Dead Boogie (11 page)

And why was it that she and Gina Palmer had to be here the same weekend? Two women who were way too interested in a man who, should they succeed in netting him, they would have to support. Well, he’d leave that juggling act to Ray. They were all adults. Let those three figure it out.

The second message was from his oldest grandchild, eleven-year-old Beth: “Gramps, I got an e-mail today from some lady who’s hunting you. Mom told me to tell you to stop by the house in the morning so we can show you the e-mail. The lady wants your phone number but Mom said I can’t give it to her until you say it’s okay.”

Hunting
me? Osborne didn’t like the sound of that.

Twenty minutes later, Mike asleep beside his bed, the window above his pillow wide open, Osborne lay listening to the strains of country music drifting over the water. Likely Shania Twain, he thought. He had set his clock to wake up an hour earlier than usual—so much to be done in the morning.

He was happy thinking ahead: A full day is always a good day.

fifteen

Every man has a fish in his life that haunts him.

—Negley Farson

Erin’s
house was quiet. Standing on the front porch of the old Victorian, Osborne peered through the screen door into the living room. He hesitated knocking in case the kids were still asleep. His son-in-law, he knew, would be long gone. Mark prided himself on being at his desk in the Loon Lake District Attorney’s Office by seven at the latest.

Erin might be up. Even though she was working her way toward a law degree, this summer she had elected to take just one course. That plus three lively children, a new puppy, and volunteering at the library made for a day that had to start early.

Osborne rapped lightly on the door frame then slowly pulled open the screen door, only to have a four-month-old black Lab come bounding at him through the living room—followed by a loud, “No, Bruno, no!”

Erin appeared in the doorway that led to the kitchen, coffee mug in hand. “Careful, Dad! Don’t let him out,” she said. “C’mon in—got a full pot here for you.”

Osborne walked through the long, high-ceilinged living room. The windows had been pushed up as high as they would go, and morning breezes nudged at the ivory lace curtains. The house felt full of fresh air and sun—just like Erin. She was busy buttering toast, and at her elbow was a bowl of eggs ready for scrambling.

As he entered the kitchen, she set the toast aside, handed him a steaming mug of hot coffee, and motioned toward the kitchen table. He loved seeing her early in the morning—her long blond hair pulled back in a single braid, her face scrubbed and free of makeup. This particular day she was in running shorts and a tank top that emphasized her slim figure.

“You run already?” said Osborne, pulling out a chair.

“Four miles before Mark left for the office. Too hot later—supposed to hit ninety today.” She sat down with her own mug of coffee, took a deep sip and said, “Ah-h-h, a moment of peace before the monsters awake.”

Erin slapped the table with her free hand, startling Osborne, who spilled a few drops of his coffee. “Dad, I was so upset to hear about Peg Garmin. I woke up during the night thinking about it. What I want to know is if she found her son before she died? I mean—this is so sad.
So
unfair.”

“What are you talking about?” said Osborne, reaching for a paper napkin to wipe up the spill. “What son? I didn’t know she and Frank had any children.”

“Not from her marriage. She had a child out of wedlock and decided to try to find him a couple months ago. She came to the library looking for books on how to find people who were adopted. I told her she would have better luck using the Internet.

“Since she wasn’t familiar with computers, I helped her get started. It wasn’t too difficult—she had the name of the hospital, the date of birth, and she remembered the Catholic girls home where she stayed during her pregnancy. She was able to reach the adoption agency not long after that.”

As their mother spoke, Osborne’s three grandchildren started to wander into the kitchen, still in their pajamas and sleepy-eyed: Cody, nearly four; Mason, eight; and Beth, on the brink of puberty.

The eleven-year-old snuggled into Osborne, laying one arm across his shoulders. She was about to whisper in his ear when her mother said, “Beth, you can show Gramps the e-mail in a few minutes. We’re having a grown-up conversation right now. You three—out!” She pointed to the door behind her. “Take Bruno to the backyard. I’ll call when your eggs are ready.”

As the screen door slammed behind the kids, Erin said, “When it comes to Peg—you never know what’s going to come up, so I’d rather they not be around.”

