Dead Hot Mama (7 page)

The
ID caught him by surprise.

He and Carrie had finished folding the snowmobile suits back into the box and taping it closed. Then, after pulling on his jacket, hat, and gloves, Osborne had picked up the box and was halfway down the hall when Carrie called out, “Dr. Osborne …”

He stopped and turned, thinking he had forgotten or dropped something. Carrie waved him back to the nurses’ station. She looked around to be sure no one could overhear what she was about to say.

“I know her.”

“Who?”

“That girl in there. The dead woman. I know her.”

Osborne set the box back down on the floor. “You’re telling me you know the victim in the morgue, Carrie?”

“Ye-e-ah.” She dropped her eyes as if ashamed. “I wasn’t sure about saying anything, but the more I thought about it … I felt bad. It’s kinda embarrassing …” She lowered her voice another notch, even though there was no one around. “Jeff and I were snowmobiling last winter, see? And we stopped in at the Rabbit Den in Armstrong Creek for some hot toddies. You know that place?”

“Yes,” said Osborne, knowing instantly why Carrie had been reluctant to say anything. The Rabbit Den was a strip joint that billed itself as a place “where good bunnies go bad.” If a Thunder Bay dancer got caught violating Code 2116B, she could always get a job in the next county where the authorities were not quite as vigilant as Lew. No question, The Rabbit Den was not a place Carrie’s parents would want her patronizing. Chances are she’d be the only woman there not working.

“That’s where I first saw her—she was dancing. A couple months later I ran into her over in Rhinelander at Nicolet College. She was a year behind me in the nursing program. Eileen Walkowski’s her name. We talked a couple times, and she told me she danced to pay for school.”

“That makes sense.” Osborne thought of Lew’s daughter dancing her way towards a successful career as a CPA. Lew’s description of why her daughter did what she did was succinct: “Sometimes being a survivor means taking an unconventional path. Doesn’t mean you’re bad, just means you’re unafraid.”

“About that time the Ranch people came up to recruit from the nursing classes and gave her a scholarship.”

“You lost me. The Ranch people? You mean a nursing scholarship?”

Carrie was looking very embarrassed. “The Ranch is this place down near Oshkosh where they teach exotic dancing, but you have to be very … very—” Carrie used her hands, her face crimson.

“Well-endowed,” said Osborne, nodding his head seriously. “And they recruit up here?” He wanted to kick himself for the incredulity he couldn’t keep out of his voice, but Carrie didn’t seem to hear.

“Yeah, well, most of their applicants have implants, but they say the best dancers are the ones that are natural. The last few years they’ve been hosting parties for the nursing students, and I guess they find a couple candidates that way. Not the male students, of course.” Carrie rolled her eyes.

“Then what happens?”

“You go to the Ranch and train as a dancer for three months. They pay your room and board, and then they help you get a well-paying job like in Las Vegas. Girls go there from all over the United States. I’ve heard some of the dancers make a couple hundred thousand a year. Once you start earning, you pay them back. Kinda like those real estate schools, y’know.”

Definitely real estate, thought Osborne. Too much like real estate.

“So that’s what Eileen did. She dropped out of Nicolet and went to the Ranch.”

“And that’s the name of it? The Ranch?”

“No, there’s more to it, like ‘the Apple Ranch’ or ‘the Raspberry Ranch’—but I don’t know exactly. Everyone just calls it the Ranch.”

“Do you know anyone else who’s there right now? Or went there?”

“No. I heard about it for the first time back when Eileen signed up. As far as I know the Ranch people haven’t been back to Rhinelander recently. And I haven’t seen her since she left—until they brought her body in this morning.”

“Carrie,” said Osborne, “I appreciate you being so forthcoming. This was the right thing to do. Just think how her poor parents must be wondering what on earth has happened.”

Carrie nodded, relieved.

“I’m sure Chief Ferris will need more information from you,” said Osborne.

“Okay.” As if realizing what she had done was important, Carrie perked up. “I’ll ask around, too, see if anyone else around here knows anything.”

Before leaving he wrote down the phone numbers for Carrie at work, at her apartment, and her cell phone. While Lew would be able to get the particulars on the victim and her family from the college, he had no doubt she would be very interested in the Ranch people.

“Carrie,” said Osborne, picking up the box again, “if you should remember the full name of that place or think of anything else we should know about Eileen, please call me at home. I’ll be sure we get the information to Chief Ferris right away.”

“You won’t mention this to my dad, right?”

“Of course not. You’re an anonymous source. Don’t worry about that.”

For more reasons than her parent’s ire, Osborne thought it wise to keep Carrie’s name and her connection to the victim quiet.

Osborne pulled off a glove to knock on the door to Lew’s office, balancing the oversize box in front of him. To his surprise, it swung open before he even touched it. Stumbling forward, he nearly knocked over Marlene, the switchboard operator, who doubled as Lew’s assistant. A blowsy, cheery woman in her late fifties, Marlene had a habit of looking amused whenever Osborne walked in to visit Lew. Made him feel like a school kid with a crush on his teacher.

