Dead Water (3 page)

Marlene laughed.

“Well …” said Osborne, hesitating only because he always got a kick out of describing Ray to adults who spent their lives making sensible decisions. “Ray Pradt is considered one of the finest fishing and hunting guides in the Northwoods. He guides for muskie and walleye in the summertime, ruffed grouse, duck, and deer over the winter. He has clients from Chicago, Milwaukee, even Saint Louis and Kansas City. People who won’t fish if they can’t fish with Ray.”

“You sound like you’re bragging about a son,” said Marlene, a soft smile on her face.

“I do?” Now it was Osborne’s turn to be surprised. “Then I didn’t mention the grave digging. God knows why he does that.”

“The what?”

“Oh, it’s the goofiest thing,” said Osborne, easing the kayak onto the ground beside the sawhorses and pausing while Marlene did the same. The boat was deceptively heavy. “Yep, Ray’s got the franchise on dead Catholics in Loon Lake. He insists he loves it.” Osborne mimicked his friend’s spiel: “ ‘A grave a week on average, double that over the holidays, and triple ‘tween Christmas and New Year’s. Mackerel snappers love to check out before tax time, doncha know.’ ”

At the look on Marlene’s face, Osborne eased up. “Well, it is steady work, and it does augment his income between seasons.”

“Jeez,” said Marlene, “and his father was a surgeon.” Her tone implied that being a doctor’s son should somehow insulate you from career choices such as grave digging. Osborne shrugged. That was just one of Ray’s many contradictions. If anything, his friend and neighbor was living proof you can never predict the future.

“But he’s a hell of a fisherman, Marlene.” And with that, Osborne made clear the bottom line on Ray Pradt. He knew she knew that in the Northwoods, praise doesn’t come much higher.

He chose not to say more: Not to tell her that Ray, his junior by a good thirty years, had taught him more about life than any of his peers, that the two of them drove in Ray’s battered blue pickup twice a week to those heartbreaking meetings behind the door with the coffeepot on the front, and that Ray had saved his life on at least three occasions, not counting the drive through the blizzard the night Mary Lee died.

“Who did you say he’s married to?” Again the forced nonchalance as she followed Osborne’s lead to lift and turn the kayak over onto the sawhorses.

“Ray?” Osborne repressed a big grin. He had been asked this question in so many ways and on so many different occasions it was ridiculous. Why don’t women just flat out ask if a man’s available or not? Even his daughters stepped around such matters, though they were hardly oblique when it came to their interest in
his
love life. Mindful of Marlene’s childhood friendship with Mallory, Osborne decided to take it easy on her. That plus the fact that her day had not started out so well.

“Confirmed bachelor,” he said. “Too bad, too. The man is an exceptional cook.” Osborne stopped there. She would have to discover the rest on her own. He reached for a large blue tarp that lay nearby and threw one end of it at Marlene.

“That’s so funny,” said Marlene. “I would never have guessed Ray Pradt would turn out this way. He was such a serious kid when we were growing up. I would have thought he’d turn into someone quite different—”

“Oh yeah?” Osborne interrupted, intrigued to hear speculation on Ray from someone who had known him as a child and hadn’t seen him in years. A bad judge of people too often himself, he loved to hear others make the same mistake.

“Oh … college professor, history or philosophy … something like that. You know, responsible father of four.”

“Well, he may be all of those in a certain sense,” said Osborne. “You should get to know him again, Marlene.” She gave him an odd look, her mouth opening then closing as if she had decided not to ask a certain question. Instead, she finished tying down the tarp on her end.

Calm now and over her fear, Marlene was not a bad-looking woman. Tall as she was, everything was firm, muscled even. That was something Osborne liked about his daughters’ generation: These women looked healthy, quite the opposite of Mary Lee and her crowd. What was with the women in his age group, anyway? They were either overweight or bird-boned. Out of shape, weak, and hardly a one could hold in her stomach. Excluding Lew Ferris, of course. But then he figured Lew to be a good ten years younger. Too young for him, unfortunately.

“Marlene,” said Osborne, directing her back around the garage with a wave of his hand, “what the heck were you doing in that swamp? That’s a darned remote area, y’know. Not many folks find their way back in there.”

