Victoria Houston - Loon Lake 14 - Dead Lil' Hustler (18 page)

A clatter of fireworks in the distance caught her attention: damn picnickers down at the public beach. For some reason, tourists in the Northwoods felt compelled to celebrate the Fourth through the entire
month
of July. She had complained numerous times with no results. The word “tourist” spelled money and no one, not even the local police, were eager to ruin a tourist’s holiday.

But the sound of bursting fireworks gave her an idea.

It was 7:30 when Bud finally got home, his heavy figure slouching into the family room where Nancy sat curled up on the sofa watching television and reading magazines. His shoulders drooped. Circles of sweat had dried around the armpits of his golf shirt. And the man who prided himself on shaving twice a day looked grungy in his five o’clock shadow. He was not drunk.

“Sorry to be so late,” he said, dropping his body with a thud onto the ottoman in front of his easy chair.

“Oh, I’m sure you have a good excuse,” said Nancy, chewing gum while flipping the pages of the
Town & Country
magazine she held in her hands.

Bud lifted his head and gave her a long look, the expression in his eyes so dark she felt a frisson of fear. It was a look she hadn’t seen since the day he had to tell her their son was dead.

“It has not been a good day.” He dropped his gaze, studying the floor as he talked. “I was on the seventh hole at the club when a couple Federal agents walked up. They arrested me.”

Nancy looked up from her magazine, startled. “I’m sorry. Did you say
arrested
?”

“Jeff was in my foursome,” he said, referring to their family lawyer and his good friend from college days. “He got me out on bail. They’re picking me up in the morning and taking me to Federal Court in Green Bay.”

Nancy was quiet. She swung her legs off the sofa and sat up straight. She spat out her gum, tore off a corner of the magazine cover, and wrapped her gum in it. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s blackmail. I made one mistake, just one
little
mistake.” Bud looked at his wife, shaking his finger.

“What do you mean ‘blackmail’?” asked Nancy. “The police are—”

“Not the police—it’s the FBI and the DEA. They’re accusing me of money laundering and drug trafficking.”

A long silence hung in the room.

“Bud, does this have anything to do with that drug bust I heard about on the Channel 12 news tonight?”

“I was just trying to help some migrant workers start a business.” He looked down at the floor again.

“You? Start a business? What—a pot-farming business?” Nancy’s voice grew shrill.

“I didn’t know,” he threw up a hand. “You know I’m no gardener.”

“And I’m no idiot. Did you know what you were doing when you impregnated that girl?”

“How do you know about that?” Bud’s head snapped up. “She’s a sweet kid. Miguel’s sister and—”

“No details, please. Talk to Jeff and arrange the usual settlement.”

“Wish I could. Too late.”

“Bud, just tell me how you got roped into this?”

“It started with the girl, Angel. I got together with her a couple times at the Thunder Bay Bar. Next thing I knew her brother—that’s Miguel—heard I owned banks and told me he would tell you about the pregnancy if I didn’t help him out. I felt so bad after I lost all that money, I couldn’t stand the thought of him telling you that, too. So I agreed to deposit cash for him that he could wire down to his people in Mexico. That’s all I did—I just deposited the money. I thought it would be just the one time but he kept insisting.”

Nancy stared at Bud. Something didn’t fit. He’d been guilty of indiscretions before and been chagrined when she found out—but then he would breeze on to the next one. Truth was people always fixed things for Bud, whether it was a lawyer, a friend—even herself. For one simple reason: it had always been worth it. Now that she thought about it, over the past few months Bud had been spending as if he still had millions. He had rented a huge yacht on Lake Superior for two weeks that cost $20,000, and he had treated five buddies to a week of walleye fishing in Canada at one of the fancy lodges up there—another big chunk of change.

“Tell me, what
exactly
did you get out of this arrangement besides keeping your little secret?”

“Twenty percent. That’s how come I didn’t have to drain the trust to pay our taxes and I bought you that diamond tennis bracelet. I mean, Nancy, I’m down to our last hundred grand. We’re broke. I had to do something.”

“I see. So what happens next? You go to prison?”

“It’s all about what happened earlier today. Miguel is cooperating with the Feds. He’s hoping to get asylum or in the witness protection program so he’s telling them everything. And, yeah, I guess I’m going to prison.”

