Destroying Angels (Leigh Girard Book 1) Page 10

Tuesday, November 7, Present day

  Deputy Chet Jorgensen grudgingly agreed to meet me Tuesday at 6:30 AM near the entrance to Newport State Park. He had some work to do up there that couldn’t wait. It was either 6:30 AM Tuesday, or I could wait until Thursday when he’d be back at the station. He confirmed over the phone that the toxicology results from Carl Peck's blood and tissue samples had come in Monday afternoon. But he couldn’t or wouldn’t give me the results over the phone. As a favor to Stevens, he said he’d discuss them with me, but only in person. I didn’t want to wait most of the week, so I agreed to his terms and this sunrise meeting. I did appreciate that he never once mentioned our encounter at Joyce Oleander's condo.

  I arrived sleepy and grouchy at the park entrance. A faint horizon of light pushed at the somber sky. My watch read 6:16, and Deputy Jorgensen was already there. In daylight, he looked even blonder and larger. As I pulled up beside his dark green pickup, Jorgensen was testing the string of a wooden bow. Near his feet lay a container full of arrows.

  I slammed the door of my truck, and walked over to him. “That time of year already?” I pointed to the arrows.

  He gave me a curt nod and drew back again on the bow string. His camouflage jacket sleeve pulled up, revealing a black leather band that cinched his wrist and looked like some kind of S & M device. I wondered if the band had a practical application singular to bow and arrow hunting, or was merely a male affectation.

  “Hunting season, right?” Looking at his thick neck and massive shoulders, and the canny way he handled the bow, I figured he probably always bagged his target.

  “Nope, not till November eighteen.”

  “Oh, just getting in a little pre-season practice?” Hunting was one of my red flags. My best friend’s father—a burly, unpleasant man who yelled a lot—had been an avid hunter. His basement rec room looked like a taxidermist's. As a kid I’d been frightened to even go down there. I had a special aversion to the mounted buck head whose eyes had that dead stare and whose tongue was a little too red. I just didn’t understand how killing animals could make anybody feel good.

  He gave me a cold stare, and for a minute, I thought he was going to cuff me for running off at the mouth. He smiled instead.

  “See that, there?” He pointed down the road to a field of neatly planted trees. “Deer are eatin’ them new trees. The owner wants me to rid him of his problem.”

  “Why not use a rifle like everyone else?” I was tempted to amend that sentence with “Like every other blood thirsty idiot hunter,” but Jorgensen, the blonde deer slayer, was fairly intimidating up close and personal.

  “No sport there.” He looked me up and down, as if he was sizing me up for his trophy wall. “Ever shoot a bow and arrow?”

  “Never shot anything. And hope I never have to.” It was truly beyond me how anyone could hunt for sport or otherwise.

  “Ever hear of Darwin?”

  “Of course: survival of the fittest, the strongest wins.”

  “That’s why ya gotta hunt. Especially in a situation where ya got too many deer, plain and simple, and no predators. No wolves, no mountain lions. Around here, these deer keep reproducin’ like rabbits, eatin’ up cherry orchards, flowers, people’s gardens, tulips, you name it. Ever see what they do to cars and people?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Only last week, we had another car crash because of some deer. Damn thing was standin’ by the roadside one minute, and in front of this gal’s car the next. It was pitch black out, and she didn’t see it till it was too late. She tried to avoid the damn thing, and BAM! Smacked right into a tree. Seems the deer just jumped out in front of her. Did ya know they can jump a ten-foot fence? Lucky for her only the car was wrecked.”

  He ignored my glazed look of flora and fauna boredom. “Ever see a deer starve to death in winter, then?”

  "Can’t say that I have,” I answered, shivering into my down parka. It had started to snow, and just the sight of the wispy flakes swirling through the air was making me cold.

  “Well, a clean kill beats slow death by starving, I tell ya that.”

  Okay, he had my interest, but I wasn’t buying his humane white hunter routine. I’d read too many Hemingway novels. Blood lust was always lurking around the page. “And I suppose you eat everything you kill?” I challenged.

  “What I don’t eat, which ain't much, I give away to friends."