“Are you kidding? Lots of people know Secret Lake. That’s what we kids called it. There’s a path from my cabin on Shepard Lake—I own my parents’ old place—that takes you back in there. You have to portage a little ways over a patch of Consolidated Paper land, but that’s not hard to do. Dad rigged up kind of a wheelbarrow contraption for our boat, and the two of us would fish almost every day when I was a kid. Great crappie hole—summer and winter.

“So, anyway, that’s what I was planning to do with Robby this morning. Beach the kayak, fish off an old log that was my favorite spot when I was a kid, and … gosh, that body … I didn’t see it until I was on top of it, and it just scared the living daylights out of me. Thank God you came along.”

“Halt! Who goes there?” boomed a man’s voice suddenly from the screened-in porch that fronted Osborne’s home.

Ignoring the intruder, Osborne put a hand on Marlene’s shoulder. “You’re sure you’re okay? And Robby?”

The latter half of his question was answered by Robby himself. Dashing out the front porch door of Osborne’s house, he rushed up to his mother, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Mom, can I go fishing with Ray? He knows where I can catch a five-pound walleye. Can I please, huh? Please?”

“Robby,” said Osborne, “want a pop?”

“Sure. Whaddaya say, Mom?”

“I want to hear you thank Dr. Osborne for the soda pop first; then I’d like to hear you say ‘
May
I please'; and, Robby, you know we don’t call grown-ups by their first names; it’s
Mr. Pradt,”
said Marlene, looking over her son’s head at Osborne with a question in her eyes. “As far as fishing, let me think about it.” Osborne could see she wasn’t entirely sure it was wise to trust the well-being of her only child to a man wearing a stuffed trout between his ears—even if she had known him when he was short.

Just then, Ray stepped out from the porch. He was looking exceptionally well put together in a pair of creased hunting pants, the rust-colored cotton duck contrasting nicely with an olive-green fishing shirt, sleeves rolled up and an embroidered walleye glistening on the left pocket. He may have even trimmed his beard, thought Osborne, as the auburn curls flecked with gray looked more tailored than usual. The prized hat must have been left indoors as Ray’s head was bare, the rich bounty of auburn curls that matched his beard gleaming in the sun as if freshly shampooed.

An easy grin highlighted the humor in his dark-brown eyes as Ray loped toward them. Whether it was the care he had taken that morning in the shower or simply the sunny loveliness of the day, Osborne could see from the sparkle in Marlene’s eyes that Ray was looking particularly handsome.

Or maybe it was Marlene. That was it. Osborne watched Ray straighten all six feet five inches of his lanky frame and suck in his gut as he thrust a large hand toward the woman. “What the heck are you doing looking so doggone beautiful, Robby’s mother?” he said, running his words together while pumping Marlene’s hand with enthusiasm. “Doc, she ran out before I could ask her her name.”

Marlene, simultaneously charmed and alarmed, backed up, stepping on Osborne’s foot.

“You’re Ray Pradt,” she said, her voice less certain than when she was talking to Osborne. “Don’t you remember me?”

Ray’s eyes looked her up and down, amused, interested. “Give me minute,” he said, staring at her.

“This is Marlene Johnson,” said Osborne when it was clear Ray didn’t recognize her.

“I
am
a few years older than you—”

“No, don’t tell me,” interrupted Ray, raising his hands as if to stop her, “you look at least five years
younger.”

Marlene blushed a deep red. Osborne shook his head; there was something about Ray that ladies liked right off the bat. On the other hand, Ray never played his hand quite right once he had his foot in the door. In the two years they had been fishing and kibitzing together, Osborne had learned more about women just from watching Ray’s mistakes. Another lesson appeared to be on its way.

four

“The last point of all the inward gifts that doth belong to an angler is memory.

The Art of Angling, 1577

“Hey,
you.” Ray leveled a stern look at Robby over his mug of hot coffee. “Knock, knock.”

The youngster, delighted to find a grown-up capable of communicating on his five-year-old wavelength, swung his legs so hard he could barely stay in his chair.

“Who’s there?” said Robby with a grin so wide it framed three missing teeth.

Osborne looked away from the kitchen window where he was watching Lew’s cruiser pull into his driveway just in time to see a smile break on Marlene’s face. Robby’s pride in letting Ray know he knew this game was so infectious, Osborne followed her lead with an understanding grin of his own.

