Bad to the Last Drop Read online

  It was insane; a silly imagining. "What would I tell people I was doing?" Pat asked.

  Deb laughed. "Tell them you're writing a mystery."

  "Of course, I could at least ask Mitchell about it," Pat said, feeling her way around the idea as it grew. Just thinking about how they would go about it would be a nice little break.

  "Don't just daydream about," Deb insisted. "Get a 'for sale' sign and put it out in the yard. See what happens."

  It was crazy; simply crazy.

  Still, Pat gave a lot of thought to Deb's suggestion. How like her to be so generous. A gift of a place and a time where no one listens to me but the waves on the big lake as I walk on its stony shore. A place where I can bring out my brushes and drink coffee every morning, and read the paper from front to back. Where no cell phone connects me to someone who needs my sympathy or advice, or calls me to judge whether the women's group should really be having a bingo fund-raiser. No one at all to need me, except maybe the big lake herself, to tell her how beautiful she is in my watercolors. Pat sniffed and blew her nose.

  After speaking to her friend on the phone, Deb picked up her journal and wrote. Ashland really is a place where I felt at home from the first moment I gazed at the big lake, the "Tall Water," on the drive into town nearly thirteen years ago. Marc and I moved to this sleepy little college town of eight thousand, located right on the south shore of Lake Superior at the base of Chequamegon Bay, in search of new adventure and a progressive place to raise our two babies, Julia and Eric. We found all of our requirements in one town: big water for sailing, some intellectual stimulation, a place where everyone knows your face, scenic beauty and a place rich in history—a town that knows where it came from.

  We are both fortunate to have careers that transfer almost anywhere. Marc a family doctor who loves the challenge of working in underserved areas. His Peace Corps experience in this country, he calls it. Except the town of Ashland is anything but underserved. His first practice didn't suit his style. Now he commutes around the Bayfield peninsula twenty-five miles north to the Red Cliff Indian Reservation every day.

  I started a family law office at home to be available for the kids and to try to limit my time at work. Strange thing about home offices. As much as it is charming and convenient to greet clients on the back deck on a warm summer's day, it becomes harder and harder, as time goes on, to close the door to the office at the end of the day. The work is always there, calling like a siren, constantly beckoning. So when the opportunity arose to join with another local attorney and set up a joint practice at the center of town, I jumped at it. And I still have no regrets.

  Chapter Six

  About the same time as Pat and Deb sat relaxing in the Black Cat Coffeehouse after meeting the Russian sisters, the phone rang loudly in the nearby Ashland office of Detective Gary LeSeur. He swung his long legs off the desk as he reached over to pick up. "LeSeur here."

  "Officer Marie here. Sorry to bother you, but I have to report a dead body found home alone here in Ashland. Joseph Abramov, a fifty- seven-year-old male, with no obvious cause of death."

  "Yeah—go on—really? What does it look like? Is it a murder? Any signs of a forced entry? What do you know about the deceased?" Quickly, LeSeur reached for something to write on and began to scribble some notes as he talked.

  "No sign of a struggle; no sign of a forced entry. Don't know anything about the guy, Chief. It all looks okay, I guess. Probably the poor guy just had a heart attack or something. But you know, it was so neat in there. So ... I don't know much. Anyway, I called the coroner and she's on her way."

  "Don't move anything or touch anything. I'll be there in five," LeSeur said with authority.

  LeSeur's mind raced as he quickly assumed his investigator mode and shifted smoothly into automatic pilot. He formed a plan of action in his head. The questions came easily for him now.

  It had been twenty-three years since LeSeur had graduated in the top of his police officer training program and subsequently joined the Ashland Police Department. At first, he was assigned to routine patrol—back when life was even simpler in Ashland, the town where he had grown up in a happy childhood filled with strong family ties, sports, music, and church. All six of the LeSeur kids eventually went away to college and became professionals; all of them came back to this bucolic little town to get married and raise their kids.

