Dead Firefly Page 3

  As he drove over a berm, Osborne spied the barn with Chuck’s SUV parked in front. With a sigh of relief—and not a little irritation—Osborne pulled alongside Chuck’s car.

  CHAPTER SIX

  After alerting Dispatch that she was taking an early lunch break, Lew drove out to her farm. Continuing west past her driveway, she slowed, checking for signs of vehicles having been driven across the gully that ran along the county road in front of her property.

  When she had reached her neighbor’s driveway with no sign of tire tracks, she turned around to head back, driving slow, eyes scanning the weedy shoulder. This time she thought she could see a matted-down patch of wildflowers where wheels of some kind had traveled along the gully before turning up toward a large sumac.

  Lew pulled over and got out of her cruiser. She pushed past the sumac and looked down. Something had flattened the vegetation fronting a wall of aspens, something heavy moving in search of an access to the birches growing behind the dense border of aspen. A pickup? An ATV? She couldn’t be sure of the vehicle but one thing she was sure of: someone had driven onto her property without permission.

  When she had purchased the farm and its eighty acres ten years earlier, she had been pleased to find that the aspens were not only great cover for grouse but they also screened acres of birches and other hardwoods—leafy havens for birds. Or they had screened the trees.

  Pushing past the aspen, she found herself looking at a scene of devastation similar to what she had seen on the DNR’s slides of sawn and stolen birches earlier that morning: foot-high stumps and torn strips of birch bark littered a vast open space. Young saplings, not birches, which had been pushed aside, tipped crazily in the now open areas. No wonder that when she had peered across the field and into the woods from a distance, she had thought she was looking at wind damage.

  Lew ran back to the cruiser, sat down, and pulled out the DNR officer’s business card from the small leather case in which she kept IDs and other critical information. She called his cell number, got his voice mail, and left a message with her name, her address, and the approximate location of the stolen trees. After leaving the message, she sat silent, thinking.

  She made another call: she wanted those tire tracks photographed before a rainstorm washed them out. Likely they were already too faint to be identified but she would like to at least try to determine if it had been a pickup or an ATV that had trespassed. And there was one person likely to know.

  “Ray,” she said, reaching voice mail once again, “I need you to photograph tire tracks on my property. Right along the county road and just west of my driveway. Whoever it was trespassed on my land and cut down dozens of birch trees. The sooner you can do this before it rains, the better. I’m hoping that eagle eye of yours can tell if the tracks belong to a truck or an ATV or whatever.

  “Please, Ray, take two hours off from your fishing and I’ll make it worth it.” She tried to laugh at the end of her message but she sounded strangled instead.

  Her cell phone rang two minutes after she finished leaving the message. “Ray? That was fast. Are you out on the lake?”

  “No, Chief, I’m on my way back from . . .”—Lew held her breath waiting—“the Lake . . . Tomahawk . . . Meat Market.”

  “Ah,” she said in a fruitless effort to rush him along.

  “Yep . . . owed the man . . . a basket of . . . blue . . . gills for the great, great bratwurst he sold me last weekend.”

  Lew listened patiently. Everyone in Loon Lake listened to Ray patiently. At least everyone who knew him, and that was almost everyone. A happy Ray had the most annoying habit of elongating his commentaries so that two-syllable words could end up with four, and one brief sentence could seem like a never-ending paragraph. But as everyone said, “That’s Ray—but he has a good heart.”

  “Say,” Ray said, speaking a little faster, “I listened to your message and I have my camera in the truck. Thought I’d stop on my way by your place in about fifteen minutes . . . and see what I can see.”

  “Look for the big sumac just before my fire number,” said Lew, “that’s where I spotted tracks and if you follow them up and past the aspens, you’ll see why I’m worried.”

  “Ten four,” said Ray, “gotcha covered.”

