Dead Jitterbug Page 5

  Keeping up a steady banter, Ray worked his knife through the fish until boneless, skinless fillets of blue-gray walleye, exquisite as marble, slid into the melted butter.

  “I’ll never be able to do that,” said Molly with a sigh. Osborne had to agree. He never tired of watching Ray whip through his limit or more of fish caught fresh just hours before. In his lifetime, he’d known maybe one or two men who, like his neighbor, could wield the fillet knife as if it were an artist’s tool: deft, quick, and accurate.

  With the fish sautéed and every morsel devoured, the homemade potato salad long gone, and only two of a dozen “homemade-from-scratch” brownies remaining, Ray poured fresh-perked coffee from his battered pot into foam cups. The women leaned against logs set back from the fire pit—legs extended, hats off, faces lifted to the sun. Even Osborne, who had managed to find a spot out of Carla’s line of sight, was relaxed.

  “Molly,” said Julia, as Ray handed her a cup of coffee, “you haven’t told us about your new husband.”

  “Right,” said Molly, holding her cup out for a refill. “And I haven’t asked about yours either—have I.” She smiled as she sipped the hot coffee, but her eyes were serious.

  “I don’t have one,” said Julia. “An ex, of course, but that doesn’t count. So who is he?”

  “Do we have to talk about this?” asked Molly. She looked around for support but all eyes were interested, waiting. She shrugged and said, “Jerry O’Brien. He just retired as publisher of the Loon Lake newspaper. He was a friend of my dad’s.”

  “You married a friend of your old man’s?” asked Carla. “Why would you do that? I know that guy. My god, he must be thirty years older’n you.”

  “Thirty-one,” said Molly. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.” She took a deep swallow of her coffee and tossed the rest into the bushes. Then she stood up, dusted off her hands, and started up the path towards the latrine.

  “Wait a minute,” said Carla, the sly look creeping across her face. “You gotta tell us—what’s it like, you know, with an old geezer?” Her mouth twitched.

  Molly turned to look straight at her. No smile this time. “I wouldn’t know. He had prostate surgery just before we got together. Any more questions burning on your brain?” Carla waved off the challenge with a flutter of her hand. “Score one for Molly,” said Barb with a snort and a laugh—until she caught a glower from Carla.

  “Whoa,” said Kitsy when Molly was out of earshot. “Whoa.”

  She spoke for everyone, including Osborne. Jerry O’Brien had been a patient of his up until Osborne’s retirement. Given the wear on his teeth, he had to be at least sixty-five. More memorable than the man’s mouth was the awful cologne he wore. After every appointment, Osborne’s dental assistant would have to open the office windows—even on a subzero winter day.

  Molly married to Jerry O’Brien? Osborne was stunned.

  “How many men does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” asked Carla, ready to change the subject.

  “Excuse me,” said Ray standing up, “I believe the time has arrived for me to see a man about a dog.” Osborne resisted the urge to follow him down the path toward the lake.

  “You tell us,” said Kitsy. “You look like you know a lot about men.”

  “One. He just holds it and waits for the world to revolve around him.” Carla cackled at her own joke.

  “Now wait a minute,” said Kitsy. “That is absolutely not true of our fishing guru. Ray doesn’t strike me as the self-centered type.” She looked around at the other women.

  “I agree,” said Barb. “Doc isn’t either.” She shot Osborne a quick glance, shy but grateful. As if any remark by Barb bored her, Carla rolled her eyes, unzipped her fanny pack, and pulled out a cell phone.

  Punching in numbers, Carla turned away from the group, only to turn back after a few seconds and snap the phone shut. “Damn, still doesn’t work,” she said.

  “Carla,” Ray asked, trudging up the path just as she was putting her phone away, “didn’t I tell you no cell phones allowed when you’re fishing with me? Frightens the fish, doncha know?”

  “How much you want for the pontoon?” asked Carla, ignoring his remark. “It’s for sale, right?”

  “Thirty-seven thousand,” said Ray, “includes the trailer.”

  “Any discount for cash?”

  “Carla, good heavens. What business are you in?” asked Molly as she returned to toss her paper plate into the trash bag that Osborne was holding. “Drugs?” At the look on Carla’s face, she raised a hand—“Just kidding.” But she couldn’t resist a smirk, and Osborne didn’t blame her.

