Dead Jitterbug (18 page)

“Lillie said they would pin every outstanding assault-and-battery case on whoever it was. And that is exactly what happened.”

“How do you think she knew?”

“When I asked her that, she said she’d seen enough over her years practicing criminal law in Milwaukee and Madison. She also had no use for the man who was the chief of police at the time.”

“Cynical old bird, isn’t she.”

“She knows people—too well.”

“How did you feel when she said it was a gay revenge murder? Did that seem likely to you?”

Georgia sighed. “The ‘gay’ part did. My sister and I were close. She’d told me that Patrick wanted out of the marriage, and she told me why.”

Georgia paused, “It was such a hard thing for Janet. You know they had only lived there seven months, so she knew no one, had no friends. She felt so angry, so humiliated. This was long before people understood bisexuality. I think if they were going through this today, she would have had a different attitude.”

“So her husband was open about being in love with another man?”

“Yes, quite. He was leaving her to live with his lover.”

“And did she know who this was?”

“No. He refused to tell her. Also, something else she told me—she was convinced he was having an affair with a woman, too.”

“Any idea who that was?” asked Osborne.

“No. But when the police checked the phone records of calls going to their home that weekend, the last one was from a pay phone near the bowling alley. It was made Saturday night around eleven o’clock. People leaving the bowling alley said they saw a woman in the phone booth that night. Now, I heard from other people at the newspaper where he worked that Patrick seemed to spend quite a bit of time with one young woman reporter in particular. But that’s as much as I know.

“Dr. Osborne, looking back now I see how Patrick was a very confused soul. But to be perfectly honest, my sister didn’t help matters. She was not kind. It wasn’t in her nature, for one thing, and then you shatter her life? Molly is not like Janet. She is not like my sister. She is her father’s daughter—she looks like him, she even sounds like him at times.”

“Georgia,” said Osborne, “Lillie is convinced it was Jerry who murdered your sister and her family. She is afraid for Molly. Molly herself told us yesterday that his behavior towards her changed right after the marriage—in ways she finds so disturbing that she has moved out and is staying with Lillie.”

“I’m driving over,” said Georgia. “This sounds terrible.”

“It’s not good,” said Osborne. “Chief Ferris is likely to reopen the murder case. We’re hoping to find the evidence still in storage—that it hasn’t been destroyed.”

“Then two things that you should know,” said Georgia, her voice shaking. “When Molly was questioned by the police the day after she was found—actually they had a child psychologist talk to her—all she could remember from that night was ‘the nice man with the yellow hair.’ Nothing about his face or whether he was short, tall, fat, or skinny—just the yellow hair. Made me think whoever it was wore some kind of a mask or a scarf around his face that didn’t cover his head.”

“'The nice man with the yellow hair,'” said Osborne, writing down what she said.

“Yes, and the boy who was accused was Native American, dark-skinned with black hair. Jerry O’Brien, thirty years ago, was fair-skinned with reddish-blond hair.

“So she wasn’t able to recognize a face or a voice?”

“No. Something else—and Molly doesn’t know this—but on her fourth birthday she was sent a card that I felt was very threatening. It was sent by the killer, I’m sure.”

“Do you remember what it said?”

“Not exactly. I remember the words were cut out of a newspaper. But I did save it. It’s in our safe-deposit box with the rest of Molly’s documents. The card and the envelope it came in are in a manila folder I haven’t opened in years. Funny, I thought about it just recently, too, knowing all the advances with DNA.”

“How easy is it for you to get to the bank and send that to us?” asked Osborne.

“I’ll pick it up and drive it over myself. I’ll need to make arrangements at the medical center, but I’ll be in Loon Lake first thing tomorrow morning. You’ve got me worried.”

twenty-five

The fishing was so good, I thought I was there yesterday.

—Dave Engerbretson

Osborne
stood in front of his refrigerator, peering into the freezer section and feeling sorry for himself. After alerting Lew to expect Georgia the next morning, he had spent the day catching up with housekeeping and bills, then two hours at the vet, who’d had an emergency arrive minutes before Osborne was scheduled to have Mike vaccinated for Lyme disease.

