Dead Jitterbug Page 11

  “Think about it, Doc. Where was Hope McDonald the day her little boy drowned? Where was Hope when Ed said things that broke a little girl’s heart?”

  nineteen

  When you bait your hook with your heart, the fish always bite!

  —John Burroughs

  It was so breezy outdoors that Osborne decided to work at the kitchen table. He set the two manila envelopes down, filled a tall glass with ice cubes and cold tap water, then sat down with a fresh pad of yellow legal paper and his favorite pen. He slipped the pages out of the first envelope and shuffled them into a neat pile. These were the draft columns, typed on 8½ by 11 sheets of paper and dotted with edits made with a blue pencil.

  He opened the second envelope and slid out copies of letters sent to Hope. Stapled to each letter was a copy of the envelope in which it had been sent. Good, he thought, return addresses and postmarks. Osborne pushed back in his chair and rested his feet on the seat of the chair to his left. He decided to read through the columns first.

  As he leaned back to read the first column, he heard a car slow down and pull into the driveway. A door slammed.

  “Hey, Dad!” Erin’s face appeared in the window over the kitchen sink. “Will you be seeing or talking to Lew this afternoon?”

  “I hope so, why?”

  “Would you remind her that I’m picking her up at six to canvass the homes north of Highway Forty-seven and up around Spider Lake, Black Lake—that whole area. Lots of registered voters in there, so if she can shake forty hands tonight, we’ll have a shot at working the entire county before the election.”

  “I should be seeing her at Lillian Wright’s office around three o’clock. But, Erin, she has so much going on right now—I’m not sure she can take the time.”

  “She doesn’t have a choice, Dad. Not if she wants to win this election. You tell her I said so, and I’m the manager.”

  “Where are the kids?”

  “Swimming lessons. I’m serious, Dad. Lew has got to do this. Say, did you hear that Hope McDonald passed away?”

  “Yes, I did. And there’s more to it than that.”

  “Serious?” asked Erin. “Can you tell me about it?”

  “I don’t see why not. Lew is expecting it to make the news anytime now. Come inside.”

  When he had finished telling Erin what he had seen and heard, he asked, “Did you ever read her column?”

  “Every day. Not that there’s a lot to read in the Loon Lake Daily ‘Snooze,’ as you well know, Dad. But, yeah, I’ve read it since I was in high school. I like ‘Ask Hope.’ Interesting topics, good advice, and a great sense of humor. Sometimes cute and funny, other times quite touching. I’d seen her in the Loon Lake Market once in awhile and had the urge to tell her how much I like the column, but that seemed so goofy I never did. Dad, it’s bizarre that someone would kill Hope McDonald. She’s famous for helping people, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Lew asked me to read over these columns and letters that she found in Hope’s office. See if there are any red flags, anything that might have set someone off. I was just getting started when you drove up.” Osborne sat forward and laid his hands on the two stacks of papers. “Would you have the time to look at a few? Since you’re familiar with her writing, you might pick up on something I’d miss.”

  “Sure. How many you got there?”

  “About twenty columns and not sure how many letters. Here, you start with this half.” Erin pulled out a chair and sat down, copies of the columns in her hands.

  “Interesting. I’ve always wondered what stuff like this looked like before it appeared in the newspaper.”

  They read in silence, each setting a page facedown on the table as they finished. Osborne found nothing unusual in the ones he was reading. Every column featured one or two letters starting with “Dear Hope” and continuing for several sentences. He assumed they had been shortened from the originals and the names of the letter writers had been changed. At the bottom of each page was a note to the editor at the newspaper syndicate on which booklet or book they should suggest that readers purchase. This was always followed with a reminder to include ordering information.

  The requests ranged from advice on relationships and family conflicts, to needing help in dealing with busybody neighbors, or questions on the proper etiquette for funerals and weddings. Where to sit an ex-husband’s new and awful wife at a child’s wedding appeared to be a hot issue. Whatever advice Hope had given in an earlier column was generating ire from more than one reader. Nevertheless, nothing to kill for.

