Dead Hot Mama (9 page)

Phooey, he thought as he felt for the ignition, what happened to that good feeling I had less than an hour ago? He knew the answer: The increased burden on Lew put a crimp in his plans as well. When would he find the right moment to deliver his surprise?

As the engine warmed up, he mulled over Lew’s dilemma. He should have seen it coming. If all these years in Loon Lake had taught him anything, it was this: Outsiders are not welcome. By Loon Lake standards it was Bud, not Phil, who had the right credentials: family, family, and family.

Pulling out onto the snowpacked street, Osborne shivered. Count your blessings, old man, he told himself. At least you aren’t some poor idiot on a snowmobile trying to find your way through the woods on a night like this.

The idea of another missing rider, coupled with the two bodies he’d examined earlier, nagged at him as he drove home. Something didn’t fit. But it wasn’t until he pulled into his own driveway, relieved to see all the windows lit from inside and Erin’s car parked in the drive, that he knew what it was.

It had to do with the type of snowmobile accidents, too many fatal, that he had assisted with over the thirty years since the sport had transformed the northwoods. It had to do with all the teeth that had been lost, the dental surgery required in the dead of night. Snowmobiles were hard on heads—young, old, male, and female. He would never forget the twenty-year-old girl who thought she could fly her machine off an icy rise, only to land face first, breaking both jaws, knocking out her front teeth and damaging all the rest.

Something about those accidents … but he couldn’t be sure. He was glad Gina Palmer was on her way. If he was right, she would know how to prove it.

Blond,
round-faced, three-year-old Cody was jumping up and down, fists clenched, as he watched his mother, standing a little too high on the stepladder, as she tried to maneuver the Christmas angel onto the top of the tree. Twice it fell, and twice the youngster whirled in place, overcome with worry and excitement.

“Cody, careful. Now stand back and stand still or you’ll knock me over,” said Erin. But with the bouncy notes of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” reverberating through the room and four mugs of caffeine-laced hot chocolate mainlining his arteries, no way was that child able to stand still. Watching from the easy chair across the room, Osborne braced his elbows on his knees, ready to catch either Erin or the tree, depending on which toppled first.

“Hey little guy, you come over here by your grandpa,” said Osborne. Doing his best to keep a lid on his whirling dervish of a grandson, he reached in vain for an arm as it flashed by.

Osborne was amazed as always that Cody with his pumpkin cheeks, sturdy but petite build and cap of straight, white blond hair was related to him. Nowhere in that child’s face or bone structure was there a hint of Osborne, much less the child’s great-great-grandmother.

A stranger would have a tough time believing that the two were blood relatives sharing a Métis heritage. Take Osborne with his high cheekbones, open forehead, wavy black hair, brown black eyes, and skin so quick to darken with sun. Add to that his lanky frame and 6’ 2” of height—and no one would guess that he was an ancestor of the blond fireplug bouncing off the walls in the living room.

Except for the smile. For his birthday that year, Erin had surprised her father with a framed photo of Grandpa and Cody celebrating the landing of Cody’s first bluegill. For all the contrast between the two, their smiles were identical: wide, easy, and infectious.

Every time he looked at that picture, hanging on the kitchen wall, Osborne felt good.

Erin started down the ladder, confident the angel was secure. Just as her foot touched the floor, a blast of cold air swept the room.

“Howdy, howdy, howdy,” boomed a voice from the kitchen. “Who stole my kushka?”

“Ray! Ray’s here, Mom!” With a squeal of delight, Cody ran for the kitchen, followed by his sister, who had been helping Mallory unwrap ornaments.

Ray, bundled in his parka and sporting this time, not his trout hat, but a huge head of wolf fur, looked less the fisherman than a huge bear. “Who wants to go fishing?”

“I do! I do!” Cody levitated.

“Me, too,” Mason joined in. “If Cody goes, I get to go. Don’t I, Mom?”

“Ray, we’re trying to get the tree trimmed,” said Osborne, getting up from his chair.

