Dead Angler (15 page)

The trailer had an awning across the front. In a director’s chair directly beneath, feet up on a tree stump, sat their man.

He had changed into Levi’s and a forest green shirt, open at the neck.

Clint remained where he was as they got out of the truck. “Mr. Chesnais?” called Lew.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, his voice mellow in the night air. Osborne noticed the man gave off an aura of quiet calm. “I wondered whose truck that was.”

“Yep,” Lew said. Several lawn chairs were scattered about, and Chesnais half-stood to pull two forwards for them. “It’s us.” She sat down and looked around. “Nice evening.”

“That depends,” said Chesnais. “I’ve been feeling pretty bad since you left this afternoon. I begged off work. I needed some time alone …”

“Well … she was a good friend, right?” said Lew.

“Meredith was extraordinary,” he said.

“In what way?” Lew’s questions were direct but delivered in an easy tone. Almost seductive thought Osborne.

“Oh, jeez, how can I put this … she accepted me, she actually
liked
me for being the bum that I am. From the beginning, I assumed we wouldn’t last as lovers, but I felt we would always be good friends. And I felt okay about that.”

“Does that have anything to do with why she wrote you a check for fifty thousand dollars?”

“I wrote the check.”

“You did? In her checkbook?”

“I should have told you earlier. It was on my mind the entire time we were talking this afternoon. But I didn’t know how to say anything without having it sound—”

“Yes, it looks funny.” Lew looked over the trees that surrounded the little trailer and inhaled the summer night. “Nice place you have here.”

“Thank you. I have two hundred feet of lakefront back behind us. I’m trying to start a nursery here. Meredith wanted to invest a little in the business—she bought that truck you see back there.” Chesnais twisted in his chair to point to a white Toyota pick-up parked behind the arbor vitae rows. “Once I got that, I was able to sell nursery stock at the Farmers Market every Wednesday and Saturday morning.”

“How’s business?”

“Better than I expected. Meredith gets the credit. It was her idea.”

“Tell me about the check.”

“Meredith opened an account to be used for landscaping The Willows, the entire property. We put together a five-year plan, and she decided she wanted to keep that cost separate from all expenses for the restaurant. For tax reasons, I guess. I’m not into high finance so I don’t know exactly why she did it that way. But she put me on the account as a co-signer so that I could buy plants and materials without have to run every detail by her. I was due to leave next week on a buying trip to Vermont—they have a new rhododendron out there that I thought might winter okay in this region.”

“Clint—did you plan to use any of this money for drugs?” Lew’s voice was matter of fact. Her question went unanswered for several beats.

“No.”

“Do you do drugs?”

Chesnais shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He cleared his throat and nodded, “A little dope … from time to time.” “And Mrs. Marshall?” “On occasion. Maybe twice.”

Lew stood up and walked slowly around the garden, studying the plantings. “Did you see Peter Roderick at The Willows?”

“Yes, he’s been there the last two weeks.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this afternoon?”

“Because I learned the hard way, many years ago, to answer only those questions asked. If you want my opinion, I feel sorry for the guy. Something’s wrong there. But I don’t think he’s your murderer.”

“Cynthia Lewis. You know her?”

“She’s terrific. Meredith counted on her. If you want an opinion on Peter, talk to Cynthia. She’s been closer to the situation. All I know is he was drowning in booze, and Meredith thought she could help.”

“Umm.” Lew sat thoughtfully in silence. “Cynthia talked about Peter, but she didn’t say much more than you just did. She certainly doesn’t care for Mrs. Roderick …” Lew left Chesnais room to comment but he said nothing.

“So … you’ll stay around, right?” Lew said, leaning forward as if she was about to stand up.

“I imagine I’m suspect number one, aren’t I?”

“It might be wise to return the money.”

“Certainly. Just a minute.” Chesnais rose from his chair and went into the trailer. Seconds later, he returned with the check in his hand. “I didn’t deposit it. I always thought it was too good to be true. Meredith was too good to be true.”

