Dead Angler Page 12

Chesnais sat up straight in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Let me think about it. I’m still … I’m so surprised by all this. Meredith was a very nice person. Very nice … you know …” Again, the look of distraction crept into his eyes.

  Lew glanced at her watch. “Oh, boy, it’s getting late. Clint, if I need to talk with you further, is there a home number where you can be reached?”

  “Certainly,” said Chesnais and gave it to her. “I have a house trailer outside Clearwater. But I’ll be here until eight this evening.” Then Chesnais raised a forefinger and paused, as if remembering something critical, “speaking of Meredith being worried about something?”

  “Yes?” said Lew.

  “She was worried about her brother-in-law. His state of mind. We were at the grocery store in Eagle River one night, and we ran into him. Seems he was supposed to be out of the country at the time, so she was quite surprised to see him. He’d been drinking.” “Is this Peter Roderick?”

  “Yeah. Nice enough fella, I think. But having some emotional problems or so it seemed. She invited him to stay at her place.”

  Lew nodded thoughtfully, “You mean at The Willows.”

  “Um hum. Seventeen bedrooms. She had plenty of room. Room for lost souls.” Chesnais gave an embarrassed little laugh.

  Lew gave Chesnais a slight smile, “Like you?” “Aren’t we all sometimes?” he said softly. “I will miss her.” “Thanks, Clint,” said Lew as she and Osborne stood up. “I’ll be in touch. Here’s my card if you think of anything else.”

  A few minutes later Lew and Osborne, sandwich bags in hand, walked out the casino doors in silence. They headed toward the parking lot. Suddenly, they both stopped and turned to each other saying almost exactly the same thing simultaneously: “Why on earth is he waiting table?”

  “You wonder, don’t you?” Osborne stopped by his station wagon, his hand on the door handle, “the man is well-spoken, obviously very bright. Why doesn’t he have a regular job? Lew, I find this very peculiar…,” Osborne paused, thinking.

  “Maybe he wants to live life on his own terms, Doc.”

  “But what on earth would attract a woman like Meredith Marshall to a man like Chesnais? Just look at her—a successful restauranteur, a bestselling cookbook author, the wife of a prominent businessman. Well, ex-wife. It had to go deeper than looks, Lew. I don’t think Meredith Marshall was what you call a ‘summer woman.’ Why wouldn’t she choose—?” He struggled for a description of the kind of man that would be right for a woman like Meredith.

  “Choose what?” said Lew, “a hard charger like herself? Think about it, Doc. She did once. And look where that got her. As far as wanting to be with a man like Chesnais …”

  “Oh, Doc,” Lew’s voice changed. A soft seriousness crept in, “I think the answer is a simple one. Divorce is as painful as a death in the family. You know what I mean?”

  She looked at him. Yes, he knew that loneliness too well.

  Until now, he’d never heard another human being admit they’d been there, too.

  “That would make her very vulnerable wouldn’t it?” he said.

  “What makes you vulnerable makes you strong.”

  Osborne looked away so she couldn’t see what was in his eyes: her understanding made him love her. Lot of good it would do him. But it sure helped him recognize what it was he felt for Ralph: jealousy. Pure, unadulterated jealousy. Oddly enough, the two emotions mixed together made him feel years younger. Alive.

  As Osborne got into his car and turned the ignition key, he considered again what it was that had distracted Clint Chesnais. Each time the preoccupied look had crossed the handsome face, it was almost as if someone had entered the room and signaled him to shut up. Strange.

  twelve

  Osborne turned left off Highway 17 onto Birchwood Road immediately behind Lew’s cruiser. Birchwood Road, wide at this point, skirted the shoreline of Cranberry Lake. Close to the highway, the property values were reflected in multiple driveways, marked with signs proudly welcoming visitors to “Our Little Piece of Heaven” or “Larson’s Lair,” which lead to modest year-round houses visible from the road. Every house backed up to a dock, and every dock held at least one boat.

  Just two miles down the road, such plentiful access to the lake disappeared. The road narrowed and the pine forest closed in. Soon the lake was so hidden that only random slivers of light escaped through the dense woods.

