“Observe and leave.”
“Right.”
At Osborne’s garage, Lew helped him turn his bike around to face out so he could manage easily in the morning. Before they left the garage, he took her by the elbow and leaned down to brush her lips lightly. She took the kiss with a faint smile but he could see she was preoccupied.
“Rain check—for when this is all over and done?” she said, patting his arm. “I’m just, I’m too wired right now, Doc.”
“I know,” he said. “What about tomorrow night? Any chance you can make that dinner party at the Stead-mans’?”
She shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t give you an answer yet. I have to see how things go tomorrow. I promise to let you know as soon as I can.”
He finished the leftovers from Brenda’s lasagna, then sat out on his deck in the warm darkness, listening to the owl that owned his land. He’d had a phone message from Ray, his voice excited, saying that tomorrow’s party had grown to thirty people, including someone Osborne had a personal interest in.
“Bruce Duffy, Doc, old Bert and Harold’s boss. He’s ranked Number One right now. Maybe that’s why the boys picked up those leech traps. I left a message for Lew that she might want to have Roger on the lookout Saturday and Sunday. After that parade Sunday morning, somebody’s gonna need to find some big fish fast.”
Osborne had forgotten about the parade. Following the qualifying rounds, the parade was the big kickoff for the tournament. Boats, bands, and lots of people. Not like Lew needed more work.
He had one other message, this one from Erin. She was spending the weekend with the kids and Mark out at the hunting shack and would give him a call Sunday morning. She hadn’t forgotten he wanted to go along when they picked up Mark’s bike.
At least he had no chatty message from Brenda, thank the Lord.
Saturday morning Osborne was up early. He tried to reach Ray but no one answered. He tried Lew at her office, but she had just left for Tomahawk. He asked Marlene to be sure Lew got Ray’s message on Bert and Harold. Then he got organized.
He packed his boots, waders, and fly-fishing vest into the roomy Tour-Pak mounted on the back of the bike. The tube with his fly rod fit neatly into the holder that had been rigged up for it between the Tour-Pak and the seat. At the last minute he decided to add a water bottle and a peanut butter sandwich.
Donning his leathers, his helmet, and his courage, he turned the key in the bike’s ignition at ten o’clock sharp. It was less than ten minutes to the road near Patty Boy’s place. Anxious as he pulled out of his driveway, he felt a visceral sense of relief once he had cruised down Loon
Lake Road and turned left onto a back road that would take him up to the highway. Before he knew it, he had reached the gravel road.
Parking his bike, he pulled off the leathers and stashed everything but his helmet in the Tour-Pak. Then he pulled on his waders and fishing vest, assembled and threaded his fly rod, and set off down the gravel road.
Lew was right—a quarter mile down the road and he could hear the creek. He pushed his way through a dense growth of young aspen, then stepped down the bank and into the water.
Willow Creek was shallow enough that he was able to wade downstream toward Patty Boy’s with ease. A couple fallen logs made for detours up on the bank, but within twenty minutes he had the house and barn in sight. The creek widened as it neared the property but the brush along the banks was high enough that Osborne felt hidden as he neared. Someone would have to be right near the water in order to see him.
He sat down on a boulder to thread his fly rod. That’s when it occurred to him that anyone who was any good at trout fishing would know he shouldn’t be there. The creek was so shallow and the water so warm, no trout would be feeding this far downstream. He had to hope anyone spotting him would know nothing about fly-fishing.
For good luck, he tied on an Adams that Lew had given him. He stood and made a few short roll casts as he waded forward cautiously. The height of the brush and the narrowness of the creek made it impossible to backcast. He rounded a bend and stopped quickly. The brush had been cut back so that the creek was fully exposed from where he stood all the way up to the house and the barn, less than 500 yards away.
Nervous at being in the open without warning, Osborne cast off to his left and cast again without looking in the direction of the house. He did not want to appear curious about anything other than fish. Only when he heard the roar of motorcycles did he look up to see a line of six bikes heading up the long drive to the house.
