Dead Jitterbug (2 page)

—Anonymous

The
security service for the McDonald estate rang the Loon Lake Police Department within five minutes of someone exerting pressure on the handle to the French doors.

It was June fourth, seven forty-five in the evening, and Loon Lake Chief of Police Lewellyn Ferris was going over her schedule for the next six weeks with her campaign manager. Erin was not happy. The election was slated for August sixth, and her candidate was already two weeks behind on public outreach.

“Lewellyn,” said Erin, dropping the more formal “Chief,” which she should have used. Or even the less formal “Lew,” which she used when her father included Lewellyn Ferris in family gatherings. “Lewellyn, if you want to be elected sheriff of Lake County, you have got to go door to door and shake every hand. I’m dead serious.”

Erin emphasized her words with a pointed index finger. “You’re paying me to run this campaign—so I’m doing my level best to give you what you pay for. But if you don’t follow my directions, you are wasting your money and my time. Didn’t I take a break from summer school to do this?”

Lew teased Erin with a questioning look. She could get away with the first statement but not the latter. They both knew she needed the break from law school. With three children, a husband who was a practicing attorney, and a Victorian house in constant need of repair, Erin welcomed having her summer back. Plus she loved politics.

“I hear you,” said Lew, raising her right hand in surrender. “I’ll do it, I promise.”

“Okay, then here’s the deal. Set a daily quota of hands you shake
before
you go fishing with Dad,” said Erin, leaning forward in her chair. “That is the only way you’re going to cover this county in time.”

Lew winced. “But not tonight, kiddo. Not when there’s a weather change like this one coming in. The conditions will be
perfect
for muskie. Wind from the right direction for trying my fly rod—and you know that doesn’t happen too often.”

“Tonight’s okay. Too late to knock on doors anyway. But every day from here on in, the minute you’re off duty—between five and seven p.m., plus your lunch hour. If you’ll do that, we’ll—”

The intercom buzzed as Marlene, the switchboard operator, interrupted with news of a possible break-in on the McDonald property. “Their security has called the house twice and no answer,” she said. “They insist we check on it.”

“How many false alarms have we had on that one?” asked Lew, too familiar with flower-addicted deer and inquisitive bears to get excited.

“None. Ever. I checked,” said Marlene.

Her answer caused Lew to sit up straight. “Oh, then I better check it out. Give Roger a call and let him know he’s got to cover for me the next hour or so, will you? He’s not due in until nine.”

“The McDonald place?” asked Erin, eyes wide as Lew set down the phone. “The big house on Secret Lake? That’s not far from Dad’s by water—but half an hour or more if you have to take the road in.”

Lew picked up the phone and asked for an outside line. She waited. “No answer. Where do you think your dad is? I’m supposed to meet him,” she glanced at her watch, “in less than an hour for whatever night fishing we can squeeze in before the storm hits.”

“He’s probably still over at Ray’s,” said Erin. “I called this morning just as he was going out the door. Ray conned him into helping out with that ‘Fishing For Girls’ class of his—”

Before Erin could finish, Lew was ringing the phone in Ray’s trailer home.

“You know who Mrs. McDonald is, don’t you?” asked Erin while Lew let the phone ring. Ray was notorious for owning an answering machine of dubious reliability and no cell phone. Assuming he might be out on the dock, if not still on the lake with his students, it could take a few rings to get an answer.

“No luck. I better drive out there;” said Lew, reaching for the jacket to her uniform, which hung on a coat rack near the door to her office. “You’re right about the roads—I can save time if I take your father’s boat over.” Erin ran behind Lew as she hurried down the hall and out the front door to the parking lot.

“Who did you say these McDonalds are?” asked Lew, opening the door to her police cruiser. “They put the fear of God into the security people. Poor guy told Marlene he’ll lose his job if I don’t show up ASAP.”

“The wife is Hope McDonald Kelly—she goes by her maiden name. You know, the famous advice-columnist. The one you read in the
Loon Lake Daily News.
Eighty million readers worldwide every day.”

Lew looked at her in astonishment. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Not too many people know that, either. I guess she hides out up here all summer—has for years. Ask Dad, he knows the family. They were summer patients.”

three

Rains pour down without water,

and the rivers are streams of light.

