Free Murder Passes the Buck by Deb Baker Page B

was that same overripe tomato color I worried about. He didn ’ t say anything, just turned and walked quickly to the house, his fist clutching his chest.
    “ I can explain this, ” I said to Mary when she got out of the car.
    “ Whatever possessed you to spray paint
     
    Blaze ’ s truck? ” Mary asked, peering into the barn.
    “ I ’ m trying to get on Blaze ’ s good side, ” I said. “ I ’ m tired of squabbling with him and thought fixing his truck might help. It didn ’ t turn out quite like I expected, though. ”
    Mary covered her mouth with her hand, and I could see the beginning of a smile under it.
    “ That ’ s so nice of you, ” Mary said. She walked around the truck with me, checking out my work. “ I ’ d invite you in for coffee, ” she said, “ but let ’ s give Blaze some time. ”
    “ That ’ s okay. We all know he ’ s high-strung. I ’ ll take a rain check. ”
    I practically flew out of there even without wings.
    While I was pulling off my boots on the hall rug, the telephone rang. It rang four times before I got the boots off and could pick up the receiver.
    “ Better keep your nose in your own backyard, ” a voice said. “ Unless you ’ re looking to have it cut off. ”
    “ Who is this? ”
    I had to wait for an answer because the caller went into a coughing jag — dry, racking coughs only smoking several tons of cigarettes can produce.
     
    “ Better pay attention, ” he hacked. “ You ain ’ t getting another chance. Next time, you ’ ll be swimming with the fishes. ”
    “ You must have the wrong number, ” I said, and hung up the phone with a shaking hand.
    I went over the conversation in my head a million times before I called Cora Mae.
    “ Settle down, ” she said. “ It was only a crank call. ”
    “ The mob ’ s after me. ”
    “ The mob? ”
    “ Who else would threaten to throw me to the fishes? Only gangsters talk like that. ”
    “ Someone ’ s acting tough. There aren ’ t any gangs in the U.P. This isn ’ t Detroit. ”
    “ Maybe you ’ re right, ” I said. “ My nerves aren ’ t as good as they used to be. ”
    My understatement for the day.
    I ’ m convinced the section of the Escanaba River west of Perkins is the most beautiful spot in the world. It ’ s hidden from the road so finding it isn ’ t easy if you don ’ t know where to look. I parked the truck by the side of the guardrail, walked over to the top of the path, and peered down. What a sight to behold! From my position high above the river bed,
     
    angular rocks sprouted up in the river, waterfalls cascaded down steep banks on both sides, and as far as I looked in every direction, there wasn ’ t a human being to be seen.
    I crawled down a steep embankment, clutching small tree branches and brush to slow my descent. Soon I was standing next to the rushing water of the great trout river.
    Barney fished for trout with a simple rod and reel and a spinner; he didn ’ t need a fancy fly outfit. We pan-fried rainbows and brown trout several times each week from the time the kids were little until Barney passed on last year. Trout fishing was his favorite thing to do.
    The Escanaba River appears to be shallow. I ’ ve walked out to the middle in spots, sometimes even crossed over to the other side, being very careful. But the rocks are slippery, the current is fast, and the dropoffs are invisible.
    Barney wasn ’ t the first and he won ’ t be the last to make a false step and pay the price to the Escanaba River.
    I hadn ’ t been back to this spot for years, but in my younger days he and I stood together in waders knee-high in the cold water with the current sweeping past our legs, casting high and wide, the lines glisten ing
     
    in the rising sun, and there wasn ’ t anything better in the whole wide world.
    Sitting on a flat rock on the side of the river, I talked to Barney. All the while, I had the feeling that he was watching me, looking down from above. I