by P W Ross
He boarded the houseboat and at the stern, took a picture of the rope ‘in situ’, bagged it, stuffed it in his pocket and joined the boys at the launch. Before boarding, he gave Jack and Bob a hearty thumbs up.
“Good work lads.”
The reporter coolly observed the activity and shot a picture of the OPP vessel as it headed off. If she had a boat and knew how to drive it, she would have been right on their tail.
As Jill pulled the stakes and removed the tape, Parker edged her way down, perusing the canoe and the fishing boat. What she really wanted was to get aboard the damn houseboat.
“Miss Parker,” Jill called out, “the tape may be down but let me remind you that those boats are private property and they're tied up to a police wharf. Keep your distance and if you want to rent one you can deal with Fred Jackson when he gets them back.”
Professional but polite, Jill was in no hurry to get the boats back to Fred. Parker wasn't miffed. She was pissed and it showed.
Fuck you! thought Jill.
“Just looking,” Parker replied through a frozen smile.
Chapter Seventeen
Bob and Jack strolled through town, Duff padding between them.
“Hell, this is more action than we've had on the lake in ten years, Bob.”
“This kind of action we don't need. Don't get me going!”
Bob entered the hotel while his companions continued north toward the Co-op.
Jack needed a few things for tonight's dinner. The darkness of the mornings’ activity lifted as he anticipated Anna’s company. He invited few people to Tallpines, let alone dates.
Across the street at Temagami Traders, he counted ten vehicles angle-parked in front. Business was humming, for now.
Grocery shopping complete, he stopped in at the bait shop. Abe Farrell had been in the location for thirty years. That ’unique aroma’ permeated his nostrils immediately — not fishy, just a sort of funky, can't quite get a handle on it smell. Kind of metallic. The water working the aluminium.
“Hey there Jack, where you ‘bin? Haven't seen you in a week or so. Busy?”
“Why you asking me, Abe? You know everything going on in this hamlet.”
“Well, mebbee I do and mebbee I don't. Want the usual?”
“Yep, gimme three.” Abe reminded him of Walter Brennan, that high-pitched voice and half-shaven toothless grin. He watched Abe dip a small net into one of three aerated tanks and remove four six-inch herring.
Abe placed them in a sturdy plastic bag half full of water, gave it a shot of pure oxygen from a beat-up divers’ tank and tied the top tightly. He pushed the soiled John Deere hat back on his bald head and said, “You know I think I've been at this too long.”
“Hell Abe, you're just getting started, can't have been more than thirty-five years.”
“Anyway, here's the herring. I put in an extra just in case you screw up.”
Jack gave him five bucks.
“Heard you didn't need any bait yesterday.”
“Just a lucky catch. Actually, MacKenzie told me they weren't in season. Maybe I should have just thrown them back.”
“Could be some truth in that. son.”
“Gallows humour or wisdom?”
“Maybe a little ‘a both. you'll find out soon enough.”
On his way out Jack studied a poster for the North Bay Airshow taped to back of the door. It flew over Lake Nipissing out of the Canadian Air Force Base. The runways can handle anything that flies. This year’s showstopper was to be a demonstration by the largest water-bomber flying, the Hawaii Mars Martin. Over seventy-five years old, it was an aerial antique. That would be something to see.
He was in the stern of the Lund tucking the herring into one of the live wells.
“Excuse me, you Jack Alexander?”
Not looking up, he said, “Who's asking?”
“Nancy Parker, North Bay Nugget, and I do some work for the TV station as well.”
Still not looking up.
“Congratulations.”
He didn't know why he was giving her a hard time and he craned his head around. Short cropped red hair, kinda spiky and wearing a dark blue suit and black pumps. Not attractive but handsome, overdressed for North Bay, let alone Temagami.
“You look more big-city than North Bay.”
“A girl's got to start somewhere. You're the one that pulled up the bodies, aren't you?” He saw no reason not to and nodded affirmation.
“Care to make any comment?”
“Like what? How it feels to drag a couple of good-looking stiffs from the drink?”
“Along those lines.”
“You're a piece of work, Parker, but I guess you're doing what you get paid for. As for comments, I've said everything I have to say to the police. Excuse me now, I've got a fish to catch.”
“Can you tell me where the Inspector went in such a hurry?”
“Accident down the lake.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jack pulled away without looking back. He wondered, why did the media have the idea that everyone had a desire to talk to them, have their name in print or their face on the tube? Their image started where the lawyers left off. He shook his head, gave Duff a pat and pointed the bow down the lake.
He powered by the cabin, heading toward a run he always relied on when landing a trout was a necessity. As always, Duff stood perched up front, nose in the wind, ears flapping. Throttling back, he shifted into neutral and drifted while preparing the tackle. Duff settled onto a bow cushion to bask in the sun. Jack expertly angle-cut the head off a herring and threaded the hook west coast style, to make it barrel roll though the water. He used easily handled seven foot rods and a light Abu García level cast reel loaded with twenty-pound test line.
