Backcast (3 page)

Kate didn't reply.

“Jesus, Viv.” Quinn managed to stretch her three syllables into a whine that sounded like ten. It seemed clear that she got a lot of practice. “Will you dial back the fucking drama machine? Patrick is her
dog
.”

Viv looked disappointed.

“What time did you say we were meeting in here later?” Kate asked.

“Two. Barb wants to do some orientation and put us all together in teams.” Quinn was plucking at a striped lily that drooped from a blue vase on a nearby table.

Teams?
That didn't sound good. Kate wasn't much for teamwork. To her, words like “teamwork” brought back unhappy memories of smelly gym shoes and always being the favorite target in dodge ball.

“I'm not very comfortable working in groups,” she said.

“You're preaching to the choir, honey.” Viv sounded sympathetic. “But Barb's the head honcho on this little production, so she gets to call the shots.”

“Wonderful.”

The door to the parking lot flew open and two big dogs came bounding in. One was Patrick.

Kate was mortified. “How did you get out of the car?”

He came dancing over to greet Quinn and Viv, with his tail swinging around in lopsided circles.

The second dog had peeled off. It was now frozen in place, barking at a couple of clay rabbits that were huddled together on the floor near the lobby desk. Something about the golden retriever looked familiar.

Allie.

“Those clay things really creep me out,” Quinn muttered.

But Kate wasn't listening to her. She was too busy watching the door. Seeing Allie could only mean one thing: Shawn had arrived.

“Why'd you bring so many clothes?”

Shawn had all the dresser drawers pulled out. She was trying to find space to stash her stack of shorts and t-shirts. Kate had already finished putting her clothes away, and remaining space was next to nonexistent.

Kate shrugged. “Why'd you bring so few?”

“Maybe because it's summertime and we're supposed to be on vacation?”

“It's fifty-four degrees.”

“So?”

“This is Vermont. It'll probably be snowing by dinnertime.”

“Oh, come on.” Shawn checked the closet. It was full, too. “You're exaggerating.”

Kate sat down on the end of the bed. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

Shawn pulled out a wooden hanger that held a skimpy-looking black garment.

“A cocktail dress? Seriously?”

Kate shrugged.

“Did I miss something? Are we auditioning for
Dancing with the Stars
?”

“If so, I'll have to look for another partner.”

Shawn lowered the hanger. “Why?”

Kate pointed at her feet.

Shawn looked down. “What's wrong with my shoes?”

“Nothing, if you're planning to muck out a stable.”

“These Chucks cost forty bucks.”

“Wow. Forty whole dollars? You're really living high on those
Bottle Rocket
royalties, aren't you?”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“Do you have to ask?”

“Apparently.” Shawn returned the dress to the closet. “I'm out of practice.”

“Well,” Kate crossed her arms. “That would be the point of this trip.”

Shawn smiled. “That and contributing to Barb's little project.”

“I don't think I'd refer to a one hundred and ten-thousand dollar project as ‘little.'”

“I don't think I'd refer to our experiment as ‘little,' either.”

“Experiment?”

“Sure. You. Me.” Shawn hefted her stack of t-shirts. “Cohabitation.”

“We've spent time together before.”

“True. But not this much time.”

Kate nodded in agreement.

Shawn walked over and sat down next to her. “So I guess that means we're working on our own performance art project?”

“So it would seem.”

Shawn smiled at her. “I wonder if that means we can deduct the expense of this trip twice?”

“You'll have to ask Gwen about that.”

Shawn looked toward the window. “Is she here yet?”

“I have no idea. I only arrived about ten minutes before you did.”

Shawn bumped shoulders with her. “So. Whattaya wanna do until two o'clock?”

Kate started to answer but before she could get the words out, Patrick unleashed a barrage of flatulence that strafed across the room like machine gun fire. Allie, who had been dozing beside him on the doormat, lifted her head and sniffed at his behind.

Shawn's face contorted. “Good god. What the hell have you been feeding that dog?”

Kate shrugged. “We stopped at an Arby's in Albany.”

“Arby's?”

“He loves their roast beef.”

“Kate.”

“Hey. It was five sandwiches for five bucks, and we were in a hurry.”

That last part got Shawn's attention. “You were in a hurry?”

Kate nodded.

Shawn leaned closer to her. “Care to elaborate?”

Another staccato burst of enemy fire rang out from the carpet near the door.

Shawn dropped her chin to her chest.

Kate patted her on the leg. “I guess we need to take him for a walk.”

“You think?”

“I suppose we could just light a match and see if it burns off.”

“Are you kidding?” Shawn fanned a hand in front of her face. “This joint would go up like a Roman candle.”

“Okay.” Kate stood up and extended a hand to Shawn. “Walk first. Get reacquainted later.”

Shawn didn't quit her position on the bed. “That could take some time.”

Kate smiled at her. “For once, time is something we have.”

Shawn did not disagree.

After all, the sun was shining. And out along a rocky coast where the sloping lawn met lake and sky, purple martins soared on warm drafts of air.

They had all the time in the world, too.

Quinn thought Big Boy looked like he'd weigh about ninety pounds dripping wet.

