Dead Hot Mama Read online

  Twenty minutes later he was in his own kitchen pouring a final cup of coffee. Mallory was in the living room happily pulling on her old snow pants, which she had just found in a box in the basement. That gave him time to make the call that he’d promised Lew. It was the number of an old college buddy who had retired to Manitowish Waters.

  “Phil, Paul Osborne here. How are you?”

  Phil Borceau had worked as a pathologist at one of the big hospitals in Madison before retiring. His wife had died recently of breast cancer, and Osborne knew the man was lonely. Lonely and at dangerously loose ends. When they had dinner together in October, Osborne had recognized the despair in his friend’s eyes. He knew that valley; he’d been there.

  Phil sounded pleased to hear Osborne’s voice. “So it could be temporary,” said Osborne moments later, winding up his description of what Lew needed in a coroner, “or it might be more time than you want to put in.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Phil. “Sounds interesting, though.

  The daily stuff is easy, but I haven’t worked crime victims in years. Have to pull out my textbooks.”

  “I think you’ll need some new ones, Phil,” said Osborne with a laugh. “The science on some of this stuff has changed dramatically—certainly has in the field of forensic dentistry.”

  “You’ll still be handling that, right?” said Phil.

  “You better believe it—so long as Chief Ferris asks me. Phil, can you give me a brief rundown of your experience and your title at retirement? We’re meeting on this later today.”

  “Why don’t I fax it in? I have a résumé in my files that I used for a deposition I consulted on last summer. Would that work?”

  “Better yet.”

  Osborne gave him Lew’s extension and suggested he talk to Marlene. Osborne hung up feeling very good about Dr. Phil Borceau. He would be perfect for the position of Loon Lake coroner. Not only would it fill his empty days, but with Pecore and his bungling no longer a drag on the department, Phil could make Loon Lake Chief of Police Lewellyn Ferris look like a million bucks.

  “Mallory—you ready?”

  “All set.” Mallory grinned at him as she walked into the kitchen fully rigged for winter weather. “You look happy, Dad. And kind of weird. Do you have to wear that hat?”

  Osborne had pulled on his favorite winter headgear—a beaver hat lined with quilted silk. Attached so they could be folded up inside were woolen earflaps, double lined and cross-stitched. Very warm. When he pulled them down, they fit nice and close around his ears and the back of his neck.

  “You’re right about the hat—kinda makes me look like a Russian immigrant in the late 1800s, doesn’t it?” He gave Mallory a sheepish grin. “But I’ll tell you, that wind out there is stiff and it won’t be any warmer when we get to McNaughton. So count your blessings, kiddo; at least your old man doesn’t wear a stuffed trout on his head.”

  Heading across the yard towards his car, Osborne grabbed his oldest daughter around the shoulders to give her an impulsive, affectionate hug.

  fourteen

  … the good of having wisely invested so much time in wild country …

  —Harry Middleton, Rivers of Memory

  Osborne pulled into the exact same spot he had parked his car the day before. A light dusting of snow during the night had done nothing to obscure the tracks he’d left entering and leaving the forest.

  “You really think we’ll find a good tree in here?” Scanning the rust and bronze skeletons in front of her, Mallory looked around, her face clouded with doubt. Denuded by winter, the tamaracks facing them were hardly suitable for hanging with ornaments.

  Her tone of voice reminded him of her mother—no tree was ever quite right, and his gifts to her always had to be returned: if not the wrong size, then the wrong color. Osborne made a quick, firm resolve that this tree search would in no way duplicate the unpleasant past. The ghost of Mary Lee would not be allowed to haunt this holiday.

  “Trust me, Mallory. Back behind these tamaracks are some beauties. See over the tops?” Her eyes followed where he pointed. Ranks of dark green balsam spires pushed their way into the goose grey sky like guardians of the deeper woods.

  “This is where I hunt grouse—they love to hide in those balsam. We’ll top one off and have a perfect tree.”

  “Well … Erin said there’s a tree farm out on Highway G …”

  “I know what I’m doing, Mallory,” said Osborne. He felt a little guilty not telling her the truth as to why he had picked this spot. Not only did he want to find a tree, but he was intent on retracing yesterday’s mad dash. He wanted a better look at that spot where he’d found the teeth.

