Free Dead Angler by Victoria Houston

and his springers were a little too synonymous: you couldn’t invite one to fish without getting ‘em all. That would be okay except, barking and jumping, the darn dogs were guaranteed to scare away any fish, not to mention overturn the boat.
    On the whole, though, Osborne liked Peter. The man was always happy to see him, eager to hear how Osborne had raised a musky or flushed a partridge. He was a fanatic fly-fisherman and generous with hot tips on the latest hatch. When weather was bad, he would stop by McDonald’s to see who he could persuade to tour the flea markets with him—his abiding passion.
    After that first dinner party, Osborne grew to know Peter as a man whose natural earnestness and sweetness of nature were the key to his success as a salesman. He was an optimist who firmly believed that everything would always work out. After all, he was a homely guy who had snagged a beautiful wife, wasn’t he?
    If Alicia could make you feel fascinating, Peter could make you feel good. Safe. Yet, in Osborne’s opinion, his optimism was also his undoing. Two years into their friendship, Osborne discovered he had good reason to feel deeply sorry for Peter Roderick.

seven
    Suddenly, an outside wall sconce switched on. Osborne glimpsed Alicia’s eyes behind the fairy princess in the leaded glass. She flung the heavy door wide open.
    “Paul?” Alicia stepped forward, surprise and concern in her face and her voice.
    She was wearing a long, black dressing gown, the kind Mary Lee had worn when they vacationed at nice hotels. The stark color of the gown set off her honey-streaked brown hair, which fell soft and loose to her shoulders. Tall, slim, and fine-boned, Alicia’s face was deceptively open with a classic, sculpted nose, prominent cheekbones and a wide mouth that could smile graciously when it wanted to.
    Her wide-set dark brown eyes glittered for an instant in the golden stream of light from the sconce. She looked, Osborne thought, as she always did: much younger than her years and simply stunning.
    “What—?”
    The eyes had widened as they shifted from Osborne to take in the meaning of Lew standing beside him, official in her long-sleeved khaki police uniform, black briefcase in her left hand, black holster on her right hip. Alicia stepped back, closed her eyes and thrust her hands in front of her as if forbidding them to be there.
    Eyes still closed, she spoke. Her words quiet, deliberate.
    “Peter … A plane crash? A car accident?” She held her breath.
    “Not Peter,” said Osborne. “Your sister Meredith. We found her in the Prairie River several hours ago, Alicia. She’s dead. We aren’t sure—”
    “Meredith!” Alicia’s eyes flashed open. “No! Paul, that can’t be.” Then she closed her eyes tightly, crossed her arms and hunched forwards, clutching her body as if to keep herself intact. The gutteral vehemence in her voice made each word painful to hear, “No … No … No! Not Meredith, Paul. Not my baby sister. She
just
—she can not be dead. No.”
    “Alicia …” Osborne crossed the threshold. Taking her elbows gently, he pulled her towards him. Still clasping herself tightly, she let him fold her into his arms.
    “Alicia,” he said over her head, “this is Chief of Police Lewellyn Ferris. She has to ask a few questions … and … we can take care of the rest in the morning. I take it Peter’s away?”
    “Yes,” said Alicia, her voice smothered in his shoulder. “He’s in Osaka on business. Due back Saturday. I almost wish…,” she stopped. Osborne couldn’t help but wonder if she had been about to say she wished it had been Peter’s body they had found.
    As she pulled away, he could feel her body vibrating with tension. Then, she took a deep breath.
    “You better come in,” she said hoarsely. She gave Lew’s hand a cursory shake and turned away to flick on the entrance hall chandelier.
    “This way.” Her voice was curt. Osborne stepped back to let Lew enter first.