“Oh, I will,” says Deb. “Dishes and he’s making dessert, too.”
“Where’s my trout?!” This from a voice behind Clay.
Clay says goodbye to Deb and turns to see Ash Solbakken, Deb’s first cousin and Riverwood’s most eligible bachelor. According to Ash, that is. Forty-nine years old with a penchant for eighties clothing. Ralph Lauren polo style. Popped collars and wide-wale cords. Penny loafers and deck shoes. Field coats. Pea coats. Sweaters in argyle, cable-knit, and quarter zip, often tied around his shoulders. All brand-conspicuous.
Ash’s and Deb’s grandmother made her modest fortune selling Mary Kay cosmetics. Now she’s dead and Ash is independently wealthy, at least by the standards of Riverwood, Minnesota. He owns his hundred-plus acres free and clear. Along with his 4,500-square-foot home, complete with in-ground pool, brick pizza oven, metal pole barn, stables, horses, and three llamas. “I don’t really give a rat’s ass about horses or llamas,” Ash once told Clay with a wink. “But women? Let’s just say plenty want to come up to the house to see the horses and llamas.”
Clay wanted to respond that some men have personalities. They don’t need horses and llamas to attract women. But he has never challenged Ash on the obnoxious things he says. One reason is because he’s Deb’s cousin. And the other reason is because he’s Deb’s neighbor. She’s had her hands full being married to Teddy—Clay doesn’t want to add any additional stress to her life by pissing off Ash.
It doesn’t seem fair to Clay that Deb’s grandmother left her five acres with no house and left Ash over a hundred. Plus a near-mansion and outbuildings. But Deb has taken it in stride.
Ash smiles his bleached-teeth smile as he leans on Clay’s F-150. “I thought we had a deal. You can walk my land to get to the river, but the cost is two pan-sized trout.”
“I don’t remember making that deal,” says Clay, matching Ash’s smile.
“It’s implied,” says Ash. “Hey, what’d this truck run you? I’m in the market for new wheels.”
“Head down to Gilley’s. He has a lot full of them.”
“Maybe I will,” says Ash. “But I am putting solar on the barn. So maybe I’ll go electric. If you get one of those Ford Lightning trucks, come over to charge anytime.”
“And it’ll only cost me two trout, right?” says Clay.
“That’s right. I like eating trout. Just not enough to fish for ’em.”
“You joining us for dinner tomorrow night?” says Clay. Deb’s cousin has an open invitation to Sunday dinner, but he rarely shows up.
“No can do. Meeting a new lass down in Decorah.”
“You’re crossing the border into Iowa?” says Clay. “Must be a special lady.”
“Prof at Luther,” says Ash. “Met her on the apps. Quite the looker. She’s worth the drive.”
“Good luck. Hope she’s the one.”
Ash laughs. “No such thing.”
On Clay’s drive back to Judd’s house to pick up Braedon, he scans the sidewalks for Teddy. No sign of his uncle. He checks every street corner for loiterers, every parked car for idle occupants, every park bench for a conversation between mismatchedparticipants. And then, more out of compulsion than sound reasoning, he pulls into a diagonal parking spot in front of the Riverwood Police Station. The moment he steps inside he hears:
“Uh-oh. Here comes trouble.” This from Sue Lodermeier. She wears her gray hair short and parted on one side. She’s a civilian and prefers jeans and fishing shirts. Patagonia and Simms, mostly. Her partner, Carol, owns Nymphomaniac, the local fly shop.Nymphsbeing the common term for flies in their larval stage.Maniacbeing the joke.
Clay greets Sue with a hug. She was an important part of his childhood. Sue filled in when Clay’s mother was too sick to perform parental duties. With Judd working long hours, it was Sue who made sure Clay had the clothing and school supplies he needed. Sue drove him up to Rochester for medical and dental appointments. Sue and Carol often attended Clay’s soccer games at Dorset-Cornwall. And she helped Clay shop for his parents on their birthdays and holidays.
“I hear you’ve been keeping my better half in business,” says Sue.
“I needed a new four-weight and hip pack,” says Clay. “Carol took care of me.”
“How’d you do this morning?” Sue can tell Clay was on the river. He is a notorious wet wader, only wearing waders during the coldest time of the year. His quick-dry pants are still damp below the knee, and she can smell the stream on him. It’s a clean smell. Like moving water over smooth rocks.
“Caught a few,” says Clay. “Got ’em on PMDs and caddis. Hey, is the chief in?”
Before Sue can answer, Zoey Jensen steps out of her office.Chief Zoey Jensen wears her dark hair in one long braid that falls down the center of her back. She’s half Dakota on her mother’s side and that braid is Zoey’s way of showing it. “Are you Clay Hawkins?” she says.
“I am.”
“I heard a rumor you exist.”
“The rumor is true. Buy you a cup of coffee?”
