Dead Hot Mama by Victoria Houston Read Free Book Online Page B

“As you enter, you will note the state-of-the-art oxford nylon walls featuring 1500 mm-rated polyurethane coating
and
…” he paused for dramatic effect, “an extra-thick floor.” They all crowded in, and Ray zipped the flap shut.
    “Now … over in this corner, boys and girls, we have a top-of-the-line Mr. Heater with two—not one but
two,
doncha know—propane gas cylinders guaranteed to keep you warmer than the arms of Patrice Kobernot.”
    “S-s-s-h! Voice down, Ray,” said Lew.
    “And … in that corner a small cook stove. Terry, note the coffee ready for brewing?” Two fold-up canvas chairs and an inflating air mattress completed the decor.
    “Ready to party, man,” said Terry, still a little uncertain.
    “Now …” Ray raised both hands, index fingers pointing parallel, “the views … every angle has a view.” He was right. Clear plastic windows ran along the walls, cut in and duct taped at a level that allowed anyone inside to see out easily no matter where they might be sitting. Terry could be warm and toasty near the Mr. Heater, yet able to view the entire cordoned-off area outside with only a minor adjustment of his chair.
    “Ah, twelve windows,” said Lew, acting innocent. “One for each tip-up?”
    “Could be, though I’m a jiggerman myself, no tip-ups this winter,” said Ray, dodging the trap. “Never more than what I am entitled to by law, Chief.”
    “Of course, any extras are for Clyde …”
    Long the traditional way to ice fish, the tip-up is a wooden platform rigged with fishing line, a spring, and a red flag. The ice fisherman slips a live minnow on the hook, drops it into the water through a hole cut in the ice, then retires to a nearby fishing shack or a bonfire to wait and watch until the red flag pops up to signal a fresh- caught meal. Easy—but not what a jiggerman does.
    A jiggerman fishes hard water the hard way, hovering over his hole, a short fishing rod in hand, which has been armed with an over-accessorized fishhook known as a “jig.” Nominally, a jig is a fishhook with a lump of lead on it, but times have changed. Today’s jig is likely to be artificially enhanced with colorful plastic “bodies,” simulated fish eyes, or live wiggling worms.
    And unlike the hook dangling at the end of the tip-up, the jig won’t be static but constantly “jigged” by the attentive fisherman.
    “How much does something like this cost?” asked Bruce, checking out the interior of Ray’s ice shanty.
    The star of the show grinned and twirled once around, arms open and the fish on his head just clearing a crosshatch of aluminum poles overhead. “You’re looking at 227 graves, my friend—with and without a backhoe.”
    Bruce looked confused.
    “Ray supplements his income through the summer digging graves for Loon Lake’s Catholic cemetery,” said Osborne.
    “Thirty-five bucks a grave,” said Ray with pride.
    “Oh … but not now, not when it’s this cold,” said Bruce.
    “No-o-o, business slows down just as the lakes freeze, thank the Lord,” said Ray.
    “So what do you do then?”
    “We keep ‘em on ice—I help with the storage some.”
    “Enterprising sort, this guy,” said Lew, shaking her head towards Ray. “Master of the easy buck.” With Terry’s situation under control, she had relaxed. “I’m ready to head out—Terry, you got any questions?”
    “Didn’t you want Ray to view the victim, Chief?”
    “Oh right, I almost forgot. I think I’m tired. Ray, would you mind?” She glanced over at Terry, “Incidentally, what about Pecore—did he recognize her?”
    Terry shook his head, “Not that he mentioned.”
    “If you need me to, I’ll take a look,” said Ray. He unzipped the entry flap and waited for Lew to lead the way out, his eyes serious.
    Osborne and Bruce stood to the side as Lew unzipped the white plastic cover. The full moon threw shadows across its still and frozen occupant. As Ray knelt, he removed his hat.
    Lew handed him her