  * * *

  Ray Pradt might own a misdemeanor file an inch thick in her Loon Lake Police Department desk drawer—thanks to an affection for cannabis—but Lew had learned to depend on the young fishing guide who knew his way through woods and along lakes and rivers as keenly as the Native Americans who had hunted and fished through the same territory.

  More than once she had deputized him to help with searches and to photograph crime scenes. Perennially short of cash because of the vicissitudes of guiding when big muskies proved too elusive, Ray augmented his income two ways: one, he took photos of outdoor vistas for a local insurance agent’s annual calendar; and, two, he dug graves at St. Mary’s Cemetery. While he had learned the hard way he couldn’t count on fish showing up when needed, he was pretty certain seasons would change and people would die. At least he hoped.

  * * *

  Minutes after talking to Ray, Lew pulled up in front of her little farmhouse. Climbing out of the cruiser, she realized she was trembling. The theft of the birches may have taken place a good quarter mile from her home but she felt as shaken as if someone had crept into her bedroom through the dark shadows of night, crept in, and touched her body: she felt violated.

  “For God’s sake get a grip, Ferris,” she muttered out loud. “It’s only trees.” She pushed open the front door of her home and walked in. Everything inside looked just as she’d left it the day before. And then it didn’t.

  The landline base was blinking with a message. Lew stared at it, trying to remember who on earth had this number. The ancient portable phone was for the landline, which she kept only because it could be relied on during a power outage. Unlike her cell phones of which she had two—one personal and one for the police department—it was not dependent on fiber-optic cables. But the landline was so old not even Osborne had that number.

  Must be some goofy sales call from India, she thought as she hit the ON button.

  “Lewellyn,” said a shaky, thin voice on the line, “dear? Please help me. I’ve been robbed.” Aside from leaving a phone number, those few words were all that were spoken.

  Lew set the phone down, thinking. Was that really Lorraine? Maybe some sort of telephone scam? She replayed the message. It was Lorraine, all right. Lew knew the voice though she hadn’t heard it in years: Lorraine Gropengeiser, her former mother-in-law. The woman had to be in her eighties and they hadn’t spoken since Lew walked out on her son. How odd that she would call her now.

  Lorraine lived in a modest two-bedroom house on a narrow channel that connected two large lakes at the outskirts of town. The channel—a playground for otters, ducks, great blue herons, and turtles—had enchanted Lew’s son and daughter when she left them with their grandmother while she worked as a secretary at the paper mill.

  The house with its perennial need for a new roof and other repairs may have struck some people as a “teardown,” but the land on which it sat was close to priceless: level, dry, and within minutes of the best muskie and walleye fishing in the county. It also bordered the new Partridge Lodge development, which added even more to its value.

  Lew remembered Lorraine, who’d been widowed for years, as a quiet but self-sufficient woman—carrying in her own firewood for the woodstove that heated her little place, driving her Honda Civic to Eagle River for bingo at the senior center twice a week, and crocheting baby hats for the Episcopal Church’s women’s group. She may have been uneducated but she was organized and careful—her house spotless, her garden a blooming delight.

  * * *

  Though they had had their differences during Lew’s marriage, Lew had an abiding affection for the older woman. She did not hesitate to return the call.

  “Lorraine, I got your message. What on e
arth? Did someone break into your house? Are you okay?”

  “I am okay. I mean, physically okay,” said the slow, familiar voice. “But I’m not really. My girlfriend, Gloria, told me to call you. Maybe you can help—I don’t know what to do. It’s one of those things, you know?”

  No, I don’t know, thought Lew, resisting the urge to hurry her along. “I’ll do my best. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “They stole my house, my flowers, my wonderful sand beach—it’s all gone.”

  “Back up, Lorraine. I don’t understand. How could anyone steal your house?”

  “They told me they were going to dam Sand Lake, so my place would be underwater. They said the county board would condemn my property and I wouldn’t be able to sell it no way. So I had to take what they offered. . . .”

  “You’re talking about your house here in Loon Lake, right?”

  “Yes, honey, my home. You know my place. I still have the bedroom ready for the kids. . . .”

