That was the scene on Woodland Avenue at three P.M. that Saturday. So wild was the water that no one noticed two white packages, each the size of a three-pound roast, that were swept through the culvert. Hard to spot amid the tangle of brush, cans, plastic garbage bags, and other trash that was pushed along by the swirling river, the packages bobbed along en route to the Tomorrow River.
Chapter Five
Kitchen windows open to the murmur of the rain, Osborne set six bright blue placemats on the round oak table. He followed that with the sturdy white dinner plates that he bought after giving the flowered china that Mary Lee had insisted on using to Goodwill. Not even his daughters wanted china so delicate that it couldn’t go in the dishwasher.
He set the silverware with care, remembering the amusement of Erin, his youngest daughter, when he had hosted his first family dinner all by himself: “Dad, forks go on the left. Always.”
Finishing with his favorite water glasses, the ones etched with tiny fish, he remembered the afternoon when he and Lew had stumbled on them in the window of an antique shop up north. They had stopped for a late lunch after an early morning of fly fishing and were walking back to Lew’s pickup when they’d spotted them. Every time he used the glasses he recalled that day—the fly fishing, the lunch, finding the glasses, the intimacy of the evening that followed—and every time the memory made him smile.
Osborne stepped back to admire his handiwork. He was learning to let the sculptor’s eye he had brought to his dental practice enhance his domestic skills. It might be a homely kitchen table he was setting but he aspired to a visual harmony as demanding as the arc of a fly line: the ultimate effect should be pleasing to the eye, whether human or trout.
Hmm. The table looked good, but something was missing. Before he could decide what was that was, he heard a swoosh of tires through water. A patter of footsteps followed, and the screen door off the mudroom slammed open.
“Down, Mike,” said Osborne as his black Lab galloped through the kitchen to welcome the visitor.
“Sorry, Doc, but I am dripping all over your floor. Jeez Louise, am I soaked,” said the dark-eyed, tousled-haired woman who strode into the kitchen shaking her head like a retriever surfacing from a swim in the lake. She unbuckled the belt holding her Sig Sauer 9 mm and laid it carefully on the counter before asking, “Got a towel handy?”
“Maybe,” said Osborne, “but only if I get a proper greeting first.”
Before he could reach for a hand towel on the rack beside the sink, she was up on her toes with a swift kiss on his lips. Delight sparked in Osborne’s heart.
Though it had been three years since the night they met in a trout stream, the warmth in Lew’s eyes, the caress of her voice, kept him wishing to have moments like this forever. A dangerous wish, he knew. The loss of his mother when he was six had taught him that what seemed so safe and comforting in life could vanish in an instant. But he wished it anyway.
“Table looks lovely, Doc,” said Lew as she bent over to give her hair a brisk rub with the towel.
“That uniform of yours is soaked through,” said Osborne, resisting the urge to unbutton the khaki shirt that was one half of her summer police uniform. Instead he minded his manners and was satisfied by relishing the sight of the wet cloth clinging to her full breasts. Observing Lewellyn Ferris, wet or dry, never ceased to have a mesmerizing effect on Osborne. It made him happier than he had ever expected to be. Though she was the least feminine of the women who had attracted him over time (starting when he was six years old and fell in love with Carolee Kaupinnen, who lived three doors away), in his eyes Lew was well proportioned for her height: stalwart, with a ruggedness he found sexy. More than once he had witnessed her physical strength when a clueless miscreant had challenged her authority as the Loon Lake Chief of Police.
While his late wife had excelled in the feminine rituals of home decorating, flower arranging, and the execution of bridge club luncheons, Lew was focused on carving time from her busy days in law enforcement to cast a trout fly, hunt for grouse, drop a walleye jig through frozen water, or take a refresher class in martial arts.
With a twinge of guilt, Osborne had to admit he preferred the woman whose small leather tote packed extra leaders and fly line—never lipstick. “Let me shower fast and I’ll be right back to help,” said Lew. “When does everyone get here?”
