Dead Angler (3 page)

Lew
slammed the gearshift into reverse to back the truck onto the grass. Then she yanked it into first gear, spinning rock and gravel as she cut straight across the highway and into the pasture on the other side.

“Jeez,” Osborne grabbed the door handle as they lurched forward.

“Hold tight, Doc,” said Lew, “we’re going off-road. We can hit W back off this 40 acres, and that’ll get us to the Thunder Bay Bar before they close. I gotta get Roger and get back here for this body before the mink and the ‘coons get to it.”

“Off-road?” Osborne asked, incredulous. “Lew, this little truck is going to come apart.”

She tipped her head towards him. In the glow from the dashboard, Osborne could see a slight smile of pride on her face. “Trust me. Nellie and I are made for off-road. She’s got four-wheel and I keep her well-tuned. A little short on the shock-absorbers, but what the heck—that’s how we find the best trout streams, the best clear-cut for grouse, the best—”

Osborne interrupted her, “How old is Nellie?”

“Twelve and holding.”

Given the confidence in Lew’s voice, Osborne decided to drop the issue and just hold on for dear life. The red Mazda pickup with its white topper lurched up and down, rocking sideways over the gullies and berms that appeared in the headlights seconds before Nellie took them on.

Suddenly the tires found a smooth universe of asphalt. The jarring stopped. Osborne took a deep breath of relief. “Now how on earth did you know we could cross that field to W?” he asked Lew. A devoted reader of the county gazeteer, the guide to all marked and unmarked roads as well as public and private lands, Osborne fancied himself an expert on backwoods byways. This was one route he would have never even considered.

“My ex ran a timberland recycling business, and I used to help him find acreage back in here,” said Lew. “The state has a number of fields down in this area, set back plenty far from the river, where they restore the land that was over-lumbered back in the thirties and forties. I know the area pretty well, Doc.”

“Does he still have the business?” asked Osborne. He was curious. From her patient records, he knew that Lew had been divorced many years ago, but he had never known a man with the last name Ferris. Unusual in Loon Lake, a town so small that everyone knows everyone, not to mention everyone’s past and current partners.

“Not up here. He inherited the business from his uncle, took him only two years to bankrupt it.”

Lew slowed the truck at the stop sign marking Highway K. As she turned to the right, she looked at Osborne, “I don’t know what he does now. Haven’t heard from him or about him in years. He’s an alcoholic, Doc. I decided many years ago I don’t have time for that.”

Osborne looked straight ahead as he spoke, “You know, I went through re-hab over at Hazelden right after my wife died?”

“Did you?” She was quiet. So was Osborne. The truck sped forward in the dark. He could tell from the lack of surprise in her tone that she knew something about his problem.

Almost everyone in Loon Lake knew that the unexpected death of his wife had left Osborne a shaken and deeply lonely man. Less than six months after her death he had awakened one day to a knock on the door from his beloved youngest daughter, Erin, who said she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Dad,” she had said with tears streaming down her face, “you’re in trouble. You are a serious alcoholic, and you’re killing yourself. You’re killing me, Dad.”

Lew was an officer on the police force at that time, and Osborne dimly recalled she might have been one of the cops who drove him home in one of his drunken stupors. The kindness of Loon Lake residents can be deadly, Osborne had thought ever since, remembering how friends and other townspeople had been so helpful, protecting when they should have punished.

“Yep. Saved my life,” said Osborne.

That was all he wanted to say about the six weeks that had rescued him from the swoon of loneliness and despair. He hoped the day would come when he could tell someone like Lew of the courage he had seen in Erin’s face as she stood before him and told him, cleanly, clearly, how he was killing her love for him. Killing himself, killing a future with his grandson and grandchildren to come.

But it wasn’t something he could talk about yet. Lew didn’t seem to mind. She drove on, relaxed and easy with the quiet between them. That was so unlike Mary Lee, who always found silence a necessary hole to fill. In stark contrast, Lew made Osborne feel as though this mutual silence was a ribbon of warmth wrapped around simple companionship.

He felt so comfortable with her he made a mental note to consider offering to return the favor of taking him fly-fishing by giving her a few pointers in
his
area of angling expertise: musky fishing. A good musky fisherman doesn’t invite just anyone into his boat. Stalking the huge trophy fish can take hours if not days of casting in near silence. Osborne had a very short list of men to whom he would extend that invitation. He had a hunch Lew was the only woman he knew who would appreciate the offer.

