Death Is Overdue

By R.W. Weiss

In an isolated cabin in the woods of Montana, village outsider Wooly Jacoby secretly witnesses the brutal murder of Calvin Lampert. Come the spring thaw, Hugh Winslow’s two dogs drag a body from the river. The remains are a bit questionable, but it is indeed Wooly Jacoby, last seen in mid-November.
A search of Wooly’s shack reveals hundreds of discarded library books and several old newspaper clippings about various federal grants to the local town leaders—but no hint of Calvin Lampert.

With the help of Hugh, his family, and his two Malamutes, Sheriff Beatrice follows a trail of blackmail, adultery, and questionable official behavior to find the connection between the two killings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Class Act Books
• Release date: Aug 14, 2014

Book preview

Death Is Overdue

A Hugh Winslow Mystery

by

R. W. Weiss

Published by

CLASS ACT BOOKS

121 Berry Hill Lane

Port Townsend, Washington 98368

www.classactbooks.com

Copyright  2014 by R. W. Weiss

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-938703-42-3

Credits

Cover Artist: Bev Haynes

Editor: Leslie Hodges

Copy Editor: Anita York

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

To Harriet, who always encouraged her three boys to try everything without fear.

Chapter 1

During dessert and with pleasant conversation, the head was nearly split with the ax. Not the ax from the wood shed, but the old rusted one that had lain half buried under years of rotting leaves beside the once used outhouse. The force was such that the worn handle almost broke loose from the steel head of the ax. A crunching sound from the skull brought reminders of cockroach stomping. Yet with cockroaches there was no blood, but now it spurted everywhere.

Must have hit a main artery. Carotid artery? Really must find out. The brain matter didn’t really split like the skull, just kind of oozed around the ax head like mashed potatoes. The fork flew up, and apple pie plopped into a running pool of blood. It carried brown sugar and flaky crust down through the cracks of the ancient pine boards. The body squiggled and squirmed, then jerked back, eyes wide, mouth vomiting blood and apple chunks. Always was a sloppy eater. God forbid death should be neat.

A moment more and it slumped in the spindle back oak chair. Last meal was over. A black garbage bag over the head and tied securely with rope served to hold back the blood flow as the body was dragged with surprising energy from the kitchen, through the back porch, and out into the darkness of early winter. The tool shed proved too low a structure to swing the ax fully, so the body was dragged through the foot of snow to the pole barn. It would probably be best to butcher the body first into quarters, like a chicken, then into smaller chunks.

Each whack of the ax brought a smile to its handler’s face. Amazing how easy it is to cut through bones. Not at all like trying to chop through cottonwood or aspen.

The job was finished with some more wrapping with plastic garbage bags, appropriate for garbage such as this, and stored under the tarp covering the rusted disk harrow parts at the rear of the barn. Ground was much too hard to bury the mess. Wait till spring thaw.

Better go back and shuffle through the path and cover the blood trail with fresh snow. Then clean the kitchen and finish the pie with a nice hot cup of cocoa while in front of the fire. On second thought, maybe a cold drink. Amazing how hot you can get even in sub-zero weather when chopping up a body. A little TV would be nice and get to bed early for a change.

Chapter 2

As he poured himself a cup of coffee, Hugh Winslow smiled at the old Majestic stove. He and his wife had found the wood-burning stove laying uncovered outside in the snow last winter at Big Bear Antiques. The chrome had tarnished, and rust had a good start on the body, but its rustic elegance could not be hidden.

~ * ~

Oh, Hugh, we must save it. Susan had smiled at Hugh, the smile meaning she would not be denied.

It’s too far gone.

I can bring it back. I know I can.

It’s just an old stove, dear. That’s why they invented new and better ones.

Sometimes you are such a heathen, she’d laughed. The laugh meant he would have to find a way to lift the heavy piece onto the pickup, off the pickup, and into their kitchen.

Come on, let’s find Big Bear and make an offer, she’d said, grabbing his hand and rushing off to the porch where Big Bear sat squeezed into a battered and duct-taped recliner.

A smile similar to Susan’s did little to brighten his dark face. Big Bear took the cigar from his mouth and a flood of blue smoke exploded from between his lips. Too much. You guys can’t afford it.

How much? asked Susan, trying to make her voice sound casual as she sat on the worn steps near Big Bear’s feet.

Too much.

I’ll give you a hundred dollars.

I have a small wood stove in the back behind the yellow Amana. Needs some work.

One-fifty, Bear. That’s as high I can go. The darn thing’s nearly rusted through.