“Not when you’ve got company like this you don’t—” Ray stepped to one side and beckoned towards the door from the porch. Another whoosh of air and a smiling face, cozy under Ray’s trout hat—the ear flaps down and tied under his chin—stepped through the doorway. Only one person other than its owner was ever allowed to wear that hat.

“Nick!” said Osborne. “I didn’t know you were coming for Christmas.”

The previous summer, Nick, the son of Ray’s high school sweetheart, had met Ray. They had survived getting to know one another and kept in touch.

Osborne suspected it was because Nick found his mother’s less than appropriate ex-beau a good escape from normal life. Though he attended a boarding school outside New York City and his permanent residence was an expensive Manhattan duplex, he was able, on occasion, to persuade his mother to let him spend a few vacation days in the trailer and on the water with Ray.

And Ray, who alleged he was still smitten with his high school heartthrob, even as she was on her third—and richest—husband, loved having the boy around. Nick, oddly enough, was as tall, gangly, and loose-limbed as Ray had been at that age. Except for Nick’s fairer complexion, you could mistake them for father and son.

“I didn’t expect to be here myself,” said Nick. “I’m supposed to be at my grandmother’s, but she’s stuck in Minneapolis. I guess she drove over to do some shopping two days ago, and the roads have been too bad to drive back. Mom’s spending Christmas in St. Bart’s with my stepdad. So when my plane landed this afternoon and no one was at the airport to meet me, I called Ray. He picked us up about an hour ago.

“This is my friend Lauren. She’s stuck, too.”

As Nick spoke, a tall, slim girl, her eyes shy and her shoulders hunched into a fleece jacket, tiptoed into the room. She did her best to hide behind Nick. Meanwhile, all the commotion had brought Mallory and Erin into the kitchen to see what was happening.

“Lauren goes to school with me,” said Nick. He grabbed her sleeve and pulled her forward. “Don’t be so shy; these are my friends,” he said, but the girl hung back. “She thinks she’s imposing. I tried to tell her
not
… but, well, okay.” Nick gave up with a shrug.

“We were on the same flights, and her dad was supposed to drive down from Three Lakes, but he didn’t show up and no one answers their phone. We’re pretty sure he might have got stuck trying to drive down. Ray said if we have to, we can sleep on his living room floor tonight.”

“Yeah.” Lauren gave a faint giggle. Apparently, from what Osborne could see, when it came to the prospect of a night with Nick, the girl didn’t look at all unhappy.

“Does your dad have a cell phone?” asked Mallory from across the room.

“Yeah, but it just rings and rings, too. And he hasn’t called me on mine.”

“If he’s a mile out of town, that’s all you’re gonna get,” said Osborne. “Cell service up here is random to say the least. But you should hear something soon. In the meantime, Lauren, I’d like you to meet my daughters, Mallory and Erin, and these are two of my grandchildren.” He introduced her around the room.

“Fish are waiting,” said Ray, getting antsy. Osborne suspected he wanted to get the kids on the lake before any incoming calls could ruin his plans.

“Young lady,” said Osborne, “you do not look dressed for ice fishing.”

“No-o-o,” Lauren shivered, “I’m not.” Her eyes, a pale brown that matched her hair, darted shyly from face to face.

Having raised two daughters of his own, Osborne knew exactly what she must be thinking as she pulled her jacket close and hunkered down. Given her lightly pimpled face under a mess of ‘hat hair,’ Lauren probably felt life at this moment could not be more embarrassing.

“I’m sure someone here can find you something warmer than that fleece,” said Osborne.

“Now, Ray,” said Mallory, teasing, “if Cody and Mason get to go fishing that means I can go, too—right?” From the look on the face framed in wolf fur, that had been the plan from the beginning.

Osborne caught Erin’s eye. She knew the score as well as he did. Unless they were into breaking the hearts of children—one of which was Mallory’s—there would be no decorating any tree until after the fishing expedition.

“You are as welcome as the flowers—everyone,” said Ray with a sweep of his arm. “But we have to hurry, folks. Conditions are ideal at this moment: A front is moving in, the sky has clouded over and the fish are biting. No better time to go play, doncha know.”

