Dead Hot Shot (Loon Lake Fishing Mysteries) (16 page)

Arriving home to a charred pizza hours later that night, Osborne was less distracted by the sorry state of his dinner than by Ray Pradt’s parting remark: “Wish we could’ve heard Jake’s side of the story.”

Those bits of yarn that Ray found snagged on branches in the wooded area along the western edge of your property? They match the wool sweater Jake was wearing when he was killed,” said Lew, reviewing her notes as she and Osborne met with Andy and Blue Reece in Lew’s office.

It was late Tuesday afternoon and the preliminary report from the Wausau Crime Lab had arrived earlier that morning. “The lab was able to match those fibers easily as well as the paint scrapings from under your wife’s fingernails. They came from the hull of the blue bassboat.” Lew glanced over at Andy. “You may want to have that boat repainted — ”

“I’m selling it,” said Andy, his voice brusque with emotion. Whatever his feelings had been towards his late wife before her death, Andy had kept them to himself throughout the investigation. A class act in Osborne’s view.

“Also, the rubber gloves that were found hidden with the two-by-four that was used in the assault contained skin cells that are being checked for DNA. It’ll be a few weeks until we have confirmation on that — DNA testing takes a while. But I expect a match to Jake Cahak. Just like the spent casings from the .223-caliber bullets found near the barn where Mildred Taggert was killed are used in black rifles like the one we found in his truck.” “And those match, too?” said Andy.

“Again, the ballistics testing has yet to be completed but I’m sure we’ll see a match,” said Lew. “I’ll see that you get a copy of the final report on both investigations.”

“Thank you,” said Blue, “it helps us get past all this. The knowing, I mean.”

“I understand,” said Lew. “Every detail helps. When do you drive south?”

“We leave in the morning. Until today, the roads have been pretty bad.”

“You’re right about that,” said Osborne. “My daughter and her family saw cars in the ditch and overturned semi-trailers as they drove back from Milwaukee Monday morning. You’ve been wise to wait.”

• • •

Eighteen inches of snow had fallen since Saturday afternoon and Jake Cahak had not been the only person to drive too fast for conditions. The Loon Lake Police Department and the county sheriff’s office had had two more fatal accidents to deal with before the storm passed. It was weather, too, that delayed the Murphys’ trip north — though once they learned that Lew had no need to interrogate either of the parents or Barry, their trip was canceled.

Nolan Reece’s body would be released to her husband and daughter that afternoon. Following Nolan’s wishes, they had arranged with a local funeral home for cremation followed by a memorial service in Lake Forest and a final resting place in Loon Lake.

“My wife was difficult but she had her virtues,” said Andy, rumbling in his baritone after Lew’s closing of her notebook signaled the formalities were over. “She had a distinctive, original talent for design — one look at our house and you can see that. I think back to the woman I knew when we were young: if only her family had encouraged her to study architecture — if only I had known how to make her happy.” He studied the hands he held clasped tight in his lap. “I did my best to keep the promise that I made to her father and — and yet — ,” he raised his deep, dark eyes, “it might have been better if we had divorced. you know? She might be alive today.”

“Mother’s mental and emotional landscape was beyond our control, Andy,” said Blue. “I think we did our best.” Blue patted his hand.

“We met with Mom’s lawyer this morning,” she said, “and my trust comes under my control in two months. On my birthday — so there will be some changes made soon. Good changes.” She smiled.

“Congratulations,” said Osborne.

“Yes, first things first,” said Blue, “Barry and I have decided to call off our engagement. Without my mom around to hassle us, his mother is being a little more understanding.”

“What about his father?” said Lew.

“Barry explained to his dad that the trauma of dealing with Mother’s death, the estate and everything that goes with that — the timing is not right for me. So Mr. Murphy is disappointed because he had hoped to see grandchildren before he dies but we all know that wasn’t going to happen anyway, right?” A sheepish grin crossed Blue’s face. “But Barry and I have been the dearest of friends since we were little kids and that will never change.”

“You two were willing to give up a lot to protect each other,” said Osborne. “I don’t know many marriages that solid.”

“Yes, well, along that line,” said Blue, getting up from her chair to stand behind Andy and put both hands on his shoulders, “I’m gifting to Andy a fourth of my trust — five million dollars.”

“What!” Andy looked up at her in amazement. “Blue, don’t do that. I don’t need your money.”

“Andy, dear heart, all that’s left in Mother’s estate is maybe a couple hundred thousand. Not enough for you to retire on even.” Blue sat back in the chair and leaned forwards to grasp both of Andy’s hands. “I want you to enjoy life for a change. Travel, go see those fishing tournaments, participate.” Blue’s face lit up. “I know! Why don’t you sponsor your own tournament — become a player, Andy. A real player in that business. You know you’d love it. You know how to do it, too.”

