Dead Madonna (4 page)

The risk was weather—unpredictable in the northwoods and too often a disaster for business. Hot, humid days forced fish to lay low, disappointing clients and minimizing tips, while a blustery streak of rain and forty-five degree temps would drive folks from the cities indoors.

To make ends meet, Ray cobbled together a mix of odd jobs that ranged from digging graves for St. Mary’s Cemetery to shoveling snow for the Loon Lake National Bank and shooting photos of deer, wolves and game birds for a local insurance company’s calendar. Or as he liked to boast: “Don’t ever accuse me of a full-time job!”

Not a lifestyle Osborne would choose for his grandson.

It wasn’t as if Ray couldn’t have had a more traditional career. Well educated, he was the youngest child of a prominent Loon Lake couple. His father had been a respected physician. His sister was a successful lawyer in Chicago and his brother a hand surgeon. Ray was the one who dropped out of college to hunt and fish.

His critics would admit that as a fishing guide he excelled—but that was less a career than an excuse to avoid heavy lifting (though Osborne wasn’t entirely convinced). What they dismissed were Ray’s hidden virtues: he met few people he didn’t like (and vice versa), he was a superb cook and he had perfected an endless supply of jokes—more than a few the far side of tasteful. Yep, his neighbor possessed all the talent and charm of a con man.

And Osborne excelled as his target. But as often as Ray might talk him out of his car or his boat or enlist him to help with difficult clients, Osborne didn’t mind. He could put up with being conned, so long as it meant a stringer of bluegills or two fat walleyes left at the back door in recompense.

The fact was, he owed Ray for pulling him through long, dark nights. Rarely did he glimpse that head of rich, dark brown curls—always freshly shampooed and paired with the full, equally curly, reddish-amber (but laced with gray) beard—without instant recall of the first of the long nights.

That was the night of the blizzard when Mary Lee’s lingering bronchitis turned deadly. In spite of snow drifting four to five feet deep and a wind chill of fifty below, Ray had bolted on his plow to get them to the hospital, and drove the dangerous roads for a woman who had done her best to get local zoning officials to condemn his trailer and force him off his property—all because his beat-up mobile home compromised the vista from her living room window.

Mary Lee’s demands were turned down, but that didn’t stop her—she never missed an opportunity to badger Ray with angry comments and dark looks. Remembering those days now, Osborne had to smile. If Mary Lee only knew that the man she confronted so angrily so often was the same man who did his best to save her life. She would be apoplectic!

That night was followed by others—nights when Ray would follow him from bar to bar, making sure he didn’t drive, ready to offer a ride home. While Osborne may have been unappreciated by his wife, she had framed his daily life. Without her there to order and organize, he was lost. So alone, it was easy to slide into booze.

His six o’clock cocktail became his four o’clock cocktail became the drink he had at noon. Soon all hours floated by. Ray, having been there himself, watched and waited for the day—or was it the night?—when he could persuade Osborne it was time for new friends. Ray’s best friends—the ones who met behind the door with the coffeepot etched on the window.

And if
that
was a con job, Osborne was forever grateful.

“So, Cody, where the heck did you hook that bluegill?” said Ray.

Cody giggled as he shook his head, “I’ll never tell.” “Right on!” said Ray. “You the man, Cody. You win the prize!”

“He does not,” said Mason, paddling her kayak towards the bass boat. “That’s a
little
fish—”

“Mason, honey,” said Ray, “you miss the point. Your brother just proved he knows the cardinal rule of fishing: Never, ever tell anyone where you caught your trophy. Smart guy, Cody.”

“Yep,” said Cody with pride, “we’re all smart in our family. It’s in the pants.”

Ray tipped his head, puzzled. “In the pants? That sounds like one of my jokes—only I forget the punch line.” He threw a questioning look at Osborne who shrugged, also puzzled.

“That’s a first—you never forget a punch line, Ray,” said Lew, who had hurried back down to the dock. “And how many times do some of us wish you had.” She smiled down at Cody and said, “I think he means it’s in their genes.”

“That’s what I said,” said Cody.

“O-o-h, now I get it,” said Ray. He gave Lew a look of surprise. “What’s up, Chief? Playing hooky from the day job?”

