For
Christi
The grave’s a fine and private place, but none I think do there embrace.
Andrew Marvell
“To His Coy Mistress”
CHAPTER ONE
June 21, 1989, Grayling, Michigan.
Traveler slipped through the river, two miles downstream from Chase Bridge, almost halfway to the High Banks. Quinn kept the boat in the fastest part of the river and the current carried them through the night. He didn’t have to paddle. All he really had to do was steer.
As soon as the auction ended, Quinn had ducked out of the lodge. By the time he’d changed out of his tuxedo and made it to the river, it was past midnight. He’d have made it sooner except for what happened with Lizzie. At least she’d calmed down enough to help him launch the boat.
“Cassie, where’s the big browns tonight?” he said.
His dog, an English setter with a black patch on her right ear, looked back at him. She sat in the bow seat, where the sports fished, and sniffed the night air. She always seemed to know where the fish were. Quinn thought she could smell them in the river.
The moon lit up the night, and the South Branch of the Au Sable River unwound in front of them. The moonlight gave the river a black sheen as it cut through the forest. They coasted through a riffle, then slowed when they hit the runout. The river bent to the east, a sandbar on the inside of the curve and a forty-foot bank on the outside. The moon made silhouettes of the cedar and black spruce on top of the bank. Snags had fallen down the bank where the river had cut it away.
A fat hen brown trout lived under that bank. Quinn had caught her once, lost her more times than he could count, but he wasn’t going to fish here tonight. Tonight he wanted to get downstream to the High Banks, for the Hex hatch, if there was one.
The river pushed them into the bank, and he smelled the river smells—the wet sand, the dead leaves, the cedars. Cassie looked back at him again. Quinn stuck the paddle back in the river. The boat turned away from the bank and swept back into the current.
They floated through the Mason Tract, past Daisy Bend and Durant’s Castle. Then the moon set, and the river lost its sheen and turned an inky black. Quinn looked up at the strip of sky framed by the trees. The creamy band of the Milky Way stretched above and showed him the river in front of them. “Black water on a black night,” he said.
* * *
Quinn Shepherd sat in the sprawling dining room of The Gray Drake and looked out at the river. Sometimes he sat on the bank just downstream and watched the kingfishers dive for the minnows, chased to the surface by the trout.
Tonight, though, as on every summer solstice for the past twenty-five years, all eyes—except Quinn’s—looked at the auctioneer. Men in tuxedos and women in cocktail dresses filled The Gray Drake to overflowing. Two hundred strong and a waiting list three hundred deep. They were all there for The Gray Drake’s Friends of the Au Sable charity auction. All Quinn wanted tonight was for the auction to end so he could get out on the river.
“Surely you can do better than seven hundred,” said Wes Goodspeed, the once-a-year auctioneer. He raised a brook trout carving over his head.
Quinn looked at the hands wrapped around the carving, gnarled and arthritic from a lifetime in cold river water. Wes could still tie flies but probably not for much longer. Wes, his father-in-law, knew how to run The Gray Drake, but making money wasn’t his strong suit. He paid Quinn to guide, which he would have done for free. He thought Wes probably knew that.
Wes stood behind a podium and studied the crowd, searching for anyone who would look him in the eye. “This was carved by our own Billy McDonough. Stand up, Billy.” The old guide stood and waved.
“Who says eight? Eight, eight, eight. Who says eight hundred for this one-of-a-kind brook trout carving?”
The state senator from Roscommon nodded.
“Thank you, Senator.” Wes took a drink from the glass on the podium. It looked like water but it was filled with gin. “Now who says nine hundred? Who will give nine hundred dollars for this brookie? It was carved from the white pine that went down at Lucy’s Hole.”
Joe Gleason, the oil and gas promoter from Grand Rapids, raised his hand.
“Thank you, Joe. Now, a thousand. One thousand dollars.”