“Mallory and this new boyfriend of hers are due any moment,” said Osborne. “They left Chicago six hours ago and haven’t called, so I assume they’ve had no problems.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Lew. “The switchboard was getting reports of serious flooding on a number of the roads around town, including a section of Highway 8. The storm sewer construction site off Woodland Avenue is a disaster waiting to happen, and a section of Forest County got ten inches last night. That’s why I’m so wet. I assigned Roger to keep watch overnight with one of the crew from the water department, but I wanted him to grab something to eat first, so I took the watch this past hour. Had to keep getting out of my cruiser to flag idiots who thought they could drive through the flooded street.”
With a shake of her head, Lew said, “Doc, what are some people thinking? They see rushing water—no telling how deep it is—and it doesn’t register that driving through it might be dangerous? Honestly!”
“Whoa. The flooding is that bad?” asked Osborne. He began to worry that Mallory and her friend might be stalled somewhere in an area with no cell phone service.
“Let’s just say this weather has ripped Loon Lake a new river, one with a current that could move a Ford 160 pickup,” said Lew. “The engineers designing the storm water system did not take into account the impact this amount of rain might have on the wetlands and the water table.” She grimaced. “What we have in the middle of town is an underground stream that has surfaced in full fury.”
“Does that mean you have to work tonight?”
“I hope not. The sheriff’s department is sending deputies over in shifts, too. All we can do is keep watch and hope the rain subsides soon—so cross your fingers that happens. Hey, I’m off to the shower.”
“Go right ahead. I’m giving Mallory and her friend the guest rooms and bath downstairs. Oh, I almost forgot—Ray is bringing a date.”
But Lew had disappeared into the bedroom and didn’t hear him.
Chapter Six
Osborne checked his watch. It was nearly five, and he had encouraged Ray to arrive at five-thirty, which meant he might show up by six. His neighbor was famous for living on “Ray-time”—an arbitrary pattern of arrivals and departures dependent on whether or not the fish were biting, or if he happened to stumble on an attractive female in need of charm.
The good news was that when Ray did arrive it would be with the walleyes cleaned and ready for the skillet, which was on the stove, with two sticks of butter and a bowl of seasoned flour alongside.
Everything else was ready: the “homemade” potato salad from the Loon Lake Market was in the fridge, and twelve ears of fresh corn were husked and ready to be dropped into boiling water. There was more butter on the table along with salt and pepper.
Osborne surveyed his kitchen table. Something was missing—but what? As if she had heard him thinking, Lew stepped into the kitchen wrapped in a bath towel. “Doc, I forgot to bring in my peach pie. It’s on the floor in front of the passenger seat—”
“I’ll get it,” said Osborne. Grabbing a poncho from its hook in the mudroom, he sloshed his way across the yard to the driveway and Lew’s cruiser, where he found the pie safe in a plastic carrier. Being careful not to let the pie tip sideways, he tried to avoid slipping in the mud as he hurried back to the house. The rain gave no sign of letting up. Nor did his worry over Mallory. She had planned a four-day visit so she could show her sweetheart around. It would be a shame if that couldn’t happen.
After setting the pie on a brass trivet in the middle of the kitchen table, Osborne stepped back, pleased with the results: Lew’s peach pie wa
s just what the table needed. Its crust was golden brown around the edges, and peach juices had left glossy bubbles between the strips of pastry woven across the top.
The screen door burst open with a bang. Mallory heaved the straps of a black duffle from one shoulder. It landed with a thump. Holding the door open, she waited as another black duffle entered, followed by a man in a dark green Filson Field Jacket—the same jacket Osborne coveted but refused to buy for himself, because it was too expensive.
Osborne hurried into the mudroom to help. “Welcome home, sweetie. Do you have more luggage in the car? Can I give you a hand?”
“No, Dad, this is it for now. Kenton brought his computer, but we can get that later.” She reached up to give Osborne a hug and a kiss on his cheek, then stepped back to introduce the man standing behind her. “Dad, this is Kenton Harriman. Kenton, I’d like you to meet my father, Dr. Paul Osborne.”
“Pleased to meet you, Kent,” said Osborne extending his hand.
“Kenton,” said the man as he shook Osborne’s hand. To Osborne’s surprise, the man’s grip offered so little resistance that he had to make an effort not to crush his fingers. Of slight build, Kenton appeared to be no more than an inch or two taller than Mallory. Even though he could not be more than forty years old, give or take a few years, a receding hairline with a dusting of grey on the temples gave him the appearance of someone much older.