  The two-story and split-level lake houses gave way to scattered log cabins, weathered black and nestled deep under the trees, often only a roof line visible. Several recently-cut private roads led to the type of architect-designed log and stone mansions that were popping up more and more frequently on the bigger lakes. No Trespassing replaced the Welcome that had marked earlier entrances. These were expensive lake properties whose owners did not want to see anyone uninvited.

  Soon, even the sunlight disappeared, and the blacktop gave way to a gravel lane that twisted deeper and deeper into the gloom cast by an umbrella of ancient maples and oaks with a scattering of pine. Now the No Trespassing signs were scattered more and more nervously, as if to fend off not just hunters but mountain bikers and cross-country skiers whose trails crisscrossed the road at several junctions.

  As the lane snaked and forked, Osborne’s hands swung back and forth with the steering wheel. His chest tightened. He’d forgotten that Meredith’s estate was at the end of a drive where he had nearly lost his life.

  One fiercely cold January night, he’d chosen the wrong fork on the way to a Ducks Unlimited meeting. Driving in circles down identical snowbanked lanes, road signs long since buried under the snow, it was nearly two hours before he was able to find a lighted residence where he could ask for directions. Even today, four years later, he could recall the minutes of mounting panic, the frightening realization that he might be spending the night in his car with a very real threat of freezing to death in the 30 degrees-below-zero weather.

  Lew’s brake lights came on, and the cruiser slowed under a canopy of white birch and Norway pine. As Osborne rounded the curve behind her, massive lannon stone pillars confronted them. An eight-foot tall iron gate stood open to a freshly-paved drive. Overhead, etched in wrought iron script and definitively marking the end of the road, floated two words: “The Willows.”

  Beyond the gate, the road dropped down and down, corkscrewing through a final stand of forest that grew so close that pine boughs brushed the top of Osborne’s station wagon and scraped against his windows.

  Suddenly, the trees dropped away. The drive swept up a small hill to end in a breathtaking sight: straight ahead to the west, the brilliant blue of Cranberry Lake surrounded a peninsula of perfectly-mown lawn dotted with manicured spruce and hemlock. Sunlight dappled across the grass. In swampy bays along the shoreline, long-leafed branches of weeping willow swayed with consummate grace in the lake breezes. Misshapen at heart, the willow trees masked their gnarled trunks and twisted arms in flowing capes of emerald green.

  The drive had crested in a small parking lot bordered on the left by a long, low, six-car garage. Osborne parked his car near the garage and got out.

  He could feel the thermals from the distant potato fields working their late afternoon magic, banishing the heavy haze with sweet lake breezes. Osborne took a deep breath, determined to shrug off the tension that had crept through his muscles, determined to appreciate this scene of perfect tranquillity.

  Off to his right was The Willows’ main house. Norman Gothic in design, the entry was marked with a flagstone walk leading up to a gated stone balustrade and a balcony that led, in turn, to a carved mahagony door. The door was shadowed from the left by a tall stone turret that peaked just below a sheltering Norway pine.

  The mansion of gray lannon stone had been designed to burrow back into the rocky hillside. Though the turreted entrance was imposing, the rear wing seemed to sag under its heavy slate roof, ending up either half buried underground or hidden behind elegant cones
of arbor vitae. Up close, The Willows struck Osborne as less a home than a dark and mammoth cave.

  Off to his left, he could see the old boathouse. Totally different in design, the boathouse was as exposed as the house was hidden. Cantilevered out over the water, its exterior of burnished brown cedar shake shingles captured the late afternoon sunlight to glow as if painted in gold leaf. A magnificent sleeping porch wrapped around the building. Thousands of panes of leaded glass studded walls of French doors trimmmed in forest green.

  Osborne understood instantly why Meredith Marshall had wanted to open a restaurant here: the views of the lake and evening sunsets would be unforgettable, even more so when enhanced by exquisite cuisine and fine wines. Yes, he could see how the boathouse had captured the imagination of the talented chef. What a loss. His pleasure in the view turned to sadness. He looked for Lew.

  He didn’t have to look far. In the circle drive fronting the main house, she had pulled in behind another cruiser. Roger, the deputy, was leaning against his car, arms crossed, head down. He peered up as Lew got out of her car. Osborne got the distinct impression Roger was expecting something unpleasant. He looked like Mike, Osborne’s black Lab, had looked after eating the remote control for the television set—uneasy.

