Murder at Lost Dog Lake Read online

  Barb dispensed with her shirt and appeared clad in only a bikini top and shorts. I envied her, the heat was still building and I was sweating profusely under my bra, but I didn’t think my lily-white, approaching middle-aged, childbearing midriff was up to exposure of the light of day.

  Rachel’s tank top revealed sleek, sharply toned muscles, the sort a woman could only get by spending countless hours in the gym. Her body was richly tanned but her face was paler, well protected by a baseball cap. She took off the hat to wave it in front of her face. Black mascara gathered in pools under her eyes. The woman was sweating her make-up off.

  I pointed to her face and then touched the corner of one eye with my finger. She got the point immediately and dove into her daypack for the compact. With a silent cry she bent to the task of repairing the damage.

  Dianne snorted in disgust and pushed off so quickly I almost fell over the side. Even Craig was caught off-guard by our sudden departure, and they all scrambled to follow in our wake.

  Poor Joe was having a bit of trouble maneuvering his canoe all by himself as Rachel was still hard at work fixing her face. Hopefully she would give up the effort before much longer. In the depths of Algonquin Park, it just isn’t possible to keep the pretense that you’ve recently emerged from a pampered, delightful day at the spa.

  “What about yourself, Leanne?” Dianne asked once we were back on course. “I’ve told you my life story. Now it’s your turn. You seem to have some paddling experience yourself.”

  “When I was younger I did a lot of canoeing and camping. My University friends were really into it and we had some great trips. One year we even went canoeing in the Yukon, which was really something. But you know how it is, I got older, life got too hectic, kids came along, friends moved away, equipment wore out and never got replaced. I haven’t been in a tent or a canoe for years. I decided it was time to get back up north again. To try to remember why I loved it up here so much.” Time to stop talking. I was venturing onto dangerous ground.

  Dianne asked the inevitable question. “Where are your children now?”

  “With their father.” I never discuss my private life. Not with anyone, not my friends, my family, even my partner. And certainly not to a woman of two days acquaintance. My divorce had been ugly, destructive, bitter, and expensive, to put it mildly. It was an open, gaping wound on my psyche, which I managed to keep carefully hidden behind a sturdy brick wall of work and privacy.

  Change of subject urgently required.

  “That should be the portage over there. Where those two yellow canoes are headed? That little bay?” Dianne’s eyesight wasn’t as good as mine. The little bay ended at a strip of sand. The group I referred to was most likely scouting out a potential campsite. But it put a stop to Dianne’s questions and she turned her mind to steering our canoe in that direction.

  Craig’s shouts and gestures soon alerted us to our mistake and Dianne turned back on course. The chatty mood broken, we traveled on in silence.

  Lost in a misery of remembrance, thinking back over the last few, horrible years, I jolted back to reality only when the bow of the canoe crashed into a submerged rock. My head snapped forward and my eyes flew open.

  “For heaven’s sake, Leanne,” Dianne cried. “Weren’t you watching where we’re going? It’s your job to tell me what’s up ahead, you know.”

  Thankful that I was sitting in the bow, and thus facing away from Dianne, I hastily wiped the tears out of my eyes and offered profuse apologies.

  There is nothing like physical labor to distract the mind. We arrived at the next portage and I was instantly swept up in the process of unloading the canoe and lugging it and all our equipment around the rapids in order to continue the journey. Only the task at hand mattered, and my memories slipped back into the depths of my subconscious, where they always lurked, ever ready to spring forward at the slightest provocation.

  The portage was a moderately long one, almost 500 yards and rough underfoot. As we ventured further and further into the interior of the park the numbers of canoeists dwindled dramatically. Families with small children and those on one or two night trips would venture no further than the first or second portage.

  We lowered our packs to stretch backs unaccustomed to bearing much weight, and Craig pointed out the next leg of our trip. Across a tiny lake to yet another portage. But this time, he told us, the portage was short and it ended in a beautiful waterfall where a tiny river rushed to fill a vacuum between one lake and the next.

