Dead Water (17 page)

Now the only sounds to be heard between the wind gusts were the soft whir of their casts, the burble of the lures spinning through the water, and the suck as the lures were swirled and lifted to be cast again.

Lew was comfortable in the silence between them as she always was. And Osborne marveled, as he always did, at how easy she was to be around.
Serene
was the word that came to mind as he launched a cast as smooth and long as any he had ever made in his fifty years of fishing. She made him feel serene.

“Give me erratic weather any day,” said Lew ten minutes later as she let fly a long, long overhead cast that landed at the very edge of the high weed bed. “The minute that surface goes through a change, that’s when I have my best luck. Now …” she paused as if making a point while teaching a class, “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Doc, but I’m switching to a bucktail in five minutes if I don’t have a follow or a strike on this lure.”

“Okay, okay,” said Osborne, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “You’re just too set in your ways, Lew.”

“Come on, Doc. I’ve fished muskie so long, I know in my bones what I need when I need it. And I’m not too set in my ways, okay? I am not an old lady, okay?”

She grinned at him. ‘Trust me, I’ll try anything, so long as it’s exciting.” He wanted to think the grin she threw his way was seductive, but that was too much to hope for. Or was it?

Osborne looked away and changed the subject. “Hey, I tested when I walked down here tonight, and the water was right around sixty-four degrees.” He laid his rod down and reached into his tackle box for a thermometer. He knelt down and thrust his arm into the water. “Holding,” he said. “Perfect for the big girls.”

“Speaking of girls … darn, I wish I had more on the Herre murder,” said Lew. “Sandy’s family is calling every few hours—”

“Lew, you know you’re doing the best you can. Now stop thinking about it. You need a break.”

“Yes, I do. Thanks, Doc.” She grinned over at him.

The dusting of rain proved to be the front end of a downpour. Before they got soaked, Osborne and Lew reached into their respective tackle boxes for flat envelopes that unfolded into rain ponchos. Draped in vinyl, the fishing continued, the two anglers working parallel rhythms in silence: cast, reel, swirl, and cast.

“Wind just switched to northwest,” said Osborne. The chop grew rougher.

“Any wind’s a good wind, west wind’s the best wind,” said Lew. She bent over to unhook the mud puppy and replace it with a hairy bucktail. “Now what I think …” she paused as she sent her lure skyward, “… is at this temperature, a muskie loves a fast retrieve. Sometimes I don’t think I can reel in fast enough, y’know?”

Osborne stopped to watch her bucktail skitter along the surface, making gargling noises as it moved. “Yep,” he said, “I agree. Ray tells me that noise turns ‘em on. You put that together with the high weed bed and this warm water and—

“There! Lew, you got a follow.”

Feet apart, Lew bent her knees slightly to brace herself as she swirled the lure along the edge of the dock.

“Get ready for a fight, Doc. It’s a big one.”

A long, black shadow followed the lure just below the choppy surface, close enough so they could see it through the dark, tannin-stained water. Osborne’s heart beat faster. The fish was a good forty-five inches long, and it had a huge head. “She’s a monster,” he said softly. He held his breath.

Could Lew handle it? No other freshwater fish fights as hard as a muskie. A fish this big would test her strength and her skill. More fishermen lose a muskie
after
it’s hooked than before. As Osborne watched, he remembered Ray’s words to a boatful of clients: “The muskie is just plain brilliant, fellas. That fish can throw a lure and snap a line like no one of you bass fishermen would ever believe.

“Dammit,” said Lew with a snort as the fish swirled suddenly and disappeared. “She invites me to the party, then she leaves. Damn. These fish are just plain mean, Doc. Why do I fish these suckers, anyway? I can catch a mess of walleye or bass for all this time and effort.”

“You know why you fish ‘em.”

She looked at him with a sly smile. “Of course I know. I’m just disappointed. God, I’d love a big one like that in my net. Have you raised her before?”

“No-o-o,” said Osborne. “I would remember that one. I swear that fish had a thirty-pound head on it.”

“Yep, I think so. Well, it was a thrill to see her. Hey, Doc.” Lew looked over at him as she checked her line for nicks. “I’m sure glad we’re doing this. I get so wrapped up in my fly-fishing, I forget what a challenge it is to fish muskie.”

