The Bass Wore Scales by Mark Schweizer Page B

largemouth?”
    “ Oh, yeah. I’ve hooked him about a dozen times over the years, but he’s a cagey one. He’ll run for the middle, then right back at the boat. He’ll drag your line under a log, or throw it when he jumps up in the air. One time I had him look straight at me and just spit out the lure. How’d he get you?”
    “ Busted the line. How big do you think he is?”
    “ I wouldn’t be surprised if he was up around eighteen pounds by now. He was big when I first hooked him about eight years ago. What test were you using?”
    “ Twenty-five.”
    “ Did he snag it on something?”
    Nope.” I said. “Snapped it straight away.”
    “ Whoa,” said Pete. “Maybe he’s bigger than I thought. You know, the Fish and Wildlife guys dumped a whole bunch or troutlings in that lake last year. Probably about a thousand.”
    “ I’ll bet they aren’t there anymore,” I said. “That fish probably went through those troutlings like a Sumo Wrestler at a Sushi Buffet and has graduated to eating the turtles. Moosey and I are going to get him, though.”
    “ Well, good luck. If you get him, bring him on up here. We’ll have a good old-fashioned fish fry. By the way,” he said, changing the subject, “did you hear about Wormy? He’s going to open a cemetery on Kenny’s Frazier’s old farm. Noylene was telling me about it.”
    “ We need a cemetery?”
    “ Well, if you don’t already have a plot at Mountainview, you’re not likely to get one. It’s full up, and they’re not selling anymore.”
    “ Well, it sure is pretty at the Old Frazier place,” I said. “And he has about fifty acres, doesn’t he?”
    “ That’s about right,” said Pete. “Wormy’s going to demolish the house and the two barns. The house was a tear-down anyway.”
    “ Has he sold any plots?” I asked.
    “ I don’t think so, but he’s going to start this next week. Planting begins in the fall.”
    I laughed. “Does this enterprise have a name yet?”
    “ Woodrow DuPont’s Bellefontaine Cemetery.”
    “ That’s quite a beautiful and elegant appellation,” I said in my best snooty accent, raising my cup of coffee in a mock-toast. “I shall look forward to being interred there, should the need arise.”
    “ Well, ‘Bellefontaine Cemetery’ is the official name,” said Pete. “But I’m calling it Wormy Acres.”

Chapter 8

    “ How’s the story coming?” Meg asked. “Any bad sentences I can steal?”
    “ Nope. And I have to get serious about this detective story, now that I’m going to have a choir again.”
    Meg put her arms around me, bent down over my shoulder and put her face close to mine. “Listen,” she said, blowing softly into my ear. “Do you think I might be allowed to use your magic typewriter sometime when you’re not busy?”
    My fingers hit seven keys at once. “Uh…I guess so.”
    “ Really?” she whispered. “You wouldn’t mind?”
    “ Yes…I mean no…I mean…umm…whatever you want.”
    “ Thanks. And don’t be too long. Supper’s almost ready.” Her fingers trailed through my hair as she walked out of the den.
    “ Hey, wait a minute,” I called after her. “I was momentarily addled. What did I just agree to?”
    The only answer was lilting laughter.

    A bass, like any other singer, is only as good as his last solo. It’s an axiom as old as Diane Bish’s hairdo. Fishy Jim had never missed an entrance that I knew of, and I’d been around since Pavarotti was in Pampers.
    I had a chat with the maitre d’, got a voucher for two more free meals at the Chartreuse Chapeau, then went around back to retrieve my woodchuck out of the dumpster.
    “ Wow,” said Betsy, standing waist deep in potato peels. “You really know how to show a gal a good time.”
    “ Listen, Kitten,” I said, looking at my watch. “I haven’t got all night. And you couldn’t very well boost ME into the dumpster. Not in THAT dress.”
    “ Found it!” yelped Betsy. “Right here under these chicken