  “Lorraine, I’ve not heard a thing about a dam going in around here. Not in Loon Lake, not in Rhinelander, not in the county. When did this happen?”

  “Last month. All they gave me was twenty thousand dollars.”

  “For Pete’s sake, Lorraine, your property is worth five times that much. More even. Much more.”

  “That’s what I thought but they told me I had just twenty-four hours to accept their offer or I’d get nothing. I know the county can do that, y’know. Condemn property and not pay you. Happened to my great-grandfather—”

  “Lorraine, that was in the late 1800s when the railroad was being built. Not today and not on such short notice—but let me check into this. And who made the offer?”

  “Two men from Brokers Real Estate Agency. One is named Tom. The other one is some rich fella with big hair. You know, a pomperanian.”

  “You mean a pompadour?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “And Tom who?”

  “That’s all I know—Tom.”

  Geez Louise, thought Lew. “You have paperwork on all this, I hope?”

  “They said they’d mail it, although I don’t have it yet. But, see, now I hear there isn’t going to be a dam. So they have my land. . . .”

  “And all you have is twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Lewellyn . . .” Lorraine began to cry. “I should’ve called you before, shouldn’t I.”

  “I wish you had but I’ll look into this. Lorraine, can you come by the police department at ten tomorrow morning? Bring any notes and paperwork that you might have. They gave you a bill of sale, right?”

  “I’ll check. I know I signed something but my memory isn’t all that good these days. I can ask Gloria to help me.”

  Before getting off the phone, Lew made sure Lorraine had her personal cell number and jotted down the address of where the old woman was now living.

  Wow, Lew thought after setting the phone back on its base, an elderly woman with memory problems sitting on a valuable piece of land: perfect target for an unscrupulous real estate investor. And “Brokers Real Estate Agency”? She had never heard of such a real estate company in the area. A quick search on her cell phone didn’t turn one up either. Curious.

  * * *

  Driving back into town, Lew couldn’t stop the flood of sad memories generated by the sound of Lorraine’s voice. First was the death of Lew’s son, Jamie. As vivid as if it were yesterday was the image of the seventeen-year-old lying dead in a tavern parking lot, victim of a knife wound during a bar fight. But the reality was that her son had been the victim of behavior patterns learned from Jimmy, his belligerent alcohol-fueled father.

  Lew had fallen in love with Jimmy her senior year in high school. He was tall, cute, and fun. Two babies later she realized the source of the fun: alcohol. Too much alcohol. That plus his obvious lack of interest in holding down a job and helping her to build a life for their young family led to an ugly confrontation during which Jimmy got physical. Too physical for Lew. She filed for divorce.

  A painful conversation with Lorraine followed. Lew would never forget their final words to one another. “I don’t understand, Lewellyn,” Lorraine had said, “why are you leaving my Jimmy? He promised me he’ll try to make a good living. . . .”

  “Lorraine, he hit me.”

  “But, honey, his father hit me. You know it only happens when they’re drinking. . . .”

  “Once was enough,” Lew had said, closing the door on Lorraine and her marriage. Though she took her son and daughter with her, they still visited their father. He was dead now, but Lew would always blame Jimmy, blame the kind of man he became as the drinking worsened, for their son’s death.

  * * *

  She was pulling into the parking lot for the Loon Lake Police Department when her personal cell phone rang. It was Osborne.

  “Lew, Chuck is dead.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ten minutes later, standing alongside Osborne, Lew stared down at the still form that had been Chuck Pelletier. The body was sprawled facedown where he had fallen onto a worn braided rug, a sport coat bunched up around his neck, arms bent at the elbows, hands facing out. Just above Chuck’s head, she could see a spattering of red droplets leaking into the rug.

  To the right of the body, on the floor near a scarred coffee table holding a copy of Joan Wulff’s Fly Casting Techniques, was an empty whiskey bottle. The whiskey must have spilled as the bottle rolled because the room reeked of alcohol.

