Dead Hot Mama (8 page)

“Damn
kid better have a good excuse,” muttered Osborne. The slender figure heading their way climbed with ease over the dead limbs and stumps of forest slash, then bounced like a young deer over snow-covered humps, only to stop short about a hundred feet away.

Screened by a clump of aspens that had toppled into each other’s arms, the boy raised his shotgun. Though his face was shadowed, Osborne could make out the brim of a shapeless felt hat, the kind once favored by local moonshiners. The kid was small, maybe five foot six at the most, and very thin. In spite of the cold, all he wore over a long-sleeved flannel shirt was a tattered hunting vest, pocked with stains.

“What the hell you think you’re doin’ back here?” asked the boy, his voice gruff. Too gruff. The voice didn’t match the body. Osborne’s chest tightened.

When his daughters were teenagers, he warned them about going down back roads with boyfriends. “You never know who’s living back there,” he would say. “They don’t want to meet you, and you don’t want to meet them. Don’t giggle—I’m not kidding.”

And he wasn’t. “Them” were people you rarely saw in town. “Them” were people who lived in shacks at the end of lanes without fire numbers, who never showed up on IRS rolls, who blasted a shotgun
before
calling 911. “Them” were the ones referred to by the McDonald’s coffee crowd as “those who eat their young.”

Something about the man heading their way—the hat, the gun, the voice.

Osborne stood up but tightened his grip on his own gun.

A ray of late sun hit the man’s face. Mallory gasped. The body that had moved with the grace and ease of youth lied. It belonged to a face more crumpled than the hat on its head—the face of a very old man.

“Clyde?” said Osborne, hesitating, but sure. He’d met the man only once, but that was a face you never forgot. The band across his chest loosened.

At the sound of his name, the old man lowered his shotgun a notch.

“Clyde, you know me.” Osborne stepped into the fading sunlight, anxious to be seen. “I’m a friend of Ray Pradt’s. Ray and I are neighbors. You … we met a while back.”

Osborne wondered if the old man could possibly remember meeting him. Had to be four years ago at least, standing in the rutted lane that passed for Ray’s driveway, and they couldn’t have exchanged more than a few words. Ray was the one who had the knack for socializing with old recluses like Clyde, not Osborne.

He never knew quite what to say—or how to say it. The few times he’d had one of the old codgers in the dental chair, he would try to break the ice with a little humor, maybe a comment on the weather—but all he ever got in return was a flat look and silence. Maybe a grunt.

“Ray Pradt, huh.” The gun dropped slightly. “Who’d you say you are? Speak up.”

“Paul Osborne—Ray’s neighbor.” Osborne raised his voice to an unnatural level. “Say, you and Ray been catching some nice fish lately. He showed me a couple beauties you caught just the other night.” Osborne winced. False jocularity was not his bailiwick.

“Oh, yeah—you know Ray, huh.” Clyde’s gun was pointing down at the snow.

Osborne took a deep breath. Another tentative step towards the old man. He was less than fifty feet away now. Close enough Osborne could see a stag-handled Bowie knife hanging in a holster from his belt.

“Dad …?” Mallory wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. The old man was ambling their way.

“Nice gun you got there,” said Osborne when they were about twenty feet apart. “But, jeez, Clyde, you almost nailed yourself a retired dentist—not a partridge.”

“Oh, I wasn’t shootin’ at no birds,” said the old man making a whistling, sucking sound as he spoke—the sound of ill-fitting dentures. “I thought you was someone else.”

Osborne tried not to stare, but the difference between the youth in the old man’s movement and the age in his face confounded him. He knew from Ray that Clyde lived somewhere in the backwoods near McNaughton and made his living trapping beaver. Was it working outdoors that kept him so spritely? Or was it the lack of having to deal with human razzbonyas?

“Yeah, I been havin’ trouble with a coupla dumyaks driving back in here on their snowmobiles and wrecking my traps,” said Clyde. “But you two,” he looked at Osborne’s shotgun, then the saw in Mallory’s hand, “what the hell
you
doin’ back here?”

