“He doesn’t fish.”
“Has he ever ridden a motorcycle?”
“Oh sure, he had one when I met him. He sold it to buy my wedding … oh … oh, my gosh.”
Osborne reached again for his daughter’s shoulder. “So maybe he finds on a bike what some of us find in the boat?”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Erin, sniffling. “Oh, Dad, and I was going to write a really angry letter.”
“I’ll bet you were,” laughed Lew. “But you didn’t, did you?”
“No, thank goodness,” said Erin.
“A Harley-Davidson can be a very good investment these days,” said Lew. “They sell for more used than new.” She saw the look of surprise on Osborne’s face. “Doc, I know these things. My son-in-law works in marketing for Harley-Davidson in Milwaukee.” She looked back at Erin. “You want some advice from a woman who’s been around the block a few times herself?”
Erin nodded.
“Start by making your mind up that whatever you do, whatever you say to your husband—you will be kind.”
“Okay … how do I be kind about a motorcycle?” Erin still had that set to her jaw. “How do I be kind about spending my children’s college money?”
“By not jumping to conclusions until you know the whole story, Erin. Maybe he has made a mistake or maybe he has a very good reason for doing what he’s done. Can you give this some time? Do you have to have all the answers right this moment?”
“No … I guess not.” Erin took a deep breath. She seemed to sit up a little straighter.
“The big rally in Tomahawk starts this weekend. Instead of criticizing Mark—why not ask if he’ll have the new bike in time for the rally. And would he be willing to take you on the back?”
“Whoa,” said Erin, her face brightening, “that would amaze our friends.”
“Did you ride on the back of his bike before you two got married?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s one reason I thought he was so sexy.”
“I rest my case,” said Lew, raising her hands, palms out, and smiling. She glanced at her watch. “Oh brother, it’s late. I have to be in Park Falls at eight tomorrow morning and I still need to stop by the hospital on my way home. I have got to go—”
Erin jumped to her feet. “I’ve got to get back, too. But hey, thank you, Chief, that’s a great idea. Dad, I feel so much better—this is like a positive approach. And you know”—she threw her father a wicked glance—”Mom would never have done anything like this.”
“C’mon, let’s walk out together,” said Lew, putting her arm around Erin’s shoulders as they headed toward the back door. She looked back at Osborne. “Don’t forget to call Ray. I hope it isn’t too late to try him tonight?”
“It’s never too late to try Ray.”
• • •
As Osborne reached for the phone, he saw the blinking light on his answering machine: “Ray here. I’ll be by for coffee at six, Doc. And say, I need to borrow your car.”
That wasn’t the only message.
“Paul, this is Brenda.” The voice was breathy, excited. “I hope you like the rolls. Bye. I’ll be by for the basket in the morning.”
Oh no, thought Osborne. Please, God, not Brenda Anderle. He lifted the basket of rolls from the kitchen table and tipped them into the trash. Before making the call to Ray, Osborne went through the house closing curtains he seldom closed. He hated the sense of being watched.
An hour later, he was still awake. Awake and more content than he had felt in years. He loved this room. Yes, in some ways the house was still too much Mary Lee: too many decorative gewgaws and color schemes so tightly woven a room could look more like a magazine instead of a home.
But he never felt that way in the bedroom—his bedroom. After Mary Lee’s death, he had retired the expensive bedspread, replacing it with an old quilt made by his mother. Hand-stitched squares of patterned reds, blues, greens, yellows, lavenders, and oranges spilled across an ivory background like the dots of candy on Christmas cookies. The old quilt was as warm on top as it was underneath.
He had designed this room himself, giving it windows on the east and the west and placing his bed against the north wall. Since it was on the second floor, it was high enough that he could watch the sun rise and set and—he had double-checked—no one could see in. Tonight, with the windows wide open, the room was at its most pleasant. Breezes whispered off the lake and moonlit shadows danced on the walls, taking him back to childhood.
Childhood and confession. Osborne let his mind wander back to the moment that Lew unbuttoned her blouse and everything that followed. Vindicated at last.
