Murder at Lost Dog Lake Read online

  I smiled at the thought of my own boys.

  Craig read my thoughts. “Do you have children, Leanne?” he asked.

  “Two boys, Brian and Thomas.” The sun slipped behind a cloud and I shivered, whether from the drop in temperature or the expectation of where this conversation would lead, I did not know. I’m not at all keen for people to find out that I don’t have custody of my children. They may not do it consciously, but almost everyone automatically assumes that I must be a bad mother indeed. Why else would I have lost my children?

  “How long have you been guiding up here?” I changed the subject.

  If Craig noticed, he was much too polite to let it show. “Every summer for six years.”

  “It must be great,” I said with feeling.

  “It is. I love it. But I don’t know how much longer I can keep working at this. It sure doesn’t pay well.”

  “What do you do the rest of the year?”

  “I’m still in University,” he said. Then he laughed, a deep, hearty chuckle. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m a bit old to still be a student. But my mom and dad are both dead, and I don’t have much money. I don’t want to graduate with a huge debt, so I quit once in a while and work until I earn enough to go back to school.” He gathered up a handful of sand and let it dribble through a hole in the bottom of his fist. His hands were clenched tightly and the muscles in his arm bulged with tension.

  “What are you taking?”

  “Environmental sciences.”

  “A great subject, I would imagine.”

  Craig gathered up more sand. “The most important subject in the world right now. Not that it will give me many career opportunities.”

  “Kind of like child care. The more important the job, the less the reward, it seems to me sometimes.”

  He opened his hand and the grains of sand fell back where they belonged. He looked directly at me. I was taken aback by the intensity of his expression.

  “You got that right,” he said.

  We stopped talking to watch Rachel as she crept up to the edge of the beach and dropped to her knees at the water line. She produced something from a plastic bag at her side and bent over the lake.

  “Stop that!” Craig leapt to his feet and ran down the beach to the kneeling woman. He grabbed her arm and roughly jerked her back. Her hands held her day’s shirt and a bar of soap.

  “You don’t wash in the lake. Never.” Craig was almost yelling.

  Rachel burst into tears. “I have to wash my clothes,” she sobbed. “I have to wash my clothes.”

  “Well too bad. You don’t wash in the lake.”

  The force of Craig’s anger took me so completely by surprise that it was a moment before I gathered my wits, put down my book and joined them. “It’s alright, Craig.” I touched him lightly on the arm. “No harm done.”

  I guided Rachel to her feet. “Let me show you how to wash your shirt. We don’t want soap in the lake, that’s all, it’s poisonous for the environment.” Underneath my bright sympathetic smile, I was cursing. The sun was fading, my beloved fictional London was calling and I here I was trying to show this poor, lost woman how to wash her T-shirt while camping, a skill that is actually rather beyond me.

  Craig’s outburst disturbed me. If the guy couldn’t handle raw-newcomers to the wilderness, he was definitely in the wrong business. They must have clients far worse than pretty, harmless Rachel. People who demand to be taken back, right now! Fighters, complainers, rowdy drunks, fussy eaters, nature-disrespecters and general-pain-in-the-asses. Craig had been guiding for years, he must to have seen, and endured, them all. Something on this trip was eating the guy, bad.

  “I don’t know why he has to get so mad at me,” Rachel sobbed. “This is the most horrid week of my whole life.” I would never have thought it possible to look pretty while crying, but Rachel pulled it off. Her cheeks glowed a fresh pink and her eyes glistened. A drop of dewy moisture clung to her thick, dark lashes.

  “Craig’s way out of line. It’s not your fault you haven’t been on one of these trips before. It’s his job to tell you what to do, not to yell at you for making a mistake.” I made soothing noises as we walked back up the hill to the camp.

  Joe rushed over to gather the weeping Rachel up in his arms. He guided her toward their tent, and I thanked the goddess of housekeeping for sparing me from having to learn how to wash clothes in the wilderness. I just wear them dirty and then wash everything once I get home.