Now Lew and Osborne did stand up, ready to leave. Chesnais gestured awkwardly back towards the door to his trailer, “Did you want to see my place? I apologize, it’s a bit of a mess.”

“Might be good to take a look, thank you,” said Lew. She opened the door and stuck her head in. Osborne was very surprised when she didn’t step inside. Instead she closed the door, stuck her hands in her pockets, and turned back to Chesnais.

“That’s a pretty sinister piece of property down there, don’t you agree?”

“The Willows?” Chesnais was surprised. “I think it’s beautiful. People are sinister—not the land.”

Lew nodded thoughtfully at his answer. “Did you happen hear any gunfire around The Willows?”

“Off and on. That guy who was laying all the tile in the bathrooms and the kitchen. The one her sister sent over—whatshisname—George Zolonsky? He made a big deal of his target practice the last couple weeks. Said he was trying to buy a new deer rifle and needed to try some out. But he stayed off in that north quadrangle so it wasn’t too bad. You barely noticed, really.”

“Clint, is there anyone you think might have had it in for Meredith?”

“Did Cynthia talk to you about Ben?”

“The ex-husband? She didn’t say much. Why, what’s your take?”

“Meredith told me how he left her. I thought it was pretty strange behavior for a guy who’s supposed to be worth a lot of money. Funny, I thought Cynthia would have told you about that.”

“We were short of time. Tell me what you know.”

“Only that he moved out on her. Moved in with his girlfriend, y’know. A month later, while Meredith is up here staying with her sister, he pulls up to their home with a moving van and takes almost every piece of furniture and art out of the place. He took her china and silver. He took the stove. He took everything. It’s not like he couldn’t go out and buy his own stuff. So why steal from a woman he’s already been cheating on?”

Chesnais chuckled, “This is why I’ve never made it as a businessman. I just don’t think like they do. Meredith’s lawyer made the guy return the stove on the grounds that it was how she made her living. This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill stove either. It was a custom-built AGA that cost twenty thousand bucks. According to Meredith, that pushed him over the edge. He came over to the house during the delivery and made quite a scene.”

“But that was months ago?”

“Just before she moved up here.”

“How did she feel about the other things he took?”

“She told me she didn’t miss it. She was happy to pare back. She was happy to be without all the crap.”

“So she buys The Willows with its six dozen sofas?” Lew laughed.

Chesnais laughed, too. “Like I said, she was extraordinary. She was giving those away, you know.”

“Clint,” said Lew extending her hand to shake his. “You’ve been a big help. I’ll return this check to the estate tomorrow morning.”

“Lew, is that guy for real or just a good salesman?”

“Let me put it this way, Doc. He never goes home alone.” Lew caught the slightly confused look on Osborne’s face and hastened to explain her remark as she pulled the truck back onto the highway. “Even without the tuxedo, that man is very easy on the eyes. I know women, and I can see how Meredith found her way here.”

“Well okay, so he’s handsome, he’s genial, he was helping her out … still Lew, he’s just not the type of man you would expect her to fall in love with.”

“Love, schmove. Doc, I deal with broken hearts and angry spouses every day. Trust me—love affairs are impossible to judge from the outside. Now, not to change the subject but what time is it?”

“Nine.”

“Good. Let’s go fishing.” Lew’s eyes twinkled. “I need a dose of fun.”

Osborne settled back in the seat as she drove. He was having a hard time erasing the images from his mind. The broken bodies of the fawns, the broken skull of Meredith Marshall. He could try for fun but he felt haunted.

Osborne
stood, fly-rod motionless in his right hand, entranced by the sight of Police Chief Lewelleyn Ferris dancing in the moonlight. Body and fly-rod arcing forward and backward in rhythmic patterns, fly-line shooting against the night sky with consummate grace.

Her movements were soundless against the murmuring rush of the river, making it easy for him to concentrate on every swoop of arm and rod. Rod tip down, she plucked the dry fly from the surface as delicately as if it dangled from a spider’s thread, leaving not a whisper of movement to spook a trout. Right arm whipping a series of false casts high in the air, she rocked on her feet like a jazz dancer: from back to front, toe to toe. Then both arms pulled in graceful opposition, executing a double haul that Osborne swore shot the line a solid seventy feet. He’d never fished with anyone, male or female, who could shoot that far.