  Lew started to walk towards him, then she stopped. Osborne followed her eyes. Yellow police tape lay on the ground, torn away from the balcony posts that fronted the flagstone walkway. She turned to Roger.

  In front of Roger’s car was parked a black Mercedes, which Osborne recognized as Alicia’s. Ahead of that a small red van.

  As Osborne neared Lew and Roger, he could hear her voice, low and insistent: “What do you mean they’re in there? Roger, I told you to be here by six this morning and to let no one inside. No one.”

  Roger looked very, very unhappy. It had to be a moment when the former life insurance salesman wished he had never made a career change. “I was a little late, Chief. I got here at six-thirty or so, Mrs. Roderick was already in the house. She told me you said it was okay because she’s family. You know, she’s a former client of mine. I respect her, Chief. I respect she lost her sister—”

  “I hear you, Roger. What’s with the van?” Lew’s eyes had darkened but her voice was level, almost jocular.

  “Mrs. Roderick—she took the housekeeper in with her, Chief. But I told ‘em both, they couldn’t take nothin’ off the premises. I told ‘em and they haven’t, Chief. Not a thing.”

  “The housekeeper is in there?” Though Lew kept her voice low, a note of incredulity had crept in.

  “Roger …,” Lew gave a long pause, “Why didn’t you radio in to check this out with me?”

  “Well—Chief, y’see—,” he stammered, “There was no way I—I’ll tell ya, Chief, I woulda had to pull my gun to keep her outta there.”

  “Fine. What do you think it’s for? Mourning doves?”

  “Mrs. Roderick isn’t the kind of person—”

  “I know, I know, she’s a former client of yours. Roger, you are not selling life insurance, this is a murder investigation.”

  Osborne suppressed a smile. He knew exactly how Alicia would have intimidated the elderly deputy. Railroaded right over the old guy whose crime-busting credentials were limited to issuing traffic citations. He must have stewed here for hours, hoping against hope that Alicia would leave before Lew arrived. Poor guy, his face was dead white.

  “Okay, okay,” the tone in Lew’s voice was calming, “how long have they been here?”

  “Like I said, Mrs. Roderick was here when I got here this morning, Chief. Just coming out. Then she left and said she was going to see you. That’s why I thought everything was okay. She just got back about an hour ago.”

  “And the housekeeper? How long has she been here?”

  “Well, jeez,” Roger winced, “I dunno. Maybe Mrs. Roderick let her in before she left. She’s been here all day—but, Chief, most of the time she’s been over at the boathouse.”

  “I see. Well, Roger, you saved me a major budget item. I sure as heck don’t need any fingerprint tech driving all the way up from Wausau now, do I? What’s a fingerprint likely to be worth now? I mean, we’ve got people coming and going in every direction—right? Opening doors, closing windows, wiping things off …” Lew was quiet for a long minute, making sure Roger understood the ramifications of his mistake.

  “Roger, Roger, Roger,” she continued, “Do I have to put you in time out?” The humorous singsong in her voice did nothing to undercut the look she leveled at him. Lew waited for his eyes to meet hers.

  Roger shifted nervously and uncrossed his arms. He glanced up and then away. “I’m really sorry, Chief. I guess I’m not very good at this, y’know. I shoulda radioed in, I know I shoulda.”

  “Okay this time, Roger,” Lew reached over to pat him on the arm. “But if you ever ignore my orders again—without checking with me—you are off the force. Permanently. Understood?”

  Roger nodded.

  “Go on now. You’ve been here long enough.”

  As Roger pulled his cruiser out of the drive, Lew looked over at Osborne who had been standing by in silence. “Doc, what do you think?”

  His first thought was that Lew didn’t seem all that disturbed by Alicia’s actions. As if reading his mind, Lew answered her own question, “I find this very interesting, don’t you? You heard me tell that woman to wait for me in her car. I distinctly told her not to enter this house. When she met with me at the morgue this morning, she never let on that she’d already been out here, that she had already done exactly what I told her not to do.”

  “That’s Alicia,” said Osborne. “She does things her way. Always has.”

  The two of them started up the walkway towards the front door.

