Dead Madonna (2 page)

“My name is Marlene,” she continued, her tone matter-of-fact, “and I need your name and address.” The practical request forced Sharon to get a grip. With the phone clutched to her ear, she tiptoed across the sunroom to an antique wooden rocker, the only piece of furniture not splattered with blood. Every few seconds she checked the figure on the floor, hoping. But the foot did not move. She refused to look higher.

“Good news,” said the dispatcher, “Chief Ferris just turned onto Loomis Road …”

“Great …” said Sharon in a low whisper, trying her best to sit still in the rocker though her body insisted on shaking.

“Yeah,” said Marlene. “It’ll be just a moment now—say, don’t you wonder how you get a road named after you?”

“I imagine your family owned the property when the road was put in,” said Sharon, grateful for the diversion.

“Yep,” said Marlene, “or your old man was on the county board, doncha know.”

As she spoke, Sharon heard the swish of a car followed by footsteps running up to the back door. But it wasn’t until she saw the woman in the khaki police uniform running through the living room towards her, right hand on the gun holstered at her hip, that she dared to say, “She’s here, Marlene—thank you so much!” and clicked off her phone.

“Any sign of other parties?” said Chief Ferris, looking first at Sharon, then down the hall leading to the bedroom.

“No. Just me and.” Sharon choked, unable to say Nora’s name. “Huh, huh, huh,” she heaved, “I’m … I’m … I’m so sorry … don’t mean to break down …”

“Take a deep breath,” said the woman, whose daughter had been one of Sharon’s best students years earlier. She laid a sympathetic hand on Sharon’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” As she spoke, a tall young man in a police uniform crossed the living room towards them. “This is my deputy, Todd Martin.”

“I’m—ah, well one thing I’m not is ‘okay,’“ said Sharon with a weak laugh, as she pushed herself up from the rocker. “Not okay at all.” She wiped at her eyes, determined to settle down. “Yes, I know Todd. I used to teach with his mother. Sharon Donovan, Todd.” She thrust a hand towards each of the officers then stepped backwards into the living room, her body still trembling.

“I’ll need you here for awhile, Mrs. Donovan,” said Chief Ferris. “And, please, don’t move around. We don’t want to disturb anything we don’t have to. So I need you to stay right where you are for the next few minutes.”

“It’s ‘Miss,’” said Sharon, “or Ms.—whatever. I’m no longer married.”

Chief Ferris nodded. She turned away from Sharon to study the body and the conditions in the sunroom. She looked back at Sharon. “I have to ask you a few questions but we need to secure the house and the crime scene first.”

She gave her deputy a quick glance. “I don’t need Pecore to tell me this is a homicide. You know the drill, Todd.” Her tone was so crisp and authoritative that Sharon momentarily allowed herself the feeling that life was back under control.

The young officer waved the roll of yellow tape in his right hand. “Yep, I’ll do a walk through of the house first, Chief, just to be sure we have no one else on the premises. Then I’ll head up to the driveway,” he said.

“Does that mean you have to impound my van?” said Sharon, worry in her voice.

“I don’t think so,” said Chief Ferris. “If that’s you on the blacktop by the barn, you may be parked far enough away from the house. How many times have you gone back and forth?”

“I only just walked in. Right away I saw …”

“Then I doubt we’ll need your vehicle, but Todd will check. Now why don’t we step outside to talk,” she said, opening the door to the garden off the sunroom. “The less we disturb in here, the better.”

“Do you mind if I call my next appointment and let them know I’ll be late?” said Sharon, gesturing with her cell phone.

“Go right ahead,” said Chief Ferris with a wave of her hand as she started down flagstone stairs leading towards the river. Pausing halfway, her back to Sharon, she pulled a long, narrow notebook from the back pocket of her khakis and stood jotting notes.

Three times Sharon tried punching in the number for the client she was scheduled to meet at noon. Not only were her hands still shaking but as she started to speak, her throat closed and the only noise she could make was a hoarse sob. Chief Ferris turned at the sound and skipped back up a couple steps. “Sharon,” she whispered, “a deep breath.” Sharon did as she was told. She found her voice.

“Mallory?” she said. “I’m, ah, I’m running late, maybe another hour or so. Is that a problem for you?”

“Not at all—but is something wrong?” said Dr. Paul Osborne’s oldest daughter, who had taken the call on her own cell phone from where she was standing in her father’s basement.