  “Real estate,” said Carla. “Opened my own office about six months ago.”

  “Oh, really,” said Molly as she sat down on a log. “You must be doing very well.”

  “I do okay,” said Carla.

  “Not just okay,” said Barb, “we’re doin’ great. Carla got us this client. This big foundation that wants to buy and sell all this land…. Man, we are making money hand over fist. Just listed a big chunk of lake frontage over on Secret Lake.”

  The alarm on Carla’s face went unnoticed by Barb, who had her back to her.

  “What do you mean?” asked Kitsy, sputtering into her coffee. “That’s my lake. My family owns all the land surrounding that lake. Like who listed anything over there?”

  “The Conservation Foundation is buying it from a Mr. Kelly for us to sell on his behalf,” said Barb, still unaware of Carla’s expression. “And We already have a buyer. So we make money on both sides. Very cool.”

  “Edward Kelly is my father,” said Kitsy. “He can’t possibly have listed property with you—”

  “I have the name right, don’t I?” Barb turned to face Carla. Too late, she got the message and froze.

  “Well, he did,” said Carla. “Three hundred acres. You seem surprised, but it’s only a smidgen of everything your family owns over there.”

  “That’s not it,” said Kitsy, color rising in her face. “The land is in my mother’s name. Dad can’t do that.”

  “That’s not what the records show,” said Carla, her voice calm.

  “Hey, everyone,” said Julia, jumping to her feet. “That’s enough business talk. We’re here to fish. Now a big thank-you to Ray for a delicious shore lunch. What do we say?” She raised her arms as if directing an orchestra.

  Everyone looked up in surprise. This was more animated than she had been all day.

  “Thank you, Ray,” they chorused. Even Kitsy, despite the worry clouding her eyes.

  Ray beamed. “Ladies, ladies. Bread feeds the body, flowers the soul. Now back on the pontoon, everyone.”

  ten

  Then do you mean that I have got to go on catching these damned two-and-a-half pounders at this corner forever and ever?

  The keeper nodded.

  “Hell,” said Mr. Castwell.

  “Yes,” said his keeper.

  —G.E.M. Skues

  “Ray, how much longer?”

  Dusk was falling, and Osborne was anxious. He and Lew had agreed to meet at nine for an hour of fishing, and it was already eight fifteen. It was obvious, too, that the women were tiring. They had fished all afternoon until five thirty when Ray docked the pontoon at Watersides, a small resort on Third Lake renowned for its cozy dining room and excellent food.

  “Burgers, fries, Leinies all around—except for me, I’d like a Coke, and ginger ale for the good dentist here,” said Ray. Only Julia resisted, requesting water not beer. Then it was back on the pontoon for one final hour—or so Osborne had thought—of evening fishing. But dusk into dark was Ray’s favorite time to fish, and as the pontoon headed toward Fifth Lake Osborne realized their earlier agreement was being finessed.

  “Ray …” he said, pointing at his watch for the umpteenth time and not a little irritated that he would have no time to shower and shave before Lew arrived. “I thought we agreed I would help out until six—it’s way past that now. Ray?”

&
nbsp; “Okay, okay, Doc, I hear you,” said Ray from where he stood with his arms around Molly, helping her with a muskie rod. “Let’s try one last cast, Molly,” he said. “Remember what I told you. No reason to wrestle the rod—just aim for the horizon and let that Jitterbug fly. Good … that’s it … great!

  “And from now on, when you’re fishing, what do you say to yourself? Repeat after me: Perfect is the enemy of good enough. Memorize that, let your lure fly, and I promise you will catch fish.” Molly grinned, repeated his words and, both hands gripping her rod, let fly a long, smooth cast. Ray beamed, Molly glowed, and Osborne checked his watch.

  “Ray….” Osborne twisted his face into the grimace he used on Mike when the dog misbehaved. That got Ray’s attention. He gave a sad little shrug, making it clear Osborne was the party pooper of the day, and sat down to turn the ignition key.