“I don’t really fish, Blue,” said Andy, but he was sitting straighter in his chair. “I work the stats, the fundamentals — not the damn fish. I don’t like to fish.”

“So? Hire Ray Pradt to be your fishing pro. He can be your consultant. Think of all the fun you can have.”

“But, Blue, why — ”

“Because you stood there for twenty-five years, Mr. Reece. You stood there, you took the abuse and you were there for me. Now no argument!” She laughed, cuffing him lightly on the cheek.

“And what about you, young lady,” said Osborne. “What are your plans for yourself?”

Blue leaned forward to put both hands on Lew’s desk and said, “I am going to continue my training as a therapist specializing in drug and alcohol treatment. The money will allow me to build a treatment center for adolescents on our property. My plan is to make it a place where kids — kids like me — can find their way back. That’s what I want.

“Fifteen million bucks can make that happen, don’t you think?”

Early the next morning at McDonald’s, Jim Craigemeier took center stage with some interesting news. “I was helping Frances with the shop books yesterday when one of the neighbors stopped in,” he said. “Seems they caught a young kid who’d swiped his dad’s .22-caliber pistol and was shooting squirrels in the neighborhood. He owned up to being the guilty party who killed little Daisy, Mildred’s pet.

“Yep,” said Jim, “there’s a kid who’ll be trouble down the road.” “You betcha,” said all the old guys in concert, shaking their heads over the steaming mugs of coffee.

• • •

Four hours later, Frances was twisting her hands nervously as she waited in the anteroom at St. Mary’s Church. The funeral service for Mildred Taggert was scheduled to begin in half an hour. A few people had arrived and taken their places in the pews near the front of the altar. Waiting with Frances and Father Votruba were Osborne, Ray and Lew. Gina had had to leave early that morning for meetings in Madison — the state authorities were anxious to hear how the hunting and fishing license information had been compromised.

“Oh, I don’t expect many people to come really,” said Frances. Her smile was as crooked as ever and tension was obvious in her eyes. Osborne couldn’t blame her. Over the past few days she had had to make the arrangements for her sister to be buried on the reservation, work with a probate lawyer so she could reopen Mildred’s Food Shop, and get her literature paper in on time. She had insisted on completing the latter even though Osborne had called the school on her behalf and everyone there was quite willing to give her an extension.

“Mildred wasn’t the warmest person, I know,” said Frances, continuing to prepare herself for a very low turnout. “She scared little kids.” But even as Frances made the excuses, there was a warmth in her eyes and Osborne recognized the affection she had had for the crotchety old woman who had done the best she could to give two young girls a better start in life.

“She taught you how to be a businesswoman,” said Lew. “Think about that. You know how to manage inventory, bookkeeping and how a small grocery has to be run. You know the retail business. Not many girls your age are so experienced.”

“Yes,” said Frances, brightening, “she didn’t have to do that either.” She reached into her purse, then hesitated. “Dr. Osborne, I’m wondering — would you look at this quote I want to read for Mrs. Taggert?” She held out an index card with handwriting scrawled across it. “I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to say. It’s from Emily Dickenson — we’ve been studying her poetry in my lit class.”

Osborne took the card from her hand and read the quote: “The last night that she lived, it was a common night, except the dying: this to us made nature different.”

“Mildred would approve,” said Osborne, handing it back to her. “Blunt. To the point. And wasn’t that what Mildred was all about?”

Fifteen minutes before the funeral Mass was to begin, the church was half full. Frances peered through the curtains in the anteroom. “Oh-h-h, my gosh — look how many are here,” she said. “Do you think they’ll have enough lunch for all these people?”

As the casket moved down the aisle, Osborne was pleased to note that St. Mary’s was almost packed. Only a few pews at the very back remained empty. The crowd was quite a mix: youngsters with parents, men and women in business suits, truck drivers, maintenance workers, the entire staff from the insurance office down the street from the shop, elderly folk. Every Loon Lake resident who had ever needed a box of diapers, peanut butter, dish soap, cigarettes or a late night snack when all other stores were closed seemed to be there.

“Oh,” Frances was breathless as she started the walk down the aisle behind the casket, “Mildred would be pleased.”

She looked up at Osborne who said, “Yep, she might have even cracked a smile.”

• • •

The Mass and the memorials that followed were the talk of Loon Lake for the next week. To Frances’ great surprise, four people walked up to the podium to share their memories of fierce Mildred.

First, the Mayor spoke of her contribution to the community; then, a middle-aged man said he owed his happy marriage to Mildred as she sold paper valentines when he was a kid, making it possible for him to buy one for the little girl who was now his wife. A young mother said her children learned to make change buying their penny candy from Mildred, and then there was the cook from the Loon Lake Café who knew where he could always get an extra dozen eggs at five
A.M.