  “Brace yourself,” said Lew. “Time for the next two-year-old.”

  “You don’t seem too upset by this.”

  Lew shrugged. “I apply reverse psychology, and it works. Oh, bless me,” she grinned, “these predictable human beings.”

  And with those words Lew gave him a quick wink. She lifted the large brass pine cone that passed for a knocker on the massive front door.

  thirteen

  Before Lew could lower the brass pine cone, a loud “H-o-o-nk!” sounded from behind. Ray’s old blue pick-up had joined the crowd of cars in the drive, double-parked alongside the Mercedes. His hood ornament, a foot-high musky frozen in a permanent leap, glinted psychedelically in the sunlight. Beneath the musky, the bug-catcher, a narrow plastic shield across the shattered grill of the old truck, declared its owner: “Gravedigger.”

  “What on earth is Ray doing here?” said Lew. “And who’s the presidential candidate with him?”

  She raised a hand to shield her eyes as she studied the two men in the truck. Then she shook her head, “Doc, much as I like that man—and I do like Ray—he’s got some mighty bad habits. One big one is his tendency to hang out with types who pursue less traditional ways of making a living, if you get my drift. Until they can prove otherwise, anyone who consorts with Ray Pradt, outside of hiring him as a fishing or hunting guide, has only misbehavior in mind.” She dropped her hand and turned towards Osborne.

  “The latter does not include you, Doc.”

  “Thank you,” Osborne was relieved to hear that. “You want me to talk to him?” he asked, stepping back. He checked his watch, “You go ahead with Alicia?”

  “No, no, Doc. I want you with me when I talk to her. You know her, I don’t. Let’s see what Ray’s up to first, I’ve got a favor to ask of him anyway. I hope he’s got time.”

  “Hey, how’s it goin?” Ray leaned forward in the truck, talking past the chest of his passenger at Osborne and Lew as they walked up. “Meet my buddy, ol’ Wayne, here.

  “Doc, you remember ‘ol’ Wayne” from this morning.” Wayne lifted his hand in a slight wave of recognition. “Ol’ Wayne” looked as pudgy and hairy as he had then, but with the addition of a five o’clock shadow and a beery look in his eye.
That plus the crumpled khaki fishing hat with the beat-up brim now sitting askew on his sweaty brow certified him as an official North Woods bearded woodtick. Yep, thought Osborne, if he kept this up, “ol’ Wayne” would fit into the bar scene just fine.

  “I thought you were going after George and the boats,” said Osborne, leaning his elbows on Wayne’s door.

  “I was. No sign of the razzbonya. So I’m gonna take ol’ Wayne here up the Cisco Chain tonight. He isn’t exactly Mr. Walleye, y’know. Gotta teach him how to talk the talk if he wants to hang out with the fishing boys this weekend. Thought we’d drop by Thunder Bay later,” Ray grinned. “Whaddya think, Doc? Chief? Care to join us?”

  “Thanks, Ray, once was enough,” said Osborne.

  “Don’t push your luck, bud,” said Lew, giving Ray and his invitation her cut the crap look. “And keep your nose clean. I could use your help when you have a little extra time. Fact is, Ray, I could really use you right now. Are you a registered volunteer fireman?”

  “Sure am,” said Ray, “have been for the last four years that I’ve been living on Loon Lake Road. Why?”

  “Then I can draft you as a deputy on a short-term basis, get you an hourly rate for the effort.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Chief.” Ray’s face dropped its bantering expression. “We’ve got time this afternoon. That’s why I drove up. George is gone, due back tomorrow morning with those boats. The warehouse manager told me they’re loading his rig this afternoon. All I can do is wait, y’know. We’ve got some time right now.” Ray checked his watch, then the sky. He looked at Lew. “I don’t plan to start fishing until after six. What’s up?”

  “We?” Lew’s eyebrows shot up. “Who’s we?” Drawing herself up like a disapproving schoolmarm, she assessed Wayne with a look that made it clear she had no intention of drafting him as a deputy. “Excuse me? Ray, this is official business I’m talking about.”

  “Oh, sorry, I forgot to introduce you,” said Ray, a tone of mild amusement in his voice. As always, he loved putting someone on. Especially someone with a low tolerance level for his humor: Lew.