Dead Spider Read online

  The reporter hesitated. “Please, show some consideration,” said Lew, hardening her voice. “Not even family members have been notified.” That wasn’t exactly true but it worked.

  The reporter nodded and turned her camera on the crowd as she walked off in the direction of the parking lot.

  “She may get better information than I have,” said Osborne, watching the reporter who was now interviewing some of the people lingering in the parking lot.

  “Let’s start there then. Tell me what you know, Doc. Before Pecore gets here, and I expect him any minute now. Dispatch should have called him right when I headed out here.”

  Two seconds later her cell phone rang. “Pecore? What? You’re breaking up. Where the hell are you?”

  “Ontario,” said a wheezy voice. “Canada. Can you hear me now?”

  “Little better. What the hell?”

  “Walleye fishin’ up here one more day . . . with my brother-in-law.”

  “Nice of you to mention you were leaving town.”

  “C’mon, Ferris, I don’t report to you.” His words were belligerent and slurred.

  “I’m talking professional courtesy, Pecore. You are the official coroner for Loon Lake and you have responsibilities—”

  “I know, I know, but it’s only a three-day trip.”

  “You think people only die on days you choose to be in town? Oh, forget it. You up there fishing walleyes with our good mayor, right?”

  “You got it.” He burped.

  One of the frustrations of Lew’s position as chief of police was working with Ed Pecore. A retired bar owner who was himself habitually overserved, Pecore had been appointed to his position shortly after his wife’s sister’s husband was elected mayor of Loon Lake.

  More than once Lew had tried to have him relieved of his duties—due to incompetence (i.e., crucial evidence of a crime lost or damaged), absenteeism (due to hangovers), or bizarre behavior (allowing his golden retrievers in the morgue while conducting an exam on a defenseless deceased individual).

  But once she discovered she could deputize Dr. Paul Osborne—a retired dentist with experience in dental forensics whom she met fly-fishing in a trout stream—she gave up trying to force out a man whose job security was ensured until the mayor and his wife divorced or died. Pecore didn’t mind. So long as he got his salary, he was fine not showing up—he didn’t really like dead bodies anyway.

  “You might mention to your brother-in-law that Chuck Pfeiffer was murdered this afternoon.”

  “W-h-a-a-t—?”

  With a satisfied grin, Lew clicked off her cell: Let those two walleye nuts stew on that for a while.

  She beamed at Osborne. “Dr. Paul Osborne, you are officially requested to perform the duties of Loon Lake deputy coroner. Do you accept the appointment?”

  Osborne returned the smile and nodded. Working with Loon Lake police chief Lewellyn Ferris might involve dead bodies and difficult people but he loved it. Or maybe it was all about her?

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Doc, let’s take a minute to go back over what we know so far,” said Lew, pulling a notepad from her back pocket.

  “Well . . . on my end,” said Osborne, sounding apologetic, “very little beyond the obvious cause of death and the fact it must have happened sometime after one thirty, which was about when Chuck stopped to chat with me for a few minutes, and three o’clock, which is when Erin and I were loading her SUV in the parking lot and we heard screaming. I ran over to see if there was a raccoon loose in the crowd or something more serious—like if someone needed a Heimlich maneuver.

  “When I got here,” said Osborne, waving one hand to indicate the area where he and Lew were standing, “I found Chuck right where he is, head tipped sideways so at first you couldn’t see that hole in his head and his wife jumping up and down screaming. She didn’t stop until I grabbed her by the shoulders and made her take a couple deep breaths.

  “Once she got hold of herself, she told me he had been sitting like that for half an hour or more. She thought he had nodded off during the awards hullabaloo so she didn’t realize anything was wrong until it was time for them to leave.”

  “Do we know if she touched him? Moved his body in any way?”

  “No idea. The woman was on the verge of hysteria, which is why I asked Chuck’s daughter-in-law, Charlotte, to take her over to the bar and get her to sit down. I also asked Erin to stay with the two of them until you could get here.”

  “Can’t blame her for being upset,” said Lew, “though she is now a very rich widow, isn’t she.” Osborne shot her a look.

