Dead Madonna (3 page)

“Yep,” said Mason, tilting her head as she grinned with pride, “that’s what Mom said.” She dipped her paddle, pointing the kayak towards the rowboat. Osborne was about to warn her not to crowd Cody’s bobber but decided to keep his mouth shut, trusting she would use her head and not need a scolding.

Mason was his daughter Erin’s middle child. Overshadowed by twelve-year-old Beth, an excellent athlete and student, and by her little brother Cody, the first boy and an exuberant, easy-to-love child—Mason had a habit of going to extremes to get attention. Osborne cut her more slack than her parents did; he knew just how she felt.

He, too, had been overshadowed. Mary Lee’s attitude towards him had changed after Erin’s birth. The intimacies of their early years together seemed to vanish overnight. Instead, Osborne found himself treated as an irritating but necessary appendage to a life in which a house and two daughters came first. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t win: if he wasn’t boring his wife, he was doing something wrong.

At first he had no idea how to handle the new family dynamic. His own mother had died when he was six. His father, who never remarried, sent him to an all-boys Jesuit boarding school. So Osborne wasn’t sure what to expect from a wife. Then one evening, over drinks at a Knights of Columbus dinner, he stumbled onto a secret:
many men were married to women like Mary Lee.

And what did they do? They fished—but for more than just fish. Boats and lakes, rivers and streams, sports shops and bait shacks led to banter and fun and the simple pleasures of time spent with good friends. As the years went by, the pleasant hours Osborne shared with his fishing buddies made up for what he missed in his marriage. And the few men he knew who fished with their wives? Those were men he envied.

But he had another reason for his affection for Mason. She was the grandchild who most resembled him. Whereas Cody and Beth were fair-skinned, blond and blue-eyed—Mason was the one whose skin tanned as dark as his. Her eyes were as black-brown and her hair as sleek and black as his had been at that age. Like her grandfather, she had inherited the cheekbones and the high wide forehead that hinted of their Métis heritage. She might be a rascal—but he loved her.

“Grandpa!” shouted Cody as his bobber plunged.

“Set the hook!” said Osborne, jumping to his feet.

Water splashed and a grandfather nearly fell out of a rowboat, but a little boy reeled with all his might until a bluegill swung over the boat, sunlight shimmering silver off its scales. The fish was barely a keeper but the expression on Cody’s face gave it the dimensions of a prized mount. Osborne removed the hook and slipped the fish onto a stringer. He handed the carton of worms over to Cody, “Okay, young man, your turn to bait the hook.”

“But isn’t that fish kinda small, Grandpa?” said Mason from her perch in the kayak. Osborne put a finger to his lips. “Oh,” she mouthed, getting the message. She watched her brother fumble a worm, then said, “You know, I bet I can hook a hundred worms an hour.”

“It isn’t the numbers that count, Mason,” said Osborne. “Fishing is all about quality, not quantity.” Seeing the confusion on her face, he reminded himself that nine-year-olds are new to philosophy. “So what is this ‘secret treasure’ you found?” he said, doing his best to change the subject.

Before she could answer, they heard shouting from the dock. It was a woman dressed in police khaki (as opposed to the khaki that she wore in the trout stream)—the woman whose smile always sparked a wildness in Osborne’s heart. Only she was not smiling now.

C
HAPTER
5

“C
ut the crap, Chuck—I do
not
have time for this …”

Cell phone pressed hard against her right ear, Lewellyn Ferris paced Osborne’s dock, listening. Twice she tried to interrupt, only to nod with impatience. Using her free hand, she raked back the mass of dark brown curls that crowded her forehead. Osborne recognized the gesture: she was preparing to do battle.

As the rowboat glided towards the dock, he could see defiance in her dark eyes, tension in her shoulders. He let the boat drift as he watched, concerned.

He knew her as a woman slow to anger, a woman whose eyes smiled easily and whose manner was friendly—though that equanimity masked strength. But equanimity appeared to be in short supply at the moment. Did her adversary understand what he was up against?

Lew Ferris was not typical of many middle-aged women that Osborne knew, and the sight of her in her police uniform never failed to remind him of that. Of medium height, she had a figure that was sturdy and fit, breasts that were high and firm—evidence of upper body strength. Where his late wife had been one to need help with a sack of groceries, Lew Ferris could be counted on to help you carry sections of your dock. Or take down a healthy twenty-two-year-old male who’d been over-served. Or, he was pleased to admit, change your life if she took off her shirt.

