Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (289 page)

“Under the seat? Imagine.” He sensed Hunt had one foot out the door. Hunt was a skilled and focused pilot who knew the southwestern territories like his own backyard, but the rest of his mind had been pretty much fried on a so-called peacekeeping tour with the Canadian Airborne Regiment in Somalia twenty years earlier. Conversation was like pulling teeth. Even Chris’s best teasing was not softening him up. Chris reached out to take the bag, but Hunt tightened his grip.

“What’s in the bag, Hunt? Any essentials they’re going to miss?”

“Nothing much. Well, maybe the phone battery.”

Chris snapped to attention. “So they have no phone?”

“Well, most people bring a backup battery. In case one gets wet, like.”

“Most people but not all. Weight and space are always at a premium. What else is in the bag?”

“Just some first aid and canoe repair stuff, matches, documents …”

“What kind of documents?”

“Not maps. Just some legal looking papers about some dead guy. They looked pretty old and I couldn’t make heads or tails of them.”

“Heads and tails are my specialty.” Chris tugged on the bag and this time Hunt relinquished it. Chris opened it and spread the contents on his lap. It was as Hunt had described; a basic wilderness first-aid kit, but luckily not the main one the group would have brought along. If they had half a head on their shoulders, that one would contain thermal blankets, antibiotics, splints, and many kinds of bandages. This was a small one for treating small cuts and blisters on the fly during the day’s travel.

The phone battery was a late model Iridium, suggesting that it had been purchased just before the trip, and the knife was a standard sheathed blade, sharp enough to cut straps free in a river emergency but not much defence against a wolf or bear.

Crumpled in the bottom of the fanny pack was an invoice from a wilderness outfitting company in Whitehorse, the same one Scott had bought the turquoise canoe from in June. This invoice was from the same transaction. It listed the purchase of waterproof barrels, dry bags, sleeping bags, tents, and a dozen other pieces of equipment that travellers usually rented for a fraction of the cost. The total was $3,781, paid in cash by Scott Lasalle.

Out of habit, Chris jotted down the list. If he decided to follow up on Lasalle’s intentions the outfitter might be a good place to start.

Tucked into a side pocket of the bag, encased in two plastic sheaths, was the legal document Hunt had mentioned. The paper was clean and white, as if it were new. But it looked like a photocopy of a much older document. The lettering was faded and fuzzy, like a copy made with carbon paper rather than a photocopier. It bore the crest of a Whitehorse law firm, and from what Chris could determine it was the last will and testament of one Guy H. Lasalle, dated August 10, 1944.

Chris glanced through it. It was a very short will, leaving all his worldly goods to his wife, Lydia, including an insurance policy, a prospecting kit, some mining shares, and the rights to any claims still active at the time of his death. Written by hand in the margin was a number, a date, and a scribbled note.

60 to Dawson, 20 miles to Nahanni, 128 days 30 miles to Watson

It seemed like directions of some kind. Chris scrutinized the page in the light. The added writing was photocopied but not fuzzy like the original carbon copy, suggesting that someone had written the numbers into the margin of the carbon copy itself, and then photocopied the whole. Scott perhaps? Did it mean anything to the current investigation? Why else would Scott have it with him, carefully encased in double waterproof sheaths?

Hunt was shifting in his seat, anxious to bolt. Maybe being confined to a police cruiser brought back bad memories.

“So do you need all that stuff?” Hunt’s fingers inched toward the paper. “I mean, if you don’t …”

“What do you want with this, Hunt? It belongs to the kids and should be returned to them.”

“Oh, yeah! Oh, sure. No problem. I just thought, it doesn’t look very important.”

Like hell, Chris thought, tightening his grip on the will. “Did you show this document to anyone else besides me? To help you understand it, maybe?” He used the term loosely. Understand its worth, is what he meant.

“Well. I …” Hunt hung his head and wagged it back and forth. “I did show it to Olivia. You know, that river guide?”

“Olivia Manning?” Chris frowned. Olivia was still on the river. To have talked to her, Hunt would have had to fly into Virginia Falls and intercept her. Hardly a chance or spur of the moment meeting. “Why would you show it to her?”

