Dead Meat (19 page)

“That is not what I meant, and it is not what I said.”

She shrugged, but I could see her smile as she turned away from me.

A few minutes later Marge muttered, “Hey, there. Little tipdipper, huh? Come on, big fella.” An instant later she cried, “Ha!”

Her rod bowed as something strong and heavy began to rip the line from her reel. She held the rod over her head with both hands, using a finger of her left hand to increase the drag of the reel. When she turned the fish, it bolted toward the surface and leaped high out of water.

“A noble fish,” I commented.

Marge grunted, too deep in concentration to respond.

She finally brought the spent salmon alongside the canoe. I reached down with the long-handled net and scooped him out. “Five and a half pounds, easy,” I said, extending the net to her so she could remove her fish.

She used the mesh of the net to help her grip the fish behind his gills. She twisted the fly gently from the corner of his mouth and then jerked her head at me. I lowered the net into the water and flipped it over, releasing the big salmon.

Marge sat there in the stern of the canoe, panting and grinning. Her forehead glistened with perspiration. “Imagine living in a city,” she said. She reached over the side of the canoe with her hat, scooped it full of water, and replaced it on top of her head. The frigid lake water cascaded down the front of her, soaking her shirt and plastering it to the front of her. It made her breasts stand out against the wet fabric. She wore no bra. I could see how the cold water had hardened her nipples.

“Wow!” she breathed. “That is some cold.”

“A pretty piece of angling,” I observed.

“Mmm,” she said. “Ready for some lunch?”

“Aye, aye, Skipper.”

She hauled up the anchor and paddled us to shore. She beached the canoe, and I climbed out and held it steady for her while she moved down the length of it. She put her hand on my shoulder to brace herself as she stepped out.

Our luncheon site was a sandy little spit of land. Several tall pine trees shaded us from the high sun, but the place was exposed enough to allow what there was of a breeze to waft through, cooling us and clearing away the blackflies.

I went on a firewood search while Marge unloaded her basket and moved some rocks together for the fireplace. When I returned with a big armload of wood, she had already set out on a blanket a plate containing a pleasing arrangement of three different cheeses and crackers. She held two goblets of white wine in her hand.

She passed me one of the glasses. “To this place,” she toasted.

“Amen,” I murmured.

“You just sit tight, now,” she told me after sipping her wine. “I’m gonna make you a lunch the likes of which you have never tasted on the shores of this or any other lake.”

She built a big fire, and we sat away from it while it burned down to coals. By then the wine bottle was nearly empty. “Don’t worry,” said Marge. “I brought another.”

She fished it out of the basket and handed it to me, along with a corkscrew. I twisted out the cork and refilled our glasses. Marge removed a big black skillet from that seemingly bottomless basket. She set it atop the rocks over the coals. She put in a whole stick of margarine. After it had begun sizzling, she tossed in three or four garlic cloves. When their aroma burst forth, she removed a small cooler from the basket. From it she took out a plastic bag that was filled with small white Y-shaped pieces of meat. “Kept ’em on ice,” she said as she dropped them into the skillet.

I leaned forward and frowned. I couldn’t tell what she was cooking. She noticed and grinned.
“Grenouilles,”
she said.

I shrugged.

“Coscie di rana.”

“No hablo,”
I said.

“Frogs’ legs. Caught ’em myself last night.”

“Delicious,” I said. “Love ’em.”

She splashed some wine into the skillet, lifted it by its handle, and rocked it back and forth, mingling the juices. Then she used a long-handled fork to turn them over.

She dove back into the cooler and came out with a small bunch of asparagus spears. “Catch them last night, too?” I said.

“Had Bud bring ’em back from Greenville. They’re in season. Native and fresh.”

She stirred them frequently, and after a couple of minutes she announced, “Chow time.”

She handed me a plate from her basket. Real china. I held it while she loaded it up with frogs legs and asparagus. Then I held her plate for her so she could serve herself.

Finally, she brought forth a round loaf of hard bread. She broke off a piece and handed the loaf to me.

I topped off our wineglasses. We clicked them together. Our eyes met over the rims. Marge was not smiling. “To good food,” I said.

“To this day,” she answered somberly.