  “Just sayin’.” Lew raised a hand palm out to deflect Osborne’s critical eye. “So the daughter-in-law was there when . . . ” She paused for confirmation.

  “No,” said Osborne. “Charlotte had been volunteering in one of the food stands and was helping to clean up when she heard the screaming. She arrived the same time I did.”

  “I see,” said Lew, jotting down notes as he spoke. “Couple more questions before I go see Mrs. Pfeiffer. I mean, I guess there are two Mrs. Pfeiffers, aren’t there.” She sighed. “It’ll be fun trying to keep that straight.”

  “Once you meet them you won’t have a problem,” said Osborne, itching to say more but that could wait.

  Lew glanced up at him, “You wouldn’t happen to know about how long the senior Pfeiffers have been married? Thirty, forty years maybe?”

  While asking the question Lew had moved to one side and leaned forward to get a better view of the slack features of the man in the Adirondack chair. “He looks to be in his sixties, correct? With adult children, grandchildren . . . ”

  “One son from his first marriage. I’ve no idea how long he’s been married to this woman—she’s wife number three. He divorced the first one. That was Ginny. Number two committed suicide. Gail Murphy was her name. She was a patient of mine at the time.”

  Lew raised her eyebrows. “Suicide? How long ago was that?”

  “Five years, maybe six. Mallory knows the story,” said Osborne, mentioning the name of his oldest daughter. “She was a couple years behind Gail in school. Gail got an RN degree right after high school, which is how she met Chuck. He had a broken leg—fell over a log out deer hunting and she worked at the hospital where he was getting physical therapy. You can imagine the tasteless jokes—”

  “I can only imagine,” said Lew with a shake of her head. “I’ll bet that McDonald’s coffee crowd of yours went nuts.”

  “Made for a month of four-cup mornings. On the other hand, Gail was a very attractive young woman—”

  “But if she was close in age to Mallory she must have been a lot younger?”

  “Thirty years younger. A-a-n-d Chuck was having a midlife crisis.”

  Lew raised an eyebrow as she said, “Why do I think I’ve heard this story before?”

  “Sad thing was Gail had a problem with alcohol and antidepressants.”

  “So she married a man likely to leave her a rich widow sooner rather than later but that wasn’t enough?” asked Lew. “How’d she kill herself?”

  “Pills. Could have been an accident I suppose, but I was told suicide by an old college friend of mine who’s a psychiatrist up north. He was treating her for depression.”

  Osborne paused, thinking back over the incident years ago. Lew watched his face. “What? Are you thinking there might be a connection to the shooting today?”

  “No,” said Osborne, not sounding totally convinced. “I’m sure it was pills. And suicide. But I can check on that for you.”

  “And all this happened five years ago? Doc, I’ve been on the force for over six years so why is this news to me?” asked Lew. “Pecore is called in on suicides. Is this another death certificate he screwed up?”

  “Oh, I doubt that, Lew. At the time Chuck and Gail were living up on the Cisco Chain where Chuck has—had—built a large lake home. So her death would have been recorded up there. Chuck managed to keep it out of the papers, which is
another reason you would not have heard about it.”

  “That, plus I know how often my law enforcement colleagues in neighboring jurisdictions are generous with information.” Lew’s tone was dry.

  A constant issue for the Loon Lake Police Department was the lack of shared information among police and sheriff departments, not to mention federal authorities, across northern Wisconsin and into Michigan. Too often major drug dealers were able to operate under the radar of law enforcement due to laziness within a department or mismanaged data sharing.

  “Not sure that’s a fair criticism. Do you alert Minocqua, Eagle River, Rhinelander, etc. to suicides here in Loon Lake?”

  “As a matter of fact I do,” said Lew. “I make sure death notices are posted whether they are natural, accidents, or otherwise. But you’re right, Doc. They may have posted it and I didn’t pay attention since there was no active investigation. Do I assume the victim still has a home up there?”