“Well, she’s in university. Graduate school. Engineering, I think, right? I figured she’d know what it all meant.”

“And did she?”

He shook his head. “Just said it was an old will. Probably not worth a thing anymore. Nobody can even get up in some of them mountains, unless you’re a mountain goat.”

Chris grew alert. “That’s what she said this was? These directions pointed to some land in the mountains?”

Too late, Hunt seemed to see his mistake. He scrunched up his face, trying to look confused. “I-I don’t remember. She just tossed the idea off, that it might refer to land. Wilderness, mountains, barrens … I can’t remember.”

Chapter Eight

Edmonton, November 3, 1943

Salut mon frère,

I hope you are not disappointed. I am not going to spend Christmas in Whitehorse with you and Lydia. The Edmonton backers seem interested, but they are waiting for more results. We need to save money until we are more sure of them. I think we should trap again this winter. I have made friends with a nice Indian family in Nahanni Butte and will spend Christmas with them. The Indians are starting to trust me and I hope this will stop the disputes over the traplines. There is a lot of beaver and marten in the upper Nahanni for everybody.

With Lydia’s condition and your small house, you do not need me in the way. But I wish you a most joyous Noël.

Your devoted brother, Gaetan

 T
he next morning Chris radioed the park warden’s station at Virginia Falls. When Reggie’s soft drawl came over the airways, he wondered what excuse he could possibly give for his inquiry. He pretended to be calling for an update about the missing canoeists.

“You know I’ll tell you the minute I get any word on them,” the warden said.

“Did Hunter Kerry fly in there yesterday to drop off some people?”

“Yeah, he brought a party of Japanese hikers in to do Sunblood Mountain. Dropped them off and hung around all day for them. Getting in my hair, the crazy warrior.”

“They must have some big money to tie him up like that.”

Reggie chuckled. “I don’t think he minded. He could have done an extra run, but I think it was all an excuse to check out a certain woman.”

“You mean Olivia Manning of Nahanni River Adventures?”

“You noticed. Yup. They went off for a nice little powwow while her group was setting up camp. Not that the crazy old warrior is going to get to first base with that one.”

“Hunt’s not one to let reality stand in his way. Do you know what they talked about?”

“No idea. But I can ask her. She’ll be dropping in here later to say hi. Her group is hiking the mountain today and they’ll be dead asleep by nine tonight.”

Chris had a vision of Olivia striding up the ridge across open alpine meadows, her long tanned legs fluid and her blond ponytail flying in the wind. He felt a jolt of arousal. Nine o’clock that night. Theoretically he was off shift at four, although on call throughout the evening. He could fly up there in plenty of time, provided no fools got too drunk or argumentative here in town tonight.

“Thanks, Reg. Tell her to stay put and I’ll fly up. I’ll need to borrow her for a half hour or so. Official business.”

Reggie chuckled again. “Official. Sure thing, Chris. You guys get all the perks.”

It was not at all official, in truth, and Chris knew he was going against both the rules and his sergeant’s express orders, but in the north more than anywhere else, officers had to follow their own instincts. There was often no backup, just a lone constable responding to a situation and making the best judgment call he could.

Chris persuaded himself that since he was doing this on his own time, the sergeant’s rules and orders did not apply. He packed an overnight bag and a couple of bottles of Mission Hill Sauvignon Blanc from British Columbia. He knew almost nothing about wine, but it was expensive. It had better be good. Less than thirty minutes after he signed off duty, he was airborne, sweeping west over the river and up toward Virginia Falls. The sky was cloudless and the evening sun burnished the canyon cliffs in stunning red. The stress of his job slipped away, and by the time he circled around and touched down on the upper river he felt as light and free as an eagle.

When he spotted Olivia walking toward the dock his joy reached even greater heights. With the westerly wind whipping her hair and no trace of makeup, she was gorgeous. And she was smiling at him.

He waved the wine bottles aloft as he leaped nimbly from the pontoon to the dock. Her smile widened.

“Well, well, flyboy. Is this work or play?”

He returned her grin. “Some work, all play.”

“Just like my job.” She gestured to a driftwood log on the beach a little upstream, out of sight of the warden’s cabin. “Reg said you wanted to know what Hunter Kerry talked to me about.”

