Dead Water

by Victoria Houston

  “No one else? I want to know who gave her that damn disk with the boilerplate,” said Gina, squirming in her chair.

  “Gina, how long will it take you to reach your source in Kansas City?” said Lew.

  “I can call now, but chances are I’ll end up leaving a message for her to return the call later.”

  “Please, as soon as you possibly can,” said Lew. “Are we finished with the computer? I need to look at Sandy’s car.”

  The car, which sat out in the exposed parking lot surrounding the modest apartment building, was a white Honda Accord. The backseat was covered with a blanket, which must have been the dog’s favorite spot for riding. The front seat was clean, with only a few candy wrappers neatly stuffed into a trash bag that hung off the knob for the cigarette lighter. An empty coffee mug sat in the plastic holder to the driver’s right.

  Lew released the lever for the trunk.

  It was empty except for one good-sized cardboard box, which had been opened, the flaps folded back. The boot of a pair of waders stuck out from the tissue paper wadded inside.

  “Looks like a gift,” said Lew as she lifted it from the trunk and set it down on the pavement. She stuffed the boot back in and folded the outside edges of the box over as if to close it.

  A large white label was affixed to the front. Across the top in small print read the name of the Loon Lake merchant from whom the purchase had been made: Ralph’s Sporting Goods. Beneath that, written in longhand with an elegant flourish, was one word: Ashley.

  Ralph’s Sporting Goods was nearly empty when Osborne and Lew walked in. But it was after four on a sunny day late in the week. Every tourist in the 300-lake region would be on the water, in the water, or near the water. No one shopped when the weather was this nice.

  Osborne looked around for Ralph, but the expatriate Englishman was nowhere to be found. Instead, one of his young clerks, Stein Michaels, spotted them and hurried down from the second floor camping section. Stein was in his early twenties and somewhat of a local legend. A dedicated cross-country skier, he was the only Loon Lake resident to finish in the top twenty in Wisconsin’s famed Birkebeiner, a ski marathon that is ranked one of the most difficult in the world. Over 10,000 compete, including skiers from twenty foreign countries and forty-six states, making Stein’s accomplishment no small feat. Osborne knew Stein’s father, a forest geneticist.

  “Hey, Doc, Chief Ferris,” he said, “what can I help you with?”

  “We need to talk to Ralph,” said Lew.

  “I’m afraid he’s down in Chicago at a trade show,” said Stein. “He’ll be back Monday. Is this about Sandy? Gosh, that’s a terrible thing. She was working for Ralph, y’know.”

  “I understand that,” said Lew. “Maybe you can answer a couple of questions for us, Stein. Were you were working Monday afternoon?”

  “Yes, we all were. Monday is always a madhouse,” he said. “Everyone checks into their cabins on Sunday and crowds in here Monday for swimsuits, sunglasses, float tubes, fishing poles. You name it, every Monday, every summer, it’s the same: crazy all day.”

  “Well, two women have been shot and killed, Stein,” said Lew. “You know about Sandy. The other victim was a woman named Ashley Olson. Does the name ring a bell?”

  “Y’know, it does….”

  “She called here Monday afternoon around three o’clock. Apparently someone had placed a call to her from here, and she was able to trace the call back—”

  “Right!” said Stein. “I took that call. But, I mean, I checked with everyone on the floor and no one working here had called her. We had a ton of people in the place, and you can see we’ve got phones on all the counters. I told her anyone could place a local call easily. But no one on the staff called her, that’s for sure. I remember, Chief, because she seemed kind of hyper or something. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. She made me check with everyone. And I had a customer waiting. Jeez, so that’s the woman who was killed?”

  “This box has her name on it, and it’s obviously from here,” said Lew, setting the box she had been holding under her arm on the counter. “A pair of women’s waders.”

  Stein opened the box that had been in Sandy Herre’s trunk. He pulled out the waders, looked at the tag, then poked through the tissue paper in the box. “Oh yeah, these are top of the line, too. No receipt. Did you find one?”

  “No.”

  “What about the tag?” asked Osborne. “Does that help?”

  “No,” said Stein. “It’s just a price tag.”

  “Do you remember seeing the box here in the store?” asked Lew.