  I looked up into Deputy Jorgensen’s face for a trace of a smile. There was none. “You’re not kidding,” I said.

  “Now why would I do that?” he asked, grinning broadly.

  “Why indeed.” It was time to swing the conversation to Carl Peck and his toxicology results. “You said on the phone that the toxicology results came in from Indianapolis.”

  “Yup, 'round four yesterday. We got ’em first. I told Chief Burnson, run ’em again, make sure. He won’t then. Thinks if it comes from Indianapolis, gotta be A-Okay.”

  “I take it the results were a surprise,” I prompted.

  “Whadya mean?”

  “Well, if the pathologist called the sheriff’s office, then Peck didn’t die of liver cirrhosis or a heart attack. What was it—some drug?”

  He fixed me again with that Norwegian stare. “Nope. There ya go again, jumpin’ to conclusions. Ya’had to know Carl. Nice old guy. Liked to talk, especially after he’d had a few. Re-did my kitchen, and only charged me for materials.”

  A flock of Canadian geese flew overhead in a honking procession. We both watched in silence. “I hear down where you’re from, they don’t migrate no more.”

  “What?”

  “The geese. Spend the whole year there cause of them artificial ponds. And so many people feeding ’em. Stupid thing to do.”

  I remembered an unpleasant al fresco dining experience one summer evening beside an artificial pond in Lake Forest. The geese had boldly approached diners and hissed at them for scraps. “Yeah, I hate those nasty creatures.”

  He laughed. “Me, too.” He paused, lifted the brim of his camouflage cap and scratched his head. “Messy business.”

  “A real nuisance.”

  “Nuisance? Nauseating’s more like it.” He chuckled to himself.

  “I take it we’re not talking about geese.” He gave me yet another stare as if I was being obtuse.

  “Only if ya’d shared Peck’s last meal, then I’d say your goose was cooked.” He laughed. Andy of Mayberry had nothing on Chet Jorgensen.

  “Are you saying that Peck died from something he ate?”

  He drew one of the arrows out of the container. “According to that pathologist, Peck died from toxic poisoning.”

  “Did the report name the substance that killed him?”

  “Now, that’s the interestin’ part. He died from mushroom poisoning.”

  “Mushroom poisoning? Why is that interesting?”

  “Didn’t ya know? Carl was a mushroom picker.” Jorgensen aimed the arrow at a tree.“I always told ’em, one of these days you’re gonna slip up and eat the wrong damn mushroom.’ ‘Won’t happen,’ he’d say. ‘I know what I’m doin.'" He pulled back on the arrow and let it go. It hit the tree dead center. “Stubborn old bastard. Still, he's been a mushroom picker as long as I can remember. Weird way to spend your time. He even got his son-in-law, well, ex-son-in-law hooked on ’em.”

  My brain was trying to follow the metaphoric arrow of information that Chet had just let loose, including mention of the son-in-law, who would be my fellow reporter, Rob Martin. "So what kind of lethal mushroom did Carl Peck eat?” I asked.

  “The kind that kills ya.” Chet thought he was pretty funny. I smiled a weak smile.

  “No, really, do you know what kind of mushroom, exactly? For the paper.” I indicated my pen.

  “Don’t know. You’d have to ask the Chief.” I wrote down "Call Chief Burnson re: deadly mushroom."

  “Are the police going to pursue a criminal investigation?”

  Again the stare as if I had two heads. “Ain’t no crime t
o investigate. Who’d want to knock off old Carl?”

  Renn Woulff instantly came to mind. “How about Renn Woulff? He claims Peck cheated him.”

  “Lady, you’re way off. Woulff’s a dirt bag loser who couldn’t tie his shoes if it weren’t for his girl friend, Regina. Ya think he could figure out a poison mushroom and get Peck to eat it? No way, no how. Peck screwed up, plain and simple.” He made a motion with his hand, as if he were drinking from a bottle. “Carl had a drinkin’ problem, that's for sure. Probably got confused. It’s too bad then, but there ain’t no crime. I guess he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was.”

  “But aren’t the police curious as to why no one else ate the mushrooms? At least they could look into that aspect.”

