Dead Deceiver by Victoria Houston

impossible to get back to sleep.”
    Still those teasing eyes, so he changed the subject. “Say, who was it was saying about Patience Schumacher recently? Something about that guy she married?”
    “That would be me,” said Wayne French through a mouthful of sausage egg McMuffin. He wiped at his lips with a crumpled napkin before saying more. Osborne waited, but Wayne took another bite.
    Wayne French was a general contractor who would work only in Loon Lake and even then only jobs outside the town proper. He refused jobs in Rhinelander or Eagle River because of what he considered “ridiculous building codes”—or was it “ridiculous building inspectors?” Osborne was too tired to remember.
    “So … I don’t remember what I said exactly,” said Wayne once the sandwich was gone, mopping crumbs off the table with his napkin. “All I know is she married this fellow that I hired to paint the interior walls of her house.”
    “You sure that’s right?” asked Osborne. “I was told the man is an artist. He paints pictures. You know, like outdoor scenes or something.”
    “Oh ho,” snorted Wayne, “maybe he does now. But when my crew did the work in that house of hers—had to tear out the wainscoting on the master bedroom ceiling twice before that woman was happy—hundred thousand dollars of time and materials and I ain’t makin’ that up! I hired Chuck to paint the walls and stain the moldings. That’s how they met. Before the remodeling was done, they were engaged.”
    Osborne stared at him. “You’re kidding. How long ago was this?”
    “Less than a year ago. Why?”
    “Just wondering,” said Osborne. “Ran into the guy the other day and found him interesting.”
    “Interesting and bone broke,” said Wayne. “Man, that sucker lucked out. Wish I could meet a woman with a million times my bank account. Hell, I’d think twice even if she did look like Patience Schumacher.”
    “C’mon, Wayne,” said Osborne, shaking his head. “That’s not kind. I’m sure those two have more in common than that.”
    “I dunno,” said Wayne, going for a refill. “I been around enough I seen some weird pairings in my life and that one takes the cake.”
    “Where’s he from? Around here somewhere?”
    “Says he grew up on a dairy farm outside Rhinelander. Lived on the West Coast with his first wife, he said—but never would say what he did in those days. I just assumed he’s made his way doing odd jobs. Gave me a P.O. box for his checks and never did give me a Social Security number. Said he’d take care of it.”
    “We’re talking about the same guy, right?” asked Osborne. “Charles Mason.”
    “ Charles ? Hell, no. Chuck’s how I know him.”
    The door to Lew’s office was closed when Osborne arrived at seven thirty. He gave a light knock before opening and poked his head around the door to be sure it was okay to enter. She was on the phone and waved him in.
    “Okay, thank you, tomorrow then. I’ll inform the family,” she said as she hung up. She looked up at Osborne saying, “The hearse will return Kathy Beltner’s body to the funeral home tomorrow morning,” she said. “They’ve finished the autopsy and just have the paperwork to complete.”
    “That’s a relief,” said Osborne. “I know Rob and his girls will appreciate the hearse, Lewellyn.” She gave him a sidelong glance intended to dismiss the comment. Osborne was one of few people who knew that when autopsies were required to be conducted at a distance from Loon Lake, she paid for the hearse transport out of her own pocket. The town had no budget for that service and soon after her promotion to Chief, Lew discovered that Pecore shuttled victims who had died of unnatural causes in the back of his pick-up truck.
    “I refuse to allow abuse like that on my watch,” Lew had said, and that was that.
    “Surprise, surprise, Doc,” said Lew, leaning on her elbows, fingers steepled. “No help from Wausau on this situation with