The face beneath the wide forehead was winter white, which was to be expected for someone with a desk job. Thin lips, a slender upturned nose and a narrow jaw left an impression of softness but his eyes were watchful, alert. Was that what attracted Mallory?
Thirty years of dentistry made it impossible for Osborne not to notice the artificially whitened teeth that had been overcorrected by an orthodontist lacking a sense of proportion. Immediately upon having that thought, he gave himself a mental slap: For heaven’s sake, you have barely spoken to the guy. Give him a break.
“Oh, Kenton, just look at this beautiful table Dad set,” said Mallory as she walked through the kitchen. “Peach pie? Dad, what a treat.”
“Lew made it,” said Osborne with pride.
Mallory knelt to greet Mike, who was demanding his usual rub behind the ears. Kenton stood behind them, watching. After assuring Mallory that he still loved her, the black Lab rushed over to nuzzle the newcomer in his favorite rude spot. Raising a knee, Kenton backed away.
“Off,” said Osborne in a sharp tone, and the dog obeyed. “Sorry, Kent, Mike loves people. He goes a little overboard. Do you have a dog?”
“I don’t,” said Kenton in a tone that implied he had no plans to ever have a dog.
Strike two, thought Osborne even as he was ashamed of himself. He knew what Lew would tell him later: “Stop behaving like an overprotective father. Mallory and Erin are big girls now. Your job is to stay out of the way.”
“Dad,” said Mallory, giving Osborne the dim eye. “The name is Ken-ton.” She emphasized the syllables. “And he’s a city boy, so cut him some slack. Okay?”
“Kenton it is. Sorry about that,” said Osborne, “Years ago when I was in boarding school one of my close friends was named Kent. Habits die hard, I’m afraid.” He smiled an apology at the two of them. Sometimes Mallory was too much like her mother. She knew it, he knew it, and it was what made for distance between them. Osborne resolved to do the right thing: he would get the guy’s name right if it killed him, and he would stop staring at his teeth. “Okay, you two, you’ve got the downstairs all to yourselves. Two bedrooms, a full bath and, if this rain ever stops, you can walk right out onto the patio—”
“Wi-Fi?” asked Kenton.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Mallory. “You don’t have Wi-Fi, do you, Dad?”
“Funny you should ask,” said Osborne, putting an arm around Mallory’s shoulders. “I had it added to my cable service last month. Just for you.”
“You did?” Her delight forgave him for slighting her friend’s name. “Come on, Kenton, let’s get our stuff downstairs. And Dad, we’ll use Erin’s old room with the view of the lake.” Osborne got the message.
A knock on the back door and a glimpse through the window of a black umbrella bouncing toward the house signaled the arrival of the last of the dinner guests. Before he could reach the mudroom, Osborne heard the screen door slam shut.
Loud whispering was followed by the Slinky-like appearance of a pair of white cargo shorts showcasing two long brown legs in Keen sandals. Osborne recognized the legs: his neighbor’s six feet, six inches had a way of unfolding in sections such that people who knew him swore that each section entered a room seconds before the next.
The shorts heralded the arrival of a candy-cane pink shirt dotted with orange shrimp. One of the arms extending from the shirt’s short sleeves carried a bulging Ziploc bag that plopped into the sink, while the other held out a platter of fresh shrimp arranged with care in concentric circles surrounding a bowl of cocktail sauce.
“Got the walleyes, Doc,” said Ray, pointing to the bag in the sink. “Two just over twenty-two inches each and a good three pounds—filleted and ready for the frying pan. Plenty for everyone.”
“Ray, you’ve outdone yourself catching walleyes in this weather,” said Osborne. “But what’s with all the shrimp? You shouldn’t have—”
“But I did,” said Ray. “Check it out,” he added with pride as he pointed from platter to shirt. “They match.”
“I see,” said Osborne, flabbergasted.
“Oh, Ray, those shrimp look wonderful,” said Lew, who had entered the kitchen and was peering over Ray’s shoulder. She looked fresh and relaxed in black pants cuffed at the knee and a sleeveless black top. Under the cluster of shiny black curls crowding her forehead, her cheeks gleamed a pale rose that reminded Osborne of a summer sunset.
