Dead Loudmouth Page 2

  “My grandparents used to come here years ago,” said Lew. “They brought me here for dinner when I graduated from eighth grade. I remember they had a magician from Chicago performing that night. And when I was in high school, they used to have rock concerts here. After that, the place was sold and it’s been closed for years.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Roger, who had grown up in Milwaukee and didn’t arrive in the Northwoods until after marrying a local girl in his late twenties. “But it sure ain’t magicians they got performing here these days.” He raised his eyebrows as he spoke. “Nope, no magicians for sure.”

  “Any way we can get more light in here? Can we pull back those curtains?” asked Lew, glancing overhead. “Hard to see . . . Joe? Are you able to see anything?” Lew had spotted Joe Teske, the lead paramedic on the team.

  “I tried the curtains, Chief,” said Roger, “but they’re nailed shut, right to the studs in the wall. Want me to rip them open?”

  “I’m doing okay,” said Teske, walking over toward her. “I didn’t want to risk moving or touching anything until you got here, Chief Ferris. Except that piano. I made the janitor show me how to lower it far enough so I could be sure we didn’t have a victim in need of resuscitation or emergency transport.” He held up both hands to show Lew they were gloved. “No fingerprints, Chief.”

  “Good,” said Lew. “Fatalities?”

  “’Fraid so. I’ll leave it up to the pathologist for an expert call but it looks to me like both parties have been dead a few hours or more. Asphyxiated is my guess—crushed against the ceiling up there.”

  “That’s strange. I wonder how the hell that happened,” said Lew, staring at the grim scenario on the piano.

  “Well,” said Teske, “you got one of two scenarios: either a double murder or an expensive situation for the insurance company.”

  “Man, it is hard to see,” said Lew, twisting around. “Is it possible to get more light in here?”

  “Sure,” said a husky voice from behind the bar. Rows of fluorescent lights flicked on overhead. “How’s this?”

  The explosion of light caught Lew off-guard. “That more than does it, thank you.”

  “It’s the lighting I use when I’m cleaning—shows all the dirt, don’t it?” The voice belonged to a thickset woman in cutoff jeans and a black sweatshirt. She remained standing in the shadows behind the bar as though reluctant to be seen.

  After a quick glance back toward the stage where the ropes and pulleys suspending the piano in midair had come into better view, Lew turned to the paramedic and his team. “Sorry, Joe, but I don’t think we can do more until the coroner gets here.”

  Teske nodded. “We know the drill. If you don’t mind, we’ll wait outside. Let me know when you need us.” Raising his eyebrows, he said, “Haven’t seen anything like this before.”

  After waving the EMTs off, Lew walked over to the woman who had just spoken. She had blowsy dark hair, which she wore very short and shoved behind her ears. The squareness of her facial features emphasized cheeks as loose as a squirrel’s and wrinkled from years of smoking. Though Lew had a hard time guessing her age, she seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Chief, this is Joyce Harmon,” said Roger, pulling his shoulders back and speaking with as much authority as he was capable of. “She’s the one I told you found the bodies. Joyce here is the, um, well, um, the assistant maintenance engineer for Buddy’s Place. And, Joyce, this here is Chief Ferris—”

  “I know who she is,” said Joyce, her tone blunt. “Lew Ferris, right? Seen you at parent-teacher meetings years ago. Back when you were still working at the mill. Our daughters were in grade school together. And I’m the janitor, Officer Adamczak, not no engineer. Thought I told you that.” She spoke with the sullenness of a person who doesn’t expect to be listened to.

  “Sorry,” said Roger staring at the floor. “Just wanted to be sure I had your official title is all . . .” His voice trailed off in embarrassment.

  Poor Roger. Lew knew he regretted his decision years earlier to give up his struggling insurance business in favor of what he thought would be an easy road to retirement: join the Loon Lake Police Department as one of two full-time police officers destined to empty parking meters until the day his pension check would appear.

  But no sooner had Roger joined the department when the Loon Lake Town Council voted to remove the meters and hire Lewellyn Ferris fresh out of law enforcement training.