  Craig wandered up from the beach, hung-dog expression fixed firmly in place, already regretting lashing out at mild, ineffectual Rachel.

  I smiled at him ruefully and shrugged.

  For dinner that night Craig whipped up a wonderful dish of macaroni and cheese. In my ‘real life’, I don’t normally get terribly excited about good old mac and cheese, but after a day’s canoeing there is nothing better in the entire universe than comfort food cooked over an open fire. Craig stirred in thickly sliced onions and handfuls of dried spices and so much rich cheddar cheese that it pooled into soft yellow puddles on our plates as we ate.

  After dinner Barb put a pot of water onto the fire to heat for hot chocolate, and we roasted marshmallows impaled on sticks, carefully gathered from the surrounding forest, over the glowing embers. The English couple didn’t quite know what to do with the gooey mess, but Dianne lectured them on the proper preparation of the ultimate Canadian campsite delight. Full of self-importance and desperately serious about her responsibilities, she demonstrated to Barb and Jeremy how to hold the stick just so, the distance required to keep the marshmallow out the fire yet at the same time allow it to toast, and how to turn it every few seconds to get a nice, even brown coat.

  Myself, I like to watch the thing burst into flames, burn off about half of the treat and then blow out the blaze and suck off the burnt bit. My own little charcoaled piece of cloud nine.

  The universal glazed expression of good manners failing to conceal total boredom spread over Barb’s face as Dianne launched into a monologue of remembrances of toasted marshmallows and bonfires past. The English girl held her stick out over the fire for a moment too long and hungry fingers of bright blue flame instantly consumed most of the white blob of marshmallow. Barb laughed in delight and waved the stick in the air before her, drawing joyful, wild and indecipherable words in the night air.

  “No, no. That’s not how it’s done,” Dianne admonished Barb sternly. “Now it’s all burnt and will taste horrid.”

  “But Leanne cooked all of hers that way.”

  I stared at the dying embers as they devoured the last scraps of firewood. Unwilling to go down without a fight, a cluster of twigs at the side of the pit, which so far had remained unscathed, flashed up in a miniature firestorm, only to expire in a final blaze of glory.

  Dianne sniffed. She had the most amazing way of expressing herself without a movement or an intelligible word. Lapsing into stereotypes, I assumed that was the result of a rich, indulged childhood: raised with the understanding that she would be surrounded by people who were aware of her every need, and if on the occasional instance they didn’t, then she would make sure they got in line mighty fast.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Dianne. Do you have to control everything?” Richard threw his stick into the fire and rose to his feet. Fingers of flame eagerly licked the sticky, sugarcoated end. “These people can cook marshmallows without you criticizing them every step of the way, you know.”

  I watched the flames. People stopped rustling and chatting. We all stared into the fire, a group possessed, while Richard and Dianne glared at each other across the dying flames. Deep in the forest an owl hooted, the sound followed by a string of eerie cackles.

  “A barred owl,” Craig said. “Its call is completely unmistakable.”

  We nodded, glad of the natural history lesson.

  “It’s the only owl that is commonly found in this area, although other species can be spotted on occasion.”

  The diversi
on had no effect.

  “Well pardon me. I was only trying to help.” Dianne got to her feet. She faced Richard across the fire pit, hands on hips, and feet placed firmly apart.

  I debated going for a midnight swim. The water would be lovely, but I didn’t know if I could handle not seeing what I was swimming through.

  “Give us all a break will you, Dianne,” Richard said. “You’re not in charge here, you know. Although you seem to think you are.”

  Dianne spluttered in indignation. “How dare you speak to me like that!”

  Craig pulled himself up to his full, rather impressive height and loomed over Richard. “No harm done here, pal.” His voice dripped with contempt, which - for the second time on this trip - seemed way out line. I was also finding Dianne more than a bit overwhelming, but she wasn’t trying to be offensive; she genuinely thought she being helpful.

  “I’m glad to have her help,” Craig said. “We all are. So why don’t you go for a little walk and calm down.”

