Dead Hot Mama Read online

  “I am kinda, thank you—my all-new X-rated walleye jig.” Everyone sitting around the fire shook their heads. It might not be a bad joke, but it was bound to be close.

  “And now,” said Ray, pausing for dramatic effect, “I will explain the extraordinary advantages of this flat-out fantastic lure. But first, Lauren, tell me—what did I say was the name of this unique new product?” He leaned towards Nick. “Checking to see if my product nomenclature, so to speak, has staying power.” Ray raised a cautionary index finger. “Branding is key, doncha know.”

  “I think it’s memorable,” said Nick. The two men waited for Lauren.

  “The Ray Pradt Hot Mama?”

  “Close. I’ve been calling it just the Hot Mama—but … maybe I should call it the Ray Pradt Hot Mama. I like the sound of that. What do you think, Nick?”

  Before Nick could answer, Osborne interrupted, “Ray, could we get on with the fishing, please? Some of us don’t want to be here all night.”

  “Okay, okay—ready, Lauren?”

  “All ears, sir.”

  She wasn’t the only one. Osborne was very interested. He could see that Erin and Mallory were concentrating on every word as well. The design and marketing of new fishing lures was big business in the northwoods. More than one mom-and-pop operation had hit the big time. Why not Ray? He knew more about ice fishing than most people.

  “See the little skirt on her? Couple reasons for that. One, we’re fishing water that’s stained dark by tannins and humates produced by trees and swamp vegetation, so you need something light and fluffy to generate movement in the water—get the attention of the fish.

  “Two, we’re fishing a hump under this ice, a sandbar that’s quite weedy. This skirt will keep the jig from getting caught on the weeds. Now … the secret to my Hot Mama is … when you jig it this way … and just this much no more,” said Ray as he demonstrated, “you set off a sexy little wiggle. Fish love it.”

  “Sexy wiggle?” said Nick. “I know someone who does that.” He rocked sideways to nudge Lauren with his shoulder. She giggled.

  “Is that what Clyde was using the other night?” asked Osborne.

  “Nah, he swears by a Swedish Pimple with a chunk of minnow, but I’ve been catching a lot more fish with this.”

  “And the skirt—what’s that made from? Silicon?” asked Osborne, curious as to why Ray had been so close- mouthed about this new contraption. “This is quite an interesting lure, Ray. Why haven’t you said anything about it?”

  “Perfecting the details, Doc. Perfecting the details.”

  Osborne nodded. That made sense. Of course, with Nick here, guess who couldn’t help showing off.

  “But to answer your question on silicon, Doc, no sir-r- e-e. No Thunder Bay influence on my little gal—not an ounce of silicon in my Hot Mama.”

  “Ray, if you’re serious and you think you got something, you do need to apply for a patent,” said Erin. “Talk to my husband. He’s got a friend from law school who’s a patent lawyer in Chicago.” She walked over to get a better look at the lure. “You need special tools for that?”

  “Yep, a shovel,” said Ray.

  Erin gave him a dim eye. “I’m only trying to help.”

  “And I’m not kidding,” said Ray. “The reason I don’t use silicon for the skirt is because I found a road kill albino squirrel that has enough tail to make a million of these. Hence … the unique motion in water.” Seeing the confusion on Lauren’s and Nick’s faces, he added, “I used a shovel to scrape the dead squirrel off the road.”

  Ray looked up at Erin. “Are you happy now—forcing me to give away trade secrets?”

  “Yeah, right,” she said, walking back to the fire. “Check it out, Dad. It actually looks pretty cool.” Osborne swung around on his pail for a better view.

  “OK, Miss Theurian …” Ray knelt beside the hole, the Hot Mama still in his hand. “Ready to jig? Better pull your pail a little closer to the edge.”

  “Sounds like a dance,” said Lauren, scooting forwards.

  “Much more gentle than a dance. One last thing …”

  Ray reached into the small tackle box by his knee. “Now … you can’t see it in this light, but I got a split shot here, a tiny piece of lead that we’ll clamp on to keep her down. And I put a teensy dot of red marker on that, too.”

  “What’s that for?” asked Nick, leaning closer for a good look. “Do the fish see that?”

