Dead Angler Page 2

  Moments later, he was lumbering after her while adjusting his too-tight fishing vest, stumbling over marshy hillocks, while desperately threading the tip of his rod through the maze of branches closing in around them. Reality set in. Grace, too, was not even an option.

  He tried to keep all these thoughts to himself, but finally he had it.

  “Mrs. Ferris, is this wise?”

  He aimed his words at her back as they both scrambled up an embankment and onto an old farm bridge that crossed the Prairie. Planks were missing from the bridge at random spots, the holes black and threatening, reminding Osborne of a mouth with too many rotten teeth.

  “That storm’s headed this way. Why don’t we try another night?”

  Lew paused in the wet blackness. “Call me Lew, Doc. I haven’t been Mrs. Ferris in years. And trust me, this will be worth it. Ralph told me they’ve used a muddler minnow the last two nights just around this time. When the best fisherman north east of Montana call the hatch, you are crazy to miss it. Ben Kauppinen pulled a sixteen-inch brookie out of here yesterday. Fact is,” she peered at him through the dark and leaned forward to emphasize her point, “the bugs are hatching, the fish are biting. You want to fish or not? I can guarantee that if you’re out here tomorrow in the noonday sun, you’ll be warm and happy and every trout in the river will be at the bottom looking up …”

  “You’re right,” Osborne held up a compromising hand. He could sense, even in the dark, that she was giving him a dim eye. Darn it, he kicked himself. Why did he have such a big mouth?

  His second mistake was hooking his trout fly on a high branch within his first five minutes in the river. He had tried to tie on a new one one, but the combination of the dark, the rain, and the blood knot stymied him. After watching him struggle for several minutes, Lew had come to his rescue, briskly grabbing his line, checking the length of his tippet, and quickly taking over the situation. Within seconds, she had sliced off the tippet and whipped on a new one.

  “Forget the blood knot,” she had said with a bluntness that charmed him, “too complicated. Here,” she plucked a fly off the fleece pad on her fishing vest, threaded the leader and worked magic with her fingers, “Ralph gave me two white caddis this morning. Use one of mine.” She had been quick and kind, but, he was sure, through gritted teeth. “Follow me,” she then said and promptly started upstream.

  Osborne tried to stay close, but it was hopeless. She waded through the heavy current with the authority of having been there before, the authority of knowing, intimately, the rocky landscape underwater. Or was it the new job that lent her this air of knowing exactly where she was headed and why? Lew was four months into her new position as chief of Loon Lake’s police department, a fact Osborne was well aware of thanks to the editorial page of The Loon Lake News. The appointment of the first woman ever to that position had generated debate within the community. Osborne thought to himself that on this particular occasion he, for one, was happy to follow Lew’s lead.

  But when she had disappeared around a bend, into the dark and the rain, he gave up. He opted to go at his own pace. That was what he loved about fishing anyway: it gave him time to think.

  Osborne paused at one of the few quiet pools that didn’t appear to be staked out by a ghostly competitor yet. Flicking his right arm up towards his forehead, he started the backcast, halting his movement as the line whipped back, then forward and out, running from his hand. Ah, grace at last. Of course, at no time could he see either line or fly. If it found a trout, he’d never know unless he felt it.

  He really didn’t care if he caught a fish or not. Right now, he was happy to be upright, dry inside his waders, and within shouting distance of Lew.

  He still found it hard to believe he was fishing with this stocky, once-wed, once-divorced woman who pursued errant snowmobilers and jet skiers, not to mention out-of-control hunters and fishermen—while supervising the local jail. Fishing is, after all, something you do only with the best of friends.

  And Osborne had never included a woman on his list of best friends—not even Mary Lee.

  But, he mused, that could change. Only an hour into the river and he could see that Lew Ferris was not only an expert, she loved the act.