  “I work upstairs in camping equipment,” said Stein. “This would be from down on this level. I’ll ask around, Chief, but I’ll be surprised if anyone will remember. We just do too much business on Mondays. “

  “Maybe we should ask Ralph. He works behind the main counter,” suggested Osborne.

  “He wasn’t here Monday,” said Stein. “That was part of the problem. He had a toothache and an emergency root canal.”

  Lew looked defeated. “Okay. Last question: Does the handwriting on the label look familiar? Is that Ralph’s? Yours?”

  “It’s not Ralph’s, that’s for sure,” said Stein. “And it’s not mine. I’ve worked here three summers, Chief. That just doesn’t look familiar to me. But you should ask Ralph when he gets back.”

  “Was it all regular staff working Monday, except for Ralph?”

  “Sort of. Sandy Herre was here. She always worked with the bookkeeper on Mondays. And we had a couple T.U. guys volunteer to help out when Ralph had to leave.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Well … I know I saw Bruce Palmery and Jerry Gibson. I’ll bet there were a couple other guys, too. They didn’t run the cash register, but they helped answer questions and keep an eye out for any shoplifting. We have a real problem with that when this place is crowded. I was so crazy upstairs, I didn’t see everything.”

  “So you didn’t see anything, and Ralph was gone. Anyone else I might talk to?”

  “Shirley worked this floor. She’s in tomorrow morning.”

  “But not today.”

  “We’re closing in half an hour. You could try her at home.”

  “Oops.” Osborne looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get out to my place, Lew. I’m supposed to meet Ray, Joel Frahm, and the boys at five for some fishing. But I’ll stay if you need me to.”

  “No, heck, Doc, you go ahead. This is going nowhere.” At the look on Stein’s face, Lew’s tone softened. “Thanks, Stein. Will you call me if you think of anything? I’ll be working late tonight. And if Ralph calls in, ask him to give me a ring right away, will you?”

  “Sure, Chief, but I’ll tell ya Monday was a crazy, crazy day.”

  “Yes,” said Lew, “it was.”

  twenty-seven

  “In the religion of fishing, a cast is a prayer. As a devout angler, I try to do as much praying as possible.”

  Dr. Paul Quinnet

  Osborne was shocked to look out his kitchen window and see Ray’s beat-up truck swing into the drive with a forty-thousand-dollar Triton boat hitched on the back.

  “Boys, life just changed,” he said, heading out the back door with Nick and Zenner close behind. Joel Frahm’s white Grand Wagoneer pulled in alongside Ray and the boat. All four converged on the boat at the same time.

  “Holy cow, Ray,” said Osborne. “Where the heck did you get this?”

  “Marina asked me to try it out tonight. They’re thinking of raffling one of these off during the Hodag Muskie Festival, but they want to be sure it’s as good as the rep says it is.”

  “This sucker must be twenty feet long,” said Joel. He passed an admiring hand along the side of the boat. “I heard these hulls are molded, laminated, and painted, all in one stage, no wood either; this is one hundred percent man-made composite material. Longest-lasting hulls on the market.”

  “No one knows composite material better than a tooth doctor,”
said Ray with a big smile on his face. “I got twenty-one feet of fishing heaven in this baby, doncha know.”

  “And a laser locator?” Zenner bounced excitedly.

  “Could have, but I didn’t want to take the time to have it installed,” said Ray. Zenner’s face fell. “I’m the laser locator, you goombah,” he kidded the boy.

  Joel threw his son a significant look. “Count your blessings,” he said.

  “Hey, Zenner and Nick, you two get up there.” Ray waved the boys into the boat. He stood alongside, cradling Osborne’s Browning in his arms as he waited for the boys to clamber in.

  “Zenner,” demanded Ray, “whaddaya see up there?”

  “Looks like a muscle car,” said the kid. “Wow, padded bucket seats.” He lifted lids around the perimeter of the boat. “Jeez Louise, Dad. These livewells … they’re huge!”

  “This is more boat than most of us need,” said Ray to Osborne and Joel. “You won’t believe they got beverage coolers, plenty of room for fishing gear. Three times what I got on my boat. I’m trying to talk the marina into letting me use one of these for guiding and give me a commission on every one I sell.”

