Dead Angler (21 page)

Osborne
walked down the leaf-covered drive to Ray’s trailer. Lights shone warmly in the windows, and the perfume of blue gills sautéing in butter drifted across the night air. He could see Ray’s curly head in the window and knew he was standing over the cast iron frying pan on the gas stove, expertly nudging and flipping the tiny fillets. Credence Clearwater Revival suddenly boomed into the lakeside silence, and Ray’s head nodded in time.

He paused a few feet from the trailer, watching as Mallory walked into the frame of the small window. He saw Ray give her some kind of instruction. Then she vanished from view. Probably setting the table.

He wondered why he felt so blank. Here he was walking into a time of crisis in his daughter’s life, and he really did not know what he could do. At least he didn’t feel fatigued. If anything, the conversation with Ed had generated an adrenaline rush that still held. He felt poised for something, but he had no idea what. The only advice he could think of at the moment, he knew she wouldn’t want to hear.

He pulled open the screen door and stepped inside quickly to keep the mosquitoes out. Mallory was seated at the table where Ray was in the act of handing her a plate heaped high with lightly browned blue gills.

“Hey, Doc, grab that hot pad and pull up those French fries, will you, please? Mallory, make room on your plate—my fries are twice-fried. You’ve never tasted anything like it.”

Osborne executed the familiar procedure as he smiled over at his daughter. “My contribution to Northwoods cuisine—emptying the French fry basket.”

“Hi, Thad,” Mallory’s eyes were amused and bleary, her head weaving in a drunken attempt to look sober. Her first forkful of blue gills missed her mouth slightly, hitting her cheek. She wiped at it quickly with her napkin.

“Eat,” said Ray, delivering plates for himself and Osborne. And so they did, washing the fish and French fries down with big gulps of ice water from a large pitcher set in the middle of the table.

“So, Doc,” said Ray. “For reasons you are about to understand, I am very … very … disturbed. George was supposed to show up at the bar by eight tonight with the keys for those boats tomorrow.”

“Right,” said Osborne. “You’ve got the pre-fishing starting in the morning.”

“Yep. Guess who was a no-show.”

“Don’t tell me.” Osborne set down his glass of water and looked at Ray in disbelief.

“I called John Murphy over at the marina, and he’ll loan me some renters for the morning, but that’s not what’s been promised the walleye boys. I’ve got to have those boats by Thursday night at the very latest. I have to tell ya, I’m starting to get a little freaked about this, Doc.” Whatever his state of mind, it didn’t keep Ray from enjoying the blue gills on his plate.

“These professionals usually have state-of-the-art boats from their sponsors,” Osborne explained to Mallory, “but they like this tournament because they demo the newest models and rate them for national magazines. Ray is in charge of the boats this year, and they were supposed to be up here last week. Do you remember George Zolonsky?”

“Who doesn’t know George?” said Mallory, continuing to wolf down her buttery fillets.

“He sure is making Ray’s life miserable.”

“Can I have a few more?” asked Mallory, lifting her plate toward Ray.

“Plenty more,” said Ray, returning to the stove for another full platter of fish. They finished it off and counted. “I had thirteen,” said Mallory, sounding a little better. “Sixteen, for me,” said Ray, and he burped loudly.

“Jeez, Ray,” said Osborne, “we’ve got a lady at the table.”

Mallory closed her eyes in rapture, “My god, Ray, this has been delicious.” She opened her eyes, “Will you marry me?”

Ray, leaned back in his chair and studied her, a gentle look of interest on his face. “What’s wrong with that hardworking husband of yours?”

“Oh, he has a girlfriend,” said Mallory nonchalantly, reaching for a French fry.

“Really,” said Ray, his voice soft.

“Yes,” said Mallory, “one of the executives he works with. I filed for divorce.”

“You seem very matter of fact,” said Ray. Pushing her plate slowly away, her face wooden, Mallory started to say something else, then she stopped. She choked back tears.

“Not much I can do. Never was. He has never wanted to do things with me. We lead separate lives … like he doesn’t like to play tennis, he won’t travel. He doesn’t read, he never works out. We never talk. We never have a good time like you have a good time, Ray.”

“Mallory, don’t tell me about his life, his mistakes. What about you, your life, your future. What do you want? What do you want from life?”

Mallory looked at him in utter silence. She looked so confused. Osborne felt his heart breaking.

“Not what your mother wanted you to want,” Ray said, “I want to know what you want.”