It had started in fifth grade when Sam Gilbert arrived back from vacation with a small, thin booklet he had stolen from his older brother’s underwear drawer. The brother had left it behind after being home on furlough from an Army base overseas somewhere.
Osborne never knew what country the book came from but the story was set in early Roman days and, fortunately, was printed in English. He and Sam spent so many hours reading and rereading the pages that it fell apart and they had to tape it all back together. Unlike the tomes they were assigned for class, this riveting manual was chock full of adventures that made for tense Friday afternoons as the boys awaited their turns for the confessional.
“Father, forgive me for I have sinned … I have had many impure thoughts…. ” Osborne was always honest and the priest was wise enough or jaded enough not to inquire as to the exact source of the recurring misdemeanors. Following confession and with his psyche lightly slapped by an understanding Jesuit, Osborne would return to his pew and say the requisite Hail Marys required to cleanse his soul—until the next time he borrowed the little blue book from Sam.
He had always assumed that these delightful scenes were similar to what happened between a man and his wife. When he first laid eyes on Mary Lee, he couldn’t help but imagine her as a willing player in the fantasies of his youth. Not long after their vows were taken, he realized that he’d said way too many Hail Marys—he had a good account in heaven that he’d never be able to use.
But today it all changed. What had always been so enticing in that little blue book wasn’t just the action—it was the reaction, the joyful enthusiasm of a willing partner. No indeed, he did not regret all those Hail Marys. He just had to use them up before it was too late. Not a bad night of nymphing. No sir-e-e.
And with that happy thought, he fell asleep.
twelve
“We have other fish to fry.”
—Rabelais, Works, Book V, Chapter 12, 1552
“But, Ray, the question is—how do I keep from hurting the woman’s feelings?” As he waited for an answer, Osborne wondered if he was crazy to be asking Ray for advice.
After all, Ray was the one who still harbored hope that he was the right guy for his old high school sweetheart, the New York fashion model who was now on her third divorce, ratcheting up from millionaires to billionaires. Ray seemed oblivious to the fact that life in a rusting trailer home with a lurid leaping fish painted across the front might hold minimal appeal for the lovely Elise.
On the other hand, while Ray might be disappointed in love, he was a free man. A free man with a great excuse for not committing, an excuse that kept other women on the hook for a long, long time. How long does it take to get over a broken heart? Yep, Ray knew how to drag that line all right.
For reasons that Osborne could not fathom, at least half a dozen (if you believed Ray) hardworking northwoods females had offered to support the guy’s fishing habit. One promised to build him his own bait shop! Even Mallory, when she drove up from Lake Forest, maintained such a high level of interest in Ray’s comings and goings—and laughed so delightedly at his dumb jokes—that Osborne still had occasion to worry his neighbor might graduate to son-in-law. An alarming thought.
If experience with females counted, Ray was definitely the man to ask. Success was another story, and Osborne’s question had nothing to do with suc
cess.
Mulling over Osborne’s dilemma from where he sat at the kitchen table, Ray sipped his coffee. It was his fifth cup. He was so excited about the job Lew had dropped in his lap that it had been hard to get him to focus. Not only a new client but a television star! He had spent the previous evening glued to the Fishing Channel, prepping for his first meeting.
When Osborne finally managed to work in news of the encounter with Bert and Harold, he’d had to settle for a trade: Ray would do his best to intercept the two at the Best Western in exchange for the use of Osborne’s new Subaru station wagon.
“My first impression will be critical, Doc.” Osborne agreed. They both knew the beat-up old pickup with the door frozen shut was not going to inspire confidence.
“But planning to wear that fish on your head?”
“Now that’s different,” said Ray, raising both hands, palms out, in protest. “That’s signature, Doc. That’s style.” Ray never hid the fact that one of his chief goals in life was to have his own fishing show on ESPN. This could be just the break he needed. He was going all out.