  Twenty minutes later, as they entered the channel returning them to First Lake, the western sky greeted them with a watercolor vista: streaks and swirls of lavender and rose tipped gold by the setting sun. The women oohed and aahed and begged Osborne to take one more photo.

  They crowded together behind Ray, arms linked, the vibrant sky their backdrop. Checking the exposure and the angle, he made sure the sun didn’t turn them into silhouettes. Then everyone settled down to bask in the final moments of the cruise, expressions of bliss on their faces. Ray couldn’t have paid for a better finale to his first “Fishing for Girls.”

  As they rounded the last set of channel markers, a cell phone rang. Carla had the grace to look to Ray for permission before unzipping her fanny pack.

  “Go ahead,” he said, waving his hand, “we’re done for the day.”

  She pulled it out and listened. “Are you shitting me—when did they call?” Carla jumped to her feet. “What? They came into the office?” A string of expletives filled the air. She slammed the phone shut and turned to Barb. “What the hell dumb thing did you do? Godammit.”

  “What—” asked Barb, “what are you talking about?”

  “That was Tomisue at the office. The IRS dropped in this afternoon. They’re doing an audit.”

  “I—I can’t imagine why….” Even the sunburn drained from Barb’s face.

  “You can’t imagine why,” mimicked Carla, shaking the phone at her.

  “Ladies, that’s enough,” said Ray. But the day was robbed. Its golden haze of easy chatter, pleasant fatigue, and simple happiness shattered. Kitsy, Julia, and Molly averted their eyes. Barb sat with her shoulders hunched, trembling. The pontoon moved with a whisper over the water and no one said a word. As they reached the end of the channel, Ray glanced over at Carla. “Hey, Carla,” he asked, “you know what they call an IRS audit, doncha?”

  “Not interested,” said Carla. She sat at the back end of the pontoon, arms folded tight against her chest, one leg crossed over the other, right foot pumping up and down.

  Osborne, resting his forearms on his knees, reached his hands up to rub his eyes. He never knew which was worse: Ray’s jokes or his timing. He also knew there was no stopping the guy.

  “An autopsy—without benefit of death.”

  With the exception of Barb, the other women chuckled softly. Osborne pressed his fingers against his eyelids to keep from doing the same. After a few beats of silence, he dared to look up.

  Carla’s jaw was set. “So if I stop by tomorrow morning—will you let me have this pontoon?”

  “Sure,” said Ray, taken aback. “But—you really want to pay cash?”

  “Yeah, I want to pay goddam cash. But I’ll need you to help me with some arrangements. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  More moments of silence as the pontoon picked up speed on the lake. Ray reached down for his trout hat and set it on his head, adjusting it until he was satisfied the angle was just right. In Ray’s world, no matter how distressing current events, arrivals and departures demand ritual.

  “Speaking of cash, Ray,” Kitsy asked, “how much will you take for that hat? I have got to have it.”

  “Not for sale.”

  “A hundred dollars.”

  “Nope.” “Five hundred … okay, okay, final offer—one thousand dollars.”

  “She spends that much on dead mice,” said Carla. “I’d take it.”

  Ray just grinned. “You can buy my tackle, my boat, my house trailer even—but you cannot buy my hat.”

  Kitsy gave him a teasing look. “We’ll see…. Say, Carla,” said Kitsy, bending over to pull a notebook out of her backpack, “before I forget—what’s your office number if I want to get in touch with you on that property situation?”

  “Julia’s got it.”

  “Julia’s got your phone number?” asked Kitsy.

  “Yes, I asked her for it a while ago—I knew you would want it,” said Julia with a half-smile on her face. As she spoke, Osborne saw Carla dart a look at Barb. No annoyance this time. Relief.

  As the pontoon rounded the bend, Ray looked back at Osborne. “Hey, Doc,” he said, pointing at the shoreline, “Someone’s waving at us from your place. Hold on, ladies!” He gunned the engine.

  “If it’s Lew, she’s early,” shouted Osborne. Ray bypassed his own dock and headed straight for Osborne’s. It was Lew, but she wasn’t dressed for fishing. She was still in uniform, and she wasn’t smiling.

  eleven

  I am not a lady fly fisher; I am a fly fisherman.