Bear pulled on his overall straps with his thumbs, scratched his crotch, gulped a swig from his Diet Coke, and said nothing.

Well, I guess I could go to Hampton’s. He probably has just what I need, she’d said.

Uppity snotty, said Bear. Probably some crap from California. Reproduction. You want the real thing.

Well, better than nothing.

Four-hundred dollars, he had said.

One-sixty-five.

Three-seventy.

Last offer. One-eighty.

Low as I can go. Three-twenty-five.

Two-twenty-five? she’d asked.

Okay. You steal from me, but okay. Don’t tell anyone, but okay. My wife will kill me if she finds out how cheap I sell this.

Susan had jumped up and kissed Big Bear on the cheek.

~ * ~

Now, six months later, Hugh looked down at the Majestic that seemed to control the kitchen goings-on from atop its claw feet. Eight-hundred dollars of refinishing had brought it to its current shiny and functional condition.

Whatcha doin’? he called to Susan as he poured two tablespoons of sugar into his cup.

Oh, nothing, she sighed. She sat in the River Room, an extension off the kitchen, so named because it cantilevered a bit over the Stone Creek River. The wall facing the river was all glass from floor to ceiling, bringing the view of Stone Creek and the surrounding woods into the little log home. I just love Spring, don’t you, Hon?

For twenty-seven years I thought you loved Fall, he said from behind her chair as he stroked her hair.

Yes, that too. But look, Hugh, how lovely the new leaves are and how fast the river’s running over the rocks. You can just smell new life, can’t you?

Umm, he agreed, sipping his coffee. Thirty-some-odd years on the Chicago police force, half of them as homicide detective, did not really prepare him for discussions of Nature after only a few years into retirement. Very pretty, he agreed.

I love how the morning sun filters through the aspens’ little leaves. Gotta get some pictures, she said. In a blink, or in Hugh’s case, a swallow, she was up and out the door, her camera gripped tightly in her right hand, her light meter in her left because she never really trusted the through-the-lens meter on the SLR.

Hugh watched her through the kitchen window as she narrowed in on her prey—a cluster of aspen near the old ruin of a homestead cabin included with the ten acres of woods and small meadow. She paced forward, then back, side-to-side, standing and shooting, bending and shooting. He could feel the pleasure she was enjoying, finally having found an artistic vent. She came back to the enclosed porch for a jacket, then ran out again, this time headed for the river’s banks. She ambled off downstream, pausing now and then with the camera to her eye. Her plump figure soon became a moving dot along the side of the rushing river.

Wolfie and Queenie came from somewhere in the trees and pranced after her, looking more like horses than dogs. It was hard to get them inside now that the late April thaw had finally come.

Hugh dropped some bacon into a pan, put some bread into the toaster, and glanced back out the window. The two Malamutes were nearer the house now, and were in the process of dragging something up from the river. It seemed to be something quite heavy and colorful. With great effort, not necessarily a coordinated one, they were able to get it onto flat land. Their excitement showed in circling the object, pulling at it, barking, and shoving their noses into each other’s activities. So much like their wolf heritage. As he broke the eggs into the bacon grease, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Susan had returned to where the dogs were.

She stood staring for a moment. The dogs were suddenly pushed away and made to sit a few feet from the object. Hugh heard her shout his name and saw her vigorously waving toward the house. He slid the frying pan over to a cool burner and ran out toward her.

My God, he sighed when he reached her side.

In a flannel shirt.

Pretty well preserved. Better call Beatrice.

~ * ~

A half hour later the dogs preferred to play hide-and-seek around the homestead cabin, tired of being shooed away from their find, while Sheriff Beatrice, Hugh, and Susan stood looking down on the body.

It’s Wooly, Beatrice said.

How can you tell it’s Wooly? asked Hugh. Not much of the face there. Head’s been gashed most of the way down to the mouth.

It’s Wooly all right. That shirt is one of the two he owns. Owned. And those boots once belonged to my ex-boyfriend, who, thank God, is no longer with us.

He died, too, Beatrice? asked Susan. I’m so sorry.

Cincinnati. He moved to Cincinnati. Louse that he was. Good riddance, I say. Who’s got a cigarette? She looked up at Susan and Hugh from her petite 5’3" stature.

Here, said Hugh. She took it and flicked her fingers as though she had a lighter between them. He lit it for her.