  Handing Mallory the saw from the back of the car, he leaned farther in to uncase his shotgun. His daughter’s eyes widened.

  “Bird season is open ‘til the thirty-first. And I told you about that wolf, didn’t I?” He tried his best to sound cavalier when he was, in fact, beginning to have second thoughts about the wisdom of this venture.

  “Whatever,” said Mallory. “All I want is a Christmas tree, Dad, not a major northwoods experience. Guess you better lead the way, huh.”

  “Are you kidding me? This is where you found those teeth?” Hands on her hips, Mallory checked out the spot where Osborne had slipped the day before. “Someone’s putting you on, Dad. This is Horsehead Hollow—don’t tell me you never heard of it.”

  “That’s this place? I thought Horsehead Hollow was up by the Flowage.”

  “Nope, this is it. You’re thinking of Big Horsehead Lake. You take that path,” Mallory pointed off behind a stand of balsam to the right. “and you’ll end up at Little Horsehead. This is where we had all our beer parties when I was in high school. A pretty famous spot for anyone under the age of forty, I’d say.”

  “I don’t see any beer cans.”

  “You would if you looked harder. See this tree?” Mailory laid a hand on the trunk of an unusually tall tamarack. “This is the marker. We always came by boat from the public landing and found our way by this tree. I never knew you could get here from the highway like we just did.”

  “You have to know the logging roads,” said Osborne. “It’s not a straight shot. Boy oh boy,” he added, tipping his head back for a better look at the tree towering over Mallory, “if that’s a tamarack, it has to be a different variety.”

  The tree in question had shed its needles but kept a fringe of interwoven twigs that gave it the appearance of being cocooned in lace. Unlike the fingers of other tamaracks, twisting madly in all directions, these delicate spindles thrust their way towards the sky. And all through the spidery fretwork were nestled, like baby birds, millions of tiny pinecones.

  “Dad, this tree is so stunning in the summertime,” said Mallory. “Once when I was high, I wrote a poem about it. Think I still have it somewhere.”

  “Do you miss getting high?” Osborne brushed the snow off a nearby stump and sat down. He loved days like this when the winter sun was already moving into the west and snow clouds hung low. Snowy clusters on the branches of the young balsams surrounding them glittered in the sun’s glow like diamonds on a ballerina’s tutu.

  The hollow under the big tree was so still and peaceful, he motioned to Mallory to find a spot, too. Moments like this were why he loved living here. An image of Lew’s face, relaxed and content as she cast a fly line upstream, flashed through his mind. One thing he loved about that woman—they could spend hours together: not talking, listening. Somewhere a tree creaked. Mallory exhaled, watching her breath.

  “Sure I miss getting high,” said Mallory, her voice soft. “That’s why I’ll go to group tonight. I imagine I’ll always miss that feeling … don’t you?”

  “Umm. Less so these days.”

  “Dad … I’ve been wondering lately … I know that you and Mom didn’t have the closeness that some married people have.”

  Osborne glanced over at his daughter. “Mallory, could we not talk about this right now?”

&
nbsp; “That’s not my point, Dad. I don’t want to talk about Mom. What I wonder is why … when you were finally on your own and could do things the way you wanted … Why is that when you started drinking? Why not before?”

  It was a fair question. And one he’d asked himself often. He had an answer—not sure it was the right one, of course.

  “You know what I’ve found is that you spend a lot of time thinking how much you give to another person, or give up of yourself to accommodate that person—until they’re gone. Only when they aren’t there anymore do you realize what they gave you. Let me rephrase that, Mallory: what you took from them.

  “In your mother’s case, she gave my life structure—from sunrise to sunset, she had a plan. When she was gone, the structure was gone. Without her bossing me this way and that, I didn’t know where to begin … or when to stop.”

  Mallory looked satisfied with his answer. “I feel that way about Steve. He’s gone, I’m glad he’s gone—but, Dad, it is hard work filling that space.” She gave a slight smile, then leaning to look past his shoulder, she pointed. “Hey, there’s a tree. It’s full, it’s straight. Think that’ll fit in the living room okay?”

