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  With a sly twitch of his bushy moustache, Bruce reached into one of the right lower pockets in his fishing vest and pulled out his phone, which was carefully wrapped in plastic. Relishing the bated breath of the two people sitting beside him and watching, he slid the phone from its protective envelope, scrolled down his contact list, and pressed on a number that came up. He held a cautionary finger high while a phone rang somewhere.

  “Hello, Patience,” he said, “have I caught you in the middle of your dinner? No? Good. No, this isn’t a personal call,” he winked at Lew and Osborne. “I’m sitting on a rock in the middle of a trout stream with two law enforcement colleagues of mine . . . no, I am not making that up.” He chuckled. “We have a question for you. Several in fact.”

  Five minutes later, he clicked the phone shut, slipped it back into the plastic envelope, and put the envelope into his pocket.

  “Done,” he said. “We caught her between assignments. She said she’s off this week, visiting a sister in Madison, and she’ll be here by eleven or so tomorrow morning. She also said to hold off on watching those videos until she gets here and works with us. She doesn’t want us to be too familiar with the images.”

  “What did she say when you asked her what she would charge?”

  “She estimated three full days of work and she’ll charge us fifteen hundred plus mileage.”

  “Five hundred a day?” asked Osborne, worried that Lew was about to put the kibosh on hiring the woman. “That’s a lot for the Loon Lake Police Department—”

  “Hold your horses, Doc,” said Bruce, sliding off the rock and standing up in the water. “I’ll put a call in to the governor’s office first thing in the morning and I’m sure we’ll get the money. That’s less than what I have to pay those two forensic techs who drove over from Green Bay.”

  With that Bruce stepped back with his right foot as he raised his fly rod preparing to backcast and let go with a perfect power snap and a smooth forward cast that dropped his midge onto a distant pool of quiet water without a sound. The tiny dry fly floated for less than a second before it was hit by an eager brook trout.

  Late that evening Osborne devoted half an hour to finishing the paint job on the windowsills in the downstairs room. Stepping back to assess the final effect, he was pleased. The room was lighter and felt spacious. All it needed now was the right equipment for tying flies. He knew better than to second-guess the supplies, even the tools, as Lew would want her own, but he felt confident that with some research he could find the right vise and maybe a few more items to complete his surprise. With that in mind, he set off to bed happy.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Beth slipped out of the house so early Tuesday morning that no one else in the family was awake yet. She had packed a banana and a yogurt in her tennis bag, which she planned to eat after spending an hour on the backboard working on her forehand before the kids arrived.

  “Coach thinks I have a chance to be his number one singles player this fall if I can put more speed on the ball, Mom,” she had told her mother the night before. “So my plan is to get to the courts by six thirty tomorrow morning. That’ll give me plenty of time to practice, plus I’ll have a basket of balls and can work on my serve, too.”

  “Sounds okay to me so long as none of the neighbors complain about the sound of tennis balls hitting the backboard before seven in the morning,” her mother had said with a smile after Beth had explained why she would be out of the house so early the next morning. Having been grounded, she knew better than to leave the house without letting her parents know why.

  The morning was overcast and the streets quiet as she strode along with her head down and shoulders set. Beth prided herself on having “a five-year plan” and that plan was to be the best tennis player on the girls’ team, graduate in the top ten of her high school class, and go to Harvard, Stanford, or Williams College.

  No one else in her class was planning to apply to those schools, but a boy from Milwaukee whose family had just moved to town had been telling her those were the best colleges in the country. And then he’d said he thought she was one of the few girls he’d met since he moved to Loon Lake who was smart enough to get accepted. That made Beth feel so good she was considering a crush on him even if he was four inches shorter.

  She got to the tennis courts a few minutes after six, unpacked her racket and balls, and bounded onto the court with the backboard. Trees crowding the fence surrounding the courts worked as a windbreak and, she hoped against hope, deadened the sound so she wouldn’t wake the neighbors. Apparently not as a half-hour flew by and no one showed up to complain.

