Cutthroat Business

By Cheryl Smith

Cutthroat Business is an outdoor cozy mystery, first in the Fishing for Mystery series. This first installment of approximately 65,000 words centers on Washington's Olympic Peninsula. With plenty of local scenery and an inside look at cop humor, Cutthroat Business provides a wealth of detail and fun reading.
Lead character Rusty Travers guides anglers on her native Olympic Peninsula and competes on the bass tournament trail, where she is a rare species -- female. Her brother Woody is a Port Angeles cop, but Rusty never intended to get involved in investigation. . . until the day one of her clients snagged a body in the Sol Duc River. That body turns out to be former boyfriend and Forest Service officer Todd Randt. So when the police work seems to stall, Rusty and her service dog Trophy sneak to Todd's house and find his case notebooks. And the hunt is on, through poachers of fish, old growth, mushrooms, salal, and tone wood to the final confrontation with the killer.
The second installment, Sole Suspect, will stay on the Olympic Peninsula to help readers really come to know the locale, before the third installment, Bass Ackward, departs to follow the bass tournanent trail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483524863

Book preview

feeders.

CHAPTER 1

Sitting behind a desk or standing behind a counter is no way to make a living, at least for me. Ever since I could walk, I headed for the outdoors every chance I got. When I got old enough to handle a rod and reel, I found my calling. It’s not an easy way to earn money. I had to learn to combine local guiding on Washington’s Olympic Peninsula with competition on the bass tournament tour, plus lectures and classes and even some writing and photography. As long as I make enough to pay the mortgage on my tiny little house, put gas in the truck, and feed me and my dog, Trophy, I’m happy.

Of course, the seasons seem to get shorter all the time, and the fish may or may not show up. Thank God for the environmental crowd. They’re happy just for our scenery and wildlife, and most of them practice catch and release. That guarantees we all stay on the right side of the fishing regulations. The annual Washington state fishing regulations provide a nearly unintelligible breakdown of seasons, species, tackle, marine areas, river sections, and on and on, and could effectively be used as a blunt weapon. Most clients think the fishing guide will lead them to the magic pool where the always hookable fish live. The guides know their real responsibilities are following the regs enough to keep the clients out of jail, and understanding the rivers enough to keep them out of the water. Catching a fish is a bonus. But some clients have the crazy idea that since they paid their money, they’re guaranteed to catch a fish.

There are no guarantees. That point was driven home more than usual the day we snagged the body.

The day all o\f this got started – the body and all – dawned pretty bright and clear. Port Angeles is a great little city. I’ve seen a lot of the country on the bass tour, but I’ve still never wanted to live anywhere else. We have the Olympic Mountains and all the rivers that run out of them, plus the saltwater of the Strait of Juan de Fuca and out west the Pacific Ocean. Port Angeles sits in the rain shadow of the mountains, and we average about 16 inches of rain a year, less than Seattle and Olympia. That doesn’t mean we live in sunshine most of the time. Our cloud cover ranges from white wispy puffs to dense opaque mounds to an overall gray layer. There’s no talent to forecasting Port Angeles weather – you just say partly cloudy with showers possible or partly sunny with showers possible depending on how optimistic you feel. That old advice about dressing in layers goes double here, and one of those layers better be waterproof.

Anyway, I got myself and Trophy up and out in a jiffy. I wear my mousy brown hair short so I can just toss and go, and don’t favor a lot of makeup. Trophy just needs time to wolf down his breakfast and pee on a tree. So we were right on time to meet Jack at the Red Lion Inn, where the clients were staying.

Jack’s been a fishing guide longer than I’ve been alive, and looks the part, from the scruffy beard to the permanent wrinkles from squinting at the water. I think he buys his shirts and jeans by the case, because they all look the same. But he knows local fishing like no one else, and he helped me a lot when I was just starting out. I’ve been his extra guide when he has more bookings than he can fit in one boat ever since.