She set her chin defiantly like a little kid, “I want to dance. Steve refuses to dance with me. I want to dance!” Her words rang out over John Fogarty’s voice in the background.

“So dance,” said Ray, “it’s never too late to start dancing.”

“I can’t dance alone.”

“Yes, you can.”

“But what if he won’t.”

“Mallory,” Ray chuckled softly, “we all have our own dance, and we all have to dance alone.

“I like how you dance. Why can’t I join you?”

“Hey, kid,” said Ray, “you don’t want to dance with a digger of graves.”

“Yeah, but, Ray, I’ll be wealthy after my divorce. Dance with me, and you’ll never have to dig a grave again.”

“Mallory. That’s the difference between us.” Ray looked hard at her: “I
like
to dig graves.”

The look of confusion crossed her face again. “Why?” she whispered.

Ray shrugged, “Who knows? Maybe ‘cause it keeps me honest. One thing I know,” he chuckled again, “we all leave the world the same way—with the clothes on our back and twenty bucks worth of embalming fluid.”

“Even Meredith Marshall with all her millions,” chimed in Osborne.

Mallory turned to him, “Dad, you’ve been awfully quiet today.”

“I’m worried about you.”

She laughed a tight, hard little laugh, “That’s positive.”

“What does that mean, Mallory?” From the corner of his eye, Osborne saw Ray pick up the remaining plates, drop them in the sink and quietly leave the room.

“Dad, did you love Mother?”

“At first, very much. Later … your mother was never happy, Mallory. I never knew quite why. All I know today is I like to be with happy people. Perhaps a better way to put it is I like to be with people happy with themselves.”

“That’s what I want. You and mother, you wanted me to marry a stable man, one who lives inside the lines. Well, Dad, I did what I was supposed to, and I am so lonely. Look at Ray, my God, he doesn’t just enjoy his life—he goddam sparkles. I’m sorry. I’m so drunk, Dad.”

“I was going to suggest you consider re-hab, kiddo. I did.”

“I’m in therapy … My therapist asked me if I could ask you a question.” Mallory paused. Osborne waited.

“Dad, do you love me?”

It was the question he didn’t want to hear. Osborne dropped his head. He felt a kind of pain through his chest. He knew Ray was in the other room, and he knew Ray knew his answer. It was a hard one that he had had to answer in order to survive. He had answered it once before in the company of his daughter, Erin, during the intervention that saved his life. He had a choice now: he could be kind and tell a lie or be honest and brutal.

“No, Mallory, I don’t. I … I’ve had a difficult time liking you.”

His daughter heaved a great sigh. “O-o-h,” was all she said. “Can you tell me why?”

“You asked me if I loved your mother. Well, the early years of our marriage, when you were born, you were her focus. It sounds silly, but I felt pushed out of the way. Everything you did was perfect. I was always wrong or late or doing the wrong thing. I feel bad telling you this, Mallory …” Osborne raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Can you forgive me?”

“Dad, just knowing the truth is a huge relief,” said Mallory, nearly sober now. “Subconsciously, I think I’ve always known how you felt. Don’t feel bad. I’m paying a shrink to ask me a lot of questions. I’m happy, I’m getting some answers. At least, now I know why I married Steve.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed again. “He doesn’t really like women, Dad. He doesn’t like me. I was comfortable with that.” “So what do you do now?”

“I’m not sure. Ray turned me down,” she gave a rueful little smile. “I guess I have to start over. You know, Dad, life is so unfair. Look at Meredith. Everyone loved her. Her father adored her—”

“Maybe that’s why she died,” said Ray, standing in the doorway. “She took love for granted.”

“We need to head home, hon,” said Osborne, standing up.

“Let me use the bathroom quickly,” said Mallory. She left the room, and Osborne helped Ray clean off the kitchen table.

“Call me if I can help with anything on those boats,” said Osborne.

“Hey, you two,” said Mallory as she walked back into the room. “I almost forgot. I got some good gossip from Randy tonight. You mentioned George Zolonsky earlier? Guess who he’s having an affair with?”

Ray turned around from the sink where he had started to wash dishes. “Not ‘who,’ “ he said, “ ‘how many.’ “

“Not this time,” said Mallory, “this one may be exclusive. Randy said he finally hit the big time.”

“How does Randy know so much?” asked Ray.

“George bragged about it all around Thunder Bay, I guess.”

“So who’s the lucky lady?”

“Alicia Roderick.”

