Dead Angler Page 10

  “Our walleye warrior, in case you don’t know, is a fish of a certain and unique charm. A handsome fish. Eyes like fine crystal, a dorsal fin so erect…,” Ray winked at Marilyn. Osborne hoped like hell he wasn’t about to launch into one of his eminently tasteless jokes.

  “But,” he paused and raised his concert pianist fingers again, “nothing separates a good walleye fisherman from a goombah walleye fisherman than his jig.” Osborne breathed an audible sigh of relief: Ray’s star turn was still on track.

  “Frankly, fellas, choosing the right jig weight can make you or break you. The secret is this: quit trying to make a fish strike you. Change your attitude. Keep contact with the bottom. Okay?” Ray’s voice slowed to emphasis his point: “You must present as close to the structure as possible. What’s structure? The contour, the rockpile, the bottom where the fish are feeding—”

  “Doing great, Ray,” Marilyn interrupted. “Don’t show a jig right now, we’ll do B-roll and shoot some sponsor jigs in the studio. Just keep going.”

  “But … ready, Doc?” Ray signaled to Osborne to open the bait box he’d brought on board and slipped into the baitwell.

  Osborne followed directions, the slippery bait greasing his fingers.

  “What makes a great walleye fisherman, guys? Not good, but great? What gets you past that tiny two-pounder and up to the five pound range? Forget crankbait. Forget crawlers. The secret? Le-e-eches.” Ray rolled the word off his tongue. He turned to look at the camera, his face alive, eyes sparkling brighter than the waves around him.

  “The absolute best walleye-getter is the leech. Tough, durable—Doc, hook one on.

  “See? Watch the good dentist, you goombahs.”

  Osborne raised his arm, fifty years of spin-casting kicked in to give him a soft, smooth roll. If only he could do that with a fly rod.

  “See how hard you can cast?” he heard Ray over his right shoulder. “That leech will keep on swimming for hours. And you can’t beat ‘em below slip bobbers …” Osborne cast again. “Treat yourself to the most seductive sidewinding action you’ll ever—hey! Doc’s got one on!”

  Ray shut up and moved aside as Rich crept forward to let the camera zoom in on the action. Osborne played the fish as close to the boat as he could. As he worked the fish, Ray talked, “Now you see why the thrill for the real walleye guy is catching this fish in shallow water. Five feet deep or less. I know fellas will drive hundreds of miles to fish bubble eyes in shallow water.”

  Snap! The walleye flipped high into the air, flashing green and gold. The white-tipped tail flung a rainbow of crystalline raindrops around it. With an expert flick of his wrist, Ray scooped it in. Grabbing the gills with two fingers, he held the flashing, gleaming fish high, “Good work, Doc. You got seven pounds of pure gold. Okay, let’s go again.”

  As Osborne slipped another leech on, Ray continued, “The problem you’ll run into with leeches is cold water. They curl up tight when the water is under 41 degrees. Other than that the only hazard is storing them in your home refrigerator. Before you do it, you better be sure you got an okay from your family members, fellas, or you’ll be paying psychotherapy bills for years …”

  “What?” Marilyn asked from the back of the boat.

  Ray looked towards her, which actually put him looking into Rich’s lens, “How would you like to reach for the pickles and get an eyeful of these?” He whipped his hand up to thrust a quart jar full of leeches at the camera.

  Four huge walleyes later, Osborne looked back at Marilyn. Ray wasn’t going say anything but Osborne drew the line at poaching. He was not going to break state law, too. Not even for Ray’s television debut. “We got the bag limit,” he said. “Do you want to keep going?”

  “No, no, this is great stuff,” said Marilyn. “We’re fine. Rich? Shoot some B-roll of the shoreline, the boat, and get our walleye guys from a couple angles, please.” With that, Ray throttled the moter and turned the boat back towards shore.

  “Say, Ray,” Marilyn yelled over the roar of the motor, “those livewells are huge. Do people really catch fish that big?”

  “Aways hoping,” Ray yelled back. “Lot of fishermen have trouble estimating the size of their future catch. Same problem they have estimating the size of certain personal appendages—”

  “Ray—” Osborne stopped him. Ray had managed to stay relatively tasteful in his remarks so far. Was he going to ruin it now?

  Ray smirked at Osborne. He knew what the good dentist was thinking.

