Dead Boogie (12 page)

“Paul, come in,” he said. “I heard about Peg on the news last night. But I didn’t know whom to call. I tried the police—the woman on the switchboard wouldn’t tell me a thing. The sheriff’s office knew nothing.

“Can you tell me how it happened? She was—” Pressing his fingers to his eyes, he choked up and motioned for Osborne to follow him through the spacious foyer, past the formal living room to a den off the kitchen.

Half the room was neatly outfitted with equipment and supplies for tying trout flies. The other half held an old roll-top oak desk, a high-backed chair with an ottoman—both facing a wall-mounted flat-screen television—and a small leather sofa guarded by an impressive elk mount. Two mallards in flight haunted the wall above the desk.

“How much time did you say you had? Need coffee?” Harold’s hands shook as he spoke and his eyes were bloodshot.

“No coffee, thank you. Chief Ferris and I are meeting with the family at nine—Peg’s sister and her husband. So we’ve got some time, Harold.”

Osborne checked his watch. It was eight-fifteen. After reaching the widower by phone a few minutes earlier, he had decided it would be just as fast to walk from Erin’s house. The Westbrook residence was only two and a half blocks away and Harold sounded anxious to see him.

The retired physician was tall and large-boned with wide shoulders. He looked strong, which was typical of other thoracic surgeons that Osborne had known, and he walked with the stride of a man much younger than eighty. This morning, however, he looked his age: his shock of white hair whiter than ever against the flush of his face. It was obvious he had been crying.

Harold waved Osborne toward the sofa, then seated himself in the armchair.

“I missed the news,” said Osborne. “What did they say?”

“They interviewed the father of one of the other women,” said Harold.

“That would have been Ralph Federer, Donna’s father,” said Osborne. He wondered if Lew knew that Channel 12 had scored after all.

“He said there were three victims in the car and foul play was suspected. Not much more than that. But when he mentioned the names of the women and I heard Peg’s …” The old man’s reddened eyes searched Osborne’s. “She was a dear, dear friend … what more you can tell me?” His voice cracked with sadness.

“I’ll tell you what we know so far,” said Osborne and took him briefly through the details. “Now, none of this is public knowledge, Harold.”

“I’ll respect that, Paul. And I will assume you will keep some of what I tell you in confidence unless it is material to Chief Ferris’s investigation? I have been an expert witness myself enough times to know complete privacy may not be possible, but I want to do whatever I can to help find who did this.”

Sitting back in the armchair with his legs crossed and his hands resting in his lap, the man was somber and poised. Osborne regretted he had never taken the time to get to know him better.

“My relationship with Peg …” Harold’s voice trailed off. Osborne shifted in his chair, uncertain what to say. How do you ask a man about his mistress? Worse, how do you ask him about the other men in her life? Harold saved him the effort on the first question.

“I started seeing her after my wife died four years ago. That’s never been a secret in this town. And yes, it started as a physical relationship, which I very much wanted at the time. Was willing to pay for.” He gave a grim laugh.

“My wife and I were of a generation that did not believe in divorce. I think I bored my wife. I
know
I bored my wife.”

“You mean she wasn’t into tying trout flies?”

Harold looked at him in amazement for a split second, then burst into a loud guffaw. “Tying trout flies was the least of what she wasn’t interested in.” He paused, reflecting, then said, “You know that old quote—'Some men lead lives of quiet desperation …’ ”

Osborne nodded in understanding. Complete and total understanding.

“So early on in my marriage I became familiar with women like Peg. Or so I thought at first—that Peg was like all the others.

“The thing is …” Harold hesitated as if he was still trying to figure something out. “She was different …” He paused. “I’m not sure how to put this … she had an ethereal quality to her. She didn’t have that edge. We got along. From the very first, we got along. It was nice.
She
was nice.

“Before I knew it, we had moved from having sex to just enjoying our conversations. That’s the best way I can put it. And that doesn’t happen that often—with anyone. You know?” Harold gave a slight smile as he spoke.

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Osborne, thinking of his hours driving, in the trout stream, or just being with Lew.

