Dead Angler Page 6

  Osborne pointed off to their right, and Lew slowed to turn. An imposing stone manor anchored the corner of one of the town’s oldest and loveliest neighborhoods.

  “That’s it,” said Osborne. “See Peter’s Range Rover in the drive?”

  “I’ll turn around at the school and park in front,” said Lew.

  Directly across from the Roderick home was Loon Lake’s original elementary school, a two-story red brick building erected in 1910. The Rodericks’ front door faced a quiet street, bounded on the far side by a tall, dense hedge of lilacs that guarded the schoolyard, nearly blocking the building and its grounds from view.

  “Just look at those lilacs,” Osborne said in a low voice, making small talk to keep his mind off the pending confrontation, “they must be eighty years old, Lew. What a sight they are in the springtime.”

  “Umm,” Lew agreed. Everyone in Loon Lake agreed. The Carlton School lilacs were the pride of the entire town.

  “I think this is the biggest house in Loon Lake,” said Lew as she swung the cruiser around, pulled up to the curb, and turned off the ignition. “They must have a hell of a heating bill in January.” She had her way of stalling, too.

  “The old Martin house around the corner may be larger,” said Osborne. “I know this was originally built by old man Daniels in 1891.”

  “I thought he died in the twenties,” said Lew. Everyone in Loon Lake knew about the man who founded the paper mill, the life blood of the little town for fifty years.

  “Yes, you’re right. But his widow’s family kept it for a long time. I think she died here. Peter told me the kids would come up from Alabama for the summer, close the place down for the winter. One day he and Alicia rang the doorbell and made them an offer. That was right after their marriage, a few years before Mary Lee and I met them.”

  “When I was a kid I always thought the people who lived in houses like this had perfect lives,” said Lew.

  “Umm,” said Osborne.

  Lew reached into the back seat for her briefcase, “well … ready?”

  “Not really.”

  They looked at one another, then out at the dark windows of the manor. On the second level, four bedroom windows running along the front of the house appeared to be half open to catch any breezes. At ground level, a series of tall French casement windows, which Osborne knew opened into the front hall and the dining room, had been cranked open, too. But the moon, still hidden behind clouds, did not help illuminate any more details. Not even the corner street lamp with its hazy glow made a difference.

  As they braced themselves to enter the stately home, the night air grew warmer, heavier. Osborne rolled his window down all the way. He reached for the door handle, then paused.

  “Listen …,” he said. “I hear music …”

  “Odd this time of night,” said Lew, rolling down her window. “I do, too. Tony Bennett. ‘I Left My Heart In San Francisco.’ Is it coming from the Rodericks’?”

  “I can’t tell,” Osborne strained to listen.

  Lew cleared her throat gently. “Doc, you know Alicia, right?”

  “She was a close friend of my wife’s,” said Osborne. “I know her husband better.”

  “Would you mind telling them?”

  “Well … okay.” Osborne didn’t move. He felt his shoulders slump slightly.

  “Doc … if you don’t want to …”

  “No, no, that’s all right.” Osborne still didn’t move, “… Jeez, y’know, Lew, I just remembered something. This won’t be the first time they’ve gotten news like this. Their only child, their son, committed suicide.”

  “Oh …,” said Lew. “Recently?”

  “A good ten years ago. He had just finished med school and started his internship. It was a real shock. Mary Lee came over that day to help out…,” Osborne shook his head, “I forgot all about that until just now.”

  “I assume you weren’t the one to deliver that news …”

  “No, fortunately …” Osborne sighed and braced himself. “All right, Lew, I’m ready.” He stepped into the night, closing the car door behind him. The faint strain of music could no longer be heard. A flagstone walkway led up to an imposing front door.

  “Remind me to tell you about this door later,” muttered Osborne as he reached to press the doorbell.

  A massive slab of dark wood, it was adorned with a single square of leaded glass into which was etched a delicate design of a fairy princess. The door had been shipped from England right after Peter and Alicia moved in, a non-negotiable “surprise” purchase that Alicia had made in spite of her husband’s horror at the price. The door and Peter’s inability to reverse his wife’s decision had been the talk of Loon Lake husbands for years.

