Dead Tease (2 page)

With a startled nod, Alvin took the bills and pushed himself up from the bench. A quick glance showed the money was there. He shoved the money into his back pocket and turned to leave.

“Oh, and Alvin,” said the woman, “would you do one eensy-teensy favor for me before you leave? I have to move a box of frozen venison steaks from the freezer in the basement and it’s so heavy. Do you mind just carrying the box up to the kitchen for me?”

“Okay,” he said with a wheeze even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. “Where is it?”

Hoping he wouldn’t trip—he was so dizzy—he followed her down the stairs to the workroom where a tall, wide upright freezer stood at one end. Walking over he yanked the door open. At first he thought the freezer was empty, but when he blinked and cleared his vision, all he saw was something wrapped in plastic on the only shelf, which was just above his head. “That it?”

“No, down there.” Standing close behind him, the woman pointed to a cardboard box resting on the bottom and shoved to the back of the unit. Bending over, he leaned into the freezer to grab it.

Holding the gun in her right hand, left hand supporting her right wrist (exactly as she had been taught), she brought the revolver up and held it two inches behind his head. She pointed the muzzle at the base of his skull behind the left ear.

The first shot went in nicely but her instructor had said that small handguns don’t kill, so she kept on firing until the double-action .22 Smith & Wesson 317LS revolver clicked on a spent round. She waited, breath held, but the target was not moving. She leaned over his shoulder, and checked for a pulse. Bleeding but not alive.

She checked his pockets. After slipping her money from his back pants pocket, she was able to push his torso farther into the open freezer. It helped that the kid wasn’t huge. After some pushing and shoving, she managed to wrangle the box of venison off to one side, then out of the freezer. Now she could tuck the legs in, too. Very little blood had escaped the interior of the freezer, which made for a much easier cleanup than she had expected.

Less than fifteen feet away was the industrial double sink that Marv had installed years ago—a godsend she hadn’t even counted on. After attaching the hose she used for cleaning her gardening tools, she was able to spray away the blood splatters on the floor and the outside of the freezer. She worked until the stream of water flowing down the floor drain was clear.

In less than thirty minutes she was ready to do one final check. Alvin was well situated in the freezer: curled up, head between his knees, he fit fine. She could see pools and splatters of blood inside the unit but nothing outside. She would check later to be sure there was no leakage. Otherwise: a clean job.

Surveying her handiwork, she spotted the carcass of a fox wrapped in plastic on the top shelf. She paused, then shrugged, closed the door, and fastened the padlock.
If no one has claimed that critter in the four years since it was set in there, they aren’t likely to now.

Up in the kitchen, she checked the time. Cocktail hour. Wonderful. She mixed a gin and tonic and strolled back out onto the patio. The stones had dried under the hot sun. Sitting in her favorite chair, she thought back over the afternoon and smiled to herself: she could not have done better planning ahead.

Of course, he must have left the knife in the truck, but that was parked behind an old abandoned barn. Forget it. Who would go looking there? And if they did, Alvin Marski was all over it anyway.

Gazing around her yard and along the wooden stairs leading down to the lake, she remembered the tree man: George. Not only was he cheap when it came to cutting trees but twice now he had been happy to cart away worn-out appliances and dispose of them in such a way that she had been able to avoid outrageous landfill fees.

Of course! She sipped her drink.

He had charged her ten bucks to dump the old Maytag washer. This might be worth an extra five, though—that freezer is heavy. And if she told him she’d lost the key to the padlock on the door, he wouldn’t care. Plus he’s too dumb to notice. But she better make it twenty just to keep him happy.

Ah, yes, she sipped again. It was nearly eight o’clock and the sun was dipping below the pines but the night was warm. August warm.

Only one obstacle remained: that fat wife.

The ice in her drink clinked as she raised the glass to toast herself. Her eyes, fierce as an eagle’s, glittered in the fading light.

Chapter Three

“Doc, if you will hold this sucker steady here, I’ll pull the cord over and around and try not to lose an eye doing it….”

On his knees in the sand beside the dock, Paul Osborne’s neighbor struggled to rig a bright yellow fiberglass kayak with a long black bungee cord tipped with a red metal hook that appeared capable of springing loose and taking critical body parts with it.

