A Reel Catch Read online

  A Reel Catch

  Lorraine Bartlett

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018, Lorraine Bartlett. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  For more information on Lorraine’s books, check out her website: http://www.LorraineBartlett.com

  Other Books By Lorraine Bartlett

  The Lotus Bay Mysteries

  Panty Raid: A Tori Cannon-Kathy Grant Mini Mystery

  With Baited Breath

  Christmas At Swans Nest

  A Reel Catch

  The Victoria Square Mysteries

  A Crafty Killing

  The Walled Flower

  One Hot Murder

  Dead, Bath and Beyond

  Yule Be Dead

  Recipes To Die For

  * * *

  Life On Victoria Square

  Carving Out A Path

  A Basket Full of Bargains

  The Broken Teacup

  It’s Tutu Much

  Tales From Blythe Cove Manor

  A Dream Weekend

  A Final Gift

  An Unexpected Visitor

  * * *

  Tales of Telenia

  Threshold

  Journey

  Treachery

  Short Stories

  Blue Christmas

  Prisoner of Love

  Love Heals

  We’re So Sorry, Uncle Albert

  An Unconditional Love

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to Mare Fairchild for walking me through high school library procedures. And my thanks also go to Mary Kennedy, my friend, and cheerleader. She stood on the sidelines cheering me on when I had writer’s block and she and her husband, Alan, helped me hash out an important plot point. If you haven’t read Mary’s cozy mystery and young adult books—you’re missing out on a treat! (MaryKennedy.net) Thanks also go to my proofreaders: Linda Kuzminczuk, Debbie Lyons, and Pam Priest.

  * * *

  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs.

  1

  The sky above was an opaque white, but farther to the north, over Lake Ontario, it was crystal blue, meaning colder air was on its way from Canada. Tori Cannon and her BFF, Kathy Grant, were bundled up on that raw April day. Loppers and saws in hand, they trudged through the spotty lawn that was just starting to green up, heading for the untidy tangle of willows and brush at the side of Kathy’s property that bumped up to the marshy south end of Lotus Bay.

  “I hate lawn work,” Tori grumbled as they neared the edge of the lot near the bay bridge.

  “I’m not fond of it either, but I helped you tidy up your yard last year, girlfriend. You owe me.”

  Truer words were never spoken.

  That said, they’d decided that Tori was to woman the tools and Kathy would haul the brush to the burn pile since that was the harder, more boring of the tasks at hand. Kathy really was a doll.

  “Give me some direction,” Tori said, looking at the mess before her.

  “Just start hacking away at the branches—then we can go at the trunks with the saw.”

  “We’re never going to finish this in one day.”

  “I know, but if we don’t start—it’ll never get done.”

  Tori nodded, opened the loppers, and began to chop off branches right, left, and center. “Anissa should be doing this, not me. She’s strong, with arms like a weightlifter.”

  “That’s because she lifts weights,” Kathy commented about their contractor friend, who’d been Tori’s childhood compadre. “And I’m not about to pay for stuff when I can get you to do it for free.”

  Tori savagely chopped off yet another limb. “She’s inside where it’s nice and warm and we’re outside freezing our butts off.”

  “The heat in my house is set at sixty degrees. I seriously doubt she’ll break a sweat.”

  “Yeah, well, the wind isn’t whistling around her ears, either,” Tori said, viciously hacking off another branch. In reality, she didn’t mind the work, especially since Kathy had done so much to help shape up the Cannon Compound the summer before, cleaning, painting, and helping Tori dispose of the flotsam and jetsam of her grandparents’ collection of broken and useless junk. Still, she felt she had to protest; Kathy would expect it, and she wasn’t about to let her best friend down.

  “I’m going to haul these branches to the burn pile,” Kathy said, gathering up as many skinny limbs as she could muster, and started dragging the wood away.

  Tori continued nipping the branches close to the sapling’s trunk. She’d soon need to attack the bottom of the trees with the saw and wished she had kneepads. Once she knelt on the newly greening grass, she knew the dampness was sure to seep into her jeans, and then she’d feel even colder. Still, if she kept moving, kept attacking the branches, she might soon be warm enough to take off her jacket, though not her hat.

  Kathy returned and the women worked at the worst of the junk trees and suckers for the better part of an hour before Tori’s back began to protest. Maybe they could take a coffee break for fifteen or twenty minutes before coming back to give the most untidy part of the yard another go. They’d cleared an almost six-foot square space, getting closer to the water’s edge when Tori saw what looked like a soaked hunk of dark cloth in kind of a hump among the spent cattails.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.

  Kathy squinted. “Probably a jacket somebody lost when fishing last fall.”

  “Maybe it got too warm to wear during duck season and somebody accidentally dropped it in the water.”

  “Maybe,” Kathy agreed, sounding anything but sure.

  “We should probably get an oar from my boathouse and haul it ashore. I mean, if you want to clean up the area, we’ve got to get all the crap out of the water, too.”

  “Yeah. I think I counted at least fifteen of those little Styrofoam cups you and the Bayside Marina across the bridge sell bait in.”