  He turned to look at where she was pointing. Before he could say a word the dull bark of a shotgun echoed through the snowy silence. A gentle rain hit the back of his head, cushioned by the heavy fur of the hat.

  Osborne remained perfectly still for a long moment. He kept his head turned away. Birdshot on the back of the head was one thing, in the face, quite another.

  “Don’t move, Mallory. Don’t look back.”

  Too late, she was already on her feet.

  “Dad, what the hell? Is someone shooting at us?”

  “Who’s there?” Osborne shouted. Staying low, he scrambled for cover. The hunter had to be a good hundred yards away and aiming high. “Get down!”

  “Why are they doing this?” asked Mallory, crawling towards him on her forearms and knees.

  “Some goddam bird hunter with bad eyesight …”

  Another blast hit a stand of trees off to their right. Again, the aim was high. He motioned for Mallory to stay low behind him, then raised his twenty gauge and released the safety.

  “It’s either an accident or a warning …” Holding their breath, they could hear the crunch of boots in snow heading their way.

  fifteen

  You can’t say enough about fishing. Though the sport of kings, it’s just what the deadbeat ordered.

  —Thomas McGuane, Silent Seasons

  “Damn kid better have a good excuse,” muttered Osborne. The slender figure heading their way climbed with ease over the dead limbs and stumps of forest slash, then bounced like a young deer over snow-covered humps, only to stop short about a hundred feet away.

  Screened by a clump of aspens that had toppled into each other’s arms, the boy raised his shotgun. Though his face was shadowed, Osborne could make out the brim of a shapeless felt hat, the kind once favored by local moonshiners. The kid was small, maybe five foot six at the most, and very thin. In spite of the cold, all he wore over a long-sleeved flannel shirt was a tattered hunting vest, pocked with stains.

  “What the hell you think you’re doin’ back here?” asked the boy, his voice gruff. Too gruff. The voice didn’t match the body. Osborne’s chest tightened.

  When his daughters were teenagers, he warned them about going down back roads with boyfriends. “You never know who’s living back there,” he would say. “They don’t want to meet you, and you don’t want to meet them. Don’t giggle—I’m not kidding.”

  And he wasn’t. “Them” were people you rarely saw in town. “Them” were people who lived in shacks at the end of lanes without fire numbers, who never showed up on IRS rolls, who blasted a shotgun before calling 911. “Them” were the ones referred to by the McDonald’s coffee crowd as “those who eat their young.”

  Something about the man heading their way—the hat, the gun, the voice.

  Osborne stood up but tightened his grip on his own gun.

  A ray of late sun hit the man’s face. Mallory gasped. The body that had moved with the grace and ease of youth lied. It belonged to a face more crumpled than the hat on its head—the face of a very old man.

  “Clyde?” said Osborne, hesitating, but sure. He’d met the man only once, but that was a face you never forgot. The band across his chest loosened.

  At the sound of his name, the old man lowered his shotgun a notch.

  “Clyde, you know me.” Osborne stepped into the fading sunlight, anxious to be seen. “I’m a friend of Ray Pradt’s. Ray and I are neighbors. You … we met a while back.”

  Osborne wondered if the old man could possibly remember meeting him. Had to be four years ago at least, standing in the rutted lane that passed for Ray’s driveway, and they couldn’t have exchanged more than a few words. Ray was the one who had the knack for socializing with old recluses like Clyde, not Osborne.

  He never knew quite what to say—or how to say it. The few times he’d had one of the old codgers in the dental chair, he would try to break the ice with a little humor, maybe a comment on the weather—but all he ever got in return was a flat look and silence. Maybe a grunt.

  “Ray Pradt, huh.” The gun dropped slightly. “Who’d you say you are? Speak up.”

  “Paul Osborne—Ray’s neighbor.” Osborne raised his voice to an unnatural level. “Say, you and Ray been catching some nice fish lately. He showed me a couple beauties you caught just the other night.” Osborne winced. False jocularity was not his bailiwick.

  “Oh, yeah—you know Ray, huh.” Clyde’s gun was pointing down at the snow.

  Osborne took a deep breath. Another tentative step towards the old man. He was less than fifty feet away now. Close enough Osborne could see a stag-handled Bowie knife hanging in a holster from his belt.