“Looking for a Christmas tree,” said Osborne.

“With a shotgun?”

“Few days left in bird season—thought we might chase a few out from under the snow cover. I hunt back here pretty often—but I keep to state land, Clyde.”

“Yep, that’s your right. Birds, huh. If I was you, I’d keep an eye out for wolves. Got a pack of four moved into the region—wiped out my rabbits.”

“My dad and I, umm, we found a nice tree right here,” said Mallory, edging her way out from behind Osborne and pointing. “All ready to cut down. We’ll be out of your way in a few minutes … if that’s okay.” She gave Osborne an anxious look.

“Don’t bother me none. It’s those damn kids I don’t like. You see ‘em, you tell ‘em keep those goddam machines of theirs on the trail—I’ll shoot ‘em if they come back here again. I will.”

“You mean to tell me they’re riding off trail—right through the woods here?” Osborne looked around. He didn’t see any snowmobile tracks. The old man must be losing it.

“Not through the woods, up and down my streambeds. I got traps laid around the beaver dams back in here—and I don’t need them messed up. This is my living. You just ask Ray, he’ll tell ya.

“Hell, last week, I caught two of ‘em back in here. Some young fella and his girlfriend. They got stuck, see. Coupla nincompoops. Didn’t know that the ice over the springs back in here don’t freeze solid. Wouldn’t ya think they’d know that? Anyone who lives up here knows that.

“So middle of the night I hear all this hullabaloo. I go traipsing on over and come to see one of their machines is frozen halfway into the ice, doncha know. Prob’ly goin’ deeper without my help. So I go get my pickup with the winch and chains I use when I break a beaver dam and pulled ‘em out.” Clyde paused, giving his teeth a good suck.

“That was nice of you,” said Osborne.

“Not fast enough for the little lady—pretty nasty that one. Not one word of thanks. You’d a’thought they’d give me five bucks … something. Wouldn’t you?” Clyde’s voice cracked with anger.

“They sure shoulda,” said Osborne. He wanted to humor the old guy, get the tree and get out of there. Ray might think Clyde was a wizard when it came to fishing hard water but Osborne had limited tolerance for backwoods hermits. They tended to have bad teeth, bad breath, and conspiracy theories that begged logic.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” said Clyde, punching at the air with the stock of his gun. “I get that gal unstuck and next thing she’s accusing me of poking holes in the ice to make it happen. It was a
beaver
hole for chrissake. Tried to tell her that but, man, she yelled at me.”

Clyde shook his head. “The mouth on her—worse’n an old girlfriend of mine.” The craggy old face made a strange move, which Osborne recognized belatedly as a wink.

Oh, no, he prayed silently, please dear God—don’t let this be a story longer than one of Ray’s.

Encouraged by Osborne’s blank look, Clyde chewed and sucked, then said, “That old girlfriend—she was a hooker come up from Chicago and wanted me to marry ‘er. When I said, ‘no sirree, gal,’ you shoulda heard
her.
But that lady the other night—she was something else, I tell ya. You ask Ray. I gave him a rundown of the language that gal used. But—” Clyde gestured towards Mallory, “not when the young lady’s around. Men only for that kinda talk.

“I let her know I don’t intend to see her and that goofy boyfriend of hers back here no way, no time. If I do, so help me Jesus—boom! Won’t use no shotgun neither—might try my deer rifle on those two.” Clyde cradled his shotgun as he rocked back on his heels, content now that he had a plan.

“Oh, I doubt they’ll be back,” said Osborne. He couldn’t imagine anyone being that stupid. Clyde was scary enough
without
a gun.

“So you know my buddy Ray, huh,” Clyde stepped closer, and Mallory moved back. “Now there’s a boy knows fish. Did he tell ya we got a mess of walleyes other night? Got an even dozen, smallest one three pounds.”

“Yep, he sure did, Clyde. Showed me some real beauties—n-i-ice fish.”

