A Palette for Murder (26 page)

“Game?” Ken asked me.

“Sure,” I said.

Ken entered the fast-moving water. As I was about to join him, the guide suggested I fish farther upstream. “Might be easier wading there,” he said. “I’ve pulled some nice fish from that pool.”

I took his professional advice and followed the riverbank upstream to what appeared to be a gentler access to the water. As I walked, I took in my surroundings. Despite the now overcast skies, and the wind which seemed to increase in velocity with each step, I was supremely happy. The world had disappeared, as it always did for me when I was in, or near, a fishing stream. It would be nice to land a trout or two, but it certainly wasn’t necessary to assure my continued happiness. Just being there was enough.

I’d almost reached the spot I’d selected to enter the stream when I noticed a wooden bridge spanning the river. I hadn’t seen it before because its weathered wood had turned ash gray, almost invisible against the pewter sky.

I’d learned years ago that the water beneath bridges was often a prime spot for fish to congregate. I looked back; Ken was waist-deep in the water and casting to his pool downstream. I smiled; this was his favorite way to spend a day despite working as a Maine guide for others. If Ken Sassi were a shoe-maker, he’d be making shoes for his children on his day off, no matter what the fable says.

I reached my spot and surveyed the water. I’d made a good choice. The riverbed sloped gradually into the deeper water, which would allow me to get farther out, hopefully within casting distance of a dark pool of water that spread from the shadow of the bridge into more open water.

I had one initial reservation about stepping into the river. Good fishing sense dictates you should always fish in pairs when in a strange stream, especially when conditions for wading are less than ideal. I would have preferred to be closer to Ken and the gillie, but the lure of that spot under the bridge, and the promise of the fish it held, were too compelling. I’d be careful, each step taken with care, my wading staff helping me remain upright, my eyes focused on the riverbed in search of rocks, or falloffs into which I might misstep.

I entered the river and, slowly, methodically headed for where I wanted to cast. The force of the water was stronger than I’d anticipated. Still, with my wading staff counteracting the flow, I felt confident and secure.

I reached the spot and made sure my wading boots were solidly planted in the silty soil. I tossed my hare’s-ear fly into the water, increasing the length of my cast with each forward motion of my arm. But at its maximum length, I fell short of my target, the relatively still water under the bridge.

What to do?

A rising trout caught my eye, breaking the water to gulp down an insect, leaving telltale circles on the surface. There was another fish rising. And another. A hatch of insects had formed on the river. I looked to my immediate left and right and saw what they were. They weren’t identical to my hare’s-ear fly, but close enough to fool a few trout. The trick was to get closer to the feeding fish.

Because the water was incredibly clear, I could see the ground beneath it. There appeared to be a path of sorts leading between large, slippery rocks to the pool under the bridge. If I took my time and stepped with care, I could bring myself within striking distance of the hungry fish.

I looked back to where Ken was still in the water, Innes on the bank observing him. They looked very small in the distance.

I moved toward my next vantage point. I’d chosen a good path; I had little trouble navigating the current to get to where I wanted to be. I reached it and looked up. I was within twenty feet of the bridge, close enough to cast into the pool.

I applied some floatant to my fly to help it stay on the surface of the water, and started to cast. I felt good, my backcast straightening out behind me in textbook fashion, then coming up and forward in a straight line despite the wind, the fly on the edge of the hair-thin tippet landing gently where I wanted it to.

A fish broke the surface and clamped onto my fly, and the hook. The line straightened out and started to run from the reel as the fish sought the freedom of more open water. I gave him plenty of line. Judging from the pull he exerted, he was a good-sized fish, with plenty of energy and fight. I didn’t want to play him too long and exhaust him. Better to reel him in as soon as possible, and release him before he was dangerously tuckered out.

I started to bring in line with my right hand, my left holding the bending rod and catching the loops of line as I gathered them. My entire focus was on this task, a liberating experience. I was so devoted to properly and effectively bringing in this fish that I never really saw the figure who suddenly appeared on the bridge. I mean, I saw him—or her—but only for a split second, just long enough to see a six-foot-long log, about six inches thick, come hurtling down at me from the bridge. I gasped, and twisted to avoid being hit by it. I was successful, but in the process I lost my footing. Simultaneously, the rod slipped from my hand. I didn’t know what was more important to me at that moment, keeping myself upright, or losing the rod, my favorite, given to me as a birthday gift many years ago by my deceased husband, Frank.

There really wasn’t a choice to be made. I was powerless on both counts. The rod disappeared, and I tumbled into the water. My head went under, but I forced it to the surface, spitting water all the way. The current grabbed me and headed me downstream in the direction of Ken Sassi and Rufus Innes. I felt my waders begin to fill with water despite the belt cinched tightly around my waist.

I fought against being swept away; I’d noticed a particularly deep section of the river between where I’d fallen, and where the others were. My mind raced. If I reached that deeper area, and my waders filled, I’d be dragged down for certain. Thoughts bombarded me.

The water in my waders was sinking me fast. I grasped for rocks to keep from sliding down the river, but my fingers kept slipping from them, bruising my knuckles and elbows. My face hit a rock, sending a sharp pain from my cheekbone to my brain. I continued to fight to keep my head above water, but knew I was losing the battle.

I tried to call for help; each time I did, water gurgled into my open mouth.

I reached the deep center of the river, and started to sink. I flailed my arms, and managed a cry for help. I didn’t know whether anyone heard me. I closed my eyes, resigned to dying in this beautiful river in Northern Scotland.