The Mass and memorial service ended with Father Votruba inviting everyone for lunch next door in the school cafeteria.

Lunch after a funeral at St. Mary’s, prepared by the ladies of the church, was a ritual that Osborne always enjoyed. It was a time to catch up with former patients and old friends as everyone piled their plates with fried chicken then sat down at the low tables built for children.

Frances appeared more relaxed as she set her plate down between Ray and Osborne. Ray, carrying a large box in his arms, had arrived a little late to the cafeteria.

“What’s he up to?” said Lew, nudging Osborne with her elbow.

“Don’t ask me,” said Osborne.

“Frances,” said Ray, “I understand that Mildred wished to be cremated, is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Frances, hesitant. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Sorry — why?” said Ray. “Oh, I know, you think I need the money for digging the grave?”

Frances nodded.

“Not to worry, Frances. We don’t dig graves this time of the year anyway.”

“Ah, Ray — ” Lew waved a cautionary finger at him and Osborne knew exactly what she was thinking: no need for Ray to describe what happens to those poor souls who have to wait for a spring thaw before they are laid to rest. He had been known to embellish the details.

But Ray had something else in mind. He reached down for the box he’d carried in, set it on his chair and opened the top flaps. Getting to his feet, he paused, standing straight with his arms crossed until he had the attention of everyone in the cafeteria.

“Folks — Frances — I felt that we should have something very special for Mrs. Mildred Taggert. So I — personally — commissioned an urn that will be. most appropriate for our late friend.” He reached into the box and pulled out a dark brown shape that was over a foot tall and about eight inches wide. He held it high in each direction so everyone could see.

“This is a model of an all-brass raccoon that will be finished shortly for Frances to use to contain Mildred’s ashes. Now. hold on to your potatoes, everyone. I’ll set it over here for all to see.” He walked over to place it on the table near the guest book. “Frances, you choose where you would like to keep the urn but I was thinking it might go up on the shelf with the rest of Mildred’s collection. It’s up to you.”

Frances walked over to Ray and took the raccoon from his hands. She smiled at him and at all the people in the cafeteria. “Thank you, Ray,” she said. “Thank you, everyone for coming today. Just so you know, I’ve been told the shop can reopen next week. And, as you can see, thanks to Ray Pradt — Mildred will be there, too.”

As she sat down to finish her lunch, Frances smiled her crooked smile at Osborne and Lew. A smile crooked all right — but happy.

That evening Osborne and Lew nestled beside each other in front of the fireplace at his house. She was taking Thursday off and he had persuaded her, without much difficulty, to let him cook that evening. It was a meal he could not damage: filet mignon medium rare, baked potato with sour cream and his specialty — Brussels sprouts with toasted almonds.

“Move closer,” he said, pulling her towards him. She had changed into the flannel pajamas that he gave her for her birthday. White with a blue pattern, she looked soft, even fragile as her face glowed in the light from the fireplace.

“Funny thing,” said Osborne as he put an arm around her shoulders, “for such an ugly event — and by that I mean Nolan Reece’s death — the difference it will make in the lives of more than a few people is not bad.”

“No,” said Lew, “it isn’t. And you’re right — that is ironic. I would like to have known that woman if only to understand her better.”

“That reminds me of Ray’s comment: it would have been nice to hear Jake Cahak’s side of the story.”

“Well, life never gives you all the answers, does it? Speaking of Jake, as I left the office today I had an email from Gina. They’ve located the computer that he was sending the credit card data to — it’s in a coffee house in Montreal. Looks like the connection knew something was up when they didn’t hear from him in some sort of code they had. All parties have disappeared. The place is under surveillance but they’re ninety-nine percent sure they’re dealing with a very savvy Russian operation.”

“Hmm, can’t say Jake wasn’t willing to take a risk dealing with people like that.”

“No — though I wonder if he got the big picture.”

“I’m willing to take a risk or two, Lewellyn.”

“Really,” she grinned at him, “like riding horseback in panty hose?”

“No pantyhose.”

She laughed and laughed, then said, “I have new information — long underwear also works.”

“But it’s summer — it’ll be ninety degrees. Long underwear? I have a better idea.”

“Which is?”

“A Jeep. We only fish in places you can get to with four-wheel drive.”

“Oh. Okay. So what’s this risk you want to take?”

“I love you.”

She was quiet. “Not sure I can match that.”

“Not sure or don’t want to?” “Just. Give me time.”

• • •

It was midnight when they turned away from each other. He gazed out the window beside his bed. The snow sparkled. He would remember this night. Those breasts. That moon.