“For money laundering.”

“And drug trafficking and murder.”

“
Murder?
”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Jarvison?” Cynthia poked her head through the door from the kitchen. “Do you need anything more before I—”

“Oh, for chrissake!” Nancy threw up her hands in exasperation. “How stupid are you? Don’t you know when people are having a private conversation? No—I don’t need a goddamn thing. Now leave us alone.”

“Sorry,” said Cynthia, ducking as she pulled the door closed.

“A couple people were killed when they got too close to where Miguel’s people were growing things and were shot. I’m considered an accomplice. Like I said, it’s been a bad day.” Bud heaved a sigh.

“So you go to prison, I pay your legal bills, and what else?”

“I have to pay a fine. But it
is
tax deductible.”

“Well, isn’t
that
a glimmer of good news,” said Nancy, dripping sarcasm. “How big a fine?”

“Not sure. I’ll know later—maybe tomorrow.”

“Bud, give me a hint. When this is all over will we have
anything
left?”

He didn’t answer and he didn’t look up. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take a shower, then go down to have one last drink in the boat—or maybe six. Might be the last night I get to enjoy it.”

“Have six, Bud,” said Nancy, relaxing back on the sofa. “You deserve it. You
have
had a very bad day.” She gave a soft chuckle. “What the hell—at this point all we can do is laugh, right?”

“I guess so,” said Bud with a rueful chuckle of his own. Before he left the room, he paused to kiss her on the forehead.

Watching him leave, Nancy realized that was the first time in years that they had laughed together. Years.

She waited until she heard the shower running, then she ran outside, across the lawn, and down the stairs to the dock. Moving fast, she checked the boat storage areas to be sure Bud hadn’t stashed a gun somewhere. With the exception of three bottles of Jack Daniels and glassware in dire need of a good washing, she found nothing. Satisfied, she ran back up to the house. The last thing she needed was for him to commit suicide.

It was 1:30 in the morning when she peered through the kitchen window and down across the sloping lawn. The boat was dark. Clouds obscured the moon, turning the lake black. A light breeze in the warm air sent ripples toward shore. Nancy hoped it wouldn’t rain: This was one night when she needed tourists enjoying a boozy late night on the beach. Her .357 Magnum Smith & Wesson was loaded and ready, its walnut box with the velvet lining open on the kitchen table.

She had owned the gun since she was seventeen and inherited it from her grandfather. When she was a girl of eleven, he had taught her how to shoot a .22 pistol, arguing that she needed to be able to defend herself against the overly attentive, be it men or mother bears. He had felt it important that a woman be able to do two things: ride a horse and shoot a gun. He was pleased when she proved she could do both.

When he died, she had asked her father for her grandfather’s .357 Smith & Wesson. It was a beautiful gun with a handsome wood grip. And it held six rounds. More than what she might need. Tonight the hard part would be steadying the gun: Her left shoulder was still sore.

She crept down the stairs and onto the dock, hoping the wooden planks wouldn’t give her away. She needn’t have worried. The loud snoring from the interior of the boat covered any noise she might make.

Cautiously, she slipped down the ladder into the boat. Bud was asleep on the padded bench behind the table where he and his buddies played poker. He lay on his back, his head on a canvas pillow, mouth open, snoring loudly. One of her Baccarat cocktail tumblers had fallen onto the carpet under his dangling left hand, leaving a wet stain.

Aiming at his forehead, Nancy fired once. The years of anger surged as she stood there and she fired again. And again. Once more. Fireworks always went off four or more times. She climbed back out of the boat and started up the stairs toward the deck off the kitchen. Just as she turned to look back at the boat, the moon escaped from the clouds. A curtain in the boathouse apartment moved.

She had forgotten Cynthia was sleeping there. Nancy shrugged. Probably just the wind. If not, Cynthia could be persuaded she’d heard fireworks. Meantime, the house phone, an eighties-style landline she kept in the kitchen, was ringing.

“Mrs. Jarvison,” said a voice gravelly with sleep. “Doug Stafford two docks down from you. Did you hear all that noise? Sounded more like gunshots than fireworks and awfully close to your place. Should we call someone?’

