Dead Loudmouth Read online

  “Hosts?”

  “You know, encourages patrons to stay late, order more drinks. That kind of stuff. Nina or Chet will be the one to push the lever to raise the piano when Tiffany gives the signal. Once the piano reached the balcony, Tiffany would pull the lever to stop it.

  “Sometimes she would climb off then let the piano go all the way up to the ceiling. That’s where it was stored after the show and that’s how high it was when I got here this morning.”

  “I see . . .” Lew hesitated before asking, “Joyce, if two people were on the piano would it take a third person to push the lever that moved that piano up so high?”

  “Not sure. I mean, someone might have kicked it with their foot by accident.”

  Roger, who had been standing nearby and listening said, “What if when they were climbing on? Could they have hit the lever then?”

  “Maybe.” Joyce shrugged. “I will say that no one has ever had the damn thing move by accident—if that helps. Although . . .”

  “Although what?” asked Lew.

  “This box here,” Joyce pointed to the utility box in front of them, “has an emergency switch that allows these levers to overrule the ones upstairs. I forgot about that.”

  After a moment of thought, Lew said, “If we shift a lever now will the piano come down to the stage level and stop?”

  “It should. Are you ready for me to bring it down?”

  “One more question before you do that. Why on earth would those two people have been on top of the piano? I mean, I know what they were doing—but why there?”

  “It was this weird idea Chet had,” said Joyce. “He found it exciting, I guess. Tiffany didn’t help. She kind of lured him along. I know ’cause a couple times I was working late and found the two of them fooling around in here after hours. And, boy, when Chet’s wife found out about the piano and Tiffany: that was the end of that marriage.”

  “So Chet Wright is divorced?”

  “Not quite.”

  Lew’s cell phone rang. “It’s dispatch, excuse me. Yes, Marlaine?”

  “Chief, Mr. Pecore hit a deer on his way out there. I just had a call from the county sheriff. They’ve got the Oneida County Rescue Squad on its way to pry him from the car and get him to the hospital in Rhinelander.”

  “Pry him from the car?” Lew was stupefied.

  “They told me the deer went through the windshield. The car is totaled and Mr. Pecore’s cut pretty bad. He may have a broken collarbone . . .”

  Chapter Six

  “How do those waders feel? Are they too long?” asked Osborne as eleven-year-old Mason, tugging at an elastic belt around her waist, pushed through the curtain in front of the women’s dressing room at Ralph’s Sporting Goods. She paused to look at herself in the long dressing room mirror.

  Seated nearby on a folding chair, her grandfather studied the fit of the waders, which were a women’s size small. After trying on three pairs—the price tags increasing exponentially with each—these looked the most comfortable.

  “I like these best, Grandpa,” said Mason, arms extended as she twirled in front of the dressing room mirrors.

  Her twirl reminded Osborne of watching Lew in the trout stream: from her toes to her fingertips, every cast from her fly rod was as elegant as a great blue heron taking wing. It also reminded him that more than a week had passed since he and Lew had last fly-fished together.

  That had to change. August with its too-warm waters would be here too soon. He made a mental note to demand yet another lesson on the technique he was finding impossible: shooting line. Why his timing was so off—

  “These waders aren’t stiff like those others,” said Mason, interrupting his thoughts.

  Osborne reached over to check the price tag: just short of $300. And that was before adding the boots. The good news was that Mason’s shoe size was the same as a women’s small in lightweight wading boots, so Ralph should be able to outfit her. The morning was turning into a more expensive shopping expedition than he had anticipated.

  It didn’t help that he had hoped to persuade Lew to come along if only for a few minutes to get her expert opinion on the best fishing gear for a woman, especially a young girl. More than once she had mentioned that she had started fishing under the guidance of her grandfather when she was just a kid Mason’s age. But the emergency call from Roger Adamczak had made that impossible.

  And there was no putting it off. Mason was too excited over her summer job helping his neighbor, Ray Pradt, as he coached the Wisconsin State College fishing team to ask her to wait another minute before getting outfitted.