They made it to the Thunder Bay Bar a good half-hour before closing. Pickups, four-wheels, and a few flashy convertibles still filled the parking lot. Rock and roll blasted out the front door. Osborne shook his head as he looked at the neon bar signs in the windows. Thunder Bay was one Northwoods bar he had never entered. It was certainly the last place he had expected to find himself late this Sunday night.

“Don’t worry, Doc,” said Lew as they walked around the truck towards the entrance. “Thunder Bay has been on my beat for years—they know me here.”

Still, he felt edgy walking in. Thunder Bay might have the closest telephone, but that didn’t change the fact that it was an infamous stripper joint, notorious for topless dancing, rumors of prostitution and excellent barbecue ribs—all of which made it a natural hang-out when “da boys” out of Milwaukee or Chicago decided to go north for a long weekend of fishing. On a hot summer night like tonight, counselors from the ritzy summer camps nearby and other young men without girlfriends or wives tended to drift this way if action was light at the more respectable taverns.

As the bar door swung shut behind him, Osborne wondered what his adult children would say when they heard he’d been seen in Thunder Bay, not to mention the razzing he’d get from the McDonald’s coffee crowd. And they would hear, no doubt about that. He took a moment to survey the crowded room, left to right, for any familiar faces. Any former patients? None. At least so far.

“I’ll call in from the pay phone,” said Lew, “too loud around the bar. Would you get me a glass of water, please? I’m dying of thirst.”

“Sure,” said Osborne, though first on his list was the thought of dry clothing. Climbing out of the truck, the breeze chilled him.

He walked towards the busy bar, found an open spot and leaned over the counter. The young woman bartending looked frazzled. She didn’t even glance up as she filled two glasses with water from the faucet over a sink full of dirty beer glasses. Osborne held his two up to the light to be sure they were clean. He’d seen too many cases of trench mouth over the years, the result of poorly washed bar glasses. These, he could see, were just fine.

“Doc!” Lew shouted at him from the pay phone next to the restrooms. He turned, glasses in hand. As he pushed his way through the crowd, he was keenly aware she was watching him as he walked towards her. He wondered how she felt about what she saw, sodden fishing clothes aside.

In this noisy barroom packed full of tanned, athletic young men in their twenties and thirties, did he stand out? Tall and lean, did he look younger than his sixty-three years? Distinguished with his black hair silvered at the temples, in spite of his bald spot? Handsome in his deep August tan, his skin still taut over the French-Irish cheekbones that carried a hint of his great-grandmother, the Ojibwa? He wondered and he hoped.

“I got Roger out of bed and he’s arranging for an ambulance.” Lew held her hand over the mouthpiece on the phone as she yelled over the music, then she raised the phone to listen again, a look of surprise crossing her face. Once more, she covered the mouthpiece. She shouted at Osborne, “Lucy Olson, my switchboard operator, had a call from Ray Pradt an hour ago—reporting you missing.”

“What!”
Incredulous, Osborne nearly dropped the glasses.
“Me? Missing!”

Lew waved at him to be quiet while she listened again, then she smiled as she covered the mouthpiece. “It’s okay, Lucy got him to back off. Seems he has an emergency of some sort, and he wanted us to help him locate you. You’re to call him at home—no matter what time.” Taking the water glasses from his hands, she handed the phone to Osborne, “Here—I had Lucy patch you through—he’s on the line.”

“Yeah, Ray?” Osborne grabbed the phone. “What on earth?”

“Doc—you seen my hat?”

Ohmygod, thought Osborne, nearly one in the morning, a likely murder victim in hand, and Ray’s worried about his
hat!
Ray Pradt might be a good friend, an expert hunting and fishing guide, and a champion loon-caller but he could also be a major pain in the butt.

“No!” said Osborne emphatically, “No, I haven’t seen your hat, Ray. It’s August, you don’t need a hat. What kind of foolishness is this?”