His “little” brother, Junior, on the other hand, looked like he rarely missed a meal.

The Ladd family had been a mainstay in the Champlain Islands ever since the twenties, when Lars “Laddie” Ladd piloted his wooden boat up the Saranac River in search of rock bass. His first sight of lush wetlands and a great lake fat with fish of nearly every variety drew him in like a siren's song. It wasn't long before Laddie moved his growing family down from the Adirondack region to Plattsburgh, New York, and opened his first salvage shop on a bleak scrap of land near Cumberland Head.

Many years later, he'd earned enough money to move his wife and sons across the lake to the greener pastures of Vermont's Hero Islands. There, he devoted himself to running his burgeoning salvage business and indulging the true passion of his life: bass fishing. Laddie's superb knowledge of the geography of the lake and its inlets, bays and tributaries—known by the locals as the Inland Sea—soon made him one of the most lauded and sought-after anglers of the region. “Daddy Laddie,” as he came to be known, passed his love of the sport on to his sons, and the old man's legacy was solidified when his grandson, Junior Ladd, took top honors in the region's very first Pro-Am Bass Open. Since then, an angler named Ladd usually occupied one of the top spots in the winners' circles of each of the six or seven high-dollar tournaments that were held on Lake Champlain every summer.

When Big Boy and his co-angler, Junior, weren't out on the lake hustling to haul up the biggest bags of fish, they were content to run Ladd's Marine Salvage, where they bought, sold, and rebuilt boats of every shape and size.

It was here that best-selling BDSM author Quinn Glatfelter came, hoping to cut a sweet deal on a used bass boat. She had the flier that detailed specifics about the upcoming tournament folded
up and tucked into the back pocket of her tight jeans. She'd read it over enough times to know that she needed some very specific equipment to qualify for the competition. That was problem number one. Coming up with the hefty entrance fee was problem number two.

But if Quinn had learned anything from being pounded by the endless objections of Vivien K. O'Reilly, noted mystery author and professional actuary, it was how to break bigger problems down into their manageable, component parts.

Boat first. Equipment second. Fee third. And she had most of a week to pull it all together.

It really was that simple.

Learning how to fish could come later. After all, she'd seen some of those Sunday afternoon shows on TV. It wasn't rocket science. It seemed to her that the superstars of the sport were mostly a bunch of low-talking bubbas who wore camouflage and had bad haircuts.

Not that different from the clientele at most lesbian bars.

They were her people.

Quinn looked around the interior of the big, dark space. Big Boy and Junior had a pretty impressive inventory. Most of the larger boats were stacked up outside on dry storage racks. Inside, smaller boats and motors in various stages of repair or refurbishment were scattered around on worktables. On a low table near a side wall, Quinn saw a jumble of freshly Parkerized engine parts that looked like they belonged to a Panhead motor.

If there was one thing she knew how to recognize, it was pieces of a Harley.

In a corner of the room beneath a grime-covered window, the Ladd brothers reposed in two natty-looking La-Z-Boy recliners. They were watching something on an old console TV. It sounded like a game show. The regular bursts of cheering and applause that roared up from the big mahogany box made it clear that it wasn't a show about fishing. The top of the set was littered with empty grape Fanta bottles.

“I'll give you forty-five dollars if you've got a bobby pin in that bag.”

Quinn smiled. Monty Hall.
Let's Make a Deal
was one of her
favorites, too. Even in syndication, Carol Merrill looked pretty damn fine.

Success in retail was all about making connections. Quinn now had two solid leads on her side. She walked toward the makeshift living room. There were gaudy trophies topped with gilded fish and faded photographs of old men in waders spread out along a shelf behind their recliners.

“You boys rebuilding a Harley?” She tipped her head toward the shiny pieces of metal.

Big Boy stared up at her with dark, owlish eyes. They looked like holes in a blanket.

“Mebbe.” He didn't add anything else.

Junior wasn't saying anything, either. He was finishing off a party-sized bag of Doritos. Cool Ranch style. Those were Quinn's favorite, too.

Make that
three
solid leads.

“Those Panheads are pretty hard to come by,” Quinn observed. “Where'd you boys get the bike?”

Junior wiped his fingers across the arm of his chair. The trails of orange dust they created blended nicely with the plaid fabric.

“It was our granddad's,” Junior explained. “Course, he never did ride it any. He was too old when he got it.”

It was clear to Quinn that Junior was the talker in the family. Big Boy wasn't doing much besides staring at her and blinking a lot.

“You rebuilding it, then?” Quinn asked.

“Yeah. Been workin' on it now for some time.”

“Really? How long?”

Junior shrugged and looked over at his brother. Big Boy blinked at him.

“'Bout twenty years,” Junior replied.

Twenty years?

“That's a long time,” Quinn observed.

“Parts is hard to come by. They didn't make many of them bikes.”

Quinn nodded. “Those Panheads are pretty rare.”

Junior looked surprised. “You know somethin' 'bout motorcycles?”

“Oh, yeah. You might say that.”

Big Boy made a puffing sound and slowly shook his head.

Junior translated. “Ain't that kinda unusual for a—” he took a closer look to be sure, “girl?”

“Not where I come from.”

“Where's that?”