Dead Madonna
Authors: Victoria Houston
DEAD MADONNA
victoria houston
For Ron and Lynda—
Thanks for remarkable insight into the criminal mind and
a welcoming home away from home
Contents
One never knows, do one?
—Thomas “Fats” Waller
Water is the one substance from which the earth can conceal nothing; it sucks out its innermost secrets and brings them to our very lips.
—Jean Giraudoux (1882-1944),
The Madwoman of Chaillot
A true Conehead Madonna trout fly is a challenge to tie:
The thread must be stolen from a spider,
The feathers from the wings of an angel.
C
HAPTER
1
Robbie Moriarty hunched over to squeeze through the doorway of the houseboat. The morning sun hit his eyes. He winced. The vertigo worsened. Making sure to lean far over the railing, he heaved his guts out. Even in misery, he was careful not to splatter the pontoons gleaming beneath him.
The boat lurched forward, then lurched again. Though he could hear the soft whirr of the trolling motor, the boat went nowhere. And the jerking motion didn’t help his nausea.
Robbie pressed his head into his hands, fingers hard against his eyeballs—anything to wipe away the brutal headache. He took a swig from a can of Mountain Dew MDX, tipped his head back and gargled. Without opening his eyes, he turned his head to the left and spit, then waited, eyes still closed, to hear the soft plop on the water. The boat lurched as he took another swig, gargled, tipped his head to the right this time, and spit. Another soft splatter. He forced his eyes open. Ouch. The day looked too good for how he felt.
Beneath the boat, the lake was so clear he could see every ridge and hollow in the boulders and sunken logs that appeared to be no more than three to four feet beneath the surface. Aware that water was a magnifier, he found it hard to tell how deep the channel was here. Another lurch convinced him the boat had run aground. Were they too far to the right? Had they hit a sandbar?
Whatever you do, don’t turn on the inboard, he cautioned himself. Last thing he needed was to wreck yet another propeller. That would make three this summer. The old man angry was no fun.
He inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly, steadying himself against the rail. Vomiting had definitely helped—he could tolerate fresh air without the urge to heave. Robbie shifted his feet to see if the deck of the boat would stay where it belonged.
Taking one last swig from the can, he tossed the empty container into the lake and swished the Mountain Dew through his teeth. He was just about to spit when in his peripheral vision he caught a streak of white in the water off to his right. He leaned out and over the railing, the better to see. The boat lurched and he grabbed the rail to keep from going over.
What on earth was stuck under the boat? Again he leaned forward, forward … There! He saw it again. A scarf?
Maybe one of the girls from the party lost it? Or could it be Troy’s jockey shorts? The white ones with “home of the whopper” emblazoned in red across the butt. No matter how often you tell that guy to keep his pants on …
The white thing wafted forward again and this time he saw a trace of red. He did his best to focus despite the stale booze flooding his brain. Still, it took a few seconds to register that the red spots he saw had nothing to do with Troy’s whopper. They tipped the fingers of the slender arm that belonged to someone hidden under the boat.
Robbie screamed.
Three miles up the lake, Audrey Moriarty’s cell phone shattered the silence of the sunny, windless morning with a crescendo of “Rhapsody in Blue”. Reaching over her breakfast plate for the phone, she picked it up and leaned back in her chair—only to flinch and hold the phone away at the unexpected blast of her stepson’s hoarse voice. “Where’s Dad? Goddammit, Audrey, put Dad on. We got a girl stuck under the boat. I think …” His voice cracked, he gagged and she could hear him vomiting.
“Hold on, Robbie,” said Audrey, pausing, her eyelids drooping low in thought before she handed the phone across the table to the man sitting there, his Sunday
New York Times
a shield between them. “It’s for you, dear.”
Then she stood, picked up her plate and let herself through the sliding glass door. She caught her reflection in the window. She was a stylish, slim-hipped woman well aware that many of Bert’s friends were convinced he had made a mistake when he married for the third time. She wasn’t his type: too thin, too cool and not the whiskey-voiced good-time girl he deserved.
Audrey stepped into the kitchen of the overbuilt full-log house that she was preparing to leave for good. She set her plate in the sink, which faced the deck, and watched as the blood rose in her husband’s face.
Yes, she was just in time. The papers would be served when Bert returned to the office. Her lawyer had completed the paperwork earlier that week. So whatever was going on with that stupid boy, the stupid houseboat and whoever the stupid girl was that got herself in trouble—it would be all Bert’s problem. The fool. He deserved it.
She couldn’t help smiling.
C
HAPTER
2
With a yank on the emergency brake, Sharon Donovan parked her van in front of the storage barn that had been built to match the sprawling white clapboard lake house. Jumping down from the driver’s seat, she hurried around to the back of the van. She threw open the doors and checked to be sure she hadn’t forgotten the stack of old quilts she would need to protect the furniture.
Stepping back, hands on her hips, she ran down a mental list of anything else she might need. Nothing. The sunny day took care of any worry about rain. Sharon checked her watch. Right on time.
Bouncing down the flagstone walk that led to the main house, she resisted the urge to skip. Instead, she let a swell of gratitude rush her through a Hail Mary—something she had taken to doing twenty times a day since eBay had changed her life.