We start guiding trips early for a lot of reasons, but one of the unspoken ones is to disorient the clients. If you can keep them off balance and lower their expectations, you can get through the day with a lot less complaining. I was surprised to see that all four were already standing with Jack as I pulled my battered Dodge Ram and trailered drift boat up next to his rig. Jack started in as soon as I hopped down.

Ah, here’s our second guide, Rusty. As you can see, she’s a female, but she still manages to be pretty good at her job. Emerson and Spencer, you’ll be with her.

Two of the four shuffled toward me. They were the ones in brand-new-looking t-shirts and jean jackets they’d probably bought locally, and looked to be barely out of their teens. I explained to them that Trophy always rides in the front with me, so they crammed themselves into the bench seat of the extended cab and immediately helped themselves to the box of doughnuts and thermos of coffee I’d stashed back there. I don’t drink coffee on drift boat days. . . it just makes the whole what goes in must come out thing a lot easier. I pulled out behind Jack, and once we were heading up Lincoln Street – which is also Highway 101, which loops the entire Olympic Peninsula – I started to get some idea of their expectations for the day.

So, boys, what brings you to little ole Port Angeles?

We were in Seattle for job interviews and some of the guys said we had to come over here and try for a steelhead. They made it seem like a big deal.

I thought that was the one named Spencer, but I could have been wrong. So you aren’t dedicated anglers then.

The other one, probably Emerson, snorted his coffee. God no. I mean, no offense or anything, but I haven’t been fishing since I was maybe five and my uncle took me. But when the head of product development says you should try the fishing, you try the fishing.

A good sign. They didn’t have a lot of emotion invested in the idea of catching a fish. Maybe it was going to be a good day on the river. So all four of you are here for job interviews?

This time it was Spencer who laughed. Nah, just Emers and me. We met those other two on that dinky little plane over here yesterday. Found out we were signed up for the same trip. I think they actually did come for the fishing.

He made the idea sound as bizarre as deciding to jaunt off to the outer rings of Saturn. I tried to decide if there was some evil reason that Jack had given me these two while he took the serious clients. Maybe he knew they were no fuss, no bother. Shoot, maybe they were even actually good and knew what they were doing. I’d see when we got on the river.

Things were pretty quiet after that until the first bridge over the Sol Duc River. Emers suddenly sat up straight and looked behind him at the fast-disappearing bridge.Hey, isn’t that supposed to be where we’re going?

I got this from the observant ones. Highway 101 crosses the Sol Duc about a half dozen times as it wends west toward Forks, each time with a helpful little sign identifying the river. It was way too early in the day to start getting pissed at the clients, so I smiled and said Do you think I don’t know where I’m going? This despite the face that we were merely a safe driving distance behind Jack’s rig.

I give Emerson credit. He looked like he was going to rise to the bait, but then assessed the situation and decided to be quiet. My view in the rearview mirror revealed Spencer punching him in the shoulder. They both had another doughnut.

It wasn’t until we were bouncing up the gravel forest service road, the boat trailers making noisy protests, that I broke the silence. We’re getting close to launch. Listen up. The rivers out here are fast and full of rocks and deadfalls. So don’t think you can beat them because you’re a great swimmer. You can be swept under a rootball and trapped in a heartbeat. So once we’re in the boat, you’re not going to move unless I tell you to, and if I do tell you to, you’re going to jump to it with no questions or hesitations. The welfare of all of us might depend on it. Got that?

They mumbled assent, not really wanting to give up any claims of superiority, especially not to a female, but not having a lot of choice in the matter.

And you’re going to wear life jackets. It’s the law.

I parked at the launch point and let Trophy out to stretch his legs and have a good sniff around while Jack launched his boat. You can get out, I told my passengers, but keep a good distance from Jack. He’s a real hazard when it comes to backing a trailer. I raised my voice for that last part so Jack, now moving to release the straps holding the boat to the trailer, could hear. He stopped and smiled at me, making his squint wrinkles even deeper.