As Mallory walked towards her bedroom after brushing her teeth, Osborne stepped into the hallway. He held his arms out and she walked into him. He felt her head against his shoulder.

“I want you to find your way to being happy, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Dad. Are
you
happy?”

“I’m close.”

As he spoke, he felt a new firmness in his heart as if a kinship was blooming. Could he and Mallory use this awareness of sorrow and neglect to find a bond, maybe even a stronger friendship than they might have had? Maybe even love? What was that Ray said? It’s never too late to start over.

McDonald’s
was bustling when Osborne walked in at twenty to seven, a few minutes later than usual. The regular crowd was sitting over in one corner in groups of twos and threes and fours. Some days, he might find just one group of six but not today. Jerry, the manager, saw him coming. He had Osborne’s Danish and coffee out before he reached the counter.

“Mornin’ Doc.”

“Thanks, Jerry.”

He walked over to the threesome that included Ray, Wayne, and Jake Mettersly. As he arrived, Ray and Wayne stood up to get refills and their orders. Although he was decked out in brand-new fishing boots, Wayne still wore the same jeans. Osborne was relieved to note the detective had changed his T-shirt. He never did understand why so many guys up from the cities assume spending time in the North Woods has to include a sabbatical from clean clothes and deoderant.

Ray set his steaming cup of coffee alongside Osborne’s as he bent and folded his lanky frame into the booth. He unwrapped the tissue around his Egg McMuffin, ripped off the edge of a pepper packet and dumped the contents on his egg. Then he sat back and eyed the fat-laden, greasy unit hungrily. As always, Osborne’s stomach lurched at the sight.

“Tell me this, my friend,” said Osborne, repeating a question he asked at least once a week. “How can the connoisseur of the perfectly sauted fish fillet justify scarfing down an Egg McMuffin with exactly the same enthusiasm?”

“Same principle applies to Alicia Roderick boinking our buddy, George, I guess,” said Ray, taking a big chomp. He wiped a dribble of fake butter from his curly beard, grinned at Osborne and rolled his eyes skyward, waiting. His words had the desired effect: Jake Mettersly, sharing the booth with them, looked up.

“George who?” asked Jake. He was a phamacist who knew every individual in a three-county range needing a prescription over the last thirty years. He also knew most of the druggists in nearby towns who filled the prescriptions he refused on the grounds that he knew they were forged. Now that he was nearing retirement, Jake was a little less reluctant to share his inside information on various members of the Loon Lake community, particularly those of whom he didn’t approve.

“Zolonsky,” said Osborne. “Doesn’t fit, does it?”

“I don’t believe it,” Jake returned to the Milwaukee Journal sports page.

“Doesn’t matter if you believe it or not,” said Ray, finishing off his muffin with one last bite, “the source is pretty darn good. The big question is what is in it for Alicia.” He took a sip from his steaming coffee cup, “Gotta head back to the marina.”

“Everything go okay this morning?” asked Osborne.

“Fishing stinks. With all this heat, the minnows and the mayflies are laying low, so close to the bottom the walleyes don’t have to go far to get happy. These pros are gonna be tearing their hair out. Otherwise, okay. Had everyone on the water by five” said Ray. “No complaints so far.

“You planning to see Lew with the news on George, Doc?”

“You betcha,” said Osborne. “I’m stopping by the jail to see her right after I leave here. She’s usually in by seven.”

“Mallory doing okay?”

“I think so. She’s sleeping in this morning. Her flight’s at four. Thanks for your help last night, Ray.”

“You tell her if she still wants to marry me this morning—I accept.”

Jake had it with that. He lifted his head from his newspaper and looked at the trio as if they were all going mad. He was a very large man, pushing 300 pounds, with a moonlike, pleasant face and a bald head ringed with a halo of straight white hair. He had crisp blue eyes, pink cheeks, and a white blond mustache that reminded Osborne of the little silver-handled broom Mary Lee had used to brush bread crumbs off the dining room tablecloth.

He also had a rollicking sense of humor, an excellent head for logic and professed to having experienced only two surprises in his lifetime. The first was discovering one of his sons loved to sing country music and did so professionally; the second, was when his best friend of twenty years announced he was divorcing his wife for another woman, and Jake had had no idea anything was wrong.

Other than that, Jake considered himself an expert on community relations in Loon Lake. And ducks. He was a fanatic duck hunter and collector of duck decoys. Any conversation you had with Jake was always going to end with ducks somehow.