Osborne kept his own head down and out of the way. Years of practicing dentistry in the Northwoods where hockey pucks claimed more teeth than Easter candy had taught him to avoid airborne inanimate objects, particularly those with a projectile punch.

He considered offering a word of caution, but he knew from experience that once the man in the faded blue sweatshirt stenciled “Romance, Excitement, and Live Bait: You Can Have It All at Ray’s Place” set his heart on a new money-making venture, there was no getting in his way. Not even when said venture might be life threatening.

“I don’t understand why you need such a long bungee,” said Osborne, doing his best to keep the kayak from slipping sideways.

“So I can carry my goddamn fishing rods on the side,” said Ray Pradt between clenched teeth. “Why the hell do you think?”

“Well,” said Osborne, opting to risk a reasonable commentary even though he knew better, “I’m looking at a thirty-thousand-dollar bass boat moored ten feet from here. The dock where it’s tied up appears to be anchored to land that belongs to you. Given that bass boats were designed to carry all sorts of fishing gear, I’m perplexed. Correct me if I’m wrong but aren’t kayaks for Type A’s who don’t have the patience to fish?”

Ray didn’t answer as he leaned forward, one arm extended to maintain tension in the bungee cord while he scrambled with the other to hook the cord somewhere inside the fiberglass craft.

Watching Ray while holding the kayak steady, Osborne was reminded of an origami heron that one of his granddaughters had folded for a school art class. With elbows and knees pointing in all directions, his six feet five inches folded into multiple sections and his long arms capable of a giant wingspread, Ray Pradt lacked only the serenity of a Great Blue Heron.

The cord caught and held. Both men gave a sigh of relief, and Ray, leaning back, wiped the sweat from his forehead. He brushed back the mass of dark brown curls that had fallen into his eyes—an effort that gave him the appearance of having had prolonged exposure to a light socket.

“You okay if I let go now?” asked Osborne, feeling a cramp in his right hamstring.

“Yep. This’ll work,” said Ray. “Check it out, Doc.” He got to his feet, pointed to the kayak with pride, and waved his right hand in a mock brushstroke saying, “All that’s left is for me to paint ‘Ride the Muskie’ on each side and she’s ready. Yep, this … is … sweet.”

“Sweet?
Sweet
?” Osborne shook his head, befuddled. “That is one weird contraption. Nothing
sweet
about it.”

“Doc, you need to get out more. Trust me,” said Ray, shaking an authoritative finger as he spoke, “kayak fishing is the new sport fisherman’s dream—huge on the East Coast where they compete to see who can catch the biggest blue fin tuna.”

“Tuna,” said Osborne. “When was the last time you saw tuna in Loon Lake?”

Ignoring the remark, Ray launched into a routine too familiar to Osborne, who surrendered to being held hostage as his neighbor sat back on his heels and—with words and pauses stretched out like chewing gum—rambled on happily: “Just you imagine, Doc … sitting … right? Just sitting … in this little humdinger here … with the water
this
close….”

He measured two inches between his thumb and forefinger to demonstrate how deep a kayaker sits in the water, “When you get a strike … and Wham! You got a muskie on the line and …
and
… that fish is huge enough to pull you right along at … maybe,” the eyebrows raised high in anticipation, “… fifteen miles an hour.

“Think of that, Doc.” Ray leaned toward Osborne, his eyes sparkling, “You might be fighting … nose to nose. Hell, now that I think of it—I might have to get this kayak a
powerboat
registration.” Ray grinned at his own joke.

“And?” said Osborne, waiting.

“And what?”

“How do you get the fish home? You sure as heck can’t boat it.”

“Yeah,” the grin faded, “I gotta think about that.”

“And you expect people to pay for this? When they can sit in comfort on a bass boat with a six-pack at their feet?”

“Like I said—kayak fishing is huge on the East Coast. Doc,” said Ray, sounding eager to change the subject, “I want you and Lew to try one of these fly fishing. Rig up some good-size streamers—see if you can catch a muskie on a dry fly. Lew will love it, I know she will.”

With a shake of his head, Osborne walked onto the dock and out toward the bench on the end where he often sat with his friend to relish the final moments of the setting sun. Sitting down, he paused to look back and say, “How did you happen to get into all this? Don’t you have your hands full guiding clients?”