Wes carried the carving through the tables—birds-eye maple tops and matching chairs with spindly legs. The floor, worn-out oak tongue and groove, creaked underneath him. The floor ran downhill to the southeast corner where the foundation had settled. Christmas tree lights were strung all over the room. C-9s, the big old-fashioned kind that didn’t blink. Red, orange, blue and green. Hot to the touch. An altogether old-fashioned dining room all done up.
“It’s all for the Friends of the Au Sable.” Well, almost. The food and booze cost a fortune, and it was Wes who counted the money.
“Who says a thousand?” The crowd was tired of the carving, and Wes had bid it way up. It wasn’t worth more than two hundred. “Senator?” He shook his head no. “Any more bidders? Going once, twice. Sold to Joe Gleason for nine hundred dollars.”
Wes walked back to the podium and set the carving down. “Let’s take a short break.” The tables emptied and the revelers made their way to the bar. He nodded at the string quartet. The cellist raised her bow and they started “Spring,” the first movement of The Four Seasons.
Wes gave them fifteen minutes to refill their drinks, then stopped the quartet. He drank the rest of his gin then clinked the glass with the butter knife.
“We saved the best for last. Back by popular demand: a night on the South Branch with our own Quinn Shepherd during the Hex hatch.” Wes pointed to Quinn. “Stand up, my boy.”
Quinn turned back to the dining room but didn’t stand. He had sandy hair, too long in the back, and his nose was peeling.
“Up, Quinn,” Wes said. “Stand up.”
Quinn waved but he didn’t stand up.
“Lizzie, go get your husband to stand up,” Wes said.
She wound her way through the tables to her husband and twirled in her little black dress. She pulled him to his feet and kissed him on the lips.
“Thank you, Lizzie,” Wes said. He clinked his glass again. “Let’s get started. Shall we say five thousand?”
Noah Osterman, the lawyer from Traverse City, raised his hand.
“Thank you, Noah.”
Quinn looked over at Osterman. He knew that Osterman had no intention of buying the trip, but he knew Osterman wanted his name in front of the crowd.
“Now who says six?”
George Feeney, the heir to Gratiot Stamping in Detroit, nodded. Then Frank Baxter, the judge from Lansing. They were at seven thousand already.
“Who says eight?”
Silence.
Wes swept the room with his hand. “Eight. Eight. Eight. Who says eight thousand dollars?”
A man sitting in the corner raised his hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my accountant. Who says they’re all cheap,” Wes said, pointing at him. “Thank you, Charlie.” They all clapped.
“Who says nine?”
Silence again.
“Noah?” The lawyer shook his head. “George?” Another shake of the head. “Judge Baxter?”
“Too rich for the blood of a public servant,” the judge said.
The crowd roared. Quinn didn’t think the bidding could go much higher.
“It’s all for the river. Sand traps, bank control,” Wes said. “And lawyers.”
Another roar.
“I bid nine thousand,” Osterman said.
Another hand went up. “Ten thousand,” said Thompson Shepherd, Quinn’s father.
“Who says eleven?” Wes said. “This trip is for the Hex hatch. Tomorrow night. And I do believe Quinn is going to scout it tonight.” Wes looked over at his son-in-law. “Isn’t that right, Quinn?”
Quinn nodded.
Harley Hawken, the oil man from Traverse City, raised his hand.
“Now who says twelve? Who says twelve thousand dollars?” There were no takers. “Eleven-five then. Who says eleven-five?” Nothing. Wes scanned the room. “Going once. Twice.”
“I bid eleven-five.”
“Thank you, Thompson.”
Wes looked around the room. No one moved.
“Twelve thousand,” Harley Hawken said.
“Who says twelve-five?” Wes looked around the room one last time. “All in? All done?” He pointed at Harley. “Sold to Harley Hawken for twelve thousand dollars.”
The crowd applauded. Wes nodded at the cellist.
There were more trips to the bar. A woman snaked her way through the tables to Quinn. She whispered something in his ear, then left.
* * *
At 1:00 a.m., they coasted into the High Banks. Cassie started to whine just above Dead Man’s Hole.