  “Gives a guy a chance to think positive,” he finished.

  Marilyn threw back her head and laughed, “I’d like to keep that in the show.”

  “Gee, doesn’t look like many people fish here,” commented Rich a few minutes later as he stepped carefully from the boat, handing his camera over to Wayne.

  “Yeah, folks get spoiled on the big lakes,” said Ray casually as he stepped onto the shore. “I prefer the small ones for early morning fishing.”

  “It’s the only early morning fishing,” said Osborne, following Rich from the boat. He was pretty excited himself over the catch. Why hadn’t Ray taken him here before?

  “Gee,” said Marilyn. “I never thought you’d get your limit. This is great footage. Now where do we say we were fishing, Ray?” She held her pen ready over the clipboard.

  “Oh, no. We never say that,” said Ray. “Fishing holes are top-secret.”

  “Ah,” said Marilyn, “I like the way you put that. Good, I see you’re still miked, I can use that, too. But I do need you both to sign some releases, please.”

  She handed the clipboard with the release forms over to Osborne, then stuck her hands in her back pockets and walked down to the water’s edge. Rich walked alongside her, a smaller videocam on his shoulder scanning the horizon, the lens zooming in and out as he turned. Marilyn inhaled deeply as she gazed across the lake.

  “God, the air is great up here. What incredible scenery—ohmygosh! What kind of duck is that?” She pointed towards the middle of the lake where a dark distinctive shape had popped to the surface.

  “That’s no duck” said Ray as he was stepping out of the boat, hat in hand. He set his hat on his head and walked his loopy walk down to where Marilyn stood on the shore. He looked past her, then straightened up, cupping his hands to his mouth. Rich caught the movement and shifted the lens towards him. Osborne noticed Ray still wore the small black mike clipped onto his shirt pocket. Miked and ready for stardom.

  His eyes serious over the carefully brushed and trimmed beard that reached to his chest, the stuffed trout hat cocked jauntily over his ears, Ray seemed to remember Donna’s constant nagging that he stand up straight and pull in his gut. Throwing his shoulders back, Ray looked out across the lake toward the dark figure rocking in silence on the glassy surface.

  Osborne closed his eyes and held his breath.

  The haunting call of the loon started low and distant as if far across lake waters at dusk. Then the bird swept closer, its dark tones echoing over the reeds and gentle waves. That’s when Osborne heard the impossible: he heard the mate answer and the two call back and forth, each distinct in tone, one overlapping the other. No sooner had the crescendo risen than the birds fell still. Marilyn and her crew stood in stunned silence, waiting. A low flutter of sound rose with mounting urgency, then a hush … and a final aching cry to the wind. With exquisite control, Ray gave voice to the autumnal call of the male loon: the call to travel south.

  Osborne exhaled slowly. He opened his eyes.

  “That’s no duck,” said Ray with a happy grin, “that’s a loon.”

  “That was no loon, that was Ray,” said Osborne.

  “Did that—did the loon call back to you?” Marilyn was clearly dumbfounded.

  “I wish,” said Ray, “I did that, too. Fooled ya, huh?”

  “Ray is a champion looncaller,” said Osborne.

  “Wait, wait, let me take notes,” Marilyn reached for her clipboard. When she had her pen ready, Osborne cont
inued, happy to finally be able to return a small favor to the man who had helped him through so many dark and lonely hours.

  “Every June there is a loon-calling contest in Mercer, a little town northwest of here, that draws people from Canada and all across northern Minnesota and Michigan. He always finishes first or second,” said Osborne. “The old guides say Ray Pradt is the finest looncaller they’ve ever heard.”

  “That was a showstopper, Ray,” said Marilyn. “Thank you. You’re giving me great stuff. I have one last question, though. What do you do with all these beautiful fish?”

  “Ah, hah,” said Ray. “What time do you have?”

  Marilyn glanced at her watch, “Eleven-fifteen.”

  “I’ll tell ya what,” said Ray. “You absolutely cannot understand walleye fishing until you’ve tasted it. Since Doc’s not due in town ‘till one, and since I recently acquired a pound of fresh butter, I think it’s time we go to my place.

  “No, no, not to worry,” he raised a finger at the look of doubt on Marilyn’s face, “you’ll be heading south in 45 minutes, I promise.”

