A battered black Jeep pulled in behind Osborne’s car, the yellow signal beam identifying a volunteer fireman flashing behind the windshield. Julie ran to talk to the driver while Osborne opened the door to the bar.
Julie’s father, Larry Snowden, was behind the bar on the phone. “Calm down, sweetheart, everything’s going to be okay,” Osborne heard him saying. A shrill female voice echoed from the phone, which Larry now held away from his ear, raising his eyebrows in frustration. He let the screaming go on for about ten seconds.
“Look sweetheart, cursing me out isn’t going to find your boyfriend any faster. I’ll tell ya what, you come up here to the bar … no, no, just come on up. We need you anyway to give a description.”
Then he hung up and turned to Osborne, “Jeez, I’m gonna cancel the rest of these damn Chicago reservations. These people are impossible. Can’t walk from their cabin to the dock without getting lost. And the abuse from their women—unbelievable.
What can I get ya, Doc? The usual?” Larry was already reaching for a mug.
Osborne was contemplating his frosty mug of ginger ale when the woman slammed through the doorway. He hadn’t had a chance to ask Larry if Ben Marshall was registered there. Now he didn’t need to—the woman on the edge of hysteria was the same blonde he’d seen with Ben at the airport. She was wearing a variation on her theme: low-cut black top, tight white slacks. Only this time she looked upset.
“Listen, big guy,” she drilled her words at Larry, “I demand you call the state police this instant. I’m going to stand here and watch you do it, damn it. You have exactly two people out looking for Ben, and that is not enough!” She banged her fist on the bar. “He’s been missing for hours, he’s dead, he’s drowned.”
“He went for a walk, Miss. We know he’s not on the water. He’s been a guest here before. I assure you he’s off enjoying himself somewhere like you do when you’re on vacation—”
“Don’t ‘Miss’ me, you … you …,” she stammered. “I may be blonde, but I’m not a bimbo. I … I’m a purchasing agent!”
“Wait—Ben?” Osborne interrupted, looking from Larry to the blonde and back to Larry. “You aren’t talking about Ben Marshall, are you?”
“Yes!” the blonde almost landed on him with both feet. She thrust her face into his, “Have you seen him?”
“At lunch at the church.”
“Oh,” her face sagged, and she backed off.
“When was the last time you saw him?” asked Osborne, standing up. “Maybe I can help.”
“Sit down, Doc.” Now Larry interrupted, “I got it under control.” His back to the blonde, he rolled his eyes so only Osborne could see.
Larry Snowden was a short, wizened man, bald with a blunt beard that made him look like one of the Seven Dwarfs. He was a long-time friend of Osborne’s and one of the few bartenders who not only shut him off when he’d had too much during those terrible months after Mary Lee’s death, but on more than one occasion drove him home and somehow got him into bed.
“Here, young lady,” he shoved a whiskey straight-up at the blonde who had settled two stools down from Osborne. “On the house. You cool your jets for ten minutes until the rest of the search team gets here. Then you brief everyone on what he’s wearing and so forth and so on. They’ll take it from here because we know he’s not on the lake.”
“How do we know that?” she demanded. “He said he was going fishing.”
“I told you before. No one takes a boat out without signing for it. I do not have Ben on the list for a boat. See for yourself.” He shoved a yellow legal pad at her.
Just then a huge crash of thunder rattled the building. And the sky that had been threatening all day burst. Sheets of rain blew across the lawn that ran down to the swimming beach, visible through the big picture window at one end of the bar. That did it for the girl, she burst into tears. The two men just looked at each other. Osborne knew what his eyes said, and Larry’s seemed to match his: “Summer women—a little always goes a long way.”
Larry kept wiping the bar slowly while he handed over a box of Kleenex. Rain thundered on the roof, lightning flashed rapidly outside, and the blonde kept weeping. Osborne sipped his ginger ale and waited patiently for her tears to let up. He had a couple questions he wanted to ask.
“Are we in a tornado?” the blonde finally sobbed from inside a clutch of tissues she had mashed against her face.