“Is this where the fish are, girl?”
Quinn dropped the anchor chain over the side. It dragged on the bottom, then held. He lit a cigar to keep the mosquitoes off. Cassie whined again.
“Easy, girl. There’s no hatch yet.”
From his shirt pocket Quinn fished out a half-smoked joint and used his cigar to light it. He sucked in the smoke, held his breath, and then exhaled. Cassie looked back at him. She didn’t like the smell.
Twenty minutes later the first of the nymphs broke the surface. It struggled in the current, then flew up into the trees. Then another . . . and the Hex hatch was on.
The first trout rose. Quinn couldn’t see it, but it sounded like a small fish. Then the duns swarmed above the river. The beating of their wings sounded like the hum of a high-tension line.
He pulled up the chain, and they drifted twenty yards downstream. He slipped the chain back in, and Traveler settled upstream of the feeding fish. The dead flies—the spinners— started falling like snowflakes. He heard a slurp about twenty-five yards in front of them. “That’s the one we want.” He couldn’t see the fish rise. In the black of the night, he couldn’t see much at all.
Quinn grabbed his fly rod. He raised his rod tip and stripped line from the reel. He made two false casts and then a drift. It floated past the slurp. Nothing. He cast again. Still nothing. There were spinners everywhere. Browns, giant browns, rose to the dead bugs. He cast above a slurp. The feeding trout stayed where it was, finning in the current, waiting for the spinners to float by. Quinn cast again and let out line on a dead drift. Another slurp, but not on his fly.
He cast again, a little further right. The fish slammed his fly. He held the line against the rod and set the hook. The fish ran downstream, the drag screaming as the line peeled off the reel. Cassie barked at the fish, still running line, down to the backing. If the fish ran much farther, there’d be no line left on the reel. Quinn touched the line with his finger, trying to slow the fish.
“Eight pounds, Cassie. Maybe more.”
There was nothing to do but follow the fish. He held the rod in his left hand, twisted behind him and pulled up the chain. The boat started to drift. He knew it was reckless, especially in the dark, but he was damned if he was going to lose this fish. He kept the pole in his left hand and tried to steer one-handed with the paddle. They bounced off a rock in the middle of the river, then they hit a deadfall. The boat turned sideways in the current and broached. The river poured in. The boat took on more water. All he had to do to save them was to give up on the fish.
* * *
Quinn didn’t make it home for breakfast. He didn’t make it home at all. He spent the night at the lower end of Dead Man’s Hole, resting peacefully in the silt, the anchor chain wrapped around his left ankle.
CHAPTER TWO
Harbor Springs, Michigan. One Year Later.
At one in the afternoon, Burr Lafayette slept in the cockpit of Spindrift, covered by a Hudson Bay blanket. His dog lay at his feet, snoring. Burr woke up when the wind shifted and his boat swung on her mooring.
He looked to the right, and what had been a view of Little Traverse Bay was now the shoreline of downtown Harbor Springs, the ritziest old-money port of call on the Great Lakes.
“Zeke,” he said to his aging yellow lab, “an east wind bodes ill, but it’s not raining yet.” The dog looked up and cocked his ears. Burr lay back down and fell asleep again.
Half an hour later, “Burr. Stop that infernal snoring and wake up. I’m about to drown.”
Burr sat bolt upright. He looked all around but couldn’t see where the noise was coming from. He looked down at Zeke, who was still snoring. He shook his head and lay back down.
“Burr,” said the voice again. “Wake up. I know you’re there.”
“Am I finally losing my mind?” Burr said. Late forties, not quite six feet tall. Still lean. Hawk nose, now peeling. Sky blue eyes. His hair was still the color of an acorn. He had a few gray hairs, but he pulled out the ones he found.
There was a sharp rap on the hull, then another. “I’m down here,” said the voice. “Help me before I drown.”
Burr peered over the side. There was his law partner.
“Jacob, don’t bump my boat with the dinghy.”
“Get me out of this rowboat before I drown.”