  Osborne was surprised to see Marilyn look over at Wayne. The man gave a slight nod. Osborne was taken aback. Why was Wayne, the silent sound man, suddenly giving permission?

  ten

  Twenty minutes later, after stopping for Ray and Osborne to pick up their vehicles, the TV van lurched its way down through towering Norway pines to Ray’s trailer. Ray’s truck followed, and Osborne, who had driven ahead to park at his own place and let Mike out, walked down the drive after them.

  Ray had definitely planned ahead. An old bait pail was perched on a tree stump just outside the screen door, bursting with pink petunias that cascaded to the pine needle carpet. Off to the left, behind a wire deer fence, Ray’s two golden Labs observed the rush of activity, their huge black eyes polite but curious. As a backdrop, Loon Lake shimmered in all its late morning blueness.

  “Ray, your place looks downright bucolic,” said Marilyn as she jumped out of the van. “This is Northwoods wilderness?”

  “Yes and no,” said Ray, walking towards her. The string of walleyes dangling from his right hand. “If you want a true wilderness forest, you have to drive about forty miles due north. All this pine and oak and birch that you see back here,” he swept his left arm towards the road behind them, “all that was logged in the late 1800s. Most is second growth. But these white pines along the lake here? They saw the white man come.”

  “Magnificent,” said Marilyn looking up.

  Ray allowed only a moment of admiration, “C’mon inside, folks. You might want to watch me clean ol’ bubble eyes.”

  The day was warming up, but with the thermals off the potato fields blowing steadily across Loon Lake, the air stayed comfortably cool. As he entered the house trailer ahead of everyone, Ray threw all his windows wide open, filling the neat, comfortable interior with sunny fresh air.

  Ray’s mobile home might look tacky from the outside, but inside it was spacious and quite clean. The living room held a plump, over-sized dark blue corduroy sofa and matching recliner against cream walls with curtains to match. One corner held the jukebox, Ray’s pride and joy; the other an antique wooden phone booth with a working rotary phone. A round oak table filled the kitchen.

  Ray walked through the trailer to a back door. He opened it, letting in the two yellow Labs who sniffed everyone politely, then focused all their attention on Ray, wagging their tails until he had set down two large bowls of dog food.

  “Good-looking animals,” said Wayne. “Ducks or grouse?”

  “Both. ‘Rough’ and ‘Ready’ got the softest mouths in the county,” said Ray. “They can scoop a mallard without moving a feather.”

  “Make yourselves at home,” he said, waving towards the refrigerator, “Sodas in there; ice cold water on tap; mugs on the first shelf.”

  “I can’t believe I was having lunch at Spago’s on Sunset Boulevard just yesterday,” said Marilyn, seating herself at the round kitchen table, “and now I’m sitting in a trailer in a town called Loon Lake? What kind of job do I have anyway?”

  “You might want to watch Ray fillet those fish,” said Osborne, tapping her on the shoulder. In all his years of fishing, he had never been able to wield the fillet knife with the finesse of Ray Pradt. And so the four of them gathered around the kitchen sink to watch Ray work his magic.

  “I got this from an old hermit friend of mine,” he said, brandishing a long narrow blade with a wooden handle that looked as old as the white pines girding the lake outside the trailer. “Herman the German’s his name. He migrated down here from Canada in the 30s. I believe his father or his grandfather made this. Herman’s in his nineties, so you gotta figure this blade’s been around awhile. I keep it sharp—Wayne, you soundmeister, feel that edge.” Ray held the blade out for an appreciative, very careful touch.

  With an expert flourish, he sliced open the bellies of the five fish. Entrails landed with a soft thwop on a brown paper bag sitting on the counter. Grabbing the tail of each fish, he slid the knife just below the surface of the skin, adding each sheer strip to the entrails. Then, tipping the edge of the knife at a slight angle. he whipped slice after smooth slice until ten perfect planks of shining walleye rested on a chipped green Fiestaware dinner plate.

  Less than five minutes had passed. Meanwhile, a cast iron frying pan already boasted a half pound of butter sizzling over a gas flame. Ray turned around to lower the heat. He grabbed a beat-up cream-colored mixing bowl, threw a cup of flour into it, shook his big silver salt shaker over that and deftly ground a teaspoon or more of fresh black pepper onto the mix. In went the fish, over that a towel, and Ray flipped the bowl over and over, shaking it up and sideways. The butter sputtered. Less than two minutes had passed.