  Without another word Richard turned his back on the gathering and stomped down to the beach. His shoulders were set and his fists clenched. We all watched him go. What else was there to look at?

  “Well, that’s enough marshmallows for me,” Rachel, who hadn’t eaten any, announced loudly. She threw back her arms and puffed out her chest and stretched languorously. Joe almost fell off his log into the fire.

  Long after everyone else had crawled into their tent and the fire had gone out and Barb’s snoring echoed throughout the camp, Richard crept through the tent flap like a thief in the night and slunk silently into his sleeping bag.

  I was still awake. My bed was comfortable enough considering that I used a towel-wrapped life jacket for a pillow and about a ¼ inch of padding came between my bones and the cold, hard ground, but I couldn’t fall asleep. My thoughts were full of my sons and how much I missed them, and of my new business and what a mistake I might have made leaving the police and striking out with Wayne, my new partner.

  “There you are at last,” Dianne hissed as Richard fumbled his way into his sleeping bag. Apparently I wasn’t the only one having trouble nodding off. “That was a pretty disgraceful exhibition, I must say.”

  Richard made shushing sounds. “You’ll wake Leanne.”

  “Never mind Leanne, she sleeps like a camel.”

  I have no idea of how a camel sleeps, but I vaguely thought that perhaps I had been insulted. In an agony of embarrassment I tried to breathe deeply and evenly.

  “Don’t you ever talk to me like that in front of other people again, do you hear me, Richard?” Dianne’s voice was ominously low-pitched and quivered with barely-controlled rage.

  “Sorry, dear heart,” Richard mumbled. “Let’s go to sleep, okay? We have another long day tomorrow.”

  “Well I’m not ready for sleep. Remember that it was your idea to come on this trip with me this year. You never have before. You wanted the bonding experience, or whatever you call it, with your new partner Joe. Good old boy Joe, who isn’t mature enough to get a woman his own age so he has to rob the cradle for a bimbo who doesn’t see anything but the dollar signs dancing in front of her eyes.”

  “Shut up, Dianne,” Richard’s anger was returning. “All of Algonquin Park can hear you.”

  I closed my eyes tightly and tried to regulate my breathing. I am sleepy, I am so sleepy, I am falling asleep. Breathe in, breathe out… It didn’t seem to help.

  “So what if they do? This guy’s a looser, Richard, another in your endless stream of sore luck cases. And let me tell you, I’m not going to bail you out again. You can sink or swim on your own this time, without my help, you and your pal Joe. Do you understand?” Dianne’s voice was so cold she could have cut ice with her words alone.

  I moaned and stretched and flopped restlessly onto my back. Maybe they would shut up if they thought they were disturbing my sleep.

  “Let me remind you, Dianne, that you thought it was a great idea to invite Joe and Rachel to join us this week. ‘Cement the bonds of business and friendship’ I believe you said. ‘Like my daddy always did.’”

  “Don’t you mention my daddy in that tone of voice. My father was a great man of industry. My father’s money keeps you in business and you’d better not forget it.”

  Richard sighed heavily as all the fight drained out of him in a rush of expelled breath. “Please, dearest. We’re here now, so let’s make the best of it. I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I know that you’re trying to make sure that everyone has a good time.”

  Their sleeping bags rustled as Richard slithered closer to Dianne. She muttered affectionately about simply wanting to help. With a flash of horror I thought they were going to make up, right here, in front of me. Fortunately they only murmured sweet endearments to each other before rolling over and settling into sleep. Lucky them. I stared at the absolute darkness of the tent ceiling well into the night.

  Chapter 7

  Day 4: Morning

  It didn’t require a trained observer to notice that Richard and Dianne had been fighting and were now in the process of making up. That morning, as we ate breakfast and broke camp, he followed her everywhere like an eager puppy, full of loving endearments and lavish attention. I found the display a bit sickening, but Dianne seemed happy enough and who am I, after all, to be criticizing other people’s marriages?