  “Our first meeting with the team is this afternoon, Gramps,” she had said when she announced the news of her hiring earlier that morning. “Ray said they’ll be strategizing. I have to look like I know what I’m doing, you know.”

  When he heard that, Osborne had struggled to suppress a smile. It wasn’t like Mason had much of a clue as to what the “team” would be doing. Her job was to be the “gofer” for the two boys on the team.

  Working from shore, she would be responsible for keeping their tackle organized before and after they fished, and making sure the cooler was packed with ice, sodas, cheese curds, and peanut butter sandwiches. Ray also wanted her to have waders on hand in order to keep the shallow area around his dock free of floating logs, dead fish, or debris from the speedboats and pontoons crowding the lake—all serious responsibilities for an eleven-year-old girl who would be paid $10 a day to help out.

  Ten dollars that would not go far paying for top-of-the-line waders. The only good news was she already owned a swimsuit, T-shirts, shorts, sun hats, and water shoes. Those items plus a rain jacket and the waders should have her ready for action.

  Osborne maintained a serious expression as he checked out the fit of the most expensive waders in the shop. He didn’t mind buying them for Mason. He knew she was beyond thrilled to have been hired: “Me—not that stupid Tim Rasmusson, Gramps.”

  Her new boss was not only Osborne’s neighbor but one of the Northwoods’ most respected fishing guides. Mason herself was hardly new to the sport, as Osborne had made sure to have each of his three grandchildren fishing before they turned four. But it was Mason and her younger brother, Cody, who most loved being on water.

  And it wasn’t just that his granddaughter loved to fish and that being around the team would teach her a lot about muskie fishing, but it was how being paid to help out would make her feel: smart, capable, a team player. Not a bad feeling for a young girl to have.

  And who knows, thought Osborne. She might grow up and become CEO of Ranger Boats someday, making the purchase of new waders a small price to pay.

  But he had another reason for indulging Mason. She was the grandchild who had inherited the genetic markers of Osborne’s Métis ancestors. Like him, she had olive skin that tanned dark under the summer sun, high cheekbones, and hair black as lake water on a frigid day.

  Add to that she was the middle child in his daughter Erin’s family, sandwiched between the eldest girl and the first boy. She was the quiet one, the reader. While he wouldn’t say she was his favorite (because he didn’t believe in picking favorites), Mason had a special place in her grandfather’s heart.

  Osborne knew that Ray was aware he had made a wise choice. He couldn’t have found a more enthusiastic helper. Mason loved being outdoors and she was so full of energy she drove her parents nuts. So while their daughter was ecstatic over her new job, Erin and Mark were thrilled she would have Ray and the college boys to keep her busy. At least for the next three days.

  “Say, Doc,” said Ralph, owner of the sporting-goods store, as he walked up holding two pairs of wading boots, “have her try these with those waders. One pair should work.”

  Before Osborne could check the price tag on the boots, his cell phone trilled its ringtone medley of birdsongs. “Lew? You back already?”

  “Doc, I need you—”

  Before she could finish, he jumped in to say, “
Under most circumstances those words would make me happy but I’m tied up helping Mason buy waders right now. Would you believe she has a job working for—”

  Lew interrupted before he could finish, her voice tense. “Doc, Pecore hit a deer on his way out here. They’re taking him to the emergency room. Meantime I’m looking at two people definitely deceased and under very peculiar circumstances. I’m not sure if this is an accident or worse.

  “I am so sorry to ruin your morning but I need you out at the old Long Lake Supper Club ASAP. They call it Buddy’s Place now. You know where I mean? Right next door to Deer Creek? Sorry, but you are my only option and I’m worried about keeping the EMTs waiting. They’ve already had two other emergency calls and had to send ambulances from Three Lakes and Eagle River.”

  “Not to worry, I’ll manage,” said Osborne, watching as Mason pulled the first wading boot on. “I’ll leave right now—have to run home for my black bag and drop the dog off. That should take less than ten minutes. Then I’ll be heading your way.”

