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  “That wasn’t Paul Osborne’s daughter you just spoke to, was it?” said Chief Ferris, concern in her voice as Sharon slipped her cell phone back into her pocket. “I don’t mean to be nosy but there aren’t many people named Mallory around here.”

  “Yes … I’m meeting her and her sister, Erin,” said Sharon, wondering what could possibly be wrong with that. “They want me to sell their mother’s china on eBay.”

  “In that case, I would appreciate it if you would do me a favor when you get there—give Doc a message for me?”

  “I don’t know if he’ll be there or not,” said Sharon. “Mallory is the one who has made all the arrangements. But I’ll be happy to if he—”

  “Tell him I have to cancel our plans for tonight.”

  Before Sharon could answer, the cell phone on Chief Ferris’s belt rang. “Yes, Marlene?” Again the no-nonsense tone that Sharon found reassuring.

  “Are you serious?” said the police chief, her voice terse. “Wait—let me get this straight. You’re telling me our overpaid coroner took the week off to play his accordion at a polka convention? When the hell did he decide to do this? Why didn’t he tell me he was leaving town?”

  Sharon couldn’t make out what was said next but the mollified look on Chief Ferris’s face answered the question: “Oh … well, my fault. The memo’s in my box, huh? That’s what I get for relying on email. All right, Marlene, hold tight while I rethink what’s happening here because I’ve got two fatalities under questionable circumstances … What’s that?”

  She paused to listen. From where she stood, Sharon could hear a high-pitched chatter. Irritation flashed across Chief Ferris’s face. “Oh, he has, has he? Well, you tell Mr. Bertram Moriarty I don’t care how much he pays in property taxes or when his plane leaves for Chicago—he does not budge from that boat until I get there. No … one … leaves.

  “And, given what I see here, I’d say it will be a good hour or more until I can get there. I can’t send Roger because he’s got his hands full with that three-car accident in the Loon Lake Market parking lot. Plus I don’t want him there. So tell those people to hold their horses.

  “Now, Marlene, I need a coroner and the Wausau boys ASAP. I’ll give a call to Chuck Meyer at the Wausau Crime Lab—but will you please reach Doc Osborne and brief him on the situation? Thank you. Give him this address and ask him to meet me here as soon as possible. I’ll need him here and at Moccasin Lake.”

  Chief Ferris hadn’t even clipped her phone back onto her belt before it rang again. “He’s not answering? Damn. Okay, call Ray and ask him to walk over and see if he can find him. I know Doc was planning to fish with his grandson this morning.”

  Again her phone rang within thirty seconds. “No answer from Ray either? Jeez Louise—what else can go wrong! Try Ray at the cemetery—if we’re lucky he’s running the backhoe.”

  It wasn’t until forty-five minutes later, when Sharon was safe in her van and markedly more calm, that it dawned on her: Chief Ferris and Doc Osborne dating? Really.

  Her right eyebrow arched. She liked that thought. Sharon wasn’t single by choice and she had every intention of dropping another fifty or sixty pounds. If a woman like Lewellyn Ferris—strong, sturdy and so forthright (to put it mildly)—could attract a man as good-looking, as distinguished as Dr. Paul Osborne … Hmmm, maybe there was hope for Sharon Donovan. With that happy thought, she reached for her cell phone—time to let the Osborne sisters know she was on her way.

  CHAPTER 4

  The rowboat rocked lightly on the wake generated by a passing jet ski. Seated with his legs akimbo, Paul Osborne speared the angleworm with an authority gained from thirty years of practicing dentistry—a profession geared to small spaces and sharp instruments.

  He did not work in solitude: Two sets of eyes were riveted on his fingers as he manipulated the angleworm—a premium specimen one-eighth of an inch thick and fired with the energy of a chipmunk. Mission accomplished, Osborne held up the worm, looped twice on a hook sized for bluegills, for his companions to examine.

  “The trick is to hide the hook but leave plenty of worm to wriggle and draw the fish in,” he said, twisting the hook so they could see both sides. Seated opposite Osborne in the boat was his youngest grandchild, Cody, who brushed a shock of straight, white-blond hair out of his eyes to study the doomed worm with the concentration of a research scientist. Cody’s older sister, Mason, her kayak bumping up against the boat, leaned so far forward to get a good look that she nearly tipped over.