“I made a deal with a marina up in Bayfield when I was fishing Lake Superior last week. They’ll cut me in for thirty percent on every fishing kayak I sell.”

“I see,” said Osborne, deciding not to ask any more questions. If Ray followed his usual pattern, this crazy idea would fade fast. “Got time for a ginger ale?”

“Yep, some in the cooler on the boat there, Doc. You sit tight, I’ll grab us a couple.”

Osborne gazed across the lake toward the far shoreline where the sun ripped a scarlet tear in the sky above the spires of distant pines. “What a night,” he said, popping the tab off the can Ray handed him. “No wind, eighty degrees. A perfect August evening.”

“Maybe in your world,” said Ray, sitting down beside him, “but I had two guiding jobs canceled thanks to this hot weather.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Osborne. He was feeling fine: satisfied, relaxed, looking forward to a late dinner, maybe even staying over at Lewellyn’s. Was it fair for him to be so happy?

Just as he was mulling over his state of contentment, his cell phone rang. He reached into the chest pocket of his khaki shirt. “Oops, excuse me a minute—it’s Lew, I better take it.”

“Hello?”

“Doc, where are you?”

“Ray’s. Helping him do some damage to a kayak. What’s up?”

“Gotta cancel dinner and I need you. Stabbing victim out at the new condos back behind the clinic. Can’t use Pecore on this one—the victim is his niece.

“Good thing you’re at Ray’s ’cause, Doc, if he’s got the time—I sure would appreciate it if he would shoot the crime scene tonight. With this hot weather and chance of a thunderstorm, I don’t dare wait for the Wausau boys to get here in the morning. Even if we move the victim tonight, I don’t have to tell you what can happen to my trace evidence—”

“Pecore’s niece? You don’t mean Jen Williams?” Osborne caught Ray’s eye as he spoke.

“Yes. Meet me there ASAP. Both of you, please. The victim is under the trees across the road from the mailboxes—right at the parking lot. You can’t miss it.”

“What’s up with Jen?” said Ray after Osborne had clicked off his phone. “We dated a few years back. She’s a little scary.”

“Not any more,” said Osborne.

Chapter Four

“A clean wound, Lew, with no bruising or abrasion that I can see,” said Osborne, keeping his voice low as he spoke to Lewellyn Ferris, the Loon Lake chief of police who was kneeling beside him, taking notes as he worked. A sterile tarp designed to keep debris or footprints from contaminating the area around the victim had been put in place before Osborne arrived.

Hands encased in nitrile gloves, he had unbuttoned the young woman’s shirt—so dark with blood he couldn’t tell it was light blue until he tugged it up from where it was belted at her waist—then gently pushed aside the edge of the blood-soaked bra covering her left breast. After examining the wound, he dabbed at the blood surrounding the site where the knife had entered, waited, and dabbed again. “Lew, I want to be sure we have only one …” He didn’t finish his sentence.

It was less than an hour since the 911 call had come in from the condo resident who had walked up to get his mail only to be confronted by the sight of Jennifer Williams’s body shoved under the low branches of the balsam firs.

Osborne’s fingers prodded the perimeters of both breasts, then across the rib cage, making sure. When he was certain, he straightened up and whispered so only the woman at his side could hear: “The cause of death appears to be a stab wound produced by a sharp object and resulting in a wound deeper than wide …,” he paused. “Enough for now?” It was his responsibility to complete the death certificate but he knew it could be amended after the autopsy.

Lewellyn Ferris nodded. She saw what he saw, and they both knew without having to be told by the boys from the Wausau Crime Lab that the knife had penetrated the heart—death had been instantaneous.

A murmur of excitement from a cluster of bystanders huddled across the road escalated as the van from Channel 12-TV pulled up less than ten feet from the row of mailboxes behind which lay the body. Scrambling to her feet and taking care not to disturb the sterile tarp beneath her, Lew strode toward the van with both hands up to silence the young female reporter thrusting a microphone at her: “No comment until we have notified the family. I want everyone back, way back—and stay there.”

When she was satisfied she had been obeyed, Lew returned to where Osborne was busy entering the results of his exam on the clipboard propped against his long, black medical examiner’s bag. He looked up as she approached, and both glanced back at the body. He’d left Jen’s shirt open for the crime scene photos.