  “Check this one, Erin,” said Osborne, handing over a page. “It’s on violence at family gatherings. That could be something.”

  “Okay,” said Erin, “sounds better than the ones I’m reading. These are all kind of flat.” Erin placed a page facedown and started the next. “Oh … Dad, you better look at this.”

  Osborne leaned over. Erin held two pages out so he could see. “On all the other columns I’ve read, the edits are lightly written—see? A word crossed out here, one added there.”

  “Yes, mine are the same,” said Osborne. “Very light script, even a flourish at the end with Hope’s initials.”

  “Okay … now, get a load of this.” Erin slid the second page across the table.

  Blue pencil scrawled across the typed letters and responses. The blue markings were so heavy he could imagine the pencil lead breaking off.

  “Read the edits.” She pointed with a finger.

  After reading just two of the scrawled comments, Osborne could hear rather than see the anger behind the rantings. Obscenities sprawled across the typed lines, and one sentence was etched across the top: “This is utter stupidity! You’re fired! I don’t want you near this house again. You slut …” The last word ran off the page.

  “Is this a joke?” asked Erin. “Look, Dad.” She laid the page on the table and set two of the others beside it. “Whoever did the other edits wrote this, too. It’s the same handwriting. Who is it, do you think—the daughter?”

  “According to the note attached to the first column in the set,” said Osborne, “Kitsy wrote the columns and is asking her mother to check for any corrections or changes she would like to make. We have to assume the blue pencil markings are Hope’s.”

  “I wonder what set her off?” asked Erin, scanning the page again. “The letters and answers are typical of the other columns. But, man, she goes berserk on this page. I wouldn’t want to be the person getting hammered like this.

  “Let’s check those letters, Dad,” said Erin, pointing to the second stack of copies.

  “I’ll take half, you take half,” said Osborne.

  “Oh, I see,” said Erin after rifling through the top pages, “these are letters that haven’t been answered yet.”

  “Right,” said Osborne. “These were also found on Hope’s desk, still in their original envelopes. Another set of copies will go to Kitsy. Just like she did with the columns we just read, she’ll write these up into new ‘Ask Hope’ columns.”

  “Gotcha,” said Erin, studying each letter. Some ran on for pages, most were handwritten, and each one had a photocopy of its envelope stapled to it.

  Osborne was midway through his half when he came to a photocopy of a card. The note was brief and handwritten in a loopy scrawl. “Check this out,” he said, handing it to Erin.

  “Poor penmanship,” she said, then read it out loud:

  “Dearest Hope, How can I begin to thank you? The land you’ve given me is more than just land—it’s a reason to live. I love you dearly and thank you, thank you, thank you. D.”

  “Guess what,” said Osborne, waving the photocopy of the envelope that had contained the card. “This has no postmark, no address, only ‘For Hope’ written across the front. It was never mailed. Someone either dropped it into her mailbox or left it in her home.”

  “Or handed it to her. Do you think it’s from a lover?”

  “Could be,” said Osborne as he called Lew’s dir
ect number.

  Marlene picked up. “She’s in a meeting, Doc. Is this something I should break in for?”

  Osborne looked over at Erin. “I think you better.”

  twenty

  Bait, n. A preparation that renders the hook more palatable. The best kind is beauty.

  —Ambrose Bierce

  Lew was in a meeting with Roger when Osborne got to her office. The door was open and as he poked his head through, she waved him in. “Hey, Doc, maybe you can help us out here.”

  “Right now? It’s almost three, Lew. Shouldn’t we heading over to Lillie Wright’s?” Osborne hesitated in the doorway.

  “Not to worry. She called and moved us back to three thirty—a client dropped in unexpectedly. Come on in, take that chair next to Roger, and let me show you these photos.”

