Chapter 1
Liv Montgomery shivered in the dark, chilly August air. If anybody were to ask, four thirty AM was a ridiculous time to get up just for recreation. Of course no one would ask, because no one else was awake other than her and (presumably) Chaz Bristow, editor of the local Celebration Bay Clarion and local angler (in more ways than one), who for the next eight or ten hours was going to teach her how to fish.
It was her own fault. Yes, she was a former Manhattanite and Celebration Bay’s current event coordinator, but when Chaz made some sarcastic remark about Liv spending her vacation at a spa, she’d fired back that actually she was going to learn to fish. She’d just meant to wipe the smirk off Chaz’s face, but he’d taken her up on the idea. And unwilling to back out—like she was sure he’d expected her to do—she’d made a date.
“I’m an idiot,” she said. But she figured a day or two of fishing—how hard could it be?—would prove her point, and then she could spend the rest of her vacation in total relaxation on her couch, in air conditioning.
There were no lights on in any nearby houses. Even her intrepid Westie, Whiskey, who normally was keen for any outdoor adventure, merely yawned at her and went back to sleep.
Liv climbed into her car and drove to the old Marlton Fish Camp just south of town. Rustic and run-down, it provided a weathered pier, a few boats, and several cabins for zealous sportsmen. And sometimes—according to town gossip—for clandestine meetings of zealous lovers.
Though she could think of a hundred places where she’d rather tryst, Liv thought as she turned off Lakeside Road and onto the rutted path to the camp. Not that she had anyone to tryst with. She looked into the woods at the weather-beaten cottages. She couldn’t think of a less romantic place. About all it had going for it was that it was private.
Not private enough.
Chaz’s Jeep was already parked near the equally rustic “office”—barely more than a lean-to with a porch to hold it up. There were two other vehicles parked in the dirt lot: an ancient Ford station wagon and an even older pickup truck.
Liv sighed, then yawned. She’d been hoping Chaz would oversleep and she could get out of this mad idea. Unfortunately, fishing was the one thing he seemed passionate about. Resigned, she pulled in beside his Jeep.
Chaz was slumped in the driver’s seat, probably asleep. Liv pulled her messenger bag off the front seat and climbed out of her car.
He was oblivious. She tapped on the Jeep’s window.
Chaz straightened up, slowly looked in her direction, and got out of the Jeep.
“Didn’t know if you would actually show up,” he said. “I brought this just in case.” He shoved one of two cardboard coffee cups at her.
“Thanks.”
Chaz nodded slightly, looking clueless and sleepy, dirty blond hair sticking straight up, jeans wrinkled and torn at the knees, a Windbreaker of a dubious orange color—all reaffirming her first impression of him as a surfer dude without the beach or the board. Of course, it was all an act.
Well, some of it was an act. He’d been an investigative reporter in Los Angeles before giving it up to run his family’s weekly newspaper. And to fish.
Chaz leaned against the hood and looked out at the lake, which Liv had to admit was lovely and placid—except for the two old men standing nose to nose on the pier, both obviously irate.
Moored alongside them was a fishing boat about twenty feet long, white and blue, except where the paint had corroded to a bright orange. Masts and riggings stood at odd angles, giving it the appearance of el toro at the end of the bullfight.
As Liv watched, one of the men poked the other in the chest. “Think you should try to restore the peace?” she asked Chaz.
He yawned. “Nah, they’ve been fighting for as long as I can remember.”
“Why?”
“Big Billy.”
“Who is Big Billy?”
Chaz turned his head to look at her, his expression a mixture of sleepiness and amusement. “Not a who, exactly—a what.”
“So what is Big Billy?”
“A fish.”
“Of course. What else would it be. And why are they fighting over a fish?”
“’Cause neither of them has caught him. Each one claims he was almost about to catch him when the other guy scared Big Billy away. They switch roles but it’s always the same old argument. Big Billy is a lake trout said to be over thirty pounds. If he exists, no one will ever catch him.”
“Why not?”
“Do you know how deep the lake is?”
“No. How deep?”
