At the edge of the woods, p.1
At the Edge of the Woods, page 1
AT THE EDGE OF THE WOODS
A Lew Ferris Mystery
VICTORIA HOUSTON
For my new Wisconsin neighbors—Nicole, Jason, and Vesper
How secret are even the open lives of others!
—Laurie Colwin, “Evensong,” The New Yorker,
April 17, 2023
Chapter One
The early September morning held a slight chill as Bert Willoughby slammed shut the door of his Range Rover and strode onto the broken cement of the decaying tennis court. Robin Carpenter, his pickleball partner, had already arrived.
“Had to chase two turkeys off this morning,” she called out with a grin as he walked toward her.
“Not a bad day to practice,” said Bert, setting down his bag and reaching to set up the pickleball net he had rolled up under a tarp on the old court. The tennis court had seen frequent activity years earlier when the boys’ camp, established in the 1920s, thrived with campers from Chicago and Detroit, but it had seldom been used since. Bert had bought the property and hired a local firm to pave a section wide enough and long enough to provide a safe surface that he and Robin could practice on. It was hidden from the prying eyes of their competitors and kept cool by the protective leaves of the birches and oaks the former owners of the camp had left standing.
“Smartest twenty-acre investment I ever made,” Bert would brag to friends who wondered why someone would buy the old place. After all, the lodge was set so far back from the Loon Lake shoreline that it had minimal appeal for anyone looking for a lakefront setting. “Great for pickleball, for hunting, and who knows—someday I may rebuild that old lodge.”
When the sixty-eight-year-old dentist had finished setting up the pickleball net, he and Robin started batting the ball back and forth, loosening up. They were expecting two other players to join them for a practice session any minute. As Bert batted the ball, he applauded himself for staying so fit into his late sixties. No wonder Robin was attracted to him. He smiled to himself.
The air was still, with no wind. The lake, fifty yards away down a slight embankment, was so serene that conversations carried from the fishing boats anchored near the far shore.
Pop, pop, pop went the pickleball from racket to racket. Sun peeked through the leaves overhead, dappling the court.
Robin, racket ready, heard a different sound: a muffled pop. She watched the man across the net falter, then fall.
To her it sounded like the pop of death.
Chapter Two
The woman who strode toward the man leaning over the still form sprawled on the old tennis court wore a khaki uniform that emphasized her wide shoulders and sturdy build. The expression on her face, under a cap of dark-brown natural curls trimmed to stay out of her eyes, was grim.
She had been enjoying her second cup of coffee a quarter mile away at the home of the dear friend with whom she had spent the night when she received an emergency alert from her department’s switchboard. The location was too close for her to wait on the Loon Lake police to arrive.
“Homicide, Chief.” The statement from the man crouched over the body was delivered with an air of authority that angered the woman wearing the badge.
“Pecore, you are not qualified to make that determination. And for the record, I am not your chief. I’m the sheriff,” she said through gritted teeth. McBride County sheriff Lew Ferris had no respect for Ed Pecore, the county coroner. He had been appointed by his brother-in-law, mayor of the town of Loon Lake—an appointment based on a set of remarkable qualifications that included twenty-one years of running a bat-infested tavern preceded by eight years of bartending and two stints in the city jail for DUIs. But in the Northwoods of Wisconsin, coroners are appointed, not elected, and he was the mayor’s brother-in-law.
* * *
About to turn fifty-three, Lew Ferris had been elected county sheriff after serving as chief of the Loon Lake Police for fifteen years. She was the first woman to have held both positions in the Northwoods, and with years of experience dealing with Ed Pecore, she didn’t hesitate to challenge the man she considered so inept he could be dangerous.
“Pecore, what makes you think he didn’t have a heart attack?” she asked.
“See for yourself,” said Pecore in a smug voice. It was clear he was tickled that he was about to be proven right for once.
After walking back to her cruiser for a pair of nitrile gloves, Lew came back, knelt, and gently pushed at the victim’s upper body. He had fallen forward with his head bent, obscuring the blood beginning to pool beneath him.
