Dead Tease (8 page)

The two kids stared at him. Osborne backed off. “Okay, that’s fine. Just so you’re back here by five-thirty. Maybe you and I will go out in the boat? Lew might join us. Harry, you look like a fisherman—want to come along?”

“You bet I would,” said the boy. “I know this lake—my dad fishes it with a buddy of his. You got trophy muskies in here, Dr. Osborne.”

“You’re right, we do,” said Doc. “See you two later, then.”

Walking back up to the house, he wondered if Beth appreciated the fact his trophy muskie lake might lure a boy or two. His granddaughter was an attractive girl, but let’s be real: big fish count too, doncha know.

The thought made him happy in spite of the dread he had felt ever since Lew asked him to join her in questioning Gladys Daniels.

Gladys Daniels: one of the few people in Loon Lake who frightened him.

Chapter Eleven

A lush lawn, mowed with precision, swept along Bobcat Lane, all the way from where it turned off the county road to where it ended in a circle drive fronting the brick and stone mansion owned by the Daniels family. Buttery daylilies in full bloom filled the center of the circular drive, the blooms bouncing off one another in the summer breezes.

A pitched roof of dark gray shake shingles guarded the front entry, and a granite chimney anchored the far end of the house. Along the right side of the lane a wall of stately pines fended off inquisitive neighbors.

Built in the early 1900s as a summer home for a dairy magnate from Chicago, the house was a landmark coveted by the wives of Loon Lake’s professional men—including Osborne’s late wife. Gladys Daniels had scored quite a coup when she and her husband bought the property from the widow of the retired boat manufacturer who had owned the home.

According to Mary Lee and her bridge group, Gladys had cheated her way into ownership by convincing the soon-to-be bereaved widow that she would be short of money unless she sold the home to Gladys and Marvin
before
her husband’s death—a transaction that Gladys swore would allow the family to avoid tens of thousands of dollars in real estate taxes.

She had exaggerated the tax issue—or as Mary Lee put it: “She
lied
!” But that didn’t surface until months after the purchase had gone through. Everyone knew it was Gladys, not Marvin, behind the scheme. The ladies took their revenge: she was banned from the bridge table, and it was a decade before she was allowed back into the Loon Lake Garden Club.

Gladys could not have cared less. Shoulders back and smile fixed, she was mistress of one of the most elegant homes in the Northwoods. That was all that mattered.

Before Osborne could raise his right hand to knock, the front door swung open. Though he had seldom run into the woman in the years since her husband’s death, he could see at a glance that Gladys Daniels was proof some things never change.

She had to be well into her seventies but the helmet of curls salon-pressed to her head remained ink black. Her face was still an unnatural white under a mask of foundation, the makeup flaking along the lines of her jowls. Her eyes, rimmed with mascara, were dark and hard as ever (“pinpoints of evil” according to his daughter Mallory, who had been at the butt end of Gladys’s gossip the summer after her junior year of high school), and the usual scarlet slash marked her lips.

A buxom woman with spindly legs, today Gladys was wearing a dark purple blouse that reached to her mid-section where it hung over slacks of the same shade. Pale arms protruding from elbow-length sleeves held a small, yapping dog with long hair whose beady eyes, not unlike those of his mistress, peered out from below a topknot tied with a purple ribbon that matched its owner’s blouse.

“Hello, Paul,” said Gladys without breaking a smile. She had a reedy, nasal voice pitched high—an echo of Cynthia’s shrill ultimatums Osborne had overheard while standing outside Jim McNeil’s office that morning.

“Come in, you two.” It was less a welcome than a demand. The heavy wooden door swung wide.

Gladys stepped back into a dark foyer while Osborne waited for Lew to enter ahead of him. “I imagine
you’re
the chief of police my daughter told me about?” Eyebrows arched, Gladys made it obvious both she and Cynthia had a hard time believing
that
to be a fact.

“Yes,” said Lew, ignoring the put-down. “I’m Chief Lewellyn Ferris with the Loon Lake Police, and I understand you already know Dr. Osborne,” Lew gestured toward Osborne as she spoke, then said, “and we appreciate you’re taking the time to meet with us, Mrs. Daniels.

“When we spoke with Dr. Daniels earlier, she indicated you were out walking yesterday and may have seen someone in the vicinity of the crime?”

