Dead Hot Shot (Loon Lake Fishing Mysteries) by Victoria Houston Page A

vehicles plus the back porch lights of neighbors on both sides, the parking lot for Mildred’s Food Shop and the old barn stood in relief against the November night. As he hurried to catch up with Lew, Osborne noticed that the wire cage in front of the barn looked different from earlier that day — now the door was wide open but the interior still empty.
    Off to the left and close to the house lay Mildred Taggert: her body in its black tunic and loose black slacks sprawled sideways on the asphalt, her face a sliver of white. An EMT, crouched over the body, looked up as Osborne and Lew approached. He shook his head as he said, “No pulse, Dr. Osborne. Too late, I’m afraid. We got here within four minutes of the 911 call, too. Take a look,” he said, pointing, “that is one nasty wound on the side of her head there.”
    Osborne knelt over the old woman. Her neck was arched, the head thrown back as if reeling from a blow. Her lovely, long silver hair, knocked from its trim knot, spread like mercury across the asphalt, gleaming in the light — as did the blood. The blood black and moving, trickling along ruts and across clumps of loose tar.
    After taking a moment to pull on a pair of Nitrile gloves, Osborne leaned forward to gently tip Mildred’s head to one side so that he and Lew, leaning over from behind him, could get a better look at what the EMT meant by “a nasty wound.” Osborne looked up at her. “Right,” she said in a grim tone as she nodded in agreement.
    Mildred did not fall and hit her head nor was she bludgeoned. And it wouldn’t take an AWOL coroner or a retired dentist to tell a woman who hunted what she was looking at: a single bullet — shot at close range — had done the job.
    “You think that’s an exit wound, Doc?” Lew twisted around, eyes scanning the house, the barn, the neighbors’ yards. “I’m wondering from which direction she was shot.”
    “I’ll have to defer to the pathologist on that,” said Osborne. “Afraid I can’t hazard a guess even. The best I can do is record a bullet to the head as apparent cause of death.” Osborne pulled off the gloves. “Better send Ray home for his cameras before she’s moved.”
    “Yep. Looks like we’ll be here awhile, doesn’t it? Are you okay with that, Doc? I can use your help with the girls. Find out what they heard or saw — the neighbors, too. Oh — and I’ll need to find a place for the girls to stay.” She gave a heavy sigh. “No sleep for the weary.”
    He answered with a rub of her shoulder. “I wonder if Mildred even knew what hit her.,” he said, his voice trailing off as he stared down at the old woman. He wondered, too, if she had discovered the truth about Daisy. Had she suspected someone of stealing or killing her pet? One thing he knew for sure: Mildred would not have hesitated to confront the guilty party — and she would not have been nice.
    “Lew — ” Just as Osborne realized he better mention the dead animal, Ray came running up with Gina in tow.
    “Oh, no — my poor friend,” said Ray, his face falling. “Poor, poor Mildred. This — ,” he turned to Gina, “is so sad. Since I was six years old, I’ve been stopping by Mildred’s shop almost every day. I’ve always bought my fishing licenses from her. She’s an institution in Loon Lake.” He pressed his fingers against his eyes, then took a deep breath. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
    Lew patted his shoulder, her own eyes glistening. Osborne felt it, too. Sadness hovered like a silent prayer between the three of them. Each had known this woman in different ways and over many years. Mildred may have been gruff, she may have intimidated — but she was knit into the fabric of Loon Lake, into their daily lives. Lew broke the silence. “Whoever it was used a gun.”
    “Yeah, I thought that might be the case,” said Ray, his eyes raking the parking lot and what could be seen of the shop and the house as if he expected the shooter