One love it is that pervades the world;

few there are who know it fully.

—Kabir

The
first hint that his Tuesday might not go according to plan was the call from Ray at five forty-five that morning: “Hey, Doc, how’s it goin'?”

Osborne cleared his throat. “Other than the fact you just woke me up?”

“Sorry about that. Had to catch you before you headed into town. How … would you like … to earn … a few buckaroos today, Doc?” Ray vested each word with the importance of a winning lottery ticket.

“Okay—what’s wrong?” asked Osborne, not a little cranky and clutching the cordless to his ear as he stumbled toward the porch to let the dog out. The fishing guide, so chronically short of cash that he dug graves to make ends meet, had something up that crisply ironed khaki sleeve of his. No one in their right mind pays a retired dentist to dip minnows and hook leeches. Six years living next door to the guy, Osborne knew all the red flags: an offer of cold cash as opposed to a string of fresh bluegills was not good news.

Gazing west through the porch windows while he listened, Osborne checked the conditions on the water. Sixty-three years into life, and fishing made him a better weather predictor than any of the jokers on TV.

Now that he had Osborne’s attention, Ray spoke fast. “Doc, these gals are paying a hundred fifty each plus very nice tips, I’m sure. I have no problem giving you seventy-five and, brother, do I need the help. Five lovely ladies on one pontoon learning to cast? No way I can handle that all by myself. Not without someone getting hooked in the ear.”

“Hold on there, big fella,” said Osborne with a chuckle. “Am I not talking to a man who’s been known to juggle half a dozen close female friendships simultaneously?”

“Not the same thing, Doc. These are five adult women about to be let loose with multihooked muskie lures
after
mainlining way too much coffee. This … could be … a
safety
sit-u-a-tion and … it worries me.”

Osborne said nothing. This was classic Ray: exaggerating words and pauses until his listener would plead for a punch line. Only this time Osborne owned the punch line. He relished the moment.

“Please, Doc … Seventy-five … buckaroos.”

It had all started when a reporter for the
Loon Lake Daily News,
researching a Sunday feature on local fishing guides, decided to pick up on a comment Ray made on how single women could meet more guys if only they knew how to fish. “Think about it,” he quoted Ray as saying, “hundreds, maybe thousands, of single guys rich enough to own their own boats up here in the northwoods every weekend all summer long. Now
that,
ladies, is opportunity.”

By the end of the interview, egged on by the reporter, he had decided to offer a two-day seminar: “On catching fish, not guys. I’ll call it … umm … ‘Fishing For Girls.'”

This mushroomed into a sidebar to the main story that detailed not only what Ray would teach but included his home phone number along with a color photo of the thirty-four-year-old single white male wearing a stuffed trout on his head and holding a forty-eight-inch muskie.

Osborne suspected it wasn’t the muskie that prompted the deluge of phone calls. And it wasn’t the fish on his head. It was Ray. Tall, lean, tan Ray Pradt with his dark-brown curls just visible under the brim bearing the stuffed trout. It was the easy grin, the friendly eyes, and the flash of white teeth framed by the beard, curly and flecked rust and gray.

Ben Kaupinnen, one of the McDonald’s coffee crowd that Osborne met with most mornings around six thirty, summed it up when he said, “You give that razzbonya (meaning Ray Pradt) just two dimensions (meaning a flat photo), and he can charm the living daylights out of a gal. Not to mention her pocketbook.”

The Sunday that the newspaper story ran on the front page of the “Outdoors” section, Ray’s phone never stopped ringing. Two calls were from teenagers who got a kick out of pretending they thought Ray’s clinic was all about trolling for babes—the rest were from interested babes.

The story had legs all the way into the next week as three irritated readers peppered the
Loon Lake Daily News’
“Monday Mailbag” with anonymous letters complaining that the name of the seminar was tasteless. That it implied Ray was offering tips on Internet dating or how to find websites with unsavory content: “Not suitable for a family newspaper!”

Once Osborne’s daughter, Erin, assured him that “any publicity is great publicity,” Ray relished every call and complaint even as he signed up a total of twenty-four women for seminars to be offered midweek over the next six weeks. The fact that he had never done this before didn’t faze him. Nor the local merchants: Ralph’s Sporting Goods agreed to let his students sample their rods and tackle; the local marina said they would provide a boat.