Now he could see why Lew had wanted him on a bike: The house was situated on a ridge, even with where he was standing, that provided a full view of Highway 45, running north and south, as well as down Hagen Road to the county highway. Even the gravel road where he had parked his bike was visible from where he was standing. No one was going to arrive at Patty Boy’s without warning.
As it was, bikers weren’t the only visitors. Osborne saw two large semitrailer trucks parked in close to the front of the barn. A silver van like Catherine’s was parked near the house, along with two pickup trucks, one black and one red. He counted half a dozen motorcycles parked near the house as well.
Looking back at the semis, he caught glimpses of men loading the trucks, but with the doors open so close to the barn he couldn’t see beyond a slight crack between the barn and the doors. As he watched, he became more and more convinced they were not unloading. It looked more like moving day—as in moving out.
Osborne turned away to make what he hoped were some casual roll casts. As he turned to his right, sunlight flashed off an object in a clearing this side of the house. Casting as he waded, Osborne moved forward about five yards until he could see past the brush. In the clearing was parked a shiny new vehicle much larger than a motorcycle. This was an RV, one he recognized instantly.
Osborne backed up. The last people he wanted to see right now were Bert and Harold, and that was the same RV they had parked up at Birch Lake. Only today, hooked to the back of it, was a trailer carrying a white bass boat that glittered under the sun. Black-and-yellow stripes along the side of the boat matched the stripes on the monster 250-horsepower Mercury outboard—forty thousand bucks’ worth of boat and motor. Had to belong to someone very successful, someone like Bruce Duffy.
Funny, for a place that had advertised a “Boats and Bikes” swap meet on the Help Your Neighbor radio show, that was the only watercraft in sight.
It was nearly noon when Osborne had safely parked the bike back in his garage. He dashed into the house to call Lew. Marlene said she was still out but had left instructions to patch him through when he called in.
She picked up the radio in her cruiser. Osborne detailed everything he had seen, saving the best for last: “No question, Lew, you’re coming to Steadman’s with me tonight.”
“Doc…. ”
“Bruce Duffy, who owns that RV, the pro that hired Bert and Harold? The RV is parked front and center at Patty Boy’s. And, Lew, Bruce is on Parker’s guest list.”
twenty-three
“… not everything about fishing is noble and reasonable and sane … Fishing is not an escape from life, but often a deeper immersion into it, all of it. The good and the awful, the joyous and the miserable, the comic, the embarrassing, the tragic and the sorrowful.”
—Harry Middleton, Rivers of Memory
The Steadman house was on Lake Consequence, choice shoreline that Parker’s family had owned since the railroads came through in the late 1800s. An old hunting lodge had once graced the site. For years, when the family wasn’t in residence, native Loon Lakers like Osborne would drive in to admire the historic structure with its time-blackened logs and river rock foundation. Now, of course, it was gone.
The new house was pitched high on the exact same spot, the point overlooking a deep bay ringed with old growth balsam, their spires etched black against a hot apricot-and-lavender sunset sweeping the sky.
“Views don’t get much better tha
n that,” said Lew, trudging up the drive beside Osborne.
She wore a sleeveless black dress that circled her neck and fell to her ankles. A simple medallion of brass and silver nestled between her breasts. Gazing down at her as they walked, Osborne noticed how the setting sun gleamed in her hair and cast a soft glow across her face. Now that, in his opinion, was a view.
A wooden fence running along the drive was festooned with tiny sparkling lights, warm and festive even though it was not yet dark. A magnificent spray of the same announced the entrance to the imposing silver-white full-log structure. The lighting extravaganza continued, outlining the wide deck that wrapped the entire house.
“Hell of an electric bill,” said Osborne as they entered.
The interior caused them both to stop and stare. Hayden had kept her promise—the furniture was indeed upholstered in camouflage: green and tan accented with black. The walls of the vast living room, two stories high, sported dozens of dead animals. Mounts of species Osborne had never seen before were hung vertically, horizontally, and across the front of the massive stone fireplace anchoring one end of the room.
“A taxidermy outlet?” Lew was amused.
