Dead Hot Mama Read online

“Wausau sent up a new guy, young, bright. Had to pry his fingers off it.”

  “That’s a good sign. Look, I’ll finish up here, pack, and check the roads. Look for me tomorrow around noon?”

  “You betcha.”

  “Merry Christmas, Lewellyn Ferris,” said Osborne as the speakerphone clicked off.

  “Merry Christmas, yourself,” said Lew, her eyes dancing. “This makes everyone’s life a whole lot easier.”

  “I hope it means you’ll go to the Dental Society’s annual party with me on the twenty-sixth? Remember, I invited you last month.”

  “I’ll try, Doc,” said Lew, jumping up from her chair, “but no promises.”

  “I need to RSVP today …”

  Lew paused in the doorway. “You know I’m not a fan of social gatherings.”

  “I want you to meet some old friends of mine.”

  “Not yet, Doc. I’ve got—” Lew waved her hands in frustration.

  “It’s okay, don’t worry about it. I’ll take Mallory.” Darn, why did he always say the wrong thing. She’d been so happy and then … dammit.

  twelve

  Fish die belly-up and rise to the surface, it is their way of falling.

  —Andre Gide

  “You missed Dr. Pecore by about five minutes,” said Carrie McBride as she handed the morgue register to Osborne for his signature. The young nurse was the daughter of a former patient of his from Sugar Camp. Very tall, tanned, and quite slim, she looked all of twelve years old, though he knew she had to be in her early twenties.

  “You have three in there—they just delivered the woman. Dr. Pecore’s paperwork is still on the counter. He’s not done yet. He got a phone call and slammed out of here like he was mad at me or something.”

  “He’s … not done?” said Osborne, catching himself. He wasn’t sure when people would be informed of the firing.

  “Sometimes I wonder,” said the girl. “That man’s so sloppy the way he leaves stuff around. Speaking of which,” she pointed to a large cardboard box near the nurses’ station, “you won’t believe the clothes that came off those two men. One had a snowmobile suit that must have cost a thousand dollars.”

  “No. A thousand dollars?” said Osborne. “That’s outrageous, Carrie. How can you spend that kind of money on a parka and snow pants?”

  “Dr. Osborne, it’s exactly what my boyfriend wants—rigged for cell phones and stuff like those portable CD players. Great for ice fishing. Dr. Pecore shoved it in a box and left it here. I don’t know what he thinks I’m s’posed to do with it. You might want to check it out. You don’t see stuff that expensive up here very often, y’know.”

  “I’ll look it over and take it by the police department when I’m finished here,” said Osborne, handing the register back to her. “Chief Ferris will want to see the clothing, and Pecore knows that. He must have other things on his mind. Thank you, Carrie, you’ve been a big help.”

  Carrie gave him a tight little smile, obviously happy to have undermined, even in a small way, the man who had treated her so rudely.

  He hated the morgue. The smell. It wasn’t a bad smell, just a smell that pierced his sinuses and stayed in his head too long. As always, the moment he entered he had the urge to leave. He set out to work as fast as possible.

  The first victim, Peter Shebuski, was in his late twenties. His mouth was in good shape, teeth cleaned recently. Osborne guessed he was married with a wife who booked regular appointments with the dental hygienist. Eleven cavities filled and evidence of orthodontia. This was a man raised by parents who believed in good dental care. He would be mourned. Osborne paused, dropping his head for a moment, before continuing.

  Victim number two, John Lobermeier, was interesting. He’d had his teeth whitened, causing them to look peculiar against the death pallor of the gums. Osborne guessed him to be about the same age as the first victim. Less careful with dental care of the kind not obvious to onlookers—this fellow would be needing some periodontal work for gum disease if he didn’t start flossing. Osborne caught himself. Talk about a moot issue.

  Ah, the young woman. He took a look at Pecore’s paperwork. The cause of death was a puncture wound to the back. A Phillips screwdriver was Pecore’s opinion. It had pierced the heart, likely causing death instantly. Little bleeding, all internal. That would explain why there was no blood in the snow. Otherwise, Pecore stated, the lividity of the blood in the corpse indicated the victim had been killed elsewhere and moved. That came as no surprise.

