Victoria Houston - Loon Lake 14 - Dead Lil' Hustler (4 page)

“Very likely that is what happened,” said Lew, “but just in case…”

Pecore yanked the sterile gloves from her and pulled them on. “I really don’t think this is necessary, Ferris,” he said, deliberately dropping her title, “but you’re in charge.”

“Yes, I am,” said Lew, staring down as Pecore prodded at the remains enough to determine the obvious: The snowmobiler was dead, the remains skeletal.

“You know, Chief Ferris,” said one of the rangers also watching Pecore’s movements, “if that snowmobile suit had not snagged on a sunken log running along the bank there, we might have been out of luck finding the victim. Those suits weigh a lot when they’re dry. Waterlogged I’ll bet they have to be heavy as rocks, enough to keep a body anchored on the river bottom.

“The Pine is only eight feet deep at its deepest—but, hell, that’s deep enough to hide a body.” He looked at the couple. “We’re lucky you two came kayaking down this way. Summers not too many people use the Pine River—it’s slow and buggy. But winter it freezes early and can be a speedway for snowmobilers—
if
you know how to find it.”

“You can see the snowmobile submerged over there,” said the woman, pointing toward the middle of the river. “It’s pretty close to the surface and the water is so clear you can see the key in the ignition.”

“My opinion? He drowned,” said Pecore getting to his feet. He pulled off the Nitrile gloves and thrust them into the pocket of his dirty blue windbreaker. “Chief Ferris, you give me the paperwork later and I’ll fill in the death certificate.”

“Whoa, how can you say that?” asked one of the rangers. “Look at the skull—the right side is half blown away. I don’t think it’s a drowning.”

“I agree with my colleague,” said the second ranger who had been quiet since they arrived. “If we had rocks where the body might have been pushed around by a current, maybe, but this is all swamp grass and tag alders along here.”

“Animals,” said Pecore, challenging anyone to argue. “Predator activity. That’s what happens when people die outdoors.”

“Coyotes don’t swim,” said one ranger.

“Neither do wolves,” said the other. “At least I don’t think so.”

“Bears,” said Pecore. “One swat from a bear can do that.”

“Pecore, please, don’t overreach your capabilities,” said Lew. “All I need from you is the official determination that the victim is deceased. Period.”

“Okay, forget I said he drowned,” said Pecore with a shrug of his shoulders.

After pulling on a new pair of Nitrile gloves, Lew knelt to roll the figure over. Time, water, and weather had worked on the remains so there was no odor. She unzipped the front of the snowmobile suit and felt for an interior pocket. Her fingers touched a wallet. She pulled it out and opened it. In it was a laminated driver’s license. Lew got to her feet.

“Mr. Pecore,” she said. “I got news for you.”

Pecore snorted. “Yeah?”

“We have to get the Wausau boys out here ASAP.”

“Oh, for chrissake.” Pecore threw his hands up in disgust. “Do you know how long that will take? I have medical appointments later today and first thing tomorrow. I can’t be standing out here all day. Chief Ferris, you are making a mountain out of a simple snowmobile accident.”

Lew shrugged. “Maybe.”

She turned to the rangers and the two kayakers. Holding out the license, she said, “I am familiar with the name of this victim. He has been on the missing person’s list since February.” As she spoke, jaws dropped in unison. “The name is Peter Corbin and he is—was—a banker from Wausau. The family has been searching for him since he told them he was planning to stay with friends at a deer shack up near Eagle River. He never arrived.” She looked down at the body. “I wonder how he got way the heck out here?”

“I tell you, he fell through a break in the ice and drowned,” said Pecore, fuming. “Just because he has been missing does not prove foul play.”

“We’ll see,” said Lew. “Meanwhile, you stay with the body until the Wausau boys get here.”

“Me?” Pecore looked like he would have a heart attack. “I don’t have time. Later today I’m supposed to check in at the clinic for tests before my hip replacement. I can’t stay here.”

“I’ll tell the boys at the crime lab they need to hurry,” said Lew with an understanding smile. “Oh, and by the way, Pecore, nice of you to let me know beforehand that you’ll be on medical leave for what—six weeks or more?”

“I was going to let you know when I knew exactly what time,” Pecore mumbled.

“Is it okay for us to leave?” asked the woman kayaker, obviously eager to avoid listening to an unpleasant exchange.