“No-o,” said Osborne, gently, “just a good Wisconsin thunderstorm.” He introduced himself. She shared the fact her name was Karen. Osborne was mildly surprised. Alicia had alleged she was named “Tiffany.” But then, when it came to Ben, Alicia did not hesitate to exaggerate.
“Did you know Ben’s ex-wife?” she sniffled. “This is such a small town, I’ll bet everyone knows everyone.” She seemed relieved to talk.
“Yes, I did,” said Osborne. “In fact, I stopped in here to see your friend. I was a little concerned for him after the luncheon. Did he seem okay when he returned?”
“No. Not at all. He came back mad. Then he called home and got madder.” Conversation was calming her down. “He’s been waiting for his divorce papers, and it turns out they arrived last week but nobody told him.”
She downed the shot of whiskey like a pro, pushing her glass forward for a refill. A good match for Ben, thought Osborne.
“The truth is he was at my place all last week, and his housekeeper doesn’t open his mail, so she couldn’t tell him they had arrived. It wasn’t her fault. But he was mad. And then this idiot police woman calls and tells him he has to be in her office at the crack of dawn tomorrow. So he starts to holler at me, I holler back—none of this is my fault, for heaven’s sakes—then he ran out the door. That was four, five hours ago.”
“Three,” said Larry. “I’ll tell ya, sweetheart, he’s in town at one of the bars on Main Street putting away the booze. I would be.” Then he reached over to pat the young woman’s hand, “Now you stop worrying, we’ll find him. Julie’s checking the local bars and the entire volunteer fire department will be here as soon as this rain lets up.
“Hey, look—here comes someone,” said Larry, pointing through the screen door to a masculine figure, head hidden under a rain poncho, running up the path from the marina.
“That’s Ben!” shouted the blonde. She ran to the door.
She was right. The rain poncho tipped back and the heavy face of Ben Marshall looked around bar. “Who-e-e-e! Excitement out there. But I got a 37-incher in the livewell. He hit me hard about fifteen minutes before the sky opened up. I was way up on Fifth Lake, too. Hell of time getting back against that wind.”
“Hey, man, I didn’t have you down for a boat,” Larry said. “You were s’posed to sign out.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ben gave the shrug of a man who didn’t think it necessary to follow the rules. “Sorry about that. Nobody was down there, Larry. I took that new Ranger you got. Thought I’d see what 150 horsepower could do.”
“What’re you drinking?” Larry dropped the subject, but his body had tensed. Osborne knew why. Ben had taken a boat that belonged to one of Larry’s friends, not one of the resort rentals. It was a very expensive boat, and if anything happened to it, Larry was liable. Liable and, right now, irritated.
“C’mon, honeybunch, shush now,” Ben kissed the blonde’s forehead as she started in exclaiming her worry over his absence. He laid a finger over her lips, “You go back to the cabin and get ready for dinner. We have reservations at six-thirty. Get beautiful, huh?” She resisted, but he put both hands on her shoulders and nearly shoved her toward the door. “Hurry, the rain let up a little.”
Still, she resisted, “Let me finish my drink, Ben.”
“Karen.” The banter became a warning. She got the message and banged out the door almost as hard as she had coming in.
“She was worried about you,” said Osborne when she was gone.
“Yeah, well, I was worried about me, Doc.” Ben slipped onto the stool next to him. �
��That damn Alicia.” “I thought you might like to talk.”
Ben laughed a mirthless laugh, “Hell, talk is just what I shouldn’t do. What am I? Suspect Number One?”
The two men sat in silence. Larry leaned back against the bar a short distance away. He remained silent as well.
“I knew those papers were signed,” said Ben after a long pause. “Meredith’s lawyer called a few weeks ago on final details …”
“Were you hoping to reconcile?”
“No. I said that to yank Alicia’s chain. She sure yanked mine plenty over the years. No, I figured the papers were signed, but I hadn’t seen them. When I got the news from Mallory yesterday, I did hold out a little hope there had been some kind of delay …”
“Why?”
“Why, Doc?” Ben looked sideways at him with a slightly incredulous look on his face. “Six million bucks why. That’s what she inherited from the old man.”