At the moment, however, she was no-nonsense. She stepped back to let him by, then gave him a hurried wave, “Chiefs not here, Doc—meeting with Pecore and the mayor.” Marlene threw him a look; she knew what was up.

Osborne set down the box in the corner of Lew’s office, then checked his watch. He found Marlene back at the switchboard, juggling incoming calls. He waited for a break, then spoke fast, asking her to tell Lew, when she called in, that one of the nurses had recognized the young woman. He took care not to mention Carrie’s name, saying only that he had left a note in the top right-hand drawer of Lew’s desk with details and phone numbers. Marlene would know that meant the information was confidential.

Then he mentioned the box he had left and why. “Be sure that fellow from Wausau doesn’t walk off with it until Lew has a chance to look it over, will you? She may want to hold on to that box so Gina Palmer can have a look.”

“Okey-doke,” said Marlene, “and Chief Ferris told me if I saw you to see if you could sit in on her second meeting with the mayor at four this afternoon. She said you were working on someone they might hire for you-know- what.”

“I am. But, shoot, I still need to make a phone call on that,” said Osborne, glancing at his watch again. Good. Four o’clock would give him plenty of time to make the call and find a Christmas tree with Mallory. “Tell Chief Ferris I’ll be here.”

Twenty minutes later he was in his own kitchen pouring a final cup of coffee. Mallory was in the living room happily pulling on her old snow pants, which she had just found in a box in the basement. That gave him time to make the call that he’d promised Lew. It was the number of an old college buddy who had retired to Manitowish Waters.

“Phil, Paul Osborne here. How are you?”

Phil Borceau had worked as a pathologist at one of the big hospitals in Madison before retiring. His wife had died recently of breast cancer, and Osborne knew the man was lonely. Lonely and at dangerously loose ends. When they had dinner together in October, Osborne had recognized the despair in his friend’s eyes. He knew that valley; he’d been there.

Phil sounded pleased to hear Osborne’s voice. “So it could be temporary,” said Osborne moments later, winding up his description of what Lew needed in a coroner, “or it might be more time than you want to put in.”

“Sure, sure,” said Phil. “Sounds interesting, though.

The daily stuff is easy, but I haven’t worked crime victims in years. Have to pull out my textbooks.”

“I think you’ll need some new ones, Phil,” said Osborne with a laugh. “The science on some of this stuff has changed dramatically—certainly has in the field of forensic dentistry.”

“You’ll still be handling that, right?” said Phil.

“You better believe it—so long as Chief Ferris asks me. Phil, can you give me a brief rundown of your experience and your title at retirement? We’re meeting on this later today.”

“Why don’t I fax it in? I have a résumé in my files that I used for a deposition I consulted on last summer. Would that work?”

“Better yet.”

Osborne gave him Lew’s extension and suggested he talk to Marlene. Osborne hung up feeling very good about Dr. Phil Borceau. He would be perfect for the position of Loon Lake coroner. Not only would it fill his empty days, but with Pecore and his bungling no longer a drag on the department, Phil could make Loon Lake Chief of Police Lewellyn Ferris look like a million bucks.

“Mallory—you ready?”

“All set.” Mallory grinned at him as she walked into the kitchen fully rigged for winter weather. “You look happy, Dad. And kind of weird. Do you have to wear that hat?”

Osborne had pulled on his favorite winter headgear—a beaver hat lined with quilted silk. Attached so they could be folded up inside were woolen earflaps, double lined and cross-stitched. Very warm. When he pulled them down, they fit nice and close around his ears and the back of his neck.

“You’re right about the hat—kinda makes me look like a Russian immigrant in the late 1800s, doesn’t it?” He gave Mallory a sheepish grin. “But I’ll tell you, that wind out there is stiff and it won’t be any warmer when we get to McNaughton. So count your blessings, kiddo; at least your old man doesn’t wear a stuffed trout on his head.”

Heading across the yard towards his car, Osborne grabbed his oldest daughter around the shoulders to give her an impulsive, affectionate hug.

Osborne
pulled into the exact same spot he had parked his car the day before. A light dusting of snow during the night had done nothing to obscure the tracks he’d left entering and leaving the forest.

“You really think we’ll find a good tree in
here
?” Scanning the rust and bronze skeletons in front of her, Mallory looked around, her face clouded with doubt. Denuded by winter, the tamaracks facing them were hardly suitable for hanging with ornaments.

Her tone of voice reminded him of her mother—no tree was ever quite right, and his gifts to her always had to be returned: if not the wrong size, then the wrong color. Osborne made a quick, firm resolve that this tree search would in no way duplicate the unpleasant past. The ghost of Mary Lee would not be allowed to haunt this holiday.

“Trust me, Mallory. Back behind these tamaracks are some beauties. See over the tops?” Her eyes followed where he pointed. Ranks of dark green balsam spires pushed their way into the goose grey sky like guardians of the deeper woods.

“This is where I hunt grouse—they love to hide in those balsam. We’ll top one off and have a perfect tree.”

“Well … Erin said there’s a tree farm out on Highway G …”

“I know what I’m doing, Mallory,” said Osborne. He felt a little guilty not telling her the truth as to why he had picked this spot. Not only did he want to find a tree, but he was intent on retracing yesterday’s mad dash. He wanted a better look at that spot where he’d found the teeth.