“Sorry, Doc, I’m real sorry, but I gotta find it tonight.” Ray’s concern was so intense that Osborne immediately regretted snapping at him. After all, Ray’s hat was his signature garment: a large stuffed trout perched on top of an old, fur-lined leather cap with ear flaps that hung down loosely. The head and tail of the fish protruded on opposite sides over his ears. No one ever missed Ray when he walked through a door with that on his head.

“Okay, okay,” Osborne backed off. “I’m sorry, Ray. It’s just that it’s late, I nearly drowned in the Prairie, and Chief Ferris and I have a dead body to deal with. I’m tired. But, no, I have not seen your hat. Why do you need it right now?”

“ESPN is coming tomorrow to shoot a promo for the Walleye Classic,” said Ray. “I’m in charge of the boats, and I thought it would be a good idea to be the real me, y’know? I’ve looked everywhere, and I just can’t find the darn thing. I thought maybe I left it at your place.”

Osborne had an idea. Clearly, he wasn’t going home yet himself. He had to help Lew get the body back to town. “Ray, I’m standing here at the Thunder Bay Bar soaking wet. But if you want to pick up some dry clothes for me, and give my place a quick once-over, you can check for your hat right now. If it’s at my place, it’ll be out on the front porch by your chair.”

Even as he said it, Osborne was almost certain Ray’s hat was there. The two men often shared a sunset cocktail, ginger-ale and ice, looking out over Loon Lake and commiserating over the day’s wins and losses. Ray had a habit of carefully placing the prized hat on top of Osborne’s leather-bound volume of Shakespeare. The one he inherited from his father and never read.

“Doc—I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Thanks!”

But if Ray’s gratitude was palpable over the telephone wire, Osborne’s feelings towards his neighber ran even deeper. Once upon a time, he had cursed the sight of the younger man in the trout hat. To his face, he had called him “a poacher and a lazy bum,” but that was two long years ago.

Osborne had since learned Ray was many things. With his butt too often planted on a barstool, he was a talented raconteur who prided himself on knowing and embellishing the grim details of any local event—comedy or tragedy—for any crowd, whether it be the in-town Kiwanis wannabes or the bearded woodticks that hunkered in from the backwoods. Osborne had had to admit the man could tell a good story even if he did have the extremely annoying habit of stretching it out until his audience had to scream for the punch line.

Though he made his money as a hunting and fishing guide for wealthy tourists up from points south, Ray was so habitually short of cash that he often chopped wood, shot wildlife photos for local printers, and dug graves to make it through the long, fiercely cold northern Wisconsin winters. This career mix gave him access to excellent material for his barroom tales.

But Ray was not uneducated nor had he been raised in a wolf pack. His older sister was one of Chicago’s top litigators, and his younger brother was a hand surgeon at the Mayo Clinic. No one knew why Ray chose a lifestyle one step above cave man, but to Osborne he seemed a happy man. He was an optimist. His arrival almost always brightened the day.

That did not mean, however, that Osborne did not still question some of his personal habits. Ray had launched their relationship by being the pain in the ass who bought a choice piece of lake-front property right next door to Osborne when an unexpected estate sale put it on the market while Osborne and his wife were at a dental convention in Milwaukee.

Osborne had arrived home to find a beat-up house trailer and an old blue pick-up with a door missing on the driver’s side parked, not just illegally close to the lake, but in full view of Osborne’s living room window. The view from this window had been a key architectural element, engineered at considerable expense during the building of Osborne’s retirement haven. One shouting match later, Ray grudgingly backed up twenty-five feet.

A few months later, Osborne discovered that Ray had rigged his plumbing away from the city sewer system, which required fees for hook-up and annual use, to empty raw sewage just short of the property line and a little too close to Mary Lee Osborne’s prized rose bushes. “Earth to earth” had been his smart-aleck excuse. Osborne couldn’t lodge a legal complaint because he had a few violations of his own he didn’t need checked out. Which Ray had known, of course.

Ray was not a stupid man. “The best goddamn huntin’ fishin’ guru north of Chicago” was how he introduced himself, and in Osborne’s book he was right. He knew people, and he knew animals, and he knew how to horse trade. After the Osbornes got apoplectic over the poop in the rose garden, Ray made sure he had a tasty sling of fresh-cleaned blue gills hanging on their back porch every Sunday morning. That didn’t appease Mary Lee, who crabbed at Ray every time he appeared on their property, but it satisfied the dentist.