“Just a bad start to the day,” said Sharon, with a weak smile at Chief Ferris. “Tell you about it when I see you.”

“Please take your time, Sharon. Erin and I have our hands full sorting through all Mom’s stuff—we had no idea how much junk was down here. You come when you can or call back if we need to do it later, okay? I’m at Dad’s through the weekend.”

“That wasn’t Paul Osborne’s daughter you just spoke to, was it?” said Chief Ferris, concern in her voice as Sharon slipped her cell phone back into her pocket. “I don’t mean to be nosy but there aren’t many people named Mallory around here.”

“Yes … I’m meeting her and her sister, Erin,” said Sharon, wondering what could possibly be wrong with that. “They want me to sell their mother’s china on eBay.”

“In that case, I would appreciate it if you would do me a favor when you get there—give Doc a message for me?”

“I don’t know if he’ll be there or not,” said Sharon. “Mallory is the one who has made all the arrangements. But I’ll be happy to if he—”

“Tell him I have to cancel our plans for tonight.”

Before Sharon could answer, the cell phone on Chief Ferris’s belt rang. “Yes, Marlene?” Again the no-nonsense tone that Sharon found reassuring.

“Are you serious?” said the police chief, her voice terse. “Wait—let me get this straight. You’re telling me our overpaid coroner took the week off to play his accordion at a polka convention? When the hell did he decide to do this? Why didn’t he tell
me
he was leaving town?”

Sharon couldn’t make out what was said next but the mollified look on Chief Ferris’s face answered the question: “Oh … well, my fault. The memo’s in my box, huh? That’s what I get for relying on email. All right, Marlene, hold tight while I rethink what’s happening here because I’ve got two fatalities under questionable circumstances … What’s that?”

She paused to listen. From where she stood, Sharon could hear a high-pitched chatter. Irritation flashed across Chief Ferris’s face. “Oh, he has, has he? Well, you tell Mr. Bertram Moriarty I don’t care
how
much he pays in property taxes or
when
his plane leaves for Chicago—he does not budge from that boat until I get there. No … one … leaves.

“And, given what I see here, I’d say it will be a good hour or more until I can get there. I can’t send Roger because he’s got his hands full with that three-car accident in the Loon Lake Market parking lot. Plus I don’t want him there. So tell those people to hold their horses.

“Now, Marlene, I need a coroner and the Wausau boys ASAP. I’ll give a call to Chuck Meyer at the Wausau Crime Lab—but will you please reach Doc Osborne and brief him on the situation? Thank you. Give him this address and ask him to meet me here as soon as possible. I’ll need him here and at Moccasin Lake.”

Chief Ferris hadn’t even clipped her phone back onto her belt before it rang again. “He’s not answering? Damn. Okay, call Ray and ask him to walk over and see if he can find him. I know Doc was planning to fish with his grandson this morning.”

Again her phone rang within thirty seconds. “No answer from Ray either? Jeez Louise—what else can go wrong! Try Ray at the cemetery—if we’re lucky he’s running the backhoe.”

It wasn’t until forty-five minutes later, when Sharon was safe in her van and markedly more calm, that it dawned on her: Chief Ferris and Doc Osborne dating? Really.

Her right eyebrow arched. She liked that thought. Sharon wasn’t single by choice and she had every intention of dropping another fifty or sixty pounds. If a woman like Lewellyn Ferris—strong, sturdy and so forthright (to put it mildly)—could attract a man as good-looking, as distinguished as Dr. Paul Osborne … Hmmm, maybe there was hope for Sharon Donovan. With that happy thought, she reached for her cell phone—time to let the Osborne sisters know she was on her way.

C
HAPTER
4

The rowboat rocked lightly on the wake generated by a passing jet ski. Seated with his legs akimbo, Paul Osborne speared the angleworm with an authority gained from thirty years of practicing dentistry—a profession geared to small spaces and sharp instruments.

He did not work in solitude: Two sets of eyes were riveted on his fingers as he manipulated the angleworm—a premium specimen one-eighth of an inch thick and fired with the energy of a chipmunk. Mission accomplished, Osborne held up the worm, looped twice on a hook sized for bluegills, for his companions to examine.