Chaz frowned at her. “Really deep.”
Liv shook her head.
“Then there’s the odd sighting of Champ.”
“I take it that’s another fish?”
Chaz shook his head. “Lake Champlain’s version of Nessie.”
“Ah. A lake monster. Of course.”
The two men suddenly stopped bickering and turned to face the shore.
“Must have finally noticed us,” Chaz said. “I’ll get the cooler. Gear is already in the boat.”
He pulled a large red and white cooler out of the back of the Jeep and the two of them headed down to the pier. One of the fishermen jumped down into the boat and began scurrying around the deck.
“For two men who seemed content to fight all day a minute ago, they sure seem in a hurry now.”
“They don’t much like company.”
“Afraid someone will catch Big Billy before they do?”
“Possibly. More likely because when they’re not fishing, they run small cargoes between New York and Vermont, sometimes to Canada.”
“Legally or contraband?”
“Mainly legal. They’ve been picked up for the odd case of cigarettes. Not big enough to worry about. Bill just gives them a warning or slaps a fine on them.”
Liv and Chaz reached the pier just as one fisherman climbed out of the boat, hugging a huge fish. The two men turned toward Chaz and Liv and stopped simultaneously.
“Finally catch Big Billy?” Chaz asked.
The man’s companion snorted. “Just let him try to pass off that measly twenty pounder as Big Billy.”
“I ain’t.”
“Nice size though,” Chaz said. “Where did you catch him?”
The two men exchanged looks.
“Out deep,” one said noncommittally.
Chaz grinned. “A fisherman never tells,” he told Liv.
They were having a good time—at least Chaz was. Liv could imagine him sitting around shooting the breeze with these two old codgers all day long. The codgers, however, seemed uncomfortable and anxious to leave.
Up close, Liv could see that one was slightly taller than the other, though they were both were stooped and spare. Other than that, they were very similar, both dressed in stained khaki trousers, faded T-shirts and fishing vests. Liv had seen vests just like theirs, with zippers and pouches for your every fishing supply need, in a catalogue. She’d intelligently stopped herself before she ordered one; she was still getting flak for the hunting cap with earflaps she’d bought when she first moved to Celebration Bay.
“Fellas, this is Liv Montgomery, the new hire over at town hall.”
Liv didn’t bother to remind Chaz that she’d been in Celebration Bay nearly a year. Not that it would make a difference. She would be considered a new arrival for at least the next decade, maybe two.
The two men nodded brusquely, snatching their canvas hats from their heads almost simultaneously. They both had longish gray hair, though one of the men was practically bald on top.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
“Good morning,” Liv said, smiling.
“This is Seamus,” Chaz said.
The bald man on the right nodded and gripped his hat in both hands.
“And Gus.”
Gus, the man with the fish, nodded and gripped his hat in his spare hand.
Liv wondered if they were related. Brothers maybe.
“Anything Chaz here can’t teach you,” Seamus said, “you just come to me.” His voice was rusty with disuse.
Gus punched him in the arm. “What Chaz doesn’t know, ask me.”
Seamus knocked his arm away. “Everybody knows I’m the one knows what he’s talking about.”
“That’s a bunch of beans and you know it.”
“Wasn’t I the one that—”
“Better get that fish in some ice,” Chaz reminded them. “Or a freezer, if you’re going to mount it.”
“Ain’t big enough to mount,” Seamus said.
“The heck it ain’t,” Gus retorted. “But I promised to give Miss Ida my next good eating fish and this here’s a beaut. She and Miss Edna always used to cook fish on Christmas Eve. Mighty tasty.” His eyes slid to Seamus’s. “We’d better get going.”
They shuffled sideways around Liv and Chaz, then made a beeline for the old Ford and pickup truck.
“Do they always fight like that?” Liv asked.
“For as long as I’ve known them, and that’s a good twenty or so years.”
“Since you were a kid?”
“Yep. My dad and I used to come here on weekends. Spend all day out on the lake, just hanging and fishing.”
“Hmm,” Liv said. This could turn out to be a very long day.