  He could hear Lew exhale in relief. “Thank you. I’m calling the Wausau boys right now. Just so you know we may be here awhile. I . . . it’s strictly a gut feeling but I doubt this is an accident, Doc.

  “Oh, shoot, one more thing. Can you call Ray and let him know the situation? If he can follow you out here with his camera gear, I need photos. Now that I think of it maybe it’s a blessing that Pecore can’t make it—Ray takes better photos. But tell him to be sure to bring extra lighting. He may need it.”

  “Got it.”

  Tucking his phone away, Osborne looked over at his granddaughter. “Mason, Chief Ferris has an emergency and needs my help. I know you can handle everything here. We can talk about sharing the cost of these waders and boots later. Right now I’m going to give Ralph my credit card. He’ll wrap everything up for you. Can you get home okay?”

  Mason frowned at him. “Grandpa, I live two blocks away. Of course I can get home by myself.” She smiled. “This is very cool stuff and I’m going to bring it all to the meeting with Ray and the team.

  “Oh, right, Mom asked me to see if you could pick me up and give me a ride to Ray’s for the meeting? And I might have to stay overnight with you. She said she’d give you a call later. Is that okay, Grandpa?”

  “What time is this meeting at Ray’s?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “Sure, honey. I’ll pick you up at four thirty.”

  “Oh, thanks, Grandpa.” Mason got to her feet, gave a little hop and hugged Osborne, who ruffled her hair. She paused and looked up at him, concern in her eyes. “Do you think I have to start calling Ray Mr. Pradt?”

  “You ask him, kiddo,” said Osborne. “Maybe. Won’t that be weird?”

  As he headed out the front door of Ralph’s Sporting Goods, Osborne couldn’t resist thinking: Five hundred dollars well spent, and now on to help the smartest woman I know. Life is not bad.

  Chapter Seven

  A sense of dread low in her gut, Lew punched in the number for the director of the Wausau Crime Lab. Listening as the phone rang, she reminded herself to stay civil but firm. And sure enough the phone was answered by one of the few people in the universe whom she despised.

  “Jesperson here. That you, Looney Tunes?” (Stay civil, Lewellyn. Do not take the bait.)

  “Morning, Doug. I imagine you’re working the holiday shift as usual?”

  It was her way of letting him know that she knew he was double-dipping. Perfectly legal but not appreciated by Lew and a few others in law enforcement who had been relieved to hear of his retirement only to discover he had worked a scheme to get full retirement benefits plus holiday pay by offering to sub for the regular staff when they took time off.

  “Oh yeah. One more day to go and I’m off for three months. Wife and I are taking an Alaskan cruise. So what’s worrying your pretty little head? Someone rob Pat’s Bar?” Strictly for the benefit of her own mental health, Lew rolled her eyes and, for a split second, held the phone away from her ear.

  “Thank you, Doug. I wish that’s all it was and you know we can handle anything like that. No, I have two victims of an industrial accident or possibly worse . . .”

  After quickly sketching out the scene at Buddy’s Place, Lew was dismayed to hear excitement in Doug’s voice. She had hoped he would assign the case to one of his forensic techs and not bother with it himself.

  Lewellyn Ferris found Doug Jesperson to be—in spite of his lofty position as the retired director of the Wausau Crime Lab—a creep. A genuine four-star creep. Not only did he patronize her but he had a nasty habit of slipping dirty jokes into their professional discussions.

  Every single time she met with the guy she found herself having to say, “Doug, you know I am not interested in that kind of humor.” More than once she’d had to physically walk away before he got the message. But while she could walk away from the jokes, she could not avoid his repeated diatribes that he did not think “girls belong in law enforcement. They just don’t have the authoritative presence, you know?”

  No, she didn’t know, and she refused to discuss it.

  But the worst was when he would stand just a little too close, invading her personal space. Yet he never crossed the line. He had enough sense to know that could be a big mistake.

  The everyday fact of life in the Northwoods was that the tiny Loon Lake Police Department with its three officers and one drunken coroner had to depend on the Wausau Crime Lab when major crimes such as homicides needed investigating. Fortunately for Lew, not all the “Wausau boys” were like Doug Jesperson.