“You betcha they’re nice, more’n our limit, too,” the old man made a hooting sound that was supposed to pass as a laugh. “I have a good time with that boy.” Clyde hooted and sucked. The stench of stale tobacco was overwhelming.

“Where’s your place?” Osborne looked around, hoping a change of subject might ease Clyde on his way. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a road into a home back here.”

“I’m in ‘bout a third of a mile that direction,” Clyde pointed. “You access my place from the other side of the lake.”

“So you must be on Little Horsehead.”

“Nah, sold that land a couple years ago. I’m just south—back in near a couple ponds that feed into the lake. Been there nearly sixty years now. I made a deal with the highway department way back when to trap beaver. Been a good enough living. I own forty acres crisscrossed with some decent streams and two real nice spring ponds. But this here is state land, so you and the young lady are not trespassing. Sorry about that buckshot, Doc, just tryin’ to scare those other fellas.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Osborne motioned to Mallory to hand him the saw. Then he paused. “Say, Clyde, one last thing. I was hunting birds out here the other day, and I came across a set of dentures that someone left in a stump over there for some reason. Those wouldn’t happen to belong to you? I need to return them if—”

“Hell, no. Got my own. Been wearing ‘em for years. You find anything strange back here, it’s those damn kids use this hollow for beer drinkin’. I spend half the summer picking up their trash. Ought to try a little buckshot on them one of these days.”

Clyde gave a wide grin. In the dimming light, Osborne could barely make out his upper plate for the black tobacco stain.

“Dad,” said Mallory, climbing into the car after they had tied down the tree, “give up on those dentures. I’ll bet you anything that some kid stole those from a high school science lab. Just a prank. Thank goodness they don’t belong to that old man. Yuck.” She shivered.

“You could be right.” Osborne turned to watch over his shoulder as he backed up. “So you don’t think you’d like to go ice fishing with Ray and?l’ Clyde?”

“Da-a-d, hardly.” She gave him a dim eye.

“That’s what I love about Ray,” said Osborne, shifting into gear. “His door is always open—whether it’s an old- timer like Clyde or a beautiful woman.”

Mallory said nothing, but a dark look settled across her brow. Osborne kept his eyes on the road, forcing himself not to grin. Fond as he was of his daughters, each had inherited some of their mother’s more irritating traits. Erin would run around, insisting on doing too much in too little time, while Mallory would always be a bit of a snob.

Maybe, when it came to Ray Pradt, that was okay. Much as he loved the guy, Ray was just not son-in-law material. He had peculiar friends, kept odd hours, and you never knew what the hell he was going to do next.

Yep, sucking and hooting, old Clyde had just done Osborne a big favor.

They drove back towards town in silence. Just as the lights of Loon Lake came into view, Mallory stirred. She sat up straight.

“What?” said Osborne. “You look like you just made your mind up about something.”

“I did. You have to hand it to Ray, Dad. At least he’s never boring. Some people I know, they’re so boring you get tired of them even when they’re not around.”

Osborne looked over at her. Maybe he was wrong.

Arne
Steadman, a boulder of a man, was blocking the doorway to Lew’s conference room. That didn’t surprise Osborne. When it came to blocking anything, the man was more talented than a tight end for the Green Bay Packers.

As chairman of the county board for twenty years, Arne had specialized in blocking every DNR effort to encourage natural shorelines and reduce the number of homes being built too close to the water. He insisted his resistance was coincident to the fact that the proposed regulations might apply to land owned by parties related to him by blood or by marriage.

After a mild heart attack, Arne had appointed himself to the lesser role of mayor of Loon Lake. All he had to do now was block local efforts to improve the signage on Main Street shops, keep snowmobiles off cross-country ski trails, or reduce the number of Steadmans on the county and town payrolls. His cousin was the postmaster, his wife’s brother the town clerk, his son the tax assessor. And so it had been in Loon Lake since the days of Arne’s grandfather.