“About that in a minute,” said Gladys. “Of course I know
Paul
.” She managed to make his name sound as if it tasted bad. “Cynthia tried explaining why on earth he has to be here. I don’t understand what some …
dentist
has to do with this? And
Paul
of all people?” In spite of her ill humor, she pointed the way down a short, dark hallway.

“Well, Gladys, Chief Ferris has deputized me because—”

Before Osborne could utter another word, she interrupted saying, “Paul, I haven’t seen you since Marvin passed. Why is that?” She paused and turned to glare at him.

“Well, I—”

“Never mind.” Again a dismissive wave as she turned away. “Mary Lee was the only one in your family who knew the proper way to do things.” Resisting the urge to defend his daughters, Osborne said nothing—preferring to note that as she spoke, Gladys appeared to be squeezing the life out of the dog squirming in the crook of her left arm.

They entered a cavernous, formal living room where the French windows along one wall were hung with drapes so heavy they allowed only a hint of afternoon sun. Walking behind the two women, it struck Osborne that while they might be the same height, that was where similarities ended.

One was sturdy and muscular in her summer uniform of crisp khaki, the fabric of her shirt and pants defining the breasts and hips that he had come to know so well. Her skin was tanned and glowing beneath an untamed cluster of nut-brown curls. In the dim light of the stuffy room, Lewellyn Ferris was a breath of fresh air.

Gladys, scuttling along in the shiny purple shirt, one skinny arm waving, brought to mind an insect: an iridescent beetle with spidery limbs. Unkind to think that, he knew, but Osborne couldn’t help it.

“Sit down over there, you two.”

Following orders, Osborne and Lew sat down, side by side, on a beige brocade love seat with curved wooden legs. Osborne let himself down onto the small sofa with care, not sure it was sturdy enough to hold them both … but it seemed stable.

Gladys settled herself and the dog into a large wingchair across from them. To her right was an ornate mahogany library table holding a porcelain table lamp made from a Chinese vase and crowned with a cream-colored fringed shade. The dog gave a yap of protest as Gladys pressed it onto her lap.

Her blunt, officious manner prompted Osborne to wonder (not for the first time) how such a mean-spirited woman had managed to attract good-natured Marvin, a man with whom Osborne had spent many pleasant hours in the fishing boat back when they were neighbors and shortly after Cynthia had been born.

Marvin Daniels was the kind of man who would go out of his way to shovel the porch and sidewalk for the elderly couple living next door to them, and would not hesitate to stop by with jumper cables whenever a neighbor’s car battery died in the depths of winter. And it was Marvin who always made sure to buy Girl Scout cookies from the neighbor children—no matter how many knocked on their door.

The two men had met when Osborne and Mary Lee bought their first home on a side street in Loon Lake. The Daniels family lived on the same block. At the time, it was a neighborhood ritual for the husbands to gather one Thursday evening a month for an evening of beer and poker. Marvin, a manager at the paper mill, was a regular.

Or he was until the night Gladys barged in, grabbed him by the ear (literally), and hauled him out. Osborne and the other husbands had watched in stunned silence. No excuse was ever given as to what Marvin may have done to precipitate his wife’s anger, but he never showed up for Thursday night poker again.

That was just the beginning. Next Gladys forced him to resign from the Lions Club; then she put the kibosh on his spending all night at the Flowage followed by pancakes with the guys at Pete’s Place—the annual celebration of opening fishing season. Over the coming years, Marvin did manage to eke out a few days of walleye fishing, but only when Gladys and Cynthia were off shopping in Green Bay.

In fairness to Gladys, Mary Lee had pointed out that she did approve of golf and their family membership at the Loon Lake Country Club. But when Marvin retired from the paper mill and wanted to learn taxidermy, the hammer came down again. She refused to let him buy the equipment and textbooks he would need.

That was one of the few times he managed to outwit her. Several of his colleagues at the mill ordered what he needed and made sure a workspace was cleared in one of the warehouses. For two years, Marvin conjured excuses to slip off for a few hours here and there. Eventually, after he sold a deer mount for $750, Gladys relented and let him set up a taxidermy studio in their basement.