They didn’t get out of the animal hospital until after six o’clock. As Mike leaped into the back of the car, Osborne scanned the sky overhead. The air seemed thicker, if that was possible, the morning dark as dusk and the clouds overhead ready to burst—but no rain yet. It was now nearly seven, he was starving and he’d forgotten to think about food until just a few minutes ago.

He reached for a package wrapped in white butcher paper. Ground venison. Nope, take too long to thaw. A Lean Cuisine tuna casserole that Mallory had left behind. Not much of a meal for someone who’d skipped lunch. Two walleye he was saving for the highly unlikely evening when Lew might be free for dinner. And a Ziploc of frozen chili probably six months old, if not a year. He reached for the chili.

As he filled a saucepan with water for boiling, he could hear the wind bellow through the pines. He had just turned around to set the pan of water on the stove, when a voice out of nowhere shouted his name. Startled, he jerked the pan, spilling enough water to douse the gas flame.

“Lewelleyn, you scared me to death. When did you get here?”

“Just now,” said Lew, bounding into the kitchen with a wide grin on her face. “Didn’t you hear me drive up?”

“Not over that wind.”

“Wind from west—west is best. I’m ready to go.”

And she was—in khaki shorts, her favorite fishing shirt, a rain poncho tied around her waist, and her curls clamped down under her fishing hat. “You coming or not? Got sandwiches packed. Gotta get out there before the storm hits. Could not ask for better conditions … what’s wrong?”

“I’m just a little taken aback is all. I assumed you’d be up to your ears in paperwork tonight. Any break in the McDonald murder?”

“Couple new developments that I’m thinking over. Tell you about it when we’re in the boat—need your opinion. And you’re right, a mountain of paperwork to be tackled … so what better time to duck out of the office?”

A rueful expression crossed her face. “I know I’m playing hooky but, Doc, I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again: No matter how busy I am, grabbing an hour or two to fish doesn’t hurt. The job always gets done. Whereas you and I both know we don’t get perfect muskie conditions like tonight more than twice in a summer.”

She was right. The hot days, the heavy overcast, the wind out of the west—no better time to fish the big “girls” than that first half hour of rain.

“You say you’ve got sandwiches?” Osborne threw the chili back in the freezer.

“Peanut butter and lettuce, some chips, couple sodas—we’re set.”

Ten minutes later, with the spray forcing them to put on their ponchos in spite of the heat, they were nearing the entrance to a stream emptying into Loon Lake that they had fished before. A short way up, the stream widened.

“Want to try this pothole?” asked Osborne, shouting over the wind. Lew nodded happily. He swung the boat towards a section he knew was like a nursery for the big fish. The water was only twenty-four to thirty-six inches deep and loaded with bullrush and sandweed, ideal for a predator lurking in ambush.

“Stay out a ways,” said Lew. “I borrowed this fly rod from Ralph—need room to backcast.”

“Okay,” said Osborne, waiting to drop anchor until he saw her nod with approval.

“Casting into the wind?” asked Osborne, dubious. He sure hoped she wasn’t expecting him to do the same. He had a tough time getting a fly out forty feet in perfect conditions.

“Oh yeah, I’ll just double haul. You watch, Doc, it’ll work fine.”

He was happy to watch, hunger forgotten, as Lew uncased the rod. He knew from previous discussions that if she liked it—the first rod ever designed exclusively for fishing the freshwater “shark of the north”—she was planning to buy one, even if it did cost six hundred bucks.

What she didn’t know was that he might beat her to it. He hoped to surprise her with the 9-foot 9-weight St. Croix Legend Elite along with a lightweight Ross Evolution reel—upon winning the election for sheriff. Assuming she would change her mind and not drop out of the race.

As she was threading her fly line up through the guides, Lew said, “Guess what Ralph told me today….”

“I’m afraid to ask,” said Osborne, waiting patiently for direction and sitting quite still. Since there was only one fly rod in the boat, he assumed he would be bait casting with his muskie rod.

“He said that fly fishermen are catching three times as many muskies as the guys bait casting. Do you believe that?”

“I believe he wants to sell expensive fly rods,” said Osborne. He also believed that Ralph paid way too much attention to Lew. That the man was married made no difference. Osborne didn’t like it, and he didn’t like Ralph.

“Be kind, Doc,” said Lew, with a teasing glance. “I think it’s because you get better line control with a fly rod—you can get to the fish easier.”

