Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Acknowledgments
1
“Dad, are we moving to Canada?”
Paul Turner looked up from his fishing tackle box. “We’re going fishing like we do every summer,” Paul told his eleven-year-old.
“But we’re not moving?”
“Why would we move?” Paul asked Jeff.
“Because of all the antigay stuff.” Jeff was restringing his fishing reel. He had his Zebco rod teetering on the arm of his wheelchair, the reel in his lap, and he was using both hands to pull on a new line.
Paul knew his son was referring to the antigay amendments in the United States Congress and the prohate amendments and referendums that had passed in many states. “Did somebody say we were going to move?” Paul asked.
“Well, no, but I read the news on the Net. I know some people have left.”
Paul was glad his son read so much, but this activity tended to exacerbate Jeff ’s seemingly infinite need to have questions answered. Paul did everything he could to reply to the boy’s questions patiently.
“Do you want to move?” Paul asked.
“No,” the youngster said, “I’ve got plans with Bertram to go to the aquarium after we get back, and I’m getting Mr. Faneski for a teacher next year. He’s a good teacher. He has the honors kids do the coolest science projects. I want to try working with some gravitational anomalies.”
“You know what gravitational anomalies are?” Paul asked.
“Yes, and I can spell it,” Jeff said. “We aren’t moving?” The boy could be relentless in his questions and his need for assurance. He was awfully bright, but he was still a kid.
Paul said, “Ben and I have no plans to move. This is our country. We’ll stay here and fight if we have to.”
“Are there going to be fights?”
Paul’s older son, Brian, thumped down the stairs and breezed into the room. Paul sometimes wondered if the stairs would last until Brian left for college. “Who’s fighting?” Brian asked.
“Nobody, right now,” Paul said.
Jeff said, “We were talking about moving to Canada.”
“With or without you?” Brian asked his younger brother.
Jeff said, “We were thinking of abandoning you on an island in the middle of the lake.”
“No parents. No rules. What’s the downside?”
Paul said, “No fast cars, no junk food, no adoring girlfriends.”
“They’d flock to any island I was on.”
Paul said, “Jeff wanted to know if we were thinking of moving because of all the latest gay-hate legislation.”
Brian sat down next to his younger brother’s wheelchair. “You need help with that?”
“I’m almost done. I’ve got a few hooks left to sharpen.” Brian reached into the pile, pulled one up, and picked up a file. Brian looked at his father. “You and Ben don’t talk about it much.”
“Our roots and our home are here,” Paul said.
“How come Ian is going with us this year?” Jeff asked. “Is he thinking of moving?”
Jeff was referring to Ian Hume, Paul’s first lover, and still a good friend, and the best reporter for the largest gay paper in Chicago.
Paul said, “He’s written a few articles for the Gay Tribune about people who have left, but I think he’s going this year mostly because he hasn’t had a vacation in a long time.”
“He’s never been fishing,” Brian said. “What’s he going to do up there?”
“Relax? Read a book?”
Jeff said, “He’s gonna look weird if he doesn’t have any fishing stuff.”
Brian said, “He enjoys being weird.”
Jeff said, “And he won’t drive with us. He’s flying in.”
Paul said, “Teenagers and kids make him nervous.”
Brian said, “Don’t most people make him nervous?”
“Usually I don’t,” Turner said.
“If people make him nervous, how can he be a reporter?” Jeff asked.
Paul said, “He loves interviewing people, and he enjoys skewering them with their own stupidities. He just doesn’t want to socialize with them.”
“He’s weird,” Brian said.
“How often do I make judgments about your friends—”
Brian opened his mouth to answer.
Turner continued, “—and tell you about it?”
“Not often,” Brian conceded.
2
The Turners and Fenwicks always drove up to Canada in tandem. The Fenwicks had joined the annual Turner family excursion every summer since the two detectives had become partners eight years ago. They always stopped at the Wisconsin Dells on the way up. They spent two days among the crass materialism because the kids enjoyed themselves on the rides and attractions, and Fenwick could fill up on junk food.
Buck Fenwick was a heavyset man who had a ghastly sense of humor. Turner liked him and his wife, Madge, immensely.
They crossed the border into Canada at International Falls. Then they drove west until they picked up Highway 71 going north. The sky was cloudy and fits of rain gusted against the two SUVs as they motored north. Ben, Paul’s partner, was riding shotgun. Brian was next to Jeff ’s specially installed wheelchair access seat. In the far back in regal splendor was Mrs. Talucci, their next-door neighbor. The ninety-something friend of the family always accompanied them. At the moment she was reading Beauty Tips from Moose Jaw by Will Ferguson, a Canadian writer she had been recommending. Paul knew it was a humorous travel book about Canada.
As they drove past Kenora, the sky cleared, and the wind rose from the north.