  Once she was promoted to chief, Roger’s life changed. He found himself in the uncomfortable position of having to arrest former insurance clients for DUIs, domestic disturbances, and outdated vehicle registrations. In short order he found himself banned from the Saturday afternoon poker games. The final blow was no more invites to fish walleye in Canada.

  In spite of those disappointments, Roger tried his best. But his demeanor was so mild that few miscreants believed him when he identified himself as being a police officer—even when he was in uniform. Then there was his chronic stomach ailment, which occurred like clockwork whenever he drew a holiday weekend assignment.

  And so it was that Loon Lake Police Chief Lewellyn Ferris couldn’t help but count the days to Officer Adamczak’s retirement.

  “Fred Smith is the maintenance engineer and I’m just the janitor,” Joyce said. “I pick up the slack here and over at Deer Creek. Mainly I pick up trash.” She gave a halfhearted grin.

  “The private preserve next door?” Lew’s question was rhetorical.

  “Yep. Been working there fourteen years.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a bad job. I’ll bet they pay you pretty well. Deer Creek is quite the place, I hear.” Even as she spoke Lew knew that was an understatement.

  Every adult and teenager in Loon Lake was well aware of the Deer Creek Fishing and Hunting Preserve—referred to by locals as Deer Creek. Private land with three private lakes stocked with some of the Northwoods’ largest walleye and bass, Deer Creek is off-limits to locals, including employees.

  During the peak seasons of summer and fall, when half a dozen residents from the area might be working there, they were given lodging in a barracks with single bedrooms, shared baths. Preserve rules dictated that nonmembers, i.e. employees, had no access to the lakes or forest trails. They had to enter and leave on specified “utility” roads and even then at certain hours.

  Only Deer Creek members are allowed to enter and leave via the main drive as well as the lanes winding through the stunning forests of cedar, hemlock, and ancient white pine. And those members are three, sometimes four, generations removed from the half-dozen men—lumber barons and railroad titans from Chicago—who founded the private club in the late 1800s.

  Even today, only people related by blood to the “founding fathers” are ever admitted to membership, which means there can never be more than 200 families able to enjoy one of the last remaining reserves of virgin timber in Wisconsin: over a thousand acres where never a living tree has been cut down.

  But what may be true of its trees was not true of the Deer Creek member who lay face-down on top of the white baby grand piano hovering three feet over the stage at the far end of the Entertainment Center in Buddy’s Place. Face-down on top of an individual who was most certainly not a member of the Deer Creek Fishing and Hunting Preserve.

  Chapter Four

  “Mrs. Harmon, do you know who those people are?” asked Lew, staring at the top of the piano where the fluorescent lighting illuminated the two bodies, better defining how one was pinned on top of the other and clarifying that the foot hanging over one edge of the piano belonged to a man. A naked man.

  Under his head, which was turned toward the back wall, was a spray of blonde spiked hair. The hair belonged to a smaller body, also naked but barely visible beneath the other.

  “Ms., please, Chief Ferris,” said Joyce. “I’m not Mrs.—I’m Ms. I been divorced twenty years thank the Lord. But can you just call me Joyce?”

  “Certainly. So, Joyce,” said L
ew, determined to be patient, “do you know the victims?”

  “Yes, I do.” The answer was loud and firm. “That there man on top is Chet Wright, he owns this place. Bought it ’bout eighteen months ago and shipped that piano up from New Orleans. The woman is Tiffany Niedermeier. He’s from Rhinelander. I don’t know where the hell she’s from.”

  And from the sound of it you don’t much care, thought Lew. “Do you know anyone who will?”

  “Will what?”

  “Will know where the female victim is from—where she lives. We’ll have to reach her next of kin.”

  “Oh, jeez, how the hell would I know? Ask the woman who works with her. She’ll be here soon enough.”

  “All right,” said Lew, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves. “I’ll deal with that later. Right now, I’d like to see if we can lower that piano all the way to the stage. And, Roger,” she said looking over at the officer standing nearby, “do you have nitrile gloves on? Until I know if this is an accident or not, I want nothing touched. That includes you, Joyce.”