“All right, all right, let me check my calendar for the day,” said Osborne, taking his time as he picked up his mug of hot coffee and walked back through the living room to the porch. He bent to look through the window once more.

The lake was serene, streaked with muted shades of rose and lavender stolen from the clouds overhead. Early summer breezes teased the curtains. He watched Mike chase two chipmunks across the yard. Hard as he tried every morning, the black lab never won that race.

Osborne inhaled. If you counted the promise in the air, this could be a very good day to be on water. And the evening looked good as well. He had plans to wade the weed beds off his dock, fly rod in hand. His favorite fishing partner had promised to give him some pointers on fly-fishing for muskie. Nope, life didn’t get much better than this. He could spare a little of his good humor.

“Okay—looks like I can put a few things off. But forget the cash. How ‘bout one of these nights, you sauté up some walleye cheeks with a side of that wild rice casserole of yours for Lew and myself?”

“Deal. Can you be here by seven-thirty?”

“Sure. How many women did you say there are?”

“Five. I had four booked and squeezed another one in at the last minute. All beginners. Never touched a spinning rod before yesterday. And, hey, Doc, just for fun I got a pop quiz for you. You get it right, and I’ll enhance your little dinner party with a thimbleberry pie.”

“Forget it. I said I’d help you out and that’s enough,” said Osborne, wincing as he poured himself a second mug of black coffee. He hated Ray’s guessing games. Everyone hated them. Like Mike with the chipmunks, you never won.

“You gotta listen, Doc, this is right up your alley. Just take a minute. Ready?”

“No, I am not. Forget the quiz. Let me drink my coffee, get showered, and see you in an hour. I like to start the day happy.”

“C’mon. You’re the father of two daughters. You’ll ace this. Now here’s the deal. Yesterday we spent the day studying fish and their habitat, basic equipment, yadda, yadda. The usual stuff, right?”

Osborne sipped from his mug, eyebrows raised, waiting.

“However … I decided we would begin with … a little philosophy. Kinda Zen-like, y’know? Some thoughts on
why
we fish.” Osborne rolled his eyes.

“So first thing yesterday I had each one write on a slip of paper
why
she signed up for the class. Tonight, after we’ve had fun all day, I’ll cook up our catch, and when we’ve eaten, I’ll read each little slip. The ladies will have to guess who wrote what … and….”

“And?” asked Osborne, anxious to hurry the story along.

“And whether or not the writer still feels the same way about fishing. These two days could change their lives, doncha know.”

“Ray, the ladies signed up for a fishing seminar—not rehab.”

Ray ignored Osborne’s remark. “Let me tell you what they wrote, then later this afternoon after we’ve taught them how to cast, you tell
me
who you think said what.”

Osborne sighed, wondering if the thimbleberry pie was worth it.

“Ready for the first one?”

“Please—and can we do this fast?”

“'Since I don’t golf, I need some outdoor sport I can do with clients.'”

“Okay … next?”

“Number two: ‘I want to show my father that I can run a boat and catch a fish every bit as well as my brother might have. Get a little more respect.'”

“That’s it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Hmmm.” Never having raised a son, Osborne wasn’t sure what to make of that one. “Number three: ‘The only reason I’m here is because someone else was afraid to come alone.’ ”

“Is that someone who even
wants
to fish?”

“See what I mean, Doc. I could be changing some lives—”

“Hit me with the last two. It’s getting late.”

“Number four is easy: ‘I’m here because my friend said it would be good for our business.’ You’ll guess that one right away. But then … number five, Doc….” Ray paused before he spoke, then enunciated each word with care: ‘I need some way to avoid my husband … and I know he hates water.’

“Doc, you won’t believe this girl. She is such a sweetheart. Very quiet, pretty as a forget-me-not. Can’t be over a day over thirty. Can you …
imagine
… being so unhappy so early in a marriage?”

“That’s too many clues, Ray—you’re giving away the pie.” By this time, Osborne knew the quiz had nothing to do with pie. Ray was looking for approval to misbehave.