“I see,” said Lew, getting to her feet. “It appears he’s been shot, all right. But we still can’t call it homicide, Ed. That’s for the Wausau boys to determine,” she said, using the term locals used for the Wausau Crime Lab investigators.
“I don’t see why the hell I can’t say what’s obvious,” said Ed, blurting his words out with anger. “Bullets don’t lie.”
“Ed,” said Lew in a calm voice, “people are sighting their rifles for deer season. Who’s to say this wasn’t an accident? It can happen. I know from experience.” The fact that there was no exit wound suggested the bullet had come from a distance, which to her suggested an accident rather than a deliberate killing.
She didn’t say more and Pecore didn’t ask, but she would never forget an afternoon in her teens when her father, who had been sighting his deer rifle in their backyard, pulled the trigger and accidentally grazed the head of a bird hunter pursuing a partridge through aspen a good half mile away. The hunter survived, but Lew and her father made a pact never to sight a rifle anywhere than at a rifle range.
Looking up from where she was kneeling by the victim, Lew saw a small crowd gathering. She wasn’t surprised. The homes and cottages along the road leading to the camp were seldom disturbed by sirens, and hers had been screaming when she sped by on her way to the old summer camp. Who wouldn’t be curious?
Reaching for her cell phone, she called Todd Donovan, her former colleague who had replaced her as chief of the Loon Lake Police. While she was telling him where she was and why, she took a closer look at the victim’s face and recognized the man.
“Todd, it’s Bert Willoughby. We’re going to have press all over this, especially as we have an unknown cause of death. I’ll put in a call to the Wausau boys ASAP. How soon can you get here?” Hearing that he was in the middle of working a serious car accident, she added, “Okay, don’t worry about this. I’ll ask the witness a few questions, then notify Mrs. Willoughby. I’ll stay here until Roger can secure the crime scene,” she said, referring to Officer Adamczyk, who was also on duty that morning.
She looked over at the other person on the court. The woman, athletic looking with short, straight blond hair and wearing tennis shorts and a T-shirt, had been standing back. As Lew continued to examine the victim, the blonde muttered something into Pecore’s ear. It was obvious they knew each other.
After putting her cell phone away, Lew turned to the woman. “Why did you call the coroner and not 911? How do you know Mr. Pecore?”
“Um, Ed’s my uncle,” said the blonde, sounding defensive. “He told me a long time ago that if I ever found a dead body to call him right away. Right, Uncle Ed?” She glanced at the man Lew considered a weasel, who gave a shrug.
“But I was kind of kidding, honey,” said Pecore. He looked as if he was expecting a reprimand.
“But that’s his job, isn’t it?” The blonde’s face had tightened. “Did I do the wrong thing?” She threw her uncle a worried look.
Lew checked her off as not overly bright. “How did you know he was dead?” She worked hard to keep her tone even. “Are you a physician? A nurse?”
The woman shook her head. “He wasn’t breathing, and his eyes were, y’know, just kinda open.”
“That doesn’t mean he might not have been able to be resuscitated …” As she was speaking, Lew shook her head. Whoever said idiocy doesn’t run in families? She gave up. “All right. Please, tell me your name and why you and the victim are here and when exactly this happened.” She didn’t have to ask the name of the victim. She knew it was Dr. Bertram Willoughby, the head of a local dental clinic and a wealthy Loon Lake resident.
“I’m Robin Carpenter,” the woman said. “I just moved back here about six months ago. Bert and I are pickleball partners, and we’ve been practicing for a big tournament in Wausau next weekend.” Her voice faltered as she added, “Yeah … partners. That’s what we were.” A tear slipped down one cheek.
Lew could see the woman growing more emotional by the moment. “I understand. You were close to Bert …”
“Not legally,” said Robin, her voice catching in a sob and pressing her right index finger against her lips. Lew waited. “I’m not sure how to handle this.” As she ducked her head and turned away, Lew could barely hear her say, “He’s still married to Jane.”