  At the moment, however, the hours ahead were not looking good: Doug was sounding w-a-a-y too interested in the scene at Buddy’s Place.

  “Hey, are you kidding me?” Lew heard him say. “What you have just described sounds like one juicy scenario. This could get me a speaking gig down at the university during their next national conference on sex crimes. Give me an hour, Miss Chief. I’ll copter up and bring one of our docs along. Hold on while I see who’s in the office.”

  Lew’s spirits sagged. On top of everything else was she now going to have to deal with Jesperson’s idiocy? Some days life was not fair.

  “Oops.” Doug was back on the line. “My secretary just reminded me that my wife wants me home by noon. We got a dinner flight to Seattle.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Lew. “Any chance Bruce Peters might step in?”

  “Doubt it. He’s off at a workshop on body cameras in Appleton—but let me check.” Again he put her on hold. He was back in less than a minute. “Lucky you, Looney Tunes, they just finished up. He said he’s available but wants the details from you, so I’m patching you through.”

  “Chief Ferris?” Now this was a voice she liked to hear. “What are the water temps up there? Still cool enough for a little stream fishing? I just bought a new fly rod—a three-weight—and could use some coaching. My roll cast is real sloppy.”

  “Sounds like you might have the wrong line or your leader is too heavy. Sure, Bruce, we can work something out. But first let me tell you what I’m looking at up here . . .”

  When she had finished describing the scene at Buddy’s Place, Bruce gave a low whistle.

  “Whoa. Any chance those victims could have been killed elsewhere and the bodies arranged the way you’re describing? I mean, why would two people climb on top of a piano? Sounds like deviant involvement to me.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Lew. “Afraid I have to leave that to you and your people to figure out.”

  “And we will,” said Bruce with the same determination he used when struggling to cast into the wind while stumbling over rocks in the trout stream. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll send up our van and alert pathology to make room for two body bags. We’ll do the autopsies down here.

  “Give me an hour and a half, Chief. I’m almost to Wausau, then I have to grab an overnight bag and sign off on these arrangements.”

  “Good,” said Lew.
“I’ll get you reservations at the Loon Lake Motel. Two nights okay? Give us time for fishing tomorrow evening?”

  “You betcha.”

  “Oh, one more question, Bruce. I mentioned this piano is still up overhead, but there is a lever that will bring it down. One of the paramedics here lowered it enough to be sure no one was alive—”

  “Oh, oh. Don’t like hearing that. Did he wear gloves?”

  “Yes, of course. Joe knows the protocol. If we wear nitrile gloves, is it okay to lower it further so my acting coroner—you know Doc Osborne—can start work on the death certificates? It’s impossible to get a close view of the victims otherwise.”

  “Please do not do that, Chief. He won’t be able to complete the certificates until I can confirm cause of death anyway. And who knows yet if you have an accident or a double homicide. Better to not touch a thing in case there are prints or any other evidence close by. And, hey, say hi to Doc for me. Your man Pecore overserved again?”

  “It’s a long story, Bruce. I’ll fill you in when you get here.” Relieved, Lew hung up.

  Walking over to the waiting ambulance crew, she motioned to Joe Teske, who hurried over. “It’s okay, Joe, you and your crew can go back to town,” she said. “I’ve got Bruce Peters from the Wausau Crime Lab on his way up. Their van will run the victims down to Wausau for autopsies.”

  Before she could walk back across the room to let Roger know what was happening, the silhouette of a man appeared in the hallway at the entrance to the Entertainment Center. “Holy hell, what is this?” he cried, racing through the room toward the stage.

  “Joyce, goddammit, why didn’t you call me!” he shouted at Joyce, who was sitting in the chair where Lew had instructed her to wait. Joyce’s face froze as he approached. She rose from her chair.

  “Stop right there, sir,” said Lew, stepping forward to block his way. “Do not take another step. Stay right where you are. That yellow tape outside means you should not have entered the building. This may be a crime scene. Now back up.”