“Excuse me, Arne … Arne? Excuse me …” Osborne gave up. The man’s hearing must be going. He tapped the massive right shoulder and waited for Arne to wedge his body sideways so Osborne could squeeze past. Once he was safely in the conference room, Osborne sat down at the empty table. He knew he was a few minutes early.

The mayor, on hold for a call on his cell phone, swayed back and forth in the doorway, the phone barely visible between his hand and his balding head. It was a remarkable head that had always impressed Osborne as most closely resembling a box eight inches square, including the distance between his ears.

Arne wore his usual meeting attire: a bright red Polartec pullover that did nothing to diminish the impact of his rotund torso, the latter supported by pudgy legs encased in well-worn Levis. Stark white tennis shoes attempted to balance the ensemble.

Winter or summer, Arne wore those damn tennis shoes. They looked so funny, so inadequate for the weight they had to carry, that behind his back the McDonald’s coffee crowd referred to Arne as “Mr. Potato Head.”
Whispered
behind his back, that is; no one wanted to be on the bad side of the mayor.

Osborne peeled off his parka and leaned back in his chair to wait patiently. He had left the house in a rush only to find he was running a good half hour ahead of schedule. Now, with everything under control, he could relax. He left the tree leaning against the house, ready for his return, and Mallory had instructions on where to find the tree stand, the lights, and two boxes of ornaments. She planned on calling Erin to see if the kids would like to help decorate.

Driving into town, Osborne couldn’t remember when he’d felt so happy and busy and efficient. Not the early darkness, not even the minus-twenty wind chill could quell his spirits. When he found he had time to make a quick stop at Ralph’s Sporting Goods and pick up the gift he had ordered for Lew, he felt even better.

“I had to go on eBay to find these,” Ralph had said, half- admiring, half-grousing as Osborne wrote the check. “Cost as much as an engagement ring, Doc. These a gift or for your own collection?” Osborne just smiled and tucked the little box in his pocket. The holiday was looking better by the moment.

As he walked down the street to where he had parked his car, Osborne mulled over the Dental Society dinner. Maybe he could approach Lew from another angle. Why not? He never gave up on a big fish.

Arne slapped the cell phone shut and stepped back to let Lew enter the conference room. “After you, Chief Ferris.”

“Hey, Doc,” said Lew, pulling out the chair across from Osborne, “got the fax from your friend.” With a pleased lift of her right eyebrow, Lew scooted two pages across the table to Osborne.

Arne shook Osborne’s hand, then took the chair at the head of the table.

“Mayor Steadman, I appreciate your support this morning in the matter concerning Dr. Pecore,” said Lew, once they were all settled. “After our meeting, I asked Dr. Osborne to scout some possible candidates for the coroner position because, as you know, I have a critical situation at hand. Given his experience as a health professional in our community and as a forensic dentist, I thought he might be able to assist me in finding someone who could help us out.”

Lew beamed at Osborne. “And he did. Dr. Osborne, please …” Lew gave Osborne a nod.

“Dr. Philip Borceau from Manitowish Waters has indicated to me that he is willing to step in temporarily,” said Osborne. “I let him know the budget might mean another change down the road, but this will buy Chief Ferris and you folks on the town committee some time.”

As Osborne spoke, Lew slid a copy of the résumé along the table to Arne, then leaned forward on her elbows to wait while he looked it over. Arne glanced down at the two pages, then pushed them aside.

“I’ve got the man for you.”

“But—” Lew looked puzzled.

“No ‘buts,’ Lewellyn,” said Arne, raising his right hand as if giving a “down” command to a dog. “Wave at Marlene, will you? Tell her to send young Bud on down. He’s waiting up front”

Lew threw Osborne a quizzical look, then pushed back her chair.

“Hey, Gramps, how’s it goin’,” said the young man who ambled in through the doorway, leaned forward to give Arne a high five, then shuffled down to take a chair at the end of the table, opposite his grandfather. Osborne’s first impression was that the kid bought his Levi’s at the same store as his grandfather but wore them significantly lower.