  In a few energy-packed minutes we crossed the lake and made the next portage. We loaded the canoes one more time but left them pulled up close to shore. Craig clambered up the rocks to the top of the waterfall and unpacked the lunch pail. We followed like a line of starving ants invading a family picnic.

  Lunch consisted of dark rye bread with hunks of salami and thick slabs of Swiss cheese. I slathered globs of bright yellow mustard over the bread and dug in as eagerly as the others. Even Rachel, who didn’t look as if she would ever allow a drop of fat to cross those perfect lips, devoured one huge sandwich.

  Sated at last, we settled back for a rest.

  I tossed my daypack over one shoulder and I clambered up the hill in search of a nice, secluded changing spot. Crouching awkwardly behind a moss covered boulder, I slipped out of my clothes into my bathing suit and then re-negotiated the climb down to the lake. Through the trees I caught a glimpse of Dianne re-arranging the packs that had been loaded into the canoes earlier. Richard was nowhere to be seen. On a pit stop, probably. Joe stretched out on a rock, sound asleep. Rachel sat beside him admiring her toenails. Barb and Craig were already in the water splashing each other with gusto. But not everyone was caught up in the general air of relaxation and fun: all by himself Jeremy sat on the rocks staring at the people in the water, fists clenched and scowl fixed firmly in place. He didn’t seem to have any other expression.

  Gingerly, I stepped into the water. It was shallow, and muddy underfoot, but fortunately there were none of the dreaded water grasses. I tiptoed deeper into the water and then stretched out on my back and floated happily. It was another hot, hot day and the cool water felt wonderful on my overheated body.

  A plop of something hitting the water brought me quickly vertical once again. A tiny scrap of pink cloth drifted by. Barb’s bikini top bobbed gaily on top of the waves before it absorbed enough water and started to sink like a little pink, two-headed jellyfish. I considered letting it continue downward, the water was deep, dark and impenetrable, but my better nature took over (the cursed thing does that at the most inconvenient times) so I retrieved it by one delicate strap.

  Barb giggled brightly. “Oh, silly me. Look what I’ve gone and lost. Now it’s your turn, Craig. Skinny dipping anyone?” Treading water she pulled off her bottom and waved it wildly over her head. Fortunately for those of us not particularly interested in the nether parts of Barb’s anatomy, the water was as dark as tea leaves forgotten and left steeping overnight, which made visibility under the waterline about nil.

  With a curse Jeremy flung the little stone he was playing with into the water, missing Barb by inches. He got to his feet and lumbered heavily off into the woods.

  Rachel squealed in delight, peeling off her shirt and bra. I caught the flash of a full body tan before she hit the water.

  At that moment Richard stepped out of the woods. He stood stock still in amazement, his mouth hanging open.

  I wondered whether to join the fun myself, but having breast-fed two ferociously hungry boys I was a bit embarrassed to reveal my well-used self. I try not to worry about such things, after all what are two lovely, perfect, perky breasts compared to the richness of motherhood?

  Enough to keep me covered.

  Craig’s face was a sight to behold. He was trying so hard not to stare at the lovely Rachel while Barb splashed and giggled and tried to turn his attention her way.

  “I’d better pack up the lunch things,” he said with a croak. Underneath the
beard and the tan he had turned a delightful shade of red.

  Barb’s smile disappeared the minute Craig’s back was turned, and she watched him climb out of the water with a scowl fit to match Jeremy’s. Oblivious, Rachel played on and Richard continued to gape. I tossed Barb her bikini top; she snatched it out of the air and replaced it with a furious snap. No actress she. Catching me watching she plastered a huge frozen smile on her face but her blue eyes flashed like ice chips. She stomped into the woods and came out a few minutes later, clothes and flirtatious giggle back in place.

  I did a few fast strokes along the shoreline, chuckling inwardly all the while. How amusing other people’s love lives (or attempts to have one) seem to those of us who are not involved.