We could identify him by dental records, of course, she said, blowing smoke from her nose. If he had ever gone to a dentist. Not that a man with only five or so teeth ever needed a dentist. You know, he doesn’t smell too bad, does he? Better than when he was alive. I suppose this accounts for his lack of presence in town these past few months. I’ve seen all I want to see. Let’s go in and call Lars. Better get Wolfie and Queenie inside.

Beatrice finished placing the call to the coroner and joined Hugh and Susan in the River Room. She sat in one of the two lounge chairs and leaned it back all the way. Where’s Kate?

What a nice surprise, came a voice from the French doors opening into the living room.

Hey, Kate, Beatrice called without lifting her head from the soft chair. You’re missing all the excitement. Dead Wooly Jacoby found on your property. Wanna see?

Well, how exciting, Beatrice. I was trying to sleep a bit later this morning, but the girls came down just now and woke me up. Queenie jumped on my bed, and Wolfie here kept licking me till I got up. Pardon my robe and slippers. Who wants breakfast? Oh, I see someone already started. Shall I make some pancakes, or hotcakes as you call them here in Montana?

A too quick unison of No thanks came from the other three. In the few months passed since Susan’s Aunt Kate had come to live with them, her lack of culinary skills had too easily proven themselves. All three had experienced sufficient taste depravation at Kate’s hands. Though she had recently taken cooking classes with Virginia Weikert, owner of the Bear Paw Down Home All You Can Ever Eat Restaurant, and entered the Lodgepole Invitational Bakery Contest with her chili-banana-strawberry cake, her reputation still preceded her.

Best to let sleeping dogs lie.

Then I guess I’ll just have some cereal, Kate said.

Who was this Wooly person, anyway? asked Susan.

Our version of the town loser. Beatrice brought the lounge chair to an upright position. Not to sound so harsh, but he was not the lovable down-and-outer he tried to portray. He’s been here for maybe thirty years now, moochin’ and scroungin’ off whatever soft hand he could lay grasp to. Most of us over the years got hit, you know guilt and pity, that kinda stuff, but in the end we all just gave up on ’im. He was not the grateful kind. Wouldn’t work, or if he was trapped into it, did a lousy job of it, and preferred to bum what he could. Loved hittin’ on the tourists. Don’t know how many times me and Henry had to chase him outta town so he wouldn’t scare them. Spent most of his time in town at the River Creek Saloon beggin’ drinks.

Where’d he live? Hugh asked.

Not surprisingly, upstream from here about six miles. A shack. No electricity.

You mean he’s in the yard? How’d he get here? Kate asked from the little pine table in the kitchen.

I reckon he just floated down stream come the thaw. Looked like he’d been preserved pretty well in the snow and ice.

Murdered?

Might say so. Must be pretty hard to gash your face in half by yourself. Got any more of this sissy vanilla coffee?

Don’t act like you never go to the Lodgepole Espresso To Go, laughed Susan. I’ve seen the squad car there a few times.

Henry goes. Not me.

Right, said Hugh. And I suppose that sludge you and Henry whip up at the station and pass off as coffee is better?

Real Montana coffee.

Not if you’re a real Montana human being. Perhaps if you’re a 3500 Chevy Dually and need your block degreased.

I hate to interrupt this esoteric conversation, said Susan in her best imitation of a Southern belle. But I do believe I see a stranger in the yard, and I’ve always relied upon the kindness of strangers. Or somethin’ like that.

Olmstead, said Beatrice. Coffee all around. She inched her small form out of the lounge chair and out the back door, followed by Hugh and Kate, Wolfie and Queenie.

Anyone bring the casserole? Olmstead asked of the little group. Are we to expect the neighbors also? If I’d known I was coming to a party I’d have put my dress boots on.

Funny, Lars, real funny, said Beatrice. You keep it up and you don’t get no vanilla coffee.

And as further punishment, you’ll have to go back to the station and be forced to drink Beatrice’s sludge, Hugh warned as he shook hands with the coroner.

Nice to see you, Hugh. Looks like you’re gaining a little weight, he said looking at Hugh’s slender 5’10 frame. Looks good on you. For a retired cop you sure have a hard time staying away from what you retired from."

Just kind of falls into my lap, so to speak.

I see you still have those two wolves that masquerade as dogs.

They all looked at Wolfie and Queenie playing at fighting as they nipped each other’s ears and hind legs. They ever get tired?

I did see them sleep once back in November, said Hugh.

So what’s the story on Wooly here? asked Lars as he used his foot to raise the right side of the body off the ground an inch or so.

Dogs found him.

"Wooly was taking a little swim in the