The bottom undulated here, providing good cover, and he kept the boat in one hundred feet of water with the herring running at sixty-five feet. Reclining in the captain’s chair, he half turned toward the stern, lifted his feet onto the chair opposite and monitored the rod bowed tautly down toward the surface. Fishing into the wind made it easy to stay on course in the light chop and he periodically scanned the fish- finder for marks.
There were trout at seventy-five and he zigzagged the course, waiting for one to streak up for the gyrating bait. Five minutes later his heart jumped as the rod sprung upward and then dipped toward the water. Jack leapt for the rod to no avail, the fish had knocked the bait off and missed the treble.
Patiently he threaded another herring and set the line at exactly the same depth. Thirty minutes and no strikes later, an anxious feeling began to creep in. Big date, no fish. Fish are like cops, never around when you need one. Fishing isn’t fun when the pressure’s on.
Another trout struck as he was turning to retrace the course and this time, rather than pull the rod immediately, he waited. The rod continued to bow toward the lake and then it held a steady arc, the clutch smoothly allowing line to slip out as the boat advanced. The trout held its ground. Shutting down the motor, he began to play it. It was well hooked.
“Take it easy,” he muttered. You need this one.
Resisting the steady pressure on the line, the trout took several long runs and then began to roll in an effort to stay down. But, after five minutes it surfaced briefly before making one final, desperate dash for the depths. Ultimately played out, it languished on the surface and Jack deftly netted it with one hand, removed the hook with needle-nose pliers and flipped the trout into the live well.
Through all of this, Duff, lounging on his side, raised his head only once to take a look. Nothing new. Jack was usually ambivalent when fishing. Great if you caught one or two but it mattered not at all. Being out on the water is what counted. Fishing was never about catching fish. However, today he was relieved to have the trout aboard. Jack sat admiring his catch. The ‘Laker’ was the top predator of the deep-water community, with a unique role in structuring the entire fish population of the lake. This one was a perfect ‘eater’. He never k
ept fish over eight pounds for reasons of taste as much as conservation.
Using a thin-bladed Swedish knife, he made short work of cleaning and was rewarded with two beautiful, almost red fillets, which he cut into six pieces. Laying them on a large platter he stacked them flesh-to-flesh, covered them with saran and slipped them into the fridge.
Jack was cleaning the grill with a wooden spoon when he heard a boat idling in the back bay. A glance at his watch told him it was five ten. With Duff at his side he trotted down the path to the boathouse and waved. Anna neatly docked the 19-foot aluminium Stanley.
“Nice job,” he said, securing the lines to a couple of deck rings.
She passed out a heavy cloth book- bag and took his other hand to pull herself up out of the boat.
“Welcome to ‘Tall Pines’. Any trouble finding the place?”
“Not at all. Loved the ride. I've been cooped up in the admin office going over the most recent files.”
“Where do you keep the boat?”
“Boathouse on Bear and in town at a slip just past the airlines.”
“Ralph Jensen’s waterfront. He's building me a Chestnut... might even deliver it one day. Follow Duff up to the cabin.”
Halfway around the waterside path, she pointed high to a box in one of the tall pines.
“Your bat house is on the wrong side of that tree, Jack, needs more direct sunlight.”
Jack shrugged.
She was simply dressed in jeans with a fashionably ragged hole at the knee, topsiders and a loose fitting, deep green sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Her black hair was down and swaying at the nape of her shoulders.
“Don't wait for me. Go on in.”
Traversing the kitchen, she entered the main space, stopping in the centre. With hands on hips, she slowly rotated and took in the room.
The ‘great room’, such as it was, comprised half the cabin. An open ceiling braced by ten-inch rough-hewn beams met walls of red pine supported by darkly-oiled pegged floorboards. Two suspended wagon wheels with four globes each provided overhead lighting. A fireplace centred the south wall, its mantle straight but the hearth oddly irregular, made with whatever local stone had been available. It was flanked by two well-worn natural leather couches with matching wingbacks and ottomans, one of which was for Duff's use exclusively. A small antique Wurlitzer organ backed onto one wall. The blonde finish, a classic fifties throwback. Adjacent to the kitchen stood a fatigued oak harvest table around which many a spirited game dinner had been held. Poking her head into the guest bedroom she was confronted with a queen size bunk bed and a discreet peek into Jack's revealed a heavy Victorian brass bed.
“Martini?” he called from the kitchen.
“No thanks, but I'd love a glass of wine.
Where did you get that stove? Should be in the Smithsonian.”
It was an Acme four-burner with built in salt and pepper shakers, a clock (no timer) and an overhanging light with a pull chain.
“Been here all along and works just fine.
Let's take this Merlot down to the dock and we can swim.”
“Tour me around first.”
The wall space was awash with memorabilia. Countless black and white photographs of family and friends, many holding a prize trout or walleye. Others commemorated hunting success for moose or deer.
“Got a thing against colour?”
“Nope, black and whites just seem to hold up better over time.”
She pointed at a smiling but haggard young man kneeling behind a moose carcass, holding the rack at an unnatural angle, rifle leaning up against a tree.
“Is that Bob?”
“In his salad days. Looks a little hung-over doesn't he?”
“The paddles in the corner?”
“The short one's the first I ever used and the other the first I ever made. I used it on a trip to James Bay. It’s now retired.”