Equally hard to miss as she worked the room was Hayden. As if to match the furniture, she, too, wore camouflage, only she had forsaken her casual versions for a long, flowing chiffon gown with an extremely low neckline. Again the overdone face, the too-white teeth, and a manner as affected as a smiling spider.
“I’ll be interested in what you think of Mrs. Steadman,” said Osborne in a low voice.
Lew’s eyes traveled the room, then settled on their hostess. “First impression … she is very attentive to surfaces.” That was true and fair. Osborne liked that.
Together they made their way along the perimeter of the room. Twenty-some people had arrived before them. Osborne, looking around, recognized no one. Through French doors running across the front of the house and opening onto a wide deck, which faced the lake, he could see two large tables and one smaller one set with camouflage-patterned tablecloths. He was relieved to see the place settings were a solid color.
Parker Steadman stood just beyond the French doors, deep in conversation with a tall, thickset man. Looking up, he spotted Osborne and waved him over.
“Doc,” said Parker, “I want you to meet someone. Bruce Duffy, this is Dr. Paul Osborne, my former dentist and his friend…. ” Parker’s eyes went up inquisitively.
“Lewellyn Ferris,” said Osborne, beckoning Lew forward. “Mrs. Ferris heads up our Loon Lake Police Department—and she’s been instructing me in the art of fly-fishing.”
“Bruce here is ranked Number One in the tournament tomorrow,” said Parker. “And if he is one of the five lucky pros whose names are pulled in our lottery tonight, not only will he be the proud owner of fifty thousand dollars’ worth of the newest models in Ranger boats and Mercury motors—but he’ll have a shot at a first-place purse of one million dollars. This could be a big night for Bruce.”
With that, Parker raised the drink in his hand in a toast to the tall, burnished-looking man beside him. Then he turned his attention to Osborne: “What can I get you to drink, Doc? Mrs. Ferris?”
“Nothing at the moment for me, thank you,” said Osborne. Lew requested a Coke. As Parker signaled a passing waitress to bring the drink, Osborne put his hand out to greet the fishing pro, who extended a beefy mitt of his own. Even though Duffy’s face boasted a ruddy tan, his round cheeks were highlighted with patches of sunburn, which gave him a clown-like appearance. And he was tall, all right—a good six foot six or more. He made Lew’s healthy five feet eight inches look midget-size.
A shock of straight, jet black hair fell across his reddened forehead. Snappy black eyes looked at Osborne for an instant then seized on Lew. With a grunt he put his hand out as if to shake hers, but before she could, he had plunked it down on top of her head. He held it there, as if challenging her to squirm away. She didn’t move.
“You kiddin’ me, Shorty,” he said. “You really the sheriff?”
“No, my title is chief of police.”
“C’mon. Who you work for? Buncha wimps? You’re too short to be sheriff.”
Osborne and Parker stood there, speechless.
“Word around town, Duffy, you’re lucky you qualified for the tournament,” said Lew, not moving from under the man’s hand.
“What does that mean?”
“You know what I mean. Why weren’t you allowed to compete on the Bassmaster Tour last year?”
“Who the hell you been talkin’ to?”
“I get around,” said Lew. With a low curse, Duffy removed his hand.
He looked away from Parker, shook the ice cubes in his drink, then tipped it up, emptied it into his mouth, washed it through his teeth, and swallowed. He slammed the highball glass down on a table behind him, crossed his arms, and faced the three of them.
“The goddam competition lied and I was too busy to deal with it. I’m a professional and I get a lot of respect in my business. This broad doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about. That’s what happens when you put goddam women in charge.”
Duffy’s large form weaved forward until he caught himself and lurched back. Now Osborne understood the redness in his cheeks: The joker had been drinking for hours.
Parker took a swallow from his own glass, as if to stall while he tried to figure a way out of the situation. Lew took charge.
“Say, Doc, take a look at this.” She pointed down at the coffee table, where Duffy’s empty glass rested. Under the glass top was laid out a collection of wooden fishing lures, each arranged for display alongside the lid of its original box. As Lew dropped to her knees for a closer look, Parker knelt on one knee beside her, either pleased that someone had noticed or intent on directing the conversation away from Bruce Duffy.