“Is that why you came up?”
“Partly. Partly that since it wouldn’t hurt to appear bereaved if the will could be challenged. But partly …,” and with that Ben sighed deeply.
He looked over at Osborne. The smart-aleck attitude had disappeared. The eyes Osborne looked into were the eyes of man in pain.
“I love it up here,” he said. “I love going up that stretch of the channel where you don’t see a house or a cabin for miles. I love the tamarack against the sky. I loved my wife … we were together for fifteen years, Doc, and nine of those years were probably the best years of my life …” He stopped. Osborne waited.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know, Doc. People change, marriages just get old.”
Osborne nodded over his ginger ale, “Yep, they do.”
“So I figured the funeral was the last excuse I might ever have to come up here. And, to be perfectly honest,” he said, as if in answer to the expression on Osborne’s face, “I do have to meet with the authorities. Better sooner than later, I figure.”
He stood up. “What do I owe you, Larry?”
“You got that boat back in one piece?” Larry didn’t smile. “Five bucks.”
“For Karen, too?”
“She’s on the house. Just keep her out of my hair, okay?”
Ben started toward the door, then he stopped and came back to the bar. He leaned forward on his elbows and stared into Osborne’s face.
“I didn’t kill her if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“I believe you, Ben,” said Osborne, and he did. “But who do you think …?”
“I can’t imagine. Maybe a nut, huh?” Ben stood erect. “One other thing. I have no recollection of this diamond brooch that Alicia accuses me of keeping. I do not have it, I do not remember ever seeing any such item from her family. I gave Meredith diamond earrings as a wedding gift. They should be with all her other jewelry.”
Osborne believed him. He had a sudden thought, “Ben, do you keep old records like your personal articles insurance policies from years back?”
“I should.”
“Why don’t you look through those when you get back and give me a call.”
“Sure, Doc.” He looked a little puzzled but agreeable. “Oh, I see, a good check against what’s listed in the estate?”
“Something like that. See if anything jumps out at you. Here’s my phone number,” said Osborne, scribbling on a bar napkin and shoving it over.
“Doc, something you should know since you said you’re helping Chief Ferris,” said Larry as Osborne stood up to follow Ben out the door. “That Meredith Marshall? I ran into her two or three times this past month way back in the woods behind the Starks potato fields. Now what do you suppose she was doing back there?”
“Starks?” Osborne was puzzled. “I take it she was driving?”
“All by herself in that Jeep of hers. Only plum-colored one in town, hard to miss. I buy eggs from a fella’s got a chicken farm way the hell out,” Larry gestured toward a gallon jug of pickled eggs that rested on the bar. “Usually do some dumping when I’m back there, too. So I was back on one of those unmarked dirt roads by Kubiak’s Landing when she went by going the other direction.” “What time of day?”
“Late afternoon. I thought it was kinda odd because nobody you wanna know lives out there. You get out past Kubiak’s and you redefine the words ‘trailer trash.’ Know what I mean? Unless you’re into seed potatoes, why would you drive the backroads of Starks?”
“The people who live out there do tend to be a little strange,” said Osborne.
“When you can find ‘em. I think they all live under rocks. I wouldn’t want my wife or daughter on those back roads. Night or day … Just thought you’d like to know.”
twenty-two
Two minutes before six, Osborne pulled into his driveway. He scrambled into his fishing clothes and threw two cups of dog food into Mike’s dish, hoping to be ready before Lew arrived. Just as he finished a quick brushing of his teeth, he heard the crunch of tires across in his gravel driveway.
“Come in,” he shouted at the knock on the back door. He grabbed his fishing hat from the fireplace mantel and bent to zip shut his duffel. As he straightened up, he glanced through the kitchen window to the driveway.
To his surprise, it wasn’t Lew’s truck he saw parked behind his station wagon, but Peter Roderick’s black Range Rover. Only it wasn’t Peter at his back door.
“Hi, Paul,” Alicia chirped, smiling up at him from the back stoop. She was dressed for fishing: khaki long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up and polarized sunglasses hanging from the open neck, a fly-fishing vest that look brand new, and a pair of bermuda shorts that matched her shirt. A bright red baseball cap with a beige brim completed the ensemble.
