Yet he appeared to be the God of Fly-Fishing for Lew. Maybe for ladies in general. Having heard earlier in the day that Cynthia had served dinner to Ralph and Lew, Osborne was even more irritated with Ralph. Just hearing the name caused his jaw to tighten. Stop, Osborne said to himself, just stop thinking about the guy. Don’t let it ruin your evening.
Oblivious to Osborne’s emotional distress, Lew continued to edge forward in the water. She waded with care, moving slowly, sliding over the rocks, her body angled so the trout would see only one leg and assume she was a tree.
“I’m going upstream, Doc, you move down.” Osborne nodded and stepped back a step or two. He waited until she disappeared around the bend in the river, then looked about him. He had no intention of going anywhere. He was quite comfortable standing right where he was with two feet solidly planted in less than eight inches of water at what appeared to be the widest, most shallow spot in this branch of the Deerskin. Here the river was a managable twenty feet wide, narrowing as it curved north into the night.
Last night’s terror still lingered: the plunge into unknown waters and the panic that gripped him when the current swept his feet out from under him. Granted this river appeared much more benign at the moment, he just didn’t trust appearances.
So he decided to give himself a break and enjoy the night rather than try to be Fisherman of the Year. Content with the Royal Wulff that he had tied on, he focused on the one square inch in the pool where he had had the first strike and initiated a series of short casts. As per Lew’s instructions, he tried to tuck the fly reel under his forearm in order to keep the wrist from bending back. It seemed to work. But after a few more casts and no luck, he put his casting arm and line hand on automatic pilot, happy to let his mind wander.
This spot in the river was one of Lew’s secret places. He was flattered she would share it with him. Not that he could ever find it again. She had pulled the pickup off-road about five minutes away, then bounced them down a narrow stretch of meadow under power lines with poles marked “Keep Out: Danger of Explosives.” Lurching up and down until he thought he would need dentures, Osborne was relieved when Lew finally braked at a patch of dirt that showed signs of other vehicles.
“If you live north of Bruce’s Crossing,” she said of the tiny Michigan town where they had stopped at a gas station for Osborne to buy a one-day fishing license, “you can catch a back road into here, but this is the fastest way in from the south—and, you know, it’s getting a little late.”
It was nine-forty-five when they waded into the river. A dark nine-forty-five even though a three-quarter moon overhead lit the riverbank. Spires of balsam and stabbing arms of white pine stood out against the night sky with the clarity of silhouettes cut from black construction paper.
Osborne found this river to be milder in tone than the Prairie, burbling, gurgling, and quite shallow. As he looked about, he could see that the surface grew more complex over the rocks that lay downriver. His gaze picked up the eddies and riffles and deep pools illuminated by the moon.
The pools were the source of his greatest anxiety. He had learned the hard way how those still surfaces could mask treacherous holes. Holes rich with fish but deep enough to swamp your waders even if they were only inches from the bank. Holes requiring polarized sunglasses to gauge in daylight, thus impossible to judge in the black velvet of the August night.
Osborne’s arm grew tired. It had been a long day, what with the bait casting for walleyes. Ironically, it was much, much harder to cast the fly-line with its weightless fly than it was the weighted jig.
Reeling in until he could hook his fly onto the rod, Osborne eased himself onto a chair-sized boulder. He slumped into the curve of the rock, relaxed and happy. The truck was a short distance away, maybe fifty yards. An easy walk. He let his eye wander over the riverbank.
That’s when he saw the bear scat. A large fresh clump. Too fresh. He stood up and sniffed the air. Bear breath is worse than a pig’s. He’d know if one was close. The air was fresh, but now that he listened, he was sure he could hear muted crashing back in the woods. Blackberries, he thought suddenly, his chest tightening. How close were they to the ripening berries?
Inches perhaps? Inches away and fourteen thousand berry-hungry black bear prowling the neighborhood.