  Osborne laid back the sheet to expose the victim’s head. Her eyes were half open, cloudy as a winter sky. He drew down the chin. What had resisted when he had touched her out on the lake was now pliant. Her bite appeared natural and good. Ray was right—she would have had a very nice smile.

  He tipped the head back gently, gloved fingers bracing the lower jaw as he peered into the mouth. What he saw didn’t register at first. When it did, he stood up, took a deep breath, then adjusted the overhead spot for the best possible illumination.

  The tongue had been neatly severed. A pristine cut. In all his years of practicing dentistry in Loon Lake, Osborne knew only two types of people who used knifes that worked so cleanly. One was a fisherman with a talent like Ray’s for the perfect fillet, the other a surgeon. This was not the work of an amateur. He doubted if even Bruce or any of his cronies would find an identifiable mark from this blade.

  The girl had exceptionally good teeth. One cavity from years ago. Two wisdom teeth in place, two extracted. One lateral incisor on the upper left slightly crooked. Regular cleanings and flossing. But no easily recognizable dental work. That was disappointing.

  He charted the configuration of her teeth with lateral and anterior views, then sketched a diagram of the jaw and facial structure as meticulously as he could. He made a note to ask the new coroner for photos. At the very least he would pass those around at the society meetings next week. A full day of panels before the evening dinner party would give him a chance to run them by most of the attending dentists. With luck, someone might find her mouth familiar.

  Once Osborne was satisfied with his exam, he gave Pecore’s notes on the first two victims a quick scan. Curious. Pecore had noted that the woman’s body appeared to have been wiped down with an antiseptic of some sort. He found no stray hairs, nothing—”unnaturally clean” were the words he used. Now that was a good catch on Pecore’s part, thought Osborne. The man wasn’t a total loss.

  Osborne returned the paperwork to the counter where he’d found it. Lew would need to double-check those results with whomever the new coroner might be. Just as he was about to leave the room, he paused. He went back to the drawer holding the woman’s body and pulled it out. He wanted a close look at the hands, those fingernails that had caught Mallory’s eye.

  Ah. Under the bright light, he could see why his daughter had called them holiday nails. Ten tiny Christmas trees glittered silver against the dark blue sky painted on the slender fingers.

  Leaving the morgue, Osborne hurried down the hall. He was desperate for a breath of fresh air before he followed Carrie’s suggestion to examine the clothes.

  “I’ll give you a hand,” she said when he returned. Together they tugged at the garments, which were heavy under normal conditions and more so due to the fact they had only half-dried since the bodies were pulled from the water.

  Pecore’s notes had stated that he believed the clothing had been removed from the victims initially, then replaced with care. Whoever the killer was, he speculated, they had not planned for the victims to be found until sometime in the spring when nature would have roughened the edges of the cuts severing the legs.

  Something he didn’t write down but Osborne knew to be true: Enough snowmobilers would be trapped under ice until spring that Pecore, by his standards, would be too overworked to do detailed exams. When the ice goes out in the northwoods, every year an average of four or more missing people surface.

  One set of clothing held no surprises—the
first victim had worn a standard snowmobile parka and pants. But the other outfit was quite unlike anything that Osborne had seen before. Someone, probably Bruce, had tagged it with the name matching the victim whose teeth had been whitened.

  “Jeff and I looked at one of these at Ralph’s the other day,” said Carrie, noting the confusion on Osborne’s face. “Want me to tell you what I know about it?”

  “Sure. I don’t know where to begin with this thing,” said Osborne, pulling at the arms of the parka as he tried straightening it out, “and I’d just as soon not ask Ralph.”

  He detested Ralph Kendall, the British-born owner of Ralph’s Sporting Goods. The man was pretentious enough about fly fishing equipment without giving him this to lord over Osborne as well. Even though he was married, Ralph was always a little too obsequious around Lew. Add to that the fact that the word over morning coffee at McDonald’s was that he’d been spotted more than once at a Friday fish fry in Boulder Junction with a woman who bore no resemblance to his wife. No, Osborne did not need to give that razzbonya any advantage.

