Dead Boogie (18 page)

“Thank you, Beebo,” said Osborne, shifting his eyes away from hers and hoping she wouldn’t go on too long.

He was not going to deny that he had a certain distinguished appearance: His black hair was silvered at the temples and, brushed back, was as full and wavy as it had been at the age of thirteen. And at six feet three inches of height, he prided himself on his erect carriage and the flat stomach that eluded so many of his peers. Add to that his Métis heritage of sculpted cheekbones, black eyes, and a deepening summer tan. He was fortunate in his genes and forever thankful. No, he did not look bad for a man in his early sixties. And embarrassed though he might feel, Osborne was happy she noticed.

“You’ve weathered the years quite well yourself, Beebo,” he said, opening the menu. Though now that he had a chance to see her up close in the daylight, it was evident she had spent a lot of time in the sun. She had one of those permanent tans, which was emphasized by the extreme whiteness of her teeth. And when she smiled, her smile lines didn’t crinkle and curve through the contours of her face. It was as if that emotion had been relegated to the lower half of her face, where it was punctuated with those teeth startlingly bright.

Osborne chastised himself: Only a dentist would be so critical.

“… and so we raised our children in Kenilworth—just a few blocks from my mom and dad,” Beebo was saying as Osborne struggled to focus on her words instead of her lower jaw.

“Oh, Kenilworth?” he interrupted her. “By chance did you ever run into the Garmins—Hugo and his wife?”

“Paul, please,” said Beebo. “Remember, I’m a year younger than you. The senior Garmins were quite a bit older than Bob and I. Of course I knew them. They went to our church and Mrs. Garmin was in the Garden Club, an emeritus member. Her daughter, Joan, has been a member, too. My little sister went to North Shore Country Day with Joan. Why?”

“Well, you’ll be surprised to hear that I’ve been working part-time since retiring from my dental practice,” said Osborne. “The Loon Lake Police hire me from time to time. My background in forensic dentistry, you know.”

“So you’re a police officer?”

“Oh no—just a deputy. Beebo, we have a case on our hands right now that you might find interesting. The Garmins’ older daughter, Peg, was found murdered earlier this week.”

“You mean Mary Margaret. Oh … my … gosh,” said Beebo, her eyes widening. “But, you know, the rumors about her ever since she was a kid—you always knew something bad was going to happen.”

“What did you hear?”

“She was wild. Hung out with the wrong kind of guys before she ran off. Later we heard she was a hooker in Chicago. Far cry from Joan, I’ll tell you. Joan, the perfect child—according to her mother, of course.” Beebo gave a mock shudder. “That woman was something else.

“I’ll never forget my sister, Tory, coming home from an overnight at their house in tears. Mrs. Garmin had told Tory that
she
would never get into Northwestern and be asked to join the Kappas—like Joan was sure to. ‘You just don’t have what it takes,’ she told Tory. So condescending. Of course, what it took was a pushy mother like Mrs. Garmin.

“And you know, Paul, I am happy to say that in the long run she was wrong. Joan didn’t get into Northwestern and she was never invited to be a Kappa. I’ve always wondered how her mother handled that. At least she managed to marry the man her mother picked out for her.”

Beebo looked into Osborne’s eyes. “I wish I was a better person and could tell you I feel sorry for her, but to be perfectly honest, Joan’s got what she deserved. Just like her mother, she is a snob and a know-it-all. It reached a point in the Garden Club that I refused to be on any committee she was on—a lot of my friends, too. Life’s too short, Paul, just too short to put up with people like Joan Nehlson. Though I do feel a little sorry for her—she’s toed the line for that mother of hers and still come out on the short end.”

Beebo leaned forward and dropped her voice. “I don’t think she’s very attractive either. For all the work she’s had done. Have you met her?”

“Yesterday for a brief time. Her husband seems nice enough,” said Osborne, raising his fork over the omelet and slices of Nueske’s bacon that had just been placed in front of him.

“Nice but not very bright,” said Beebo. “Frat boy type. You know the kind I mean—as kids they always had the new sports car, always drank too much and promptly wrecked it. In college they pledged the animal house. And when it was time for a career, they went into the family business because no one else would hire them.”

“Is that what Parker did?”

