Free Dead Angler by Victoria Houston Page A

They followed in silence as Alicia walked swiftly through the entrance hall, her back to them as she marched towards the formal living room.
    Osborne noticed she leaned forward as she walked, a slight hunch to her shoulders. Whether it was that or a weight gain since he’d seen her last, he could see, too, as she paused and turned slightly to adjust a rheostat lighting the living room, that the elegant dressing gown could not disguise a slight pot belly. This was new, she had always been a woman who kept herself in excellent physcial shape.
    Lew, in sharp contrast, walked erect behind her, head high, shoulders back, tummy flat. While everything about Alicia exuded femininity, including a faint trail of perfume behind her, Lew was the opposite—her square Irish face free of make-up, her hair a short, black no-nonsense cap of curls.
    Woodsmoke, pine bough, and fresh air were the only scents likely to be worn by the Loon Lake Chief of Police, especially in August when, she had complained to Osborne earlier that evening, she spent too many of her non-fishing nights crashing underage beer parties. The parties were easy to spot since their adolescent hosts always opted for the same venues: beachside campfires burning a little too close to stands of brush where the fire hazard is highest in the late summer.
    Osborne was struck by other differences between these two women who lived in the same small town. One was defined by money and the soft luxuries it could buy, the reality it could buffer. The other was tuned to the wind, the forest, and the water, the rawness of life. A rawness that extended to her work. He shook his head, amazed not only by how different Lew was from women like his late wife but how much he enjoyed being around her.
    Entering the lavishly-decorated living room, Alicia paused several times to turn on table lamps. She continue to look straight ahead, saying nothing, not even glancing back.
    At first, Osborne wasn’t sure if it was grief or anger she was experiencing. He was open to anything. Sixty-three years had taught him one of the few certainties in life: death hits everyone differently.
    He would never forget his own reaction to the unexpected news of Mary Lee’s death—a feeling of standing alone on a road with a massive immovable boulder before him. His grief had been slow to surface, more potent for its lateness. But in those first moments he felt no anger, not even sorrow, just a vast sense of nowhere to go.
    The young emergency doctor had placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, but Osborne hadn’t said a word. And he was forever grateful to Ray, who had been sitting beside him and who had said nothing either. Ray had waited while he called his two daughters from the nurses’ stand, then driven him home in an understanding silence. Like now, that death had occurred deep in the night with nothing to be done until daylight.
    As they followed her into the living room, light from the lamps and recessed wall lighting illuminated the reflection of Alicia’s face in an ornate wall-to-wall floor-to-ceiling gilt-framed mirror that anchored the far end of the room. Now Osborne could see in her eyes and the fierce set of her jaw exactly what she was feeling: anger. A black, swirling anger.
    “I know….,” he offered, flinching at the inadequacy of his words. He felt he should be able to do something to help but he had no idea what. “Alicia, I—”
    “How did it happen?” Alicia cut him off with the demand, her back still turned.
    Anger at death—that’s a fair response, thought Osborne. Ineffectual but fair. He wondered how long it would take her to work through the initial emotion so they could talk.
    As long as it took her to turn around apparently.
    She spun towards them, her face drawn but less tense than the mirrored image of a moment earlier. The dark fury in her eyes had vanished.
    “I’m sorry, Paul. I’ll be okay. Please …,” she gestured towards a long, English-style leather sofa