  She decided to get the basket of balls from the shed at the far end of the courts and practice serving until either the coach or some of the kids arrived. Walking to the shed she heard a car drive up and a door slam. Drats. She had hoped for another twenty minutes or so. Checking to see who was coming, she saw an older boy in jeans and a gray T-shirt coming her way. When he was close enough that she could make out the black stubble masking his lower face, she recognized him: the guy in the Jeep with Wendy, the one who had driven past her yesterday. Her stomach tightened.

  “Hey, Beth,” he said, “got a minute?”

  “Not really—I’m teaching.”

  “You don’t look like you’re teaching.” He glanced around as if to underscore there was no student in sight. “My name’s Pete—Pete Bertrand. Wendy told me about you.” Genial though his voice sounded, his eyes were so intent on hers that she had to resist feeling frightened.

  “Oh?” She did her best to sound offhand.

  “Got a proposal for ya.” He held out a small dark green plastic baggie and Beth noticed he had scarlet and black tattoos running up both arms identical to the ones she’d seen on Wendy. “You know who in your crowd wants weed? You handle this for me and you get twenty-five percent. Could make you quite a few bucks. Wendy thinks you’re probably well connected so should be easy-peasy. She likes you, too. How ’bout it?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t have time.” She wanted to ease out of this without making the guy mad. “But tell Wendy thanks anyway.”

  “C’mon, just give it a try. You’ll be surprised how easy it is—everybody wants some.”

  “Umm, why don’t you let me think about it?” Beth felt like she was handling a snake.

  “Okay. You think about it but don’t tell anyone. You know better’n that, don’t you?”

  Another car door slammed and this time Beth saw her coach heading their way.

  “I’ll be by tomorrow,” said the boy. “And, hey, anyone ever tell you you’re cute?”

  Oh God, thought Beth as he scurried off.

  “Who the hell was that creep?” asked her coach when he reached the shed where Beth was still standing.

  “I have no idea. I was practicing on the backboard and about to get the basket of balls when he showed up.”

  The coach studied her. “You look upset . . . ”

  “I’m okay . . . guess he scared me,” she said, looking down and hitting her racket against the side of her sneaker.

  “Well, don’t come up here so early from now on, Beth. Too many trees around the courts—you can’t be seen from the street. I don’t want you up here alone. One of the girls on my team had someone come along that trail behind the trees and expose himself last summer. I sure don’t want a repeat of that.”

  Walking home later that morning, Beth chose the long way to go. She didn’t want to risk running into Wendy and her creep boyfriend again. As she neared her house, she thought she saw a Jeep Wrangler parked down the block. She ducked down the driveway then crept back to peer around the side of the porch but the car was gone. Maybe it was someone else’s car?

  Sheesh. She thought about telling her parents but what could they do? He hadn’t touched her. And the fact that he talked to her about selling marijuana might get her in trouble all over again. You’re a smart girl, Beth told herself; he shows up again you just say no, no, and no. He’ll ge
t the message.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  At eleven A.M. Tuesday morning Patience Merrill arrived at the Loon Lake Police Department and was escorted by police chief Lewellyn Ferris to Dani Wright’s office where two rows of chairs faced her computer screen, which was temporarily suspended from the ceiling to allow everyone a better view. Five people were waiting in the small room, including Osborne, Ray, Bruce, Dani, and Mike the videographer.

  After introducing everyone, Lew said, “As I was telling you before she got here, we’ve asked Patience to help us with the videos Mike has been sharing. Her title may be ‘visual perception expert,’ but what that really means is she is skilled at helping us see beyond the obvious.”

  Speaking of which, “obvious” to Osborne was that Ray Pradt was close to swooning and he could see why. Patience could not have been much over thirty, which made sense as her résumé had her earning a PhD in the visual arts just three years ago. The young woman was a summery blonde with ice-blue eyes over wide cheekbones and peach-like cheeks. “Angelic” came to Osborne’s mind as he studied her pleasant features.