  “I know the cups aren’t biodegradable, but I plan to stop using them as soon as I run out.”

  “I should hope so,” Kathy said in rather a threatening tone.

  Of course, the fact that there wasn’t much money coming in and Tori’s Gramps had stocked a couple of caseloads of the offensive cups had a lot to do with her decision to keep using them. She wasn’t exactly rolling in dough after a winter spent substitute teaching kids who thought their teacher’s absence meant a free period. And, generally, they were right. Yet Tori had put together her own curriculum for classes from kindergarten to high school senior—which mostly consisted of age-appropriate discussions of world events. So far, the school districts she’d worked for hadn’t censored her, which she accepted as tacit approval. And Tori regularly patrolled the bay bridge and retrieved the cups from the water and disposed of them appropriately. It was the least she could do.

  “Haul all the rest of this stuff to the burn pile, and I’ll go get an oar,” Tori said, tossed the loppers to the ground, and headed for home. She stopped at the boathouse first, then grabbed her red and white polka-dot waterproof wellies, just in case she’d have to wade into the bay.

  By the time she returned, Kathy had removed the majority of debris and was working with the saw on yet another tree trunk.

  “Stand aside!” Tori called in a commanding voice. Kathy glared at her but got up to comply.

  Tori stood close to the water and poked
at the soggy fabric with the tip of the oar, but couldn’t get the wood under the material.

  “Is it stuck on something? A log maybe?” Kathy suggested.

  “No, it feels—” Tori paused. “Heavy.”

  “Heavy how?” Kathy asked, sounding concerned.

  Tori poked the oar at the wad of fabric, wishing she’d thought to bring her waterproof gloves, too. “Like … there might be something in it.”

  “Uh-oh,” Kathy said, and took a step back.

  “It can’t be a body,” Tori said, trying to put some teacher’s authority into her voice. “I mean, it doesn’t stink to high heaven.”

  Kathy sniffed the air as though to test that theory.

  Tori continued to jab the fabric with the oar, wondering if they should just call it a day for yard/marsh cleanup, knowing Kathy—often acknowledged as a taskmaster—would nix that idea. She was just going to have to muster a little bravery and grab the coat, haul it out of the ice-cold water, toss it in the trash, and get on with the job.

  Yeah, that’s what she’d do.

  Tossing the oar aside, she put her heavy-duty gardening gloves back on and took a step forward.

  “Wait,” Kathy called. “You don’t want to fall in. I’ll hold onto the back of your coat … just in case.”

  Kathy moved to stand behind Tori, grabbing her jacket, and shuffling behind her as Tori stepped close to the marshy edge of the water. Bending down, she grabbed the fabric, and a bubble of gas rippled through the water. She pulled it while Kathy dug in her heels, hanging onto the back of her jacket.

  Intent on her work, Tori kept her focus on the dirty coat—that is until Kathy screamed, and let go of her jacket, and she went careening—face first—into the icy, murky water. Then it was Tori’s turn to scream—once she came up for air, struggling to right herself before her wellies completely filled with water. “What did you do that for?”

  Kathy had grabbed the oar, holding it out for Tori to grab onto. She did, and Kathy pulled her back onto dry—well, damp—land.

  Furious, Tori waved her arms like a wet dog, sending a shower of droplets over her friend, who backed away. She peeled off her gloves and was attempting to remove her jacket when she noticed the look of anguish on her best friend’s face. “What?” she nearly barked.

  Kathy pointed toward the water.

  Tori turned but saw only the brackish water and the sodden fabric.

  And then her breath caught in her throat.

  There, at the end of a floating sleeve, was a not-so-fleshy hand floating in the water.

  Kathy knew the drill. After all, she’d been interrogated by the Sheriff’s Department on more than one occasion following the terrible events of the previous summer. The bad guys hadn’t yet gone to trial, so there was still that horror to come.

  What she minded most was the suspicion law enforcement leveled at one when it came to reporting a dead body.

  “Detective Osborn,” she said, unable to keep the testiness from her voice, “The guy in the water has obviously been in soak for quite a while, so it’s not like we killed him.”

  Osborn had been the detective in charge of the Michael Jackson homicide the year before. He’d been a sour SOB then and his personality had not undergone any improvement, although he seemed to have lost the beer belly and gotten a decent haircut. Maybe he had an upcoming court appearance and wanted to look good. Kathy couldn’t imagine any woman actually being attracted to the man. But then he was middle-aged, and she still had more than a decade to go to get to that point in life.

  “So you say.”

  “Are you crazy?” Anissa Jackson asked, giving the detective the fisheye. “There’s a reason black folk like me don’t like to talk to white cops like you—” she began even more testily than Kathy.

  Kathy waved her hands in the air as though to erase Anissa’s words. “Let’s not go there,” she placated. “It was Tori and I who found the jacket in the water—with the guy still in it.”

  A still-shivering Tori stood nearby. Despite the fact she’d changed clothes and donned warm shoes, hat, scarf, and boots, she complained that she couldn’t seem to get warm. What she needed was to be inside with a lap robe, a cat, and a big mug of cocoa. “We figured he must have fallen overboard while hunting or fishing last fall. Or maybe crashed through the ice on his snowmobile.”