  “Jeff’s a geek, see,” said the young nurse as she shook out the snow pants. “He calls these ‘mobile pants’ because they have pockets for your cell phone here, a Blackberry or Palm there. See how they line the pockets and all the Velcro? Say you fall in the water—this keeps all your equipment nice and dry. Jeff dumped his snowmobile in Boom Lake last winter, y’know. Went in up to his neck,” said Carrie, demonstrating, “so that’s real important. And see on the parka …” she took the jacket out of Osborne’s hands, “see how you can carry a minidisc player right here—then all you have to do is hit the ‘back’ button on your sleeve if you want to replay a song.

  “And Dr. Osborne,” she set the parka down to pick up the pants again, “you’ve got all these secret channels sewn in for the wires. Jeff wants to be able to carry his MP3 player and a digital camera just like this guy.” Carrie set the pants down carefully. “Burton is the company that makes these, and Ralph will special order for you.”

  “You think this one came from Ralph’s?”

  “Oh no, this is from the cities,” said Carrie. “I asked the family when they came in to ID the body.” Osborne raised his eyebrows. “I asked very carefully,” said Carrie. “With respect, Dr. Osborne.” As she folded the high-tech suit back into the box, she paused. “I just wonder …”

  Osborne waited. “Wonder what?”

  “Well—where did all his stuff go? You don’t wear this unless you’re fully loaded, y’know.”

  “We have his Palm Pilot, Carrie.”

  “Yeah, there should have been more stuff, I think. Digital camera. At least a cell phone. A guy like this doesn’t go anywhere without his cell phone.”

  thirteen

  I know several hundred men. I prefer to angle with only four of them.

  —Frederic F. Van de Water

  The ID caught him by surprise.

  He and Carrie had finished folding the snowmobile suits back into the box and taping it closed. Then, after pulling on his jacket, hat, and gloves, Osborne had picked up the box and was halfway down the hall when Carrie called out, “Dr. Osborne …”

  He stopped and turned, thinking he had forgotten or dropped something. Carrie waved him back to the nurses’ station. She looked around to be sure no one could overhear what she was about to say.

  “I know her.”

  “Who?”

  “That girl in there. The dead woman. I know her.”

  Osborne set the box back down on the floor. “You’re telling me you know the victim in the morgue, Carrie?”

  “Ye-e-ah.” She dropped her eyes as if ashamed. “I wasn’t sure about saying anything, but the more I thought about it … I felt bad. It’s kinda embarrassing …” She lowered her voice another notch, even though there was no one around. “Jeff and I were snowmobiling last winter, see? And we stopped in at the Rabbit Den in Armstrong Creek for some hot toddies. You know that place?”

  “Yes,” said Osborne, knowing instantly why Carrie had been reluctant to say anything. The Rabbit Den was a strip joint that billed itself as a place “where good bunnies go bad.” If a Thunder Bay dancer got caught violating Code 2116B, she could always get a job in the next county where the authorities were not quite as vigilant as Lew. No question, The Rabbit Den was not a place Carrie’s parents would want her patronizing. Chances are she’d be the only woman there not working.

  “That’s where I first saw her—she was dancing. A couple months later I ran into her over in Rhinelander at Nicolet College. She was a year behind me in the nursing program. Eileen Walkowski’s her name. We talked a couple times, and she told me she danced to pay for school.”

  “That makes sense.” Osborne thought of Lew’s daughter dancing her way towards a successful career as a CPA. Lew’s description of why her daughter did what she did was succinct: “Sometimes being a survivor means taking an unconventional path. Doesn’t mean you’re bad, just means you’re unafraid.”

  “About that time the Ranch people came up to recruit from the nursing classes and gave her a scholarship.”

  “You lost me. The Ranch people? You mean a nursing scholarship?”

  Carrie was looking very embarrassed. “The Ranch is this place down near Oshkosh where they teach exotic dancing, but you have to be very … very—” Carrie used her hands, her face crimson.