“Hey, it’s not the big time, it’s only the Fishing Channel, but it’s a foot in the boat, doncha know. You never know what they need on air, Doc. Gotta give ‘em something different. Like I said, something with style. You watch, they’ll be begging me.”
“Firing’s more like it.”
“C’mon. I’m a natural. You know that.”
Osborne waited as Ray continued to sip, deep in thought, eyes scanning the road beyond the driveway. The maple armchair could barely hold his lanky six feet five inches as he leaned back, feet thrust out in front and crossed at the ankles. A light drizzle had kept them from having their coffee on the deck, which was fine for a change. Together they could contemplate the view out the kitchen window: all the comings and goings on Loon Lake Road.
Finally, Ray set down his coffee cup. “I think the best thing is to let it run itself out, Doc. The one time I tried to tell a woman I didn’t want to see her anymore, she slugged me. So don’t do that.”
“But I haven’t been seeing her! Can’t I just say, ‘Thanks, but no thanks’?”
“You can. You can do that. But she lives right down the road, you use the same post office, you go to the same gas station, the same grocery store … how many times a week would you say you run into Mrs. Anderle?”
Osborne thought hard. “Half a dozen at least but—”
“Doc, do you want to have this hurt puppy look ev-v-ery time you see her? No-o. My advice is to let it fade away. Let her be the one to lose interest. The way you do that is very simple: stay busy. If she invites you to dinner, you’ve already made plans. You of all people—you’ve got excuses up the wazoo. Ask Mallory up for a visit. Use this trouble with Erin—say you need to baby-sit. The secret is to be specific so they don’t hear it as an excuse.”
Osborne perked up. “Lew asked me just last night to look at the file on the Schultz murder and suicide. That could turn into a full-blown investigation. I might have to go down to Wausau, maybe Madison…. ”
“There you go. Perfect excuse and no one gets her feelings hurt. Uh-oh,” said Ray, looking past Osborne and out the window. He unlocked his legs and straightened up. “He-e-re’s Brenda.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No siree—it’s Mrs. Anderle with the hourglass figure …” Ray winked at Osborne. “But the fair lady’s sands of time have shifted.”
Up and out of his chair, Osborne was too late to the back door. His visitor had entered.
“Paul, you dickens.” Brenda Anderle’s flushed, cheery face hung in the kitchen doorway like a morning moon. “I tried surprising you two times yesterday. Honest to Pete, you leave early and get home late, don’t you.”
She bustled into the kitchen, clearing the way with a plate of something held out in front like a leaf blower. It was covered with a blue-and-white-checked cloth, which she whipped off with a Houdini flourish to expose a chocolate bunt cake drizzled with white icing.
“Cup of coffee, Mrs. Anderle?” said Ray, gazing hungrily at the cake.
Osborne could have killed him.
“I’d love one—got any cream?” Without waiting for her host, who was reaching for a mug on the rack beside the coffeepot, Brenda bustled her way into his refrigerator, turning her back to them as she scanned the shelves. Ray gave Osborne a big wink.
“Okay, Doc, I’ll be by at eleven. See ya.”
Osborne was speechless. Ray was leaving him alone with Brenda Anderle?
“No, wait, Ray—” Osborne followed him out the back door.
“Sorry, I gotta shower.” Ray dropped his voice. “Hey, you’re a big boy, you can handle this.”
“Okay, okay, but one more thing—did that woman you know at the law firm say anything about Mark?”
“Oh, right. Nothing unusual that she’s aware of except he’s been getting a lot of calls from someone named Cheryl.”
“Cheryl?” Osborne didn’t like the sound of that. “A client maybe?”
“Umm, she didn’t seem to think so.” Ray squinted slightly and turned away. It was a look he had when he knew he was delivering unwelcome news.
“What’s that all about?” said Brenda as Osborne walked back into the kitchen. She had parked herself at the kitchen table, where she took up a little too much space.