Handing Mallory the saw from the back of the car, he leaned farther in to uncase his shotgun. His daughter’s eyes widened.

“Bird season is open ‘til the thirty-first. And I told you about that wolf, didn’t I?” He tried his best to sound cavalier when he was, in fact, beginning to have second thoughts about the wisdom of this venture.

“Whatever,” said Mallory. “All I want is a Christmas tree, Dad, not a major northwoods experience. Guess you better lead the way, huh.”

“Are you kidding me?
This
is where you found those teeth?” Hands on her hips, Mallory checked out the spot where Osborne had slipped the day before. “Someone’s putting you on, Dad. This is Horsehead Hollow—don’t tell me you never heard of it.”

“That’s this place? I thought Horsehead Hollow was up by the Flowage.”

“Nope, this is it. You’re thinking of
Big
Horsehead Lake. You take that path,” Mallory pointed off behind a stand of balsam to the right. “and you’ll end up at Little Horsehead. This is where we had all our beer parties when I was in high school. A pretty famous spot for anyone under the age of forty, I’d say.”

“I don’t see any beer cans.”

“You would if you looked harder. See this tree?” Mailory laid a hand on the trunk of an unusually tall tamarack. “This is the marker. We always came by boat from the public landing and found our way by this tree. I never knew you could get here from the highway like we just did.”

“You have to know the logging roads,” said Osborne. “It’s not a straight shot. Boy oh boy,” he added, tipping his head back for a better look at the tree towering over Mallory, “if that’s a tamarack, it has to be a different variety.”

The tree in question had shed its needles but kept a fringe of interwoven twigs that gave it the appearance of being cocooned in lace. Unlike the fingers of other tamaracks, twisting madly in all directions, these delicate spindles thrust their way towards the sky. And all through the spidery fretwork were nestled, like baby birds, millions of tiny pinecones.

“Dad, this tree is so stunning in the summertime,” said Mallory. “Once when I was high, I wrote a poem about it. Think I still have it somewhere.”

“Do you miss getting high?” Osborne brushed the snow off a nearby stump and sat down. He loved days like this when the winter sun was already moving into the west and snow clouds hung low. Snowy clusters on the branches of the young balsams surrounding them glittered in the sun’s glow like diamonds on a ballerina’s tutu.

The hollow under the big tree was so still and peaceful, he motioned to Mallory to find a spot, too. Moments like this were why he loved living here. An image of Lew’s face, relaxed and content as she cast a fly line upstream, flashed through his mind. One thing he loved about that woman—they could spend hours together: not talking, listening. Somewhere a tree creaked. Mallory exhaled, watching her breath.

“Sure I miss getting high,” said Mallory, her voice soft. “That’s why I’ll go to group tonight. I imagine I’ll always miss that feeling … don’t you?”

“Umm. Less so these days.”

“Dad … I’ve been wondering lately … I know that you and Mom didn’t have the closeness that some married people have.”

Osborne glanced over at his daughter. “Mallory, could we not talk about this right now?”

“That’s not my point, Dad. I don’t want to talk about Mom. What I wonder is why … when you were finally on your own and could do things the way you wanted … Why is that when you started drinking? Why not before?”

It was a fair question. And one he’d asked himself often. He had an answer—not sure it was the right one, of course.

“You know what I’ve found is that you spend a lot of time thinking how much you give to another person, or give up of yourself to accommodate that person—until they’re gone. Only when they aren’t there anymore do you realize what they gave you. Let me rephrase that, Mallory:
what you took from them.

“In your mother’s case, she gave my life structure—from sunrise to sunset, she had a plan. When she was gone, the structure was gone. Without her bossing me this way and that, I didn’t know where to begin … or when to stop.”

Mallory looked satisfied with his answer. “I feel that way about Steve. He’s gone, I’m glad he’s gone—but, Dad, it is hard work filling that space.” She gave a slight smile, then leaning to look past his shoulder, she pointed. “Hey, there’s a tree. It’s full, it’s straight. Think that’ll fit in the living room okay?”

He turned to look at where she was pointing. Before he could say a word the dull bark of a shotgun echoed through the snowy silence. A gentle rain hit the back of his head, cushioned by the heavy fur of the hat.

Osborne remained perfectly still for a long moment. He kept his head turned away. Birdshot on the back of the head was one thing, in the face, quite another.

“Don’t move, Mallory. Don’t look back.”

Too late, she was already on her feet.

“Dad, what the hell? Is someone shooting at us?”

“Who’s there?” Osborne shouted. Staying low, he scrambled for cover. The hunter had to be a good hundred yards away and aiming high. “Get down!”

“Why are they doing this?” asked Mallory, crawling towards him on her forearms and knees.

“Some goddam bird hunter with bad eyesight …”

Another blast hit a stand of trees off to their right. Again, the aim was high. He motioned for Mallory to stay low behind him, then raised his twenty gauge and released the safety.

“It’s either an accident or a warning …” Holding their breath, they could hear the crunch of boots in snow heading their way.