“That’s okay with me,” said Osborne. “The details are too grim for kids, believe me.”

“Mark said you were the deputy coroner at the scene yesterday.”

Osborne nodded. “I’ve never seen anything like it. He probably told you—it’s a triple homicide.”

“Yeah, on top of everything else going on around here,” said Erin. “Are you helping out?”

“Ray and I both are—have a busy day ahead.” He checked his watch. It was only seven-thirty. He didn’t think it polite to call Harold Westbrook before eight.

“We’re all meeting in Lew’s office with Peg’s sister and her husband at nine. But let’s go back to what you were saying about Peg putting a child up for adoption. I find that very interesting. You’re the first person to mention it.” He reached into his shirt pocket for his notebook and the case with his reading glasses.

“She told me she didn’t want anyone to know until she was sure she could find him. Dad, it was early last week that she stopped in just to tell me that the adoption agency was being very cooperative because the young man—I think he would be in his early thirties—had been in touch with them, too. He was looking for her. She was so excited. That’s why it’s such a shame that—”

“You don’t happen to know what his name is?”

“No. That never came up in our conversations. But I have the information on the adoption agency in my files at the library. I kept a hard copy in case Peg lost hers. If you want, I can get that for you later this morning.”

“Anything else that you think might help?”

“Well … she was considering a lawsuit over some plastic surgery that went wrong. Do you know about that?”

“A little,” said Osborne. “I know she was seeking a second opinion.”

“Right. She hadn’t been able to get the surgeon who did the work to agree to repair the damage. So the other thing I helped her with was an Internet search to get the names of a few professionals she might approach for a second opinion.”

“So
that’s
how she found Gerry Rasmussen!” “Yes.” It was Erin’s turn to be surprised. “Do you know him?”

“We’ve met through dental circles. When Lew and I were searching Peg’s place last night, we found a letter from his office. I spoke with him this morning. What I’ve been wondering ever since is—what possessed her to go to an oral surgeon? Why not get an opinion from another
plastic
surgeon?”

“Ah, Dad. Good question. And I’m the one responsible for putting her in touch with Dr. Rasmussen. More coffee?”

“Please.”

“When Peg told me what her problem was, we did a Google search on medical malpractice. One of the articles we found recommended that anyone with questions regarding surgeries involving the head and the neck should consider an opinion from a maxillofacial surgeon in addition to a plastic surgeon. So we went to the Wisconsin Dental Society’s Web site and that’s how we found Dr. Rasmussen.”

As she spoke, Osborne recalled the conversation he had had earlier that morning with Dr. Gerald Rasmussen, D.D.S. One of the benefits of retaining his membership in the Wisconsin Dental Society was the annual roster with office and home numbers. After placing an initial call to Rasmussen’s office and hearing a voice message encouraging anyone with an emergency to try the home number—he did.

It was six-thirty when Osborne reached the oral surgeon at his breakfast table. After explaining the reason for his call, Gerry was eager to talk. More than eager: fired up. It seems that Peg Garmin’s request for a second opinion from a maxillofacial surgeon had ignited quite a debate between the two state societies representing plastic surgeons and dentists. And Rasmussen was plenty angry.

“Those of us who are board certified in O.M.S. practice are sick and tired of what we’re seeing in the field of cosmetic surgery. I’ll tell you, Paul, the damage some of these fools are doing …” said Gerry, so apoplectic he was choking.

“It is audacious—just incredible some of the mistakes I’ve seen. One idiot stopped just short of setting a lower jaw
outside
the mouth.”

“Now, Gerry, aren’t you exaggerating just a bit?” said Osborne.

“I wish I were. I tell you, Paul, there is so much money to be made in cosmetic surgery that you get these commodes who have an M.D. degree and minimal surgical training who hang out a shingle for plastic surgery. They aren’t board certified, but hell, that doesn’t stop them.

“That Forsythe fellow is a perfect example. I don’t know how the Garmin woman found him, but boy oh boy, did he do a lousy job on her face. And I will bet you anything she isn’t the first. But that’s for her lawyer to determine.