Osborne moved back into the river, sliding his feet diagonally across the current. Better to stand out here and practice casting than get into a negotiation he couldn’t win. With his luck, any bear would end up between him and the truck. One thing gave him a small measure of confidence: the bear was more likely to be afraid of him. Particularly once it got an eyeful of his miserable casting.
Osborne gauged the distance between him and each bank carefully, parking himself in the center of the stream. Forget seams and pools, riffles and eddies, all he wanted was plenty of non-threatening space between him and the berries.
Jeez, it was dark. Lew, Lew, where are you? Not a little desperation crowded his thoughts. He decided to think of something else before he worked himself into a real panic. Okay: Mallory. He focused on the need to get back and prepare the guest room for her before he went to bed tonight. And the bathroom. God forbid he forget to set out clean towels. Ohmygod where was Lew?
After what seemed like hours but was really only ten minutes, Lew’s shadowy figure rounded the bend. Slowly, slowly, she moved toward him, casting downstream, mending her fly against the current. Her movements so rhythmic, he found them hypnotizing. His anxiety over the bear faded as she approached. He wasn’t sure why, but having her near made him feel safe.
“Any luck?” he asked, deciding not to tell her about his most recent brush with panic.
“Four little brookies, nothing more than ten inches. Tired?” “Beat. Call it a day?”
“Sure,” her voice soft and agreeable as she reeled in her final cast, then sat down, knees spread, on a flat-topped boulder close to the bank. Leaning forward on her elbows, she gave a deep sigh, closed her eyes and lifted her face to the cool night air. She seemed reluctant to leave the raw beauty of the river and the moonlight.
“Well, Doc, nights like this will be in short supply soon. Thanks for coming.”
“Thank you for including me.” He waited, but she made no move to stand and leave.
“Are you going to the wake tomorrow?”
“Yes. Mallory and I will probably go over with Ray. His folks were good friends of family. Would you like to join us?”
“Oh, I don’t think that would be appropriate. I didn’t know the family. But I would very much like you to keep an eye on Peter Roderick,” she said in the same tone she had used to direct his cast to the deep hole under the cover.
“I plan to. I’ll certainly be talking to him at some point.”
“Be careful what you say, Doc. I don’t want him to know I’m aware he was staying at The Willows.”
“I guess you have to consider him a suspect?”
“Maybe … I find it difficult to imagine a motive. If we had the lovely Alicia in the morgue, yes. But a woman who was being kind and helpful? His own wife just inherited a ton of money, so what would he have to gain?” Lew shook her head. “Ask him how business is. Let’s see what he says.”
“Speaking of business, I’ve been meaning to mention something relative to Ben Marshall.”
“Oh yeah?” Lew stood up and together they swished through the water toward the riverbank. “You think the ex-husband did it?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Though it’s crossed my mind he could have hired someone.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, too, Doc. But a man of Ben’s means—he wouldn’t be concerned with gold fillings.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Osborne. “I’m not so sure about that. I had this patient about twenty years ago, a resort owner who retired up in Manitowish Waters. Richard Campbell was his name. His wife had the softest teeth you can imagine. She had had years of gold work already, and I ended up putti
ng even more gold in that woman’s mouth. In those days, once you started with gold, you stayed with it. But that was fine with Richard—they could afford it.
“Well, a couple years after they moved up here, Harriett died of breast cancer. Before the funeral, I got a call from Richard who asked me to meet him over at the funeral home. He wanted me to remove the fillings.”
“He did?” Lew looked at him in astonishment as she began to break down her rod.
“That was my reaction, but he was adamant. So I did what he asked. Then I had them melted down and sold on the secondary market for him.”
“Why on earth?” said Lew.
“He was one of those people—every penny counted. He was frugal.”
“To put it mildly.”
“People are funny, Lew. Ray has a great story about a family that forgot to remove the hearing aid from Grandma and made Ray dig her up so they could get the deposit back.”
“You gotta be kidding.”