  Steadying the kayak, she said with a pout, “Grandpa, I get to go fishing next, right? Not fair Cody gets to go and I can’t.”

  “Part of his birthday present,” said Osborne, his tone matter-of-fact. He refused to be bullied by a nine-year-old. Cody beamed and reached for the rest of his gift, which was connected by fishing line to the worm: a graphite fast-action St. Croix spinning rod outfitted with an Omega reel that needed only the pressure of a small thumb on its rubber button to shoot line without a hitch. Osborne might be out a hundred and twenty-five bucks for the rig, but he was determined to see Cody spend his sixth birthday fishing with the ease of an expert.

  Two days earlier, frustrated to the point of cursing, Osborne had trashed the cheap rod the boy had inherited from his non-fishing father. Together grandfather and grandson visited Ralph’s Sporting Goods where they tested rods for a good half hour.

  “Cody,” Osborne had counseled, “if there’s one lesson in life you need to remember, it’s this: never hesitate to put your money into good tools. You will never regret it.”

  Osborne certainly didn’t regret it. Money spent on good tools had changed his life. First, there was the reputation he earned over the thirty years of his dental practice, thanks to an excellent education, a love for his profession—and the finest instruments he could afford. Even as he retired, he held onto those instruments, refusing to bend to the demands of his late wife that they be sold with the practice. It was a decision that, four years later, would indeed change his life.

  Then, there was the money spent on fishing tackle: spinning rods and lures that were more than just tackle—they were a means of escape. Escape from his marriage to a woman who spent twenty-five years responding with the same three words on hearing his voice on the telephone: “Oh … it’s you.” No hiding her disappointment.

  Even the expensive fly rod that he purchased not knowing if he would enjoy fishing in water rather than on water had been a serendipitous investment. Though he didn’t have an opportunity to use it until after Mary Lee’s death, it really changed his life.

  Thanks to that fly rod, he would enjoy extraordinary evenings in breathtaking streams, followed by enchanting nights in the arms of a woman he had never expected to meet: a woman who fished. And one who was so impressed with his willingness to spend money on a good rod—not to mention take instruction from a female—that she agreed to teach him the basics of fly-fishing. To their mutual surprise, they caught more than trout: each hooked the other by the heart.

  The late morning sun fell warm across Osborne’s shoulders. Overhead the air was still. Wisps of white cotton clouds brushed a Dresden blue sky. A perfect July day. Resting his hands on the oar handles, he let the boat drift, pulling Cody’s bobber along.

  He couldn’t help but congratulate himself for spending time and money to restore the old Rhinelander rowboat, a sturdy antique that he had inherited from his father. The money spent on the boat, the new spinning rod—even the buck fifty on angleworms—all added up to a look on his grandson’s face that he couldn’t buy.

  Having cast a respectable twenty feet out from the boat, the youngster sat perfectly still, breath held and eyes fixed on the gentle rocking of the red and white bobber. Across from him, Osborne sat just as still but with peace and gratitude brimming in his heart.

  “Grandpa?” Mason broke the silence from where she had let her kayak drift down the shoreline. Osborne glanced her way. In her white, one-piece swimsuit, orange life
vest and blue-green kayak, she was as colorful as a water lily in full bloom. Waving her paddle, she said, “Did Mom tell you we found the secret passage yesterday? We went all the way up to Hidden Lake. Found secret treasure, too, Grandpa.

  “I wanted to bring you a present ‘cause all the secret stuff is so cool, but Mom said no. She thinks it has to belong to somebody but I know she’s wrong. Why would you put stuff way out in the woods? So Mom and I made a deal—if it’s still there next summer, I get to keep it. And I know right where to find it, too, but you have to be in a kayak or a canoe ‘cause it’s pretty shallow. Too shallow for your fishing boat, you know.” She spoke with an authority that made her grandfather grin.

  Keeping an eye on Cody’s bobber, Osborne said, “Good for you, Mason. You’re wise to listen to your mother and I’m impressed with your kayaking. You’re becoming quite the expert, young lady.”