“I find the whole thing disgusting, Paul,” said Rasmussen, speaking with such intensity that Osborne stopped trying to interrupt with questions. It was hopeless to do anything but listen as he ranted, “I am sick and tired of the attitude I’m getting from some of these plastic surgeon types. You want to know why I am happy to offer my services as an expert witness? That’s why: the arrogance of some of these guys.

“Look at the reality for a minute. Someone is in a horrible accident, half their face torn off, and who’s called? Me. I go in, I reattach every muscle and piece of skin and bone. I do all the follow-up surgeries to be sure everything is perfect. Right? Meanwhile, I’m paid half what a plastic surgeon is for the same work.

“But if someone comes in with a bad nose from birth or from some previous surgery—I’m not allowed to touch it. All of a sudden all I am is the guy who can pull teeth and treat a lower jaw fracture.

“Well, I’ve had it,” said Rasmussen, “and I’m pushing to expand the definition of dentistry in this state. For heaven’s sake, professionals like me have four to seven years of post-dental-school surgical hospital residency.
We
are the head and neck experts.”

Rasmussen paused to take a breath and Osborne jumped in: “Gerry, do you mind going back to Peg Garmin for a minute? What went wrong exactly?”

“Sloppy technique. That’s what went wrong. And I’ve heard other complaints along the same line. Same guy, too.

“See, Forsythe is big on injections. When you do that, you work with a sharp needle, which means technique is crucial. In the Garmin case, he was giving her an injection in the face, the needle slipped, and an artery was pierced. The fat that was being injected blocked some capillaries, shut off the blood flow, and caused the soft tissue on one side of the nose to die and slough off.

“Poor woman. She looked like half her nose had caved in.”

“Okay, Beth, you can come in and show your grandfather that e-mail now,” said Erin, opening the back door. The youngster came flying up the steps and into the kitchen. She grabbed Osborne’s hand and pulled him back to the family room. Giving him a big smile, she settled herself on the stool in front of the family’s computer, hit a key, and waited.

The e-mail was from a woman whose name Osborne had not heard in nearly fifty years: Beebo McElhenny Rowland, sister of his best friend at the age of fourteen. The e-mail was addressed to Erin, who used “Osborne” as her middle name.

“I think you may be related to Paul Osborne, the dentist,” wrote the stranger. “I’ve been able to locate your e-mail address but can find nothing for Paul. If you know him or if you are related, would you please pass on this message for me?

“Years ago, he was the best friend of my older brother, Bud. They were roommates at boarding school, Campion. Paul spent several vacations with our family. The last I heard about Paul was that he had married and opened a dental practice in northern Wisconsin.

“My husband passed away two years ago and I’ve been having a wonderful time reconnecting with old friends. Please let Paul and his wife have my phone number—if I do indeed have the correct Paul Osborne. Tell him I apologize for hunting him down but I have fond memories of him from those days …” The e-mail carried the name “Beebo Rowland.”

Beth looked up expectantly. Erin, standing quietly behind him, gave Osborne a teasing poke in the ribs. “Okay, Dad, what do you want Beth to say? How should we respond?”

“I—I don’t know,” said Osborne. The last time he saw Beebo, she wasn’t much older than Beth. Thirteen at the most. But thirteen going on thirty. She was the first girl he ever kissed. The first girl he had enjoyed thinking about in ways that made for embarrassing moments in the confessional. For over a year, Beebo had been his first and last thought of the day.

“Well … what do
you
think?” he turned to Erin.

“Go for it, Dad.” She grinned.

“Gee … I don’t know,” said Osborne. “I’ve got my hands full helping Lew right now—”

“Dad,” said Erin, “a phone call? You can manage a
phone
call, for heaven’s sake. She sounds sweet. And, Dad, you never know. Besides, she thinks you’re married. So what’s wrong with catching up with an old friend?”

sixteen

It is just possible that nice guys don’t catch the most fish. But they find more pleasure in those they do get.

—Roderick Haig-Brown

Osborne
hurried up the paved walk leading to the front door of the elegant red brick home. Before he could knock, Harold Westbrook opened the door.