“No-o-o I’m not,” said Osborne. “You know …,” he paused thoughtfully, “I’ve been mulling over the story about Ben Marshall and the moving van. What would a millionaire need with another VCR? What possesses a man to do that?” asked Osborne.
“Divorce does funny things to people,” said Lew. “I see it all the time. To me that break-in wasn’t about theft, not even anger. That’s rage, pure rage.”
“And rage can lead to murder.”
“Most definitely … you know, Doc. I watch Alicia. I see people’s reactions to her. I keep wondering if someone made a mistake and killed the wrong woman.”
Twenty minutes later they pulled into the Bruce’s Crossing gas station once more. This time for gas.
“My turn,” said Osborne, reaching for his wallet as he jumped from the truck.
“Thanks, Doc,” said Lew. “I’m going to call in quickly, see if I have to worry about anything tonight.”
“Don’t call—you need a good night’s sleep.”
“I know, I know, but it’ll be waiting for me at home if I don’t check now.”
“Big news,” she said as they climbed back into the truck minutes later. She looked at Osborne, raising her eyebrows and letting a grin play across her face. “The switchboard reports six hysterical calls from Alicia Roderick—Ben is flying in for the funeral.”
Then Lew laughed heartily, “What flaw in my personality makes me actually look forward to this?” She looked at Osborne, her eyes twinkling—”This job is always interesting, y’know?”
He smiled back, happy to be along for the ride.
eighteen
At eight A.M. Tuesday morning, the tiny Loon Lake airport bustled with tourists and camp kids in spite of a threatening, dismal grey sky. Osborne checked his watch as he leaned against a post near the empty baggage carousel. If Mallory’s United flight was on time, they would have a little over an hour to get to St. Mary’s for the funeral Mass.
A sudden bustle of activity over at the Northwest counter caught his attention: another commuter flight was arriving from Minneapolis. Osborne watched as the prop plane taxied up, swung around, and finally dropped its stairs for the passengers to descend. Down the shaky stairs came an elderly couple, taking each stair very slowly. Behind them, stepping patiently, came a man Osborne recognized instantly in spite of the tiny sunglasses sitting like black dots on his oversized face: Ben Marshall.
The wide pale Irish face capped with thinning white-blond hair stood out like a beacon in the grey morning. Ben was a big man, broad across the shoulders and tall, a good six foot four. Heading across the pavement toward the lobby, face inscrutable behind the glasses, a strapped Western-style leather briefcase swinging from his left hand, he walked the insouciant walk of a man with money.
He was dressed casually in Levi’s and a muted plaid short-sleeved shirt. The latter bulged slightly over a turquoise belt buckle so large Osborne could see it from where he stood. Ben had no butt to speak of, his figure tapering down from wide shoulders to skinny legs.
Osborne knew that physical type well—the result of too much rich food, more than a few cigars, and spare moments of exercise acquired by walking from golf club to golf cart. He might be dressed like a cowboy, but to Osborne he looked big city. Big city likely to experience at least one cardiac incident before age fifty. Ray liked to kid about the big city guys, describing a special “two-for-one” offer: a day of serious fishing with a cheap grave chaser. On more than a few occasions, he almost had a deal.
Ben paused before the lobby entrance, fumbling in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. He lit up, then looked back to wave at a small blonde woman headed his way from the plane. She wore tight white jeans and a black halter top. Gold gleamed around her neck and both wrists. Osborne pegged her to be in her late twenties and, like so many of the summer women, over-tanned and over-accessorized. As she beamed up at Ben, Osborne caught the flash of bright white teeth and wondered which whitening toothpaste she used. If she wasn’t careful, she’d scar the enamel.
Osborne straightened up, thrust his hands into his pockets and wondered if Ben would recognize him. The couple sauntered in behind the rest of the passengers. Without even glancing around, they drifted toward the luggage carousel. Ben set down his cowboy briefcase, inhaled deeply on his cigarette, and placed a casual hand on the right haunch of the blonde. She snuggled closer to stand touching him. Ben inhaled once more, then flicked the cigarette onto the industrial carpeting of the airport and ground it out with his foot. He hitched up his jeans absent-mindedly and looked around at the other travelers. That’s when he saw Osborne. He straightened up instantly.
