Dead Angler Read Online Free PDF

in from the pay phone,” said Lew, “too loud around the bar. Would you get me a glass of water, please? I’m dying of thirst.”
    “Sure,” said Osborne, though first on his list was the thought of dry clothing. Climbing out of the truck, the breeze chilled him.
    He walked towards the busy bar, found an open spot and leaned over the counter. The young woman bartending looked frazzled. She didn’t even glance up as she filled two glasses with water from the faucet over a sink full of dirty beer glasses. Osborne held his two up to the light to be sure they were clean. He’d seen too many cases of trench mouth over the years, the result of poorly washed bar glasses. These, he could see, were just fine.
    “Doc!” Lew shouted at him from the pay phone next to the restrooms. He turned, glasses in hand. As he pushed his way through the crowd, he was keenly aware she was watching him as he walked towards her. He wondered how she felt about what she saw, sodden fishing clothes aside.
    In this noisy barroom packed full of tanned, athletic young men in their twenties and thirties, did he stand out? Tall and lean, did he look younger than his sixty-three years? Distinguished with his black hair silvered at the temples, in spite of his bald spot? Handsome in his deep August tan, his skin still taut over the French-Irish cheekbones that carried a hint of his great-grandmother, the Ojibwa? He wondered and he hoped.
    “I got Roger out of bed and he’s arranging for an ambulance.” Lew held her hand over the mouthpiece on the phone as she yelled over the music, then she raised the phone to listen again, a look of surprise crossing her face. Once more, she covered the mouthpiece. She shouted at Osborne, “Lucy Olson, my switchboard operator, had a call from Ray Pradt an hour ago—reporting you missing.”
    “What!”
Incredulous, Osborne nearly dropped the glasses.
“Me? Missing!”
    Lew waved at him to be quiet while she listened again, then she smiled as she covered the mouthpiece. “It’s okay, Lucy got him to back off. Seems he has an emergency of some sort, and he wanted us to help him locate you. You’re to call him at home—no matter what time.” Taking the water glasses from his hands, she handed the phone to Osborne, “Here—I had Lucy patch you through—he’s on the line.”
    “Yeah, Ray?” Osborne grabbed the phone. “What on earth?”
    “Doc—you seen my hat?”
    Ohmygod, thought Osborne, nearly one in the morning, a likely murder victim in hand, and Ray’s worried about his
hat!
Ray Pradt might be a good friend, an expert hunting and fishing guide, and a champion loon-caller but he could also be a major pain in the butt.
    “No!” said Osborne emphatically, “No, I haven’t seen your hat, Ray. It’s August, you don’t need a hat. What kind of foolishness is this?”
    “Sorry, Doc, I’m real sorry, but I gotta find it tonight.” Ray’s concern was so intense that Osborne immediately regretted snapping at him. After all, Ray’s hat was his signature garment: a large stuffed trout perched on top of an old, fur-lined leather cap with ear flaps that hung down loosely. The head and tail of the fish protruded on opposite sides over his ears. No one ever missed Ray when he walked through a door with that on his head.
    “Okay, okay,” Osborne backed off. “I’m sorry, Ray. It’s just that it’s late, I nearly drowned in the Prairie, and Chief Ferris and I have a dead body to deal with. I’m tired. But, no, I have not seen your hat. Why do you need it right now?”
    “ESPN is coming tomorrow to shoot a promo for the Walleye Classic,” said Ray. “I’m in charge of the boats, and I thought it would be a good idea to be the real me, y’know? I’ve looked everywhere, and I just can’t find the darn thing. I thought maybe I left it at your place.”
    Osborne had an idea. Clearly, he wasn’t going home yet himself. He had to help Lew get the body back to town. “Ray, I’m standing here at