“Uh-huh. His grandfather made their money in railroads and built a small train museum in honor of himself, I guess. Parker has been director of the museum for as long as I’ve known him. Though I hear that may be coming to an end.”

She paused, then waved her fork over her plate of pancakes and said, “I’m being unfair. When Bob and I would run into the Nehlsons at social events, Parker has always been sweet to me. It’s Joan I have a problem with. She’s pushy and such a social climber, which is what my mother always said about her mother. Family tradition, I guess. Poor Parker. I’ll bet you anything he gets the brunt of it in that household.”

“That’s all very interesting,” said Osborne. “You know they have quite a nice piece of property on the Pickerel chain about half an hour from here.”

“Not for long they don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Word is they’re close to bankrupt. Joan inherited quite a bit of money when the old man died but she gambled it all on tech stocks a few years back. Lost millions. We don’t think she ever told her mother either. I mean, would you? So when the old lady died six months ago, Joan got a very rude awakening. Her mother left her share of the Garmin fortune to the church and nothing to Joan.”

“That’s not exactly true,” said Osborne. “Peg got forty-eight million dollars.”

Beebo looked at him. “You must be kidding.”

“No,” said Osborne. “Forty-eight million dollars.”

“Well, well, well—she must have had a reason for that,” said Beebo. “I do know that after Hugo died, Mrs. Garmin became much more active in our church. She attended early Mass every day of the week. Do you suppose she felt guilty for how she treated Mary Margaret years ago?”

“What makes you say that?”

“We always had the impression that Mrs. Garmin tried to avoid the fact they had an older daughter. Never talked about her.”

“Beebo,” said Osborne. “As a child, Peg was a victim of sexual abuse. Did you know that?”

“No!” said Beebo. She stared at Osborne, stunned. “Well, Mrs. Garmin would never have admitted to any such thing happening in their household—that I know for sure. That’s the way Joan is, too. When things go wrong, it’s always someone else’s fault.”

“Funny you say that Joan hid her financial losses from her mother,” said Osborne. “Sounds like hiding bad news was a family tradition.”

“I’m shocked, Paul. Forty-eight million dollars to Mary Margaret? Ohmygod, with all the financial problems they’re having, Joan must be going berserk. I know their Kenilworth house is on the market. And I hear she’s gone to work up in Milwaukee for Ed Forsyth. At least they have Parker’s money, but even that looks a little shaky if you ask me. Last I heard his museum building was up for sale, too.”

“So you know Ed Forsyth?”

“Oh, heavens, yes. My friends and I—he was our favorite plastic surgeon until he up and left two years ago. It was an overnight thing. One day he had an office in Evanston, the next thing we knew he was in Milwaukee. I’ve got friends who still drive up there for treatments. He used to do my work. Very personable man.”

“Do you mind if I ask what kind of surgery Forsyth did for you?” said Osborne, studying her face.

“Yes, I mind, Paul,” said Beebo with a laugh. “That’s one secret a girl gets to keep.”

He didn’t have the heart to tell her, the secret was obvious. Her smile, locked tight below those cheekbones, said it all.

“So Mary Margaret was murdered,” said Beebo, waving at the waitress for a refill of her coffee. “Any idea who—”

“Who killed her? We’ve got a few leads but nothing conclusive yet.”

“Well, those two sisters couldn’t have been more different,” said Beebo. “It was always Mary Margaret who was bad, bad, bad, and Joan who was good, good, good. At least to hear the mother talk. But enough of this, Paul. Let’s talk about us.”

Osborne gave an inward groan. This would be the hard part of the day.

“I have three lovely homes,” said Beebo. “Why don’t you think about visiting me this fall—I’m right on the golf course outside Scottsdale. Then I have a summer place in Lake Geneva, and of course, my home in Kenilworth. You would enjoy my friends so much. Everyone is retired. Some of the men are still on boards, of course.

“But we just have the best times together. Every day is planned. We check in by phone to see who’s golfing, who’s playing tennis, who’s going to the theater that evening. Or an art opening. Or a dinner party. Just a wonderful life.”

It sounded to Osborne like the life Mary Lee had always wanted.
Every day is planned.
Jeez Louise, is that a jail sentence or what?

He managed a smile and said, “I’ll definitely give that some thought, Beebo.” He checked his watch. “Oops, time for me to get going. Thank you for brunch but I have a meeting with Chief Ferris back in Loon Lake—”

“Is that Lewellyn Ferris—the woman you were with at dinner?”

