Free Dead Madonna by Victoria Houston Page A

help—a request that was granted the minute Bert’s name was mentioned. Apparently, his lawyer had already been on the line demanding an expert investigation versus “any of those Loon Lake bozos.” That was just fine with Lewellyn Ferris.
    However, still needing someone to guard the site and DeeDee’s body, her next call was to Pete’s supervisor, Ken Deitz, in the Department of Natural Resources offices. She got him on the first try. After listening to her request that he allow the game warden to guard the area and the corpse until the Wausau boys arrived, Ken had paused then said, “Sure, but on one condition, Chief—you gotta tell me where you caught that big brown you’re holding in that photo on the bulletin board at Ralph’s Sporting Goods.”
    “Come o-o-n, Ken,” Lew said, “you are way out of line asking me that.” Then, as if the entire Wisconsin Fly-Fishing listserv was eavesdropping, she lowered her voice to say, “Check page 22 in the fishing regs—and don’t tell anyone you heard it from me. Got it?” Ken chortled and approved as much of Pete’s time as she might need.
    And so she turned to Pete, saying, “Warden, I have one small favor to ask. I need you to keep your hands off one of my deputies for awhile.”
    “And who might that be?” Pete said, rolling a toothpick between his teeth.
    “Ray Pradt. I need eyes on the ground and he’s the best—you know that as well as I do.”
    “A-w-w-h, Chief, do I have to? I make my quota on that guy.”
    “Two weeks—hands off. Then business as usual.”
    Pete nodded. “Unless I find him growing pot.”
    “Pete.” She saw his silly grin. “Stop pulling my leg, I am not in the mood.”
    “I’m not pulling your leg—but I’ll ease up on the guy. Y’know, I keep thinking maybe one of these days he’ll live by the rules …”
    Lew caught Osborne’s eye. Not likely.
    Pete wasn’t the only Loon Laker who questioned (or was it envied?) Ray’s disregard for the emblems of responsible adulthood: 401Ks, annual inspections of septic tanks, and health insurance. Or as an overserved patron at Marty’s Bar said one night when Osborne and Ray stopped in to have a couple Cokes after a good night’s fishing: “I can’t believe it—a family like yours and you dig graves and go fishing every day? What the hell kinda life is that?”
    Ray would just smile and shrug and answer the phone when his critics called for help after a dog or a child went missing in the woods, a fisherman did not return for dinner or a bird hunter stumbled on a peculiar set of bones that could be bear … or human?
    Of course, if a woman badgered him Ray gave her the romantic version: “I don’t know, hon,” he would say. “I’ve been this way since I was a kid. I’m addicted to wildness, y’know. Love the neighborhood—squirrels, chippies, eagles, deer, a couple turkeys, two loons, half a dozen woodpeckers, oh, and a bear just moved in.”
    After she swooned and offered to support him, Ray would decline with a gracious grin and say: “Thank you, sweetheart, but I am happy as I am. I may not have money in the bank but I got the sunset—all those colors! For free!”
    What he also got for free was a ticket to the outdoors and a talent for tracking. Lew had no difficulty arguing that Ray was one of few people north of Chicago who could read sign on the ground, on a tree or in brush and know in an instant if it was the result of weather, creature or human interference. And so his talent trumped the misdemeanor file. Who knew you could be paid for seeing what others miss, for seeing what should be and isn’t?
    “That’s fine, Ray,” said Lew, cell phone pressed to her ear as she listened for a long minute from where she was standing on the sidewalk, one eye on the door to the rental house. “Not sure about Doc but why don’t you and I plan to meet at the Moccasin Lake public landing at eight-thirty tomorrow morning. I have a seven a.m. with both Wausau