  “Dad …?” Mallory wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. The old man was ambling their way.

  “Nice gun you got there,” said Osborne when they were about twenty feet apart. “But, jeez, Clyde, you almost nailed yourself a retired dentist—not a partridge.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t shootin’ at no birds,” said the old man making a whistling, sucking sound as he spoke—the sound of ill-fitting dentures. “I thought you was someone else.”

  Osborne tried not to stare, but the difference between the youth in the old man’s movement and the age in his face confounded him. He knew from Ray that Clyde lived somewhere in the backwoods near McNaughton and made his living trapping beaver. Was it working outdoors that kept him so spritely? Or was it the lack of having to deal with human razzbonyas?

  “Yeah, I been havin’ trouble with a coupla dumyaks driving back in here on their snowmobiles and wrecking my traps,” said Clyde. “But you two,” he looked at Osborne’s shotgun, then the saw in Mallory’s hand, “what the hell you doin’ back here?”

  “Looking for a Christmas tree,” said Osborne.

  “With a shotgun?”

  “Few days left in bird season—thought we might chase a few out from under the snow cover. I hunt back here pretty often—but I keep to state land, Clyde.”

  “Yep, that’s your right. Birds, huh. If I was you, I’d keep an eye out for wolves. Got a pack of four moved into the region—wiped out my rabbits.”

  “My dad and I, umm, we found a nice tree right here,” said Mallory, edging her way out from behind Osborne and pointing. “All ready to cut down. We’ll be out of your way in a few minutes … if that’s okay.” She gave Osborne an anxious look.

  “Don’t bother me none. It’s those damn kids I don’t like. You see ‘em, you tell ‘em keep those goddam machines of theirs on the trail—I’ll shoot ‘em if they come back here again. I will.”

  “You mean to tell me they’re riding off trail—right through the woods here?” Osborne looked around. He didn’t see any snowmobile tracks. The old man must be losing it.

  “Not through the woods, up and down my streambeds. I got traps la
id around the beaver dams back in here—and I don’t need them messed up. This is my living. You just ask Ray, he’ll tell ya.

  “Hell, last week, I caught two of ‘em back in here. Some young fella and his girlfriend. They got stuck, see. Coupla nincompoops. Didn’t know that the ice over the springs back in here don’t freeze solid. Wouldn’t ya think they’d know that? Anyone who lives up here knows that.

  “So middle of the night I hear all this hullabaloo. I go traipsing on over and come to see one of their machines is frozen halfway into the ice, doncha know. Prob’ly goin’ deeper without my help. So I go get my pickup with the winch and chains I use when I break a beaver dam and pulled ‘em out.” Clyde paused, giving his teeth a good suck.

  “That was nice of you,” said Osborne.

  “Not fast enough for the little lady—pretty nasty that one. Not one word of thanks. You’d a’thought they’d give me five bucks … something. Wouldn’t you?” Clyde’s voice cracked with anger.

  “They sure shoulda,” said Osborne. He wanted to humor the old guy, get the tree and get out of there. Ray might think Clyde was a wizard when it came to fishing hard water but Osborne had limited tolerance for backwoods hermits. They tended to have bad teeth, bad breath, and conspiracy theories that begged logic.

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” said Clyde, punching at the air with the stock of his gun. “I get that gal unstuck and next thing she’s accusing me of poking holes in the ice to make it happen. It was a beaver hole for chrissake. Tried to tell her that but, man, she yelled at me.”

  Clyde shook his head. “The mouth on her—worse’n an old girlfriend of mine.” The craggy old face made a strange move, which Osborne recognized belatedly as a wink.

  Oh, no, he prayed silently, please dear God—don’t let this be a story longer than one of Ray’s.

  Encouraged by Osborne’s blank look, Clyde chewed and sucked, then said, “That old girlfriend—she was a hooker come up from Chicago and wanted me to marry ‘er. When I said, ‘no sirree, gal,’ you shoulda heard her. But that lady the other night—she was something else, I tell ya. You ask Ray. I gave him a rundown of the language that gal used. But—” Clyde gestured towards Mallory, “not when the young lady’s around. Men only for that kinda talk.