  “Yep,” said Mason, tilting her head as she grinned with pride, “that’s what Mom said.” She dipped her paddle, pointing the kayak towards the rowboat. Osborne was about to warn her not to crowd Cody’s bobber but decided to keep his mouth shut, trusting she would use her head and not need a scolding.

  Mason was his daughter Erin’s middle child. Overshadowed by twelve-year-old Beth, an excellent athlete and student, and by her little brother Cody, the first boy and an exuberant, easy-to-love child—Mason had a habit of going to extremes to get attention. Osborne cut her more slack than her parents did; he knew just how she felt.

  He, too, had been overshadowed. Mary Lee’s attitude towards him had changed after Erin’s birth. The intimacies of their early years together seemed to vanish overnight. Instead, Osborne found himself treated as an irritating but necessary appendage to a life in which a house and two daughters came first. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t win: if he wasn’t boring his wife, he was doing something wrong.

  At first he had no idea how to handle the new family dynamic. His own mother had died when he was six. His father, who never remarried, sent him to an all-boys Jesuit boarding school. So Osborne wasn’t sure what to expect from a wife. Then one evening, over drinks at a Knights of Columbus dinner, he stumbled onto a secret: many men were married to women like Mary Lee.

  And what did they do? They fished—but for more than just fish. Boats and lakes, rivers and streams, sports shops and bait shacks led to banter and fun and the simple pleasures of time spent with good friends. As the years went by, the pleasant hours Osborne shared with his fishing buddies made up for what he missed in his marriage. And the few men he knew who fished with their wives? Those were men he envied.

  But he had another reason for his affection for Mason. She was the grandchild who most resembled him. Whereas Cody and Beth were fair-skinned, blond and blue-eyed—Mason was the one whose skin tanned as dark as his. Her eyes were as black-brown and her hair as sleek and black as his had been at that age. Like her grandfather, she had inherited the cheekbones and the high wide forehead that hinted of their Métis heritage. She might be a rascal—but he loved her.

  “Grandpa!” shouted Cody as his bobber plunged.

  “Set the hook!” said Osborne, jumping to his feet.

  Water splashed and a grandfather nearly fell out of a rowboat, but a little boy reeled with all his might until a bluegill swung over the boat, sunlight shimmering silver off its scales. The fish was barely a keeper but the expression on Cody’s face gave it the dimensions of a prized mount. Osborne removed the hook and slipped the fish onto a stringer. He handed the carton of worms over to Cody, “Okay, young man, your turn to bait the hook.”

  “But isn’t that fish kinda small, Grandpa?” said Mason from her perch in the kayak. Osborne put a finger to his lips. “Oh,” she mouthed, getting the message. She watched her brother fumble a worm, then said, “You know, I bet I can hook a hundred worms an hour.”

  “It isn’t the numbers that count, Mason,” said Osborne. “Fishing is all about quality, not quantity.” Seeing the confusion on her face, he reminded himself that nine-year-olds are new to philosophy. “So what is this ‘secret treasure’ you found?” he said, doing his best to change the subject.

  Before she could answer, they heard shouting from the dock. It was a woman dressed in police khaki (as opposed to the khaki that she wore in the trout stream)—the woman whose smile always sparked a wildness in Osborne’s heart. Only she was not smiling now.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Cut the crap, Chuck—I do not have time for this …”

  Cell phone pressed hard against her right ear, Lewellyn Ferris paced Osborne’s dock, listening. Twice she tried to interrupt, only to nod with impatience. Using her free hand, she raked back the mass of dark brown curls that crowded her forehead. Osborne recognized the gesture: she was preparing to do battle.

  As the rowboat glided towards the dock, he could see defiance in her dark eyes, tension in her shoulders. He let the boat drift as he watched, concerned.

  He knew her as a woman slow to anger, a woman whose eyes smiled easily and whose manner was friendly—though that equanimity masked strength. But equanimity appeared to be in short supply at the moment. Did her adversary understand what he was up against?

  Lew Ferris was not typical of many middle-aged women that Osborne knew, and the sight of her in her police uniform never failed to remind him of that. Of medium height, she had a figure that was sturdy and fit, breasts that were high and firm—evidence of upper body strength. Where his late wife had been one to need help with a sack of groceries, Lew Ferris could be counted on to help you carry sections of your dock. Or take down a healthy twenty-two-year-old male who’d been over-served. Or, he was pleased to admit, change your life if she took off her shirt.