“Shark of the north,” said Osborne, repeating one of his favorite phrases.

“Funny,” said Lew. “Big muskies are always females, but we insist on calling ‘em
king
or
big boy
or
big guy.
Now, why do you think that is?”

“What do they say about a tough woman?” said Osborne. “She’s got balls.”

“You consider that a virtue?”

Osborne looked over to find her eyes were fixed on his. Waiting, teasing.

His heart moved. Even though they were standing there exposed, with rough water at their feet and the wind and the rain lashing at their faces, he felt like he was in an intimate space, a very intimate space.

It wasn’t until the lightning split the sky directly overhead that the two remaining fishing boats finally pulled anchor to buzz for the safety of the public landing directly across the lake.

Lew, as resolute as Osborne in the accelerating gusts, refused to quit until her casts were blown back and the lightning had become a serious hazard. Only then did they nod in agreement, unhook their lures, grab all their tackle, and hurry up the stone stairway toward shelter.

The heat of the day lingered in the house, making all the rooms feel cozy. Osborne was pleased. He couldn’t have prayed for a better evening to entertain Lew. In spite of her long day, she looked relaxed and happy, the quintessential fisherman, satisfied to have seen a big one, whatever the outcome.

They puttered in the kitchen together while the summer storm pulled out all stops, drumming on the roof and filling the house with the wonderful fragrance of moist pine needles.

“Excellent taste, Doc,” said Lew on opening the refrigerator after volunteering to assemble the salad. “I
love
this peppercorn-buttermilk dressing. It’s the only one I use.”

The venison chops cooperated, too, searing and broiling to perfection on the grill outside the kitchen door. Osborne was forever thankful he’d taken the time one summer to extend the roof out over the small patio so he could grill in bad weather. Mary Lee had argued against it, saying the new roofline would destroy the integrity of the architect’s design, but he had persisted. After all, he was the one who always got stuck grilling outdoors.

The final detail was the potatoes. They emerged from the oven perfect, flaky and white under a fat pat of yellow butter.

The setting sun broke through the clouds long enough to send shimmers of violet across the dark lake just as Osborne pulled out a chair for Lew. He had set the small, round table on the porch, using a tablecloth that he’d bought Mary Lee for her birthday one year. She had tried to return it, as she did most of his gifts, and was disgruntled when she learned she couldn’t because he had purchased it on sale. She never did use it.

Just as well
, thought Osborne as he pulled it from the drawer. He liked it: a thick, creamy cotton weave with a border of dark-green firs, and napkins to match. His forest-green earthenware, a Christmas gift from Mallory, looked quite handsome on it, too. And candles, of course. He had set out the two sterling silver candlesticks with the beeswax candles that usually decorated his piano. Simple in design, the candlesticks were tall with flat, round bases. They had belonged to his mother.

“Where on earth did you get this butter? It’s real!” said Lew.

“Erin gave me that,” said Osborne. “She buys it from the Mennonite farm in Starks … non-USDA approved but absolutely delicious. She gets eggs there, too.”

“I didn’t think you could buy butter like this anymore,” said Lew, savoring her potato. Then she looked up from her dinner and focused her alert, good-natured eyes on his. “Now, Doc, what is this malarkey about Ray having a son?”

The candles had burned less than an inch, the venison chops were half eaten and Osborne’s recounting of Ray’s dilemma had just ended when he heard a knock on the kitchen door.

“Who could that be?” Osborne jumped up from the table, napkin in hand, and started through the living room entry only to see Ray coming toward him in sections. From a certain angle, Ray’s six feet five inches appeared to be structured in five separately movable parts. The kneecaps and the lower torso always struck Osborne as entering a room ten minutes before the rest of Ray’s body. Tonight was no exception. Only tonight, Ray’s happy-go-lucky grin and his stuffed trout hat—the usual toppers to the five-part symphony of movement—were missing. Ray was distressed.

“Sorry to interrupt, Doc, but Nick’s driving me nuts. I need help. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Come on in,” said Doc, trying to sound pleasant. In fact, he was thinking,
Dammit.
He reminded himself that he owed Ray. He would always owe Ray.

twenty-one

“A jerk on one end of a line, waiting for a jerk on the other.”