  —Lady Beaverkill (Mrs. Louise Miller)

  “Something wrong?” asked Osborne as Ray cut the engine to let the pontoon drift toward the dock.

  Had something happened to Erin, or one of his grandchildren? Had there been a call from Chicago where Mallory was in Northwestern University’s MBA program? In grad school and in AA—at least he hoped she was still in AA. That was one struggle he knew too well. Osborne held his breath.

  “I need your boat, Doc,” said Lew, keeping her voice low as he jumped off the pontoon. “Take me at least an hour to catch up with Roger and haul that department inboard of ours out of the garage. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Hardly. That was good news. Osborne exhaled.

  This was not the first time she had asked to use his boat. With three hundred lakes located within five miles of Loon Lake, it didn’t make sense for the police department to keep their boat moored anywhere except on land. Further complicating water access were the locations of public landings—not always easy to reach, not to mention deep enough to handle the propeller. Getting the police boat in water was not easy and never fast.

  “Of course not. Need help?”

  “If you’ve got time, I would appreciate it.” Osborne resisted the urge to say, “Are you kidding?” Instead, he segued into an emotional state of heightened awareness tempered with happiness. The sight of her never ceased to hijack his heart—a heart, he admitted only to himself, that was of a sixteen-year-old trapped in the body of a middle-aged man.

  Though his crush on the Loon Lake Chief of Police was well into its second year, he had known her longer. During his years as one of only three dentists in their small town, its population recently skyrocketing to 3,412, she made appointments twice a year, along with her young son and daughter, for a checkup and a cleaning.

  Her teeth were excellent: small and hard in a jaw square enough to hold four wisdom teeth easily. A near-perfect bite and only two fillings.

  Those were difficult years for Lew. A single mother, she worked at the paper mill and paid her dental bill in small monthly increments. But she always paid it off before her next appointment, which was more than he could say of too many of his more well-to-do patients.

  But he sold his practice right around the time that Lew Ferris had joined the Loon Lake Police Department. They might never have gotten together if he hadn’t decided to clean his garage one Saturday morning and stumbled onto a fly rod he had hidden away so well it was forgotten.

  Years earlier, at the urging of a fellow dentist who had been an expert in the trout stream, he had wanted to try
fly-fishing. He’d bought a couple books, even invested in basic equipment. But Mary Lee, a chronic complainer about the time he already spent in the boat pursuing muskie, walleye, and panfish, nixed the idea. The prospect of one more way for him to escape to water infuriated her. And so, bowing to the wifely harangue, he gave up after one try.

  Two years after her death, he decided to reorganize the garage the way he would like it—and came upon the gear from that aborted attempt. The bamboo rod appeared to be in excellent condition, as did the reel and the trout flies.

  He decided to take one lesson in casting before selling the equipment. Just to be sure that selling was the right idea. To his great surprise, the instructor referred to him by Ralph Steadman, who ran Ralph’s Sporting Goods, was a woman. And since their first hours in the trout stream, he had found himself angling for more time with her—in water, on water, near water. Anywhere.

  It wasn’t easy. Unlike Mary Lee and her bridge partners, Lewellyn Ferris didn’t need a man to bait her hook or tie on her trout fly, carry her equipment or give her a hand in the current. She was quite capable of doing it all herself. She wanted to do it herself.

  But the one thing he was pleased to discover that she didn’t have, following her promotion to Chief of the Loon Lake Police Department, was a reliable forensic odontologist. Budget restraints statewide hammered law enforcement staffing. Not even the Wausau Crime Lab, sixty miles away and Loon Lake’s primary resource in the event of a serious crime, had a full-time forensic dentist.

  Osborne, who prided himself on eyes sharp enough to spot a muskie twenty feet away in dark water, saw opportunity: Every corpse needs a reliable ID, and no ID is more reliable than teeth. And so it was that he honed his forensic skills—tools to trade for time in the water with a woman who made him feel young again.

  Ray’s pontoon lingered at the end of Osborne’s dock, his neighbor waiting to be sure help wasn’t needed. Lew waved him off. “Catch up with you later, Ray,” she said, her tone pleasant but brusque. He got the message and gunned the pontoon into a wide, sweeping arc back towards his place.