“I suppose he’s got some custom fly line on there, too,” said Osborne. “Wonder how much
that
costs?”

“I dunno,” said Lew. “It’s new from Cortland—Ghost Tip. It’s an intermediate sink tip line, clear and tapered. Sixteen pound test class tippet. If it gets my fly down fast without spooking the fish, I don’t care what it costs.”

She reached into her tackle box and pulled out one of the longest streamer flies Osborne had ever seen. It was orange and brown and black with strands of gold flashing. And it made sense: if a trout fly has to imitate the insects trout are feeding on, then a muskie fly better imitate the fish on which the big girls are preying.

“Isn’t that going to be tough to cast?” asked Osborne.

“Not with the double haul,” said Lew, getting to her feet in the boat. “Double hauling makes casting with heavier rods and in tougher conditions
so
much easier. That’s why I keep trying to get you to learn, Doc.”

As she tied on the streamer, she said, “Bill Sherer up in Boulder Junction made this. Calls it a Sucker-colored Figure Eight. He customized this wire weed guard, too, so it ought to run smooth.” She got to her feet in the rocking boat, faced the wind, and began stripping line from the reel.

“Wait, wait,” said Osborne, struggling to keep his voice low. After all this effort, the last thing he needed was to make too much noise in the boat and scare off any fish lurking below. “What do you need me to do?” The wind had begun to throw pellets of rain at their faces.

“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry, Doc,” said Lew with a light laugh. “I’m so excited—I forgot about you.”

“Thank you!” He tried for a grumpy look. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

“Okay, sweetie, tell you what. You take that surface mud puppy of yours, and you bait cast from where you are in the front there. It’s your job to stir things up, and when we get one interested, I’ll do my best to put the fly right in front … get it down where she can see it. We cast into the wind—both of us.”

“Gotcha,” said Osborne, checking to be sure he had his six-foot net and Boga Grip close at hand. Big muskies like to bite, and he had learned long ago to be ready with the Boga—forget the old “fingers in the gills” routine. Of course, all this was wishful thinking. The “fish of ten thousand casts” bore its nickname for good reason. But Osborne, like all dedicated muskie fishermen, never launched a cast without hope.

As he got to his feet, Lew tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Doc,” she said with a wide grin, the color high in her cheeks, “I feel lucky tonight….”

Osborne chuckled, thinking: “Life doesn’t get much better than this.”

He threw his first cast. The lure was heavy enough to buck the wind for a high, long flight. Watching it fly towards the horizon, he noticed that the clouds overhead were roiling, much lower than when they had set off from the dock. The air was thick and green. Had to be ninety-five degrees. He was glad that he’d left Mike in the house where it was cooler.

He was on his twentieth cast when Lew gave a low shout: “Shadow!”

Sure enough, fifteen feet from the boat, a lunker was following his surface mud puppy as it whipped through the water. Keeping the rod tip down, he made a figure eight near the boat.

“Go for it,” he said to Lew, who was busy stripping line. She started her backcast, her line hand pulling the line in on her power snap, then giving it back as the line unrolled backward. As she forward cast, her line hand pulled the line in on the power snap, this time giving it back as the line unrolled forward.

Osborne was mesmerized by the grace and physics of the double haul. Watching Lew’s arms move in opposition, her body swaying in cadence to unheard music, he wondered if he could ever master the marvelous movements.

“You’ll learn,” she’d said after his first futile attempts. “One day it’ll just click, and you’ll dance the dance. That’s when you’ll know what makes me love fly-fishing.”

“What makes you so beautiful,” thought Osborne, oblivious to how hard the rain was falling. They were protected from the worst of the wind as the fishing boat rocked rhythmically over the waves. Lew was steady on her feet, her eyes fixed on the dark water and the shadow of a very large fish.

Lew teased again and again, arms in concert, each move flowing into the next, power snaps crisp and delicate. Down went the rod tip into the water each time her streamer neared the boat.

“She’s staying with my fly, Doc,” said Lew, holding her breath. “She’s gonna take—”

With a splash and a swirl, the fish inhaled the streamer.

Osborne watched the line race from Lew’s reel as the fish headed for the open water downstream. That’s when he saw the funnel moving across Loon Lake in their direction.