We ate slowly, talking little. It was the kind of meal that deserved to be savored and contemplated, and it took a conscious effort of will to restrain my appetite and normal gluttonous approach to dining.

We sat cross-legged on the blanket, side by side, plates balanced on our laps, needing more than two hands apiece to steady the plate, manipulate a fork, hold a glass, and maneuver a chunk of bread among the juices of the meal.

When we had finished, I poured more wine into our glasses. “That,” I proclaimed, “was elegant.”

Her eyes stared into mine. “I wanted it to be memorable.”

I grinned. “Frogs’ legs! Damn!”

She stood up abruptly. “Gotta clean up,” she mumbled, turning away from me.

She scraped the little frog bones into the coals, which crackled briefly into flames. Then she gathered the dishes and the skillet and took them to the water’s edge. I doused the fire and then dropped onto the blanket, lying back on my elbows.

She returned a moment later, wiping her hands on the fronts of her thighs. “Any wine left?”

“A little.”

She knelt beside me and found her glass. I sat up, filled it, and lay back again.

She lifted it to her mouth, watching me. “Brady?”

“You want a cigarette?”

She frowned, then shrugged. “Sure.”

She sat back on her heels while I lit cigarettes for us. She took one from my hand and puffed at it quickly. “Listen,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I think…”

She reached over and placed two fingers gently on my lips. “Shh,” she said. “Don’t talk, for once. Listen. Okay?”

I rolled my eyes and nodded.

“You are thinking I brought you here to seduce you. Right?”

I shrugged.

“Well, it’s true. I did. And you are thinking that I am trying to recapture something that happened between me and Tiny Wheeler twenty-odd years ago. You don’t have to say anything. You aren’t all that dumb. So you’ve got this whole scene psyched out, being a smart city lawyer and all. And you’re Tiny’s friend and Vern’s attorney, and the last damn thing you need is to get messed up with this horny country wife who’s been neglected for too long, but you’re too much of a gentleman to straight out turn me down, because you don’t know how to do it without doing something bad to what’s left of my dignity, probably not being accustomed to turning down an easy lay in the first place. Am I making any sense here?”

I nodded.

“Well, good. And you’re thinking that this broad who just turned forty must need piles of reassurance that she’s still attractive and sexy, and you’d really like to find a way to give her that without getting otherwise involved. And you’re pretty damn sure that if we stripped down and coupled right here by the lake, we’d end up getting involved, knowing the horny broad in question as well as you do. So you’re figuring you’ve got two alternatives. Wanna hear them?”

“Sure. I guess so.”

“I was gonna tell you, anyway. The first one is, give in, do it, and damn the torpedoes, which you’d like to do—I think—right?”

“Yes,” I said. “What’s the other alternative?”

“The only other thing is to act like a real shit so I’ll get pissed off and you won’t have to spurn me because I’ll spurn you. Have I got it?”

I smiled and shook my head slowly. “You’re actually way ahead of me. But, yeah, that’s about it, Marge.”

“And I’m way ahead of you,” she said, “because I knew all that a long time ago. Before today, even.” With her forefinger she dug a little hole in the ground and shoved her cigarette butt into it. Then she took mine from me and did the same. She turned to face me. She put a hand on my chest and pushed me so that I lay flat on my back. She knelt beside me, her bare leg against the side of my chest, and placed her hands on either side of my head. She bent so that her face was only inches from mine.

“You,” she said softly, “you think this is a big moral issue.” I could feel her breath cool on my face, the sweetness of the wine mingled with the acid smell of tobacco. “It’s not, my friend. This has nothing to do with Tiny. You’re worried about Tiny. I know that. He’s your friend. Okay. He’s my husband. So Tiny is my problem, not yours. This isn’t a moral thing, Brady Coyne. It has nothing to do with anything or anyone else. It’s just you and me.”

“Look,” I said.

“No,” she said. Her mouth lowered itself onto mine. It was a soft kiss, tentative, a mere brushing of lips, quick, instinctive, and then a flicker of tongues. Abruptly she moved away. She sat back on her heels, smiling.

I rolled up onto one elbow and made a big show of searching for a cigarette. I found my pack behind where Marge was squatting. I snaked my arm carefully behind her to avoid touching her. Then I did what I usually do when I don’t know what I really should do. I lit a cigarette.