  “What’s a livewell?” asked Nick.

  “That’s like a tank full of water where you keep your fish after you catch it,” said Zenner, opening one to show him.

  Nick’s eyes widened. “You mean we might catch a fish this big?”

  “Hope springs eternal,” said Ray, “gives guys a chance to exaggerate the size of their catch just like they exaggerate—”

  “You must have had a good day,” Osborne interrupted before Ray moved into a series of tasteless jokes that Joel might not appreciate.

  “I did, I certainly did,” said Ray. “Wonderful day. Client was very happy, gave me a very nice bonus and, Doc, they love your gun. Made me an offer of five grand for it.”

  “Not for sale,” said Osborne, taking his precious shotgun from Ray’s hands. A sudden thought crossed his mind, and he looked over at the boys who were messing around in the Triton. “Zenner, you like guns. You want to take a look at this Belgian Browning side-by-side of mine?”

  “What?” Zenner gave him a distracted look from where he was poking around in the boat. “Why?”

  “Well … aren’t you interested in guns?”

  “Huh? Sure, they’re okay, I guess. Can I look at it later?”

  “I told Dr. Osborne you liked guns,” said Joel, embarrassed by Zenner’s dismissal of Osborne’s offer.

  ‘That was last year, Dad, this year I’m into computers, remember?”

  “Never mind,” said Osborne, puzzled. This was the kid who bought seventeen guns at estate auctions? “I’ll put the gun away. Ray, what’s the plan?”

  “Meet you down at your dock in ten minutes,” said Ray. “Hey, boys, out! I’ll put the boat in water down at my place. You two go get your gear and come with me. Joel?”

  “I’ve got beer and chips,” said Joel.

  “I’ve got O’Doul’s, root beer for the boys,” said Ray, “and some humdinger potato salad and cold chicken straight from the good nuns at Saint Mary’s. Payback for bluegills.”

  “Well, thank you, Ray. Looks like you’ve got it all under control,” said Osborne. Ray must have had a good day. He hadn’t seen him so relaxed and happy since Nick arrived.

  “You’re as welcome as the flowers,” said Ray, waving from the window of his truck as he swung through the drive onto the road. “See you shortly, Shirley.”

  As they lowered themselves into the boat, Osborne looked up. The June blue of the sky was speckled with clouds overhead and bordered with a solid gray wall to the south. “Could be some weather later?” he said to no one in particular. He hoped so. He was in the mood for some serious fishing.

  “I like the clearance on this baby,” shouted Ray as they hummed over Loon Lake. The water was glassy, a silver blue with streaks of peach rippling ahead of the narrow breezes. As the boat entered the shadows of the trees outlining the western shore, the peach disappeared, leaving the surface scaled deep blue and edged with silver, camouflaging the creatures lurking below. Ray turned the boat due west, and Osborne shielded his eyes, dazzled by the diamonds dusting the trail toward the evening sun.

  Five minutes later Ray throttled down the motor. He let the boat idle as he stood, flashlight in hand, gazing down. They were close to the western shore. Pine spires loomed beneath them, etched in black and green against the opaque silence of the surface. “Now, Nick,” said Ray, “if you come out alone one of these days, what you want to find is the end of this weed bed—not the edge but the end—got that?”

  Nick listened and watched. “Why is this water so dark?”

  “Tannin from the pines. That’s good,” said Ray. “Fish have no eyelids, and light turns them off. They like to hide near sandbars and rock piles or under logs—what we call structure. You have to fish structure on a lot of the clear lakes up here. But Loon Lake is nice and dark, so they stay a little closer to the surface…. Ah, here we are.”

  Ray threw out the anchor while Osborne and Joel sorted through their tackle. Nick sat in front of Osborne, struggling with his rod and lure and yelping each time he hooked a finger.

  Ray moved over to sit down by Nick. “Did you hear the one about the nut who screws and bolts?”

  Nick groaned as he gave up and handed his rod over to Ray. “You told that one yesterday.”

  “Welcome to the club, Nick,” said Osborne from the rear of the boat. Ray was his old self at last. The world was good. Osborne cast for the setting sun.