Ray packed everyone into the bed of his pickup, seating his passengers on white buckets left over from some construction project and making sure each had something to hold on to during the short drive onto the ice. Excitement combined with warm clothing and the thrill of the cold night air made everyone a little giddy, including Osborne.

“Doc, Mallory, you ride up front with me,” said Ray. “Everyone else—hold on tight.”

Mallory wedged her parka between Ray, her father, and the gearshift. “Did Dad tell you we ran into your friend Clyde today?” she said as the little truck rolled out of the driveway.

Ray checked through his back window to make sure he didn’t lose anyone as the pickup bumped from the driveway down onto the road. “Old Clyde, huh. Did he tell the secret to the beer batter he uses on his perch?”

“No. He told us he was going to shoot some people on snowmobiles, though.”

Ray laughed. “He will, too. He hates those machines. One of these days he’ll throw enough lead around, some jabone will run into it. Old Clyde can be a little explosive, y’know. That’s why he’s never been able to hold a job.

“Say, Mallory,” Ray glanced over at her as he edged the front tires onto the snowmobile trail that would take them across the lake. “Do you like chicken?”

Osborne looked out the window and sighed. This had to be the tenth time he’d heard this one.

“I
love
chicken.”

“Wanna neck?”

“Oh Ray, darn you.” Mallory punched him in the arm. “That is so bad. You never change, do you.”

Ray chortled.

Osborne continued to look out the window, which was down and had been down for seven years. Fortunately the wind was not from the north, so the cold air was invigorating. Too bad Lew couldn’t be along, thought Osborne. This was fun.

Ray slowed the truck. He wiped at the windshield as if he couldn’t see clearly. “What the—”

“What’s wrong?” said Mallory.

“See that shanty and all those tip-ups?” Ray pointed through the windshield. “That’s my spot. What do those razzbonyas think they’re doing?”

“Plenty of fish in the lake, Ray. Let’s move down a few yards,” said Osborne.

“Not my fish. My fish are right here.” Ray parked ten feet from the shanty.

“Aren’t we a little too close?” asked Mallory.

Ray said nothing. He got out of the truck and pulled down the back gate, letting the five occupants tumble down onto the ice. Then, grabbing a hand auger, he walked over to a spot within five feet of the shanty and started to drill. The occupants, whose tip-ups were within fifteen feet, opened their door.

“Hey you,” said a gruff voice, “this is a big lake.”

“Yep,” said Ray, drawing himself up to his full height in the dark. Clouds covering the moon threw shadows that made him look even more intimidating. “Plenty deep, too.”

As the door closed, Osborne heard a muffled obscenity.

Ray continued to work his auger, though he didn’t move any closer to the shanty. Eight-year-old Mason, familiar with the drill from previous expeditions with

Grandpa’s neighbor, followed with the ice scoop. Meanwhile, Erin, Nick, and Lauren unloaded some firewood and kindling. With Osborne’s help, they got a bonfire going.

After drilling three holes, Ray walked over to where Nick and Lauren were watching the fire build. “So, Nick—where does a six-foot-five fisherman fish?”

“I dunno, Ray, where?”

“Wherever
he wants.”

Cody
squealed with rapture as Ray plucked a wax worm from inside his cheek, impaled it on a hook, and handed the child a well-used jigging rod. From where he sat on his upended bucket, Cody leaned forward to keep his eyes riveted to the spot where his line entered the water. He did not move. Ray rigged another rod for Mason.

“Keep your eyes glued, you two. Remember what I said—jig those rods e-e-ver so gently. You want to tease that old crappie into biting. When you see your line quiver, lift quick and gentle to set the hook. Not
too
hard, or you’ll lose him.”

“Hey, Mason and Cody!” Erin called to her children from where she knelt beside Osborne, both of them feeding more kindling into the fire. “I want to hear you say ‘thank you, Ray.’”

Osborne could make out only the shapes of his grandchildren. A sudden scrim of fat, heavy snowflakes had turned them into shadows, but their voices came through high-pitched and happy as they followed orders.

