Free Dead Boogie by Victoria Houston Page B

Osborne would give a wave down the bar to another couple of regulars: Herb and Helen Pradt—Ray’s parents.
    One day, Frank dropped dead. He was only forty-seven. Peg had to sell the resort, and soon after she was selling herself. The first few years after Frank’s death, she went kind of crazy. The town traded stories of angry wives storming into her apartment, of binge drinking, of local merchants’ bills going unpaid. Even Osborne had to turn her account over to a collection agency.
    But then she settled down. She gave up the constant hustling and appeared to be happy with one well-to-do client. Well, everyone knew there might be another guy every now and then—but she seemed happy with Harold.
    Osborne was only acquainted with the man. Harold Westbrook had retired from a medical practice in Milwaukee, where he had been an orthopedic surgeon. His wife of many years passed away shortly after they moved into a handsome brick home in Loon Lake, which was where she had grown up. To everyone’s surprise, Harold chose to stay in town. But they had no children and he loved to fly-fish.
    He was a tall man, surprisingly agile for his years and quite good-looking with craggy features under a thatch of stark white hair. Mary Lee had often commented to Osborne that she hoped he would look as good as Harold as he aged. Whenever she said that, Osborne resisted giving her a dim eye. What would be the benefit? She hadn’t shared a bedroom with him for twenty years. Was she planning to start in their seventies?
    But it was the baby blue convertible parked for hours in front of his house that made Harold a legend. The early-morning coffee crowd at McDonald’s might snicker when Peg and Harold’s names were mentioned in tandem—but it was only out of envy. More than one guy mulling over his black coffee would look a little wistful, as if he wouldn’t mind having a reputation for bad behavior at the age of eighty.
    Lew tipped the remaining contents of the box onto the bedspread. At first glance, the photos were typical of family albums: individuals posing for the camera, family gatherings, first communions, weddings. Innocent photos.
    “Look at this,” said Lew, holding out a black-and-white print of a pudgy little girl in a pouf of a white tulle dress that was tied high on her chest with a silk bow.
    The baby ballerina was smiling for the camera, her arms reaching up. One hand held a long stick with a tulle pompom trailing a silk ribbon on one end; the fingers of her other hand were spread wide in a happy wave. She had short, straight hair that was brushed back and secured to the top of her head with another white bow. The child was barefoot—caught on her tiptoes in an exuberant leap.
    “Now that is one cute kid,” said Lew. She turned the photo over and read the back: “Margaret at age three.”
    “That has to be Peg,” said Osborne. He handed the photo back to Lew, who was shuffling through the rest of the photos. She reached for a square, buff-colored envelope with four words scrawled across it: Peg O’My Heart.
    The envelope was unsealed. It contained one black-and-white photo. Lew groaned as she held it so Osborne could see it, too. He looked—then looked away. It was as if a spider, black and horrid, had crawled out from the envelope.
    “Taken by a medical examiner or a coroner,” said Lew. “Documenting the assault.”
    “Do you think it’s the same child?” Osborne knew the answer before he asked.
    Lew read notations jotted on the back of the picture. “She’s identified as Mary Margaret Garmin. Age seven. Offender unknown. Found by her mother in the family pool house.”
    “Age seven,” said Osborne, shaking his head. “Lew, the rage I have for people who do this—”
    “Doc, it is the worst part of my job. Believe me.” She gave a deep sigh as she slipped the photo back into the envelope. “Could explain a few things, I suppose,” said Lew. “Not that this has anything to do with her