Ray, meanwhile, having positioned himself across from Robby at the round kitchen table, sat with his legs crossed, arms folded, and fish hat resting in front of him, while his face did its darnedest to look serious.

“Canoe,” said Ray.

“Canoe who?” The short legs kicked faster.

“Canoe come out and play?”

“Oh, you!” Robby slammed one fist on the table and hit his forehead with the other. If there was ever a question of Robby’s fishing with Ray, the look on Marlene’s face sealed the deal.

She’s a Northwoods woman all right,
thought Osborne. Probably married and divorced a city boy and relieved to finally find a man who could do for Robby what her father had done for her. Yep, chances were good the little guy would see a cane pole, a bobber, and one of Ray’s famous egg salad sandwiches before the week was out—not to mention a stringer of big, fat walleyes. Ray might have to poach to make Robby’s dream come true, but poaching was just one of the illegal acts that Ray could indulge in when absolutely necessary.

“Doc.” Ray looked over at Osborne with a sideways glance. “Any problem my hearing what you have to say to Lew, or do you need me to leave?”

“Stay right where you are,” said Osborne.

As he spoke, the back door opened.

“Turns out I
do
have a missing person,” said Lew in her clipped way after Osborne had finished describing the scene at Lost Lake. She had taken the chair next to Ray at the kitchen table and gratefully accepted a microwave-warmed mug of black coffee. She was hardly relaxed, however, positioning herself on the edge of the chair and swallowing the coffee in gulps.

Osborne couldn’t take his eyes off her. The police department’s summer uniform of khaki pants and a matching shirt, buttoned to the neck and anchored with a forest-green tie, set off the warm brown of her skin, lightly toasted by a late-spring sun. Her mouth was generous, smiling easily, exposing the even whiteness of her teeth. Osborne could never get over the fact she had the blackest eyes, the liveliest eyes of any woman he’d ever known. Right now, those eyes were focused on him.

It had crossed his mind in recent weeks that Lew had a way of filling a room. At least,
he
was acutely aware when she was nearby. Not a small woman, Lew Ferris stood about five feet eight inches tall, with a figure Osborne described to his oldest daughter, Mallory, as “trim, extremely fit, and with enough upper-body strength to slam a two-hundred-pound drunk to the deck so fast he’d never know what hit him.” This morning her khaki shirt was tucked neatly into the belted waistband of her smooth, narrow-legged trousers, but not so loosely that Osborne wasn’t aware of her breasts pushing against the crisp cotton.

Even though Lew had a tough edge to her—she had been brusque in her introduction to Marlene—she exuded confidence, a subtle warmth, and something more. Erin had nailed it. As a Loon Lake wife, mother of three, parttime lawyer, and chairman of the Loon Lake school board, she knew people. Better than that, she knew women. It was Erin who had commented to Osborne after watching Lew during a county commission meeting when she was being grilled on her annual budget that she considered Chief Ferris one of the few women she knew to be “happy in her skin.”

Osborne was not sure exactly what that meant, but he knew he was happy when she waved to him if their vehicles happened to pass going in opposite directions, when she invited him to share a trout stream on a calm summer night and, at the moment, he was doubly happy that she was inhaling coffee in his kitchen. At the same time, he was refusing to think how deeply pleased he would be if she drafted him to be a deputy on this case.

“Just as I was leaving the office after Marlene’s call,” Lew was saying, “Phil Herre stopped in to tell me he and Georgia haven’t been able to reach their daughter, Sandy, for a couple days now. She’s got her own place, so they didn’t worry too much at first, but when she didn’t show up for a nephew’s baptism yesterday, they got concerned. And she hasn’t been answering any phone calls. He asked me to go with him to her town house on my way out here, which I was happy to do….”

The kitchen was quiet as Lew took a long sip of her coffee. “No sign of the woman. She’s got a bassett hound, and the poor dog was left in the house the entire weekend. Phil said it was not like Sandy to leave him with no food or water, having accidents all over the place—”

“Sandy Herre?” Osborne interrupted. Bracing both hands on the kitchen counter where he stood, he dropped his head, thinking hard. That mouth, the crowded teeth on the lower jaw … it had looked so familiar. “Sandy Herre,” he repeated himself. “Excuse me a minute.”