Dead Angler Page 14

  “I keep everything in here,” Cynthia wiped her eyes and walked across the room to open a closet. Taking the equipment from Osborne, she put it away, then reached into her pocket for a Kleenex, and blew her nose. She looked at the two of them. Alicia was still on the phone. “Have you seen the house?” she asked.

  “No,” answered Lew. “I’ve never been here before.”

  “You’re in for a treat,” said Cynthia, holding open the door through which she had entered, “C’mon, while she’s on the phone, I’ll give you a tour. I grew up down the road, I know this place like the back of my hand.” She started through the doorway and motioned for Lew and Osborne to follow.

  As the door swung closed behind them, they found themselves at the foot of a dark, narrow staircase. Cynthia laid a hand on Lew’s arm. “In case you haven’t noticed,” she said with a grim smile, “I have no use for Alicia. I am supposed to be in charge of the wait staff when the restaurant opens, but I refuse to work for that woman. So whatever I say, just know I detest her. Prejudiced witness.” She winked and started up the stairway.

  “So … who do think killed Meredith?” said Cynthia as she hopped lightly up the stairs.

  “That’s what I want to ask you,” said Lew.

  “Alicia’s convinced the ex-husband did it,” said Cynthia. “She must have told me that six times today. She insists he’s been calling Meredith trying to reconcile ever since the money from their old man came through. But I don’t know if that’s right. I’ve been around here quite a bit these last few weeks, and I never heard him call. Meredith didn’t say anything to me either, and I think she might have.”

  Cynthia paused near the top of the stairs, keeping her back to them, “I didn’t want to ask Alicia. I can barely stand talking to her … do you mind if I ask … how did Meredith die? I want to hear she didn’t suffer—”

  “Bludgeoned,” said Lew. “I doubt she knew what hit her. Someone worked hard to make it look like a fishing accident.”

  “Oh my god,” said Cynthia turning around, a mix of sadness and shock on her face. She shook her head, taking her time before she answered, “Meredith didn’t deserve this. She was very kind and a very interesting woman. I will help you any way I can.”

  “You liked her,” said Osborne, well aware that when it came friends, Cynthia’s list was short.

  “Oh yes,” said Cynthia. “I thought she was very smart. Unpretentious. The opposite of Alicia. One of the few women to get out of Loon Lake and do it on her own.” She sighed, “But you can’t win, y’know. She told me that was the reason Ben had all his affairs. She was more successful than he was. He couldn’t stand it. He said she emasculated him.” “You and Meredith talked a lot?”

  Cynthia had reached the top of the steep stairwell. The upstairs hallway stretched ahead of them, dark and dank. Osborne shivered.

  “We hit it off,” said Cynthia. She pointed towards a landing about fifty feet away. Slowly, the three of them started walking in that direction. “Bud works pretty late, and I don’t have kids at home anymore, so we’d hang out here for a glass of wine and a late dinner once or twice a week.” She laughed, “We talked men and work. What else matters, y’know?

  Then her demeanor sobered, “I considered Meredith a good friend, very much so. And a business partner. She put a little money into my cleaning service. Made it possible for me to buy that van.”

  Cynthia answered the question on Osborne’s face, “I refuse to take money from Bud. This is my business. But Meredith was different. She came to me, and said she’d like to be a part of it. I didn’t ask her. It was her idea to market spring and fall cabin clean-ups, which is going quite nicely. We have forty-one booked for October already. We. Listen to me.

  “That damn Alicia!” Cynthia stopped suddenly, “Would you believe—first, she has the nerve to call me at the crack of dawn and demand I get over here ASAP. Then, I kid you not, she gives me a demonstration on how to clean. Gives me instructions,” Cynthia shook her fist, “I wanted to bop her in the nose.

  “What did she demonstrate?” asked Lew. “Germ removal. Alcohol on the banisters and knobs, bathrooms pristine enough for surgery.” “Did you do it?” “I did what I thought necessary.”

  “Oh no,” Cynthia groaned and raised her eyes to the ceiling, clapping a hand to her forehead. “Does this mean she inherits Meredith’s share in my business?”

  “What’s that?” asked Lew.