“No, Chuck,” said Lew, her voice vibrating with anger. She was facing away from Osborne as she spoke. “No, no—
you
listen to
me.
I cannot keep five people waiting at the scene of a drowning accident—not to mention the ambulance crew and the victim who remains pinned under the boat—because your guys need a lunch break. Tell ‘em to eat in the damn car!

“No—I cannot. I just told you I’m down to one officer on patrol because I have Todd assigned to the crime scene … Give me a break, Chuck—
there is no question it is a crime scene.”
By now Osborne knew it was only the presence of his grandchildren that was keeping her from using stronger language.

She listened for a long moment then said, “You know, Chuck, I don’t know how it is in Wausau but here in Loon Lake it is peak tourist season. We’ve got people trespassing on private land, fender benders in grocery store parking lots and altercations at boat launches—not to mention underage kids sneaking into bars.

“And, Chuck, that is
half
my day. But it is exactly why—if you don’t get at least one of your men up here within the hour—I will file a complaint with Madison … Oh, you think I’m kidding? Try me.”

The rowboat bumped the dock, causing Lew to turn. She rolled her eyes at Osborne. And with good reason.

While the Wausau Crime Lab was funded by neighboring counties and mandated to serve small townships like Loon Lake, its director, Chuck Meyer, had a problem: women. He did not believe they belonged in law enforcement and he never missed an opportunity to let Lew Ferris know it. Every time she called with a request for investigative assistance, he went out of his way to swamp her with bureaucratic baloney.

But what Meyer didn’t know and Osborne did was that on most occasions Lew had the guy’s number. She had refined a reverse psychology—not unlike that used on two-year-olds—that worked to finesse the jerk. Not today. From the expression on her face, Osborne could see she just wasn’t going to take the time.

“No, Chuck, late afternoon does
not
work. Didn’t you hear what I said? I’ve got
two
fatalities of which one is a homicide and my coroner can’t be reached … He’s on vacation—”

Whatever the comment that followed, Lew’s face reddened under its summer tan. Her eyes flashed with anger. Throwing both hands into the air, she nearly dropped the cell phone before clutching it to say, “Chuck, goddammit. You tell me the last time I reported a homicide and was wrong. You
know
better than that. Now I want someone up here by one o’clock at the latest … Yes, I’ll have the town attorney approve the expense, we’ve already talked—”

Again she listened, this time nodding, her face relaxing. Meyer must be backing off. As Osborne waited, he heard her say, voice calmer now, “Just one crime scene, Chuck. The other is a drowning up on the Tomahawk chain. From the sound of it, some girl got drunk and fell overboard. I can deputize Dr. Osborne to help me on that one. But I—”

She paused, shoulders straightening as she turned towards Osborne—this time with a half-smile and a wink, “Yes, Chuck, I’ll have Marlene fax down the paperwork. Don’t I always?” Again a brief pause before she said, “Okay, that works. I’ll deal with the drowning victim—then meet your men at 2241 Loomis Road at one-thirty. Marlene has directions if they need them … good. Thank you.”

Clicking off her cell phone, she threw her head back, closed her eyes and gave a low, long groan before saying, “Dear Lord, why me?”

“So—having fun with the Wausau boys?” said Osborne, getting to his feet in the boat, hands on his hips. “That’s guaranteed to ruin a good day. Sounds like you have to cancel our fishing tonight.” He didn’t want to address the other subject until he could figure out a way to handle her disappointment.

“Don’t know yet. Have to see how the afternoon goes. But, Doc, I am so glad I found you. Pecore is off playing his accordion at some damn polka festival and you heard the news—I’ve got two fatalities on my hands.”

She gave Cody a look of apology as she said, “Hey, little fella, sorry to cut your fishing short but I am in desperate need of a deputy coroner and your grandpa’s the best I know. I’ll trade you a carton of nightcrawlers if you’ll let me borrow him—like, right away?” She smiled at Cody then shifted her gaze to Osborne. “I see Erin and Mallory are up at the house—maybe they can take over with the kids?”

Osborne hesitated before answering.