  With a nod to the patrol officer, Osborne sat down. He loved this room in the old courthouse with its high ceilings and sash-hung windows open to the sun and fresh air. Asparagus ferns, just like the ones he’d had in his waiting room, cascaded spring green and feathery over the windowsills.

  From across her neatly organized desk, Lew watched him, waiting until he was settled, her dark eyes excited. “You won’t believe the quality of these images,” she said, handing him an eight-by-ten photograph. “Just excellent.”

  The photo was grainy but surprisingly well-detailed. “Wausau sent them up this morning. That last bank that was robbed got this photo with their surveillance camera. Pretty good huh? We’re lucky—it was a new bank building with state-of-the-art equipment.”

  The closer he looked, the more Osborne was surprised at how much detail came through. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder at the teller’s window, close enough for the camera to frame both from the chest up. They were dressed in light-colored long-sleeved shirts, loose overalls, and wearing black masks that covered their heads but left their eyes exposed. Their eyes and an oblong expanse of skin and bone. Each mask fit so tight to the head, it was easy to see the line of the jaw, the width between the temples.

  “I’ll bet those are nylon snowmobile masks they’re wearing,” said Osborne, referring to the headgear worn under helmets. Snowmobile helmets have to fit tight to the head, as do the face masks designed to prevent frostbite at high speeds. As he studied the print he was struck by how well the two heads were silhouetted against the light shirts, the exposed necks, and the well-lit background.

  “I can’t get over it,” said Lew. “The detail is so good, I can make out just about everything on that desk behind them, and that has to be a good ten feet away.”

  “I can see the bands on the bills the teller is handing ‘em,” said Roger. “Chief, what I don’t understand is why that teller didn’t hit the alarm button. Don’t they all have one?”

  “Whether they do or not isn’t a factor,” said Lew. “Isn’t a factor if it’s a country bank like this or one in New York City. Tellers today are directed to treat a holdup like any other withdrawal—just hand over the cash and don’t make waves. Do nothing to upset anyone, especially the perp.”

  “Really,” said Osborne. “I didn’t know that.”

  “You want to know why bank robberies are up a hundred sixty-seven percent this past year? Cheaper to collect from an insurance company than to be sued over the death of an employee. Most bank jobs net under ten thousand bucks. These jabones got lucky; they hit the tribe’s bank just as the casino deposits had arrived. Man, if we could see their mouths through all that nylon, you know we’d see big smiles.”

  “Yep,” said Roger, nodding his bald head, “really big smiles.”

  “Roger’s going to show this around to every gas station and shop where the marked bills have been passed,” said Lew, “but before he does that, I wanted to see if we could flag some distinguishing characteristics that might jog a memory.

  “For instance,” she added as she picked up her own copy of the photo and pointed at it with a pen, “I see two people, one heavy, one thin.”

  “Not heavy so much as stocky,” said Osborne, looking at the photo closely. “I’d use the word stocky, Lew.”

  Since the two figures were standing side by side and wearing loose clothing, it wasn’t all that easy to see the difference in physical builds. “I’d say the one on the right is a good three inches taller than the other….” “Y’know, Chief,” said Roger, “if they measure the height of the teller’s cage and we compare, then we’ll know exactly how tall these two are.”

  “Good thinking, Roger, and Wausau did exactly that. The one on the right is five-foot-eight, the other five-six-and-a-half. Short guys.”

  “Darn, I wish we could see their hair.” Roger shook his head in frustration.

  “Well, that’s no help,” said Lew. “These two were so innocuous looking that all any witnesses could recall was that they both had mullets.”

  “What’s a mullet?” asked Osborne.

  “Oh, one of those haircuts you see around here on men and women,” said Lew. “Chopped short in the front and on the sides, longish in the back. Popular with the heavy-metal crowd. I think they were wearing wigs.”

