opportunities that were too good to pass up,” he said, pushing enthusiasm into his voice.

  As if to tell his old friend he didn’t believe him, Osborne said, “Pete, you look tired.” It was an understatement. He looked dead. “Come by McDonald’s tomorrow for coffee.”

  “I’d like that,” Peter raised his glass. “I need a refill.” He started to walk away, then he stopped. Without looking up, he said simply, “This is not a good time, Paul. Not a good time.”

  Osborne turned back to Ray’s crowd, but Mallory had disappeared. He found Erin in the dining room, wrapped up in earnest discussion over the pending school budget referendum.

  “Erin, where’s Mallory?” asked Osborne.

  “She left, Dad, said she was going to visit an old friend. Don’t worry, she’ll be at my house for dinner at six. We’ll drive her out to your place later.”

  twenty-one

  Osborne walked from the Rodericks’ house back to Erin’s sweating all the way. Gray clouds laced with feathers of white scudded so low to the treetops that he kept an eye out for funnels. The air had turned the peculiar green that telegraphs tornado activity.

  Not surprised to find the interior of his car blistering hot, he quickly lowered all the windows, hoping the sky wouldn’t open up while he was inside getting the dog.

  Erin’s babysitter had all the windows and doors wide open. As Mike barreled toward him from the kitchen, he shouted a warning back toward the family room where the
teenager was watching television with his grandchildren.

  “Trish, you better be ready to close everything up. If you hear sirens, take the kids down to the basement …” She waved at him and leaped up to follow his instructions. He wasn’t worried. She was a responsible kid and tornado warnings were a familiar phenomenon over Loon Lake summers. Osborne and Mike headed home.

  It was four-fifteen when he turned down Loon Lake Road and coasted past the year-round homes that had replaced cabins over the years. At Greystone Lodge, one of the few remaining resorts, he slowed to check out the cars parked in front of the main lodge and the housekeeping cottages.

  At his own driveway, he stopped the car, leaving the motor running, and got out to let Mike into the house. He headed back toward Greystone. Seconds later, he pulled into the parking lot. Chances were good he might find Ben Marshall at the bar, since he and Meredith had often stayed there in the past.

  Just as he stepped out of the car, Julie, the owner’s daughter ran toward him from the entrance to the bar. Even in a white tank top and cut-off shorts, she looked hot and unhappy. A chubby brunette in her late twenties, Julie’s face was red, loose strands of dark hair plastered damply to her forehead.

  “Dr. Osborne,” she called, “are you in the volunteer fire department?”

  “No, why?” Osborne, walked toward her and the bar.

  “Oh shoot.” she said. “Do you know anybody who is? We’ve got a guest missing. I just hope we don’t have a drowning. I tried Chief Ferris, but she’s out and both deputies are tied up, so I have to call for volunteers. Oh good, here comes somebody now. They musta heard me on the phone.”

  Like Osborne, the lodge was tied to the party line serving all the residents along the shoreline. More than one household managed to eavesdrop pretty steadily on conversations. Whenever Osborne thought he was being too mean-spirited in suspecting such busybodies, something like this would happen and confirm his suspicions.