“Ah, moonshine of snow,” said Ray, lifting his face to the sky as he walked back from the truck with more rods and a small tackle box. “Lauren,” he said as he headed for the second hole, “you’re next. Nick, you come over here, too, so I don’t have to go through this twice.”

“You betcha,” said Nick, grinning and poking Lauren with his elbow.

“Taking lessons, Dad?” Erin kept her voice low. “New flirting technique: right elbow to left rib.” Osborne chuckled.

The teenagers hurried over to where Ray had set down his equipment. Both were better dressed for the cold now. Mallory had unearthed an old parka of Erin’s buried in the guest bedroom closet that fit Lauren fine. Nick wore Osborne’s downhill skiing jacket—with the trout hat. Ray had extra mitts, and Mallory loaned Lauren a fleece neck warmer with a stocking cap to match. The cap and neck warmer happened to be an odd shade of cerise, but Lauren didn’t complain. Everyone was muffled, comfortable, and happy.

“Okay, Lauren, you sit on that pail right there.” Ray handed the girl a rod slightly longer and heavier than a twig. A tiny reel was attached to one end.

“I’m going to teach you what it means to be a jiggerman,” he said, turning over another pail to sit beside her. “I don’t use tip-ups like those jabones over in that shanty. I like a jigging rod—much easier to fish any depth.

“Now watch … I’ve rigged this with a two-pound test line, and I’m going to add …” Ray’s fingers shuffled through his tackle box. “A special jig … ah, here it is!” He held a lure out for her to see. “Lauren, this jig is very special. It’s my own design, patent pending.”

Listening from where she was warming her hands over the bonfire, Erin snorted. “Lauren, everything that man does, says, or wears is ‘patent pending.’”

Mallory and Osborne, sitting nearby on upended pails, chortled in agreement.

“You’re right about that,” said Nick. “When he met us at the airport wearing this goofy fish hat, I told Lauren not to worry—that’s just Ray—a re-e-al original.”

“That’s not all you said,” said Lauren, teasing.

“Lauren …” warned Nick.

“You laugh,” said Ray. “You can all laugh, but one of these days …” He paused to look closely at the lure he was about to tie on to the jigging rod. “Oops, this hook is dull.” Ray reached into the deep cargo pocket of his parka and pulled out a small file. Holding the hook against his knee, he gave it a couple swipes, examined it closely, and was satisfied.

“How can you do that with bare hands in this cold?” asked Lauren.

“I’m acclimated,” said Ray. “I do this every night. In fact,” he added as he yanked off his wolf hat and unzipped his parka, “at the moment, I’m sweating.”

“Br-r-r, not me.” The girl shivered.

“What’s your last name, Lauren?” asked Ray.

Osborne winked at Erin. A non sequitur from Ray was likely to mean a bad joke was on its way. A lengthy bad joke, the kind that tried the patience of dedicated clients and drove good friends from the room.

“Theurian,” said Lauren.

“Haven’t heard that name before,” said Ray.

“My dad just got remarried and moved to Three Lakes from Kansas. He’s kinda retired.”

“Well, Miss Theurian, you are one of the privileged few chosen to fish with …” Ray dangled the lure, “Ray Pradt’s new and unique … Hot …
Mama.”

Erin caught her dad’s eye. All that was missing was a roll of drums. “Jeez, Ray,” she said, hollering over towards Ray and the teenagers, “sounds like you’re introducing a stripper.”

“I am kinda, thank you—my all-new X-rated walleye jig.” Everyone sitting around the fire shook their heads. It might not be a bad joke, but it was bound to be close.

“And now,” said Ray, pausing for dramatic effect, “I will explain the extraordinary advantages of this flat-out fantastic lure. But first, Lauren, tell me—what did I say was the name of this unique new product?” He leaned towards Nick. “Checking to see if my product nomenclature, so to speak, has staying power.” Ray raised a cautionary index finger. “Branding is key, doncha know.”

“I think it’s memorable,” said Nick. The two men waited for Lauren.

“The Ray Pradt Hot Mama?”

“Close. I’ve been calling it just the Hot Mama—but … maybe I
should
call it the
Ray Pradt
Hot Mama. I like the sound of that. What do you think, Nick?”