  Osborne pressed the doorbell and listened to the chimes pealing in the distance. Though at least three years had passed since he’d been to this house, the musical notes instantly reminded him of the time, nearly thirty years ago, when he first met Alicia. He met Peter then, too, but it was Alicia who left the indelible first impression.

  Their lives had first intersected at a dinner party hosted by the couple about two years after the Osbornes had moved to Loon Lake. For Osborne’s wife, the invitation to that dinner party had been like winning the lottery. It meant she’d been chosen.

  Alicia and Mary Lee were introduced at a bridge club luncheon, when Mary Lee was asked to substitute for a regular. While Mary Lee recognized immediately that Alicia was a woman she dearly wanted as a friend, Alicia was more guarded.

  She let outsiders into her circle slowly, carefully. Only those women whose husbands had a certain kind of professional status, only those women who clearly demonstrated that they had taste and the means to afford it, were chosen by Alicia. Osborne had found it curious to discover that Mary Lee admired this kind of discretion. It was something he hadn’t expected in his wife. But she found Alicia classy and sophisticated. She described her once to Osborne as “ ‘old’ Loon Lake, you know,” as if a community founded in 1885 and boasting a total population of 2657 could pretend to an aristocracy.

  One day, Alicia chose to elect Mary Lee as a regular in the Wednesday bridge group. This meant excluding someone else, so it was an occasion of note among young Loon Lake matrons.

  Then, months later, came the golden dinner invitation. From that time on, the two women were the best of friends. Only much later, years later, did Osborne understand why.

  In the early days of their marriage and their life in Loon Lake, he was too busy building his dental practice and developing his own network of hunting and fishing buddies to pay much attention to the woman Mary Lee was becoming. So it wasn’t until a number of years into their life together that he became aware of traits his wife shared with her friend that he really didn’t like.

  The first was an insatiable drive to acquire. They devoured the women’s magazines, constantly lobbying their husbands for the latest in everything from wallpaper to curio cabinets to six-burner stoves. The friendship between Osborne and Peter initially grew out of their mutual frustration with the many ways their wives could find to spend hard-earned dollars and the women’s ability to make their husbands feel bad for not being able to afford it all.

  The second trait was an equally intense need for their children to be the first and the best in everything. Fortunately, Alicia’s only child was male and one year older than his elder daughter, Mallory, so the two never competed. Osborne did not even want to consider the consequences if they had. As it was, he had often felt left out and not a little resentful of the attention showered on his firstborn.

  But he knew none of this thirty years ago. Instead, that first dinner party was great fun. Osborne was more than a little bowled over by Alicia. He found her lovely to look at, smoothly charming and, at times, a wonderfully witty woman. She had a magnetism that took over the room. And when she wanted, she could make you feel like you were just as fascinating. Alicia was the first and only woman Osborne ever had a crush on during his marriag
e, news he was wise enough not to share with Mary Lee. Over time, he learned that he wasn’t the only man in Loon Lake to fall under Alicia’s spell.

  Peter seemed content to play back-up, to provide the stage setting for his vivacious wife. Older than Alicia by thirteen years and quite well off financially, due to his success as a manufacturer’s rep for an industrial lighting company out of Chicago, he adored and indulged her.

  Osborne pressed the doorbell again. As they waited, he thought of Ray’s description of Peter Roderick earlier. The man was as homely as his wife was lovely. He was built low to the ground, thickset, with a head that was truly unusual: from the cheekbones up, it was egg-shaped and almost totally bald, while the bottom half was pulled earthward by cheeks that swung loose and low, just like the ponderous ears of a dachshund. Darn Ray, now he would never be able to think of Peter without that image in mind.

