Dead Angler

by Victoria Houston

  “This walleye tournament being a big, big weekend around here, I thought I’d hang out and see what I can dig up. See if any of the dealers around here might give me some leads.”

  “You mean drug dealers,” said Ray. “Any local names?”

  “Sure,” said Wayne with a chuckle, “Ray Pradt.”

  “Ya gotta be kiddin,” Ray stood up and reached into the cupboard by the sink for a small cup of toothpicks. When he sat down, his eyes were dead serious. “That’s ten years old. I have no felony arrests, only misdemeanors.”

  “Yeah, I know that,” said Wayne.”

  “Now I’m not going to say I don’t smoke, but only on special occasions.”

  “Like opening day ice fishing season?” The entire county had heard about Ray’s quandary that day: to celebrate the success of his new jig technique—he had his limit in less than two hours—he indulged in little something with a distinctive aroma, an aroma that happened to drift by an off-duty sherriff who was fishing with his teenage son. Unfortunately, it was the son who noticed. Ray’s day did not have a happy ending.

  “You heard about that?” A sheepish grin spread over Ray’s face. His eyes twinkled.

  “Yep, I heard about that little caper,” said Wayne. That’s why you can help me, Ray. You’re trusted up here.”

  “Yes I am, and I want it to stay that way. Wayne, I’m not your man. I’ve got my hands full. I’m under more stress than you can imagine,” said Ray, crossing his legs and swinging his foot. “I have to deliver ten humdinger boats for the pros fishing this tournament. The boats were to be here last week—but the jabone delivering the damn things is late. Real late. Today late. Until those boats are here, I’m not doing anything for anybody.”

  “No boats, no fishing, hey,” said Rich.

  “You got it.” Ray tapped his toothpick on the table. “I am not a happy man.” A look of despair crossed his face suddenly, “Does this mean you’re not really doing this ESPN thing?”

  “Oh, no, no. This is for real,” said Marilyn. “You were fabulous. The show is on. Not to worry. Rich and Wayne—I’m making Wayne pay for his cover, see—are going to shoot more B-roll for me during the tournament. But, Ray, you’re my story. I promise, you are the star.”

  “Let me think about it, Wayne. Okay?”

  Ray unfolded all six feet six inches to tower over the kitchen table. He reached forward to gather up the paper plates. “Just one question, you guys. What the hell is this B-roll you keep talking about?”

  As Marilyn started to describe the background visuals and sounds that she needed, Osborne rose to leave. He shook hands around the table, then opened the screen door. Ray walked out with him, “Thanks again, Doc. You heading up to the res with the Chief?” Osborne nodded. “Then what?”

  “Meredith’s home. The Willows. Alicia’s meeting us at three.”

  “I might be by, Doc. I’ve always wanted a look inside that place.”

  “They say it’s haunted,” grinned Osborne with a wave. “I’m sure it is.”

  When Osborne got to his house, he let Mike back in and checked his answering machine. He had two calls. The first voice, constricted and stammering, was halfway through flight arrival times at the Rhinelander airport before Osborne recognized it was Mallory. She sounded like she was gasping for air. This was not the first time in recent months that she had sounded so tense. Tense or drunk. He doubted it was grief that had her so strung out. Osborne was relieved that her flight wasn’t due in until early the next morning. He needed time to prepare for her arrival—in more ways than one.

  A crisp-voiced Lew followed, instructing him to meet her up at the casino. No need to drive all the way into town and back out again. That suited Osborne fine—gave him time for a nap.

  As he set his timer for thirty minutes, he tried to guess which of the nosy neighbors on the party line, whose soft clicks he heard on the machine after Lew had hung up, would gossip that he and the Chief of Police had a bingo date. Probably the Anderson sisters, the old biddies.

  Ah well, he thought as he closed his eyes, small towns may offer a simpler life but no less an observed one.

  eleven

  A heavy summer haze swamped even the electronically controlled interior of the Northern Lights Casino. Pressing in through windows and open doors, it washed out the vivid lighting and damped the ringing slots to a steady drone. Nevertheless, Osborne’s eyes had to do a fancy two-step to adjust to the neon messages flashing along the perimeters of the room like lurid fishing lures adorning a sport shop wall.