Whatever his frustrations in life with Gladys, Marvin never complained. And he adored their daughter.

“To answer your question, Chief Ferris,” said Gladys, “yes, I saw a young man hanging around in front of the condos about five fifteen yesterday. I always walk my little munchkin between five and six so I know exactly what time it was.”

“How young a man?” asked Lew. “Teenager? Someone in their twenties? Or thirties? Can you describe his appearance, please?”

“I’d put him about twenty years old. Brown hair, nice haircut. He was wearing jeans—
clean
jeans—and a light blue shirt.” Lew took notes as Gladys spoke.

“Shoes?”

“Yes, he wore shoes.”

“What kind of shoes? Tennis shoes? Hiking boots? Could you see his shoes?”

“Brown—regular shoes. Like men wear to an office.”

“So you must have gotten pretty close to have seen all that.”

“Not
real
close but I could certainly see him. He turned to look at me, too, because Polly was barking at him.”

“Oh—so you did see his face?”

“Oh yes, I did. Nice looking boy. Square-ish head with dark eyes … I think.”

“Does that bother you?” asked Osborne who was taking his own notes.

“For heaven’s sake, Paul. Why should it?”

“No reason. Just … wondering.”

During a quiet moment while Lew and Osborne continued to take notes, Gladys tipped her head to one side and stared down at a pattern on the Oriental rug in front of her. The vacant expression on her face surprised Osborne. After observing her for a few seconds, he assumed that maybe she was just thinking, trying to remember.

“Could you identify this young man from a photo?” asked Lew.

Gladys looked up, startled. “Very likely. Yes, I’m sure I could.”

“Have you ever seen this person before?” asked Lew. “Perhaps he was another resident of the condos?”

“Well, I doubt
that
. I walk there every day and I know who comes and goes.”

I’ll bet you do
, thought Osborne.
Nosy bitch
.

He recalled now an incident one summer when Mallory and Cynthia, the latter home from boarding school, were caught with a bunch of other kids having a beer party in the woods. It was Gladys who put the word out that Mallory had been the ringleader—and that sex and drugs were involved. Her version had Cynthia arriving at the party late—after the rampant bad behavior.

The rumor was vicious enough that Mallory was dropped from the summer tennis team. The truth was that a couple of boys who were close friends of his daughter’s had organized the get-together and, yes, there was beer, but that was all.

Though Mallory had confessed to her parents who was involved, Osborne had insisted she take her punishment and never tell on the others. He then called Gladys to say that she and Marvin should find another dentist. That was all he said. He did not add that he wanted nothing to do with her. Ever.

“I’m sure that I—” Gladys started to say when with a yelp the dog leaped across her lap and onto the library table, knocking over the Chinese lamp, which tipped in slow motion toward the floor.

Osborne jumped to his feet and crossed the room in hopes of catching the lamp before it hit but the dog’s leg tangled in a silk runner under the lamp, pulling the table over onto the lamp, which, amazingly, did not break. Gladys dropped onto her knees to untangle the dog.

“Oh, golly, Gladys—are you all right?” asked Osborne as he reached behind her to raise the table.

“Don’t touch that!” said Gladys.

“But the table is heavy—”

“I’ll do it. You leave it alone.” The dog ran off and Gladys pushed herself to her feet. She grabbed the table with both hands and gave it a shove up. “There,” she said, dusting her hands before setting the runner back on the table. “I exercise at Curves every day and I walk two miles. I don’t need your help.”

She picked up the lamp and set it back on the table. “Polly does this all the time,” she said as she sat back down in the wingchair. “Now, what were you asking?”

“Give me a moment,” said Lew, studying the notepad in front of her. While Lew checked over her notes, Osborne saw Gladys strike the odd pose again. Both arms in her lap this time, her hands clasped between her knees, she leaned ever so slightly to one side. Her eyes were focused on the floor and, again, she appeared to have her mind elsewhere.

“Okay, Mrs. Daniels, I have one more question for you,” said Lew. Gladys’s head jerked. It was as if she had forgotten they were there.

“Does your daughter live here with you?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” said Gladys, her tone hostile.

“Just confirming who travels the road between here and the condo complex on a regular basis,” said Lew. “I don’t mean to upset you. It’s a question we’re asking all the people living within two miles of the condo.”