“Ah,” said Lew, aware that several bystanders had edged close enough to overhear her questioning. “Tell you what, Miss Carpenter, follow me so we can talk with more privacy.”
“It’s missus,” said the woman, “I’m divorced.” She followed Lew across a dirt lane to the top of a grassy hill overlooking the lake.
When they were a safe distance from curious neighbors, Lew asked, “Does Mrs. Willoughby know about you? Is that what you’re telling me? I’m only asking because I have to notify Dr. Willoughby’s family.”
Robin took a deep breath before squinting her eyes as she said, “He was planning to te
“I see. So the current Mrs. Willoughby is next of kin.”
“Yes.”
As they were talking, Lew could hear muffled pops coming from the Loon Lake Rifle Range, a private club located across the lake.
“Wait—hear that?” Robin gave a startled yelp. “That’s what I heard before Bert fell over. That’s who shot him.” She yanked at Lew’s arm and dropped to her knees. “Hit the ground—”
“No.” Lew pulled away from her. “There’s no danger. Those noises are from the rifle range across the lake and quite far away. The sound carries, but no one shoots in this direction.” She helped the woman up to her feet. “You’re safe.”
“But that’s what I heard. A pop just like that.”
Robin’s eyes were so wide with fear, Lew didn’t doubt her. What she did doubt was that a bullet from the well-regulated rifle range had been what took Bert Willoughby down.
At the sound of footsteps, Lew turned to see a man running toward them. Lew tried to motion for him to stay back.
“No, no, Sheriff,” he called. “I live right down the road, and I know who did this.”
Chapter Three
Lew stared at the man who had run up. Short and stocky with a carefully trimmed moustache, he was so agitated he bounced even as he tried to stand still.
“Sir, I’m sure you have good information, and I’ll be with you in a moment,” said Lew, motioning for him to stay back. If she had learned anything in her years of law enforcement, it was that there was always a bystander convinced they knew “the whole story.” This guy fit the profile.
“No, wait, Sheriff, something you should know,” said the man, ignoring her. “One of the neighbors here—not me, I’m fine with pickleball, but Larry Weston …” He paused to wave towards a house behind him. “He owns that big new A-frame next door to the camp property. He’s been furious with Dr. Willoughby for being out here at five, six in the morning batting that damn ball around.”
Again Lew tried to shut him down. “I hear you, and I’ll be right with you.” It didn’t work.
“I saw him drive off just before you got here, Sheriff, and—”
The guy was relentless, Lew thought. “All right, fella.” She gave up, put both hands on her hips, and stared at him. “Just who are you, and what are you implying? Because you can get yourself into a lot of trouble making false accusations.”
“I heard him up at the Loon Lake Bar, and I’m saying he’s been very, very angry—”
“Yes,” said Robin, jumping into the conversation. “I know who he’s talking about. And, boy, did that man rant. Shouting and screaming—just screaming—at me and Bert.” She gave an emphatic nod of her head. “Two mornings ago.” Her enthusiasm added a coarseness to her features, reminding Lew of Pecore, the woman’s uncle.
From the corner of her eye, Lew saw a Loon Lake Police squad car pull up next to the old tennis court. Excusing herself, she ran over to make sure Roger Adamczyk knew exactly how much of the area to secure.
A failed insurance salesman who had opted ten years ago to join the Loon Lake Police, thinking he could earn his retirement giving out parking tickets, Roger Adamczyk required specific directions on how to handle anything other than a parking violation. While his real talent lay in taking shortcuts, he had proven to be kind to his colleagues in the department. So Lew put up with him. When she was convinced he was capable of securing what might be a crime scene—though she continued to suspect it wasn’t—she hurried back to Robin and the man who was such a pest.
“You”—she pointed to the man—“I want you to tell Officer Adamczyk everything you think may have happened. Once he has cordoned off the tennis court over there, he’ll be ready to take down your information. I told him you may be a key witness.”
