Read Online Dead Jitterbug by Victoria Houston - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Victoria Houston
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“We haven’t had any false alarms from this place—so there could be a problem. Erin said you know the family?”
“Not well. Hope and Ed Kelly, her husband, were summer patients over the years,” said Osborne. “Hope was the senior McDonalds’ only child—her father inherited the land and built the big house. The family made their money in paper pulp years ago. Hope’s daughter, Kitsy, is one of the women who signed up for Ray’s fishing clinic today. She and a friend of hers from Madison—Julia Wendt.”
“Anyone else there I might know?”
“Carla Wolniewicz?”
“Carla Wolniewicz,” said Lew, cocking her head as if she hadn’t heard right. “You’re kidding. There’s a strange one to show up for a fishing clinic. I thought she spent her waking hours at the casino—or in the bars.” Osborne winced at that comment.
“To the contrary,” he said. “Sounds like she runs a successful real estate business. Although she ended the day pretty upset—got news she’s being audited by the IRS.”
“Now that fits the Carla I know,” said Lew. “Couldn’t walk a straight line drunk or sober. I’m sure the IRS has good reason—and if I sound prejudiced, Doc, I am. She was there the night my son was killed. It was her boyfriend at the time who knifed him.”
Lew stared off into the tamarack, now black against the night sky, her face drawn with sadness the way it always was when she remembered that night.
Osborne knew the story: how her son, who took after his father whom Lew divorced right after the boy was born, ran with a rough crowd, ended up in a bar fight, and was killed. He was only fifteen. The kid who knifed him got off with probation, thanks to an uncle who was a hunting buddy of the county judge.
The loss of her son galvanized Lew, prompting her to study law enforcement, complete a college degree, and join the Loon Lake Police Department as their first female patrol officer. Once on the force, she demonstrated a fierce sense of fair play, which may be why four years later she was named chief.
“Yep, I know Carla too well. Her father—she’s Darryl Wolniewicz’s kid, y’know. He’s a sad soul. Heavy drinker. Used to get beat up by his wife before she ran off. Left Carla with him. Doesn’t he help Ray out at the cemetery?”
“Not any longer. That Carla,” Osborne said, shaking his head as he thought back over the afternoon, “she’s one tough cookie. Ever strike you she’s a bully?”
Lew snorted. “That was her mother. Tell you something else about Carla—so happens she was working at the mill credit union a few years back. We heard rumors of some fancy footwork with the bookkeeping over there. No charges were ever filed, and I don’t know that they ever proved anything, but she left under a cloud.”
The channel widened as they were nearing the end. Osborne lowered the outboard back into the water. He revved the engine, letting the boat speed across the modest-sized lake toward the McDonald estate, which anchored the far end and was barely visible in the fading light.
“Hey, Doc, check out that quaint little twenty-thousand-square-foot retreat over to the right,” said Lew. “Must be the daughter’s place.”
Located midway between the mansion and the channel was a log home typical of the ones being built by people from the cities with too much to spend. Lights blazed from all the windows, making it easy to see the house was three stories high and windowed all around, top to bottom. Outdoor lighting illuminated a mammoth fake rock chimney—and three decks.
On one of the decks stood a figure in white busy over an outdoor grill.
“Hired help?” asked Lew.
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Osborne.
“Jeez Louise,” said Lew, and they exchanged a look that said it all: life in the northwoods is supposed to be about simplicity. Leave the manicured lawn, the household help, the social calendar behind. Some folks just don’t have that talent—or perhaps they
“Not well. Hope and Ed Kelly, her husband, were summer patients over the years,” said Osborne. “Hope was the senior McDonalds’ only child—her father inherited the land and built the big house. The family made their money in paper pulp years ago. Hope’s daughter, Kitsy, is one of the women who signed up for Ray’s fishing clinic today. She and a friend of hers from Madison—Julia Wendt.”
“Anyone else there I might know?”
“Carla Wolniewicz?”
“Carla Wolniewicz,” said Lew, cocking her head as if she hadn’t heard right. “You’re kidding. There’s a strange one to show up for a fishing clinic. I thought she spent her waking hours at the casino—or in the bars.” Osborne winced at that comment.
“To the contrary,” he said. “Sounds like she runs a successful real estate business. Although she ended the day pretty upset—got news she’s being audited by the IRS.”
“Now that fits the Carla I know,” said Lew. “Couldn’t walk a straight line drunk or sober. I’m sure the IRS has good reason—and if I sound prejudiced, Doc, I am. She was there the night my son was killed. It was her boyfriend at the time who knifed him.”
Lew stared off into the tamarack, now black against the night sky, her face drawn with sadness the way it always was when she remembered that night.
Osborne knew the story: how her son, who took after his father whom Lew divorced right after the boy was born, ran with a rough crowd, ended up in a bar fight, and was killed. He was only fifteen. The kid who knifed him got off with probation, thanks to an uncle who was a hunting buddy of the county judge.
The loss of her son galvanized Lew, prompting her to study law enforcement, complete a college degree, and join the Loon Lake Police Department as their first female patrol officer. Once on the force, she demonstrated a fierce sense of fair play, which may be why four years later she was named chief.
“Yep, I know Carla too well. Her father—she’s Darryl Wolniewicz’s kid, y’know. He’s a sad soul. Heavy drinker. Used to get beat up by his wife before she ran off. Left Carla with him. Doesn’t he help Ray out at the cemetery?”
“Not any longer. That Carla,” Osborne said, shaking his head as he thought back over the afternoon, “she’s one tough cookie. Ever strike you she’s a bully?”
Lew snorted. “That was her mother. Tell you something else about Carla—so happens she was working at the mill credit union a few years back. We heard rumors of some fancy footwork with the bookkeeping over there. No charges were ever filed, and I don’t know that they ever proved anything, but she left under a cloud.”
The channel widened as they were nearing the end. Osborne lowered the outboard back into the water. He revved the engine, letting the boat speed across the modest-sized lake toward the McDonald estate, which anchored the far end and was barely visible in the fading light.
“Hey, Doc, check out that quaint little twenty-thousand-square-foot retreat over to the right,” said Lew. “Must be the daughter’s place.”
Located midway between the mansion and the channel was a log home typical of the ones being built by people from the cities with too much to spend. Lights blazed from all the windows, making it easy to see the house was three stories high and windowed all around, top to bottom. Outdoor lighting illuminated a mammoth fake rock chimney—and three decks.
On one of the decks stood a figure in white busy over an outdoor grill.
“Hired help?” asked Lew.
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Osborne.
“Jeez Louise,” said Lew, and they exchanged a look that said it all: life in the northwoods is supposed to be about simplicity. Leave the manicured lawn, the household help, the social calendar behind. Some folks just don’t have that talent—or perhaps they
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