A burly twenty-something, Bud showed signs of inheriting the family physique with the exception that his square head was not bald. Quite the opposite. Osborne could make out every hair on that head, each one moussed to stand straight up from the scalp. And every hair on the head matched an equally stiff bristle hiding the line of the jaw and the chin. If Bud spent any time outside, you would never know it. His skin was milky white, almost translucent. Lavender-tinted granny glasses rested halfway down his nose.

“My grandson, Bud Michalski,” said Arne. “He moved back from Appleton a couple months ago. Was working there as a phlebotomist, but he’s been studying part time to be an undertaker.” Arne relaxed back into his chair and thrust his legs out in front of him. “His uncle runs the funeral parlor over in Armstrong Creek—plan is for Bud to take over when the old man retires.”

“Yep. I’ve completed two courses online and an internship with a funeral director in Rice Lake last summer,” said Bud, his face open and cheerful. He pushed at his glasses. “Before I left Appleton, I was working for a company that collects plasma. They send it to Germany, do things to it and when that stuff is shipped back here it’s worth millions.
Millions
.” Bud looked around as if he expected the people around the table to believe that he personally executed every step of the process, vial by vial, tube by tube.

“Ah,” said Lew, arms crossed, eyes moving from Bud to Arne and back again. “Where are you from, Bud?”

“Milwaukee. That’s where I grew up and—”

“Bud’s got ideas,” said Arne, interrupting. “He’s gonna go far in this business. And the price is right.” Arne pursed his lips, then spoke clearly, deliberately. “I told him we expect him on call full time, and I told him thirty thousand plus bennies—less than half what we were paying Pecore.”

“No offense to you, Bud,” said Lew, acknowledging the young man with a slight nod before turning to his grandfather, “Arne, I need someone with forensic experience. We could certainly use Bud part time, but at this moment I have three dead bodies in that morgue and a half-written report. We’ll be fined by the state if things are not done properly, and this young man is neither a pathologist nor a licensed medical examiner. It’s not fair to Bud—or to me and my department.”

“C’mon, young lady,” said Arne, his tone supercilious. “You need expertise—call Wausau. Why the hell you think we pay them a retainer? Bud, here, can handle the rest. Hell, he knows blood. Pecore said he hasn’t been doing more’n two autopsies a year for St. Mary’s anyway. He told me there’s no money in forensic pathology these days—you never saw a man so happy to take early retirement. All we need’s a coroner who can take pictures, draw blood, and keep the records straight.”

“Chief Ferris,” said Bud. “Gramps is right. You have no need to worry. I’ll contract with some local docs and funeral directors to make this a top-notch operation. I know a lot of the science from my work last summer. I was telling Gramps, with what I know we might be able to make some serious money for the town, too.”

“How’s that?” asked Lew, her voice flat. Sitting up straight with her forearms on the table, she held her hands clasped stiffly in front of her. The expression on her face was too alert, too serious, the dark eyes just this side of challenging. When she was bullied, Lew’s usual offense was a gentle toughness. This wasn’t looking so gentle. Osborne tensed.

“Well, anytime we have an unidentified or unclaimed body, we can harvest many of the natural elements of the deceased—this includes organs, of course, but skin, ligaments, even bone. Fact of the matter is, on the open market for allograft tissue—the human body is worth $272,000.”

With an eagerness that reminded Osborne of the ecstasy displayed by his black lab on retrieving a downed grouse, Bud made eye contact with each of the three people sitting at the table. Neither Lew nor Osborne said a word, but that did nothing to dim Bud’s enthusiasm.

“I’ll put it all on paper, flush it out for you. Timing is key, y’know—you have to harvest early. Early and fast.”

“Around here, it can be days before we have a confirmed identification on a body,” said Lew. “A hunter has a heart attack out in the woods, a snowmobiler goes through the ice and isn’t retrieved until spring. We’re a destination spot for tourists; I don’t see how—”

“Yeah, we got issues to skirttail,” said Bud with a hearty grin. “But we can do it. Like I told Gramps—you have just two animous deceased donors a year and the town budget has a surplus.”