  “No need. Everybody knows Carl was the only one who ate them mushrooms he picked. Eva can’t stand ’em. Never could. What does she call ’em? 'Slime meat or slime salad,' something like that. And Sarah wasn’t exactly on good terms with Carl. So I don’t expect she shared any meals with him.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the Pecks.”

  He smiled sheepishly. “I’ve known Sarah since high school. We run into each other, once in awhile.”

  I could swear he was blushing under his ruddy complexion. “I still think the police should question Eva Peck about the mushrooms.” This laissez-faire attitude of the police troubled me.

  “Look lady, this ain’t Chicago where murders are as common as ticks on a deer. We don’t have much crime in Door County. Drunk drivers mostly, some domestic abuse. And if some dirt bag commits a crime and tries to skedaddle, the sheriff radios drawbridge operators, who are friends of his. And they yank up those bay bridges there. It’s like living on a friggin island.” He winked at me.

  “What about Joyce Oleander and the person who turned her over?”

  “Told ya, that was Ida Reeves. Anyway, it weren’t no crime. You find somethin’ out?”

  “No, did you?”

  He shook his head no. “If you’re so worried about murderers, maybe you should learn to defend yourself. Here,” he pushed his bow toward me. “Why don’t ya try it?”

  Now I know when someone’s having a joke at my expense. But what Deputy Jorgensen didn’t know was that when the other girls in my high school gym class opted for softball, I opted for archery. By senior year, I had a letter in the sport. I slipped my pen and notebook into my pocket. “Well, I don’t know. It looks awfully heavy.” I reached for the bow with both hands.

  “It ain’t heavy. It’s one of them newer bows, made of laminated wood and fiberglass, 'sposed to be lighter and faster. In fact, I’ve known twelve-year-olds who could shoot it. You’re as strong as a twelve-year-old, aren’t ya?”

  “Well, if f you think I can . . .” I batted my eyes innocently up at him. I probably shouldn’t use my left arm to hold a bow, no matter how light it was. My doctor had warned me that any overexertion of the left arm could cause the lymphs to swell with lymphatic fluid that would never disperse. The damage would be permanent. He’d told me more than once the story of the patient who had used a Nordic track and permanently damaged her arm. She had ended up with lymphedema. But I also knew that the right arm would do most of the work. Besides, I couldn’t resist playing a return joke of my own on Deputy Jorgensen.

  “C’mon, try it, then.” He walked behind me with the bow and arrow and placed my hands in the proper position. “Now take aim. Pull the string back real tight and just shoot.”

  “Like this?” I pulled back on the string with my right arm and let the arrow fly. It went left of his arrow, which was centered in the tree. I had been aiming right of it.

  “That’s damn good,” he said.

  He seemed to think I had hit my target. I wasn’t going to convince him otherwise. “Just a lucky shot,” I grinned. “Have to keep up with those twelve-year-olds.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Ya done this before?”

  “A long time ago, in another life,” I confessed.

  He took the bow back. “Ya still got a good eye. Hunting season begins the eighteenth. If you’re interested, I’ve got a spare bow and some arrows.”

  Before I could say no, he reached into the cab of his truck and brought out another bow and an assortment of arrows.

  “Though I should tell ya, shooting is the least part of it.”

  “What is the most part?” I asked. “Trying not to get shot by your fellow hunters?”

  “That only happens to yahoos,” he smirked. “Ya know, city people like yourself.”

  “Okay,” I conceded, “I had that coming.”

  “The most part is knowing your prey, by studying their habits. See, when ya bow and arrow hunt, you’re real close to ’em when ya make the kill, so ya gotta know about ’em.”

  “So, what’s there to know about deer? Aren't they relatively docile?"

  “What do ya mean? They’re moving.”

  “You know, I mean tame." I wasn’t sure anymore which of us was putting the other on most.

  “Yeah, okay then. But they’re quick too. With deer, ya gotta stand hunt. Look at the land, how it lays, decide what the deer’s using the trail for. Once ya know that, ya know when to wait for the deer. See, if the trail’s being used for food, then I know to wait for the deer between midday and evening.”

  “And when the unsuspecting deer arrives, you shoot it clean through the heart. No pun intended.” I said.

  His forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Pun?”