“You may find this difficult to believe”—Harold dropped his head, then raised it as if challenging Osborne’s opinion—“but under that gloss of makeup and dyed hair was a delicate human being. Delicate … thoughtful … kind. One of those rare people who knows how to be a friend. A good, good friend. She seemed to enjoy listening to me for hours—loved to hear about my work, loved hearing how my fishing went, my golf game.”

He uncrossed his legs, shifted in his chair, then said, “We had a routine, you see. On Sunday evenings, she came for cocktails and I cooked dinner. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, she came for cocktails—and
she
cooked dinner. Gosh, how those evenings flew by. Peg was a good conversationalist. She read a lot, she was well educated. She was just …” His voice trailed off. Osborne waited.

“So some nights she slept here, some nights she went home. Maybe we drank a little too much—but we enjoyed one another. As companions. You know, Paul, at my age it doesn’t hurt to have a woman in your bed simply to hold you.”

“Harold,” said Osborne, “would it help if I told you that you’re not the only person I know who thought the world of Peg Garmin? Who loved her?”

“Really? I’m glad to hear that. I wasn’t sure anyone else knew her as she really was.”

“You used the word ‘delicate,’ “ said Osborne.

“Yes. I came to think of her as my delicate angel with the damaged wings.” Harold nodded, affirming the fact. “Very damaged.”

“And what made you think that?”

“Well, these conversations we were having—after a time, she began to open up to me about her life. I wanted to hear, you know.” Harold’s expression darkened. “Paul, how familiar are you with her background? Before her marriage to that Frank fellow?”

“We don’t know much,” said Osborne. “Going through her belongings last night, Chief Ferris and I found some photos—”

“I’m talking about her childhood.” Harold slammed his fist on the arm of his chair. “She was adopted and abused. Molested by the father of the family that adopted her, which I guarantee was the root cause of all the other problems.”

“She told you that?”

“The story eked out over time. I don’t know what hurt her more—the actual abuse or that no one in that family believed her. She was trapped. I know she ran away as soon as she could and spent most of her adult life estranged from those people.

“In my opinion that’s why she slipped into prostitution. Why else would that happen? The woman came from wealth. You do know she was one of the Chicago Garmins, right?”

“Yes,” said Osborne. “But not many people in Loon Lake have made that connection.”

“She didn’t want them to. She didn’t want to have anything to do with those people. But six months ago they came barging back into her life.” “What do you mean?”

“Ah,” said Harold, “you don’t know about this? Good. Then I do have something to contribute. One day Peg gets a letter in the mail from the old lady: the classic deathbed plea for forgiveness.

“Old Mrs. Garmin, on the brink of dying from cancer, decided to admit to knowing all along that her husband had abused Peg. Then she tried to make it right with money.” Harold snorted. “Isn’t it always about money?” He shook his head in disgust. “As if money could make a little girl whole again.”

“How much are you talking about, Harold?” said Osborne.

“Forty-eight million dollars.” Osborne gave a low whistle.

“Peg didn’t want the money. She didn’t need it. I have no heirs. Two years ago, I set her up with a trust. At first she was going to refuse the Garmin money, but I convinced her otherwise. Maybe I was wrong—but her plan was to give it away anyway.”

“To her son, perhaps?”

“What?” Harold stared at Osborne.

“My daughter, Erin, works at the library and has been helping her search for the child she gave up for adoption years ago.”

Harold sat with his mouth open. “So
that’s
what she was up to. She was so tickled over some ‘surprise’ that she kept talking about. She wouldn’t tell me the details. She said it was a secret and I would know soon enough.

“Paul, that is what I have been wondering since I heard the news last night: Peg’s secret. Is that what got her killed?”

seventeen

If you wish to be happy for an hour, get intoxicated. If you wish to be happy for three days, get married. If you wish to be happy for eight days, kill your pig and eat it.

If you wish to be happy forever, learn to fish.

—Chinese proverb

“What
about the other men?” said Osborne, slipping in the tough question as he got to his feet. “Was there anyone she was seeing who—”

“No other men,” said Harold, his voice firm. “That was our agreement when I set up the trust.”