“You mean ‘anonymous?’” said Lew. She had relaxed her shoulders. A good sign.

“That’s what I said—’two animous donors a year,’ and Loon Lake is in the black.”

“Bud’s the man,” said Arne.

Lew threw up her hands. “No argument here.” She pushed her chair back, “But in that case, I need to talk to Wausau right away, so if you’ll excuse me.” She stood up and reached across the table to shake Bud’s hand. “Why don’t you and I sit down tomorrow morning, Bud. You can flush out a few things for me then.”

“Done deal,” said Bud. “I forgot my résumé in the car. You want it?”

“Please. Just drop it on my desk.”

“Well, then we’re all agreed.” Arne heaved himself to his feet. “Merry Christmas, everyone.”

“Cool Yule,” said Bud, jumping up to follow his grandfather out the door.

Lew hung back, waiting until Arne and Bud were at the far end of the hall, then closed the door very quietly.

“Sit down, Doc. I need to ‘skirttail’ a few things—like will you give my apologies to Dr. Borceau, please.”

Osborne studied her face. The lines around her eyes had tightened, but she looked less disappointed than determined. “Of course. He’ll understand. Too bad, though. This is going to cost you so much time—”

“Time? My time is nothing compared to the tab this town will get from every subcontractor I will have to hire in order to cover Fuzzhead’s ass.” A sly smile crept across Lew’s face. “What Arne doesn’t know is I got a new billing schedule from the Wausau Crime Lab for next year. Whopping increases. Whopping, Doc.”

“So this doesn’t upset you.”

“What good would that do?” asked Lew. “Arne thinks he can come in here and beat me up—it’s important for me to keep him believing that.”

She didn’t say another word, but the look in her eye was the look she got whenever she caught a glimpse of a brown trout, a lunker who was under the mistaken impression he was well hidden by an overhang. She had a way of teasing big guys into trouble—and she knew it.

A knock on the door startled both of them.

“Come in,” said Lew.

Marlene poked her head through the doorway. “Couple messages for you, Chief. Your daughter called. It’s snowing so bad down south, she and her husband don’t want to make the drive up until after Christmas.”

“O-o-h, that’s too bad,” said Lew, disappointment sweeping her face.

“And I hate to give you this next one …”

“Don’t tell me Gina Palmer called to say she’s not coming either.” Lew’s voice held an edge of alarm.

“No, no. Tomahawk called. They’ve got a snowmobiler who’s been missing six days now. Point last seen was singing karaoke at Thunder Bay.”

“Oh great, so they’re dumping that on
my
desk, are they?”

“They’re pretty worried, Chief. They checked all their trails and the family of the missing rider hired two off-duty officers to canvass our trails—no sign of him anywhere.”

“O-o-kay,” Lew sighed, “Good thing Suzanne and the kids aren’t coming—looks like I’ll be working the holiday.”

“Lew,” said Osborne, pulling on his parka after Marlene left, “why not spend Christmas Eve at my place? Stay over. Surely you can take
some
time off.”

“Doc, you’re sweet.” She leaned up to kiss him lightly on the lips. Never had she ever said she loved him, a fact he was acutely aware of at moments like this. “The answer is no, but thank you. And don’t worry about me, I’ll have Gina to keep me company.”

“That’s not the same …”

She pushed him towards the door.

“Okay, okay—but come by later if you’re not too tired. Mallory is making a big pot of chili. Erin will be there with the kids to help us decorate the tree … popcorn … hot chocolate …” The bustle of Erin and her children always brought a smile to Lew’s face.

“Can I call you? It all depends on how long it takes me to reach Bruce and see if he can help me snag someone from the Wausau crew to complete the preliminary reports on those victims. I cannot keep those families waiting any longer.”

Hunching his shoulders against the icy wind blowing across the parking lot, Osborne fumbled for his keys. He could not get in the car fast enough, it was so cold.