He nodded. “Hunt’s the one who flew those canoeists in, but he’s a crafty bugger. Doesn’t like cops.”

“Law enforcement in general. RCMP bureaucrats specifically. My guess is he doesn’t want anyone turning a magnifying glass on his own activities, in the air or on the ground.” She sat down on the log, kicked off her sturdy sandals, and wriggled her bare feet in the sand. Her toenails were painted bright pink.

Chris resisted the urge to ask why. In the main, Hunt was a good pilot, experienced in a crisis and the first to jump in and lend a hand in search-and-rescue missions. If he grew a couple of plants in his attic or occasionally bent the rules in his business records, that was not Chris’s concern. Let the bureaucrats and bean-counters do their own investigating.

He began as open-ended as he could. Let her lead. “So what did he want?”

“First things first.” She waggled her fingers toward the wine that he had propped against the log. “We wouldn’t want that to get warm.”

Although the evening sun still washed the mountains across the way, deep purple shadows stretched along the river and a chill had settled in. A brisk breeze kept the blackflies and mosquitoes at bay. Not much chance of the wine getting warm, but he wasn’t going to argue. He unscrewed it and filled two clear plastic glasses almost to the brim. Closing her eyes to concentrate on the flavour, she took an appreciative sip.

“Ah-h. So much better than the plonk we bring on the trip.”

As they traded banter about bad wine, he almost forgot his pretext for seeing her. Almost lost himself in the warm closeness of her body and the soft gaiety of her voice. He forced himself to steer the conversation back to business.

“What Hunt asked me about didn’t really have anything to do with the missing canoeists,” she replied. “I mean, it doesn’t shed any light on what’s happened
to them.”

He chuckled. “Light never was his strong suit. But what was it?”

Instead of answering, she ducked the question. “Has he spoken to you?”

“Yes.” He frowned, debating. “He brought me the fanny pack they left in the plane.”

“Oh, good. I told him to, but I wasn’t sure he would.”

“Why did he bring it to you?”

“I … I …” She looked nonplussed. “Is this an interrogation, Chris?”

“No! No.”

“Because I don’t like it. I feel like you’re fishing when you already know the answer. Trying to trip me up.”

He reached for the bottle and topped up both their glasses. Ostensibly as a peace offering but also to buy himself time to regroup. “I’m sorry. Thumbscrews put away, I promise.” When she didn’t even smile, he blundered on. “It’s an occupational hazard, Olivia. Don’t give away information, just ask for it. Verify and verify.”

She studied her wine through narrowed eyes. “So do you know the answer?”

“I know what he told me. That he wanted your interpretation of a document.”

“Did you see the document?”

More questions. He felt the interview slipping through his fingers. He nodded.

“And what did you make of it?”

“The will? The notes looked like a date and some directions. Maybe to a piece of land.”

“Agreed. It was hard to read, but that’s what I thought. That’s what I told him.”

“But why did he want to know? What difference would it make to him what it was? It belonged to Scott Lasalle. Not even to him, to some distant ancestor.”

She didn’t answer for a moment. Instead she watched a hawk sweep across the mountainside opposite and hover almost motionless before plunging out of sight. She shivered and pulled her jacket more tightly over her shoulders. He longed to put his arm around her but he didn’t dare. “I think he just wanted to satisfy his curiosity,” she said. “He didn’t like not knowing.”

“It wasn’t because he figured it might be relevant to what they were doing up here, and there might be some angle he could work?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Oh, come on, why else would he ask about it, if he didn’t think there might be something in it for him?”

“You’re a suspicious bastard, aren’t you?”

He felt a flush crawl up his neck. “Another occupational hazard. It keeps us alive sometimes. Olivia, what did you tell him?”

“I’m not sure I feel like telling you.”

“Olivia, four young people are missing. I need to know if Hunt is withholding relevant information.”

“I told him exactly what you just said. That it could be a piece of land, maybe an old land grant, but that it was probably way too old to have any meaning today. The will is a copy and it’s not even a notarized one, so it has very little legal value. The directions seemed like gibberish — Dawson, Nahanni, and Watson Lake are hardly near each other. Unless you triangulate or something. And chances are good it’s park or Dene land now anyway.”