“So she hasn’t … didn’t … for two years?”

“Correct. No need to. She enriched my life and I decided I wanted to take care of her.”

“Well … that’s kind of a surprise. I think we all thought—”

“Paul, I don’t give a damn what people around here thought. I made sure she didn’t need money and then one day, ironically, she turns out to be the heiress to a fortune. I like to think that being with me made her feel good enough about herself that she didn’t need other men. Like a lot of women, she was never happy with how she looked—no matter what I said.”

“So you know about that—the problem with her face,” said Osborne as he neared the front door. “It appears she was filing a lawsuit?”

“Damn right she was. I helped her with that even though I didn’t think she looked all that bad. But the damage to her nose should not have happened. The plastic surgeon—Ed Forsyth is his name. What a dumyak. I’ve got all the information if you need it. His offices are in Milwaukee. The guy did a lousy, sloppy job. On top of which he refused to repair the damage without charge. He wanted a fee as if it were an entire new surgery. A scam—that’s all it was. An absolute scam.”

Harold paused, resting his hand on the front doorknob. “You know—now that you mention it, Peg’s first appointment with the lawyer was scheduled for next week. Good man, too. I put her in touch with Rick Knudson—one of the best when it comes to medical malpractice. And fair.

“This was not about money, by the way. Peg did not need any more money. Quite the contrary—she was willing to spend whatever she had to—to bring the guy down. She was convinced that Forsyth was taking advantage of other women she knew. She wanted him stopped.”

“Harold, you’ve been very helpful. I’m sure that either myself or Chief Ferris will be calling you back,” said Osborne. “Sorry to rush out like this.” He stepped onto the walk then turned. “One last question. You’re aware that Peg’s late husband had quite the checkered past. Do you know if anyone from those days might have contacted her recently? Bothered her? Any threats of any kind?”

“No, not that she mentioned. Paul, I do think she would have told me if she was feeling threatened by anyone. No—the only matters disturbing her over the last few months had to do with that botched surgery and the evil memories behind the Garmin money.”

Osborne started down the walk. “Paul,” said Harold from his doorway, “I’ve never met Peg’s family. Would you let them know that I would like to say a few words at the memorial service? I would very much like to do that.”

“I tell you that fish was so huge, my rig felt like a chopstick with dental floss.” Ray had draped himself over the glass panel fronting the switchboard in the entrance to the police station. “If that line had snapped, I’d still be circling the globe.”

Marlene on the switchboard chortled. Her wide, freckled face under an explosion of red-brown curls beamed up at Ray, who was quite dapper in crisp khakis and a white T-shirt. She glanced over as Osborne walked toward them.

“Good morning, Doc. Ray’s been regaling me with his latest whopper. The Nehlsons haven’t arrived yet and Chief Ferris is on the phone.”

“He’s not pulling your leg, Marlene. I’ll bet that was a fifty-inch muskie he had on the line last night,” said Osborne, relieved to see that Ray was in good form.

“Oh, Chief’s off the phone,” said Marlene. “I know she wants you both back in her office.”

“She ready to commensurate?” said Ray.

“I think you mean commiserate,” said Osborne.

“Yeah, commensurate,” said Ray. He gave Marlene a wink. “Bye now, pay later.”

Walking down the hallway behind his neighbor, Osborne noticed Ray’s shirt had an inscription on the back: SO MANY MOSQUITOES—SO FEW RECIPES.

He should have known. But what the heck, at least the guy was his old self. As they entered her office, Lew set some paperwork to one side of her desk and stood up.

The long, high-ceilinged room, which was in the old section of the courthouse, was airy and full of light. Pots of spring green asparagus fern, set along the window ledges, cascaded to the floor. From behind the ferns, the open windows let in a soft buzz of employees chatting over coffee at picnic tables set out on the lawn.

Lew looked rested. “Good morning, you two,” she said, reaching for her empty coffee mug. “Grab a cup of coffee and take a seat around the table there. I expect the Nehlsons any minute—Joan and Parker are their names. They were to stop by the morgue and complete the paperwork with Pecore.”