“Dr. Osborne,” he left the blonde and walked over to Osborne, his hand out. “Good to see you, sir. What a sorry occasion …” He waited as if expecting sympathy returned.
“Hello, Ben,” Osborne shook the extended hand. “Yes, sad news about Meredith … how’s your family, Ben?” And with that he launched into the funeral patter he had perfected over the years of burying patients, good friends, and one wife. He decided to let Ben find out from someone else who discovered Meredith’s body.
Six years earlier, he had done an emergency root canal on Ben. Since that time the flat, round face had become etched with red-blue veins, especially around the nose. The pale brown eyes seemed weary and bloodshot. No parting a Chicago Irishman from his hard liquor, thought Osborne. Ben also sported a carefully trimmed white-blond mustache. He exuded the jaded, affluent, but genial manliness of a Northwoods weekender.
When they had run out of small talk, Osborne explained his presence: “I’m waiting for Mallory. She’s due in on the next flight.”
“I know,” said Ben, his voice husky, “she called me with the news yesterday. Tough to get flights up here. I had to fly west to get east.” He chuckled at his witticism. “See you at the church, then?”
He waved a hand, then stepped back toward the blonde and his brief case. With a nearly imperceptible nod to her as he walked by, he picked up the briefcase and moved to stand at a distance from the woman. When the baggage carousel finally rattled by, she grabbed her own garment bag and walked off without a glance at Ben. If Osborne hadn’t seen them earlier, he would never have known they were together. Ben caught Osborne’s eye to wave conspicuously as he left. Alone.
Just as he disappeared through the electric doors, activity picked up at the United counter. The two young women who had been checking in travelers left the desk and ran outside to greet the plane. When it stopped, one moved to unload the luggage, the other to fuel the plane. Finally one remembered to open the plane’s passenger exit. Mallory was the third person down.
From a distance, Osborne thought his oldest daughter looked good. Tall and slender, she wore an ankle-length, sleeveless celadon-green cotton dress. Simple and pretty. Her dark hair was cut in soft bangs and a youthful page boy, which she tucked behind her ears. Given they were the same age, Osborne thought it curious that Ben Marshall looked every inch a man in his late forties while Mallory appeared to
have barely broken thirty. At least to her father. She picked up a soft-sided bag from the rack outside the airplane, slung its strap over her shoulder, and headed toward him.
“Dad,” she smiled slightly she came through the doors. Her serious black eyes always reminded Osborne of his own mother, who died when he was six. Her eyes and her wide, generous smile made Mallory the daughter who looked like her father. Osborne pecked her on the cheek and took her into his arms for a gentle, if distant, hug. A soft redness stippled the skin around her eyes and the end of her nose was chapped from sniffling.
“Any more luggage, kiddo?”
“No, this is it,” she said. “How are you doing, Dad?”
“I’m fine, Mallory. It’s good you’ve come.” Though he had the urge to keep his arm around her shoulders, he stood away from her. He always felt so stiff with this child. “How are you?”
Mallory looked up at him. She opened her mouth as if to respond automatically, then wordlessly her face crumpled, and she burst into tears. “Oh, Dad,” she sobbed. People standing near them tried to look away.
Osborne didn’t know what to do. He pulled her toward him again and slipped the bag strap off her shoulders. “There, there,” he tucked her face into his chest above his heart and patted her left shoulder blade. She felt fragile, bony under his hand. He could feel her rein in her sobs, trying for control. “There, there … take a deep breath.” He patted some more and the sobbing eased. “We have plenty of time, hon. We’re going to Erin’s so you can freshen up. Do you need to change before Mass?”
Mallory stepped away, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand and fumbling in her straw basket of a purse for Kleenex. “Yes, I’d like to, Dad. Sorry about this.”
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