Facing a large map of the lake, she studied the names of the lodges and the camps.
“How old's this map?”
“Was hanging there sixty years ago when we got the place. Of course, you know most of the lodges have different names now and some have burnt down.”
Continuing around the room, sipping wine, Jack provided a running commentary. Various leg-hold traps for small game accompanied a stretched beaver pelt and a trusty 30-30 Winchester. Tattered rawhide snowshoes crossed over the mantle, and obsolete lake trout rods hung on each side. Some were only three foot long with fifteen inch spools of thick copper wire line and others with smaller cylinders still held the original natural fibre thread. His first bamboo fly fishing and storage box hung with them.
“The Wurlitzer?”
“My parents played it, not me, but I just can't seem to let it go.”
“And what’s through there?”
“Ugh... my dirty little secret.”
“Sounds ominous. Is this where I head for the door?”
With feigned trepidation Anna opened the door to a small den.
“Well ... well Jack, aren’t you the inscrutable one? Amongst all the rustic façade we have this high-tech array. Looks like the latest desktop widescreen, laptop, high-speed colour printer, scanner and router. So, what’s the deal?”
“Nothing really. Used to be in the business. Old habits die hard and it’s still difficult to give up the idea of being out of touch, but I’m getting there. Been a long time since I was on 7/24/365. I’m trying to go luddite. This is the last island on the arm with power. It comes in at the back where the island almost touches the shore. Three hundred yards up the ridge I’ve got a small satellite dish. Lots of folks have dishes. They just keep them out of sight.”
Chapter Nineteen
“Okay, let's swim! Where can I change?”
Jack passed her bag. She changed and returned with a bottle of Chablis and he put it on ice.
They swam from the front dock over to the island and squatted on a thin strand of sand, haunches up, elbows on knees, looking toward the cabin and just catching the last of the sun's warmth. Her bathing suit was a black one-piece, cut high at the thigh and hip. He usually swam nude but had managed to locate a baggy old pair of trunks.
“How long have you been here?”
“On and off, all my life.”
She looked over with a smile and almost seemed to blush. “We've met before you know,” she said quietly.
“We have? Where? When? I would’ve remembered,” he said defensively.
“Camp Keewaydin. The first year they took in girls. They also hired the first female staff. I was fourteen, serving tables and you must have been around seventeen, interested in the ‘older’ girls. I remember you being the best gunwale jumper in the camp, very dashing and always with your ‘game-face’ on.”
It seemed a lifetime since he’d stood in the rear of a canoe, feet planted precariously on the gunwales, pumping his knees to propel the craft forward and joust with the other boys until only one remained.
“You know, that was my last year. After I made the trip to James Bay that summer it seemed like my childhood ended.”
“I was disappointed when you didn't show up the next year.”
“Too busy working the steel mill, rounding up money for college. Now, those days, I do not have fond memories of. Dangerous, hot, hard labour — three shifts of it and every guy in there said the same thing.”
“My kid's never going to work here.”
“Come on, let's go back and get things organised. I haven't eaten anything today except a couple of stale doughnuts.”
Jack was not elegant in the water, more of a power thrasher, little in the way of style and a great deal of wasted energy. In contrast, he saw Anna was a natural. She had a graceful feel for the water, propelling herself effortlessly and quietly, hardly creating a ripple.
“How far can you swim?”
“Far as I can walk.”
After the swim, Jack laid out ingredients methodically on the countertop beside a large wooden
Dansk bowl. Champagne vinegar, extra virgin olive oil, garlic, powdered hot mustard, anchovy, pepper grinder, croutons and a block of parmesan. Anna came out of the bathroom and poured them another glass of the merlot.
“Building a Caesar?”
“Hopefully... you can coach.”
“Where's the Worcestershire?”
“Christ, I always forget something. Check the cupboard.”
“So... you like to cook?”
“When you live alone you turn into a short order cook. I don't really like cooking for myself, just when I have company, which is rare. Why don't you put on some music and grab the romaine out of the fridge. Pull up satellite radio on the laptop.”
Patting the lettuce dry, she watched him, intently using the curve of a wooden spoon to work the anchovy into the mixture concocted at the bottom of the bowl.
“Lighten up Jack, you look like a chemist grinding up a potion in a mortar and pestle.”
“How’d you guess?”
Satisfied with the paste, he added more olive oil and squeezed in the lemon wedge.
“Thanks for the wine by the way. How'd you get on with Bob?”
“Famously. That's an amazing wine cellar and he took his time selecting that particular bottle. I didn't tell him what the occasion was but I think he knew. He's a real sleeper isn't he?”
“You noticed.”
“Hard not to when you get him one on one. What's the story with him?”
“He's smart, educated, knows what's happening and most of the time doesn't let on. He was the first childhood friend I made on the lake and we've been like brothers ever since. Parents owned Longhouse Lodge on the big island but when Bob went away to university, they sold it, bought the gas station in town and added a restaurant and convenience store.”
“How long was he away?”
“Came back after three years, just before going into law school — the south just wasn't for him. He and Meg have two kids and a great life.
So, what did he have to say about the wine?”