Chaz led Liv past Gus and Seamus’s boat, the Seaworthy, a misnomer if ever there was one. It didn’t look like it could float in a bathtub. Obviously she didn’t know much about boats.
Chaz stopped at the last berth, where a much newer, larger cruiser was moored. The boat was in great shape, but the name . . .
“The Truth or Consequences?” she asked. “You really named your boat the Truth
or Consequences?”
“What did you expect. Hooter Baby?”
“No. I think it’s very apropos for an investigative reporter.”
Chaz frowned. “My dad named it.”
“Oh.”
He jumped to the boat deck, then reached back to help Liv down. She didn’t want to admit that she needed help, but she wasn’t about to risk spraining an ankle just to prove her independence. He gently put her on her feet.
“Now what?”
“Now . . .” He cast off and turned to her with his trademark cocky smile. “I’m going to teach you how to catch a big one.”
Chapter 2
Liv let that pass. Chaz could always be trusted to come up with some innuendo or double entendre, but she knew he did it mainly to annoy her. She watched him untether (or whatever you called it) the boat and loop the ropes on hooks just inside the hull.
She wished now she had done more research on fishing and boats. She usually made it a point not to go into a new experience without a little knowledge, but she had been working nonstop since she arrived in Celebration Bay and hadn’t given this much priority. She knew the difference between bow and stern, and beam and rib, and that the top parts of the sides were the gunwales, pronounced gunnels. And that was about it. For the most part she planned to relax and let Chaz do the work.
“I suppose you want to sit and drink your coffee?” Chaz said.
Liv looked down at the cup in her hand. Probably cold by now. “I can. Or I can help . . . with whatever . . . if you need me.”
A slow smile.
“Don’t say it.”
“I was going to say, dump the coffee. I have a thermos with more for when we anchor.”
Liv looked around. Should she pour the coffee in the lake and find a trash can for the cup? Did you recycle on a boat? Not things an up-and-coming young event planner thinks about in Manhattan. The only boats she’d come in contact with in those days were luxury yachts. And they had crews to take care of such things.
Chaz shook his head and took the cup from her. Went into the cabin, which appeared to be above water for the most part, then came out a second later with a thermos and motioned her toward metal stairs that led to the steering wheel—the wheelhouse, she remembered.
She climbed up and Chaz climbed up after her. There were two seats. Chaz pointed at one, then took the other, by the wheel. The motor turned over, and they began backing away from the pier.
He turned the boat toward open water and threw the throttle; the bow reared up and they shot forward.
Liv grabbed the console board, since her seat didn’t have arms.
Chaz laughed. He suddenly seemed awfully energetic.
Almost immediately he turned to steer parallel to the shore, and a few minutes later, he slowed to a stop.
“Hold us steady,” he said, and he pulled Liv over to take his seat.
While she gripped the wheel in a death hold, he clambered down the ladder to lay anchor.
He was back as quickly as she’d ever seen him move. Obviously he didn’t trust her with his boat.
“Why are we stopping here?” she asked.
“So you can learn how to cast without having to deal with the waves and boat wakes.”
She nodded.
“Just try not to get hung up in the trees.”
Liv looked out to the shore. It seemed really far away. “Not a chance,” she said.
He grinned.
They spent the next few minutes setting up gear. “You mean you put the poles—”
“Rods,” he corrected.
“Rods in those clamps and just wait for the fish to bite? That sounds like a pretty lame way to spend the day.”
“That’s for the bigger fish. We won’t be going after those today. Don’t worry. You’ll be able to wrestle those little guys to your heart’s content. Who knows, you might get lucky.”
“In your dreams.” But she relaxed a little. She was up for this. She enjoyed a challenge. As long as she didn’t have to touch the fish.
Chaz took a few minutes to demonstrate how to cast.
“It’s all in the timing.” He stretched the rod over his right shoulder, then snapped it forward while releasing a button on the reel part.
Liv watched a few times. It looked pretty easy.
She could see the two old men back on the pier watching her. They’d been joined by a third man, possibly the guy who managed the fish camp. They probably thought she would make for good entertainment.
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