“Sure,” said Lew, “but please back away from this area carefully. “This may be a crime scene.” She watched as the two maneuvered their kayaks back into the river.

As they passed near the submerged snowmobile, the woman gave a yelp. “I see what looks like a helmet down there! It’s dark and kind of round.”

One of the rangers took off his shoes, rolled up his pant legs, and waded into the shallows. Lew handed him a long branch that she found on the bank. Holding the branch out in front, he was able to snag a strap on the dark object.

“Be careful not to touch it,” said Lew as the ranger sloshed his way to the riverbank, the helmet dangling from the branch. “We’ll carry it back to my cruiser. I have evidence bags in the trunk.”

She examined the helmet hanging in front of her. The strap was in good condition, hooked to what remained of the right side of the helmet, which was covered with nicks.

“Reminds me of a Kevlar helmet I use for target practice,” said one of the rangers, “
after
I shoot it.”

“Pecore, I heartily recommend you record ‘cause of death unknown’ when you do the paperwork later. No bear did this.”

“Are you calling Wausau now or later?” said Pecore, shoulders drooping as he looked for a spot to sit down.

“I’ll take care of it,” said Lew. She started toward the woods with the rangers behind her. She paused and turned back to Pecore. “Don’t worry, I’ll have Officer Donovan relieve you within the hour.”

“Erin, Mark, I’ll be down in the waiting room if you need a break,” said Osborne. The three of them were standing in the hall outside the isolation ward where Cody had just been moved to keep him from exposing any of the other children in the hospital. While they waited, a team of nurses and doctors buzzed around setting up a dizzying array of medical devices. At the center of all the activity lay Cody—sound asleep.

“He’s sedated,” said one of the nurses in response to a questioning glance from Mark. “Right now his vitals are okay. Someone on the nursing staff will be here at his bedside around the clock until we know more. Immediate family members are welcome to stay, too. But we ask that everyone wear the disposable masks and gowns that are in that box outside the room. Just a precaution.”

“Erin and Mark, you stay here with the nurse,” said Osborne. “I’ll wait outside in case you need a break but there isn’t enough room for all of us.”

“Thanks, Dad,” said Erin, giving him a hug. She checked her watch. “Dr. Schrieber said the infectious disease specialist should be here shortly. I’ll come get you after we talk to him. One of us needs to go check on Beth and Mason.”

“Fine,” said Osborne. “I’m not leaving until we hear the test results and if you need me to stay the night, just say so.”

Tears in her eyes, Erin squeezed his hand.

Osborne headed for the emergency room waiting area. As he rounded the corner, he realized there would be no way he could avoid talking to Bud Jarvison now. With an internal sigh of exasperation, he prepared himself to deal with the man who had been a pain in the neck since they were kids.

During their teens, when Osborne was home from Jesuit boarding school, he found himself competing with Bud for the same girls. Bud, the six-foot-four football hero with the teasing blue eyes. Bud, the lucky kid whose sixteenth birthday gift was a zippy blue Pontiac convertible. Rare was the girl who could resist.

After college and two years into running one of his family’s twelve banks, the
Milwaukee Sentinel
newspaper declared Bud Jarvison “Wisconsin’s Bachelor of The Year.” The advent of branch banking had turned the sleepy small-town Jarvison family banking operation into a multimillion-dollar corporation.

After his father died, Bud sold the company for $30 million, keeping only the position of chairman of the board and a hefty salary. Bud Jarvison had it all: prestige, charisma, and cash.

But although he might be one of the most prominent people in the Loon Lake region, Osborne knew him as a man who lingered too long when a wounded deer needed another bullet, a man legendary for his prowess at cheating on his wife. The year he told the fellas at the deer shack that he had “bagged” over a thousand women
since his marriage
was the last year Osborne hunted with that crowd.

Nor did it help that Bud and his wife, Nancy, found paying their dental bills beneath them. At the time Osborne sold his practice, the Jarvisons owed him thousands of dollars. He wrote it off.

And now he had to share the waiting room with the jerk? Jeez Louise. How bad can one day get?

But Bud was nowhere in sight when Osborne entered the waiting room. Relieved, he picked up an issue of
Consumer Reports
hoping reviews of electric hand drills would take his mind off his grandson and the menace of meningitis. He hadn’t turned two pages when a bear paw grabbed his shoulder.

