Dead Jitterbug (6 page)

“Still …” said Carla, turning the device over and testing its weight before handing it back to Kitsy. “Hell of a better investment than that pin of yours. Where did you get this?”

“The sporting goods shop in Loon Lake. Ralph’s,” said Kitsy, shoving the unit back into her pack. As she did so, a small leather-tooled holster, the same red as the backpack, bounced onto the floor at Carla’s feet. The holster held a small pistol.

“Whoa!” said Carla, taking a quick step back. “I sincerely hope that’s not loaded.”

“'Course not,” said Kitsy. “I’m not stupid.”

Carla looked doubtful as Kitsy shoved the holster deep into her backpack. “Whatever you say,” said Carla. “But before you spend a lot of money on another dead mouse, why don’t you just shoot it yourself.” And she cackled.

Osborne grasped one handle of the cooler, Carla the other. He took care all the way up to the fire pit not to look her way.

nine

Now, who can solve my problem, And grant my lifelong wish, Are fishermen all big liars? Or do only liars fish?

—Theodore Sharp

“Okay
, ladies, pay attention now—” said Ray with a wave of his knife. The words were unnecessary: his students were transfixed.

“To remove the gills on this bluegill, you start with a cut here at the throat connection, then slip your knife along both sides of the arch … and voilà! See how easy the gills pull out? Now insert the point of your knife into the vent right here … and run that tip
riight
up to the gills—but be careful you don’t penetrate the intestines. Like this … then push your thumb into the throat … and pull the gills and guts toward the tail. Just … like … that.”

Ray had already demonstrated his “soup spoon” scaling method and dropped two sticks of butter into the frying pan. At the moment, the butter was just starting to froth over a low flame on the camp stove.

“Will you do another one?” asked Carla. “Like show us how you fillet? How ‘bout that big walleye that I caught?”

As Ray reached for the walleye, the women groaned but their eyes never left his hands. Who knew evisceration could be so fascinating?

“First, with the walleye, we go for the gold,” said Ray. “We want the cheeks, and they are … a
delllicaacy.
…” Piercing two soft spots near the head, he popped out the coin-shaped nuggets and with a flick of the blade slipped off the skin. The disks glistened on the waxed paper.

“Those, Carla,” said Ray, “are your reward. You will never forget your first walleye cheeks.” Carla appeared to melt. For the first time that day, she dropped her hard-bitten attitude to grin like a little kid.

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?”

“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.