Dead Angler (8 page)

Even the prospect of getting up to go fishing in less than four hours didn’t bother him. Years of rising at 3
A.M.
to go duck-hunting had conditioned him to short nights for the sake of great sport.

What did bother him were the missing fillings. He swished the ginger ale in the glass as he mulled over that situation. Alicia’s blatant accusation of her ex-brother-in-law didn’t fit, thought Osborne. A business man whose company sees revenue in the millions would not be desperate for a few extra thousand in gold inlays.

Or would he? A memory that had tugged at the back of his mind ever since he examined Meredith’s mouth suddenly came into focus. Richard Campbell. The resort magnate from Manitowish Waters. Of course, thought Osborne. Why hadn’t he remembered earlier?

The Campbells had moved up from Chicago in the late 60s, buying one of the North Woods’ finest and largest resorts with money made in the stock market. Richard’s wife had had some of the softest teeth that Osborne had ever seen. Even though the days of gold inlays were fast coming to an end, Richard had insisted on the best for Harriett. Just a year after Osborne had finished all that work, she died. Breast cancer. Richard had called him from the hospital.

“Paul,” he’d said, “I can’t bear the thought of all that money six feet under. What can we do about it?” Osborne had helped him out, of course. Richard wasn’t desperate. Richard was frugal. It was how he made his fortune in the first place.

Osborne called to Mike. Slowly, he and the dog ambled back up to the house. Could Ben be that kind of guy? Osborne figured, conservatively, Meredith’s mouth had held ten to fifteen thousand dollars worth of precious metal. Maybe. Made more sense if a man with a lot less money was involved.

Osborne slipped off to sleep instantly, deeply. But when he woke to the ringing of his alarm at 8:30, the dream was as vivid as if he were still in it. The cold body on the steel drawer. The lean, well-toned body with its pale breasts. Only this body carried not the face of Meredith Marshall, but a face he knew intimately: Mallory Osborne Miller.

Osborne whipped off the alarm and jumped to his feet. Ray would have to wait a few minutes. He had to call his daughter.

Twenty
minutes later, teeth freshly brushed, coffee percolating in his battered old Mirro pot and the party line finally clear so he could have a turn, Osborne stood in his kitchen, by the wall phone, and geared himself up to talk to his oldest daughter. He hoped his neighbors would accord him some privacy and not listen in.

Osborne let the Lake Forest line ring and ring. Finally, Mallory’s answering machine kicked in. Whispery clicks on the line made him fairly certain someone was listening. Oh well, Loon Lake had to hear about the tragedy sometime. He waited for the beep, “Mallory, it’s Dad. Please call me as soon as you can. It’s urgent, hon,” Osborne started to hang up. Suddenly he heard Mallory’s real voice.

“Dad? Hold on, let me turn this off.” As Mallory dealt with her answering machine, Osborne let his breath out in relief. Her voice was spirited and clear, not the slurred, slow cadence he’d come to expect when he called in the evenings. Mallory worried him these days. She appeared to be following a family tradition, one he was reluctant to discuss with her. Close as he was to his youngest daughter, Erin, he had always been distant with Mallory. She was Mary Lee’s child. It had always been so.

“Dad—you caught me running out the door for a tennis match. What’s up?”

“I’ve got some sad news, kiddo.”

“O-o-h …,” her voice tightened. He could feel her prepare herself, “not Erin or Mark or the baby, Dad?” She named her sister’s family.

“No, no, everyone is fine. An old friend of yours, Meredith Marshall, died yesterday.”

“Dad! That’s not possible. Tell me that’s not true—Meredith! We had lunch just a few weeks ago. She looked like a million dollars. Was she sick? What happened?”

“I found her, hon. I was fly-fishing the Prairie River last night, and I slipped and fell and stumbled over Meredith’s body …” Osborne paused. He hated saying even that much not knowing who was listening.

“Oh-h-h, she drowned, Dad. That’s just awful,” Mallory’s voice slowed as she processed the news. “And she was so happy. She had the divorce behind her. She told me she had a new boyfriend, a new business. She had this great joke, y’know. She said she had what every woman needs—a good lawyer, a good shrink, and an excellent hairdresser. She said she had it all. We had such a good time that day. Gee, Dad, I’m stunned.”

“It wasn’t an accident, Mallory,” said Osborne, “that’s as much as I can say right now. Don’t forget I’m stuck with a party line on this darn phone.” Looking out the kitchen window as he talked, he saw Ray’s truck pull up in the driveway.

“Meredith murdered?” Mallory’s disbelief was palpable over the phone line. “Dad, I’m catching a flight today. I’m coming up. She was one of my dearest childhood friends.”

“So you two have really stayed in touch?”

“Dad, we lived in the same town here. We belonged to different clubs, but, yeah, we’ve stayed pretty close.”

“What do you think of Ben—?”

“Ben? Well … I don’t know. Let me think about that. I know he’s got a cheap, sleazy girlfriend, but I don’t think Ben’s the type to kill anyone. Boy, now that’s something to think about. Oh darn, Dad, I’ve got to go. I’ll make some plane reservations.”