“Doc’s daughter interested in you, you goombah?” He shook his head and folded the paper in front of him. “Now what’s this about Zolonsky and Alicia Roderick?”

“No details,” said Ray, “just a rumor. What do you think?”

“I’ve lived here long enough to know anything’s possible,” said Jake. “He scored with the wife of that dentist from Eagle River, remember. Who knows what women are thinking. Then he took up with the wife of that fella that opened the brew pub in Rhinelander. Alicia, huh? That might explain why Pete’s been looking so bad lately.”

“He told me he’s exhausted from traveling,” said Osborne, “said he’s been on the road for months.”

Jake had a thoughtful look on his round face. “That reminds me. Pete’s got a twenty-gauge side-by-side I’d love to buy from him. Browning. Beautiful gun. The carving on the butt is really something. Boy, would I like to get my hands on that before duck season opens.” Then he remembered the topic of conversation.

“Poor Pete,” said Jake, “Zolonsky’s never been anything but trouble, y’know,” he said. All three men nodded in silence.

“I’ve had it with the guy,” said Ray, and he shared with Jake the on-going saga of the missing fishing boats.

Jake nodded when he was finished. “But why would Alicia Roderick want anything to do with that guy? She’s smarter than that.”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure—what’s in it for her,” Ray mused, tipping his empty coffee cup around on its edge.

“Now George is easy to read,” said Jake. “He’s got drug and alcohol problems going way back. His routine over that last couple years has been to fake nervous breakdowns, check into the hospital and con those fourth-floor girls into giving him prescriptions for uppers and downers.”

“The fourth floor is the mental ward,” Osborne explained to Wayne.

“What about cocaine?” said Wayne to Jake. “Any locals try to get some of that out of you?”

“George.” said Jake. “He only tried once, though. Showed up with a prescription supposedly written by a doc out of Minneapolis. I just gave him the eye, y’know. Pushed that little piece of paper right back over the counter.”

“How long ago was that?” asked Wayne.

“Last year sometime.”

“You see many legitimate prescriptions for cocaine?” asked Wayne.

“Not too many. Most of the local MDs prefer morphine,” said Jake, “it’s a easier on the system. Last cocaine prescription I filled was for Alicia Roderick after she had eye surgery last year.

“Oh …” Jake realized what he had just said. “Local MD write the prescription?” asked Wayne. “No, surgeon out of Marshfield. They have a big clinic over there.”

“Did you check it out?” “… No.”

Wayne turned to Osborne, “I’m helping Ray this morning, but I plan to drop by the police department later. Will you let Chief Ferris know? Ask her if she can pull Zolonsky’s file for me. Maybe, see if there’s one on this Mrs. Roderick, too.”

“Gee, I doubt you’ll find anything on her,” said Osborne. “What time do you guys have to be back at the marina?”

“Six-thirty. What time is it?” said Ray, standing up. “Doc, you wanna help me? I’ve got two lawyers coming down from Land o’ Lakes, two amateurs that qualified to fish with the pros. I sure could use a hand helping them pre-fish.”

“Sorry, Ray. I need to see Lew, then take some time with Mallory before she leaves.”

Osborne strolled leisurely over to Lew’s office outside the new jailhouse, a short block and a half from McDonald’s. The morning was warm and sunny and pleasant. He stopped to watch a hummingbird dart among the Stella de Or daylillies blooming in front of the Court House. The good feeling of the morning made him feel years younger than sixty-three. It struck him suddenly—he could make a habit of this. “Deputy.” He liked the sound of the word.

Bounding up the stairs lightly, he headed down the hallway to Lew’s office. He was learning that few things made his day better than the sight of her lively face looking up at him from her morning paperwork. This little visit to her office had become almost a regular habit of his on Mondays and Wednesdays.

Lucy, the switchboard operator, turned around as he entered.

She lifted her headset from one ear, “Hey, Doc,” she said. “Lew’s out. Having coffee with Ralph. She said she’d be back in an hour or so. You’ll find them at the pub if you want.”

Osborne’s mood changed with a thud. Ralph? Again? The very sound of the man’s name grated on his nerves.

“I’ll leave her a note,” he said glumly.

The day sped by. Erin showed up at his place by ten with little Cody in tow. The four of them drove up to Kristine’s in Three Lakes for pancakes and more coffee. Osborne was quiet, enjoying the sound of his daughters’ chatter. From time to time, he would catch Mallory’s eye. She returned the look with a friendly smile. He was probably reading too much into it, but she seemed more relaxed. She definitely seemed to be carrying less of a burden than when she arrived.