  “So . . . Chuck was drinking again?” she asked as she gazed around the room. She recognized fly-tying equipment on the large desk in one corner, and there were framed collections of trout flies interspersed with sculptural pieces of driftwood decorating the walls. A wooden rack in the far corner held four fly rods. Half a dozen reels were stored in a glass display case nearby.

  “No,” said Osborne, his voice hard. “Absolutely not. Hasn’t had a drink in two years. Think about it, Lew. I talked to him less than two hours ago and the man was as sober as I am standing here.” Lew could hear anger in his voice.

  Lew nodded. “Okay, Doc, take it easy. Just saying what it might look like to a stranger walking in. . . .”

  “What it looks like is someone thinks we’re a bunch of goddamn local yokels,” said Osborne, “someone who may have heard that Chuck had a history of alcoholism but doesn’t realize what it means that he hasn’t missed an AA meeting in two years. Not one. And certainly not the one we attended together last week.

  “Plus I talked to the man less than two hours ago and he was stone cold sober. I doubt a raging alcoholic could get drunk enough to pass out in that short a time. . . .”

  What Osborne didn’t say was what he was thinking: given that people in their AA group were sworn to secrecy, there was only one person who could have shared Chuck’s history of alcoholism, and that would be Patti.

  “All right, I need to call our esteemed coroner, the not-always-sober Ed Pecore, ASAP, and then the Wausau boys,” said Lew, referring to the Wausau Crime Lab, which she depended on whenever she had to investigate a death occurring under questionable circumstances. Whether an accident, a murder, or a felony assault, the resulting investigation would require manpower, equipment, and technical expertise that the Loon Lake Police Department could not afford.

  “Then I’ll need both my officers out here to help secure the crime scene,” said Lew, talking more to herself than to Osborne.

  Again Lew looked around, taking in the contents of the room before saying, “Should I assume this was kind of a hideout for your friend? Like the hideaway in your garage?” She gave a gentle smile as she spoke.

  Osborne had shown her the small room attached to the porch where he cleaned fish—a porch his late wife, Mary Lee, refused to enter, insisting she could smell fish guts. That was fine with Osborne.

  What she didn’t know was that one wall of the porch, the wall holding dozens of his muskie lures, hid another room. That room was tucked behind a fake wall in his garage and was a
safe haven where he could get away from Mary Lee’s querulous badgering.

  The room might be tiny but it was large enough to hold his old office chair on its ancient rollers and three tall oak file cabinets he had inherited from his father, who had also practiced dentistry. The cabinet drawers were packed with patient files from his thirty-year dental practice—files Mary Lee had insisted he trash.

  But for Osborne, those files were more than paper records. They were memories of a profession he had loved, of patients he had known and helped. Maybe that was why he had felt so close to Chuck. It wasn’t just the shared experience of conquering their addiction but because he, too, had needed a secret place to hide.

  * * *

  Lew was reaching for her official cell phone when Osborne touched her arm. “Would you mind if I took a closer look at Chuck’s neck and head before you call Pecore?”

  “I can wait a minute or two,” said Lew, “then I’ll hope that I can’t reach that jabone. If he doesn’t answer immediately, I’ll deputize you to be Loon Lake’s acting coroner, in which case you’ll be required to check the body for signs of life. And you know how to avoid damaging any evidence that Bruce and the Wausau boys will need.”

  Osborne hurried to his car and grabbed the black bag holding the instruments needed for the practice of forensic dentistry. Back in the room, he pulled on nitrile gloves, thinking—as he had since he walked into the room and found his friend—that something looked odd. But he also knew he was operating strictly on gut feeling.

  The body might be lying facedown, but years of dentistry had made Osborne an expert on the human skull both front and back. It helped, too, that in college before he had settled on following his father into dentistry, he had considered becoming a sculptor and had studied the shape of the human head extensively. (That was before his dad had warned him, “Paul, being a sculptor is a hard way to make a living.”)