  “No, Chuck,” said Lew, her voice vibrating with anger. She was facing away from Osborne as she spoke. “No, no—you listen to me. I cannot keep five people waiting at the scene of a drowning accident—not to mention the ambulance crew and the victim who remains pinned under the boat—because your guys need a lunch break. Tell ‘em to eat in the damn car!

  “No—I cannot. I just told you I’m down to one officer on patrol because I have Todd assigned to the crime scene … Give me a break, Chuck—there is no question it is a crime scene.” By now Osborne knew it was only the presence of his grandchildren that was keeping her from using stronger language.

  She listened for a long moment then said, “You know, Chuck, I don’t know how it is in Wausau but here in Loon Lake it is peak tourist season. We’ve got people trespassing on private land, fender benders in grocery store parking lots and altercations at boat launches—not to mention underage kids sneaking into bars.

  “And, Chuck, that is half my day. But it is exactly why—if you don’t get at least one of your men up here within the hour—I will file a complaint with Madison … Oh, you think I’m kidding? Try me.”

  The rowboat bumped the dock, causing Lew to turn. She rolled her eyes at Osborne. And with good reason.

  While the Wausau Crime Lab was funded by neighboring counties and mandated to serve small townships like Loon Lake, its director, Chuck Meyer, had a problem: women. He did not believe they belonged in law enforcement and he never missed an opportunity to let Lew Ferris know it. Every time she called with a request for investigative assistance, he went out of his way to swamp her with bureaucratic baloney.

  But what Meyer didn’t know and Osborne did was that on most occasions Lew had the guy’s number. She had refined a reverse psychology—not unlike that used on two-year-olds—that worked to finesse the jerk. Not today. From the expression on her face, Osborne could see she just wasn’t going to take the time.

  “No, Chuck, late afternoon does not work. Didn’t you hear what I said? I’ve got two fatalities of which one is a homicide and my coroner can’t be reached … He’s on vacation—”

  Whatever the comment that followed, Lew’s face reddened under its summer tan. Her eyes flashed with anger. Throwing both hands into the air, she nearly dropped the cell phone
before clutching it to say, “Chuck, goddammit. You tell me the last time I reported a homicide and was wrong. You know better than that. Now I want someone up here by one o’clock at the latest … Yes, I’ll have the town attorney approve the expense, we’ve already talked—”

  Again she listened, this time nodding, her face relaxing. Meyer must be backing off. As Osborne waited, he heard her say, voice calmer now, “Just one crime scene, Chuck. The other is a drowning up on the Tomahawk chain. From the sound of it, some girl got drunk and fell overboard. I can deputize Dr. Osborne to help me on that one. But I—”

  She paused, shoulders straightening as she turned towards Osborne—this time with a half-smile and a wink, “Yes, Chuck, I’ll have Marlene fax down the paperwork. Don’t I always?” Again a brief pause before she said, “Okay, that works. I’ll deal with the drowning victim—then meet your men at 2241 Loomis Road at one-thirty. Marlene has directions if they need them … good. Thank you.”

  Clicking off her cell phone, she threw her head back, closed her eyes and gave a low, long groan before saying, “Dear Lord, why me?”

  “So—having fun with the Wausau boys?” said Osborne, getting to his feet in the boat, hands on his hips. “That’s guaranteed to ruin a good day. Sounds like you have to cancel our fishing tonight.” He didn’t want to address the other subject until he could figure out a way to handle her disappointment.

  “Don’t know yet. Have to see how the afternoon goes. But, Doc, I am so glad I found you. Pecore is off playing his accordion at some damn polka festival and you heard the news—I’ve got two fatalities on my hands.”

  She gave Cody a look of apology as she said, “Hey, little fella, sorry to cut your fishing short but I am in desperate need of a deputy coroner and your grandpa’s the best I know. I’ll trade you a carton of nightcrawlers if you’ll let me borrow him—like, right away?” She smiled at Cody then shifted her gaze to Osborne. “I see Erin and Mallory are up at the house—maybe they can take over with the kids?”