  “Isn’t this boat nice,” said Ray, moving back to his bucket seat at the wheel. “Look how steady it is. Doc, I want to show you the clearance on the outboard. You could take this mother up to Lost Lake if you wanted to.”

  “I doubt that, Ray,” said Osborne.

  “Holy shit!” shouted Nick.

  Joel Frahm was rearing back, a fish leaping, twisting high in the air.

  “Eh, small muskie,” said Ray.

  “That was a huge fish,” said Nick, still stunned.

  Ray smiled at the look on the kid’s face. “See? This is what I’ve been trying to tell you. You put that line out on water, and anything can happen.” Joel struggled with the fish as the boys watched.

  “Nick, did you see how Dr. Frahm set that hook? That was superb.” Nick nodded, not taking his eyes off the battle. “Now you see what I mean?” said Ray, pleased with the look on Nick’s face, “When you got a fish on the line, you forget the rest of the world.”

  “This is so exciting.” Nick’s fascination was infectious.

  “Damn right.” Ray put his feet up on the side of the boat and crossed his arms, a big, happy grin on his face.

  Finally, Joel pulled the muskie alongside the boat and deftly popped the hook, letting it swim away. “Just a small one,” he grinned. “But fun. A good sign. We might raise something really big tonight, boys.” Osborne saw him turn away with a pleased look on his face: Ray had made him look good in front of his son. No doubt about it, Ray had just made himself another friend for life.

  Ray got Nick set up and watched him cast. ”With the wind, Nick,” he said gently, taking the boy’s rod from his hands to unsnarl a huge wind knot that hung from the reel. “My fault, I should have said something sooner. Here, use my rod. You have to watch the breezes tonight. Read the water, see? See that breeze coming at you?

  “Whoa, Zenner.” Ray stepped back. “You got a follow—good-sized, too. Watch … watch Zenner, Nick. If that fish strikes, you’ll see it hit with a pop, then pound. Nothing like it.” The exuberance in Ray’s voice was catching.

  “Where? Where? I don’t see anything,” said Nick. The aloof teenager who had arrived at the Rhinelander airport one day ago had disappeared. In his place was a kid with all the enthusiasm of a five-year-old with his first cane pole. Osborne smiled and cast. Things might work out after all.

  The night was lovely but the muskies wary. Joel’s small one and Zenner�
�s follow were all they saw during the first hour. The cloud bank with its threat of weather dissipated. Finally, Ray called a halt to the casting. He handed out paper plates, sodas, and the cold chicken. Munching happily as the Triton rocked them gently on the water, they ate in peaceful silence. Two fishing boats came by, slowed as the occupants studied the big Triton, then waved and sped on.

  “Ray, don’t you ever get tired of fishing?” asked Zenner, talking with his mouth full of potato salad.

  “This is my church,” said Ray, wiping his fingers on a paper napkin after devouring two drumsticks. He stuck his long legs out in front of him and twisted the cap off an O’Doul’s. “I made a trade with the Good Lord three years ago. If he would let me fish every day I wanted to, then I promised to leave a stringer of bluegills once a week at the convent and once a week for some old folks. Now, Zenner, you ask why do I do that?

  “For me, fishing is an art form. Observe the cast, the retrieve, setting the hook….” With the two front fingers of his right hand, Ray pulled at his beard, thinking. Then he pointed with his index finger. “And the filleting. Yep, fishing is an art form.”

  That seemed to be as much as he wanted to say on the subject. It was enough for Osborne. No one else urged him to say more. They just sat and chewed in the gently rocking boat.

  “I’ve never heard it be so quiet,” said Nick, looking around him. Two other boats could be seen, anchored at a distance.

  “We put a bounty on jet skiers,” said Ray. “That keeps the noise down.”

  “Really?”

  “No, but we should. Strawberry moon up there tonight, our first full moon of June,” he said apropos of nothing in particular. Then he reached for a bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies. He passed it around.

  Osborne took a bite of his. It tasted wonderful … like the lake, like the breeze over the water, like the wind in the pines. He took another bite.

  “Tomorrow I’ll show you how to use my Aluma Craft,” said Ray to Nick as he held out a paper sack for everyone to dump their paper plates. “I need the big boat for guiding, but you and Zenner can take the other one out whenever you want.”