“You’ll be sorry you asked,” said Lew as she walked out onto the dock. “I’ve got two fatalities and Pecore’s off playing in a polka band somewhere. Doc can’t help because he promised to take Cody fishing, but that doesn’t change the fact I’ve got a homicide and a drowning on my hands. And I’m r-e-e-al short on manpower. If I need a deputy later today, are you available?”

Now Osborne felt even worse. For Lew to consider Ray as a deputy meant only one thing: she was desperate. Ray’s penchant for poaching on private water and his occasional inhaling of the wrong kind of cigarette were not fully offset by the fact he was one of the best trackers in the region. Not to mention that he knew almost every Loon Lake resident, from lowlife to bank president. And if he didn’t know someone, he would know someone who did. But hiring Ray meant having to hide his misdemeanor file.

“I think we can work something out,” said Ray. “After I sauté that great catch of Cody’s for lunch.”

“Oh really, really, Ray, would you do that?” Cody jumped up and down.

“Careful,” said his grandfather, steadying the boat.

“Sure—but you only have one fish there, kid,” said Ray. “Where’s mine?”

Cody turned a questioning eye to his grandfather. Before Osborne could say anything, Ray gave him a wink and said, “Guess I’ll have to go catch a few more—like some for me and Mason maybe, huh?”

“Can I go with you?” said Cody. Then he stopped and looked at Osborne with a guilty expression. “I guess not.”

“Well, let’s think about that,” said Osborne. “Cody—would you like to fish with Ray? And I’ll give Chief Ferris a hand?”

Osborne knew the answer before he asked. He was just a grandfather; Ray was a legend among young boys: an endless source of dumb jokes, a peerless chef whose shore lunch included ice cream bars, the man known to have caught seventeen muskies in one summer. Who would you rather spend a day with?

“If it’s okay with the old man, Cody, you and Mason can ride in my boat with this new outboard I just bought. Take us maybe half an hour to catch enough fish for lunch.”

“I’ll run up and ask Mom,” said Mason, paddling fast towards shore.

“Hold on, Mason. I’ll check with your mom,” said Osborne.

“O-o-h, this is the best birthday ever,” said Cody, shaking both fists with excitement. Fishing with Ray put him in the big leagues.

“Y’know, Ray, that outboard looks familiar,” said Lew, leaning to get a better look at the big, black outboard motor. “Isn’t that the one that was in the accident last week?”

“Yep,” said Ray, with cheerful nod.

“You’re kidding,” said Osborne, giving the 80-horsepower outboard a quick scan. The accident in question was one in which a teenager driving his father’s boat after dark had run over two women swimming off their pontoon, killing them instantly.

“Got a great deal on it,” Ray said. “Every tragedy leads to a discount, doncha know.”

C
HAPTER
7

Crowding into Osborne’s kitchen were all the important women in his life (at least those over the age of thirty). First was dark-haired Mallory whose face always caught him off guard. The older she got the more she looked like the photo he had of his father’s mother—same laughing eyes, same fresh smile. Then Erin, two years younger than her sister, as tall and slim as she had been at eighteen and still wearing her hair in a long, wheat-blond braid. And entering the room before him, as he hoped she always would: Lewellyn Ferris.

The slam of the screen door behind Osborne caused Mallory and Erin to look up from where they were hovering over a familiar figure seated at the kitchen table: Sharon Donovan. But this wasn’t the Sharon Donovan that Osborne knew. The woman he knew had a laugh that burbled and rose-red cheeks dimpled with good humor. Not this morning—the Donovan perkiness was nowhere in sight.

“Oh my God, Dad, did you hear what happened to Nora Loomis?” said Mallory. “Any idea what … who …”

“No,” said Lew, “we’re waiting for the Wausau Crime Lab to give us a hand. We should know more later today. But I need your father—” She paused to stare at Sharon.

“Sharon?” Her voice was sharp with worry as she leaned across the kitchen table to lay a hand on the woman’s hunched shoulder, “You do not look good. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

Sharon struggled to smile. “I’m better than I was an hour ago.” She half rose to push her chair back from the table. “I’ll get to work on your items right now, Dr. Osborne …”

“No, no, Sharon,” said Osborne, motioning for her to sit back down. “This eBay thing is all the girls’ idea so you three take your time. Erin, I—”

“Dad, before I forget, let me ask you something,” said Erin, who had been listening with a preoccupied look on her face. “Did you know Mother had
twenty-five
place settings of china? I mean, what did she do with that many plates and saucers and soup bowls and coffee cups? For heaven’s sake.” The look on Erin’s face was one of disbelief.