  Osborne experimented with a false cast, which failed miserably. He was glad she hadn’t seen it. On the other hand, he had a sudden mental image of her face if she had, Lew raising those no-nonsense dark brown eyes to his and letting the edges crinkle with humor. Yep, insult aside, he would have to thank Ralph—these few hours in the river with Lew had indeed changed his mind. The question was, how could he arrange for her to take him again?

  Osborne checked his watch by flicking on the hiker’s light attached to his fishing hat. Twenty minutes had gone by since he’d seen Lew head upstream. He sure hoped she didn’t plan to fish much longer.

  Although it was a humid August night, the drizzle chilled him—or maybe it was the cold rushing water swirling, at times, as high as his waist. Osborne edged forward with care. In spite of the thick felt glued to the bottoms of his boots, he continued to stumble and slide over the slippery rock beneath the surface.

  The river felt so strange in the dark, challenging him with eddies and swirls and small rapids, one of which he stepped into now. He inched forward, legs wide apart for better balance. The roar of the water in his ears made him feel like he had a middle-ear problem as he tried to keep feet steady, rod and reel dry, and the white caddis fly out of the branches.

  At last, he spotted Lew about sixty feet away. He could see her as if in a strobe light—whenever the moonlight flashed through the cloud cover—her fly rod arcing back over her head, then flowing forward with a grace Osborne envied. The wind and rain seemed to ease for the moment.

  “Be careful, Doc,” she shouted back as she moved ahead, casting upstream, “slight drop-off and a big log to the right off that bank in front of you. Take it slow.” Once again, she left him in the dark.

  Osborne waded as close to the bank as he could, hoping to avoid the log. That was silly. The Prairie, one of Wisconsin’s premier trout streams and often less than twelve feet wide, is known for its treacherous drop-offs along the banks: holes scooped out by the relentless, roiling currents.

  His foot went down and down and down. He felt it slide over the slippery log and continue down. He grabbed for branches hanging overhead. He missed. Water flooded into the top of his waders, the swift current pulling him under. Arms flailing, he let go of his rod as he tried to steady himself. Instinct brought his arms down to his sides as if to find bottom and push up. His hands met the slippery surface of the underwater log—then the cloth of its sleeve and the appendage at the end of that. Osborne grabbed, only to let go with a terrible understanding.

  He found his feet somehow and shot up out of the river screaming. That was no log. That was a body.

  three

  The sleeve was a pink sleeve. Fuchsia, according to Lew. Attached to the sleeve and its hand was the body of a woman dressed for fly-fishing.

  “I’ve always thought it was a myth that your waders could fill and pull you under,” said Lew.

  “A frightening way to die,” said Osborne, “but, boy, I can see how it happens. Trout streams like the Prairie are so dangerous when you don’t know the terrain.”

  They sat on the river bank, side by side, still breathing hard. The body lay five feet away, face up, carefully laid out in a small clearing.

  “Jeez, Doc,” said Lew, “this is the third accidental drowning in less than a month. We better be careful or Loon Lake will be named the drowning capital of America.”

  Lew had already turned back when she heard Osborne’s terrified scream. Both of them struggled to move as fast as possible, legs pushing hard against the resisting water. As Osborne pressed upstream, anxious to put distance between himself and the unexpected stranger underwater, he found himself back in his childhood nightmare: running, running, running, but unable to move forward more than an inch at a time.


  Suddenly, the river bottom sloped up, and he was in shallows ankle-deep. As he lurched forward, still shouting but finally able to get some momentum, he nearly collided with Lew.

  “Calm down,” she grabbed his right shoulder firmly. “Take a deep breath,” she commanded.

  Osborne did as she said. As he inhaled, the panic subsided.

  “Good,” Lew relaxed her hold on his shoulder. She looked him over, and he was surprised to see the level of concern in her eyes. It had been a long time since he had such a sense that someone cared. He reminded himself it was all part of doing her job.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked after he had caught his breath. “Doc, before we go anywhere, let me help you get some of the water out of those waders.”

  Osborne looked down. In his panic, he had managed to travel upriver despite the fact he was carrying gallons of water—waist-high. He looked like the Pillsbury doughboy. Together they unhooked his suspenders and let the waders flop down, the water whooshing back to the river.