“The trick is to hide the hook but leave plenty of worm to wriggle and draw the fish in,” he said, twisting the hook so they could see both sides. Seated opposite Osborne in the boat was his youngest grandchild, Cody, who brushed a shock of straight, white-blond hair out of his eyes to study the doomed worm with the concentration of a research scientist. Cody’s older sister, Mason, her kayak bumping up against the boat, leaned so far forward to get a good look that she nearly tipped over.

Steadying the kayak, she said with a pout, “Grandpa, I get to go fishing next, right? Not fair Cody gets to go and I can’t.”

“Part of his birthday present,” said Osborne, his tone matter-of-fact. He refused to be bullied by a nine-year-old. Cody beamed and reached for the rest of his gift, which was connected by fishing line to the worm: a graphite fast-action St. Croix spinning rod outfitted with an Omega reel that needed only the pressure of a small thumb on its rubber button to shoot line without a hitch. Osborne might be out a hundred and twenty-five bucks for the rig, but he was determined to see Cody spend his sixth birthday fishing with the ease of an expert.

Two days earlier, frustrated to the point of cursing, Osborne had trashed the cheap rod the boy had inherited from his non-fishing father. Together grandfather and grandson visited Ralph’s Sporting Goods where they tested rods for a good half hour.

“Cody,” Osborne had counseled, “if there’s one lesson in life you need to remember, it’s this: never hesitate to put your money into good tools. You will never regret it.”

Osborne certainly didn’t regret it. Money spent on good tools had changed his life. First, there was the reputation he earned over the thirty years of his dental practice, thanks to an excellent education, a love for his profession—and the finest instruments he could afford. Even as he retired, he held onto those instruments, refusing to bend to the demands of his late wife that they be sold with the practice. It was a decision that, four years later, would indeed change his life.

Then, there was the money spent on fishing tackle: spinning rods and lures that were more than just tackle—they were a means of escape. Escape from his marriage to a woman who spent twenty-five years responding with the same three words on hearing his voice on the telephone: “Oh … it’s you.” No hiding
her
disappointment.

Even the expensive fly rod that he purchased not knowing if he would enjoy fishing
in
water rather than
on
water had been a serendipitous investment. Though he didn’t have an opportunity to use it until after Mary Lee’s death, it
really
changed his life.

Thanks to that fly rod, he would enjoy extraordinary evenings in breathtaking streams, followed by enchanting nights in the arms of a woman he had never expected to meet:
a woman who fished.
And one who was so impressed with his willingness to spend money on a good rod—not to mention take instruction from a female—that she agreed to teach him the basics of fly-fishing. To their mutual surprise, they caught more than trout: each hooked the other by the heart.

The late morning sun fell warm across Osborne’s shoulders. Overhead the air was still. Wisps of white cotton clouds brushed a Dresden blue sky. A perfect July day. Resting his hands on the oar handles, he let the boat drift, pulling Cody’s bobber along.

He couldn’t help but congratulate himself for spending time and money to restore the old Rhinelander rowboat, a sturdy antique that he had inherited from his father. The money spent on the boat, the new spinning rod—even the buck fifty on angleworms—all added up to a look on his grandson’s face that he couldn’t buy.

Having cast a respectable twenty feet out from the boat, the youngster sat perfectly still, breath held and eyes fixed on the gentle rocking of the red and white bobber. Across from him, Osborne sat just as still but with peace and gratitude brimming in his heart.

“Grandpa?” Mason broke the silence from where she had let her kayak drift down the shoreline. Osborne glanced her way. In her white, one-piece swimsuit, orange life vest and blue-green kayak, she was as colorful as a water lily in full bloom. Waving her paddle, she said, “Did Mom tell you we found the secret passage yesterday? We went all the way up to Hidden Lake. Found secret treasure, too, Grandpa.

“I wanted to bring you a present ‘cause all the secret stuff is so cool, but Mom said no. She thinks it has to belong to somebody but I know she’s wrong. Why would you put stuff way out in the woods? So Mom and I made a deal—if it’s still there next summer, I get to keep it. And I know right where to find it, too, but you have to be in a kayak or a canoe ‘cause it’s pretty shallow. Too shallow for your fishing boat, you know.” She spoke with an authority that made her grandfather grin.

Keeping an eye on Cody’s bobber, Osborne said, “Good for you, Mason. You’re wise to listen to your mother and I’m impressed with your kayaking. You’re becoming quite the expert, young lady.”