  Craig was loading the equipment pack well away from the others. I took the opportunity to pull him aside and whispered, “Would it be possible, do you think, to change the order of people in the canoes today?”

  He grinned. “A bit tired of wonder woman, are you? Sure, I’ll suggest it.”

  And he did. To my surprise Rachel immediately volunteered to ride with me. Left by herself, Dianne gestured to Barb. “You can partner with me, dear.” Barb didn’t look too terribly thrilled, but she managed a smile and slung her pack into Dianne’s canoe.

  “I’m glad we got this chance to work together,” Dianne said to Barb, holding the stern of the boat steady for the younger woman to clamber in. “It will give me a chance to show you how to work on improving some of your strokes and get up to a better speed.”

  Craig rolled his eyes. Unfortunately I wasn’t the only one to catch the expression. Richard threw Craig a look full of fire. Craig stared back and for a moment I was afraid they were going to slug it out right there on the beach. Could it have been only yesterday that Richard was yelling at Dianne and the guide was leaping to her defense?

  Craig turned away first, and he called for a volunteer to ride with him.

  “I guess I will,” mumbled Joe, with somewhat less than rousing enthusiasm.

  “That leaves us,” Richard said to Jeremy. Jeremy scowled, watching Barb and Dianne push off into open water.

  With some regret I watched my lovely little stretch of beach dwindle away to nothing behind us. I sat in the stern, glad of the chance to be navigating the canoe. The paddler in the back, or the stern, provides the direction. The person in the front, called the bow, supplies most of the power. In theory, at least. In a sense the stern person is the “captain” of the little craft, while the other acts as the “crew”. I’m not one of the world’s greatest canoe women, by any stretch of the imagination, but I do rather like to be in charge, regardless of the circumstances.

  “Did Craig or Joe explain that it is up to you to provide the power? To keep us moving?” I asked Rachel once we were underway.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “And that you have to tell me if we are near anything like rocks or logs lying under the water that I may not be able to see?”

  “Yes.”

  Today the wind was at our backs, which made paddling considerably easier than yesterday. In the far distance a small flotilla had harnessed their canoes together under some sort of tarpaulin and were making good time under sail.

  “Pirates!” I shouted to Craig and pointed.

  He laughed. “Lazy man’s way! What a bunch of wimps.”

>   “That looks like fun,” Rachel said. The wind snatched most of her words and whisked them away.

  “I can’t hear you very well,” I told her. “Turn your head slightly to speak to me.”

  “I said that I think that looks like a good idea. Do you think Craig will let us try it?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “I love to sail,” she sighed.

  “Do you sail much?”

  “Oh, no. We don’t have a boat of our own or anything. One year I went to Jamaica with a bunch of girlfriends. We rented a sailboat with a crew for a day. It was so much fun.”

  Not like this. I filled in the unspoken words.

  “But Joe has friends who have boats so they often take us out on Lake Ontario for the day. They serve cocktails and wine and a fabulous lunch, usually with shrimp or lobster or something. It’s always so nice.” She sighed happily.

  “I don’t understand what you people like about canoeing so much.” Rachel stopped paddling and turned to face me.

  As expected Dianne and Barb were far out in front, but Richard and Jeremy followed close behind. Keeping an eye on their women, no doubt. Like the mommy duck watching over her little brood, Craig kept his pace well down and drifted off to our right.

  Normally one would consider that sort of comment to be rhetorical and let it pass without a response. But Rachel was looking at me intently, clearly expecting an answer.

  “Well,” I fumbled for the words. How do you explain something inimitable to your soul? Something that is almost a part of your being. Without sounding trite. “I love the wilderness.” I stumbled over the words. She continued to stare at me with those lovely eyes and I carried on. “I really don’t like living in the city much. Although I was raised in the suburbs of Toronto, I’ve always felt that the wilderness is where I belong. It’s been a long time since I’ve been up here, but it’s where I am happy. The quiet, the solitude, the trees. I love trees.