“You know, I think it was some idiot down on the public beach with bottle rockets but I called the cops, Doug. They’re checking it out. And thank you for your concern. I appreciate it.”

Setting the cordless phone back on its stand, she considered her next move. No doubt she would have been wise to throw the gun out into the lake—that’s what criminals always did on TV. On the other hand, the lake was so shallow near their dock that the gun could be found easily.
Found is putting it mildly
, thought Nancy. Their lake was so crystal clear that you can stand on the dock and see everything on the bottom a good twenty feet out and then some. No, she would be better off getting rid of it somewhere else. And then only if she really had to: after all, it had belonged to her grandfather, the only man who had never betrayed her. A rush of sadness caught her off guard. Thank goodness her grandfather was dead. He would have been so disappointed to know who she had become.

She set the gun back in its box, tucked the velvet lining over it and, opening the long drawer where she kept the laundered bed linens, she shoved the box under and back. It left a barely discernible bump. She found some folded pillowcases and set them over it to reinforce a reason for the slight bulge in the linens.

Before going up to bed, Nancy checked to be sure Cynthia had set the timer for the coffee. What time was Bud expecting to be picked up? Six or seven? She couldn’t remember so she changed the timer to six
A.M.

The white impatiens lining the Jarvisons’ circle drive glistened with dew under the morning sun as a black SUV drove up on the dot of seven the next morning. Watching from the living room, coffee mug in hand, Nancy turned away for a moment to check her image in the hall mirror.

She had slept so well it had been a struggle to look sleep-deprived but she thought she was managing: no makeup, hair tossed to one side to appear limp. To herself, at least, she looked bad. A hesitant, faltering voice should complete the impression.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, opening the front door. “My husband is still sleeping. He was up most of the night… actually we both were. He told me you were coming at eight—” She dropped her eyes as if in pain.

“We’re sorry, Mrs. Jarvison,” said the first man. He was dressed in a dark suit that fit so badly she figured he must buy his clothes at Walmart. “I’m Alan Strickland with the FBI and my colleague here is Ron Hardin with the DEA, I mean, ah, the Drug Enforcement—”

“I know what DEA stands for,” said Nancy in a blunt tone. Treating her like she was an idiot was so annoying she forgot about keeping her voice small.

“Well, good,” said the man named Alan. He hesitated before saying, “I, ah, is your husband available?”

Ignoring his request, Nancy blocked the way into the hall saying, “I don’t believe a word those drug dealing monsters have said. How can you believe criminals? My husband is a good man. He has done so much for our community—”

“The details will be straightened out, Mrs. Jarvison,” said Alan Strickland, looking fatigued himself. “If he is innocent, he’ll be fine. This morning is a formality and very likely we’ll have him back home late this afternoon. Please. Tell him we’re here.”

Nancy gave the two men a grim look then called up the hall stairway, “Bud, honey, they’re here. Are you ready, sweetheart?” She waited for an answer. “He may be in the shower. I’ll go check.” She ran up the stairs, walked through the master bedroom, adjusted the coverlet and pillows and lingered another minute before walking back to the top of the stairs.

“I don’t see him. But he likes to have his morning coffee down on the dock or on the deck of his boat. Oh, now I remember. I’m so sorry. He got up in the middle of the night. He may have fallen asleep down there. I didn’t fall asleep until four maybe and then just woke up myself so—”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Jarvison. We’ll check the boat.”

“Are you sure? I’m happy to—but okay.”

“Is this the door to the kitchen?” Strickland asked as Nancy came down the stairs.

“Yes,” she said, pointing. “If you’ll go through there, you’ll see the sliding doors that open to the deck and the walkway down toward the dock.”

The two men walked through the kitchen. They slid open the door to the deck and ran across the lawn toward the boathouse and the luxurious yacht moored there.

Nancy watched from the kitchen window. When she saw the two men emerge from the boat, she couldn’t help but smile to herself. She tried to look busy at the small antique desk where she kept her calendar and household lists. She looked up as Alan rushed in.

“What? What’s wrong?” She kept her voice noncommittal. “If he’s not there, he may be in his workshop. That’s the building behind the garage. He does woodworking to relax. Better than Prozac, you know.” She managed to produce an ingratiating and pained smile.