Rusty’s always in a hurry to launch. Sometimes she even forgets the boat should enter the water open side up.

I should know better. Jack knows all my embarrassing little secrets, and that one was a doozy. But he let it drop.

If you’re so eager to save time, why don’t you instruct our guests in the bathroom drill?

There are no restrooms on the river. Or, looked at another way, the entire forest can serve as one giant restroom. But having to take a drift boat to shore on a fast-running river to let an anxious guest get out, find some measure of privacy, and relieve himself (or worse, herself) can prove tricky. And it takes time better spent fishing.

All four clients were now standing around, so I did as I was told. Okay, boys, here’s the drill. We’ll be launching in a minute. We will stop on the river if you absolutely need to go, but it will waste everyone’s time. And no, you will not stand up and pee from the boat. So I have two suggestions. Right now, find a tree big enough to stand behind and water it. And stop drinking the coffee.

Heresy in the land just across Puget Sound from the birthplace of Starbucks.

The four did as they were told, chuckling and making sotto voce rude comments as they wandered away in separate directions. I launched my boat without incident and parked my truck next to Jack’s. Sometime in the day, the shuttle drivers would come and move the rigs to the takeout point. You didn’t think our trucks could drive themselves back down the road, or that you can row a drift boat back upriver against a really strong current, did you? Just another of the hidden expenses of guiding on the river.

Jack raised his voice. Make sure you have everything you want from the trucks. You won’t see them again till we’re done.

They all checked their pockets for their precious cell phones or iPads or whatever they were carrying. They probably wouldn’t have a signal till we were back in the trucks and headed toward Port Angeles. The Olympic Mountains lay between us and any cell phone tower. But I didn’t bother telling them. They never believed it.

Jack got his clients, Adam and Trent, settled in the boat and shoved off and hopped in with one practiced motion. Emerson and Spencer managed to get in my boat without getting more than their feet wet, Trophy hopped in after giving me a dirty look (drift boats are very confining and boring for a dog), and I followed Jack in shoving off.

You row facing forward in a drift boat. This isn’t a lake, where you don’t need to see where you’re going. On a river full of turns, rocks, downed trees, and other potential boat-eating obstacles, you don’t want to turn your back on the view.

I rowed us out into the main current, then repeated my mantra. Main rule, stay seated unless I tell you otherwise. We fish when the river runs high because that’s when the salmon come in, but that can make the Sol Duc one mean river. If you fall in, chances are good we won’t see you again until your body floats up somewhere. I’ll never be able to say those words quite the same again.

When we were well onto the river, I had Spencer and Emerson drop the plugs I had already fastened to the ends of their lines. It’s called letting the river do the fishing. The current takes the lures downriver, I row against the current to keep everything flowing smoothly, and when the lure bumps into a fish, the fish might get annoyed and bite it. Not having the clients cast protects us all – a hook in the head is nothing to laugh about – and saves losing a ton of gear. Take a float down any fishing river around here and you can admire all the sparkly spinners, plugs, and lures hanging in the trees. They don’t call this region a temperate rain forest for nothing. The trees grow right to the river and often arch over from both banks, and are dripping with moss (actually, not moss, but that’s what the tourists call it). I once brought a pole pruner out to the river and harvested a whole season’s worth of shiny lures, just from the places where you could reach over the water. If you put a second person in a drift boat with a pole pruner and made your way down the river, you could probably rake in four figures worth of fishing paraphernalia.

Watch your rod tip. It will bounce as the plug goes over rocks, but if it really bends, you’ve got a fish on. Pick up your rod and try to keep some tension on the line. Do NOT jerk the rod to set the hook. You will pull it out of the fish’s mouth. Let the fish dictate the action and just keep a steady tension. If the fish runs toward you, reel as fast as you can. If it runs away, let it take out line.

So we just sit here and wait? Emerson asked.

Enjoy the scenery.

