Dead Hot Mama Read online

  “Heart attacks? Those are young men, Lew.”

  “Right. And in good physical condition. Bruce thinks they were drugged, then submerged in very cold water, which could cause the larynx to close and restrict the amount of water reaching the lungs. Then severe hypothermia, followed by irregular heartbeat and cardiac arrest. No one survives thirty minutes in water temperatures of thirty- five degrees and that’s what we have around here.”

  “So he thinks they were dropped into a lake or a river?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what about the mutilations?” asked Osborne, hesitant to know more. This case was taking the glow off the holiday.

  “The pathologist is convinced the limbs were severed after death—soon after. Additional testing will confirm that. Bruce is of the opinion that the bodies were then put back in their clothing and shoved under the ice with the idea being that they would stay down until spring.”

  “By which time it would be assumed they had gone through by accident.” Osborne was quiet, thinking. “And because everyone would assume an accident, there would be no autopsies.”

  “Highly unlikely. We talked about that tonight. The cost of an autopsy is prohibitive these days—over three thousand dollars. Loon Lake is not going to spend that kind of money unless we have good reason to suspect foul play. Same for the families. If you remember, Doc, I had three riders go through the ice last year. No autopsies. We assumed that any damage to those bodies was caused by natural predators. Why should this be any different?”

  “Did you tell Bruce about Bud?”

  “I did. He was pretty taken aback. He said if he had known, he would have applied for the job.”

  “Really,” said Osborne, surprised.

  “And I mentioned Bud’s little revenue scheme, too. Bruce found that idea pret-ty darn ridiculous. He said Bud’s been watching too much TV.”

  “I have to say I agree with him on that. But what’s his take on why those bodies were mutilated?”

  “Oh, Bruce is adamant on that. He said it’s a calling card and he’s seen it before. The legs were severed as a signal that someone has trespassed—whether that’s literally or figuratively, who knows. As far as the young woman and the fact that her tongue was cut out? According to Bruce it’s very simple: She said the wrong thing to the wrong people.”

  “Does he think the girl’s murder is related?”

  “No, he doesn’t, but he didn’t rule it out either.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Could be, but I haven’t had any reports of major drug traffic in the region since we shut down those couriers last summer. The only contraband that’s been coming across the Canadian border in recent months has been five-gallon toilets.” She gave a soft laugh. “I’m not too worried about that. If I had a new house and one of those new low- flush—”

  Lew set her mug down quickly. “Y’know, I just thought of something. All this antique furniture that’s been disappearing from the seasonal cabins and that big resort up in Eagle River? Whoever is breaking in is entering the properties from the lakeside, over the ice. And they certainly know antiques, which means someone is fairly well- educated.”

  “Not only that, Lew. The antique trade is sophisticated,” said Osborne, “middle to upper middle-class, and you would need to be trusted in those circles to move your merchandise. You’ve got two victims who are certainly middle-class individuals, judging from the quality of their dental care and the fact they were in good physical condition and expensively dressed. Could be a connection. I’m curious—any estimate how much money is involved?”

  “A lot. The appraisal from the resort that was robbed came in over a hundred thousand dollars. And the appraisers said that if the antiques made it to the east coast, they would be worth two to three times that much.”

  “So the money is there.”

  “Yeah,” said Lew. “But going back to the victims for a minute. Whoever killed those men must have flunked physics.”

  “Because the bodies surfaced so soon.”

  “Right. Whoever dropped them should have known enough to leave the clothes off. Those snowmobile suits are terrific insulators. Not only are they resistant to wind and water, but they float.”

  “And they dropped them too close to shore,” said Osborne. “Worse yet—too close to a spring near the shore. Everyone knows underwater springs make for a very thin ice cover. So whoever did it got the exact opposite of what they wanted: They wanted anchors, they got human bobbers.”

  Lew swallowed the last of her hot chocolate. “Which knocks out our locals. I don’t know an ice fisherman around who isn’t aware of the potential for open water or thin ice, especially along shorelines.”