  Drop-dead handsome with a copper complexion— compliments of his Indian mother—Gary's middle-aged body was still fit, and his face had an ever-present smile. He had quickly earned the trust and respect of his peers on the force and in the community that knew and loved him. His knowledge of the people and places in town gave him a leg up over the others on the force. Gary had been initially assigned to bike patrol in the summer due to his familiarity and rapport with the public, but those days were done.

  Investigations came easy to him. He soon earned a reputation as an ace at solving the minor crimes that happened in all small towns: vandalism of lawn ornaments, petty thefts, and an occasional auto theft that usually turned out to be a teenager's joyride, as well as the tragic reports of abuse and neglect of children.

  Once, when there was major vandalism at the local elementary school, he was able to get to the bottom of it fairly quickly. More recently, he had been a leader in the crusade against the slow influx of drug trade that was creeping into the community—a place that he had once thought of as "Mayberry-like."

  Gary had grown to accept the hard parts of his job. His work was taxing at times because underneath his tough exterior, he had a real compassion for people of all stripes. He despaired at the ways that humans could find to destroy their lives—often due to alcohol and drugs.

  Now, Gary placed the phone slowly back in its cradle. Joe Abramov—dead, Gary thought . Poor old guy—he was colorful, if nothing else. If Gary were being less charitable, he might have referred to Joe as a crackpot—someone who had been part of the local landscape for many years now but about whom the police department had received a few complaints from frightened townies—about the wacky guy with the eye patch who talked to everyone and accused the CIA of conspiring against him.

  Gary put on his windbreaker and moved quickly out into the night. As he drove to the scene, his mind conjured memories of the deceased. Gary had talked with Joe on several occasions and quickly determined that the guy was harmless—half-cracked from the war, for sure, but all talk. Most people, in time, had learned to either ignore or be amused by Joe's rants.

  And now the guy is dead. Gary ticked off a mental checklist as he considered what could have happened to Joe:

  □ Mentally ill: Joe could have been suicidal, and no one would have known. He could have just decided he'd had enough of his war memories and ended it all himself.

  □ Chain smoker: Joe's habit could have caused a stroke or heart attack, and he wouldn't have been able to call for help if he was alone.

  □ Choking episode: Joe lived alone—if he was choking, no one could help him.

  Yet there was something in Officer Marie's voice that gave Gary pause. The body, she'd said, appeared to be intact, and there was no sign of a struggle or forced entry. Still, she had implied that something just didn't seem right about the whole thing. What was it she had said, exactly? Gary looked down at his hastily scribbled notes. There it was: "Don't know, Chief. It all looks okay, I guess. Maybe the poor guy just had a heart attack or something. But you know, it's so neat in there. So ... I don't know. Anyway, I called the coroner, Ruth Epstein, and she's on her way."

  If this was an unnatural event—Gary had trouble even imagining the word murder—then he knew that his life was about to be a whole lot busier.

  Down the street from Deb's home, the phone rang several times, interrupting the repartee going on in Joel and Ruth Epstein's kitchen. Usually when they had company around the table and were engaged in light-hearted banter, as they were this evening, Ruth let the answering machine pick up.

  Tonight, however, she was ex
pecting a call from her son, Adam, in New York City, letting her know the results of his audition with the Blue Man Group—Adam was hoping for his first real break as he tried to hit the "big time" following college.

  To Ruth's disappointment, the voice on the phone was not Adam's. Instead, it was Marie Brownstone, Ashland's only patrolwoman.

  Not another dead body, Ruth thought. As coroner in a small town, it was her job to pronounce bodies dead. She glanced at the gathering of AFS parents around her table, all telling stories about their hosting experiences with foreign exchange students. She took the phone upstairs and gathered pen and paper to write down the address.

  Being coroner of the town had been a lark at first, fueled by her medical training as a nurse, interest in forensic medicine, and desire for any adventure she could find. She had campaigned for the coroner position several years previous after becoming fed up with the incompetence of the previous coroner.

  Ruth knew she was well suited to the demands of the job. Introverted, she sometimes preferred working with bodies that couldn't talk back. Conscientious, smart, and calm, she was not bothered by blood and guts or by the sight of dead people.