  “Hey, Rich,” said Ray, as he laid the dusted fish gently into the pan, “open that drawer right behind the table there and grab those paper plates and napkins. Doc, you know where the forks are. Marilyn, make sure everyone’s got something to drink. And, Wayne, put the salt n’ pepper on the table, will ya?”

  The smell of Ray’s cooking filled with room with an aroma Osborne had only ever found one word for: “Heavenly.”

  In short order, everyone was seated. Soon, five chipped Fiestaware plates colored red, cobalt, yellow, green, and orange, boasted identical lightly sauteed pieces of walleye. Two per each. “Wait,” said Ray, “there’s more.” He went to the refrigerator. From it he pulled a large orange bowl full of potato salad. “Homemade by my dear friend, the esteemed Mrs. McEldowney,” he said as he set it in the center of the table.

  “And for dessert,” he reached back into the refrigerator—”The finest lemon merigue pie you’ll find north of Chicago, made by yours truly and featuring his grandmother’s perfect pie crust.” The half-eaten pie went onto the table beside the potato salad.

  “A toast to the Northwoods,” said Ray, raising his glass of ginger ale as he seated himself at the head of the table, “Life doesn’t get much better than this.”

  “Wait,” said Marilyn, her fork poised. She stood up and raised her mug of ice water, “Ray, I have never asked a man this question before but I have never met a man of your talents … Ray Pradt, will you marry me?”

  “Now how can I turn that down,” said Ray. He touched his mug of ginger ale to hers. “Make me a star and we got a deal.”

  A look of ecstasy crossed each face with the first bite. “And I don’t even like fish,” said Marilyn, rollling her eyes in disbelief. “This is fabulous.”

  “This is what it’s all about,” said Ray. He turned to Osborne, “Y’know, Doc, you are a superb walleye fisherman. I just don’t understand why you insist on that damn fly fishing when this is all a man needs to be happy.”

  “I need the challenge, Ray,” said Osborne, winking at the crew around the table, “it keeps me young. One of these days, you’ll figure it out … when you grow up.”

  “Don’t do it, Ray,” said Marilyn. “Don’
t you dare grow up.”

  “Well,” Osborne stood up and walked over to the sink with his plate, “while you folks counsel Ray on his future, I have an appointment to keep.”

  “He’s working a murder investigation,” volunteered Ray as he chewed.

  Osborne was astonished at the sudden change in the faces around the table. All three—Marilyn, Rich, and Wayne—stopped chewing, their forks frozen in midair. Something hard and still had entered the room.

  “Really,” said Wayne. He had said little all morning. Now he spoke with a tone of quiet authority. “Can you tell us about it?”

  “A little,” said Osborne and relayed everything he was sure was likely to appear in the Loon Lake News later that day. He did not mention the missing fillings. He did tell them he was deputized to help Lew because she was short on local manpower.

  “Sounds like the ex-husband to me,” said Rich when Osborne had completed a synopsis of Alicia’s allegations.

  “Dr. Osborne,” said Marilyn, “I am what I say I am—a television producer. And Rich really is a free-lance cameraman from a Milwaukee station, but our pal Wayne here. For one thing, he’s my brother-in-law. For another—Wayne, don’t you think you should tell them?”

  “Undercover. Chicago Police,” said Wayne with a half-smile on his face and an edgy look in his eye. He didn’t seem real happy with Marilyn’s decision to tell them who he was. “Why?” said Ray.

  “Rich and I are hanging around for the weekend, catching up on the action around here,” said Wayne. “Rich is my cover. I don’t need to tell you it’s impossible to blend with the locals in this area. But the walleye tournament gives me a great excuse to hang out.”

  “Why?” repeated Ray. Osborne checked his watch, then crossed his arms and leaned back against the sink. He had an hour before he had to meet Lew. This was getting interesting.

  “I’m not sure I…,” said Wayne, brushing crumbs off the table with a large white hand as he stalled, “Oh, what the hell. We’re up against the wall, Ray. We know we’ve got a pipeline of drugs heading north from the Chicago port. We know the source, and we know the stuff is surfacing up here and all the way into the Upper Peninsula. But even though we know it’s being moved into Wisconsin, we haven’t been able to determine exactly how. Since we’ve been working from the bottom up with no luck, we thought we’d try from the top down and see what might surface.