  Beneath a cropped, light brown jacket she wore a silk blouse the color of her eyes. Straight-legged tan slacks neatly belted at the waist implied a slender frame, and she carried herself with confidence.

  “All right, everyone,” said Patience. “Before we begin I want to make a big change here . . . you,” she said, pointing to Ray, “you look like a good, strong guy. Can you help me raise this computer a few inches higher and tilt it forward so everyone can see okay?”

  Ray got to his feet so fast he knocked two chairs over. Repressing a smile, Patience said, “Just a bit higher, Mr. Pradt; don’t kill yourself.” Ray blushed.

  The shortest video, which was the one from the camera set low in the Pfeiffer booth in order to observe staff and family as they moved about or sat waiting was reviewed with no new observations except to show the brief time when Chuck Pfeiffer stood up, left the booth for about ten minutes, then returned to where he had been sitting. Osborne pointed out that would have been the time when Chuck had stopped to talk to him on his way back to the booth. Next was the video footage of the awards ceremony held down on the dock. “This will run maybe forty minutes,” said Mike. “We were going for the ceremony itself—not the setup beforehand or any footage after the ceremony.”

  The video opened with Rikki Pfeiffer introducing the winners of the panfish contest followed by the winners of the walleye division. After she had given the walleye awards, there was a short lull during which the camera showed her stepping off to one side while waiting for the kids who had been fishing muskies to clamber up onto the stage.

  “Wait,” said Ray, leaning forward in his chair. “Can you back that up, Mike?”

  As they watched, a figure appeared to the far left of the stage, barely visible until Rikki leaned over for a brief moment before standing again and walking to the center of the stage.

  “Can you zoom in on that guy that she talks to?” asked Ray. “The one in the motorcycle jacket?” The image was enlarged on the screen and held.

  “What do you see, Mr. Pradt?” asked Patience.

  “Call me Ray, and I’m seeing someone who looks a lot like Jim Nickel—who is Jim Nickel, I’m sure. You agree, Doc?”

  “Yep, that’s Jim,” said Osborne.

  “Jim Nickel is Rikki Pfeiffer’s ex-husband,” said Ray. “Why would he be there?”

  “Good question,” said Lew. “An excuse to hang around his ex-wife?”

  “Could he have a kid in the tournament?” asked Mike.

  “Oh, no,” said Ray, “his only kid is Bart Nickel. I’ll bet you’ve met Bart, Mike. Before Chuck died, the rumor was he’d be replacing Jerry as CEO.”

  “Oh yeah, that guy,” said Mike. “I’ve only seen him. But we did do a shoot with him and some staff for the company profile. I can find it if you need it.”

  “Not right now,” said Patience. “I suggest we watch closely to see if his father appears again. You may recognize that individual more quickly now that you know what to look for. Everyone seems very interested in the fact that he is shown in this video. Am I right?” she glanced around the room and saw several heads nod.

  “I imagine,” she said, “that the first time everyone viewed this particular video all that you saw was Mrs. Pfeiffer and the children as they moved across the stage. Correct?” Again the nods. “You weren’t focusing on images that may have reached your peripheral vision at that time.”

  They watched the rest of the video but the awards were predictable with no more sightings of the older man. Osborne was pleased to see that Mason handled receiving her shared third place award with aplomb. “She really caught a muskie?” asked Dani, impressed.

  “A tiger muskie,” said Osborne, “is the hybrid offspring of a muskellunge and northern pike. They tend to be smaller but good fighters and easier to catch. Mike, can I get a copy of this video, please? It will make a nice gift for her parents.”

  “You bet,” said Mike and reached past Dani to start the third and final video.

  “Hold on one second,” said Lew. “Before we watch this one, I have a question. Ray or Doc, do either of you know how long Rikki and Jim have been divorced?”

  “Since right after he went to prison,” said Ray. “That would have been five years ago. I remember because Bart, their son, was still in college and I kicked him off the college fishing team, which I was coaching at the time. Suffice it to say I am not one of Rikki Pfeiffer’s favorite people.”

  “How do you get kicked off a fishing team?” asked Patience.