Any other day, he would jump at the opportunity—so pleased to work beside Lew that he had to make a conscious effort not to appear too happy around death. Half a dozen times since the night they met in a trout stream, he had been able to fill in for the coroner she despised.

Several facts conspired to make that possible: First, the Loon Lake coroner was appointed—not hired, not elected. A pathologist of questionable skills, Pecore held the position thanks to genetic good fortune—he was closely related to the wife of Loon Lake’s mayor. And while she couldn’t fire him, Lew did not hide that she was fed up with his incompetence, not to mention his binge drinking and a habit of allowing his golden retrievers too near the autopsy table—all of which worked in Osborne’s favor.

As often as she could find an excuse, the fly-fishing instructor—whom he had expected to be a man named Lou but turned out to be a police chief who spelled her name L-E-W—deputized Osborne.

He, in turn, had a new appreciation for his training in dental forensics, a developing science that he was exposed to during a brief stint in the military following dental school. Since meeting Lew, his interest in the field had escalated. That plus his love for his profession led to a decision to remain active in the Wisconsin State Dental Society. Just weeks ago he had attended a seminar on the latest developments in dental forensics—now termed odontology.

And since the Wausau Crime Lab had no full-time odontologist on staff, the potential for Osborne to be useful balanced nicely with the resulting opportunity to share a boat or wade a stream following a day’s work with the Loon Lake chief of police.

“Golly, Lew, I wish I could but I promised Cody we would spend the afternoon fishing. It’s his birthday.” Osborne shifted his gaze from Lew to the worried eyes of the six-year-old sitting across from him. Cody had looked forward to the day for weeks and Osborne had set aside the entire morning and afternoon to be with him. Even their egg salad sandwiches remained to be eaten.

Lew threw her hands up in exasperation. “Why does everything have to happen at once? But I understand, Doc, and don’t worry—I’ll figure something out. I’ll call Crandon. They have a part-timer who may be able to help me.”

She turned to jog back up the walkway towards his house, which was on the hill overlooking the dock. Osborne watched her go. Much as he wanted to help, he was torn—how do you break a promise to a grandchild?

Lew wasn’t halfway up to the house when the roar of an outboard filled the air.

C
HAPTER
6

The boat was aimed straight for Osborne’s dock. Seventy feet away, it made a sweeping turn to the left, throwing a wide wake. The driver cut the engine to let the bass boat bob sideways, bouncing over the wake towards shore.

Leaning back in a padded swivel chair bolted to a casting platform was a familiar figure in khaki shorts and a white T-shirt, his bare arms and long legs tanned dark by the summer sun. Cupping his hands to his mouth, the man in the boat let go with a distinctive trill.

“Cardinal!” shouted Cody, leaping to his feet so fast he nearly fell out of the boat. “I win, Mason!” he shouted to his sister, “I said so first.”

The kids had a running competition to guess what bird Osborne’s neighbor might be imitating. They had six to choose from: four variations on loon calls, a robin on a sunny day and the cardinal. Ray was good enough that Osborne’s early morning coffee buddies at McDonald’s now referred to him as “that human iPod with wings.”

Watching Ray unfold his six foot six inch frame from the chair to plant both feet on the floor of the bass boat then gradually stand up—a process that seemed to take minutes—inspired Osborne to whisper to his grandson, “Cody, you know what I think? That guy’s got more sections than a dragonfly.”

Cody didn’t hear. He was too busy pulling up the stringer to show off his bluegill. “Hey, Ray, look what
I
caught!”

“Whoa!” said Ray, the boat close enough now that you could see the angry olive-green muskie—flat snout gaping to expose killer teeth—that adorned the front of his T-shirt. Under the big fish ran the mantra:
Fish With Ray: Excitement, Romance, and Live Bait.

“Cody, you razzbonya, you,” said Ray with a whoop, “I better watch out or you’ll have my job.”

The little guy grinned so wide he showed every space where a tooth was missing.

Less happy was his grandfather, who had one thought: Not if I can help it.

Ray Pradt had a life many men would covet. Spring, summer and fall he spent mornings and evenings guiding fishermen to his secret haunts of walleye and muskie, smallmouth, crappie and bluegills. Wind shouting through pines, sunlight shimmering on waves, a lonely loon calling with its heart—such were the blessings of Ray’s good days.