Dead Hot Mama (19 page)

Bending
from the waist, Lew straddled what was left of Clyde. She placed both palms under his arms. “Warm enough,” she said. “This had to have happened within the last couple hours.”

Ray was at the window, as if looking out meant he could refuse to accept what would be confirmed by the end of the day: Someone had used Clyde’s own shotgun to end his life.

“Does this place always look like this? I mean, aside from the obvious,” said Lew, stepping carefully around the pooled blood to look for the phone. Either Clyde was an unprincipled pack rat or a whirlwind had passed through the spacious one-room cabin. Clothing, papers, dishes, food, and tools were strewn everywhere.

“No,” said Ray, squeezing his eyes to keep from weeping. “Clyde … um …”

As he struggled, Osborne reached out to grasp his friend by the shoulders. “He loves order, y’know. He keeps everything … ah … everything right where he wants it.”

“Then it’s been ransacked,” said Lew.

That was as much as Ray could manage. Falling into a beat-up, dark brown easy chair near the fireplace where the coals of the last log still smoldered, Ray dropped his face into his hands and wept.

Gina, who had said nothing since entering the room, stood to his side, gently rubbing his back. “Just tell me how I can help,” she said.

“The best thing you can do is stay out of the way,” said Lew. “The less we disturb the better.”

What remained of the afternoon flew by. Lew finally located Clyde’s phone, an old rotary dial number, under a pile of newspapers on the counter near the small refrigerator. She asked Marlene to patch her through to Terry at his home.

It took him less than ten minutes to make it into the department and review the files. He confirmed that two of the snowmobiles under the tarp sounded like those belonging to the victims whose legs had been severed.

The other matched the description of the sled belonging to the missing rider, the man from Tomahawk. Lew gave him a description of the empty snowmobile suit and the helmet and asked him to check with the man’s family. “Polaris,” she said. “It’s a red and black Polaris suit with a checkerboard design across the back.”

Anxious to have Clyde’s body and the crime scene photographed as soon as possible, she tried Bud Michalski, but there was no answer. “What’s the point?” She shook her head. “He’s supposed to be available at all times. I’m calling Arne tonight—I don’t care if it is Christmas.”

She reached Bruce at his mother’s outside Stevens Point. He offered to head north immediately. Moments after they had spoken, he called back to announce that he had been able to arrange for a pathologist from the Wausau crime lab to drive up with him as well. Lew was relieved, but Osborne couldn’t help feeling that Bruce was horning in again. Even his enthusiasm seemed more than a little over the top. After all, this wasn’t a party. A decent man was dead.

Lew spent the rest of the afternoon at Clyde’s. Both she and Ray refused to leave until Bruce arrived. She assigned Ray the task of going through Clyde’s belongings in hopes of finding out if he had any relatives in the area.

Meanwhile, she asked Osborne and Gina to get the snowmobiles back to the trailhead near the Corner Bar. Roger would pick them up there. They then drove Ray’s truck and Osborne’s car back to Clyde’s. After stopping by Lew’s farmhouse to pull the roasted turkey from the oven and leave it out on her unheated porch where it could cool safely, Osborne dropped Gina off at Lew’s office.

Before driving home, he stopped at Ray’s to feed Ruff and Ready, Ray’s dogs. He knew without asking that Ray would stay with Clyde until the old man was at rest in the morgue. When he walked in his own back door, it was nearly six.

No one was home. A note from Mallory said she was spending the night at Erin’s. Osborne pressed his lips together in an attempt at a smile. Of course she thought she was giving him an opportunity to spend an evening alone with a dear friend. Not necessary now. Hell, he’d even forgotten to leave his gift at her house.

Osborne made himself a sandwich from the leftover roast beef, but he wasn’t very hungry, so Mike got half. He wanted to be in Wausau by seven the next morning. The Dental Society annual meeting panels usually started at eight. That would mean getting up by five. He decided to turn in early.

