They’re doing an audit.”
“I—I can’t imagine why….” Even the sunburn drained from Barb’s face.
“You can’t imagine why,” mimicked Carla, shaking the phone at her.
“Ladies, that’s enough,” said Ray. But the day was robbed. Its golden haze of easy chatter, pleasant fatigue, and simple happiness shattered. Kitsy, Julia, and Molly averted their eyes. Barb sat with her shoulders hunched, trembling. The pontoon moved with a whisper over the water and no one said a word. As they reached the end of the channel, Ray glanced over at Carla. “Hey, Carla,” he asked, “you know what they call an IRS audit, doncha?”
“Not interested,” said Carla. She sat at the back end of the pontoon, arms folded tight against her chest, one leg crossed over the other, right foot pumping up and down.
Osborne, resting his forearms on his knees, reached his hands up to rub his eyes. He never knew which was worse: Ray’s jokes or his timing. He also knew there was no stopping the guy.
“An autopsy—without benefit of death.”
With the exception of Barb, the other women chuckled softly. Osborne pressed his fingers against his eyelids to keep from doing the same. After a few beats of silence, he dared to look up.
Carla’s jaw was set. “So if I stop by tomorrow morning—will you let me have this pontoon?”
“Sure,” said Ray, taken aback. “But—you really want to pay cash?”
“Yeah, I want to pay goddam cash. But I’ll need you to help me with some arrangements. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
More moments of silence as the pontoon picked up speed on the lake. Ray reached down for his trout hat and set it on his head, adjusting it until he was satisfied the angle was just right. In Ray’s world, no matter how distressing current events, arrivals and departures demand ritual.
“Speaking of cash, Ray,” Kitsy asked, “how much will you take for that hat? I have got to have it.”
“Not for sale.”
“A hundred dollars.”
“Nope.” “Five hundred … okay, okay, final offer— one thousand dollars.”
“She spends that much on dead mice,” said Carla. “I’d take it.”
Ray just grinned. “You can buy my tackle, my boat, my house trailer even—but you cannot buy my hat.”
Kitsy gave him a teasing look. “We’ll see…. Say, Carla,” said Kitsy, bending over to pull a notebook out of her backpack, “before I forget—what’s your office number if I want to get in touch with you on that property situation?”
“Julia’s got it.”
“Julia’s got your phone number?” asked Kitsy.
“Yes, I asked her for it a while ago—I knew you would want it,” said Julia with a half-smile on her face. As she spoke, Osborne saw Carla dart a look at Barb. No annoyance this time. Relief.
As the pontoon rounded the bend, Ray looked back at Osborne. “Hey, Doc,” he said, pointing at the shoreline, “Someone’s waving at us from your place. Hold on, ladies!” He gunned the engine.
“If it’s Lew, she’s early,” shouted Osborne. Ray bypassed his own dock and headed straight for Osborne’s. It was Lew, but she wasn’t dressed for fishing. She was still in uniform, and she wasn’t smiling.
eleven
I am not a lady fly fisher; I am a fly fisherman.
—Lady Beaverkill (Mrs. Louise Miller)
“Something wrong?” asked Osborne as Ray cut the engine to let the pontoon drift toward the dock.
Had something happened to Erin, or one of his grandchildren? Had there been a call from Chicago where Mallory was in Northwestern University’s MBA program? In grad school and in AA—at least he hoped she was still in AA. That was one struggle he knew too well. Osborne held his breath.
“I need your boat, Doc,” said Lew, keeping her voice low as he jumped off the pontoon. “Take me at least an hour to catch up with Roger and haul that department inboard of ours out of the garage. Hope you don’t mind.”
Hardly. That was good news. Osborne exhaled.
This was not the first time
“I—I can’t imagine why….” Even the sunburn drained from Barb’s face.
“You can’t imagine why,” mimicked Carla, shaking the phone at her.
“Ladies, that’s enough,” said Ray. But the day was robbed. Its golden haze of easy chatter, pleasant fatigue, and simple happiness shattered. Kitsy, Julia, and Molly averted their eyes. Barb sat with her shoulders hunched, trembling. The pontoon moved with a whisper over the water and no one said a word. As they reached the end of the channel, Ray glanced over at Carla. “Hey, Carla,” he asked, “you know what they call an IRS audit, doncha?”
“Not interested,” said Carla. She sat at the back end of the pontoon, arms folded tight against her chest, one leg crossed over the other, right foot pumping up and down.
Osborne, resting his forearms on his knees, reached his hands up to rub his eyes. He never knew which was worse: Ray’s jokes or his timing. He also knew there was no stopping the guy.
“An autopsy—without benefit of death.”
With the exception of Barb, the other women chuckled softly. Osborne pressed his fingers against his eyelids to keep from doing the same. After a few beats of silence, he dared to look up.
Carla’s jaw was set. “So if I stop by tomorrow morning—will you let me have this pontoon?”
“Sure,” said Ray, taken aback. “But—you really want to pay cash?”
“Yeah, I want to pay goddam cash. But I’ll need you to help me with some arrangements. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
More moments of silence as the pontoon picked up speed on the lake. Ray reached down for his trout hat and set it on his head, adjusting it until he was satisfied the angle was just right. In Ray’s world, no matter how distressing current events, arrivals and departures demand ritual.
“Speaking of cash, Ray,” Kitsy asked, “how much will you take for that hat? I have got to have it.”
“Not for sale.”
“A hundred dollars.”
“Nope.” “Five hundred … okay, okay, final offer— one thousand dollars.”
“She spends that much on dead mice,” said Carla. “I’d take it.”
Ray just grinned. “You can buy my tackle, my boat, my house trailer even—but you cannot buy my hat.”
Kitsy gave him a teasing look. “We’ll see…. Say, Carla,” said Kitsy, bending over to pull a notebook out of her backpack, “before I forget—what’s your office number if I want to get in touch with you on that property situation?”
“Julia’s got it.”
“Julia’s got your phone number?” asked Kitsy.
“Yes, I asked her for it a while ago—I knew you would want it,” said Julia with a half-smile on her face. As she spoke, Osborne saw Carla dart a look at Barb. No annoyance this time. Relief.
As the pontoon rounded the bend, Ray looked back at Osborne. “Hey, Doc,” he said, pointing at the shoreline, “Someone’s waving at us from your place. Hold on, ladies!” He gunned the engine.
“If it’s Lew, she’s early,” shouted Osborne. Ray bypassed his own dock and headed straight for Osborne’s. It was Lew, but she wasn’t dressed for fishing. She was still in uniform, and she wasn’t smiling.
eleven
I am not a lady fly fisher; I am a fly fisherman.
—Lady Beaverkill (Mrs. Louise Miller)
“Something wrong?” asked Osborne as Ray cut the engine to let the pontoon drift toward the dock.
Had something happened to Erin, or one of his grandchildren? Had there been a call from Chicago where Mallory was in Northwestern University’s MBA program? In grad school and in AA—at least he hoped she was still in AA. That was one struggle he knew too well. Osborne held his breath.
“I need your boat, Doc,” said Lew, keeping her voice low as he jumped off the pontoon. “Take me at least an hour to catch up with Roger and haul that department inboard of ours out of the garage. Hope you don’t mind.”
Hardly. That was good news. Osborne exhaled.
This was not the first time
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