  “A very good theory,” Osborn said, “except for one thing. Nobody around here has been reported as missing.”

  “Well, then I’m stumped,” Kathy said wrapping her arms around herself in an effort to keep warm. She was ready for cocoa and a lap robe, too. “Is it really necessary that we stand around in the cold while you guys do whatever it is you do?”

  Osborn frowned. “I suppose not. But I’m not done questioning you.”

  “Fine. We’ll go back into my house and when you’re ready, we’ll be available to talk.”

  “Very well.” He turned, heading back toward the medical examiner’s team that had arrived from Rochester and was about to pull the body from the water. It wasn’t something Kathy wanted to witness.

  “Come on, ladies. Let’s go back inside.”

  “You don’t have to convince me,” Tori said.

  The three women trudged back up the small rise to the large house, past the big sign that had been erected just the week before. The name, Swans Nest, Kathy’s about-to-open bed and breakfast, was raised from the chiseled background of the pressure-treated wood and filled in with gold leaf. The image of a mama swan sitting on a nest was situated above it, and a temporary vinyl banner attached to it promised Opening Soon.

  They climbed the steps to the newly replaced front porch, and Kathy opened the heavy oak front door that had been restored to its former glory. Anissa was responsible for a lot of the repairs and refurbishments, but Kathy had invested months of sweat equity as well.

  Upon entering the house, Anissa closed the door and she and Tori followed their hostess into the kitchen, where Kathy immediately put the electric kettle on, taking out cups, spoons, and cocoa powder.

  “You’re going to make hot chocolate with water?” Anissa protested.

  “I made it that way all winter and you never complained.”

  “That’s because—” But she didn’t seem to have an answer. “Then why’s it so chocolatey?”

  “Because I add chocolate chips.”

  “Are you gonna make it that way for your guests?”

  “Probably not. The idea is for them to come here to be pampered. The three of us merely need to warm up.”

  “I’m all for that,” Tori announced and took a seat at the marble-topped island. She seemed to shudder once again and blew onto her still-gloved hands to warm them.

  Anissa joined her childhood friend at the island. “Got any cookies?”

  “Have I ever not?” Kathy asked, pointedly.

  Anissa shot Tori a smug look. She was the ultimate cookie monster.

  Kathy scooped half a dozen sunflower seed cookies from the big glass jar on the back counter, placed them on a plate, and set it in front of her friends. Neither wasted time grabbing one—although Tori did at least remove one of her gloves first.

  Anissa took a bite, chewed, smiled in approval, then swallowed. “Damn, they’re good. Another new recipe?”

  Kathy nodded, pleased at her friend’s reaction. “I need to have an array of options to offer my brides.”

  Kathy was gambling that she would be able to throw bridal showers, and possibly host weddings and receptions, at Swans Nest. She’d been gathering recipes and testing them on Anissa and Tori all winter. Catering would be a big part of her business…she hoped.

  “So what do you think the story is with that dead guy?” Tori asked.

  “Seems weird that a body washes up when nobody’s been reported missing,” Anissa commented before taking another bite of cookie.

  “Who do you think he could be?” Kathy asked.

  “He could’ve come from Canada,” Tori offered, watching as
Kathy spooned cocoa mix into the mugs. “I mean, he was wearing a plaid coat.”

  “You think only Canadians wear plaid jackets?” Anissa asked.

  Tori shrugged. “So do the Scots.”

  Anissa frowned. “That’s an awfully long way to float.”

  “Yeah, around fifty miles,” Tori said. “But think of how those waves crash up at the Point.”

  “Point nothing—your breakwall,” Kathy said.

  Tori nodded. “With a wind from the north, anything’s possible.”

  “I’m sure the detective will put out a call. I mean, just because nobody has disappeared on Lotus Bay doesn’t mean the dead guy wasn’t a missing person. There’s a reason Ontario’s called a Great Lake.”

  “Luckily we’re not going to have to worry about this guy,” Anissa said and reached for another cookie.

  “Oh, no? What if they want us to look at his face? Besides the normal putrefaction of flesh, you don’t know what else could have been nibbling on him all these months.”

  “You mean like fish and turtles and stuff?” Kathy asked.

  Again Tori nodded.

  “I certainly don’t want to look at a putrefied dead guy,” Anissa announced, glanced at her cookie, and decided to put it down.

  “Osborn can’t make us do that, can he?” Kathy asked, aghast.

  Tori shrugged. “Maybe.”

  The kettle began to boil and Kathy poured the hot water into the mugs, stirring each of them before adding a heaping tablespoon of chocolate chips to each mug, again stirring until they’d melted and thickened the liquid. She passed the mugs around.

  Anissa blew on her cocoa to cool it. “How long do you think it will be before Osborn knocks on your door?”

  As if on cue, the bell rang.

  “Not long?” Tori suggested.

  Kathy left the kitchen to answer it. She came back less than a minute later with Detective Osborn in tow. “Would you like some cocoa?”