  “There’s no will. That makes Alicia next of kin. Meredith told me she had the will on her ‘to do’ list. The divorce was settled just days ago, and she didn’t want to use the same lawyer because he was a friend of Alicia’s or something like that. She told me she needed privacy for her personal matters so I recommended a friend of ours.”

  “Cynthia, did Alicia give you any other instructions when you got here today?” asked Lew.

  “She made it clear I was not to touch Meredith’s room, her desk, any of her papers. She didn’t want me near any of that until she looked through it first. I’ll tell you something else,” Cynthia kept her voice close to a whisper. “She’s been back and forth to her car a dozen times. I figure the sterling flatware, the jewelry, the small expensive stuff will never see probate. Know what I mean?”

  “That’s not atypical after a death in a family,” said Lew. “I’m not saying it’s right, but I see that pattern all the time.

  “Clint Chesnais. Do you know him?” asked Lew.

  Cynthia reacted strangely to the question. She dropped her head as if considering long and hard what to say, as if measuring how much she could trust them. Then she lifted her head, her eyes staring off into the distance. The expression on her face reminded Osborne of Clint Chesnais. She had that same haunted, preoccupied look as if someone had entered the room and was cautioning her to keep quiet.

  “Yes, I know Clint,” she said finally, her voice soft. “Meredith had a crush on him. He’s a sweet man. Just what she needed at the time. I have no doubt Alicia’s dumping all over him, too. Right? She didn’t like his being around here at all. See, Meredith was like her property. This whole Boathouse Restaurant project was her ticket to becoming a big cheese. She didn’t want me or Clint horning in. But Meredith needed us. Alicia sure as heck wasn’t going to clean, she wasn’t going to do the landscaping, the bartending. Clint and I were testing recipes for Meredith. You think Alicia even knows how to cook? Know what I mean?”

  “So he and Meredith were pretty close?” asked Lew.

  “I don’t think it was marriage if that’s what you’re asking,” said Cynthia. “Meredith was still pretty bruised by the divorce. She told me Clint was fresh air for her. He is a quintessential North Woods man, and she loved that. She was learning a lot from him, too.”

  “Like what?” asked Lew.

  “Oh stuff we all take for granted. How to clean her shotgun, where to fly-fish for browns if you’re tired of brookies, who’s got the best deal on plumbing supplies … and…,” Cynthia gave them a coy look knowing the next comment implicated her, too, “who to talk to if you want to roll a joint.”

  “Ah-h,” said Lew. “Did she smoke a lot?”

  “Not really. But she got a kick out of it. She told me she hadn’t had any since college and she enjoyed it—but I’ll bet three times is as much as she did it that I know of.”

  “She’s a very wealthy woman,” said Lew. “Did that play into the relationship?”

  “Hard to judge,” said Cynthia. “Clint is a man of meager resources. He couldn’t afford to take her to a movie even, but they fished together. All that costs is a six-dollar license. As far as I know, they didn’t go places or do things that cost money, which was just fine with Meredith.

  “If you look at the guy from a traditional point of view,” said Cynthia, “he is not what you would call a success. I don’t think he even has running water at his place. I know he doesn’t. Meredith loved that. She said she had known enough ‘big picture’ guys with their corporations and their private jets.
Guys who were overbearing because they had the bucks, guys who were always in a rush. Clint would pull his truck to the side of the road for half an hour just to show her a wild iris. One wild iris.”

  “You like him,” said Osborne. He was starting to like the man himself.

  “Yes I do. I got a real kick out of watching the two of them together. One day last spring, over by the boathouse, he had her on her hands and knees, head down, smelling the arbutus. It’s what we try to teach our kids, Doc,” said Cynthia, “how to see beauty in the little things in life. Know what I mean?”

  Osborne understood exactly what Cynthia meant. Few fragrances rival the wonder of arbutus, queen of the North woods. A secretive wildflower whose beds are tough to spot. The bloom is very brief, and if you want to savor it, you have to seize the moment. Osborne himself had made a top-dollar offer on his lake property hours after stumbling over an unbelievable patch of arbutus close to the shore. Mary Lee had criticized how much they’d paid, but Osborne knew the arbutus plus the view made it worth every penny.