  Joyce had started to move forward but Lew put out a hand to stop her. “Officer Adamczak told you where to walk so we don’t contaminate the area. Correct?”

  The woman nodded. “He did. I know I’m s’posed to walk right where the two of you are walking.”

  Satisfied with her answer, Lew paused to study the scene overhead. “Right now what I’d like to know is . . .” Lew left her words hanging.

  “How that piano ended way up on the ceiling?” Joyce finished the question for her. “I have no idea.” She glanced over at Roger. “He already asked me that. I haven’t a clue.”

  Lew turned to give the woman a long look: now she was sure where she had seen her before. “Say, Joyce, aren’t you one of the Freundlichs?” She knew she was deliberately changing the subject but she had a hunch that Joyce knew more than she was saying. She also knew that getting the woman to open up was going to be a challenge.

  “Yep, I’ll bet you knew my brothers, hey?”

  Yes, Lew did. “Butch was in my class but he dropped out of school before graduating, didn’t he?”

  “That’s right. My little sister, Debbie, and I are the only ones who graduated.”

  Joyce was one of two girls in a family of five. Her brothers—known to everyone as “those Freddie boys”—had spent their teens in and out of the Loon Lake jail too many times to count. Their misdemeanors ranged from vandalism in the schoolyard to petty theft and illegal exhaust pipes on their motorcycles, which they liked to ride, roaring, through a sleeping Loon Lake hours before dawn.

  Lew recalled, too, that Joyce’s former husband had hung out with the Freddie boys and was rumored to have beaten her up. He might be long gone but the chip on Joyce’s shoulder appeared to be permanent. However, there was one Freundlich male who did not have a police record.

  “Your dad ran the TV repair shop at the corner of Pine and Brown, right?” Lew asked. She looked over to the hallway as she spoke, hoping to see Pecore walk in, but no sign of him yet.

  “Yep. Those days he owned the building, too.”

  “My grandfather used to say he was the smartest electrician he ever ran into.”

  “Really?” Joyce’s voice softened.

  “And didn’t you work in his shop? I remember helping my grandpa carry in one of those old TV consoles for repair and I’m pretty sure I saw you there. I mean, we were both kids back then, but am I right?”

  “Man, that was a l-o-o-n-g time ago,” said Joyce. “No one even repairs a TV anymore. And do you know how hard it is to find a good electrician these days? But, yep, you’re right. My dad taught me how to be an electrician. I’m darn good, too. That’s a lot of what I do here and over at Deer Creek.”

  “In addition to picking up trash?” Lew grinned.

  “Yeah,” Joyce chuckled. “You got me on that.

  “Y’know, it is so funny how my brothers were never interested in Dad’s business but I love the stuff. Hell, I’ve been working with Chet to put in lighted stripper poles over there.” She motioned toward the side of the stage. “Be a lot more interesting than some girl twisting herself around a plain old pole. The ones I ordered have these cool LED lights running up and down—” She stopped. “Guess that won’t be happening, will it.”

  Lew shrugged. “Hard to say. Once we know what happened—could be someone will buy this place and want to keep it open . . .” As a hopeful expression spread across Joyce’s face, Lew decided to press for more.

  “Joyce, it’s obvious you’re the expert around here. Would you mind walking me through what you think might have happened? The EMTs and I can’t do much more until the coroner gets here anyway. Depending on what you can tell me, I may have to call in the Wausau boys, too.”

  “The Wausau boys?” asked Joyce, walking over to stand near Lew. Her voice was lighter now, less guarded. “Who are they?”

  “The Wausau Crime Lab. Often when there’s been a certain type of felony crime committed, we pay them to process the crime scene. Especially if there’s been a homicide or attempted murder. Loon Lake doesn’t have the budget for the equipment much less the forensic expertise needed. I’m lucky to have computers.”

  Lew dropped her voice as if sharing a secret. “I mean, the coroner I’m waiting for used to run a bar, for God’s sake. The only thing he’s good for is telling me if someone is alive or dead.”

  With that comment and with the hope that Joyce wasn’t a close relative of Pecore, Lew checked her watch. “Jeez Louise, Roger, where on earth is Pecore? I called him a good fifteen minutes ago—he should be here by now. If he hasn’t arrived in five minutes, would you please call dispatch and ask Marlaine to check on him? This is unacceptable.”