Classic folk definition of fishing

“Oh
, Chief, sorry. I didn’t know you were here,” said Ray, ducking through the doorway as he walked onto the porch. If he noticed the candlelight and the intimate dinner, he said nothing.

“Sit down, sit down,” said Osborne, pulling another chair up to the table. “What’s up?”

With a heavy sigh, Ray dropped into the chair. “I’m stuck, Doc. Nick’s mother signed him up for summer school, which starts tomorrow, and I have no way to get him there. I’ve got that woman from the Dairyman’s that I’m supposed to take out shooting clays with her new boyfriend, and I can’t reach her to reschedule. Is there any chance you could drop him off for me?”

“I don’t see why not. What time?”

“Eight … and could you pick him up at noon? Just bring him back here. He’ll be all right on his own, doncha think?”

“Oh, he’ll be fine. I’ll be around, or I’ll let him know where I am if he needs anything,” said Osborne, relieved it was such a small favor. “Where is he right now? I’d like Lew to meet him.”

A look of unhappy resignation came over Ray’s face. “He’s taking the telephone apart. He’s trying to wire in or whatever the hell it is those computer kids do. I’ll tell ya, that kid is pret-ty darn unhappy with the phone situation. He’s been going on about staying in touch with his friends and all this stuff he has to do on the Internet. I had to tell him our phone lines won’t be replaced until—”

“You two and your damn party line,” said Lew. “Doc, I thought you told me you were being switched over this month.”

“August we get the new lines,” said Osborne.

It had been a ten-year struggle. Ever since he and Mary Lee had built off Loon Lake Road they had been restricted to the antique phone line maintained by the locally owned phone company. The company had refused to lay any new lines until every customer agreed to the increase in billing that would result.

Three elderly sisters, each living in separate homes, had refused, holding the remaining twenty-four households hostage to rotary dial phones and a party line system. Osborne wasn’t sure if the old biddies were against the modest increase in their bills or if they didn’t want to give up their opportunity to eavesdrop. He suspected the latter. But two of the three had passed away over the last year. The surviving sister had agreed to an update in the system only when she was told that she couldn’t have a personal safety alarm installed unless she had the new telephone cable. Grudgingly, she caved in. Plans were already in place to celebrate at the annual Loon Lake Association Fourth of July picnic.

“Why don’t I put the boy in touch with Hank Kendrickson?” said Lew. “He does something with computers at the game preserve. Maybe he can help—”

“I have an idea,” interrupted Osborne, desperate to put the kabbosh on Hank. “Joel Frahm’s son is good with computers. He’s been computerizing dental records for Joel. And, you know, I think he’s Nick’s age, or close.”

“Joel Frahm … Why does that name sound familiar?” asked Lew.

“He’s the dentist who bought my practice when I retired three years ago,” said Osborne. “I’ll give him a call right now,” he said, jumping up from his chair and hurrying into the kitchen to find the phone book.

Joel answered immediately. Osborne explained that one of his neighbors had a teenager visiting from New York City who needed advice on a computer snafu. Could Joel’s son help out? To Osborne’s surprise and relief, Joel was immediately agreeable.

“Paul,” he said, treating Osborne with the deference he had accorded him since they first met, “Carl has a part-time job working evenings. I’m due to pick him up in about twenty minutes. Would you like us to stop by your place on our way home?”

Osborne winked at Ray, who had followed him into the kitchen. “That would be terrific, Joel. See you in half an hour then.”

“Carl
Frahm?” Lew raised her eyebrows as Osborne walked onto the porch with his good news. “That’s why the name rang a bell. That’s the kid they call Zenner, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Just wondering,” she said. The look on her face generated a swift glance between the two men. Did she know something they didn’t?

“What?” said Ray. “Is he trouble?”

Lew looked at him with a twinkle in her eye. “No more’n you were at that age. He’s okay, Zenner. But if I were you, Ray, if those two hit it off …” She raised an eyebrow. “Keep an eye out.”

“What are you getting at?” said Ray.

“How old is Nick?” she countered.

“Sixteen.”