At nine-thirty, he tried Lew at home. No answer. He called the office, but Marlene said she was still with Bruce and the pathologist. She also said that Lew had asked if he could help out in the morning. Osborne asked Marlene to remind her he had the Dental Society meeting and would call as soon as he got back.

A final call to Ray went unanswered.

The drive south in the morning dark didn’t help his spirits. He was so preoccupied that he almost forgot to bring along the dentures he’d found in the forest. By the time he parked, he had decided to cancel his reservation for dinner that night.

He was worried about Ray. Clyde might have been an eccentric and stingy with his recipes, maybe even smelled bad, but he was a close friend of Ray’s. At a time like this, his neighbor would need him.

“Paul Osborne, you razzbonya,” a deep voice over his left shoulder so startled Osborne that he spilled half his coffee into the saucer, “how the heck you doin’?” Rob Kudla had ten years on Osborne but was still practicing in Stevens Point. He was one of the reasons Osborne enjoyed attending the annual event even though he was retired. No better time to catch up with old friends.

“Well, pal, since you asked,” said Osborne, and proceeded to give Rob a full report. He started with the fly- tying dilemma and ended with poor old Clyde.

“Certainly not boring up there, is it?” chuckled Rob. “I got a suggestion for the fly tying. This
is
a gift from a woman, right? So you can’t return it.”

“Both statements are accurate,” said Osborne.

“Think pink squirrel,” said Rob. He sat back, fingers laced over his chest and a look of infinite wisdom on his face. A skinny man, his brown hair white now, Rob had a sharp nose and black brown eyes that were always laughing. Had been laughing since Osborne met him in dental school at Marquette forty years earlier.

“Forget that—I haven’t had a drink in two years,” said Osborne. “Can’t stand ice cream drinks anyway.”

“My pink squirrel is not a drink,” said Rob. “You do what I tell you—whoever she is will be convinced you’re a master fly tyer—and you’ll only ever have to learn to tie one damn trout fly in your entire life.”

“Sure. And if I buy that, what else can you sell me?” said Osborne.

“I am dead serious.” Rob scooted his chair forward. He pulled out a pen and started sketching on the back of the program he was holding.

“The pink squirrel is my signature trout fly. I can guarantee it’ll catch bluegill, bass, trout, steelhead, perch, crappie, sunfish, suckers—even carp. I’ll bet you I’ve tied four thousand over the years. It’s the only fly I ever tie—I can do twenty an hour.

“Once I teach you a double whip finish, you’ll look like a pro. All you need is a couple hundred #12 Mustad hooks from Cabella’s, some brass beads, a pile of coral pink chenille pills, and some toilet ring seal wax. If you can afford it, I prefer a #14 scud hook, but they’re pretty expensive. Tell you the truth, the Mustad 3906 works fine.”

“Toilet ring seal wax?”

“Yeah, you mix that with beeswax and stick it in a Chapstick container. Real easy to use. I’ll write down all the directions for you. See me at lunch.”

“And that’s all you ever tie—a pink squirrel?”

“That’s all I ever fish with! Sounds crazy, I know, but I got twenty years of pink squirrels to prove it. Works under all conditions. ‘Course, you still have to read your water, steal along quietly enough and make a decent presentation. Trust me, you will always catch fish … and the girl, too.

“Paul, you gotta give it a try. I’ll be in your neck of the woods for some ice fishing next weekend. If you want, I’ll stop by your place and tie a few up to show you how.”

“Toilet seat wax, right?”

“Toilet
ring
seal wax. I’ll give you a list and the directions at lunch.”

The day was looking brighter. “Say, before you go, Rob—what do you think of these?” Osborne unwrapped the dentures. “Not porcelain, these are human. Would you believe I found them out in the woods?”

“Know who you should show these to? Remember Ed Wallace from our class? He’s working on a history of dentistry for the National Dental Society. See what he thinks. He’s here with his wife somewhere.”