As a young wife and mother, Brenda had been quite striking with porcelain skin that looked all the more delicate framed in vermilion curls. And her body in those days was as generous as her laughing mouth. Married to Harvey Anderle, a veterinarian, the family had built their home on Loon Lake Road about the same time as the Osbornes, using the same builder, and they had daughters the same ages as Mallory and Erin.
But while Brenda was invited to substitute in Mary Lee’s bridge game, she never achieved the status of full-time membership. Nor was she ever invited to join the Garden Club. Whatever the reasons Mary Lee and her friends had excluded Brenda, Osborne had always found her to be pleasant and appreciated that she had always been good to his girls even if she did wear too much lipstick.
As far as Harvey went, he was a fly-fisherman in the days when Osborne was devoted to muskies and spinning rods, so the two men had never fished together. When Harvey succumbed to cancer in his mid-fifties, Brenda was left with enough that she could keep their home, which was four mailboxes down the road. The family had been patients of his, of course, and he had, in turn, always used Harvey as a vet.
The problem was that since Harvey’s death, Brenda had continued to cook for two—and eat accordingly. Where once her height carried her full figure well, she now resembled a side-by-side, freezer included. The effect was heightened by her habit of wearing what appeared to be chenille bedspreads festooned with either fruits or animals. Today, she was draped in strawberries.
Osborne reminded himself that she meant well. Still, he could not help noticing that age and weight and lack of exercise were causing her face to fold in on itself. And she still wore too much lipstick. When she smiled, smears ran across her top front teeth. Osborne looked away quickly, realizing he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.
“… So I was thinking maybe this Friday we could try the fish fry at the Pub? They just started serving bluegill.”
“Gee, I’m sorry, Brenda. I’m afraid not. Not this Friday. I’m expecting Mallory—”
“Next Friday then.”
Osborne faltered. He hadn’t given any thought to what he was doing ten days down the road.
“Good. I’ll mark my calendar,” said Brenda as she rose to leave, a satisfied smile on her face. “And don’t you be surprised if you’re surprised a time or two between now and then,” she warned, wagging a finger at him as she poured out her remaining coffee in the sink, then rinsed the cup. She had a way of being in his house as though she belonged there.
“Paul”—she paused at the back door—”I am so happy this is working out. You know, with Mary Lee and Harvey gone—we should do more tog
ether. Nothing serious; we’ll just have a good time.” She raised her eyebrows invitingly, giving him another lipstick-streaked smile as she opened the back door and stepped out.
Osborne watched her move her body across the driveway to the road. She stopped to look back and caught him watching her. He waved, she waved, he felt trapped.
• • •
Osborne hurried through the breakfast dishes. Before heading into town with Ray, he wanted to check his office files for anything he might have on Jack Schultz. Granted they were dental files, but looking at the records of Jack, the wife who left him and their three daughters might jar some other memories. A final cup of coffee in hand, Osborne made his way across the yard to the garage.
On the side of the garage that faced the lake, he had screened in a small porch for cleaning fish. A door in the back of the porch opened into a long, narrow storage area, separated by a wall from the main garage and protected from sunlight and fumes. It was the one space Mary Lee had forgotten about after their home was built. The day she had insisted he deliver his office files to the landfill, he had waited until she left for the grocery store, then carted them up from the basement to this space.
And thank goodness he had. They were proving to be more important than even he had imagined. For one thing, when he opened his practice, he had acquired the records of the retiring dentist whose practice he had purchased, so his files held dental records dating back to the early 1920s. Even though he was retired, Osborne still subscribed to the leading dental journals, which kept him well aware of advances in DNA research and genetic coding, advances that made dental records such as these valuable in ways that dentists of his generation had never anticipated.
The archives worked for him on an emotional level, too. The smell and feel of the triple-folded cards with their pale green grids made him feel like he was in the company of old friends, people for whom he could do something that mattered.
He pulled Jack Schultz’s record. It was as if the man were in his dental chair at that very moment: The dates, the smudged ink notations, the diagram of Jack’s mouth conjured an image as potent as human flesh. They had always talked fishing, of course.
Dead Frenzy Page 10