“Alicia?” Osborne was taken aback. Did Lew invite her and forget to leave him a message? Then he remembered he hadn’t taken the time to check phone messages. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m standing here like a big dummy.”
Not for long he wasn’t. Alicia stepped right up, backing him into his kitchen as she strode past him. Osborne followed her with an invitation after the fact, “Please, come in, Alicia. Have a seat. Lew isn’t here yet.”
As she plopped herself onto a kitchen chair, Alicia grinned sheepishly, “I know this is a surprise, Paul. I decided to invite myself fishing with you two. Hope you don’t mind.”
She took off her hat and set it on the kitchen table, tipped her head back to run both hands through her hair. Then, bracing her elbows on the table, she dropped her face into her hands. And remained in that position saying nothing.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Osborne asked after a moment. He wondered if she was about to cry.
“No, no, I’m fine. I’m trying to relax. I think my cheek muscles are going to crack from all the smiling I did today.” She pulled her hands away and looked up at him. Osborne could see the strain and fatigue in her face. In spite of her make-up, she looked exhausted. Why on earth was she here?
“Paul, I just needed to get out of the house and away from Peter and all the phone calls. You’re an old friend, I hope you don’t mind.”
Of course not, thought Osborne, aside from the fact you just ruined my evening. He was about to compliment her on the wake, but before he could open his mouth, he heard another set of tires in the drive. This time it was Lew. He watched her saunter toward the back door and excused himself to let her in.
“You’ve got company?” she asked as Osborne opened the screen door, shifting his eyes in such a way that she would know he couldn’t say much. Lew gave an understanding nod and stepped inside.
“Alicia Roderick stopped by,” he said. “She’d like to fish with us tonight.”
“That’s nice,” said Lew, walking ahead of him into the kitchen. “Mrs. Roderick, you must be exhausted.”
“Exhausted and all wound up simultaneously,” said Alicia, throwing her hands up and laughing. It struck Osborne she was determinedly cheery. “I’ve always found that fishing is the best
way ever to unwind, so I hope you don’t mind my tagging along. And, please, Chief Ferris, call me ‘Alicia.’ “
“Glad to have you,” said Lew graciously. “You should come more often.”
Her enthusiasm helped Osborne relax a little about the situation, though he suspected she was faking it.
“I brought a cooler of beer and soda, and some leftovers from the wake,” said Alicia. “I thought we could take my car.”
“Thanks, but I’ll follow you two in my truck,” said Lew. “I need to have it along for the radio—just in case someone from the department has to reach me.”
Liar, thought Osborne, vividly recalling Lew’s determination to never have a car phone or radio in her fishing truck. On the other hand, he was relieved they would not be wholly hostage to Alicia. The big question in his mind at the moment was whether or not Lew would follow through on their initial plan and share her secret spot on the Gudegast now that Alicia was along.
Continuing to tweak the truth, Lew honed in on that very subject with, “So, Alicia, where do you suggest we fish? Doc and I were planning just an hour off the dock here on Loon Lake—”
“Well, if you’d like,” said Alicia, matching gracious for gracious, “Peter and I have a membership at Silver Bass—if that’s close enough.” Lew looked at Osborne for his input.
Silver Bass was an exclusive hunting and fishing club located twelve miles outside of town. As far as Osborne knew, Peter Roderick was the only local who was a member of the club, which was rumored to have an annual membership fee of ten thousand dollars and an initiation fee triple that.
Members got their money’s worth if you liked your sport dumped in your lap: Silver Bass Lake was the best-stocked lake in the region and one Ray Pradt delighted in poaching when he was short on time but hungry for a mess of bluegills, lightly breaded, sauteed in butter. Ray could pull thirty fish out of there in less than an hour.
One secret to his successful poaching was leaving a percentage of his catch at the door of the club manager, a gentleman who did not mind inventory abuse of his neurotic, complaining club members so long as he shared in the benefits. The other secret was that Silver Bass Lake, being private water, was darn difficult to find.
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