  “On the other hand, the same is true for snowmobilers like your victims. Too many take foolish chances.”

  “And,” Lew said as she walked over to set her mug in the sink, “the ones who get into trouble are from the cities.”

  A distant drone from the lake caused both of them to turn their heads towards the windows in Osborne’s living room. “That’s a short list,” said Lew with a snort, “like every driver out on the lakes at this moment—a few hundred at least.

  “Enough of this, Doc, it’s late,” she said, pulling on her parka. “Did I tell you Bruce is interested in learning how to fly fish?”

  “Really. And how did that subject come up?” asked Osborne, trying not to sound disgruntled. It was beginning to sound like Bruce was moving in.

  “I was explaining to Bruce about underwater springs and how they affect the ice. He wanted to know how I know so much about it. That got me on the subject of spring ponds and brook trout and fly fishing. You know me, Doc. One thing led to another, and he asked me if I’d take him fishing some time.

  “Hey, you, don’t pout.” She punched him lightly with her gloved hand. “You can come, too, of course. You’ve never fished a spring pond with me.”

  “I suppose Bruce is in your office tomorrow?”

  “No, he’s off until after Christmas. I promised to call him if Gina finds anything on the Palm Pilot.

  “You know,” said Lew, “Bruce is very professional, but he’s squirrelly. He had Marlene pull that Palm Pilot for him when I was gone. After I specifically told him that I was handling that end of the investigation. Said he had to test it for fingerprints.”

  “That makes sense, Lew.”

  “I know, I just don’t like how he takes control when I’m not in the office.”

  That made Osborne feel a little better. He walked her out onto the back porch. “Any news from Gina?”

  “Shoot!” Lew slapped her hand against her forehead. “That’s what I forgot—I was supposed to check with Ray and see if she could stay at his place. And I need to know if he was able to get any information on that young woman from the girls out at Thunder Bay.”

  “I don’t think he had a chance,” said Osborne, giving her a quick rundown on Nick and Lauren’s unexpected arrival. “At least he didn’t say anything to me about it.”

  “Come along, Mike,” said Osborne as he headed for the bedroom, his heart light with the memory of Lew’s goodnight kiss.

  Mike hesitated in front of his own bed, a round plump pad covered with fake sheepskin that Osborne had put through the washing machine that morning. Before curling up, the dog gave a good long back roll, anxious to spread his scent and reclaim his territory.

  Clyde stood on the porch of an old wooden house. Beaver pelts hung from the rafters. The old man’s eyes burned with anger. As if they were six shooters, he held a knife in each hand, blades pointing at Osborne, “What did I say? If they come this way again, I’ll shoot ‘em. This is my territory.”

  Osborne humored the old man. “C’mon, Clyde, let’s go fishing.”

  The old man let the blades drop. His face cracked a wicked wink. “Hell with fishing, let’s go to Thunder Bay.”

  Osborne woke with a start. The dream had seemed so real he needed to make sure he was home in his own bed. He was
and the dog was. Mike was snoring.

  twenty

  See how he throws his baited lines about, And plays his man as anglers play their trout.

  —O. W. Holmes, “The Banker’s Secret”

  Osborne didn’t show up at Lew’s office until after one. The morning had started earlier than he expected with a six a.m. phone call from Ray.

  “Yo, Doc, ready for breakfast?”

  Osborne raised himself up on one elbow. He could have slept another half an hour. That plus the thought of everything he wanted to accomplish that day made him cranky.

  “What do you need?”

  “Not a thing. Just thought you’d enjoy some blueberry pancakes with me and the kids.”

  “Ray, I’ve got a busy day—this is Christmas Eve.” Osborne waited.

  Four years living next door to the house trailer with the neon green musky painted across the front had taught him to decode Ray’s offers. Sautéed bluegills were payback for something borrowed without asking, while an offer of pancakes was a precursor to a request for a favor, a big favor.