“Sweetheart, your mother wanted a black-tie life. Unfortunately,” said Osborne with a raise of his eyebrows and a shrug of apology as he turned to hang his fishing vest on a hook near the kitchen door, “she got me.”

“I think she was a little out-of-date,” said Mallory, her voice soft. She had been Mary Lee’s favorite and her co-conspirator. Only since her mother’s death had she and Osborne begun to find their way towards a kinship that should have happened years ago.

“So
you
don’t want the china?” said Osborne, giving his eldest daughter a sharp look.

With her marriage to the son of a prominent Chicago family—a management consultant boasting an MBA from Harvard—Mallory had come closest to fulfilling her mother’s dreams. Until the perfect husband ran off with her best friend and Mallory flirted with a family tradition: alcoholism.

But the last eighteen months had been good ones for Mallory. Now she joked that she had to work to keep from getting her acronyms mixed up: she was about to complete an MBA in marketing from Northwestern while continuing to attend AA (and renew her membership in AAA).

“C’mon, Dad, never in my lifetime will I see a need for twenty-five place settings of china. That would be outrageous.” Mallory tipped her head with a teasing half-smile as she said, “Does that surprise you?” The message was clear: she was no clone of her mother.

“Maybe … just a little,” said Osborne, meeting her eyes. Her answer made him feel good.

“Doc,” said Lew, her tone urgent, “can you three discuss this later? Girls,” she raised her hands in apology, “no offense, but …”

“Gosh, no, get going,” said Erin as Osborne grabbed his wallet from the kitchen counter with one hand while patting his shirt pocket with the other to be sure he had his glasses.

“Erin, what I started to say a minute ago is that Lew is deputizing me to help out for the next few days.”

“I can see that, Dad. Not a problem.”

“Yes, well, Pecore’s on vacation and you heard from Sharon what happened at the Loomis place. Now I just talked to Ray. He’s down on the dock with the kids getting ready to take them fishing and then fix lunch—”

“Dad, they’ll be thrilled. Now will you get outta here!”

“And could you please take care of Mike for me?”

“Not to worry,” said Erin, “I’ll put Mason in charge of the dog.” She grinned at Mallory. “Told you that SBF of yours would show up, didn’t I?” Mallory blushed.

Osborne gave her a quizzical look but the impatience on Lew’s face prompted him to drop any thought of asking a question. Stepping into the den, he reached for his instrument bag and turned to follow Lew out the back door.

“Drive with you or follow in my car?” he said as Lew hurried across the driveway ahead of him.

“Stay with me,” she said, jumping into the police cruiser, “faster this way. We’ll stop by the Loomis house first—get your signature on the coroner’s report so the Wausau boys are cleared to do their work.”

“Lew, what’s an SBF?” said Osborne as he buckled the seat belt.

“I have no idea.” Nor, from the tone of her voice, did she care. “Doc, was Nora Loomis ever a patient of yours?”

“Yes, for years—both Nora and her late husband. Nice people. Not the kind who make enemies, Lew. I would assume she interrupted a robbery—don’t you?”

“Possibly, but … well, I think it would be a good idea for you to do the official identification of the body.”

“But Sharon knew Nora. Isn’t that enough?”

Lew was quiet as she turned the corner off Loon Lake Drive to the highway. “You’ll see what I mean …”

Osborne could not recall ever seeing so much blood. It had soaked through the cushions of an upholstered armchair near the body, splattered across the wall and a sofa, and pooled on the hardwood floor where Nora Loomis lay on her right side, left leg splayed back and shoeless. Bending over, he slipped one gloved palm under the left arm to feel the armpit.

“She’s warm,” he said, turning his head so Lew, kneeling beside him, could hear. “Hard to say if that’s because of the summer heat or—it could be she’s been dead only a few hours.” He brushed back a bloodied hank of hair to expose lacerations and puncture wounds crisscrossing the woman’s face. Lew was right: it was difficult to tell who this had been.

“Vicious, isn’t it, Doc?” said Lew in a low tone. “Someone wanted to make a point.”

Osborne nodded, continuing to study the still form and the patterns left by the weapon. “Looks to me like the carotid artery was cut,” he said. “Could have been intentional.”