They arrived in Cathura, a small town of about five thousand, half an hour west of Kenora. It sat right on Lake of the Woods. The harbor they went to was a half a mile east of town. It was still largely an old fifties-style resort with little individual cabins and houseboats that could be rented by the day and week. A newer addition was a gargantuan log-lodge that, when finished, had managed to block the lake view of half a dozen angry lakeside property owners. Trees and small boats crowded together on shore all the way from the lodge to the water. The ramp into the lake had three boats in line waiting to be launched. Leaning against the wall of a jam-packed bait and convenience store was Kevin Yost, their guide.
Turner had come to this same spot with his parents when he was a kid. Back then Turner’s father had used an old guide named Peter Yost. Kevin was Peter’s grandchild. For years, Turner had seen the boy helping his grandfather. His understanding was that Kevin’s parents were less than adequate: distant, indifferent, or go
ne. He had not pried. The boy knew the best fishing spots on the lake. He was polite, respectful, quiet to the point of taciturnity. Kevin understood fishermen’s needs, usually anticipated them. He was only seventeen, but he’d been helping since he was six, been a guide since he was thirteen. After his grandfather retired to Florida several years ago, Turner had taken a chance on the teenager. For the past three years, he’d worked out magnificently. He always had everything perfectly prepared. He’d discussed food and bait and tactics with Turner before they arrived. The guides were affiliated with the resort but not hired or paid by it. Turner liked the kid. He was also one of the best guides on the lake.
Kevin was only a year older than Brian. They’d been buddies for nearly ten years. Sometimes Kevin slept overnight on the boat. The two boys had become friends back when Kevin’s grandfather had still been their guide. Their physical competitions were often amusing, with the two boys competing to show who was strongest. Brian, a star athlete in his high school, was several inches taller than Kevin and far more muscular, but Turner had seen the far slighter, older boy heft much larger fishing tackle boxes than Brian and with far less strain. Kevin had a subtle sense of humor that he mostly kept hidden. Paul wasn’t sure he’d seen the boy smile more than a half dozen times. The teenager was able to handle Fenwick’s sense of humor, and sometimes even appreciate it, a rarity at any time and place, especially in the North Woods.
Kevin greeted them with a small wave. He and Brian began loading supplies onto both houseboats.
The owner of the marina, Michael Zoll, joined them. Zoll had purchased the marina when Turner was a teenager. Zoll struck Turner as the kind of guy whose cheerfulness was forced, especially after Turner had begun appearing with Ben at the lake. He’d asked Fenwick and Ben and Madge about it. Fenwick had said he hadn’t noticed any change. Ben said he had nothing to compare it with, but that he did find the man vaguely off-putting. Ben had said, “That much cheerfulness can’t be healthy.” Madge had said, “It’s all fake. I don’t think he likes anybody. He rarely meets anybody’s eyes, and never yours, Paul. He’s got a fake smile and a damp-greasy handshake. I don’t like him.” But Zoll had never done anything outwardly unfriendly, so Turner had swallowed his unease. Fenwick liked Zoll’s bait and convenience store because it provided the largest variety of beers within fifty miles. At least according to Fenwick this was so. Turner always took Fenwick’s word for it on beer. Turner was content with a lite beer. He didn’t need designer lite beer.
Precisely at four o’clock a sleek cigarette boat roared up to the dock. Every summer that they’d ever come here, Mrs. Talucci had been met at the dock by this silver racing craft. As a kid, Paul remembered asking his parents where Mrs. Talucci was going. They always said she was visiting a friend. As an adult Paul had asked Mrs. Talucci where she went. She told him, “Visiting.”
The person in the cigarette boat was always a man in his middle-to-late twenties. There had been different ones over the years. The man was always dressed in a navy blue blazer, khaki pants, a white polo shirt, and blue deck shoes. He always handed Mrs. Talucci aboard and took her bags below. She donned her life jacket and sat next to the driver’s seat. She held a tin as large as a bread box in her lap. She would wave to Paul and his family and be off.
Turner never asked why the driver also carried a gun concealed in a discreet holster under his jacket. Nor why the taut muscles on slender frames seemed to ripple expectantly.
Madge Fenwick had speculated once, “I bet she’s off trysting with a secret love.”
Fenwick had said, “She’s in her nineties.”
“Good for her,” Madge said. “I hope she keeps going when she’s over one hundred.”
“Is it safe?” Ben asked.
Madge said, “I’m sure she knows what a condom is.”
Fenwick said, “That sounds like something I’d say.”
“I wouldn’t want to try and stop her,” Turner said.
Fenwick said, “We tried to follow her once. That boat can outrun anything we can afford to rent.”
Paul said, “And we got a typical Mrs. Talucci response when she got back.”
“What did she say?” Ben asked.
Fenwick said, “She laughed in that wonderful way of hers and said, ‘Nice try, boys.’”