  He strolled slowly down the wide entry corridor. To his left was a casual sandwich bar-type restaurant, a sea of dozens and dozens of formica-topped tables stretching back to a distant shore of silver-domed serving centers. To his right, a formal French Café with white linen tablecloths, muted lighting, and tuxedo-clad waiters poised to serve the slot winner, the blackjack champ, the casino-courted high roller. He scanned both for Lew.

  No need to look far. She was sitting to his left at a small round table, a paper cup in front of her. Legs crossed, right arm propped on the table, she was studying a sheaf of papers in her hand. She looked up as he walked towards her.

  “Have you been waiting long?” asked Osborne.

  “No-o-o, maybe five minutes. Say, Doc, how’re you doin’? That was one long night we had.” She set the papers down to look at him, eyes friendly and concerned.

  “As a matter of fact, I got a nice nap before heading up here, thank you,” Osborne pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.

  “Me, too. Grabbed a peanut butter sandwich and closed my office door for a cat nap. I feel quite refreshed. Guess what?” She leaned forward, eyes sparkling with anticipation. “Ralph said the Deerskin tonight. Between seven and nine. The tiny blue-winged olives will be hatching. I’m going up, and I was hoping you might like to come along. I’ve still got all your gear in my truck, y’know. But if you’re too tired, Doc, I can hook up with Ralph. He’ll be fishing the Deerskin tonight for sure.”

  “Oh no, I feel great,” said Osborne.

  Even if he didn’t, he was damned if he’d have Lew fishing with Ralph. Ralph! If he had to hear that pretentious expatriate Londoner’s name one more time, he swore he’d break out in hives. For some reason, he was growing increasingly irritated each time the subject of Ralph came up. Not only had he had to endure being patronized in front of all Ralph’s customers when he walked in for that estimate on his fly-fishing equipment, but then Ralph had the nerve to describe Osborne to Lew as the “old guy in the Camry” that night they fished the Prairie. After all, Osborne was only—what—ten, maybe twelve, years older than Ralph?

  Then, he had had to hear how Ralph was “the best fly-fisherman east of Montana,” “the best” to call the hatch, “the best” to tie the fly. Hell, thought Osborne, let’s all-around fishing. Let’s talk musky fishing. Now there’s the measure of a good fisherman—he bet Ralph couldn’t cast a crankbait fifty feet.

  No sirree, the only “best of” he would give Ralph right now was “pain in the butt.” But what really irritated him most was not understanding why he let the guy bother him so much.

  If Lew sensed his animosity towards her other fishing buddy, she didn’t let on. She seemed pleased Doc was up for fishing the hatch.

  “Well, good. We’ll head over right after our meeting at the Willows. It’s only twenty miles from town. I left my truck in the jail parking lot.”

  “Maybe we can get a bite along the way?”

  “How ‘bout we take some sandwiches from here?”

  “Good idea.”

  “Okay, Doc, that’s set,” Lew slapped her hands on the table as if the fishing plan made her entire day.

  “Time to check out this Mr. Chesnais.” She turned to wave at a young waitress who was passing by. “Excuse me, miss,” said Lew. “We’re looking for Clint Chesnais?”

  “Oh sure,” said the girl with pleasant smile. “He works over in the Café. You won’t miss him. L
ook for the cute one.”

  “ ‘Cute?’ What can be ‘cute’ about a middle-aged man?” said Lew in a low tone to Osborne as they walked towards the French Café.

  The Café was nearly empty. Once Lew explained that her visit involved a personal matter regarding a serious accident, the maitre d’ had nodded in understanding and said he would send Mr. Chesnais over immediately.

  “Take all the time you need,” he’d said, directing them to a banquette at the back of the restaurant that offered some privacy.

  “No need to cause anyone to lose their job or generate any more friction up here,” explained Lew to Osborne after the maitre’d walked away. “If he’s not our man, we don’t need the tribe to think we singled him out without good cause. Tribal relations are delicate enough what with the spearfishing situation.”