  Craig packed up what few scraps of lunch remained and shouted that it was time to get underway. While the rest of us were playing in the water after eating, Dianne pulled out colored pencils and a sketchpad and disappeared into the woods. At Craig’s call, she returned, all ready and eager to be in motion on the lake once again. Richard finally closed his mouth, and unnoticed I slipped into the woods to change back into my clothes.

  Rachel pulled on her T-shirt without bothering about the bra. She nudged Joe with her foot. The polish on her toes was beginning to chip. Joe awoke with a start - that rock couldn’t have been all that comfortable. A huge grin split his face as he took in the sight of Rachel in all her wet T-shirt glory. He leapt to his feet eagerly, but the sight of all of us standing around watching took some of the enthusiasm out of his awakening.

  Scowl still fixed firmly in place, Jeremy returned from the woods. Being rewarded with a toothy smile and a toss of Barb’s damp blond mane forced the crack of a matching smile through his habitually unpleasant expression. His teeth were small, a row of corn-off-the-cob nuggets, and his too prevalent gums were harsh and red.

  Barb giggled once again and led the way down to the canoes. Jeremy followed like an eager lap dog. I almost expected him to sit back on his haunches and beg. For a moment I felt sorry for the boy.

  Barb was playing a dangerous game. But it was her game and absolutely none of my business. Fortunately for my peace of mind and the enjoyment of the day, I was quite oblivious to just how involved in their antics I would soon find myself.

  Chapter 6

  Day 3: Afternoon.

  While we ate our lunch and cavorted with various degrees of happiness in the dark lake, the wind turned direction and picked up speed. Now that we were back on the water, the wind blew directly into our faces. Paddling was tough work, requiring a good deal of effort. I concentrated on the movement of my paddle through the water, pull, lift, swing, drop, and pull again. Although I have always tried to keep myself in reasonably good shape, I had made a special effort over the last few months to build up the muscles of my shoulders and arms. Second day in the canoe and my body screamed at me that I should have worked harder.

  I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Dianne paddled with even more intensity than before. When I glanced over my shoulder to catch the occasional glimpse behind me, she looked like a mad thing, all steely-eyes, bulging neck muscles and fierce determination. As usual we were far ahead of the others. Did Dianne have something to prove here? On the bright side, the hard work kept my mind from wandering and I did enjoy enveloping myself in the single-minded focus of our task.

  The wind took the sting of the sun’s heat out of the air, but I had enough presence of mind to remember that the rays were as powerful as ever. I stopped paddling and yelled for Dianne to be sure to put on enough sunscreen. She looked at me like I was a total incompetent for daring to take a rest and didn’t even break her stroke. I lathered more sunscreen on my arms and legs and filled up my water bottle once again.

  But no matter how determined a paddler Dianne might be, Craig, who was after all a male and at least 20 years younger than she, put on a burst of speed and caught up with us.

  “Will you two slow down a bit,” he shouted across once he was in calling distance. “We have to travel as a group.”

  Barb, seated in the bow of his canoe, gasped for breath. The sudden increase in pace was a bit much for her, but she didn’t complain.

  Dianne snorted. “Don’t see why I should have to hang back because some of us,” we all knew she meant Joe and Rachel, “couldn’t make their way across the lake in a bathtub.”

  Craig sighed and wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. “We’re a group and we have to stay together. But I’ll tell you what, why don’t you go on ahead, slowly! And check out the campsites. I don’t think we’ll get as far today as I wanted, but we’ve all probably had enough.”

  Dianne snorted again.

  “Once you think you’ve found a nice place, wait off shore for us to catch up and we’ll all check it out. That sound okay with you?”

  “Well, I’m game to carry on, but if you insist.” Dianne sighed deeply to make sure that we all realized what an enormous sacrifice she was making.

  The lady protests too much, I thought. It was obvious that Dianne was exhausted.

  Soon we discovered a beautiful stretch of sandy beach, which, to my delight, boasted a still unoccupied campsite. I flashed on an image of a long-forgotten movie: somewhere in the South Pacific dug-out canoes filled with muscular, bronzed Islanders paddling through the pounding surf towards gleaming, perfect white sand.