“Mal, do you really have to go back so soon?” asked Erin at one point.

“I do,” said Mallory, “now that I’m determined to get my degree from Northwestern. Orientation starts tomorrow, remember?”

Erin had planned to drive her to the airport, but at the last minute Osborne decided to intervene. “Let me drive,” he said to Erin, “I’d like to take her if you don’t mind.” The mixture of surprise and pleasure that crossed Mallory’s face was one he wouldn’t forget for a long time.

On the way out to the airport, Osborne apologized, “I wish I could take back what I said to you last night, but I can’t.”

“Dad, you don’t understand,” said Mallory. “You helped me understand myself. It’s fine. I’ll be fine. It’s going to be a hard year, I know, because I’ve got to leave this marriage.” Then she laughed the lightest laugh he had heard from her in years. “You know, I can’t divorce you, but I sure can get rid of the other guy.”

“Does it have to be divorce?”

“Steve is who he is, Dad. I married him for reasons that no longer exist. I want to be a different person—he doesn’t. I can’t ask him to change.”

“You know, Mallory, if this had come up before your mother died, do you know what I would have said? I would have told you you have no business leaving your marriage. I would have quoted Thoreau: ‘The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.’ “

“Thank god, we didn’t talk, Dad. That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“You know who talked me out of that mindset?”

“Ray?”

“Yep.”

“So, Dad, Erin tells me you’re seeing that woman.”

“Oh, no,” said Osborne. “Not really. She’s just a friend, a former patient, y’know.” He tried to sound casual. “The coroner is on vacation so I’m helping out with forensic dental exams when she needs it. And we’ve fished together—but only two times.”

“Fishing
together?” Mallory’s emphasis implied an intimate act. Osborne felt a blush creep up his neck. He tried to camouflage his feelings with a stern, fatherly tone: “Lewellyn Ferris is an expert fly-fisherman, Mallory. She has been coaching me on my casting.”

“I see.” His daughter turned to him with a teasing look in her eye. “Are you falling in love?”

“Heavens, no.” Osborne felt his entire face flush with embarrassment. Mallory didn’t press, but she didn’t drop the teasing expression either. “Just keep me posted, Dad.”

He hugged her closely when her flight was announced, feeling again that sense of firmness deep within. After she boarded, he tried the police station from the pay phone. Lew was still out.

As Osborne drove home, he thought about Mallory’s question.

Love Lew? He certainly liked her. He knew he liked looking at her, he loved the lines around her eyes.

Back at the house, he took a few minutes to throw the ball to Mike who made it clear he had been severely neglected in recent days. Then he walked out onto the porch. The windows were wide open to the lake breezes. He settled into the old velour sofa in the corner, pulled up the afghan his mother had crocheted fifty years ago, and fell sound asleep.

He didn’t wake up until the phone rang three hours later.

It was Ray. “I tried to reach the chief, but she just left to go fishing with Ralph. I’ve got some interesting news on the Sutliff estate, Doc, I’m coming over.” He hung up before Osborne could say anything.

“We have got to get this to your friend as soon as possible,” said Ray as he banged on the back screen door, his choice of words implying his opinion that the relationship between Osborne and Lew was more than professional. Osborne ignored the implication. Ray wiped his feet on the mat, walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed a can of ginger ale.

“Help yourself,” said Osborne after the fact. “I just tried her for the umpteenth time. She hasn’t been in all day. What’s up?”

“Well…,” said Ray, relishing the moment. “You know those lawyers from Land o’ Lakes? One of ‘em turned out to be old man Sutliff’s lawyer, the one who drew up his will. Very, very interesting development…,” Ray raised a finger.

“Now correct me if I’m wrong,” he continued, “but are we not under the impression that the estate was split between the two sisters?”

“That’s what I’ve been told,” said Osborne.

“By whom?”

“Well, by Alicia, I guess. Yes, Sunday, when Lew and I told her about Meredith’s death.”

“Not so. Sutliff left all his money to Meredith.”

“Everything?” Osborne was astounded.

Ray nodded and took a swig of his soda. “Everything.

“Now … if Meredith died without a will, which no one has yet found, what do you think happens?”

“The money goes to the next-of-kin …”

“Who is …” “Alicia.”

“Though it would have been Ben if those papers weren’t signed.”

“We have got to reach Lew,” said Osborne. “I said that,” said Ray. “Let’s go.”