Osborne knew Ed well. He was retired from a practice outside Milwaukee, but he had grown up in Rhinelander where his parents owned a small resort. They’d hunted and fished together often when they were in their mid- twenties. Even now, Ed’s wife, Maddie, made sure Osborne always received the Wallace family Christmas card.

Draining his coffee after Rob left, Osborne checked the morning program. He choked, spewing coffee across the table. One of the early panels was titled “Using Allograft Tissue in Your Dental Practice.” He checked his watch. He had ten minutes. A fresh cup of coffee in hand, he hurried down the hall.

Ninety minutes, a slide presentation, and two handouts later, Osborne was convinced Gina Palmer was right, Bruce was wrong, and Lew had something more sinister than credit card fraud on her hands.

According to the tissue expert conducting the panel, the cadaver femur was in great demand. More and more dentists were using products made from the shaft: cortical bone was ground into powder or gel form and used for grafting tissue into the mouth during periodontal surgery. Even a skin-based matrix could be used in dental surgery. One of the dentists in the audience mentioned hearing that these procedures were proving to regenerate bone growth.

The first handout listed the key panel points, but it was the second handout—the one citing allograft tissue sources—that stunned Osborne. High on the list of providers of cadaver femur products was a firm with which he was familiar—Theurian Resources Inc. The man was in cement all right: bone cement.

He
didn’t have to search far for Ed and Maddie Wallace. They were six people ahead of him in line for the Holiday Inn luncheon buffet.

“Is this seat taken?” He beamed down at Maddie. She was darn cute in her twenties when they had first met, and time had been good to the petite brunette—the brunette might be fading to white, but she was still easy on the eyes. Ed was looking good, too. Age spots aside, his face was as fine-boned as ever, his eyes kind, and the set of his shoulders firm.

Osborne felt a touch of envy as he set his plate down next to Ed’s. The Wallaces were one of those rare couples who had weathered well together. They exchanged a few pleasantries, then Osborne reached into his pocket for the dentures, which he placed with care a decorous distance from everyone’s lunch. “Rob Kudla suggested I show you these, Ed.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Ed, fork poised in the air. “Where did you find those?”

Osborne told his bird hunting story. This time, for Maddie’s benefit, he included the wolf. “So there I was running to beat hell—gun in one hand, dentures in the other.”

“They were stolen from the dental school at Marquette University,” said Ed. “You remember Harley Fruehauf? He was a lumber Fruehauf, family money from the old days. He endowed a permanent exhibit that I helped set up and where these were on display.”

“Heard the name often,” said Osborne. “Wasn’t he kind of a strange one? An orthodontist, if I remember right.”

“I wouldn’t call him ‘strange,’” said Ed. “He was unique.”

Maddie sputtered at her husband’s choice of words. “Oh, Ed. He was as nutty as they come. Be honest.”

“Well … okay. Harley was a bit extreme.” said Ed, “I have to be careful because he left money to the state dental society, and a grant from that endowment is funding this history that I’m writing.”

“He collected lightbulbs,” said Maddie. “Does that tell you anything? What do you do with sixty thousand light- bulbs?”

“Take it easy, honey,” said Ed with a chuckle. “We all have our quirks.”

“Tell Paul what he did with his quirks,” said Maddie, stabbing a fork into her lettuce.

“Quite the collector, Harley, and a very generous man,” said Ed. “He displayed his bulbs in a room in the basement under his office that he called The Fruehauf Museum of Incandescent Lighting.

“But,” Ed waved his index finger, “before you poke too much fun, I want you to know the man was a pretty bright bulb himself. When it came to the science of dentistry, Harley was no slouch. Right up to when he died.

“Not only did he specialize in orthodontics, it’s my opinion Harley set the standards for prosthodontics. That man knew more about the art and science of creating dentures than anyone of our generation, Paul. I got to know him pretty well the last few years of his life. They were members of our church in Fox Point, and he asked me to work with him on the exhibit.