  There was no surf, no gently swaying palm trees and the sand was more a dull brown than white, but to my tired eyes the gentle whitecaps of this pristine blue lake and the wealth of Jack Pine, Hemlock and Maple were more welcoming any day.

  The campsite was well maintained and gave the appearance of having been vacated recently. It was narrow, but spread out along the shoreline. Three sides were thick with trees, brush and bramble but the front opened up into the expanse of beach and the lake beyond. The wind, blowing from behind the camp, was almost completely muffled by the density of the forest, so the little clearing stood calm, still and welcoming.

  Perfectly happy with our choice, Dianne and I disobeyed orders (what was he going to do, throw us in the brig, maybe make us walk the plank?) and pulled up onto the sand. We checked the site out in an instant and set to unloading the canoe and unpacking the equipment.

  In perfect agreement, we giggled like schoolgirls, explaining to each other that even if he wanted to carry on, Craig would never expect us to repack everything. Would he?

  Dianne went in search of the ‘treasure chest’, and I walked back down to the beach. Some thoughtful soul had arranged a thick log in the perfect position so as to make a beach chair. I settled down, rested my back, and happily wiggled my bottom into the soft sand. The three canoes remained a distant speck against the horizon.

  I idly wondered if I had time to construct a barricade to repel boarders. Maybe I could carve a sword out of a dead bough of jack pine and whip off my T-shirt to tie into a bandanna over my head. I would settle into this patch of warm sand and live here forever, stirring now and again to hunt and cook my food. I could probably learn to hunt (with what?) but I only had two paperback library books in my pack. Woman does not live by bread alone, she does require reading material. With a sigh I abandoned my fantasy and stood up to offer a broad, welcoming smile to greet the others.

  Craig looked at me sternly, but I wasn’t a P.I. for nothing; he couldn’t disguise the twinkle in his eye or his delight as he looked around the beach and the early efforts we’d made at establishing a camp. I winked at him and was rewarded with a ferocious blush, which he tried to cover up by efficiently organizing the rest of the group to pull their canoes out of the water and carry the packs up to the clearing.

  Everything was soon settled and I slipped into our tent to dig my book out of my pack. Dianne was laid out in her sleeping bag sound asleep.

  I returned to my primitive version of a beach chair and settled comfortably back to bask in the delights of murder most vile in the fog-shrouded streets of Victorian-era London.

  Gaslight a
nd mist and mysterious cloaked figures distracted me only briefly from delight in my surroundings. I picked up a tiny, broken twig and carved patterns in the sand. With no conscious thought I drew a big heart with my initials across the top, like we all did when we were kids at the beach or in the sandlot on summer vacation.

  “C.P.: Craig Patterson.” A voice boomed behind me, loud and intrusive. Craig walked around my log and crouched in front of me gesturing to my crudely drawn heart. “You could write C.P., right there.”

  Embarrassed at being caught daydreaming, I scribbled across the little sketch with my broken stick. “That would be a bit presumptuous, wouldn’t you agree?”

  He shrugged and sat in the sand beside me. “Nice spot this. You and Dianne chose well.”

  “It’s lovely. Perfect.”

  He nodded at the paperback folded on my lap. “Do you like mystery stories?” Craig stretched his long legs out in front of him, bent the knees and wiggled his toes into the sand, as I had done earlier.

  We talked for a while about books. We hadn’t read a single thing in common, but we were both passionate about what we liked. Then we moved on to movies, for which we both had considerably less ardor. The sun moved across the sky and dipped toward the horizon. A family of Common Mergansers, a type of duck with reddish brown heads and gray bodies, sailed majestically past, Mom proudly showing off her huge brood. Three of the more adventurous youngsters waddled up onto the beach full of hope that the intruders might have something worthwhile for them to eat. With a series of loud squawks and much flapping of wings, their mother herded them back into the water, and they took their leave.

  Craig chuckled, “They always remind me of my nieces. Constantly looking for a freebie while my sister tries without much success to pull them back into line.”