  Chapter Five

  “This was all Chet’s idea,” said Joyce with a wave at the ropes and pulleys while Roger stepped away to call dispatch. “He told me he’d seen a dancer perform on a piano years ago and he thought it was so cool. He said she was all dressed in these big feathers and stood perfectly still on the piano as it came down from above. At first he thought she was a statue.

  “But when the piano reached the stage, music started and the dancer started to strip. One feather at a time and all while dancing on the piano. When she had taken everything off, she posed like the statue again and the piano carried her up, up and away.” Joyce raised her hands, palms up, to demonstrate.

  “Chet said she was so gorgeous—she was like an angel. So that’s what he wanted Tiffany to do, but we had a problem. Tiffany looked sexy, like with her top off and stuff, at least Chet thought so—she was too bony to be sexy if you ask me—but she was a terrible dancer. She’d been dancing here for at least three months, six nights a week and who knows how many times a night, yet every time the piano would start to go up, she’d stumble and almost fall off.

  “I have to say that twice she did fall but not far enough to hurt herself. She tried to say it was my fault—that the darn thing jerked when it started up—but that’s a lie. I keep it well oiled. The piano works fine. It’s the dancer.”

  Lew couldn’t resist asking, “Did this Tiffany wear feathers?”

  A hint of humor flashed at the back of Joyce’s eyes. “No, Tiffany did not wear feathers. She should have. Anything, even feathers would have been better than what she wore. And, believe you me,” Joyce rolled her eyes, “Tiffany Niedermeier is no angel.

  “Tell you the truth, I think she’s a pretty awful person . . . was a pretty awful person. And I’ve known ‘awful,’ doncha know.”

  Joyce opened her mouth ready to add further insult to the memory of the individual pinned on the piano but Lew jumped in before she could say more. “Okay, we can talk about that later. Right now I’d like you to show me how the piano and the lift system works. I am trying to understand what has happened here.”

  “Oh sure,” said Joyce, “sorry if I got carried away talking about Tiffany. See up there? Can you see where there’s a balcony over to one side?”

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p; “Yes,” said Lew, “I see it.”

  “Well, there is a stairway behind the stage that leads to the balcony and that’s where the dancer waits before stepping onto the piano.”

  “And who plays the piano?” asked Lew. “Chet?”

  “Gosh no. That’s a player piano. Now come over this way and I’ll show you how this whole shebang operates.”

  Lew followed Joyce over to the wall just to the right of the stage where there was an electric utility box with two levers inside. The box was hidden behind a short curtain so audience members wouldn’t get a good look.

  “This here sends the piano up,” said Joyce. She started to reach for the lever but Lew grabbed her arm.

  “No, please don’t touch that. We need to check for fingerprints.”

  “Oh, sure, sorry I keep forgetting,” said Joyce, backing up a step. “That lever to the left brings the piano down. Up above there are two levers just like these on the wall next to the balcony.”

  “So the piano can be operated from either direction, up or down?”

  “Correct,” said Joyce. “Chet got all this equipment from a bar in New Orleans that was being demolished. It is not state of the art. I wanted to update the wiring so you could adjust the speed of the piano’s rising and lowering just like you do a dimmer on a light switch.

  “I also wanted to install a safety that could be triggered by movement like a deer cam, y’know—but Chet didn’t want to spend the money. What I was able to do was install the box up there in such a way that the levers could be easily reached when you are standing on the piano, but you do have to reach for them.”

  “Are you saying that there was no safety to stop the piano from going up too high?”

  “That’s right. It didn’t need one coming down because it was built to stop when it reached the stage. Going up we assumed everyone would know to stop it when they could reach the levers.”

  “Does everyone working here know how this works?”

  “Well, I do, my boss the head maintenance guy does, Chet, of course, and Nina and Tiffany. Tiffany is the only one allowed to dance on the piano. Actually she’s the only one who agreed to ’cause she got paid more. Nina dances part-time. Mostly she hosts.”