  “Now that you mention it, I was hoping I could borrow your car this morning. Nick and I thought we’d drive Lauren up to her dad’s place in Three Lakes, then I’ll drop Nick off at his grandmother’s and get the car right back to you. That open window on my truck will be hard on the kids the way the wind is blowing this morning.”

  “Yeah, well, you can fix that window, y’know.” Osborne exacted some pleasure in not making it too easy. “A little duct tape and plastic …”

  “I know, I know. But, Doc, I can’t drive up to a multimillionaire’s house in a truck taped shut with duct tape. How would that look? Think how embarrassing that would be for poor Nick.”

  Poor Nick, baloney. Ray was cooking up a scheme of some kind. Much as he loved his battered old truck with its missing window and the walleye leaping off the hood, what he relished most were the looks he got when he drove up. For Ray, making an entrance was a work of art—carefully planned with precision timing. Thus, any change in costume and choreography was meaningful.

  Osborne had a hunch that if he could peek through the trailer window at this moment, he would see a Ray Pradt freshly showered, closely shaven, and with his beard neatly trimmed: a man in need of a nice car. No doubt about it, he was up to something.

  “Why doesn’t Lauren’s father come down here and pick her up? Wasn’t that the plan anyway?”

  “Well, ah …” While Ray sputtered, Osborne ran down his agenda for the morning. He had to finish trimming the Christmas tree, he didn’t mind passing on coffee at McDonald’s, as holiday chores meant that very few of his buddies were likely to show up, and Mallory’s car was available if they did need a trip into town.

  “Okay, okay, take the car. But I need it back by noon. No later.”

  “Love ya, man.”

  As Osborne rinsed and loaded the coffeepot, he mused over his neighbor’s motives. Of course Ray wanted to drive up to Three Lakes. He was dying to meet a man rich enough to send his daughter to a prep school out east. Guys like that were prime client material. Not only did they book fishing guides on a full-day basis, but they often asked the guide to hold one day a week all summer long—and paid whether they used it or not. Yep, landing a client like Lauren’s old man could make Ray Pradt’s summer.

  Maybe he was wise to play down his eccentricities until he got to know the client better. Especially in the winter when he didn’t have his boat and all his fishing equipment hitched to the back of the truck. Summertime, Ray could count on his professional accoutrements to counter the wacky personal appearance.

  But there was one problem with this technique for scouting new business over the winter: He needed someone else’s car to do it. “I’m paying your overhead,” Osborne would complain, then hand over the keys.

  He did owe the man. How many nights might he have skipped the meeting behind the door with the coffeepot on the front, if Ray hadn’t insisted on driving together, in his truck, window or no window. Without Ray and the AA meetings, there would be no Lew, no trout stream, no merry Christmas.

  Nor was that all that he owed Ray. It was nearly three years ago now, that Osborne had called down to the little trailer desperate for help.

  Nearly two feet of snow was blocking the Osbornes’ driveway the night that Mary Lee’s simmering bronchitis turned deadly. St. Mary’s emergency room was their only hope, but a raging blizzard put it an impossible six miles away.

  Forget that the woman had done her best through constant haranguing to get Ray’s trailer home moved from the sight lines of her living room windows. Forget that she had called the county inspector on at least five occasions to report that his septic “technique” was highly illegal (which it was, but the inspector was a fishing buddy of Ray’s who owed him big time for the forty-seven-inch muskie mounted over his fireplace).

  The intensity of Mary Lee’s animosity towards Ray had escalated to a point where Osborne finally had had enough and for only the second time in their thirty years of marriage, he told his wife to “put a lid on it.” Whereupon she stomped off and refused to talk to him for three days. To his surprise, they were not the worst three days of his life.

  But all that was set aside the moment Osborne called. Ray did not hesitate to go out into the driving snow, bolt on his plow, and drive them into Loon Lake. He waited with Osborne the long two hours that ended in sorrow, then drove him in silence to his daughter’s home. When it came to tragedy and grief, Ray Pradt did not fool around.