  “You know heart, h-e-a-r-t. Hart, h-a-r-t. Male deer.”

  “Don’t know about that. But shooting through the heart is a macho kill. I don’t aim for the heart. I aim for the lungs.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “A deer shot through the heart can run two hundred yards before it dies. But if it’s shot through the lungs, it can only go about forty-five yards before them lungs collapse and it suffocates. It’s better for the deer.”

  “Either way, it still sounds like a mighty unpleasant way to die.” All this talk about clean ways to kill was starting to make me nauseous.

  “Most time, deer don’t even know it’s hit. Ain’t no pain, only fear.”

  “You can’t know that,” I said. I had often wanted to suggest to my entourage of well-meaning cancer doctors that they try the treatments they were giving me and see how “uncomfortable” it really was.

  “I guess you’ve just gotta see it, to know. Here, give it a try sometime.” He handed me the bow and arrows. “Just bring ’em by the station when you’re done with ’em.”

  Reluctantly, I took the bow and arrows. After my truck was out of view, I threw them on the floor behind my seat.

  14

  “So what’s nagging at you?” Lydia locked the front door of the shop and switched off the lights. For a moment, we stood in darkness. I deeply inhaled the potpourri of scents: jasmine, lavender, patchouli and something spicy—maybe cinnamon. Then she lit a candle.

  “I’m getting in the mood,” she said. As she walked toward the rear of the shop in the direction of the back door, her crimson silk caftan flowed around her like water. I watched her liquid shadow waver across the jewelry display cabinet, a wall of books, then disappear into an archway and emerge again on the back door.

  She had called me around noon and asked if I wanted to sit in on her women’s group. My spine had instantly stiffened at the idea. I'd had enough of groups and therapy sessions. But Lydia explained that her group was more like a New Age bull session. “We usually start with some type of spiritual ritual, depending on the theme for that week, and then just share what’s going on in our lives,” she explained. “One of the women recently dropped out. So we could really use another person.”

  It sounded too intimate for me. “I don’t know.”

  “C’mon. Free drinks,” she paused. “And Sarah Peck’s a member.”

  Her father’s funeral had been that morning—the day after Joyce Oleander's. I expressed my doubts about that affecting whether Sa
rah would show up or not.

  “Oh, she’ll show up. Our theme tonight is healing.”

  I mused a moment on Lydia's confidence that Sarah Peck would run anywhere to open up to healing, but decided not to mention it. “Lydia, did you happen to know Joyce Oleander?” The connection between Sarah Peck and Joyce Oleander continued gnawing at me.

  “I saw her occasionally around the hospital. What does this have to do with anything?”

  “Sarah Peck was at her funeral.”

  “Really? Wear anything interesting?”

  “Her usual attire: back leather and more black leather. Though the mercurochrome treatment to her hair was a nice touch.”

  Lydia laughed. “You’ve got to give the girl credit. She does make a statement. So yes or no? Are you coming tonight?”

  Of course, I had said yes. Lydia and her wavering candlelight returned from the back of the shop and headed upstairs to her living quarters.

  “What’s nagging at me is the circumstances of Peck’s death. Aren’t poisonings from mushrooms pretty rare? And supposedly, Peck was something of an expert. How could he have made such a mistake?” Even after promising not to use the information until after the investigation was concluded, Chief Burnson would only confirm what Jorgensen had already told me: Carl had died from mushroom poisoning. I’d spent the afternoon researching poisonous mushrooms. I’d told Stevens that I needed background for the follow-up story on Peck. He had raised a skeptical eyebrow but didn’t stop me.

  “All it takes is one,” Lydia remarked. “You know, kinda like getting a little pregnant.”

  “Maybe. But regardless of the circumstances, my guess is that he died from eating one of the amanitas. They cause ninety percent of the deaths from mushroom poisoning. What were his symptoms?”

  “You don’t really want know,” Lydia said, shaking her head. “As I remember, just being in a hospital turns you green.”

  We reached the top of the stairs, which opened up into a large room. In the candlelight, I could see mammoth pillows scattered around the carpet. All the furniture was pushed against the wall.

  “Like it?” Lydia asked. “It makes me feel closer to the earth, more grounded.”