Jeez! Here he was still working to develop a decent backcast, much less a double haul. How on earth did that woman learn to cast like that? And she made it look so easy. He planned to tell Ray after fishing with Lew tonight that she is the one reason he is willing to tackle this sport one more time—she is the first fly-fisherman he knows who makes a deliberate effort to keep her fishing free of technical frustrations.

“Lewelleyn’s Rule #1,” she had said earlier when he pulled two full boxes of wet and dry flies from his vest, “never, ever carry more than five flies.” So he set one box aside and slipped the other into the front pocket of his fishing vest even though it held a dozen flies. Lew had raised a critical eyebrow. Seven too many.

“Lew,” he’d complained, “it’s tough to choose. Whatever I don’t take will be the one I need.”

And so, together, they had sorted quickly through his box to select one Royal Wulff, two tiny Blue-Winged Olives on #22 and #24 hooks respectively, a Pale Morning Dun, and an outrageous Salmon Stone Fly. The latter pushed on him by Lew who said: “You just never know what you’ll see out there, Doc. Ralph laughs at my Salmon Stone Fly, but I’ve caught many fine trout on this little lover. Tied it myself,” she said with pride, grinning as she hooked one of the fluffy buggers onto his lambswool pad, then patted his shoulder to velcro down the khaki safety flap.

Critical though she might be of his fly selection, Lew had made no comments on his casting, which he knew to be marginal at best. Tonight, however, after watching him lay down a few roll casts, she pointed to a bubbling seam less than 15 inches from the bank.

“Lewellyn’s Rule #2,” she said, “see the riffle—cast the cover.”

“Good point,” he responded. He knew she was right. Every good trout fisherman knows the biggest, the brightest, the wisest trout lie in the deep sheltered pools, safe from eagles, otters, and other predators. It’s just doggone hard to cast there without hooking brush or submerged branches.

Egged on by Lew, Osborne cast closer to the bank, sneaking his fly under an overhanging alder that protected a deep crater carved from the rocky shore by the current. An immediate strike! Drats, he had too much slack in his line. Osborne fumbled, losing the fish before setting the hook.

“Good try,” said Lew, ignoring his awkwardness. “If I were you, I’d stay with that pool. We know they’re rising. Next time, lift that forearm and fly reel as if they’re glued together and keep it that way. Try to lose the wrist action, Doc, and stay tuned to your line hand. Now I’m getting out of here before I bug you to death.” And off she had waded, up and to the left, taking care not to disturb any water heading his way.

Thirty feet later, her felt-bottomed waders balanced on two submerged boulders, Lew tipped her hat back to signal she had spotted another tantalizing pool, overhung with black brush, outlined with bubbling seams, a beauty of a hangout for the elders of the stream. That’s when Osborne dropped his rod to watch.

Outlined against the reflection of the moon, he could see the fly line as it carried its weightless treasure forward to land with the ethereal grace of the mayfly spinner it was designed to duplicate. Again it flew and dropped. Again … once again. Suddenly, the dupe worked.

He saw the strike and Lew’s instant tuck of slack that set the hook. Then she surprised him, parting with tradition to let the monofilament run loose, to give the fish a slack line. Osborne’s jaw dropped. This was not standard operating procedure. But yes! She fooled the fish a second time. With the pressure off, the hooked trout lingered in its pool, now a false haven of safety.

She edged around her unsuspecting prisoner to set up a downstream run. The fish took the hint. Letting the line run out, controlling it with her left hand, disguising it with current, Lew followed the action. Her face was soft and eager in the moonlight, concentration and pleasure playing across her features.

Not once did she make the mistake he always did—a yank of the rod so high and so far back that it would wobble under pressure, snapping the line. No such rudeness for Lew. She stripped more line and let it run with careful control. Her hands were intuitive, caressing the fish so no membranes ripped, her hook a gentle jailer.