  Osborne knew exactly what she meant. When it came to spearfishing, the facts were simple but emotionally charged. When Native Americans, in this case the Ojibwa, sold their land to the U.S. Government so many, many years ago, they did not sell the hunting and fishing rights. They retained the right to hunt and fish wherever they please, whenever they please. In the Northwoods, unfortunately, there is a small segment of sport fishermen who resent the Native Americans’ right to fish any time of the year. Some people call that white male minority “redneck.” Osborne called them “misguided.” Whatever you call them, they are vocal and difficult and, sometimes, dangerous.

  The face of the man who crossed the room towards them, slipping gracefully between the tables, carried a quizzical expression and obvious evidence of his origins. Osborne recognized the same Metis bloodline that ran in his mother’s family. Though Osborne could find only miniscule evidence of his heritage in his own features, Chesnais was clearly second generation.

  Osborne guessed him to be the grandchild of an intermarriage between a Chippewa and a French Canadian. Unlike the broad-shouldered, heavy-boned, fullblooded Chippewa native to the Northwoods, Chesnais had inherited a slighter, more delicate frame. Of medium height, slim, and darkly handsome in his black tuxedo, he walked towards them with the bearing of an aristocratic Parisian.

  The Meteis are exceptionally attractive people, and Clint Chesnais was a fine example: his dark, tanned complexion offset by a classic oval-shaped head that would catch the eye of any sculptor. A cap of lightly thinning black hair, greying at the temples, was cut close at the sides but left to curl stylishly long in the back. If you didn’t know he was a waiter, thought Osborne, you would think he was on his way to a black-tie dinner party. He wondered if that was what had attracted Meredith.

  Chesnais spoke as he neared their table. The voice was reedy and dark, careful in its diction: “Are you looking for me?” An expression of guarded surprise crossed his face as Lew displayed her badge.

  “Mr. Chesnais,” Lew rose and extended her hand. “I’m Chief Lewellyn Ferris of the Loon Lake Police Department. This is my deputy, Dr. Paul Osborne. Please sit down.”

  Chesnais looked alarmed. “One of my kids?” he asked.

  “No, no,” said Lew. His face cleared, and he sat down. He placed his left arm on the table and leaned forward, waiting. Osborne couldn’t help but notice the man’s distinctive eyes, moss green and set above high cheekbones under a wide forehead. The satin smooth skin of his face was free of age lines, the bone structure feminine in its graceful lines. Years of studying faces up close had tuned Osborne to what was natural and classic and compelling in the human form. This man was quite good-looking.

  “I have some news,” Lew emphasized her words, “you may find disturbing. A friend of yours, Meredith Marshall, was found dead last night.”

  “Dead?” Chesnais was obviously taken aback.

  “In the Prairie River. Possibly drowned. Possibly … foul play.” Lew paused.

  “Oh … I’m sorry to hear that.” Chesnais seemed saddened by her words, though his reaction was subtle. Just a slight tipping of his head as he looked off to his right, his eyes cast down ever so slightly. It could be that the news did not genuinely surprise him, thought Osborne, or he was a man who had experienced so many losses that one more no longer had much effect.

  “You did know Mrs. Marshall…,” said Lew.

  “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Chesnais’s eyes connected directly with Lew’s. The message in his clipped response was clear: You know I know her. If you’ve got something to ask me—get it on the table. His attitude made Osborne wonder if Chesnais was accustomed to being under suspicion.

  “How well did you know her?”

  “We’ve been seeing each other for several months. I’ve also been doing some work for her. This isn’t my only job.” Chesnais gestured towards the empty tables.

  “I’m a master gardener, and I was about to restore several areas of plantings on some property she recently bought. I moved back here from Minneapolis last spring, see, and I’m just starting up my business. But, yes, I have been seeing her on a personal level if that’s what you’re—”

  “Mr. Chesnais, I’m sorry to pry, but I need to ask some personal questions.” Lew kept her voice low and very polite.