I took to watching the two in Jack’s boat. They were casting spinners, something you don’t usually see on a guide’s boat. And they were good, but they weren’t having any luck either. I went back to scanning downstream for any obstacles to dodge, with my peripheral vision on the rod tips on either side of me. And hallelujah, the one on the right gave a downward jerk, rebounded, then dipped down again.

On my right, take your rod. Keep some tension on the line like I told you.

Spencer took the rod, and did manage to overcome the urge to set the hook, but was trying to reel in.

Don’t try to reel. Just keep it taut.

I watched as he struggled to follow directions, and the action of the rod and line just wasn’t right. Though the name Sol Duc is a corruption of the old Klallam Sol’ll Tak, meaning sparkling water, I couldn’t see a fish or anything else through all the riffles. I waited a little to be sure, but whatever he was hooked to wasn’t moving up or downstream. I sighed.

You’re snagged. Break it off.

No. It’s a fish. I can feel it tugging.

The river tugs. Break it off.

You’re wrong. And he proceeded to crank harder on the reel. Which I knew would end up with the line breaking anyway. See! It’s pulling back. It’s a monster!

And he was getting some action I hadn’t expected. I changed course.

Ease up. You’re gonna snap the line.

It’s coming.

The water at the edge of the rootball changed pattern. Damned if he wasn’t right.

Just keep tension. Don’t try and horse him in or you’ll lose him.

I’m trying.

Oh my God. And I scrambled to grab the anchor and throw it over without ceremony. Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap. As soon as the boat held firm, I yanked the rod away from Spencer. Jack, get over here. Now!

Hey, what the hell!

But I was done paying attention to Spencer or Emers or even Jack. Because as the tension on the line had increased, the hooked object had appeared. And it wasn’t a root, or a fish, or anything customary in my world. It was a sleeve, with the pale, pale hand coming out of it waving horrifyingly in the current.

I tasted bile in the back of my throat, and was very thankful I hadn’t eaten any breakfast. Jack was responding, but he was rowing against the current, so it was slow going, almost nightmarishly so. I needed him to see what I saw, to take charge so I could look away. I needed him to make my world normal again.

My brain functioned enough that I fumbled the oars into the boat before I lost them to the river. I was vaguely aware of my clients staring at me. From the stern of the boat, with me in their line of sight, they probably couldn’t see the object of my horror. But I couldn’t form words to say to them. We all sat in the river in silence until Jack’s boat finally arrived alongside.

He looked a question at me, and I pointed toward the rootball. I resisted looking again, instead keeping my eyes on Jack, so I knew he’d spotted the hand when I saw him take a fast breath in and open his eyes wider than I’d ever seen.

We’ll have to go and report this.

I nodded agreement, still not trusting my powers of speech.

I think first I’d better secure the, uh, you know, stop it from breaking loose.

Okay, I heard myself whisper.

You take my bow rope and play it out and I’ll maneuver into position and use my spare rope. Are you okay? Can you manage that?

I tried to answer him, but ended up nodding again.

Jack passed his bow rope over and I guess when I looked ready, stopped rowing and let his boat move with the current. His boat tried to take off, and I hung onto his rope for all I was worth and kept my feet jammed against my rowing blocks. It felt good to put the tension in my muscles to work.

Jack used an oar to push his boat sideways, between me and the rootball. One of his clients, I don’t know if it was Adam or Trent, took a grip on the rootball and held the boat as still as possible. That left Jack free to take his spare rope and lean over the side of the boat away from me. I closed my eyes and concentrated on taking long deep breaths. Until Jack’s voice broke in.

Okay, Rusty. I think it’s secure and they ought to be able to recover it. Pull me back so I can get around the rootball. We need to get down the river and report this.

I should have kept my eyes closed then, and just taken up Jack’s rope until he told me to turn loose. If I had, I wouldn’t have seen past his boat. Wouldn’t have seen that the body had indeed worked loose. Wouldn’t have seen it slowly roll over as if turning in bed. Wouldn’t have seen the face that, despire its chalk whiteness and