“Honey, there’s no reason for you—”

“Dad. I’ll be there. See ya.”

“Wait—Mallory!” Osborne tried to keep her from hanging up.

“What? Sorry I gotta rush, but I’ll call you later.”

“One question—does the name Clint Chesnais ring a bell?”

“Nope, never heard it.” Mallory hung up, and a series of two more clicks followed.

“Gosh, I hate this party line,” said Osborne grimly, setting his phone back on the hook. “I’m surprised it doesn’t put the Loon Lake News out of business.”

“Hey, old buddy, it’s a glorious day out here.” Ray shouted through the open kitchen window as he walked towards the back porch. An entirely new version of Ray that was heading his way. The distinctive loopy walk that always seemed to roll his torso into a room minutes ahead of the rest of his six-foot-six frame was the same, but this Ray Pradt was clearly dressed for success.

This was not the grave-digging Ray, the minnowing Ray, or the leech-harvesting Ray—but the “Ready-for-ESPN Ray.” Resplendant in chestnut-colored rhinohide fishing pants and a long-sleeved heavy cotton shirt to match, Osborne fully expected to see a leaping walleye embroidered in gold over the left pocket.

But the pièce de resistance was the hat. No one in the world had a hat like Ray’s. Due to the warm weather, he had tucked the ear flaps up under the battered leather cap, which sported the large stuffed trout, head and tail protruding over both ears. Draped across the breast of the fish, like a jeweled necklace, was an old wood and metal fishing lure, its silver disks glinting in the sunlight as Ray crossed Osborne’s yard.

Ray paused in front of the jalousied porch windows to study his reflection. He tipped his head to one side, then tweaked the angle of the hat ever so slightly. Only then did he saunter up the steps and into the house.

“Whaddya think?” he said, spreading his arms in a grand gesture, turning first this way, then that.

Osborne laughed in amazement. He
did
have a walleye embroidered over the left pocket. “My god, Ray, where on earth did you get that walleye patch?” he asked, squinting to see it better as he took a sip of his coffee. Just then the phone rang. “Excuse me.” Osborne picked up the receiver. It was Lew.

“Doc?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m in the office. Alicia’s due in a few minutes—” “Lew,” Osborne interrupted, “I’m on a party line out here—you should assume you’re talking to at least three of me, know what I mean?” Two clicks confirmed his suspicions.

“Thanks for telling me,” Lew’s tone changed, “I hate party lines. We’ll have to do something about that.”

“Good luck, I’ve been trying for years.”

“At any rate,” she continued carefully, “I was wondering if you could drive up to the reservation with me later today. To see that fellow—you know who I mean.”

“What time were you thinking? I’m Ray’s guinea pig this morning for his television debut.”

“I’d like to be heading up there by one if we could. I see Alicia again at three. I think this gives us enough time …”

“Be happy to, Lew. I’ll be at your office by one.” He hung up.

“Donna sewed it on for me this morning,” said Ray. “Pretty neat, huh?”

“Yet another reason to wed the woman,” kidded Osborne. It was a running commentary between them. Poor Donna. She helped the guy out time and time again, even though she was plenty busy herself as sales manager of Loon Lake Trailer Homes. Practical, no-nonsense, Donna might have a lot of rough edges, but she overflowed with kindness and good humor.

Once, when Osborne pressed Ray on why he hadn’t married Donna after nearly six years of off-and-on courtship, Ray had offered an excuse Osborne found lame yet telling, “Doc, she’s a very sweet woman, but whenever I take her somewhere, she always wears the wrong thing.”

Then there was Ray’s insistance that he still carried a torch for his high school sweetheart who’d fled Loon Lake to become a fashion model in New York City and marry a real estate tycoon. The torch was just an excuse, Osborne figured, Ray’s way to insure his independence. And Osborne thought he was probably wise to stay single. A married Ray just wouldn’t be the same. What wife would put up with ice-fishing at midnight in the icy winds of the North Woods winters? He was certainly safe from any involvement with his old girlfriend. What fashion model would be seen with a guy wearing a fish on his head?

“What’s new with the Chief? Any leads?” asked Ray.

“Yeah, Alicia thinks either the ex-husband did it or a fellow off the Lac Vieux Desert reservation by the name of Clint Chesnais. Ever heard of him?”

“No-o-o. Know a lotta guys up there, too.”

“Yeah? Funny you don’t know him.” Osborne did find that unusual. Ray knew everybody. Particularly around the casinos where he frequently unloaded his guiding clients after a long day’s fishing. “Lew asked me to go with her to see him later. Want to come along?”

Testy as she might be with Ray because of his intermittent habit of smoking dope, Osborne knew he could argue one simple reason for including the guy: his vast network of contacts throughout the North Woods. Everyone liked Ray, men, women, locals, tourists, teenagers, old folks, priests and nuns, felons. Knew him, trusted him, talked to him.

Osborne was no longer surprised by this. Over the last couple years, as the two had grown closer, he had learned a lot about Ray. He knew that his neighbor might appear to be a numnut with a fish on his head, a man not to be taken seriously, but that wasn’t exactly the case—though it certainly was what Ray wanted people to think.