Which goes a long way to explaining why I smoke too much.

I avoided looking at Marge for as long as I could. When I finally shifted my eyes to her, I saw that she had stopped smiling.

I took a deep breath. “Jesus, Marge.”

She narrowed her eyes and thrust her chin at me. “You gonna say something about the fickleness of women? Got a smartass comment to make, Counselor?”

“I certainly know better than to make generalizations about women,” I said. “Because every time I make one, I get taught that it’s wrong. I will tell you one thing, though.”

“And what is that?”

“If seduction was your aim, lady, consider it an unmitigated success.”

She stood up quickly and turned away. I sat there puffing stupidly at my cigarette and watched her walk down to the lake. She held her shoulders rigid and barely moved her hips. I figured I’d said the wrong thing again.

H
APPY HOUR, AS TINY CALLED
it, had already begun, and I was rocking on the porch when I heard the distant whine of Gib’s Cessna. Lew Pike was perched up on the railing by my feet. Somehow he managed to chew tobacco, drink beer, and tell stories all at the same time, which I found remarkable.

“That’ll be Gib,” Pike drawled without turning or otherwise missing a beat in his tale, which had something to do with a porcupine that had acquired a taste for leather boots.

Several minutes later the plane skidded down and taxied up to the dock. I watched idly as Gib bounced out and made fast to the dock. Then Tiny climbed out. The two of them sauntered up the path toward the lodge.

They both nodded at Lew and me as they went inside. Moments later Gib came back out. He stood there, holding a drink in his hand, waiting for a pause in Lew’s seemingly interminable story, the point, I gradually discerned, being that no goldurn porcupine could outsmart ol’ Lew Pike, by God.

“Got a minute, man?” said Gib to me.

Lew spat dismissively over the rail. I gestured to the rocker beside me. “Sure. Have a seat.”

“Been sittin’ all day,” said Gib. “Want to take a stroll?”

I shrugged and got up. “Why not?”

I nodded to Pike, and Gib and I wandered down to the lake. A light breeze had sprung up, finally cutting the heat of the day and fluffing up the surface of the water.

Gib stared out at the lake. “Been thinkin’,” he said. “Might be needin’ help. Lawyer-type help.”

He turned to look at me. I nodded. “What’s the problem?”

He squinted, then shook his head. “Don’t want to talk about it just now. Thing is this. Would you mind flyin’ down to Greenville with me tomorrow?”

I frowned. “I suppose I could do that.”

“Oh, I’ll pay you, man. I’d expect to do that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’d like a hint, though.”

“Rather not.” He tried to grin, but there was too much tension in his face, and it came out a grimace. “Better to wait. Sorry to make a mystery out of it. You’ll understand.”

I shrugged. “I’m glad to help you. But tell me one thing, at least. Does this have anything to do with the murder? Do you know something?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked out onto the dock. I followed him. He lifted his drink and emptied it into his mouth. He swallowed, murmuring, “Ahh,” then tipped the ice cubes out into the lake.

“You’ve been comin’ here for a long time, haven’t you?” he said.

“A long time.”

“Pretty friendly with Tiny.”

“Yes.”

“And Marge, too, huh?”

I cocked my head at him. I wondered if he suspected something. But his face seemed blank. I nodded.

“But it’s Vern Wheeler who pays you.”

“Right.”

“Me, too.” He nodded his head a couple times. “First loyalty’s to Vern, ain’t it?”

“I guess. It’s all the same.”

Gib shook his head. “Nope. That’s wrong. First loyalty’s to yourself. Ain’t that so?”

“What are you getting at?”

He smiled quickly. “I’m in a little trouble, man, to tell you the truth. Guess maybe you figured that out. Got some business I need to straighten out. I’ll feel better, you bein’ with me. We can leave right after breakfast, if that’s okay with you.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “But I have to tell you. It’s not a good idea to have mysteries with your lawyer. Sure, I figured you were in trouble. If people didn’t have trouble, lawyers would be out of business. It would be best for you to tell me what’s going on. Trust me.”

He said nothing. He frowned at me for a moment before evidently making a decision. Then he turned and started back toward the lodge. I caught up to him and grabbed his shoulder. He stopped and stood there, saying nothing, gazing with infinite patience up into the tops of the pine trees.