  Not that that influenced Peter’s own taste in dogs. He was the proud owner of two undisciplined, hyperactive springer spaniels who went everywhere with him—in the fishing boat, bird hunting. When one dog would die, he would rush to replace it with another. Osborne and his early morning coffee buddies would often grouse over how Peter and his springers were a little too synonymous: you couldn’t invite one to fish without getting ‘em all. That would be okay except, barking and jumping, the darn dogs were guaranteed to scare away any fish, not to mention overturn the boat.

  On the whole, though, Osborne liked Peter. The man was always happy to see him, eager to hear how Osborne had raised a musky or flushed a partridge. He was a fanatic fly-fisherman and generous with hot tips on the latest hatch. When weather was bad, he would stop by McDonald’s to see who he could persuade to tour the flea markets with him—his abiding passion.

  After that first dinner party, Osborne grew to know Peter as a man whose natural earnestness and sweetness of nature were the key to his success as a salesman. He was an optimist who firmly believed that everything would always work out. After all, he was a homely guy who had snagged a beautiful wife, wasn’t he?

  If Alicia could make you feel fascinating, Peter could make you feel good. Safe. Yet, in Osborne’s opinion, his optimism was also his undoing. Two years into their friendship, Osborne discovered he had good reason to feel deeply sorry for Peter Roderick.

  seven

  Suddenly, an outside wall sconce switched on. Osborne glimpsed Alicia’s eyes behind the fairy princess in the leaded glass. She flung the heavy door wide open.

  “Paul?” Alicia stepped forward, surprise and concern in her face and her voice.

  She was wearing a long, black dressing gown, the kind Mary Lee had worn when they vacationed at nice hotels. The stark color of the gown set off her honey-streaked brown hair, which fell soft and loose to her shoulders. Tall, slim, and fine-boned, Alicia’s face was deceptively open with a classic, sculpted nose, prominent cheekbones and a wide mouth that could smile graciously when it wanted to.

  Her wide-set dark brown eyes glittered for an instant in the golden stream of light from the sconce. She looked, Osborne thought, as she always did: much younger than her years and simply stunning.

  “What—?”

  The eyes had widened as they shifted from Osborne to take in the meaning of Lew standing beside him, official in her long-sleeved khaki police uniform, black briefcase in her left hand, black holster on her right hip. Alicia stepped back, closed her eyes and thrust her hands in front of her as if forbidding them to be there.

  Eyes still closed, she spoke. Her words quiet, deliberate.

  “Peter … A plane crash? A car accident?” She held her breath.

  “Not Peter,” said Osborne. “Your sister Meredith. We found her in the Prairie River several hours ago, Alicia. She’s dead. We aren’t sure—”

  “Meredith!” Alicia’s eyes flashed open. “No! Paul, that can’t be.” Then she closed her eyes tightly, crossed her arms and hunched forwards, clutching her body as if to keep herself intact. The gutteral vehemence in her voice made each word painful to hear, “No … No … No! Not Meredith, Paul. Not my baby sister. She just—she can not be dead. No.”

  “Alicia …” Osborne crossed the threshold. Taking her elbows gently, he pulled her towards him. Still clasping herself tightly, she let him fold her into his arms.

  “Alicia,” he said over her head, “this is Chief of Police Lewellyn Ferris. She has to ask a few questions … and … we can take care of the rest in the morning. I take it Peter’s away?”

  “Yes,” said Alicia, her voice smothered in his shoulder. “He’s in Osaka on business. Due back Saturday. I almost wish…,” she stopped. Osborne couldn’t help but wonder if she had been about to say she wished it had been Peter’s body they had found.

  As she pulled away, he could feel her body vibrating with tension. Then, she took a deep breath.

  “You better come in,” she said hoarsely. She gave Lew’s hand a cursory shake and turned away to flick on the entrance hall chandelier.

  “This way.” Her voice was curt. Osborne stepped back to let Lew enter first. They followed in silence as Alicia walked swiftly through the entrance hall, her back to them as she marched towards the formal living room.