  “I think I’ll spend the extra ten bucks for a wading belt and avoid having this ever happen again,” he said sheepishly as he pulled the rubber pants back up. “This is fine, Lew,” he said. “I can manage with water in my boots. We’ve got to get back before that body floats downstream.”

  “Up on the bank,” directed Lew, “there’s a path up there.”

  “Now you tell me,” said Osborne as he switched on his hiker’s light so he could see where he was going.

  They were back at the bend in less than a minute. The body was nowhere in sight. “Here,” said Lew, handing him her fly rod as she jumped down into the river, “Let me check to be sure it’s not lodged under that log.” She leaned over, her arms searching through the water. Osborne did not mind in the least that she wasn’t asking for his help.

  “Got it,” she shouted, “I got it. Boy, it’s really stuck under here, too.”

  Osborne set both their rods against a tree and edged his way to the river bank. The clouds were clearing. Moonlight made it easier to see.

  “That submerged log—want me to try to lift it?” asked Osborne.

  “Sure, but watch your back,” said Lew. “I don’t like to lose fishing partners if I can help it.” Osborne bent his knees and circled his arms around the slimy old hunk of cedar. It lifted surprisingly easily, probably hollowed out from the steady hammering of the currents.

  “Great,” said Lew, her arms working in the water below her, “if you can hold it up for another moment or two … I’ve got the legs, but the waders are hooked on all these branch stumps … good, got it!”

  He let the log down slowly. “Do you need help?”

  “No, I’m okay.” Osborne stepped back to watch Lew pull the body, face down toward the bank where they found a small clearing. “Now, I’ll take the shoulders, Doc,” she said scrambling up and backwards as she held tight to the pink-sleeved arms, “if you’ll grab the lower legs.”

  They pulled and heaved and tipped it head down, the sodden figure weighing much more dead than it had alive, thanks to the gallons of water it, too, was carrying in its waders. At last, Lew rolled it onto its back and arranged the body as neatly as it would let her. She walked over to where Osborne was sitting on the ground, yanking off his waders so he would stop squishing every time he moved.

  “It’s a woman, Doc.”

  “Yep,” he said, “I could see from here when you rolled her over. Does this trail lead all the way back to where we entered the river?” he asked her, “or do I need to pull these back on?” Lew threw herself down beside him.

  “Gosh, I’m exhausted,” she said. She glanced back at the body on the ground. “We sure as heck aren’t carrying the victim back with us. Yeah,” she looked at him in the moonlight. “We can take the trail all the way to the truck. I need to start carrying a phone, don’t I? I have to call in and get Roger out here with the ambulance.”

  “Don’t ever put a phone in the truck, Lew. Fishing and phones don’t mix.”

  “What do you think?” she asked Osborne about ten minutes later. They stood together, studying the features of the corpse under the beams of their hiker’s lights. They had rested briefly, broken down their rods, and tucked their reels into their vest pockets. Osborne had rolled his waders into ball, which he buttoned inside his shirt for the walk back. That left him with one hand to carry his rod and the other to keep branches from poking him in the eye.

  He was relieved the rain had stopped and a warm August breeze had replaced the gusty winds, as he was completely soaked from his khaki pants and shirt right down to his underwear.

  “I think …,” said Osborne leaning forward to let the beam of his light fall across the face, then slide down the rest of the body, “this was a relatively recent accident.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I was in the Korean War, Lew, assigned to forensic dentistry,” he looked up at her. “I’ve seen a few too many corpses in my time.”

  “Hey, that’s good to know, Doc. You could come in handy,” said Lew with unexpected enthusiasm.

  “Well…,” Osborne started to hedge, he was never happy around dead bodies. On the other hand, could this be his ticket to more fly fishing time with Lew Ferris? Backtracking quickly from his moment of hesitation, he said, “Just call me when you need me.” And with that he determined to make the most of forensic skills he hadn’t practiced in years.

