She reached for a sleek aluminum hard case. Apparently, Hazel was getting into photography.  Or she had filled Sally’s order for a mishmash of Glock 19’s, Sig Sauer P365’s, and for a touch of class a couple of Walther PPK’s. 

“And what’s with the wading stick, hey?” asked Sally.

          “I heard Ron Heimburg has a slight limp. Hard for him to walk the backyard trout streams in Montana,” Hazel replied with a wink. “Has he arrived yet?”

Speaking of arrivals… Hooked on Poutine just returned from the docks at Raker’s Marine with the weekly grocery order for Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters. Rusty was at the helm, Link was riding co-pilot in the portside passenger chair, and Cos was hanging out inspecting various sized fish flies while seated on the motor box.

Groceries came once a week and it was an event for the entire crew. This week was no exception. The Indiana Group and Mr. Long Ears were still on site, plus there were more guests from the east coast expected later in the day.

With their clients gone fishing for the day, along with Tawny and Uncle Clarence taking care of the guiding… this left Rusty, Cos, Celine and Neville to do the unpack and restock duties.

Secured to the dock in the harbor… Rusty hauled a thirty-pound box of Idaho russets to the deck of the lodge. He could not remember if this was the fourth—fifth—sixth time he had moved the box before it would finally be stored in its proper place.

Cos, carrying two ten-pound bags of sugar, reminded him that each item had to be touched five times before their work was completed. Grocery truck to the dock—1. Dock to passenger boat—2. Boat to the dock once they were back at the camp—3. Camp dock to the deck of the lodge—4. Lodge deck to the kitchen storage room—5.

Smart thinking, thought Rusty. Celine had propped the kitchen door open in advance to their entrance with the groceries.

Turned out… Once inside… Multiple doors—along with windows with screens removed—had been propped open… apparently, for quite some time.

Next in Rusty’s path was Neville… crouched in a corner near the dining room… updating the menu board with a dry erase marker. He was enthralled, writing in careful calligraphy. These were his exact words: Tonight’s Special Feature—Celine’s Lemon Meringue Fly Pies.

“Celine!” Rusty called out after witnessing Neville’s act… along with the internal atrium of buzzing house flies, black flies, dragon flies, pine flies, and buffalo gnats inhabiting the lodge in a massive cloud. This infestation swarmed on and over six freshly baked pies—resting their weightless legs on puffy white patches of pie covering.  

          “Yes? Sir Ruffleupagus?” she replied and entered the main dining area where he had instantly become engulfed in a bug war.

“Yeah, hey, what’s up with the flies?” he asked with two swats of his left arm and one with his right. “Why are all the windows and doors of the lodge propped open?”

          “Family magic. Obviously, you’ve never been to a Cramshaw reunion.”

“Celine, this is…” and before he could utter the word “disgusting” she was nose to nose with her boss.

          “Are you not a family man… I want a family… don’t you care for the reunions… is that why Sally left you? Because Fly Pies are awesome.”

She continued: “When I was a child—we’d go to the Cramshaw reunion every July—run and play for hours—open air shelter houses held tables covered with pies—cherry—banana—rhubarb. Did I ever tell you about the time my cousin Enoch pushed me out of a cherry tree? No more reunion pies for him! And those late afternoons—when the swarms would be at their peak—lemon meringue was always the best.”

Then with the lower portion of her apron wrapped around her forearm she hovered over a pie and nonchalantly brushed away a passel of flighty critters resting on the foamy topping. “Here, try a piece,” she said and pushed a forkful toward Rusty’s speechless gaping mouth. “Don’t be such a buzz kill.”

Speaking of gaping mouths… Ron Heimburg’s jaw was on the floor when he first caught sight of Hazel as the meet-n-greet continued on the lakeside veranda back at Fifth Ave.  

Sally jabbed him with an elbow, whispered, “Put your tongue back in your mouth, hey.” And then said aloud, “Ron, I’d like you to meet Hazel Brown.”

Ron stood from the table, surrounded by Sally’s parents and the black-eyed Jackie Loonsuckle. “Hello, yes, my dear. Wow, quite glad to make your acquaintance,” he said, extending a gentle hand in her direction. “This is shaping up to be quite an attractive team.”

A man of high finance, Ron dressed according to the professional atmosphere he aspired to project. His slacks were a ranch-stained brown polyester with an imitation white leather belt. Adding to this ensemble, he wore an oversized Hawaiian print shirt that was lime green and orange.

His pants were hiked floodwater high, and his shirt was tucked way too tight. His white tube socks were fully exposed—pure Monfuckingtana, “I don’t care what you think of how I look—I have old money.” His attitude was complemented by a pair of bright purple orthopedic sneakers.

Hazel extended her hand in the greeting and said, “Here’s a gift Sally suggested I bring for you.” And with that she handed him the hand-crafted wading staff with his name engraved near the handle.

          “Wow, I’m impressed. Thank you, Ms. Brown. Or might I call you Hazel?” Ron asked.

“Hazel’s fine.” And the entourage reseated themselves at the roundtable near the lakeshore.

          “Then Hazel it is,” began Ron, and pounded his staff to the ground in agreement.

Unknowingly, Ron had activated the hidden trigger mechanism inside the shaft. The gun went off multiple times—automatically emptying six bullets—only one contacted the neck of the crystal swan statue posing innocently on the lawn.

After reviving Sally’s mother Sanda, who had immediately fainted tableside, Hazel was the first to speak by asking, “Didn’t you brief him on the weapon, Eagle One?”

This was immediately followed by Sally’s father, Glenn with two N’s, saying, “Who and what is an Eagle One?”

Thankfully, Sally did not have to answer as there was another shot soon fired. But this one—gauged by Hazel—came from the northwest point of the nearest peninsula to the Squatsnfishes property.

This was a long-range bullet with an estimated travel distance of twelve hundred meters. There was a calling card attached to the explosion—a hollow point tip pierced the sterling silver pitcher that held freshly squeezed lemonade.

No one at the table was thirsty. Hazel had removed the Sig Sauer P365 from her ankle holster and was already charging in diagonal patterns toward the direction of the blast.

–To Be Continued—