Before Nick could answer, Osborne interrupted, “Ray, could we get on with the fishing, please? Some of us don’t want to be here all night.”

“Okay, okay—ready, Lauren?”

“All ears, sir.”

She wasn’t the only one. Osborne was very interested. He could see that Erin and Mallory were concentrating on every word as well. The design and marketing of new fishing lures was big business in the northwoods. More than one mom-and-pop operation had hit the big time. Why not Ray? He knew more about ice fishing than most people.

“See the little skirt on her? Couple reasons for that. One, we’re fishing water that’s stained dark by tannins and humates produced by trees and swamp vegetation, so you need something light and fluffy to generate movement in the water—get the attention of the fish.

“Two, we’re fishing a hump under this ice, a sandbar that’s quite weedy. This skirt will keep the jig from getting caught on the weeds. Now … the secret to my Hot Mama is … when you jig it this way … and
just
this much no more,” said Ray as he demonstrated, “you set off a sexy little wiggle.
Fish love it.”

“Sexy wiggle?” said Nick. “I know someone who does that.” He rocked sideways to nudge Lauren with his shoulder. She giggled.

“Is that what Clyde was using the other night?” asked Osborne.

“Nah, he swears by a Swedish Pimple with a chunk of minnow, but I’ve been catching a lot more fish with this.”

“And the skirt—what’s that made from? Silicon?” asked Osborne, curious as to why Ray had been so close- mouthed about this new contraption. “This is quite an interesting lure, Ray. Why haven’t you said anything about it?”

“Perfecting the details, Doc. Perfecting the details.”

Osborne nodded. That made sense. Of course, with Nick here, guess who couldn’t help showing off.

“But to answer your question on silicon, Doc, no sir-r- e-e. No Thunder Bay influence on my little gal—not an
ounce
of silicon in
my
Hot Mama.”

“Ray, if you’re serious and you think you got something, you do need to apply for a patent,” said Erin. “Talk to my husband. He’s got a friend from law school who’s a patent lawyer in Chicago.” She walked over to get a better look at the lure. “You need special tools for that?”

“Yep, a shovel,” said Ray.

Erin gave him a dim eye. “I’m only trying to help.”

“And I’m not kidding,” said Ray. “The reason I don’t use silicon for the skirt is because I found a road kill albino squirrel that has enough tail to make a million of these. Hence … the unique motion in water.” Seeing the confusion on Lauren’s and Nick’s faces, he added, “I used a shovel to scrape the dead squirrel off the road.”

Ray looked up at Erin. “Are you happy now—forcing me to give away trade secrets?”

“Yeah, right,” she said, walking back to the fire. “Check it out, Dad. It actually looks pretty cool.” Osborne swung around on his pail for a better view.

“OK, Miss Theurian …” Ray knelt beside the hole, the Hot Mama still in his hand. “Ready to jig? Better pull your pail a little closer to the edge.”

“Sounds like a dance,” said Lauren, scooting forwards.

“Much more gentle than a dance. One last thing …”

Ray reached into the small tackle box by his knee. “Now … you can’t see it in this light, but I got a split shot here, a tiny piece of lead that we’ll clamp on to keep her down. And I put a teensy dot of red marker on that, too.”

“What’s that for?” asked Nick, leaning closer for a good look. “Do the fish see that?”

“I dunno,” said Ray. “Haven’t been under the ice myself lately, so I’m not sure what they see. All I know is something about this entire con-fig-ur-ation … catches fish. Could be what they smell on that fur skirt she’s wearing. I really don’t know.” With that, Ray reached into his cheek for a wax worm, which he set carefully to one side.

“What is
that
?” asked Lauren, leaning back so fast she almost fell off her pail.

“A waxie. Sometimes I use mousies,” said Ray.

“Baby mice?”

“Maggots.”

“Oh, yuck!” Lauren was so appalled she forgot to be self-conscious.

“And the piece de re-sis-tance—” Ray pulled a small plastic container from the vest pocket of his parka. With thumb and forefinger, he plucked something tiny that he squeezed onto the hook before adding the waxie. He dangled the bait for Lauren and Nick to see. “Perch eye.”