  Whether it was timing or the cold waters of the Prairie, the corpse showed just the earliest signs of decomposition and bloating. “She may have slipped and drowned earlier today—maybe even early this evening. The abrasions on her forehead and cheeks are probably from the body being forced through the shallows by the current …”

  “You think so,” said Lew. Her tone implied it was a rhetorical question.

  “Those rocks and sand bars will do a nasty job on flesh.”

  After the roar of the wind earlier, the night was now so quiet Osborne could hear Lew clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she catalogued details. She stood silently by his side for a good minute or more.ep “Tell me what you’re thinking,” he said.

  “Blonde hair. About five feet six or so. Female, buxom. But no man goes fishing in a fuchsia shirt, anyway.” Lew tipped her eyes up to catch Osborne’s. “Just in case the Wausau boys need documentation on sex, “she chuckled.

  “The Wausau boys?” Osborne asked, confused. Wausau was sixty miles away, a town ten times the size of Loon Lake.

  “The stuffed shirts at the state crime lab down there. I have to report any death in my jurisdiction. They assign the forensic work-ups and dictate the final analysis,” she said. “When … if … they get around to it.” Lew’s opinion of the Wausau boys was obvious.

  “That’s a very pricey fly fishing vest and she’s wearing ultralight waders. Tourist?” asked Lew. She waited.

  Osborne didn’t answer. He wasn’t looking at vest or waders, but the facial features … something familiar …

  “Doc—has to be a tourist. No one from Loon Lake would spend three hundred and fifty bucks on waders, would they? Not even someone from Rhinelander or Eagle River, do you think?”

  “Lew,” Osborne cleared his throat, as he always did before he delivered a pronouncement. “I recognize this young woman.” By his standards, she was young anyway. Late thirties, younger than Lew.

  “Really?” Lew waited. Her eyes searched Osborne’s face.

  “Meredith Marshall. She was a Sutliff growing up. A good friend of my daughter Mallory’s. In fact, I believe she and Mallory saw each other from time to time in Chicago. Mallory lives in Lake Forest, you know.” Lew nodded.

  “She’s from Loon Lake originally. The father died not too long ago, but he had retired to Phoenix. He managed the Rhinelander paper mill in the sixties,” said Osborne.

  As he spoke, he struggled to remember some recent gossip that been passed along during his regular morning coffee hour at the Loon Lake McDonald’s, t
he informal men’s club of early-risers, which included his neighbor, Ray Pradt, and several other fishing buddies. That was the one hour every day when any news, official or unofficial, in the fifty-lake region was likely to be heard. Usually accurate, the source was often only one to two parties removed.

  “Now that I think of it, I heard she moved back from Chicago about six months ago. Divorced. Alicia Roderick is her sister,” he said.

  “Oh,” said Lew. “Peter Roderick’s wife. They own the big house over by the grade school.”

  “Right.”

  Lew knelt and gently unbuckled the suspender top of the waders on the corpse. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Three years ago. She lost a filling while on vacation up here and dropped by the office. Just before I retired.”

  Lew folded the top of the waders back to expose a pocket sewn into the waterproof material, which she unzipped. From it, she pulled a sodden black leather French purse. She opened the side with credit cards and slipped out a driver’s license. “You’re right, Doc—Meredith C. Marshall. Still has an Illinois driver’s license.”

  “Something strange about her,” said Osborne reflectively. “I believe she married well, but for all her money, she had some of the crummiest dental work I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Really,” Lew sounded only modestly interested as she resnapped the dead woman’s waders, carefully slipping the purse into her own fishing vest.

  “Yes,” said Osborne emphatically, shaking his finger as if warning a class of young dental students, “this has always been a sore point with me, Lew. I never can get over the prices charged by some of these Chicago and Milwaukee dentists—and the third-rate work these guys get away with.” As he talked, he bent down to pick up their rods, then he started toward the path, anxious to get them both on their way. Lew lingered over the corpse.