“Where did you find these? Some of these are one of a kind!”
“Believe me, she knows her lures,” said Osborne, observing from where he stood.
“My former brother-in-law is a dealer, specializes in antique fishing tackle,” said Parker. “He dropped these off the other day and Hayden was able to get her decorator to fix up two—there’s another table in my den. Come on, since you’re interested, let me show you the rest.”
Lew and Osborne followed him around the corner and into a small room. It was much quieter. An oak gun cabinet stood in one corner and a large, dark brown leather chair with an ottoman took up most of the room. Beside the chair was a lamp table with glass on top and lures beneath.
“No camo?” said Osborne, looking around.
“I don’t let her in here,” said Parker. “No camouflage, no decorating, not even a telephone. Peace and quiet. Sounds of the lake,” he added, pointing to the open windows. “I miss the old place,” he said to no one in particular.
“By the way, Mrs. Ferris, I apologize for Duffy’s behavior. Man’s under a lot of pressure. If he’s one of the five pros whose names are pulled in the lottery tonight, he gets a shot at double the purse—that’s a million dollars. I know his results were challenged two years ago, but he’s behaved himself since. And he’s very well known on the bass-fishing circuit. I need big names to get national exposure for our tour and our cable network. This industry is built on big names and big money.”
“And big fish,” said Lew with a slight grin. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”
“So you’ve stayed in touch with the Plyer family?” said Osborne, eager to change the subject.
“No-o-o, not me. Duffy ran into Patty Boy—at the Lake of the Torches Casino. They got to talking and Duff told him I had built this place so he got in touch. He’s been big in sporting goods antiquities for a while now. Knowing Patty Boy, I’m sure half are stolen. But hell, Doc—business is business.”
“Is that where you got all those mounts? You didn’t shoot all those, did you?” said Osborne.
“Those came with the decorator,” said Parker. “And they’re leaving
with the decorator.” The three of them laughed. “Hayden is too much the city girl, I’m afraid. I had no idea those were going to be up there until I walked in this afternoon.”
“I knew Catherine when she was very young,” said Osborne, walking over to take a closer look at a set of framed certificates hanging on the wall next to the gun cabinet. A familiar pattern had caught his eye. “I didn’t know you went to Campion,” he said, noting the degree from the all-boy Jesuit boarding school.
“My condolences,” said Parker. “On knowing Catherine, that is. Yes, I did my time at Campion.”
“So did I. My father sent me there after my mother died,” said Osborne. “I was six years old when I left home.”
“At least you had six years,” said Parker. “My mother died in childbirth. The old man remarried but the wicked stepmother never wanted me around. That’s why I spent all my summers up here. My family may be from Chicago, but I call Loon Lake home.”
“Two motherless boys,” said Lew smiling over at them from where she stood examining the treasures in the lamp table. “Mr. Steadman—”
“Call me, Parker, for heaven’s sakes.”
“You must have paid a fortune for these lures. They are some of the finest I’ve seen.”
“Anytime you deal with a Plyer, you pay through the nose. But they are wonderful to look at, aren’t they?”
Osborne assumed he meant the lures.
Looking over the heads of the other guests, clustered in groups of three or four throughout the living room, Osborne spotted Edith, a camcorder in hand, off to their left. He motioned to Lew to follow him. They waited patiently as she completed a scan of the room, then switched off the camera. She gave Osborne a soft smile.
“Hayden will be very pleased,” she said. “I got the Bass Pro, Ranger Boat, and the Mercury people—good stuff. Candid footage always plays great during sales presentations.”
“Don’t you ever take a break, Edith?” said Osborne.
“Of course, I do—like right now.” She set the camera down on a nearby table. “You must be Chief Ferris,” said Edith, pumping Lew’s hand without a trace of shyness. “I’ve been anxious to meet you.” She was so forthcoming that Osborne was surprised. This was not the timid young woman he had seen in Ray’s kitchen.
Dead Frenzy Page 20
