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frozen walleyes. Five luscious fish hung from the stringer that Ray held stretched tight, their bronze bodies glistening in the warm light.
    “H-o-o-ly cow,” said Bruce in awe.
    Osborne gave a soft whistle. “Beauties … what—five, six pounds each?”
    “Limit is three,” said Lew. “What’s the excuse this time, Ray?”
    “I got two of Clyde’s here. He needs me to clean ‘em.”
    “Clyde? Clyde Schmyde,” said Lew. “And if I buy that, what else will you sell me?” She sighed and shook her head. “But I’m not the game warden, and as long as you let me use that portable fishing shack of yours—you’re off the hook this time.”
    “Chief, I’m serious. You know old Clyde—Clyde the Wolf Man? The one who made me this parka? Man
loves
to fish hard water, and does he know the Pelican. We drilled our holes along one edge of this sandbar, y’know? But you gotta know exactly
which
edge—”
    “Ray, can you tell us about it later? I’d like you to meet Bruce Peters—he’s new with the Wausau boys.” Lew stepped back as Bruce waved two fingers. He couldn’t shake Ray’s hand, or the fish would fall on the floor.
    “O-o-h,” said Ray. eyes widening. “Problems, huh.”
    “Yep,” said Lew, giving him a hasty rundown as the walleyes dripped onto Osborne’s floor. “… That’s why I need to borrow your fishing shanty—we’ve got a third victim down on the lake that we can’t move ‘till morning, and I’ve got Terry guarding the scene until Bruce here can work the site after daylight. Too dark to do a thing right now and way too cold.”
    “Sure, I got just what you need, Chief. Let me warm up a little, and we’ll get everybody all set.” Ray started to back out the door, then stopped to raise his stringer one more time. “Aren’t they gorgeous?”
    “Jeez Louise, Ray, shut the door,” said Osborne. “The temperature in here has dropped forty degrees.”
    “Okay, okay—but pretty incredible, huh?” Ray looked around the room as if expecting unending rounds of applause. The looks that greeted him were not happy.
    Osborne resisted the urge to boost his neighbor along as he budged his way back out to the porch and through the back door to lay his prizes in the snowbank, arranging each with care. “What a night. Doc, what a night.”
    “You can say that again,” said Osborne.
    Back in the kitchen, Ray closed the kitchen door behind him, then pushed off his hood. An old leather aviator cap rested on his head, the furred flaps pulled down over his ears. Perched on top and somewhat crumpled from having been stuffed into the hood was a fourteen-inch stuffed brook trout. Draped across the breast of the fish was an old wood and metal lure—the metal sparkling like a Christmas ornament. In fact, it was a Christmas ornament. Ray had rigged up a tiny battery and thrust a miniature flashing light through the lure.
    “In case you hadn’t noticed,” said Lew to Bruce without cracking a smile, “the man’s an expert at making an entrance.”
    “And ice fishing!” Ray raised a grimy index finger, then lifted his trout hat with both hands, flicked off the battery and placed the hat carefully on the kitchen counter next to the coffeepot. Head down, he raked his fingers through the curls matted down over his forehead. Only then did he extricate himself from the heavy parka.
    “How many years have you been wearing that thing?” asked Lew.
    A whiff of wood smoke and sweat hit Osborne in the face as Ray plopped his coat in the corner behind Bruce. The interior was as grimy as the exterior.
    The look on Bruce’s face as he moved his chair away made it obvious he thought Ray might
live
in the garment.
    “This?” Ray looked down at the parka, puzzling. “Well … Old Clyde sold it to me back in my early twenties. I guess maybe … fourteen years.”
    “Ever had it cleaned?” Lew was relentless.
    “Now why would I do that?” The face that asked the question was ruddy with windburn, the