  “And he cooked for her. Made great stir-fry. Now how many people would dare to cook for Meredith? But Clint didn’t care. He’s a simple guy. So he was good for her, I think. He’s going to be upset when he hears about this,” said Cynthia.

  “We better hurry if you want to show us the place,” said Lew, checking her watch.

  “Right,” said Cynthia, waving them forward.

  They walked to edge of the balcony and, elbows on the pine railing, leaned over. Cynthia stood to the side. Osborne sensed her watching them closely.

  Below was a scene straight out of the money years of the North Woods, the years of the lumber barons and the fortunes they harvested from the wilderness forests: a huge room defined by massive beams of white pine from which hung chandeliers of black cast iron festooned with racks of buckhorn.

  The vaulted ceiling was planked and doweled, reaching thirty feet high. At the far end, the room was anchored, corner to corner and up past the vaulted ceiling by a fireplace handmade of river rock. Both sides of the long room were windowed from floor to beams. At least windows were hinted at though they were hidden behind yards of damask that pooled on the floor.

  “I imagine you can see the sun rise and set from this room?” said Osborne.

  “Yes,” said Cynthia with quiet satisfaction, “it was designed with that in mind. My grandfather built the fireplace. The original owner brought in craftsmen from Norway to carve the beams.”

  The room was an artifact, a relic of artistry that money can no longer buy: white pine of such remarkable girth is no longer found in the forests, not to mention the antique hand tools needed to chisel every inch of the logs in distinctive patterns.

  “I don’t think you can find a stonemason today who could design and build a rock chimney of that width and height,” said Osborne.

  Yet the magnificence of the room was undermined by the inexplicable presence of dozens of sofas and overstuffed chairs.

  “What’s with all the furniture?” said Lew, “this place looks like a cross between a cathedral and a convention center.”

  Cynthia’s laugh pealed through the room. “Isn’t it schizoid? Try cleaning it. I spent the first week moving families of wolf spiders.”

  Lew turned around, sniffing the air, “What is that smell? Is there a deer carcass around here somewhere?”

  Osborne smelled something, too. “Or mold?” he asked.

  “That odor is driving me crazy,” said Cynthia. “I have used buckets of bleach up in this back wing, but I cannot get rid of it.”

  Then, Cynthia leaned down over the balcony to listen. They could hear the hum of Alicia’s voice. “She’s still on the phone,” said Cynthia. “You know …,” a look of uncertainty crossed her face, “I’m not sure how much I should be telling you. Oh, hell—.” She started to walk quickly down the long hall off the balcony. “Hurry,” she broke into a half-jog, “I have something to show you I don’t want Alicia to see.”

  fifteen

  The odor grew stronger as they walked away from the balcony and down the long hall of the bedroom wing. Doors stood ajar, opening to empty rooms on both sides. Osborne caught glimpses of faded wallpapers and wooden floors, but otherwise the rooms were bare. He noticed the stench was definitely stronger in the rooms with windows facing east.

  “The Willows was built in 1928 by Joseph Daniels, a wealthy industrialist from Chicago,” said Cynthia, striding along with the energy of a young dancer, shoulders back, arms swinging, toes pointed slightly out. “Seventeen bedrooms and twelve baths, not counting the guesthouse.”

  “I’ve always heard there was a big fire here,” said Osborne.

  “Yep. Almost exactly one year after it was built, the whole place burned down. To the ground. The architect forgot he was building miles from city water mains and fire hydrants. By the time the volunteer fire department got here, it was too late. All that was left standing was that fireplace in the lodge room. But Daniels rebuilt immediately. Only this time, he put in his own water plant and pumping station. As a result, the soil between the main house and the shoreline holds more water, which is why the willow trees grow so well.”

  As she was talking, Osborne had begun to wonder about the wisdom of Meredith living alone in this monstrous residence.

  The hall and its dozen-plus bedrooms seemed to go on forever, empty, moldy and not a little spooky.

  “The Willows was sold in the early thirties to Mike Galvin, a mobster pal of Al Capone’s,” Cynthia said as they hurried past more empty rooms.