  “Well … I’ll tell you two something,” said Osborne, sitting back and allowing himself to feel superior for a brief moment, “I can see something better than hair. The bone structure of the upper quadrant of the head—all this area around the eyes,” he said, pointing. “Any chance we can blow this up, Lew? I would really like to see those heads up close.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” said Lew with a grin. “I wasn’t holding back on you, I just wanted your first impression on seeing our Bobbsey Twins here side by side. The lab did this for us….”

  She handed Roger and Osborne each three enlargements. The first showed both heads, the first frame blown up. The second and third were blowups of each head alone.

  “Whoa,” said Osborne, sitting straighter in his chair. “This close-up of the two heads in one frame … the lighting is so good and the masks fit so well that I can see the shape of the skulls. Lew,” Osborne added as he shifted his chair so she could see his photo, “this bone structure above the eyes and the cheekbones … these aren’t men. You’re looking at two women.”

  “No,” said Lew. “Two women?”

  “Now, how the hell—” said Roger, pulling his chair closer to the edge of the desk so he could better lean over the photo in front of him. “The people in the bank would know they were women, don’t ya think?”

  “Way people dress today?” asked Lew. “I don’t think so. Not to mention that old saw: ‘The worst witness is an eyewitness.'”

  “The tightness of those masks emphasizes the shape of the skulls,” said Osborne. “The area above the eyes exposes the structure of the brows, the area below the cheekbones.

  “Now, as a dentist who spent forty years working inside heads, let me assure you of a few facts. One, the male skull has a square jaw and a heavy brow, along with bumps and knots where muscles are anchored. Two, the female skull is markedly smoother with beveled edges. We were taught, in anatomy class, to call the female skull and skeleton gracilis—because it is graceful, lovelier than a man’s.

  “Thanks to the lighting and the light clothing these two are wearing, not to mention their bare necks, I can see the curve of the jaw on each one.” Osborne leaned forward in his chair. “Lew, I’m ninety percent sure these heads are gracilis.”

  “I don’t see it,” said Roger, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Think Pecore would pick up on this?” asked Lew.

  “He might,” said Osborne. “Any pathologist can tell you if a skeleton is male or female from the bones. Skulls are the best identifiers—I know a female when I see one.”

  “I dunno,” said Roger, “I think those two just walking in there, people’d know it was two women. And what about their voices? That’s a dead giveaway.”

  “They never said a word. That was their M.O.,” said Lew. “They picked a teller who was relatively isolated, handed her a note, and sho
wed her a handgun. No more questions. And they pulled this dozens of times over the last three years.

  “So what do you think, Roger—does that help?” Lew stood to signal their meeting was over.

  “Yep,” said Roger, pushing himself up from his chair. He didn’t seem entirely convinced. “So now you want me to show people these photos and tell ‘em it’s two gals been pushing the pink bills, right?”

  “That’s the story, and the sooner the better.”

  “Pink bills?” asked Osborne.

  “Here.” Lew handed him a twenty. At first glance it looked legitimate but once he examined it more closely, he could see it was indeed tinged pale pink. “Easy to miss on a busy day in the Loon Lake Market,” she said, “especially with teenagers at the cash registers.”

  “Why are they so lightly colored?” Osborne turned the bill over in his hands. He would never have spotted it.

  “The dye pack exploded red,” said Lew, “but our industrious duo countered that with a good laundering. Who knows how many times they put the money through the washing machine. Hence we got pink.

  “Roger,” said Lew, opening the door to usher him out, “please, do your best to get to every place where the bills were passed as soon as possible.”

  “You want me working overtime?” His eyes flickered with hope.

  “If that means I can get you on the street with these tonight, by all means.” Osborne half-expected to hear him skipping down the hall.

  “May I hold on to these photos, Lew?” he asked as Lew returned to her desk and sat down. “I’d like to study these some more. This shot of the thinner one … something about the line of that lower jaw …”

  “Doc, whatever you want. I am going to look so good in Wausau—those guys … whoa, will they be peeved. Now show me this letter you found.”