“That’s why I recognize the dentures you’ve got there. Harley had collected those teeth over the years and was using them to experiment with remineralizing. He was convinced that by putting minerals back into the teeth, you could repair early decay.

“But why go to all the trouble of getting teeth from so many different people?” asked Osborne.

“Two reasons. First, he wanted to test on smooth surfaces and, second, because we know all teeth decay at different rates and for different reasons. He figured that using teeth from different individuals could telescope the time involved.

“At least that’s the theory he shared with me. He died before this set disappeared, thank goodness. The theft would have broken his heart. Irritated the heck out of me.

“Still can’t believe it happened, but we had no security to speak of. So when two busloads of teenagers from a summer camp outside Rhinelander came through one day—and we found the teeth missing the next—I was convinced some smart aleck kid swiped them.

“In a way, it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. I don’t know if old Harley had had stroke or what but he wasn’t easy to work with in his later years. Just obsessed that someone was going to steal his ideas. That man didn’t only have a lock on every door—he locked every damn
drawer
. Some days it would take thirty minutes to find your files, not to mention pens and pencils.

“When the dentures disappeared there was nothing we could do. How do you allege theft of human teeth in this day and age?”

“Biohazards,” said Osborne.

“You got it. Rather than let it become a big joke, we dropped it.”

“You’re right about the kids,” said Osborne. “I happen to know from one of my daughters that the stump where I found them is located in an area they call ‘the Horsehead Hollow,’ a favorite spot for keg parties.”

“Stinkers. I’d like to crack a few heads,” said Ed. “Well, thanks, Paul. The ghost of Harley Fruehauf will be happy these are back where they belong.”

“It’s quite an amazing set of dentures, Ed. I had to use a magnifying glass to be sure they weren’t porcelain. And the gold in those posts. You can’t buy that anymore.”

“That’s Harley all the way. Who else would spend money on gold of this quality?”

“Or buy sixty thousand lightbulbs,” said Maddie. “Those people had money all right—for all the good it did them. Paul, did you ever know Jane and Harley’s daughter, Eve? Now there’s a sad, sad story. Mary Lee may have met Eve, she knew Jane from the Garden Club.”

“Probably so,” said Osborne. Ready to finish his lunch and get a call in to Lew about the handout mentioning Theurian Resources before the afternoon panels began, he was listening with half an ear. He nodded and nodded as Maddie chattered on, paying more attention to her cheery eyes than to what she was saying.

“… It was only five years ago that Jane died of cancer,” she was saying, “then Harley had his heart attack and … what was it, Ed? Two years ago that Eve committed suicide? And her daughter so young. I felt so sorry for little Lauren. Of course, she’s not so little anymore. Last time I saw her, she was taller than her mother. And much better looking.”

Osborne looked up from his coleslaw. “Little
who?”

“Now, Paul, you must know the story. The Fruehaufs’ summer home isn’t far from you—just outside Three Lakes. Don’t you remember the year Mary Lee was cochair and the Garden Club featured the Fruehaufs’ on their annual garden tour? That is one amazing house—as wacky as old Harley.”

“He designed it,” said Ed. “Did a lot of work on it himself. He just loved the place. If I remember right, it belonged to his grandfather. He loved to hunt and fish, but even then he was paranoid. He butchered his own deer, because he swore the local butchers would mix up the animals so you never got your own back.”

“Maddie … Ed …” said Osborne, “you two wouldn’t be talking about Lauren
Theurian
by any chance?”

“Yes, Lauren,” said Maddie. “She’s sixteen or seventeen now.”

“I met her just the other day,” said Osborne. He explained the circumstances, then said, “She’s having some difficulties adjusting to the new stepmother.”

“Oh my God—and have you met
her?”
Maddie slapped both hands on the table, her eyes wide.

“Mitten Theurian? She’s quite … attractive,” said Osborne, deciding not to say too much.

“Mitten?” said Maddie. “
Mitten
?” She used the same inflection that he had heard in Patrice Kobernot’s voice at the Christmas party when he had somehow managed to insult her.