Not only was her income triple what she had been making as a high school English teacher, but she was working with the love of her life: antiques. She still found it hard to believe she could set her own hours—plus the running around was great for weight loss. Already she weighed less than she had in years: two hundred and fifty pounds!
The back door to Nora Loomis’s house was ajar. Sharon poked her head in and said, “Hey! Nora? It’s Sharon. I’m here.” No answer.
Pushing the door open, she walked onto the airy, plant-filled porch that had just been totally renovated to allow for year-round use—part of what Nora referred to as the “extreme makeover” of her entire home. “Better than therapy,” the newly widowed woman had said when they first talked.
“I have so much of Jerry’s parents’ old stuff that I can’t wait to get rid of,” Nora had said during their phone conversation a week earlier. “But I just took a job in the call center at that new medical supply company and I don’t have the time to deal with all this.”
And so they had arranged for Sharon to stop by the house, assess the value of the antique Fiesta dinnerware, two Victorian sofas, an assortment of mahogany end tables, three porcelain table lamps that Nora was pretty sure dated back to the 1920s if not earlier, and her late husband’s muskie rods and tackle.
Assuming Nora would be comfortable with her estimates, Sharon would take photos, write descriptions and put everything up for auction on eBay. As the items sold, Sharon would handle the shipping. For her efforts, she could keep thirty percent, which was more than fine with her.
The lamps sounded so intriguing, she was considering buying those herself and putting them up for auction with a reserve. She wanted to run that by Nora but she was pretty sure it would work; Nora had said she wanted her money as soon as possible. Sharon was open to the risk. She had learned that if you’re willing to take your time, antique lamps can sell for a lot more than most people expect.
“Nora! I’m here,” said Sharon, raising her voice as she crossed the porch to the door leading into the kitchen. Nora’s car was parked in the circular drive so she had to be somewhere. I’ll bet she’s down in the basement, thought Sharon, moving towards a door that looked like it might lead there. Nope. It opened to a pantry. She turned around.
Looking down the hall to her right, she caught a glimpse of the living room.
“Nora? It’s Sharon—I’m h-e-r-e …” The last thing she wanted to do was surprise the woman and scare her to death. Twice she called out as she walked towards the living room. The hall opened into the west end of a long, formal living room, which ran parallel to the shoreline of the Wisconsin River, visible through tall leaded windows.
Sharon’s first thought was how lucky Nora was to be able to keep this place. Her second thought was what a mess!
Hands on her hips, she looked around. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought a family of squirrels had moved in. The seat cushion from one of two Windsor chairs in front of the fireplace was on the floor. The magazine table next to the chair was at a cockeyed angle. Fireplace tools lay across the beige carpet—certain to leave black streaks.
Further down the room, a lovely Oriental jar lay on its side on a small loveseat. Good thing
that
hadn’t hit the floor. On the floor beside the loveseat, a full wastebasket was tipped over, scattering dirty Kleenex, crumpled newspapers and cracker crumbs across the rug. Honest to Pete! What is it with these women who depend on cleaning ladies and decorators to keep their rooms straight? Have they forgotten how to run a vacuum cleaner?
Sharon shook her head. If this was how she kept house, Nora might not be such a good client after all. Any furniture to be sold needed to be in pristine condition. Pristine.
Sharon grimaced. If this was how the upstairs furnishings were treated, what would be the condition of the antiques stored in the basement? Moldy?
“Nora,” she called out, her tone sharper this time. Another hall led towards the bedroom wing. But as she started in that direction, Sharon caught sight of a sofa in the sunroom located at the far end of the living room. Oh, it took her breath away.
Even from a distance she could tell the British influence: an elegant curve to the wooden legs—and the fabric! Mint green leaves against a rich cream background dappled with sprigs of something red. Holly berries, perhaps? The morning sun highlighted the sheen in the fabric and Sharon bet anything it was damask. Silk damask. Brother, what a sofa like that would bring on eBay … Actually, it would look great in
her
home.
Tiptoeing across the room, she decided to try it out before Nora showed up and caught her sitting down. As she rounded the French doors that opened into the sunroom, she saw the foot. She stopped. Her stomach tightened. She listened: not a sound. The foot was bare, attached to a hairless leg and it wasn’t moving. She wanted to run but she couldn’t move. After a ten-second eternity, she forced herself to edge forward.
She turned the corner. Only her years as a daughter who had butchered her father’s deer kept her from passing out. Nora was not going to be selling on eBay. And it wasn’t the red of berries dappling the sofa. And if the porcelain lamp that was as smashed as the widow’s skull was the one she had intended to put up for auction—that could never happen.
EBay does not list weapons.
C
HAPTER
3
Sharon forced herself to stay near Nora until the Loon Lake police arrived. Partly because she knew it was the right thing to do, partly because she was terrified. What if the person who did this was still in the house? Or watching from outside? Someone who might follow her next?
“I am so afraid,” she sobbed to the police dispatcher whom she had reached on her cell phone.
“Of course you are,” said the woman on the switchboard. “That’s why I’ll keep this line open and you tell me if you see or hear anything. Okay? I want you to calm down if you can. Chief Ferris knows where you are—she is on her way as we speak.