  “No, he built a new place on the Wisconsin River just a few miles outside Rhinelander. And so far as I know that’s where he’s been living with this wife. Her name, by the way, is Rikki. Rikki Pfeiffer. Once known as Rosalyn. At least that’s the name on her dental records from when she was a teenager.” Osborne couldn’t help the smirk that slipped in as he spoke.

  “I hope Erin won’t mind staying with the Pfeiffers for a few more minutes,” said Lew while punching a number into her cell phone. “I have got to get one of the Wausau boys up here ASAP. They need to process this crime scene before the weather changes.” She gave a nervous glance overhead. “I don’t want to risk losing any evidence that may be on the ground or in the area. And we cannot move the body before then, either.”

  “Don’t worry about Erin. She understands. She sent Mason and Cody home with friends so there’s no rush as far as she’s concerned,” said Osborne as Lew’s call went through.

  Not only would his daughter understand the need for the delay, but Osborne knew he could count on her to be a keen observer of the two women waiting in the bar.

  Besides raising his three grandchildren, Erin practiced law part-time and she was married to the county district attorney. She was the last person who would complain about sitting with a woman whose prominent husband had just been murdered. Her main concern might be the etiquette of the moment: It would not be polite to take notes while soothing the bereaved.

  “Keep your fingers crossed I can reach Bruce Peters and not have to deal with Hector the director,” said Lew with a grimace.

  “Will do,” said Osborne, folding his arms and making a mental note to call Ray and ask his neighbor to check on his dog. This was going to be a long evening, and Mike, his black lab, would need to be fed and his water dish checked.

  Lew’s call was answered and routed through to the forensic tech on call that Sunday afternoon. She held her breath, hoping she could avoid one of the more obnoxious individuals she was forced to deal with whenever the services of the Wausau Crime Lab were required. Loon Lake, like most Wisconsin small towns, depended on the crime labs based in larger cities.

  Doug Jesperson, the recently retired director of the Wausau Crime Lab, was unilaterally despised across the Northwoods by women working in law enforcement for one simple reason: He never hesitated to let them know they could never be as smart or as strong as himself or any of the men they worked alongside.

  Nor did it help that when he was around Lew, he stood too close and badgered her with one off-color joke after another. She could shut him down (“Doug, I don’t listen to those kinds of jokes”), but she couldn’t wipe the smarmy grin off his face. News of his retirement had made her day until she heard he planned to double-dip by subbing for crime lab staff on weekends and holidays.

  Waiting for her call to be patched through, she counseled herself to stay calm and not give the creep the satisfaction of knowing he riled her.

  “Yo, Chief Ferris, wind from the west means fishing the best. How the hell soon do you need me?”

  “Oh, my gosh, is this Bruce Peters?”

  “The one, the only—aren’t you lucky?” Even over the phone she could hear her favorite forensic guru smile and see his bushy eyebrows bounce. Relieved at the possibility of getting the investigation underway with minimal hassles, Lew relaxed.

  “And to whom do I owe this privilege?” she asked.

  “My wife’s sister had a baby so she’s off to Appleton and I volunteered to relieve Jesperson. So, Chief, since the summer hasn’t been too hot—think we can find time in the water? I’m still struggling with my casting. My line falls so short I’m ready to give up, buy a 3-weight, and fish midges.”

  “C’mon, Bruce, you’ll never get a big brown on a fly rod with midges. Certainly not with a 3-weight. Might as well go back to fishing muskie with a spinning rod.”

  “I know, Chief, I know.” His dejection came through the fiber optics cable loud and clear.

  Lew couldn’t help a sympathetic smile. For all his talent in the field of forensic science, Bruce was a burly guy who had a hard time not muscling the heck out of a weightless trout fly. But his failure was a blessing for Lew as he counted his hours in the trout stream with her as valuable as a private lesson with the famed Joan Wulff, who was legendary for her skill with a fly rod.

  “Not to worry, kiddo—we can work on your casting. Once we find who shot Chuck Pfeiffer that is.” Silence for a long moment.