“Isn’t that her name? That’s what her husband calls her.”

“David Theurian, the grieving widower, waited three months from the date of his wife’s death before he married Karin Hikennen. You think that wasn’t a scandal in Fox Point? And you know who Karin Hikennen is—”

“That I do know,” said Osborne. Whatever he knew didn’t stop Maddie.

“Her grandmother ran a chain of brothels and strip clubs from Hurley, Wisconsin, all the way up into the upper peninsula of Michigan. I hear she owns them now.”

“Karin Hikennen?” Osborne was flabbergasted. “Tell me again. How did Lauren’s mother die?”

“Supposedly she stuck the barrel of a 12 gauge in her mouth. In the laundry room of their Kansas City mansion,” said Maddie. “But there isn’t a woman among her parents’ friends who believe that for a second.”

“Whoa, wait a minute,” said Osborne. “How … had…” He didn’t know where to start, he had so many questions.

Maddie patted his hand.

“I’ve heard this story many times,” said Ed. “if you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll find the gentlemen’s room.”

“Jane never liked Eve’s husband,” said Maddie as Ed walked away. “She and Harley were over for dinner once, and she said she always worried that he had married Eve for the family money. But Eve adored him. She wasn’t the prettiest girl, you know. Quite shy. But always very well dressed. She might not have had beauty, but she had exquisite taste.

“They met in law school and got married, then moved to Kansas City where he joined his uncle’s law firm. Everything was swell at first, they were social, they had little Lauren. Then Dave started coming up to Three Lakes in the winter with a group of men to snowmobile. We think that’s when he met Karin—at one of her clubs.

“Now, I don’t know any details, but there was word that there had been some shenanigans at the uncle’s firm, like embezzlement maybe. I don’t know the details. But what I do know is this, Paul. The day that Eve was shot, Dave called her best friend first. Before he called the police, anyone—he called Marcy, and she rushed right over.

“Well, when Dave married that woman so soon after Eve’s suicide, Marcy called one of Jane’s best friends in our church. A good friend of mine. And do you know she is convinced—this is Marcy, Eve’s best friend—she is convinced that Eve was murdered. Her reason? When she got to the Theurians’ that morning … when she saw Eve dead, she saw something else. Something only her best friend would notice …”

Osborne waited as Maddie savored her moment. “Eve was wearing curlers in her hair.”

Osborne must have looked disappointed because Maddie grabbed his hand and pumped it as she talked. “Marcy said that Eve was so fastidious—she would
never
have killed herself with curlers in her hair.”

Osborne headed back to Loon Lake doing six miles over the speed limit, as fast as he knew he could go without getting a ticket. He had taken one look at the afternoon panel subjects—dental spas, the New Age of the Whiter Smile, invisible teeth aligners—and decided that getting Dave Theurian’s personal history to the Loon Lake Police Department was more important.

Maddie’s story ended with the fact that friends of the Fruehaufs had hired a private detective to look into Marcy’s allegation, but he had been unable to convince the Kansas City police that there was proof enough to classify the suicide as a murder.

“You know, Paul,” Maddie had said, “Dave Theurian was well connected in legal circles. Lawyers protect their own—we all know
that.”

He wanted Lew to know that, but when he called the office, Marlene said she was out grabbing a late lunch with Bruce. He left the news about Mitten’s real name, then tried Ray, but there was no answer.

Not until he was in the car driving north did it occur to him he should have called Gina. She was working at the
Kansas City Star
when they met—before taking the job in Chicago. She would know reporters who could give them more information on Dave Theurian.

Dave and Eve. With both parents deceased, Eve would have inherited the Fruehauf money. No doubt Dave now had a sizable chunk of that money. If Eve’s parents had not liked him, however, they might have taken precautions to see that Lauren’s inheritance was protected. But if Lauren were to die …

Osborne pressed down on the accelerator. He could risk seventy.