Angling is somewhat like poetry, men are born to be so.
Izaak Walton, The Compleat Angler
Osborne pulled the boat up at the public landing by Keane’s resort and, forgetting to leash the dog, ran through the door of the bar, just as a battered blue pickup drove up to a big log that marked a parking area.
A lanky, deeply tanned man with a head of rich, reddish auburn curly hair and a chest-length, very curly, auburn but graying beard unwound his long frame from behind his steering wheel as he watched Osborne slam through the front door of the bar. He reached for his hat, a large stuffed trout perched on top of an old, fur-lined leather cap with ear flaps that hung down loosely.
The head and tail of the fish protruded on opposite sides over his ears. Draped across the breast of the fish, like a jeweled necklace, was an old wood and metal fishing lure, its silver disks glinting in the sunlight. Carefully, he set it at a jaunty angle, checking it out twice in the side mirror, before sauntering into the bar.
Osborne spotted his neighbor’s belt buckle first. Under normal circumstances, just watching the guy enter a room was worth at least one chuckle. Vertically challenged by the average doorway, six-foot-six Ray Pradt moved like an accordian tipped sideways, with a loopy walk so disjointed his close friends kidded that his lower torso rolled into a room a full hour ahead of the rest of his body. That bothered Ray. He liked to think he made his first impression with his hat.
“Nah,” the good dentist had told him one day, “Anti-climactic.” Hence Ray had invested in a sterling silver belt buckle that featured a walleye in the act of striking, a fish suspended in midair as it leaped from his belt toward the eyes of the beholder. The darn thing got snagged on every jacket and shirt he wore, but Ray didn’t mind, he liked to make an entrance.
Osborne waved to Ray as he finished shouting into the phone, which was connected to a stunned switchboard operator at the Loon Lake Police Station. At that moment, Osborne could tell, it was also connected to the three elderly party-line eavesdroppers who’d long refused to give up their shared phone line and rotary dial phones simply because the antique system tied them so effectively into their neighbors’ lives. Osborne had heard multiple gasps along the line as he relayed his gruesome news. He certainly understood why; his own hands were still shaking so badly it was hard to keep the phone to his ear.
“Thank God, that’s done.” He set the receiver back in its cradle next to the cash register and sank onto a nearby stool. Except for Osborne and Ray, Keane’s Bar was empty. Osborne felt his shoulders relax ever so slightly with the release of the tension: The horror was now someone else’s problem.
“I never thought this place could look so good,” he said, waving his hand at the genteelly shabby little resort bar with its red vinyl chairs and knotty pine tabletops. The place hadn’t seen redecorating in forty years or more. Because Keane kept a refrigerator stocked with staples like milk and bread, and a paper cup nearby for customers to pay on the honor system, it wasn’t unusual for the folks living along the lake road to stop by on a late afternoon, avoid the rush at a local grocery store, and get a beer with their bread. A beer and gossip.
Ray slipped onto the stool alongside Osborne, brushing a friendly arm across the elderly dentist’s shoulders as he did so. He examined the polished knotty pine surface of the antique bar for moist water rings before removing his hat and setting it down in front of him. Then he spoke.
“What …” He paused. Ray had his own deliberate cadence he used when he wanted to make a point. “The hell … is going on, Doc? And why did I hear you ask for ‘the man with no laugh'? Where’s your friend … Lewellyn?” He spoke in a low, jocular tone, but Osborne could see in the mirror behind the bar that Pradt was watching him closely, his eyes dark and serious.
“Out of town,” said Osborne. “Bad timing.”
Very bad timing. The one selfish thought he had had as his boat burned its way across the lake was that this grisly discovery was just the excuse he needed to spend more time with Lewelleyn Ferris, Loon Lake’s chief of police.
Just one year into the position, Lew was the first female police chief in the history of the little Northwoods town. She was also the first woman Osborne had ever known who loved to fish as much as he did. Loved it and was better at it in some ways. She beat him hands down at fly-fishing. But he knew she would be hard set to challenge his bait-fishing technique, especially when it came to muskie fishing. And right now was the absolute best time to display his finesse as June, which was just around the corner, was his lucky season for hooking one of the monsters.
In fact, his trip up the creek had been somewhat of a covert operation. He was scouting, hoping to confirm that his “shark of the north” had survived the brutal winter and still controlled the territory. If so, his plan was to lure Lew into his boat—no fly lines this time but casting with a surface lure. Twelve-pound test—no heavier. A demonstration of fishing for trophy muskellunge the way he liked it. She was likely to disagree with his approach, he knew, so he was anxious to get her on the water while conditions were ideal. But muskie fishing took hours, and it was tough for Lew to find that kind of time in her schedule. On the other hand, if they had to work a case together …
Mentally, Osborne crossed his fingers. He had a point to prove, and he knew that nothing would impress that spirited, opinionated woman more than his landing a fierce fifty-incher right at her feet. Of course, being a realist at heart, he knew that was too much to hope for, so he would be happy just to raise the damn fish. To see a flash of the hard, evil head through the dark water, to hear the long, mean body swirl and circle the boat. Envisioning the moment in his mind, already he could hear Lew’s gasp. The gasp of the expert fisherman who recognizes not only the skill it takes to raise such a fish but the talent and exquisite touch demanded to land such a prize. He knew he had the skill, he prayed he had the talent.
Osborne was still amazed that Lew had entered his life. More than once he had thanked the fishing gods for engineering their meeting. Had to be divine intervention—the circumstances were just too unusual. Late the previous summer, she had volunteered to help a friend of a friend sharpen his long-unused fly-fishing technique. That friend once removed turned out to be Osborne, who had been more than a little taken aback to find himself relearning the arcane sport from a woman.
Then, just hours into that first lesson, their roles as teacher and student were reversed by death: the discovery of a body wedged under rocks in the river where they were fishing. Osborne’s equally unused but sharper skills at forensic dentistry had helped the police chief rapidly determine she was dealing not with a drowning, not with an accident, but a murder.
Grateful for help from a qualified professional, assistance hard to come by in the backwaters of northern Wisconsin, Lew had deputized Osborne that night. The alliance worked for both: she boosted her profile among her law enforcement colleagues, he discovered what he least expected to find in a woman—a fishing buddy.
Over the summer and into the fall their friendship had flourished as Lew sharpened his casting technique and schooled him in the wizardry of trout flies. But soon the curse of winter descended, ice and snow putting a rude end to their angling. Errant snowmobilers and a rash of drug arrests squeezed Lew’s time for their coffee breaks.
Right now she was up on the New York/Canadian border, a witness in a lawsuit involving the Oneida Indians who had requested her testimony in a dispute regarding land they owned in the state of New York.
Osborne was more than a little chagrined at how happy Lew had been to go, especially when he learned the real reason for her delight. She would be close enough to the famed Wulff School of Fly Fishing on the legendary BeaverKill to fit in a long weekend refresher course on the techniques of fly casting. Much as Osborne tried to be happy for his new friend, in his heart he had to face the truth: This would give her an unassailable edge. Never could he compete in the trout stream.
Lew had been gone two long weeks now, forcing him to recognize yet another reality: he missed her. He really missed her. He hadn’t had such a crush on a woman since third grade.