“Does she bring fishing tackle?” Ben asked.
“Nope,” Turner said. “The same boat brings her back on the day we leave. She always has a big smile on her face.”
“What’s in the tin?” Ben asked.
“Fudge,” Turner said.
“Fudge?”
“Yep.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked. She told.”
Madge said, “I hope it’s a hot sexual tryst with a stud who picked her up in a sleazy marina in Kenora.”
“I doubt it,” Turner said. “We never see her in town. She never talks about spending money up here. Wherever she goes, it’s not on her nickel.”
They unpacked the SUVs and stowed gear on the two houseboats. Then they began some of the traditional rituals of fishing. Whether they wished to admit it or not, all fishermen were superstitious. Fenwick cheerfully admitted this. Paul smiled and submitted to his own family’s superstitions. Before anyone ate, Brian tested the Jet Ski. Paul took Jeff in his wheelchair to Zoll’s bait shop, where they had to purchase specific lures and baits from Jeff’s list. It was always just the two of them on this minor excursion. Jeff was insistent on taking this short jaunt. Paul guessed it was to make sure the trip began with a little time spent with his younger son. He was glad to acquiesce.
Besides bait, the shop had candy, souvenirs, handmade arts and crafts, and the ubiquitous T-shirts with the “I heart” whatever random thing someone was hearting at the time on the center. The newest thing this year Turner saw was a branch carved into a fish with wind chimes dangling from it. They had brought two cases of beer with them so he didn’t need to purchase any. Since it was more expensive in Canada, they often brought their supply of brew.
Fenwick rushed to the nearest Tim Hortons for a supply of Timbits. While they obtained the variety of provender necessary for the duration, Madge rowed with the Fenwick girls around the shoreline. They kept to the thick weed beds where walleye often hid on hot, bright summer days.
3
Turner had begun wondering where Ian was when he heard the engine of a floatplane. A few moments later, one landed out in the harbor and motored to the lodge’s dock. Ian emerged. He clutched a backpack and a suitcase. He nodded to the pilot, spotted Turner, and ambled over. Ian gazed continuously over Turner’s left shoulder.
Ian said, “I saw that from the air.”
Turner didn’t follow the look. He knew what Ian was talking about.
Ian said, “That is the biggest goddamn concrete fish I have ever seen. It’s got to be the biggest concrete anything anyone has ever seen. With any luck no one has gotten the idea to make concrete representations on such a scale anywhere else on the planet. Why is there a three-story concrete fish that can be seen for miles from anywhere on earth? And it’s painted pink. Who would paint a concrete fish pink?”
“You should see the picture we have,” Jeff said. “It’s Mr. Fenwick standing in its mouth holding a can of Molson’s.”
“Something to look forward to. How big are those teeth?”
“Three feet,” Jeff said. “It’s a muskie.”
“Tough luck for the muskies. That thing is awful.”
“It’s kind of a Canadian thing,” Paul said. “Big concrete structures, grilled cheese sandwiches, and Timbits.”
“What?” Ian asked.
Ben said, “We’ve seen a bunch of these concrete things over the years.”
Jeff said, “Remember the huge moose in Moose Jaw?”
Ian said, “That is not possible.”
“Bigger than that fish,” Jeff said.
“The moose’s name was Mac, wasn’t it?” Ben asked.
“MacMoose,” Bria
n said.
“Yeah,” Jeff said, “we took a picture of that, too.”
“Am I on the same planet I was on earlier?” Ian asked.
“You came a thousand miles to pick on Canadians?” Paul asked.
Ian said, “I’m being objective. Grilled cheese? Timbits?”
Ben said, “Supposedly the local joke is that grilled cheese sandwiches are the national dish of Canada. We’ll introduce you to Timbits later.”
“Is that a person, place, thing, or idea?” Ian asked.
“Yes,” Turner said.
Ian gazed at the concrete monstrosity. “If I were an international terrorist, I’d start with that thing.”
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “It’s not so bad. The moose was worse. Of course, you could paint the moose dark red, and you could call it a ‘puce moose.’”
Brian said, “If it was made out of wood, it could be a spruce moose.”
Ian gaped from Ben to Brian. “The water here has turned you into little Fenwicks. Only he could come up with puns that horrible.”
Jeff said, “If you put a hat on his head and a scarf around his neck, you could have a Seuss moose.”
Ian said, “I am absolutely and completely opposed to the death penalty, especially among friends. However, I could be tempted to make exceptions. If I got to pick the victims.”
Brian added, “If the concrete platform came unstuck, you could call it a ‘loose moose.’”
Ian said, “A week this is going to last. A week. And Fenwick hasn’t even made his entrance. At least I only have to look at a fish, not a moose.” He turned his disdainful stare to the houseboat. “I’m going to live on that?”
Hook, Line, and Homicide Page 1