That seemed to satisfy the guy. Lew checked her watch. She needed to contact the Wausau boys before she missed getting on their schedule for the day—at least the right schedule, that of one of their top investigators, who happened to be a good friend and one of her best fly-fishing students.
Looking over at Bert’s pickleball partner, she said, “Robin, please meet me in my office in two hours. One of the investigators from the Wausau Crime Lab will be there to assist me in documenting what you saw and heard when Dr. Willoughby was shot.”
Once in her cruiser and heading in the direction of the Willoughby home, Lew called Bruce Peters’s personal cell number. It rang four times before she heard his familiar voice.
“Yo there, Sheriff Ferris, got a hatch going? My double haul is itching to hit that Prairie River, doncha know? Practiced all weekend.”
Bruce Peters was a talented forensic scientist who loved to fly-fish. Once he’d met Lewellyn Ferris, then the Loon Lake chief of police, who moonlighted as a fly-fishing instructor on her off days, he had made it a point to trade putting in overtime for free instruction in the trout stream.
It worked for Lew. She had loved fishing ever since she’d grown up with a grandfather who owned a sporting goods shop and brought her along when he stole hours in the trout stream. And knowing a forensic scientist like Bruce allowed her, when needed, to work around the director of the crime lab, a man who never failed to let her know that “in my humble opinion, a woman is putting herself at unnecessary risk working in law enforcement.” His bias was unmistakable.
Just as unmistakable was Bruce’s love for his fly rod and the world that opened to him when he was with Lew. A tall, stalwart man, he had dark bushy eyebrows that had a life of their own, jumping up and down when he laughed—and he laughed often. Lew liked to swear she could hear his eyebrows levitate over the cell phone.
“No sighting of blue-winged olives this morning,” she said, referring to an insect genus beloved by trout, “but we have until October fifteenth, so who knows? Right now I have a puzzle that may well be an accidental shooting, but I need your help, Bruce. Any chance you can make it up here in a couple hours? I have a witness who was nearby when the individual was shot—”
“Sure,” Bruce said, interrupting. “You picked a good day—only two meth busts and one domestic violence. My colleagues can handle those.”
Lew breathed a sigh of relief. “Terrific. See you in my office. Let me know when you have an ETA.”
“This is the new office, right?”
“Sure is. We moved into our new building since you and I worked together last. Same coffeepot—I’ll have a cup waiting.”
* * *
Now the hard part, thought Lew as she turned off the highway toward the town of Loon Lake. She knew the Willoughby house. Everyone did. The lovely redbrick house dated from the 1930s, when one of the managers of the paper mill had built it. The original owner had liked to brag that his architect had worked for the Rhinelanders, the family that brought the first train to the region in the late 1800s.
Bert and his wife had made improvements but stayed true to the contemporary feel of the house. No doubt it cost a fortune to maintain with the original windows and shutters, but it had been designated as a historic preservation site by the local historical society, so Loon Lake residents assumed Bert got a nice tax deduction for his tasteful efforts. But maybe it was his wife who wanted the authenticity and they hadn’t been looking for a tax break.
Lew had no idea. All she knew for sure was that it was never, ever pleasant to deliver heartbreaking news.
* * *
The woman who answered the door was wearing a loose man’s shirt over baggy tan jeans—which failed to hide a bulging midriff—and her short legs and long arms waving made her look comical.
“Mrs. Willoughby?” asked Lew, wondering if she could be the family housekeeper.
“No, no, I’m not expecting a delivery.” Spidery arms gestured for Lew to scram. “You must have the wrong house.”
“I’m not delivering anything. I’m Sheriff Lewellyn Ferris,” said Lew, her voice firm as she held up her ID.
“Oh, sorry,” said the woman, blinking as she turned away. “Where on earth are my glasses? I am so sorry.” She reached for a pair of glasses on a side table in the hall behind her. Turning back, she peered at Lew. “Oh, I am so sorry, Sheriff Ferris. Is something wrong? I checked with the city inspector to be sure our new fence met code …”