  “I understand.”

  “Have you been intimate?”

  “Yes.”

  “How recently?”

  “Two nights ago. How—”

  “How did you meet Mrs. Marshall?”

  Once again, Osborne noted Lew’s style of interrogating was as relentless and targeted as her casting for a sly trout.

  “She bought some perennials from me at the Farmer’s Market in Loon Lake last June. We got to talking about what she was hoping to do with her property. She invited me out to look at the place. We went to dinner and then …” Chesnais stopped, chewing the inside of his cheek. Lew’s earlier words had finally sunk in. His eyes brimmed with tears.

  Osborne, still fascinated by the greenness of the man’s eyes, saw another subtle change in his expression, a slight start as if an unsettling thought had crossed his mind. Whatever it was lingered, making him appear preoccupied as Lew continued her questioning.

  “Where were you last night, Clint?” she asked gently.

  “Huh? Oh, sorry. Here. I was here. I came on for the late shift from four to midnight. Chief Ferris, when … how did Meredith die? She was an expert fisherman.”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  If it had occurred to him that he was a suspect, Clint Chesnais seemed unperturbed by the prospect. Both his elbows rested on the table, his hands resting calmly in front of him. He remained serious, serene, waiting. Suddenly, he looked up, the maitre d’ was waving to him from across the room.

  “Excuse me for a moment, I seem to have a phone call.”

  Once he was out of earshot, Lew turned to Osborne. “Now that is a hauntingly beautiful man. Did you see those eyes?”

  “Yeah,” a soft well of disappointment filled Osborne’s heart. Hauntingly beautiful? Was this the kind of man that attracted Lew?

  “I’ve seen it before,” she continued. “He is exactly the type to get a summer woman in trouble. Good-looking, bohemian lifestyle, and very experienced in handling a woman—in every sense of the word. A dangerous type to have around when you’re vulnerable. At seventeen, you get pregnant …” Lew paused abruptly, Chesnais was heading back their way. Osborne wondered if she would have finished, “… at thirty-eight, you get killed.” He made a mental note to ask her to complete that thought later.

  Meanwhile, he felt a sense of relief. Even if Lew had acknowledged Chesnais’ good looks, her cynicism reassured him. She read deeper than the surface.

  “Just a few more questions, Clint,” she said as he returned to the table.

  “Certainly,” said Chesnais. “That was another one of my gardening clients. I oversee two estate gardens up in Land o’ Lakes. I’ll be there tomorrow if you need me.”

  “I may. But right now what I’d like to know is…,” Lew leaned forward and looked hard into his face, “were you aware of anyone ever threatenin
g Meredith? Do you know anyone who may have wanted to harm her?”

  Chewing the inside of his mouth again, Chesnais sat quietly, thinking. “I’ve known her less than three months,” he said finally. “I never met any of her Chicago crowd, but she didn’t imply any problems with anyone. Early on, she talked about some difficulties she was having with her husband and their divorce, but she seemed to be working those out.”

  Lew remained silent, letting him think out loud.

  “See, Meredith and I didn’t get into much personal stuff. We shared some common interests—gardening, food. I’m a pretty good cook myself, so we talked about food quite a bit. We were designing a kitchen garden for her to start this fall.

  “I’m kind of a jack of all trades, see, so I was able to do a few odd jobs around her place that made her happy. And she liked people, y’know? She was basically a happy person who enjoyed good conversation. She told funny stories, she was fun to do things with. I didn’t have a sense that she thought people didn’t like her or anything. No threats, nothing at all like that.”

  “Did she seem worried about anything?” “She was very caught up in this new restaurant and the catering business with her sister.” “What do you think of Alicia?”

  “Never met her. Well, maybe she came by my truck at the market that day I met Meredith, but I don’t recall meeting her per se. Meredith and I didn’t really go out, see. We’d do some gardening around her place, then cook something up together. I might stay over once or twice a week.

  “I work some pretty wicked hours here at the casino. It’s not easy building a business, y’know. I’m not bankrolled like Meredith is. Was.”