  Osborne noticed she leaned forward as she walked, a slight hunch to her shoulders. Whether it was that or a weight gain since he’d seen her last, he could see, too, as she paused and turned slightly to adjust a rheostat lighting the living room, that the elegant dressing gown could not disguise a slight pot belly. This was new, she had always been a woman who kept herself in excellent physcial shape.

  Lew, in sharp contrast, walked erect behind her, head high, shoulders back, tummy flat. While everything about Alicia exuded femininity, including a faint trail of perfume behind her, Lew was the opposite—her square Irish face free of make-up, her hair a short, black no-nonsense cap of curls.

  Woodsmoke, pine bough, and fresh air were the only scents likely to be worn by the Loon Lake Chief of Police, especially in August when, she had complained to Osborne earlier that evening, she spent too many of her non-fishing nights crashing underage beer parties. The parties were easy to spot since their adolescent hosts always opted for the same venues: beachside campfires burning a little too close to stands of brush where the fire hazard is highest in the late summer.

  Osborne was struck by other differences between these two women who lived in the same small town. One was defined by money and the soft luxuries it could buy, the reality it could buffer. The other was tuned to the wind, the forest, and the water, the rawness of life. A rawness that extended to her work. He shook his head, amazed not only by how different Lew was from women like his late wife but how much he enjoyed being around her.

  Entering the lavishly-decorated living room, Alicia paused several times to turn on table lamps. She continue to look straight ahead, saying nothing, not even glancing back.

  At first, Osborne wasn’t sure if it was grief or anger she was experiencing. He was open to anything. Sixty-three years had taught him one of the few certainties in life: death hits everyone differently.

  He would never forget his own reaction to the unexpected news of Mary Lee’s death—a feeling of standing alone on a road with a massive immovable boulder before him. His grief had been slow to surface, more potent for its lateness. But in those first moments he felt no anger, not even sorrow, just a vast sense of nowhere to go.

  The young emergency doctor had placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, but Osborne hadn’t said a word. And he was forever grateful to Ray, who had been sitting beside him and who had said nothing either. Ray had waited while he called his two daughters from the nurses’ stand, then driven him home in an understanding silence. Like now, that death had occurred deep in the night with nothing to be done until daylight.

  As they followed her into the living room, light from the lamps and recessed wall lighting illuminated the reflection of Alicia’s face in an ornate wall-to-wall floor-to-ceiling gilt-framed mirror that anchored the far end of the
room. Now Osborne could see in her eyes and the fierce set of her jaw exactly what she was feeling: anger. A black, swirling anger.

  “I know….,” he offered, flinching at the inadequacy of his words. He felt he should be able to do something to help but he had no idea what. “Alicia, I—”

  “How did it happen?” Alicia cut him off with the demand, her back still turned.

  Anger at death—that’s a fair response, thought Osborne. Ineffectual but fair. He wondered how long it would take her to work through the initial emotion so they could talk.

  As long as it took her to turn around apparently.

  She spun towards them, her face drawn but less tense than the mirrored image of a moment earlier. The dark fury in her eyes had vanished.

  “I’m sorry, Paul. I’ll be okay. Please …,” she gestured towards a long, English-style leather sofa beneath the mirror as she seated herself opposite them in a dark green wing chair, “everyone sit down.”

  “We won’t know exactly what happened until after the autopsy,” said Lew with quiet authority as she opened her briefcase to pull out a narrow reporter’s notepad and a ballpoint pen. She flipped the notebook open as she talked, her eyes on Alicia’s face.

  “We found her body in the Prairie River around eleven this evening. Doctor Osborne and I were fishing. It appears she was fishing, too. She was wearing waders and a fishing vest but no sign of her rod and reel. Yet, that is. I’ve got a good thousand yards or more of the river roped off so I expect we’ll find her equipment in the brush along the banks at some point.”

  “My sister was an expert fly-fisherman,” said Alicia, with careful emphasis on her last word. “She studied with Joan Wulff on the east coast. The famous Joan Wulff—the champion caster, the foremost expert on fly-fishing.” She spoke in a blatantly patronizing tone as if fly-fishing alone would be news to Lew.