  “I dunno,” said Ray. “Haven’t been under the ice myself lately, so I’m not sure what they see. All I know is something about this entire con-fig-ur-ation … catches fish. Could be what they smell on that fur skirt she’s wearing. I really don’t know.” With that, Ray reached into his cheek for a wax worm, which he set carefully to one side.

  “What is that?” asked Lauren, leaning back so fast she almost fell off her pail.

  “A waxie. Sometimes I use mousies,” said Ray.

  “Baby mice?”

  “Maggots.”

  “Oh, yuck!” Lauren was so appalled she forgot to be self-conscious.

  “And the piece de re-sis-tance—” Ray pulled a small plastic container from the vest pocket of his parka. With thumb and forefinger, he plucked something tiny that he squeezed onto the hook before adding the waxie. He dangled the bait for Lauren and Nick to see. “Perch eye.”

  The teenagers looked on, dead serious. “Now, what you’re going to do is lower the jig into the water like this, almost to the bottom.”

  “Okay … how do I know it’s at the bottom?” asked Lauren.

  “Because I said so. I fish here all the time, so just take my word for it. And now … you ever so gently … jig … like this.” Ray held her arm and elbow until she had the movement correct.

  “That’s it, Lauren. You want to start at the bottom, then work your way up re-e-al slow … yeah, that’s right. Keep a close eye on the line and pay attention to the feel of the rod because when a fish inhales that jig—the tug is very, very subtle. All you’ll see is a quiver in the line, or it might move from one side to the other. When that happens, you set the hook like this,” he gave a quick, gentle tug, “then let the line run and set it again. Set twice, run twice—that’s the rule.”

  “You really think I’ll catch a fish?”

  “I know you’ll catch a fish.” Ray dropped his voice. “We are sitting on a ten-by-ten-foot hole füll of walleye. Those jabones in that shanty over there? They think they’re on it, but they missed by a couple feet. Whenever I know someone’s watching me catch fish, likely planning to steal my spot, I drill a couple holes to fool the idiots.

  “So, yes, you will catch a fish. The only question is how soon. Okay, Nick—you’re next.”

  Ray was helping Nick get set up on the third hole when a loud squeal from Mason signaled the landing of a good- sized crappie. Another shout, and Cody was swinging his rod through the air. Erin ran over to keep him from hitting his sister in the face with a flapping fish.

  “Ray, Ray, what do you call this?” yelled Cody, jumping up and down.

  “Hey, bud, I call that something for nothing. A little piece of heaven for no money at all.”

  “Also known as a northern pike,” said Erin, helping her son unhook his fish.

  As Lauren laughed at the kids’ excitement, Osborne could see her hunched shoulders relax. Concentrating with an intensity to match Cody’s, she kept her eyes glued to where the line entered the water, not even darting a glance towards Nick and Ray.

  Ray was slipping a perch eye and wax worm onto Nick’s Hot Mama, when Lauren jumped to her feet. “I got one! I got one!”

  “Okay—don’t let the line go slack,” said Ray, running over. “Drop that rod tip into the water—you don’t want your line to catch an edge of ice and break.”

  Lauren tried to hand him her rod. “No, you keep it, you’re doing great. Set that hook once more, good, now let it run.”

  Everyone from the fire gathered around to watch. “All right,” said Ray, “let
’s coax her on in.” Lauren’s eyes were shining as she swung her prize up through the ice.

  “You got yourself a small walleye, young lady. A little too small to keep but good work.” Lauren was beaming even as Ray eased the fish back into the hole.

  “That’s the first fish I ever caught,” said Lauren. “I love this!”

  “Bummer, Ray,” Nick called from where he was perched on his pail, “I think I’m hooked on a weed. I can’t move this thing.”

  “You probably got a stump—be right there,” said Ray, helping Lauren drop a newly baited jig into the water.

  “Hey, youse razzbonyas,” said Ray to no one in particular as he ambled over to the frustrated Nick. “Who’s not havin’ fun? Mallory, would you mind pouring me some hot coffee from that thermos I got on the floor of the truck, while I help young Nick here get unhooked …”

  “Sure thing.” Mallory jumped up from her pail. Ray circled behind where Nick was sitting, yanking his line from side to side in a vain attempt to loosen the hook.