“It’s not a rowboat, it’s a dinghy. And you are perfectly safe. And dry.”
“This infernal boat is about to capsize. Get me out,” Jacob said. He started to stand in the dinghy, an eight-foot, flat-bottomed pram.
“Sit down. You’ll tip over,” Burr said.
The dinghy tipped to port. Little Traverse Bay poured in.
“Help me, I’m drowning,” Jacob said.
“Your feet aren’t even wet.”
Burr reached down, grabbed Jacob by the wrist and hauled him onto the boat. Jacob lay face down on the deck like a dead man floating in water. Burr tied up the dinghy and climbed back into the cockpit. “How did you find me?”
“This is the only boat in the harbor.” Jacob sat up. He was short and wiry and so was his hair. His olive skin had turned a pea-soup shade of green. “How can it still be winter here?”
“Wrap yourself up in this blanket.”
Jacob pushed it away. “I’m sure it’s full of dog hair.”
Burr went down below and returned with a sandwich and a bottle of wine. “It’s too late in the season for Zinfandel, but it is a bit chilly and I thought a chewy, raspberry, chocolaty Zinfandel would go nicely with my sandwich.”
Jacob rethought the blanket and wrapped himself up in it. “There’s a reason I risked my life paddling out to this awful boat.” He made a show of picking a dog hair from his slacks. “This is what we must do.”
Burr never liked the sound of “This is what we must do,” especially from Jacob.
“My good friend, Wesley Goodspeed, owns The Gray Drake. He’s going to take us fly-fishing on the South Branch during the Hex hatch.”
Burr had no idea what Jacob was talking about.
“Surely you know what that is?”
Burr shook his head.
“It’s the most famous hatch on the most famous trout stream at the most famous lodge east of the Mississippi.” Jacob smiled at Burr.
Burr smiled back, waiting for the quid pro quo.
Jacob reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a joint, and lit it.
“How can you be seasick one minute and smoke a joint the next?”
“It’s the only thing that relaxes me.” Jacob smoked the joint.
&nb
sp; Burr had another glass of wine. The two of them looked at each other. Neither one said a word. They had played out this little drama countless times. Burr always outlasted Jacob.
Jacob licked his fingertips, put out what little was left of the joint, and put it back in his pocket.
“No reason to waste anything,” Burr said.
Jacob ignored him. “If you aren’t going to ask me, I’ll tell you.”
“Please,” Burr said, triumphant.
“Wes has a daughter, Elizabeth. They call her Lizzie. She’s the chef at the lodge. Her husband, Quinn, is a guide. The best guide on the river. And they have a boy of six.”
“Of course,” Burr said.
“Was, actually, the best guide,” Jacob said.
Burr was afraid where this was headed but refused to say anything.
“It seems that last summer, Quinn drowned.”
Burr arched his eyebrows.
“Yes, drowned. During the Hex hatch.”
Burr finished his sandwich and poured himself another glass of wine. He drank half of it but didn’t feel any better for it.
“As if that’s not enough . . .”
Here it comes, Burr thought. He covered his ears with his hands.
“Stop that, Burr.”
Burr kept his hands on his ears.
“I know you can hear me.” Jacob spoke up, “Lizzie was just arrested for murder.” He stopped for effect. “Murder. She’s been accused of murdering her husband.”
Burr dropped his hands from his ears. “I knew it. I knew it had to be something like this. I knew it when I looked down and saw you in the dinghy. God himself couldn’t get you in a boat, let alone row yourself out to yet another boat.”
“Then you’ll defend Lizzie?”
Burr saw hope in Jacob’s eyes. “No, I won’t.”
“You’re the only one who can.”
“Am I the only one who can help because I’m the only one who would take his fee in fishing?”
“Of course not.”
“I’m not a criminal lawyer. No one knows that better than you. And I’m cash only.”
“You’d do it for cash? Wes has plenty of money. I’m sure he’d pay us in cash.”
The Gray Drake Page 1