  “Well-endowed,” said Osborne, nodding his head seriously. “And they recruit up here?” He wanted to kick himself for the incredulity he couldn’t keep out of his voice, but Carrie didn’t seem to hear.

  “Yeah, well, most of their applicants have implants, but they say the best dancers are the ones that are natural. The last few years they’ve been hosting parties for the nursing students, and I guess they find a couple candidates that way. Not the male students, of course.” Carrie rolled her eyes.

  “Then what happens?”

  “You go to the Ranch and train as a dancer for three months. They pay your room and board, and then they help you get a well-paying job like in Las Vegas. Girls go there from all over the United States. I’ve heard some of the dancers make a couple hundred thousand a year. Once you start earning, you pay them back. Kinda like those real estate schools, y’know.”

  Definitely real estate, thought Osborne. Too much like real estate.

  “So that’s what Eileen did. She dropped out of Nicolet and went to the Ranch.”

  “And that’s the name of it? The Ranch?”

  “No, there’s more to it, like ‘the Apple Ranch’ or ‘the Raspberry Ranch’—but I don’t know exactly. Everyone just calls it the Ranch.”

  “Do you know anyone else who’s there right now? Or went there?”

  “No. I heard about it for the first time back when Eileen signed up. As far as I know the Ranch people haven’t been back to Rhinelander recently. And I haven’t seen her since she left—until they brought her body in this morning.”

  “Carrie,” said Osborne, “I appreciate you being so forthcoming. This was the right thing to do. Just think how her poor parents must be wondering what on earth has happened.”

  Carrie nodded, relieved.

  “I’m sure Chief Ferris will need more information from you,” said Osborne.

  “Okay.” As if realizing what she had done was important, Carrie perked up. “I’ll ask around, too, see if anyone else around here knows anything.”

  Before leaving he wrote down the phone numbers for Carrie at work, at her apartment, and her cell phone. While Lew would be able to get the particulars on the victim and her family from the college, he had no doubt she would be very interested in the Ranch people.

  “Carrie,” said Osborne, picking up the box again, “if you should remember the full name of that place or think of anything else we should know about Eileen, please call me at home. I’ll be sure we get the information to Chief Ferris right away.”

  “You won’t mention this to my dad, right?”

  “Of course not
. You’re an anonymous source. Don’t worry about that.”

  For more reasons than her parent’s ire, Osborne thought it wise to keep Carrie’s name and her connection to the victim quiet.

  Osborne pulled off a glove to knock on the door to Lew’s office, balancing the oversize box in front of him. To his surprise, it swung open before he even touched it. Stumbling forward, he nearly knocked over Marlene, the switchboard operator, who doubled as Lew’s assistant. A blowsy, cheery woman in her late fifties, Marlene had a habit of looking amused whenever Osborne walked in to visit Lew. Made him feel like a school kid with a crush on his teacher.

  At the moment, however, she was no-nonsense. She stepped back to let him by, then gave him a hurried wave, “Chiefs not here, Doc—meeting with Pecore and the mayor.” Marlene threw him a look; she knew what was up.

  Osborne set down the box in the corner of Lew’s office, then checked his watch. He found Marlene back at the switchboard, juggling incoming calls. He waited for a break, then spoke fast, asking her to tell Lew, when she called in, that one of the nurses had recognized the young woman. He took care not to mention Carrie’s name, saying only that he had left a note in the top right-hand drawer of Lew’s desk with details and phone numbers. Marlene would know that meant the information was confidential.

  Then he mentioned the box he had left and why. “Be sure that fellow from Wausau doesn’t walk off with it until Lew has a chance to look it over, will you? She may want to hold on to that box so Gina Palmer can have a look.”

  “Okey-doke,” said Marlene, “and Chief Ferris told me if I saw you to see if you could sit in on her second meeting with the mayor at four this afternoon. She said you were working on someone they might hire for you-know- what.”

  “I am. But, shoot, I still need to make a phone call on that,” said Osborne, glancing at his watch again. Good. Four o’clock would give him plenty of time to make the call and find a Christmas tree with Mallory. “Tell Chief Ferris I’ll be here.”