  “Here, son, let me give it try.” But just as Ray reached for the jigging rod, the line moved.

  “Hold on, Nick … okay, give it a tug.” Again, the line moved.

  “That’s no stump.” Ray’s voice turned serious.

  Osborne never knew how he got over to the hole, but intuition born of fifty years of fishing had him there in an instant—just in time to see what Ray and Nick saw. The back of a creature surfaced, catching light from the fire. Black, brown, and glistening, it was a back so massive that as it moved past the hole in the ice—it filled the hole. Another instant and it was gone—disappearing into a swirl of dark water.

  Erin and Mallory crowded in.

  “Lauren, put your rod down and get over here,” said Ray, keeping his voice low.

  Everyone was quiet, watching as the line moved slowly from one side to the other then back again. “Okay … coax it … coax it … you’re undergunned with that two- pound test,” said Ray, “but she’s yielding…” The eight humans stood, reverent and waiting. Another swirl and a roll of the magnificent back … then the hook pulled and the fish was gone.

  Ray whistled. “Man, that is the largest muskie I have seen in my … lifetime.”

  “You’re shaking,” said Nick.

  “You bet I’m shaking. That … that fish was fifty inches—maybe larger. Holy cow.” Ray sat down onto Nick’s pail with a thud. Mallory handed him a mug of coffee. “Holy cow.”

  “I think he ate your Hot Mama,” said Nick.

  “It’s a she. We’re lucky she didn’t eat the rod. Look at me, I’m still shaking. I tell ya, Nick, if you had landed that fish? You’d have had to quit school and take a full time job just to pay the taxidermist.”

  “That big? Whoa! Wait till I tell the kids at school. Darn, I wish I didn’t have to go to my grandmother’s. That fish will be here tomorrow, right?”

  “That fish will be here next summer, Nick,” said Osborne. “I’ll bet you anything you hooked my ‘shark of the north.’ I’ve been hunting that girl for over thirty years.”

  “C’mon, Doc,” said Ray, “if you’ve been fishing her thirty years—that fish would have to be fifty, sixty years old.”

  “Prime of life, my boy,” said Osborne. “Prime of life. Takes that long for a muskie to grow that big. You know that.”

  Nick looked at the two of them. “How do you know it’s the same fish?”

  “When you’ve fished as many years as I have,” said Osborne. “You just know.”

  Twenty minutes later, as Cody and Mason began to complain about the cold, the adults decided to call it a night. This time Osborne and Mallory rode in the bed of the pickup with Lauren and Erin, letting the youngsters and Nick enjoy the blast of Ray’s heaters in the front seat.

  “So, Lauren,” said Mallory, “what was it Nick said about Ray that he didn’t want you to repeat?”

  “Yeah,” said Erin. “What did Nick say?”

  “Actually, he told me this while we were waiting to board in O’Hare,” said Lauren. “We were talking about our families, like how many times our parents have been married and stuff. Nick said he wished his mom had married Ray. He keeps hoping she will someday.”

  “That’s a long shot,” said Mallory.

  “Why? Nick said Loon Lake feels like home. I like Ray’s trailer,” Lauren grinned. “It’s so happy.”

  nineteen

  The best chum I ever had in fishing was a girl, and she tramped just as hard and fished quite as patiently as any man I ever knew.

  —Theodore Gordon

  Osborne tiptoed through the house, making sure all the lights were off. Plunging through the cold snow along with all the excitement of catching fish had put Mason and Cody in the mood for bedtime. Tree trimmed or not, when their mother said it was time to go home, they didn’t argue.

  After they left, Mallory hung some of the more delicate bulbs on the upper branches. Then she, too, was ready to crawl under warm blankets. Osborne was pretty tired himself. And a little disappointed that Lew hadn’t come by. He decided the tree could wait.

  Spotting one last box of ornaments on the floor, he set it up on the mantel over the fireplace, where Mike wouldn’t be tempted. Ever since the dog had eaten the remote control for the TV, Osborne had known better than to leave anything small, shiny, and electronic within chomping distance.

  “Right, fella?” Osborne reached down to scratch behind Mike’s ears. The dog had been padding softly behind him, making sure to hoover every crumb dropped by Cody and Mason. “At least you love me, doncha, guy.” Mike lifted soulful eyes. Oops. Osborne headed for the back door. Someone had scored too many chocolate Santas.