“But, people,” said Ray, raising his left hand as if to halt a parade, “await the real surprise.” He turned back toward the mudroom. With a bow and a beckoning arm, he said, “Is it … the tiger … or … the lady? Ta-d-a-a …”
As he spoke, a tall, slim woman with a sheepish smile on her face appeared in the doorway. She was striking in white pants and a black and white striped T-shirt. Her hair was the color of honey streaked with sunlight, tucked up in a clip that left wisps framing a face of generous features: wide-set cheekbones, large, demure blue eyes, and an open, easy smile. As she entered the kitchen Osborne could see she wasn’t just tall—she was almost as tall as Ray.
“Christina, I want you to meet Dr. Paul Osborne and Ms. Lewellyn Ferris, who happens to be our Loon Lake Chief of Police. Don’t let her loveliness deceive you—she can take down a tight end for the Packers. Doc is the neighbor I was telling you about—”
Before Ray could say more, Mallory crowded into the kitchen, pulling Kenton behind her. “Ray Pradt, what the hell?” said Mallory, taking a step back in mock surprise. “Does that shirt glow in the dark? “Without waiting for an answer, she crossed the room to give Ray a hug and a peck on the lips.
She turned to Christina. “Hi, I’m Doc’s daughter, Mallory,” she said, pumping Christina’s hand. With a wink at Ray, she said, “Anything you need to know about this gentleman here—you just ask.”
“Whoa, okay,” said the tall blonde, laughing. “I’m Christina Curran, and pleased to meet everyone.” She gave a wave as she glanced around the room.
“Before we ask how on earth you met this razzbonya,” said Mallory poking a finger at Ray, “I want the two of you—and Chief Ferris—to meet my good friend and colleague visiting from Chicago, Kenton Harriman.” Mallory motioned for Kenton to step forward.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Kenton, shaking hands around the room.
“Where you from, Kent?” asked Ray.
“Name’s Kenton,” said Kenton. Osborne tucked his chin down so no one could see the expression on his face.
“I’m living in Chicago,” Mallory’s friend continued, “but only for six months. Home base is Boston. I’m vic
e president and director of media relations for GSC Advisors, the parent company of the marketing firm where Mallory works. Guess I’m the only one here not from this neck of the woods.”
“Not true,” said Christina. “You are not the only stranger. I’m visiting from St. John in the Virgin Islands. Although my folks have a summer place in Manitowish Waters, which is an hour north of here, so maybe I do qualify as a local.” She smiled and shrugged.
“Really? St. John and Manitowish Waters,” said Mallory. “Now I do want to know how you know Ray.”
“Wait, everyone, just hold on,” said Osborne, arms out as if herding a pack of kindergarteners, “let’s continue this conversation elsewhere. Snacks and drinks on the porch, and not another word until you’ve helped yourself. Ray, will you take the shrimp out there, please?”
Osborne’s screened-in porch with its swing and comfortable wicker chairs was welcoming in spite of the storm-gray lake visible through the rain. Plates were soon overflowing with cheese and crackers, chips and salsa … and shrimp. Lew circled the room, helping Osborne make sure that everyone had something to drink before conversation picked up again.
“So, Christina,” said Mallory as she popped a shrimp into her mouth, “tell us how you met Ray. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t fish muskie in the Caribbean. Or do you?” She turned to Ray. “You never know what this guy has up his sleeve.”
“I was the one who called Ray,” said Christina. “My folks and I own an art gallery, Call of the Wild, up in Manitowish Waters. It’s only open in the summertime. We specialize in wildlife art, and I happened to see some of Ray’s photographs in the calendar that the Chamber of Commerce put out, the pictures of ice shanties that he took last year during the International Ice Fishing Contest.
“I fell in love with those, so I called Ray to see if he had any we might sell on consignment. Smart move on my part—they have flown out of the shop. Almost as popular as our hair extensions. Right now our inventory is so low that I could use some more.” She turned to Ray who was sitting beside her on the porch swing. “I’d like to try some in our gallery down in St. John.”
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