  “Cheating,” said Ray. “You steal someone else’s larger catch and substitute it for your own. Some folks I know will tell you cheating’s a family tradition for that crew, which explains how the old man ended up in the hoosegow.”

  Osborne was quiet for a moment after Ray’s remark before saying, “Interesting that Rikki and Jim may be in contact again. Most divorced couples I know avoid one another.”

  “O-o-h, I’ve known some that remarry,” said Bruce. “My wife’s parents did. Married twenty-two years, divorced for three, and remarried. Two years after that they divorced again.” He chuckled.

  “Think about it,” said Lew. “Given what I’ve heard from the widow and the daughter-in-law, Chuck Pfeiffer’s will has Rikki likely to inherit the bulk of the estate, which may include control of the company. So while it appears for the moment that Jerry Pfeiffer’s position as CEO is safe, she will be in a position to make a significant change . . . ”

  “Like boot Jerry out and replace him with Bart?” asked Bruce. “Does that mean we have a ‘person of interest’ in Mr. Bart?”

  “Nope. Bart has an ironclad alibi for where he was when Chuck was shot.”

  “As does Rikki,” chimed in Ray. “She was up on stage with the rest of us during the time you think the killer pulled the trigger. Am I right?”

  “Hold on, all of you. Would you please give me some background on what you are talking about?” said Patience. “I don’t need details but enough to guide you as we watch the third video.”

  “The man who was murdered was in the process of rewriting his will and I’ve been led to understand that he may have been planning to significantly reduce how much he would be leaving his son, Jerry, and Jerry’s family. Also he was about to promote his third and current wife’s son, Bart, over Jerry, who has been CEO for the Pfeiffer company for the past five years. It’s a large company with over seventy sporting goods stores across the Upper Midwest. Jerry was going to be forced into retirement with the CEO position going to his stepbrother. But Chuck died days before he could implement that change or finish rewriting his will.”

  “I see,” said Patience, “so there was unrest in the ranks, to put it mildly?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “What I want to know,” said Lew, “is the time noted on that video when we see Jim Nickel and compare that with where he was at the time that Chuck was murdered. Mike,
can you help us determine the timing of the images we see on the video?”

  “Easily,” said Mike. “Our video software gives us a time stamp. I’ll go back through that video and get you the exact time that he appears—and until he is no longer visible. Do you want me to do that right now or after we view the last video?”

  “Later is fine,” said Lew.

  “Good,” said Mike, “we’ll get started. This video runs nearly two hours. I remember that we started shortly before one P.M. and didn’t turn the camera off until three or so. I had the camera rigged to one of the struts holding the canopy over the booth so we could catch the crowds going by the Pfeiffer booth during the busiest hours of the tournament. Carlyn and I wanted to show the variety of people, how involved and happy they were that day—everything that would make Chuck proud that he had launched this tournament that people loved.”

  “One more thing before we watch this,” said Lew. “Ray, will you see what you can find out about Jim Nickel? See if any of your miscreant friends have run into him recently—at the bars? Heard him say what he’s been up to?” She pursed her lips in thought. “I mean, why is that guy hanging around a kids’ fishing tournament? Given what a beautiful day it was and Nickel was there with his motorcycle buddies—shouldn’t they have been out riding?”

  “Will do,” said Ray. “But I might have to buy some weed to get in the good graces of my bad buds, doncha know. Any chance the Loon Lake PD can cover my costs?” He winked. Lew gave him the dim eye. She knew he was only half kidding. Maintaining his “bad boy” status gave Ray access to a social circle sensitive to people asking too many questions. And that circle of Ray’s was often right where the answers were.

  The two hours seemed to speed by. When the video ended, the room was silent.

  “I didn’t see any sign of Jim Nickel,” said Ray, sounding disappointed.

  “I didn’t see anyone with a gun who might have shot Chuck,” said Lew. “And I was watching so close . . . It must have happened, the camera must have caught it, but I sure as hell didn’t see a thing. I mean, we see Chuck sitting there, don’t we?”