  Ruth and her husband, Joel, had moved to Ashland nearly thirty years ago as newlyweds. They had raised their family here and become pillars in the community—a remarkable feat, considering they both had come from urban backgrounds. Ruth was a Jewish agnostic; Joel had grown up on the West Coast. She and Joel had met at college in Ohio and been together ever since. World travelers, they had put down roots in this provincial town, bringing the world to the town over the years through their hosting of nearly twenty AFS students in their home.

  Ruth walked slowly downstairs and smiled stoically at her happy guests, all warmed with delectable homemade desserts and after-dinner coffee.

  "I'm sorry to do this," she said, "but I've just been called to a possible suspicious death scene."

  Ruth's guests stared at their hostess with looks that ranged from awe to horror, amazed and incredulous that someone as down to earth as Ruth could do the job as coroner. It was the closest to being in the presence of celebrity as one could achieve in Ashland.

  Ruth put on her red wool coat, retrieved her coroner's bag from the closet, and quickly exited the house. Sydney, Ruth's exuberant Australian shepherd, stared longingly out the window after her, seemingly incredulous that his one true love would leave the house without him.

  Ruth drove the five blocks down Chapple Avenue to Joe's apartment building, and when she arrived at the scene just a few minutes later, the yellow tape was already placed around the entire apartment building. Several police cars and an ambulance were parked outside, as well as the fire chief's car.

  A small crowd had begun to gather, drawn by the sirens that had pierced the late autumn evening solitude of this sleepy town. Officer Marie was standing outside, waiting expectantly for Ruth's arrival. Detective LeSeur was in the crowd, talking to the neighbors. Standard procedure, Ruth thought approvingly. Sam, the barista from the Black Cat, was there, concern and grief clearly etched on his face.

  "You're gonna want to be careful about breathing too deeply when you go in," Marie offering in greeting. "It smells pretty bad in there."

  Ruth walked quickly up the stairs with Officer Marie, gathering her thoughts and her professional composure as she went. As she opened the door to Joe's apartment, she was immediately met by the overpowering odor of decomposing flesh. This starts to get old fast, she thought, reaching into her bag for the jar of Vicks and putting a dab in her nostrils. And then she saw the body, which she immediately recognized as Joe Abramov. Were it not for the decomposition, Joe might have appeared to be resting comfortably in an overstuffed armchair—he was wearing Bermuda shorts, a short-sleeved dress shirt, and black shoes and socks. Unfortunately, he "rested" in close proximity to a small space heater—the room felt warm, probably between 75 and 80 degrees, Ruth guessed—and she could tell that Joe had been dead for some time. She realized it was common knowledge in Ashland that Joe had a few screws loose. She took out a notebook and pen, walked over to the body, and looked at her slim silver Timex watch. 9:25 p.m. The time of death was always the time the coroner first pronounced the person dead.

  Ruth went through the motions. She inspected Joe's body without unduly disturbing it or undressing it. She was struck by the neatness of his clothing. There did not appear to be any visible marks on the body. She looked closely to see if she could detect any gross signs of a bullet hole. There was no blood and no sign of any tearing of his clothing. Joe's abdomen appeared swollen, and his face was discolored, with freshly dried froth around his mouth.

  Reaching into his right rear pants pocket, Ruth pulled out a worn brown wallet. Gesturing to the expectant officer, Ruth motioned for Marie to assist her in going through the contents. Looking inside the wallet, she found a couple dollars and twenty cents in change; some old receipts from the County Market grocery store; and an old military ID with a photograph of a much younger Joseph Abramov. Officer Marie held out her hands as Ruth deposited the money and papers into them and then slid the contents of the wallet into a manila envelope. She sealed the envelope carefully.

  Looking around, Ruth observed that the apartment was neat. Aside from ashtrays brimming with cigarette butts, there was no clutter, no dirty dishes. Strange. Not the kind of orderly environment one would expect from a mentally ill person, Ruth thought .

