expecting?”
Loon Lake was still dark when Osborne pulled his station wagon into his own driveway. He could hear Mike barking a wild welcome inside the house. He was such a good dog, Osborne was sure there had been no accident, even though he should have been back to let Mike out hours ago.
He hurried through the back porch and opened the kitchen door to let the bounding black Lab through. “C’mon, guy, let’s go down to the lake.” The dog rushed by. Osborne stepped into the dark kitchen to open the refrigerator. He reached for a can of ginger ale, poured it into a tall glass, added an ice cube, then turned to follow the dog down to the dock.
That’s when he saw the sheet of yellow note paper tacked over the sink: “Doc, I need you in the morning. The ESPN guys asked me to bring a client who can demonstrate while I talk walleyes—you’ll make me look good. Pick you up at nine. Love you forever, Ray.”
Stinker, thought Osborne. Ray knew darn well he wouldn’t be getting to bed much before dawn. On the other hand, it made him feel good Ray would single him out for the TV thing. It would be fun. Something to talk about at McDonald’s.
Osborne shut the screen door quietly behind him and followed the dog down to the lake. As Mike busied himself, Osborne sipped at his ginger ale. He looked west over the still-dark lake. The tall tamarack that ringed the eastern shore delayed the early light of dawn, especially in late August as the days shortened. Osborne didn’t mind, he loved the absolute stillness. A soft forest breeze drifted across from the far shore.
Life was so funny. In less than a year, he’d gone from being a man whose empty days and hours yawned like an abyss to someone whose life overflowed with friends and family and unexpected excitement. Poor Mary Lee was fast becoming a faded, rather crabby, memory. He was happier now than he’d ever been, he thought.
Even the prospect of getting up to go fishing in less than four hours didn’t bother him. Years of rising at 3 A.M. to go duck-hunting had conditioned him to short nights for the sake of great sport.
What did bother him were the missing fillings. He swished the ginger ale in the glass as he mulled over that situation. Alicia’s blatant accusation of her ex-brother-in-law didn’t fit, thought Osborne. A business man whose company sees revenue in the millions would not be desperate for a few extra thousand in gold inlays.
Or would he? A memory that had tugged at the back of his mind ever since he examined Meredith’s mouth suddenly came into focus. Richard Campbell. The resort magnate from Manitowish Waters. Of course, thought Osborne. Why hadn’t he remembered earlier?
The Campbells had moved up from Chicago in the late 60s, buying one of the North Woods’ finest and largest resorts with money made in the stock market. Richard’s wife had had some of the softest teeth that Osborne had ever seen. Even though the days of gold inlays were fast coming to an end, Richard had insisted on the best for Harriett. Just a year after Osborne had finished all that work, she died. Breast cancer. Richard had called him from the hospital.
“Paul,” he’d said, “I can’t bear the thought of all that money six feet under. What can we do about it?” Osborne had helped him out, of course. Richard wasn’t desperate. Richard was frugal. It was how he made his fortune in the first place.
Osborne called to Mike. Slowly, he and the dog ambled back up to the house. Could Ben be that kind of guy? Osborne figured, conservatively, Meredith’s mouth had held ten to fifteen thousand dollars worth of precious metal. Maybe. Made more sense if a man with a lot less money was involved.
Osborne slipped off to sleep instantly, deeply. But when he woke to the ringing of his alarm at 8:30, the dream was as vivid as if he were still in it. The cold body on the steel drawer. The lean, well-toned body with its pale breasts. Only this body carried not the face of
Loon Lake was still dark when Osborne pulled his station wagon into his own driveway. He could hear Mike barking a wild welcome inside the house. He was such a good dog, Osborne was sure there had been no accident, even though he should have been back to let Mike out hours ago.
He hurried through the back porch and opened the kitchen door to let the bounding black Lab through. “C’mon, guy, let’s go down to the lake.” The dog rushed by. Osborne stepped into the dark kitchen to open the refrigerator. He reached for a can of ginger ale, poured it into a tall glass, added an ice cube, then turned to follow the dog down to the dock.
That’s when he saw the sheet of yellow note paper tacked over the sink: “Doc, I need you in the morning. The ESPN guys asked me to bring a client who can demonstrate while I talk walleyes—you’ll make me look good. Pick you up at nine. Love you forever, Ray.”
Stinker, thought Osborne. Ray knew darn well he wouldn’t be getting to bed much before dawn. On the other hand, it made him feel good Ray would single him out for the TV thing. It would be fun. Something to talk about at McDonald’s.
Osborne shut the screen door quietly behind him and followed the dog down to the lake. As Mike busied himself, Osborne sipped at his ginger ale. He looked west over the still-dark lake. The tall tamarack that ringed the eastern shore delayed the early light of dawn, especially in late August as the days shortened. Osborne didn’t mind, he loved the absolute stillness. A soft forest breeze drifted across from the far shore.
Life was so funny. In less than a year, he’d gone from being a man whose empty days and hours yawned like an abyss to someone whose life overflowed with friends and family and unexpected excitement. Poor Mary Lee was fast becoming a faded, rather crabby, memory. He was happier now than he’d ever been, he thought.
Even the prospect of getting up to go fishing in less than four hours didn’t bother him. Years of rising at 3 A.M. to go duck-hunting had conditioned him to short nights for the sake of great sport.
What did bother him were the missing fillings. He swished the ginger ale in the glass as he mulled over that situation. Alicia’s blatant accusation of her ex-brother-in-law didn’t fit, thought Osborne. A business man whose company sees revenue in the millions would not be desperate for a few extra thousand in gold inlays.
Or would he? A memory that had tugged at the back of his mind ever since he examined Meredith’s mouth suddenly came into focus. Richard Campbell. The resort magnate from Manitowish Waters. Of course, thought Osborne. Why hadn’t he remembered earlier?
The Campbells had moved up from Chicago in the late 60s, buying one of the North Woods’ finest and largest resorts with money made in the stock market. Richard’s wife had had some of the softest teeth that Osborne had ever seen. Even though the days of gold inlays were fast coming to an end, Richard had insisted on the best for Harriett. Just a year after Osborne had finished all that work, she died. Breast cancer. Richard had called him from the hospital.
“Paul,” he’d said, “I can’t bear the thought of all that money six feet under. What can we do about it?” Osborne had helped him out, of course. Richard wasn’t desperate. Richard was frugal. It was how he made his fortune in the first place.
Osborne called to Mike. Slowly, he and the dog ambled back up to the house. Could Ben be that kind of guy? Osborne figured, conservatively, Meredith’s mouth had held ten to fifteen thousand dollars worth of precious metal. Maybe. Made more sense if a man with a lot less money was involved.
Osborne slipped off to sleep instantly, deeply. But when he woke to the ringing of his alarm at 8:30, the dream was as vivid as if he were still in it. The cold body on the steel drawer. The lean, well-toned body with its pale breasts. Only this body carried not the face of
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