  “That fits,” said Lew. Everyone knew the Capone crowd had hung out at the Jack O’ Lantern Club, driving Eagle River property values up. Capone, Dillinger, and many other Chicago mobsters were the first of “da boys” to hide out in the Northwoods.

  “At first, Galvin used it as a summer home and …,” Cynthia stopped to give them one of her little half-smiles again, “a convenient location for keeping his enemies closer than they ever wanted to be.”

  “Ah,” said Lew. “Are we talking burned out cars on the back forty?”

  “Yep. Bud and the kids and I counted three within a mile of here last winter. My son uses one for a deer stand. But when I was a kid, I swear there were a dozen or more back in there. We used to scare ourselves silly searching for bones.”

  “Long gone,” said Lew, “the forest eats ‘em up.”

  No one said anything. Every local knew the backwoods of the North Woods, aside from the recreational draw of its cabins and lakes, had provided great cover for the misdeeds of the Prohibition kingpins. Just a five hour’s drive north of Chi-town, and you could park a car when it wouldn’t be found for months, if not years.

  “Where on earth did Meredith sleep?” Osborne asked finally. The eerie solitude of the bedroom wing, stench aside, was getting to him.

  “Not up here,” said Cynthia. “Didn’t Alicia show you? Meredith turned the dining room off the kitchen into her bedroom. She didn’t even consider using one of these rooms—too costly to heat in the winter. On the other hand …”

  They had reached the end of the hallway. One last door to go. One closed door. Before opening it, Cynthia motioned for them to stand back. She knocked softly. No answer. Slowly she turned the knob and slid the door open. She stepped back. Lew and Osborne peered in.

  The room was fully furnished. A cheery yellow and blue checked quilt covered a double bed. At the foot of the bed, the planked wooden floor was warmed with a cobalt blue hooked rug, which matched the quilt. The walls had been freshly painted white, and the knotty pine wood trim around the door and windows gleamed as if freshly waxed.

  Still, the room smelled.

  “Oh, oh,” said Osborne, expecting the worst.

  “No,” said Cynthia immediately, “the smell isn’t coming from here. As I said, it has been an ongoing problem. Believe me, I’ve checked everything. It comes in the window.”

  She was right. The odor was carried on the breeze blowing in through
the open window above an antique oak dresser at the far end of the room. “And I’ve checked outside twice,” she said. “But both times I didn’t get to it until late afternoon. When the wind dies, you don’t smell anything. Today, it’s really bad.

  “I’ll leave the door open so we can hear if Alicia comes,” whispered Cynthia as she followed them into the room. She opened a closet door and pointed. Two expensive-looking men’s business suits were carefully hung on wooden hangers. A pair of leather hunting boots stood alongside felt slippers on the floor.

  “Those are city suits,” said Lew, “this can’t be Clint Chesnais’s room.” She turned to Cynthia, who had been anticipating the moment.

  “Peter Roderick.”

  Osborne was stunned.

  “Does Alicia know?” asked Lew.

  Cynthia cracked a thin smile. “No. He tells her he’s traveling on business, and then he comes here.”

  “But Alicia—she comes out here, too, doesn’t she?” asked Osborne. “How can he hide?”

  “Alicia is one of those people who only sees what she wants to see,” said Cynthia. “In fact, she doesn’t come out here all that often. A lot of what Meredith asked her to do kept her in Loon Lake working with vendors out of Rhinelander and Wausau. When she does come, she’s either in the boathouse or the kitchen. She never comes upstairs. She has no idea that Peter has been hiding out here.”

  “But why?” asked Lew. “What is he doing here?”

  “Not much that I can tell. He keeps to himself. He keeps his car hidden behind the guest house—and he drinks. Last week, he scared the daylights out of me. I found him down in the laundry room, sitting on the washing machine in his underwear. Totally schnockered.” “But why …?”

  “I have no idea,” said Cynthia. “Nor did Meredith. She ran into him a month ago. He was hiding out in some cabin up in Land o’ Lakes when he was supposed to be in Japan. She insisted he come here and tried to get him some help. Obviously, the guy is sick. Meredith thought that letting him stay here might help him get back on his feet.”