  Just as he opened the door to let the dog out, headlights swept across the driveway. Mike bounded out barking. A few seconds later, Osborne heard the soft slam of a car door and the crunch of boots on the snow.

  “Doc? What are you doing up?” Lew let herself in through the gate. “I was sure you’d be asleep. I was planning to leave this on the back porch.” As she walked towards him, she held up the shopping bag she was carrying in her right hand.

  “Heavens, no, Lew, I was just reading. I’ve been hoping you’d stop by. Why don’t you turn the car off and come on in. Have you had anything to eat?”

  “Bruce and I grabbed a burger at the Pub. But Doc, it’s so late. Golly,” she checked her watch, “it’s almost eleven. Really, I should get going.”

  “Can’t you come in for a few minutes?”

  “Okay.” He knew right then she wanted to.

  “Hot chocolate? I can microwave it—takes two minutes.”

  “I would love a cup, thank you.”

  Lew pulled off her parka and draped it over the kitchen chair. She reached into the shopping bag to pull out a small, flat box. “These are for your tree. The way things are going, I didn’t think I would have time to drop by tomorrow.”

  Then she pulled out another box. It was long, narrow, and wrapped in silver and gold striped paper, with a big silver bow anchored to the top. “This goes under the tree for Christmas morning—but this little one I want you to open now.”

  “Marshmallows?”

  “You betcha.” While Lew walked into the darkened living room to slip the wrapped package under the tree, Osborne stirred the cocoa mix into the hot water. Was this the moment to deliver his own surprise? No. It wasn’t even wrapped yet—and he would much prefer to have a time when they wouldn’t be rushed. On the other hand, he did want her to have it for Christmas. Still … he decided to wait.

  Osborne set the two mugs on the kitchen table. Lew sat down, then handed over the small box. Inside were four handmade wooden ornaments, each a little different version of Santa Claus.

  “You made these, of course.”

  “Yes,” she said. “These are my new designs. Just four, but I’m pretty pleased with how they turned out. I burned out on angels. I like these better.” She gave him a warm smile.

  He knew she loved woodwork
ing. Winter evenings she spent in her workshop, carving walking sticks from aspen and pins from walnut in the shapes of eagles, grouse, and trout. Her work was sold in one gift shop up in Boulder Junction, and the money stashed in a savings account to be spent on fishing equipment for her grandchildren.

  At Osborne’s urging, she had recently begun to make miniatures of herons and beaver and cattails, securing them to pieces of driftwood. If he was lucky, the long box might hold one of her dioramas.

  “Lewellyn, you look tired.”

  “Tired? I’m beat.”

  She collapsed back into the kitchen chair. “But we got a lot accomplished tonight. Bruce was able to get one of the lab pathologists up here by six, and the two of them finished up a little while ago. So I don’t have that hanging over my head. Interesting results, too.” She took a sip of her hot chocolate.

  “Arne hiring Bud may be a mistake, but I sure am glad Pecore’s out. He would have delayed this investigation seven ways from Sunday. At least now I’ve got an expert autopsy right out of the gate.”

  “So what’s the story?”

  Osborne sipped from his own mug, enjoying the sparkle in the eyes of the woman across from him. Why was it with Lew it always felt so good to talk shop? He had never discussed work with his late wife—and if he had, Mary Lee would have been bored to death.

  “For starters, the preliminary results indicate that both male victims had significant levels of flunitrazepam, which is a drug I’ve never heard of—”

  “It’s a tranquilizer.”

  “You’re right. Doc, similar to valium but more potent. Bruce said they’ve been seeing a lot of it in Milwaukee and Chicago. The street name is “roofie,” and it’s been a popular date rape drug for the last year or so. The pathologist spotted it right away since he’s seen so much of it recently. I won’t have a final toxicology report for a couple weeks but he’s certain he’s right. What’s odd is they don’t usually find it in men. And both had some water in their lungs.”

  “So they drowned”

  “We-e-ll, they’re not so sure about that. Bruce has arranged for detailed testing down in Wausau. Cause of death for one of the two, maybe both, appears to be a heart attack. Both victims showed evidence of laryngospasm.”