  Ruth pulled out her digital Canon PowerShot and walked slowly through the apartment, room by room, meticulously snapping photos of the scene from every conceivable angle. She looked through everything in each room, carefully opening every drawer, cupboard, and the medicine cabinet, searching for pill bottles.

  She turned to Marie, who stood at the doorway, as if waiting for Ruth to decide whether or not to order an autopsy. Ruth knew that the county would have to pay if an autopsy were ordered. There was no question in her mind about the proper course of action.

  "Well, he's dead; no question about that. But based on appearances, I have no idea what caused this death. We'll have to send him south for an autopsy at Regina Medical Center in Hastings, Minnesota, since he died unattended at home." Ruth gently covered Joe's body with the white sheet she pulled out of her bag. Carefully, she catalogued the contents of the wallet and placed it into her coroner's bag.

  Pulling out her cell phone, she speed-dialed the local undertaker across the street. "Stan, it's Ruth Epstein. I have a body to go to the morgue. It's 208 Chapple Avenue."

  She waited patiently until the director and his assistant arrived with the gurney a few minutes later. The two men carefully placed the sheet-wrapped body into a body bag and placed it on the gurney. Ruth walked wearily down the stairs, accompanying the body, making sure that there was no interference in the chain of custody. She would have to go with the body to the local hospital, where she would do a full inspection of the man's remains in the morgue. Ruth made a mental note to call the pathologist after she got home to set up a time for the autopsy.

  I believe I've had enough of this business, she mused. After the first hundred dead bodies, the glamour has faded. Ruth decided she would ask Kathy Barker, her deputy, if she was ready to take over the job.

  When Ruth finally arrived home again, her guests had left and her kitchen was empty. Only Sydney, the eager Australian shepherd, was watching for her from the window.

  Earlier that same evening, Pat and Mitchell Kerry and Deb and Marc Linberg were eating dinner in the Linberg kitchen.

  "Okay, but you've got to admit it's really odd. Come on, you guys, really. Don't you think?" Pat reached across the table for the salad as she spoke, looking longingly at the mashed potatoes.

  Mitchell raised his eyes at Marc as he passed the platter of grilled whitefish. It was a look that the two men reserved over the years of their friendship for when they thought their wives were acting ditzy.

  "What exactly looks odd about the situation?" Mitchell asked. "Logically, the guy was at risk beca
use he smoked and drank. He lived alone in an apartment and was found dead in his chair. What could be more real?" Turning to Marc, he continued, "Can you pull out another beer, Marc? I think this is going to be a two-brew night."

  "You bet." Standing, Marc remarked, "Anyway, it's sad, but I'm with Mitch."

  No surprise in that, Pat thought, mentally shrugging. She glanced over at Deb; the guys didn't notice.

  "The guy was an accident waiting to happen," Marc called out as he returned from the kitchen. "Here, Mitch." He placed a beer in front of his friend and sat down. Marc finally relaxed. "Pass the salad, will you?"

  No wonder he's so skinny, Pat thought enviously.

  "There's more to it than that," Deb protested. "Why now? Why sitting in his chair? It's not just sad, it's a little spooky. Maybe I'm reacting to his being alone when he died. May it never happen to me to be alone when I die," she added, looking up in silent prayer. "But it just seems so staged."

  "Could have been a suicide," Mitchell piped in between mouthfuls. "Like you said, he was a loner and a little crazy. Maybe he just decided to check out."

  Pat shook her head. "It doesn't wash. He was talking about traveling. He had just gotten a new glass eye so he wouldn't have to wear the patch," she continued, ticking off on her fingers. "And what about the lottery ticket? It was all over the Black Cat this morning that the winning ticket was announced, but no one claimed it yet because Joe had it."

  "Lottery ticket?"

  "Yes, didn't you hear? A few years back he won part of a lottery—you knew that, right? But everyone is saying he won again."

  "Oh, by 'everyone,' you mean everyone at the coffeehouse? Of course, the Black Cat is such a reliable source of information." Marc sighed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Aren't these the same people who are convinced the president is a front for the CIA? The guy already won a lottery; what are the odds of winning two? You girls are so dramatic sometimes."