“Yes, she’s the head of the police department—” “Very … healthy looking.” The put-down was a little too obvious. Thirty years of hearing Mary Lee and her women friends snipe made it easy for Osborne to interpret her words: no makeup, no jewelry, and a sturdy, muscular frame make for “healthy looking.” In Beebo’s world, not a compliment.

“Outdoorsy, I imagine,” said Beebo, adding, “I remember Mary Lee. She was such a lady. Wonderful sense of style.”

“Yes, that was Mary Lee,” said Osborne, getting to his feet with one thought in his head: How fast can I get out of here?

“Paul,” said Beebo as they approached his car, “when
will
I see you again?”

Beebo’s eyes searched his and he could see the loneliness. Planning every day wasn’t the answer. But she was no longer the girl of his dreams.

“I’m not sure, Beebo. Life is so busy right now. But we’ll stay in touch.”

“I’ll send you an e-mail every now and then, Paul—through your granddaughter.”

“That would be nice.” Looking into his rearview mirror as he drove out, he saw her waving. He felt bad.

twenty-six

Here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.

—William Shakespeare

“How
on earth did you find out about that?” Osborne heard Ray saying to Gina as he walked into the small conference room down the hall from Lew’s office.

“Get outta here,” said Gina, punching Ray in the arm. “C’mon, Ray. Do I ask where you catch your fish?” Seeing Osborne, she said, “Hi, Doc, I’m trying to educate our friend here to the fact that the rules of fishing apply to reporting: Never reveal the source.”

Ray gave a sheepish shrug. “I get the point.”

It was ten minutes after two when the four of them pulled out chairs to gather around the conference table. “Gina, you’re on first,” said Lew.

“You got it,” said Gina. “Okay, folks—everybody ready?” Gina checked around the table, her eyes lively as she made sure she had everyone’s full attention.

“To begin with, I checked all personal records available on-line relating to our three victims,” she said. “Nothing earthshaking. Minor late payments on bills, no significant bank deposits or withdrawals. Chief Ferris found more documentation on Peg Garmin’s inheritance when she went through the entire contents of her home today. So we know she had significant assets, but we knew that before.

“Things got more interesting when I checked into Dr. Edward Forsyth. Seems that he had at least two previous situations where patients filed medical malpractice suits and those suits were settled with no details reported to the National Practitioner Data Bank, which is a government-run facility set up as a central repository for malpractice information.

“In itself, that’s not unusual,” said Gina. “Hospitals have a habit of removing doctors’ names from claims, which means a payment doesn’t have to be reported. However, both suits were filed three years ago—during the time that Forsyth was practicing in Illinois. That helps to explain his move to Wisconsin, where he was licensed to practice almost immediately and opened the clinic in Milwaukee.

“What
is
unusual if you check his clinic Web site, is that he states he has “courtesy privileges” at the university’s prestigious hospital. I checked and their surgical director said and I quote: ‘He most certainly does not.’ Forsyth also states that he is a clinical professor at the Wisconsin Eye and Ear Infirmary. I checked and such an infirmary doesn’t exist. Fun, huh?

“However, no one other than me appears to have challenged any of that information, so Dr. Forsyth has had smooth sailing since he opened for business—until Thursday, when the tips were phoned in.

“Not only was the clinic raided this morning, but also a reporter from the Milwaukee paper called him yesterday morning to do a confrontation interview. After questioning him about the recruitment of patients who had more than one procedure done, he asked Forsyth how he was able to walk away from the Illinois lawsuits and set up a new practice in Wisconsin.”

“How did Forsyth react to that?” said Lew.

“He was definitely caught by surprise. By the end of the interview, he told the reporter they could announce his retirement. Said the story would ruin him.

“Chief Ferris, no doubt that interview will make your job more difficult. When it comes to Peg Garmin, he’s sure to have his guard up. You may have to go through his lawyer.”

“If I have to, I will,” said Lew with a shrug.

“Then …” Gina paused to shuffle her notes. “I decided to do some background on the Nehlsons. I found a court filing, a public record that popped up during a simple Google search if you can believe it, of Joan Nehlson’s challenge to her mother’s will. That was filed five months ago. She alleges her mother changed the will during a time she was suffering from dementia.”