She had moved downriver, closing in on the tiring fish. Now her shoulders and torso rocked and swayed, dancing her prey closer and closer until the trout was inches from her legs. Feeling her excitement in his bones, tensing as if he were the one with the pulsing rod, Osborne understood the mystical draw of fly-fishing: you become one with the water and the finned creature, one with the body and the blood.

Lew’s line hand reached behind to pull her net from the clip at the back of her vest. She dipped the wooden handle into the shallow river to scoop up her prize, an expert nudge of her finger displacing the hook. Setting her rod aside, she reached for the glistening body and held it high in the moonlight for him to see: “A beautiful brown, Doc. Nineteen inches, maybe. Three pounds or more.” She held it for seconds only, then bent to release her catch, guiding it tenderly with her hands until it flashed into the watery black.

That’s when Osborne conceded that Lew just might outfish him in these waters. If Ray knew lakes like a walleye, Lew knew this river like a trout. She could sense who was hungry and who was not. Better yet, she could drop a fly into precisely that pool where the hungry lurked. But more important—of all the trout swimming beneath her, she could find one she could fool.

Just maybe, thought Osborne, that’s what made her a good cop, too.

Lew straightened up, reattached her net and picked up her rod. “What did I tell ya, Doc? Location, location, location. We’ve been in this water less than ten minutes, and already we got two strikes. Life doesn’t get much better.” The happiness in her voice traveled easily over the gurgling black riffles.

“Where did you learn to double haul so well?” asked Osborne. “I’m jealous.”

“Ralph. The man casts like an angel,” said Lew over her shoulder as she waded upriver. “He taught me everything I know. You should talk to him, Doc. You’d like fishing with Ralph. You’d learn a lot.”

Over my dead body, thought Osborne.

“I’ll think about it,” he said to her back, knowing full well he would not. He despised the man. Ralph Kendall was the son of an Englishwoman, a widow who met and married the owner of Loon Lake’s only sporting goods store when Osborne was stationed abroad during the Korean War.

Though Ralph had lived in the Northwoods since his early teens and worked for his stepfather for twenty years or more, the McDonald’s coffee crowd agreed with Osborne that it was curious how Ralph’s pretentious British accent grew more pronounced with time. Nor did the McDonald’s crowd appreciate the fact that the accent only seemed to enhance Ralph’s standing as Loon Lake’s most eligible bachelor.

Osborne had to admit, grudgingly, that the man had never done anything to offend him personally. He was always forthcoming with solid information on fishing gear, whether musky lures, walleye jigs, or trout flies. But it seemed to Osborne that he was a little too abrupt with male customers. Not only that, you had to know what to ask, he didn’t volunteer extra helpful information. And when he didn’t have an answer, he would beg off with a weak, “That’s how the Brits do it,” excuse.

Yet he appeared to be the God of Fly-Fishing for Lew. Maybe for ladies in general. Having heard earlier in the day that Cynthia had served dinner to Ralph and Lew, Osborne was even more irritated with Ralph. Just hearing the name caused his jaw to tighten.
Stop,
Osborne said to himself,
just stop thinking about the guy. Don’t let it ruin your evening.

Oblivious to Osborne’s emotional distress, Lew continued to edge forward in the water. She waded with care, moving slowly, sliding over the rocks, her body angled so the trout would see only one leg and assume she was a tree.

“I’m going upstream, Doc, you move down.” Osborne nodded and stepped back a step or two. He waited until she disappeared around the bend in the river, then looked about him. He had no intention of going anywhere. He was quite comfortable standing right where he was with two feet solidly planted in less than eight inches of water at what appeared to be the widest, most shallow spot in this branch of the Deerskin. Here the river was a managable twenty feet wide, narrowing as it curved north into the night.

Last night’s terror still lingered: the plunge into unknown waters and the panic that gripped him when the current swept his feet out from under him. Granted this river appeared much more benign at the moment, he just didn’t trust appearances.