  “The Chuck Pfeiffer?” Bruce whistled. “Tell me more . . . ”

  After a brief update, Bruce said, “I can make the case that I need to be flown up ASAP and have my tech team drive our van. But I have one problem, Chief. We had a shooting during an attempted robbery at a pharmacy in Merrill and I’m short a photographer until tomorrow morning . . . ”

  “I’ll get ahold of Ray Pradt. See you in what—half an hour or so? I’ll have Marlaine make the usual arrangements for you at the Loon Lake Inn?”

  “Good, but one more thing. Have you made sure the wife doesn’t wash her hands? You said she touched the victim so—”

  “Sorry, I didn’t think of that. I’ll get to her right now and hope she hasn’t.”

  “Please, and if you can slip Tyvek bags on her hands that will help.”

  “I heard you mention Ray’s name,” said Osborne when she was off the phone. “I was about to call him and ask him to check on my dog—”

  “Let me talk to him, will you? Bruce can’t get a photographer up here until tomorrow. Ray has shot enough crime scenes for me that I know I can depend on him.”

  “Let’s hope he’s not off gallivanting with some attractive single mom he met today,” said Osborne, punching in his neighbor’s cell phone number. “Got voicemail,” he said seconds later and looking up at Lew before leaving a message, “but there’s a stretch on the way to his place and mine where neither of us get cell service.”

  “Damn. I could try that new photographer with the Loon Lake News but who knows if he’s ever shot a crime scene. Ray knows the drill so well . . . ”

  “He’ll call, Lew. This is about money.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After retrieving two Tyvek hand preservation evidence bags from the trunk of her police cruiser, Lew motioned for Osborne to follow along as she headed up the gravel path to the entrance to the bar. They were twenty feet from the door when Erin stepped out and waved for them to walk back a short ways with her.

  “Dad, Chief Ferris, I saw you coming and figured it would be okay for me to head home. That work for you, Chief?”

  “By all means. And thank you for keeping tabs on these women,” said Lew. “Gave me time to get our investigation underway.”

  “One last question, Erin,” said Lew. “I don’t suppose you have any idea about what time it might have been when Chuck Pfeiffer was shot?”

  “Actually I do. I was going to tell you that as Dad and I were waiting for the awards ceremony to begin and some boys set off fireworks, I thought I heard a crack like a gunshot but Dad said it was more fireworks�
��kids had been fooling around with firecrackers all afternoon. But thinking back—that was one loud pop.”

  “And when was that?” Lew had her notebook out.

  “I’d guess right around two thirty or a quarter to three? Maybe a few minutes earlier? Lots of people were here, some going down by the dock to watch the awards being handed out. Would you agree, Dad?” Osborne nodded. He’d forgotten about the pop.

  “Erin’s right about the pop, but I was hearing firecrackers all afternoon,” said Osborne. “Some so loud I could swear they were fireworks.”

  Before saying more, Erin glanced over her shoulder then turned so she had her back to the front of the tavern. Gesturing to Lew and Osborne to move closer as she spoke, she said in a low voice, “You’ll find the two Pfeiffer ladies—Rikki and Charlotte—in the office, which is off to the right as you enter. They haven’t said much to me or to each other. Let me put it this way: The room is chilly and . . . ” she paused, raising her eyebrows to emphasize her words, “it ain’t the air conditioning.”

  With a wry grin she added, “Just so you know—when the senior Mrs. Pfeiffer saw you coming, she got very teary-eyed . . . ” Erin’s eyes signaled that the tears might be for their benefit.

  “Noted,” said Lew. “Thank you.”

  The room that Osborne and Lew walked into minutes later reflected the age of the old tavern. A battered metal desk took up the center of the small room, which had boxes of beer, liquor, and other supplies stacked ceiling-high along two walls. Osborne wasn’t surprised since the tavern had been in existence since before his father had opened a dental practice in Loon Lake. Basements were crawl spaces or nonexistent in those days so space had to be an issue.

  In a chair next to the desk sat the newly widowed Rikki Pfeiffer, one forearm resting on the edge of the desk while the other pressed a clump of Kleenex against both eyes. Lew gave a quick knock on the open door as she and Osborne entered the room. At the sound, Rikki sniffed loudly and shifted the Kleenex to her nose while keeping her eyes closed.