The teenagers looked on, dead serious. “Now, what you’re going to do is lower the jig into the water like this, almost to the bottom.”

“Okay … how do I know it’s at the bottom?” asked Lauren.

“Because I said so. I fish here all the time, so just take my word for it. And now … you ever so gently … jig … like this.” Ray held her arm and elbow until she had the movement correct.

“That’s it, Lauren. You want to start at the bottom, then work your way up re-e-al slow … yeah, that’s right. Keep a close eye on the line and pay attention to the
feel
of the rod because when a fish inhales that jig—the tug is very, very subtle. All you’ll see is a quiver in the line, or it might move from one side to the other. When that happens, you set the hook like this,” he gave a quick, gentle tug, “then let the line run and set it again. Set twice, run twice—that’s the rule.”

“You really think I’ll catch a fish?”

“I
know
you’ll catch a fish.” Ray dropped his voice. “We are sitting on a ten-by-ten-foot hole füll of walleye. Those jabones in that shanty over there? They think they’re on it, but they missed by a couple feet. Whenever I know someone’s watching me catch fish, likely planning to steal my spot, I drill a couple holes to fool the idiots.

“So, yes, you will catch a fish. The only question is how soon. Okay, Nick—you’re next.”

Ray was helping Nick get set up on the third hole when a loud squeal from Mason signaled the landing of a good- sized crappie. Another shout, and Cody was swinging his rod through the air. Erin ran over to keep him from hitting his sister in the face with a flapping fish.

“Ray, Ray, what do you call this?” yelled Cody, jumping up and down.

“Hey, bud, I call that something for nothing. A little piece of heaven for no money at all.”

“Also known as a northern pike,” said Erin, helping her son unhook his fish.

As Lauren laughed at the kids’ excitement, Osborne could see her hunched shoulders relax. Concentrating with an intensity to match Cody’s, she kept her eyes glued to where the line entered the water, not even darting a glance towards Nick and Ray.

Ray was slipping a perch eye and wax worm onto Nick’s Hot Mama, when Lauren jumped to her feet. “I got one! I got one!”

“Okay—don’t let the line go slack,” said Ray, running over. “Drop that rod tip into the water—you don’t want your line to catch an edge of ice and break.”

Lauren tried to hand him her rod. “No, you keep it, you’re doing great. Set that hook once more, good, now let it run.”

Everyone from the fire gathered around to watch. “All right,” said Ray, “let’s coax her on in.” Lauren’s eyes were shining as she swung her prize up through the ice.

“You got yourself a small walleye, young lady. A little too small to keep but good work.” Lauren was beaming even as Ray eased the fish back into the hole.

“That’s the first fish I ever caught,” said Lauren. “I love this!”

“Bummer, Ray,” Nick called from where he was perched on his pail, “I think I’m hooked on a weed. I can’t move this thing.”

“You probably got a stump—be right there,” said Ray, helping Lauren drop a newly baited jig into the water.

“Hey, youse razzbonyas,” said Ray to no one in particular as he ambled over to the frustrated Nick. “Who’s not havin’ fun? Mallory, would you mind pouring me some hot coffee from that thermos I got on the floor of the truck, while I help young Nick here get unhooked …”

“Sure thing.” Mallory jumped up from her pail. Ray circled behind where Nick was sitting, yanking his line from side to side in a vain attempt to loosen the hook.

“Here, son, let me give it try.” But just as Ray reached for the jigging rod, the line moved.

“Hold on, Nick … okay, give it a tug.” Again, the line moved.

“That’s no stump.” Ray’s voice turned serious.

Osborne never knew how
he
got over to the hole, but intuition born of fifty years of fishing had him there in an instant—just in time to see what Ray and Nick saw. The back of a creature surfaced, catching light from the fire. Black, brown, and glistening, it was a back so massive that as it moved past the hole in the ice—it
filled
the hole. Another instant and it was gone—disappearing into a swirl of dark water.

Erin and Mallory crowded in.