“Chrissstopher,” said Bud Jarvison, his voice whistling through the empty waiting room as he exaggerated the first syllable of his late son’s name.

Concerned over what was coming next, Osborne braced himself.

“I have been there, Doc. I know just how you must be feeling.”

No, you don’t
, thought Osborne, flinching as Bud plunked himself down beside him and, propping his elbows on his knees, shoved his florid face so close Osborne could not avoid looking into his eyes.

“Worried to death you gotta be. I was down in Nancy’s room and overheard the nurses talking. My God, I want you to know if there is
anything
—”

“Why is Nancy here?” asked Osborne, desperate to change the subject.

“Orthopedic surgery. She fell walking the dogs and they’ve had to rebuild her left shoulder—too much golf didn’t help either. She’ll be fine,” said Bud with a dismissive wave. “Fifteen years since we lost Christopher—do you believe it’s been that long?”

Helpless, Osborne shook his head.

“Christopher…” Bud repeated the name, his tone softer. “You know, his mother insisted I call him ‘Christopher.’ No ‘Chris.’ No ‘Topher,’ no ‘Bud, Jr.’ No sirree—had to be ‘Christopher.’ She hasn’t forgiven me, you know. Every time she has more than one martini, she starts.” Bud raised his voice to a whine as he mimicked his wife. “‘All your fault, Bud. You’re the idiot who
had
to buy him that goddamn stupid—etcetera, etcetera.’ But what the hell, Doc, you know how she is.”

Did Osborne ever. The mere thought of Nancy jarred another childhood memory: Bud’s parents. His father had been a genial man who wore an expression of perpetual surprise on his face as if astounded at being the beneficiary of three generations of bankers and inheriting millions without lifting so much as a golf club.

Miriam Jarvison, the family matriarch, was as cool as her husband was friendly. As a young boy, Osborne had been fascinated by the sight of the tall, thin woman with milk-white skin and shiny black hair pulled tight into a bun at the back of her neck. Mrs. Jarvison, Sr. never missed Sunday Mass. A haughty presence always in the same pew, always alone, and always wearing an ankle-length mink coat except in the heat of the summer when the coat was replaced with a rope of beady-eyed minks, their teeth biting their tails to protect her queenly shoulders. The young, motherless Osborne had envied Bud. What must it be like to be loved by such an aloof and lovely woman?

It wasn’t until his teen years that he realized it might not have been fun. Though her only child was a boy, Miriam Jarvison made it clear to Bud and his young pals that she considered boys to be smelly, dirty, and not welcome in her mansion where plastic runners covered the expensive rugs.

Osborne’s father liked to joke, “Miriam’s got a smile sure to terrify a young child.” But on the few occasions that Osborne saw her up close it was the woman’s eyes that scared him: black and ice cold.

When Bud married Nancy Binghamton, the debutante daughter of an auto executive from Grosse Pointe, Osborne assumed Bud had fallen in love with a woman quite unlike his mother. Tall, blond, and athletic, Nancy Jarvison was as imposing as her husband—and a bully.

Osborne learned that firsthand when Mary Lee, his late wife, found herself banished from the bridge table
and
the Loon Lake Garden Club. All because Nancy perceived Mary Lee as paying too much attention to Bud during cocktails at the Loon Lake Café before a fish fry one Friday night.

Because Bud’s reputation as a philanderer was well known, Osborne had assumed his wife was not guilty until the day he overheard her counseling Mallory, their eldest daughter, “to be sure to marry a man like Mr. Jarvison who can buy you nice things.”

So Nancy may have been right: A shark may have been circling. Mary Lee never hid her disappointment that Osborne had chosen to take over his father’s dental practice in “backwoods Loon Lake” instead of moving to Milwaukee or Minneapolis where “you can make a lot more money, Paul.”

If Nancy was a good golfer, she was even better at holding a grudge. Mary Lee Osborne was banned from Loon Lake society for two years. Two years of crying herself to sleep after berating Osborne for having done “something” to cause her banishment. Two years during which Osborne made sure that whenever there was a social event to which they were not invited, he went fishing. It gave Mary Lee an excuse for their absence and he got shelter from the storm.

Then something unexpected happened. Osborne’s daughter Erin was assigned to the same second grade class as Christopher Jarvison. Reading and math came easy to Erin, but Christopher struggled.