  Osborne poured a cup of coffee and walked back through the living room to look out at the lake. A gray landscape greeted him, soft with promise that the sun was lurking somewhere. At the moment, refracted through a smother of clouds, its only influence were brushstrokes of lavender and mauve crisscrossing the icy dunes. He could feel a snowstorm hovering overhead, holding back for its own reasons.

  He sipped from the hot mug. Maybe he should rethink this son-in-law thing—at least that way he could write off Ray’s miles as a business expense.

  The door to Lew’s office stood open, and he could hear voices from the far end of the room, opposite her desk. Osborne peered in. The armchairs she used for informal meetings had been shoved back against the wall. In their place stood an oblong metal folding table and a wooden stool. A laptop computer lay open on the table.

  In front of the computer was perched a slim woman in a bright red turtleneck and black pants. Two thick catalogs on the seat of her chair boosted her high enough to bring her arms level with the keyboard. One person stood looking over her shoulder. Neither she nor Lew had heard him enter, so intent were they on the computer screen.

  He recognized the visitor by her cap of sleek black hair. He enjoyed the contrast between the two women: one petite and small-boned with porcelain skin that set off the black of her hair and eyes; the other much taller with a sturdy, athletic frame. Standing beside Gina Palmer, Lew’s shoulders looked wider, her breasts fuller, her skin darker.

  But Osborne knew that when they looked his way their eyes would share the same alert intelligence. And though the women could not be more different in their background and experience, Lew had once offered up her theory on why they worked so well together: “We’re on the same wavelength. That’s all. She’s ‘take no prisoners,’ and I like that.”

  Osborne rapped lightly on the open door, and the two women turned. Delight spread across Gina’s face as she hopped down to head his way, dark eyes snapping.

  “Doc-tor Os-borne!” she said, her voice booming as she stood on her toes and reached up to give him a big hug. He’d forgotten how loud she spoke—and how fast.

  “Where have you been—I got here at eleven—and where’s that Ray guy? I need to give him my stuff before all my makeup freezes in my car, dammit.” As quickly as she had crossed the room to greet him, she hurried back to the stool. The woman had the patience of a dragonfly.

  Lew leaned back against the table, arms crossed. “I told Gina she’s w
elcome to stay with me. I didn’t know if Nick would still be at Ray’s—”

  “No, he borrowed my car to drop Nick and Lauren off this morning. Gina, you can stay at my place, too,” said Osborne. “My daughter is visiting, but I have plenty of room—”

  “Thanks, you two, but no thanks.” Gina hoisted herself back up on the catalogs. “I love staying at Ray’s. I can walk from his place along the lake to my own property, which I plan to do every morning while I’m up here. Take some coffee in my thermos, sit on the bank, and reflect on my good fortune.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Lew. “Stay with Ray so you can check out your property, huh. And if I believe that, what else can you sell me?” The two women laughed.

  “Hey, I’m a big girl. My honor is my business.” Gina winked. “So that’s settled. Now, listen, I love you guys, and I’ve arranged to stay till New Year’s. If I can finish this up today,” she pointed at a small black unit on the table next to the computer, “I’ll have almost a week for fun and games in the snow.”

  “Chief,” her voice dropped a decibel, “Does Doc know what we have here? You said he’s helping with the case.” Gina threw Osborne a quick glance. “I could not believe what Chief Ferris told me about this new coroner. I’ll do a search later today—I know I can find documentation on how towns and municipalities the size of Loon Lake require that the coroner position be filled by a licensed medical examiner—not a political appointee. I mean—this is absurd—you could have a bartender as your coroner.”

  “We did—before Pecore,” said Osborne. “Gina, I’m sure Lew’s told you that documentation does not stand up to connections in a town like Loon Lake. I wouldn’t waste the time.”

  “Doc, come over here and take a look,” said Lew, pointing to the computer screen. “Gina’s only been here since eleven, and she’s already got more detail on one of the victims than I was able to get out of talking to his wife and parents.”