Why was that, anyway?
Osborne had consciously mulled that over while sitting on his front porch in the cool lake breezes and warming his hands with a hot cup of coffee. To date, he’d probably spent several hours of his life musing about Ray Pradt.

He still didn’t know the answer. He did know that the real Ray was a canny son of a bitch. Alert to the eagle’s whisper on the wind, quick to see the fault in a beaver dam, Ray had the eyes and ears and intuition of a deer. Just as smart as his siblings, he’d told Osborne over black coffee one dawn that the difference between him and them was “real simple: I’d rather barter with the river than some asshole right-winger any-day.” Given what Osborne had learned over the years, who was to say he wasn’t the wisest of the three.

“Doc, I can’t go,” said Ray, “I’m on Zolonsky’s butt for those boats right after we do this TV thing. I’m goin’ nuts. I got two pros flying in tonight that are expecting to pre-fish tomorrow. I have to track George down this afternoon if I’m going to nail those suckers.”

As Ray was talking, Osborne filled his thermos with coffee. He set out some fresh water for Mike and opened the door to hurry Ray back to the truck. “You take your truck, and I’ll follow,” said Osborne.

He knew better than to rely on Ray, much less Ray’s vehicle, to get where he needed to go.

When you drove with Ray, you took two risks: one physical, the other existential. Since the passenger door on his truck was frozen shut, you exited by climbing out the window. That meant you had to be fit enough to crawl through a 22 × 22 inch opening. You could crawl across the seat but the gear shift was perfectly situated to do serious harm to any male hoping to continue to propagate his kind upon the earth. That hazard ran parallel to a time frame so wide open to circumstance that Osborne had learned on more than one occasion you might not get home for days.

Ray Pradt lived in a world measured by what Osborne and his morning coffee buddies called “Ray time.” That meant a world defined not by hours, minutes and seconds, but by whom you stopped to chat with on the street or the county road, how deep your truck got stuck in swamp muck, how hard the ground was frozen when a grave had to be dug, and whether or not there was a yard sale or a flea market on the way to anywhere.

“So, Ray, where’re we going?”

“Follow me.”

Osborne knew that signal: Ray was planning to poach.

“Of course, I’ve got some funny business planned,” said Ray under his breath. Osborne had quizzed him as they got out of their respective vehicles in the Pine Valley Resort parking lot. “These people want to see some fish caught, right? Trust me, Doc. And don’t worry. Okay? Don’t worry.”

Osborne did worry. But he understood the problem. He doubted if the TV crew would, however.

A shiny van from Rhinelander’s Channel 12 was parked in the lot, its front passenger-side door standing open as they walked towards it, rods in one hand, tackle boxes in the other. “I thought you were ESPN,” said Ray to the open door.

“We are—we just borrowed the equipment from a local crew,” said a female voice. From the door popped a round face capped with sleek, short dark-brown hair that fell over her brow and crowded her chubby cheeks.

“I like the hat!” A smallish woman, she had a figure like a good-sized tree trunk, straight up and down and pretty darn solid. She wore crisp Levi’s and a shirt to match, neatly belted. Osborne was happy to see little evidence of flapping purse straps or eye make-up. The woman was dressed for the outdoors and ready for business. He like her immediately.

“Whadda know about walleye fishing?” asked Ray, extending his hand.

“Not a thing. I flew in from LA yesterday. What do you know about producing talk shows?” she said, pumping his hand. “My name is Marilyn, and this is my crew,” she jerked her right thumb over her shoulder. “Rich works the camera and Wayne the mikes.”

As she spoke, two men emerged from the back of van, arms full of cords and black boxes. Tall and slim, Rich wore baggy shorts, an over-sized black T-shirt and a buzz cut that made it tough to determine what color hair he had. Osborne guessed him to be in his late twenties. Wayne was a good ten years older, as chubby as Rich was skinny, and sporting a thick, unruly mass of black hair. He wore a dun-colored T-shirt tucked into well-worn Levi’s that rode low but safe on a pudgy torso. A beer belly tested the buttons of his 504s.

“Talk show? I thought this was a fishing show,” said Ray.

“A
fishing
talk show.”

Ray looked at her, slightly taken aback, “That’s a conversation stopper.” Then shook his head and grinned. “You’re the boss. Where do you want us?”

“I have a lovely boat from our sponsor,” said Marilyn, herding them towards the boat landing where a red Toyota Landcruiser had backed a boat trailer down into the water. Ray looked at the sleek fiberglass rig and whistled.

“My audience is wannabes, and my advertiser wants to sell, sell, sell—so I need you to talk boats for a few minutes, then we hit the water, and you show us how to catch a fish. We have two hours. Okay?”

Marilyn handed Ray a glossy brochure, “Here’s the info on the boat.” He took it, scanned it carefully, then walked over to check out the boat. He looked over at Osborne, nodded approvingly as he pointed to the positioning of the rod holders.

“Okay, except for one small item,” he said finally, turning to Marilyn, who had been giving directions to Rich and Wayne. He raised both his hands in front of him. Ray had a way of spreading his long, slender fingers when he was making a point that reminded Osborne of a concert pianist attacking a keyboard.