So he decided to give himself a break and enjoy the night rather than try to be Fisherman of the Year. Content with the Royal Wulff that he had tied on, he focused on the one square inch in the pool where he had had the first strike and initiated a series of short casts. As per Lew’s instructions, he tried to tuck the fly reel under his forearm in order to keep the wrist from bending back. It seemed to work. But after a few more casts and no luck, he put his casting arm and line hand on automatic pilot, happy to let his mind wander.

This spot in the river was one of Lew’s secret places. He was flattered she would share it with him. Not that he could ever find it again. She had pulled the pickup off-road about five minutes away, then bounced them down a narrow stretch of meadow under power lines with poles marked “Keep Out: Danger of Explosives.” Lurching up and down until he thought he would need dentures, Osborne was relieved when Lew finally braked at a patch of dirt that showed signs of other vehicles.

“If you live north of Bruce’s Crossing,” she said of the tiny Michigan town where they had stopped at a gas station for Osborne to buy a one-day fishing license, “you can catch a back road into here, but this is the fastest way in from the south—and, you know, it’s getting a little late.”

It was nine-forty-five when they waded into the river. A dark nine-forty-five even though a three-quarter moon overhead lit the riverbank. Spires of balsam and stabbing arms of white pine stood out against the night sky with the clarity of silhouettes cut from black construction paper.

Osborne found this river to be milder in tone than the Prairie, burbling, gurgling, and quite shallow. As he looked about, he could see that the surface grew more complex over the rocks that lay downriver. His gaze picked up the eddies and riffles and deep pools illuminated by the moon.

The pools were the source of his greatest anxiety. He had learned the hard way how those still surfaces could mask treacherous holes. Holes rich with fish but deep enough to swamp your waders even if they were only inches from the bank. Holes requiring polarized sunglasses to gauge in daylight, thus impossible to judge in the black velvet of the August night.

Osborne’s arm grew tired. It had been a long day, what with the bait casting for walleyes. Ironically, it was much, much harder to cast the fly-line with its weightless fly than it was the weighted jig.

Reeling in until he could hook his fly onto the rod, Osborne eased himself onto a chair-sized boulder. He slumped into the curve of the rock, relaxed and happy. The truck was a short distance away, maybe fifty yards. An easy walk. He let his eye wander over the riverbank.

That’s when he saw the bear scat. A large fresh clump. Too fresh. He stood up and sniffed the air. Bear breath is worse than a pig’s. He’d know if one was close. The air was fresh, but now that he listened, he was sure he could hear muted crashing back in the woods. Blackberries, he thought suddenly, his chest tightening. How close were they to the ripening berries?

Inches perhaps? Inches away and fourteen thousand berry-hungry black bear prowling the neighborhood.

Osborne moved back into the river, sliding his feet diagonally across the current. Better to stand out here and practice casting than get into a negotiation he couldn’t win. With his luck, any bear would end up between him and the truck. One thing gave him a small measure of confidence: the bear was more likely to be afraid of him. Particularly once it got an eyeful of his miserable casting.

Osborne gauged the distance between him and each bank carefully, parking himself in the center of the stream. Forget seams and pools, riffles and eddies, all he wanted was plenty of non-threatening space between him and the berries.

Jeez, it was dark. Lew, Lew, where are you? Not a little desperation crowded his thoughts. He decided to think of something else before he worked himself into a real panic. Okay: Mallory. He focused on the need to get back and prepare the guest room for her before he went to bed tonight. And the bathroom. God forbid he forget to set out clean towels. Ohmygod where was Lew?

After what seemed like hours but was really only ten minutes, Lew’s shadowy figure rounded the bend. Slowly, slowly, she moved toward him, casting downstream, mending her fly against the current. Her movements so rhythmic, he found them hypnotizing. His anxiety over the bear faded as she approached. He wasn’t sure why, but having her near made him feel safe.

“Any luck?” he asked, deciding not to tell her about his most recent brush with panic.

“Four little brookies, nothing more than ten inches. Tired?” “Beat. Call it a day?”