Murder at Lost Dog Lake (20 page)

At some
point during my futile attempts to keep focused on my book, it
occurred to me that if the killer really had intended to attack
someone other than Richard, it might well suit said murderer to
make another attempt upon the object of their attention. I pulled
myself out of the tent and sat on a patch of barely dry earth under
the tarp.

Unfortunately no one looked the least bit guilty. In fact
they all looked like I felt, cold and wet and thoroughly miserable.
I stared out over the lake and then turned hopefully to look one
more time at the sky above the woods behind us. Nothing but
rain-engorged clouds, thick, dark and heavy.

Both
Dianne and the heavens themselves continued to cry, as if moisture
was an endless resource and the world would never be dry
again.

Rachel
and Joe kept a frosty distance from each other. He lay in his tent
most of the day and she sat huddled over the miserable fire, at
least dry under the tarpaulin. I sincerely hoped she had finally
decided to be rid of the jerk. Whether she knew it or not, she was
a smart woman and didn’t need to pretend to be the bimbo to get on.
They hadn’t been married for long and he was already controlling,
threatening and verbally abusive. I had been a cop and I had been
an emotionally abused wife: I wanted Rachel to get out in
time.

Barb and
Jeremy, on the other hand, had arrived at some sort of truce. Barb
fished around in Dianne’s daypack for the playing cards, and they
made a rough table out of a chunk of firewood and sat over the game
for hours. Craig was first to join them and then Joe and Rachel and
I sat down to play peacefully.

The
endless day dragged on, and the rain refused to let up. It fell
into muddy puddles and into clear lakes, splashing up in little
circles of its own making, the drops spotting the water’s surface
like tiny volcanoes.

Sheets
of lightening flashed overhead, and every clap of thunder had us
quivering in our skins. The storm appeared to have settled directly
over our little camp, apparently with no intention of moving on. I
had never known weather in this part of the world to behave like
this before.

The lone
tent on the barren bit of rock loomed larger and ever larger, in my
imagination at any rate. I found myself peeking at it constantly,
as if expecting to see a shadowy figure slip out of the tent,
trying return to the physical world.

And I
wasn’t the only one; the others were casting surreptitious glances,
full of primitive superstition and awe in the all-encompassing
presence of the Grim Reaper himself. Only Joe studied his hand and
tossed down his cards with a calm single-mindedness that excluded
all else.

At first
the women struggled through the storm to the “treasure chest” in
groups, as apparently we are prone to do, whether in the most
elegant of restaurants or trapped in a storm of unparalleled fury,
but eventually we tired of accompanying each and everyone to answer
the call of nature, and a single figure would detach herself from
the camp, huddle into her rain coat and slip off into the
forest.

The card
game lasted for a long time, but eventually it did break up and we
all went their separate ways. People wandered off into their tent
or even for a walk into the woods, if they were totally stir crazy
(as was I, but lacking rain gear, and even dry clothes, I dared not
venture far from the protection of the tarp or my little
tent).

“
This rain will do wonders for the mushrooms,” Craig
announced. “I’ll collect some for dinner. Coming,
Leanne?”

I
shrugged and indicated my damp sweatshirt. “Too wet out there for
me.” No one offered to lend me anything, so I sat idly on my patch
of log and watched Craig pull plastic bags out of the rubbish
container and disappear into the rain soaked forest.

He
wasn’t gone for long, but returned with bags bulging with his haul.
He smiled at me proudly and laid the offering down at my feet. An
abundance of clean, plump, white oyster mushrooms overwhelmed the
bags and spilled out onto the ground. I picked a particularly fat
one up to admire.

“
This should be a nice addition to dinner.” I smiled back at
him. The lines were still there, deep between his eyes and around
the corners of his mouth. He had aged about ten years in a couple
of days - but it was a good sign that he made a bit of an effort
with the mushrooms.

Forced
inactivity in uncomfortable surroundings played havoc on the
niceties of civilization. If this continued for much longer we were
going to be in trouble with tensions simmering so closely to the
surface.

In fact,
I reflected, we were heading for trouble even before this storm.
Was I the only normal person on this trip, or were the others
totally normal and I the strange one? Maybe there was something in
the water. You’d have a hard time imagining a group of people with
shorter tempers, everyone of them ready to fly off the handle at
the slightest provocation or more than eager to provide said
provocation themselves.

Joe and
Rachel’s short-lived marriage was heading directly for the rocks,
thanks to the simple fact that all the arguing and their response
to hardship showed them both something they didn’t much like in the
other.

“
Might as well eat soon,” Craig said. “Nothing much else to do
here.”

I left
him digging around in the kitchen pack, laying out vegetables and
potatoes and stirring the fire and went in search of
Dianne.

She was
asleep in her tent, curled up in a little ball, tiny blow-up pillow
clutched in her arms. I backed out of the tent silently. Leave her
be. She would have to wake up soon enough.

Barb had
strolled over to help Craig with the cooking and was peeling
carrots and potatoes with a calm determination as they spoke in low
voices. She was helping just for something to keep her busy - all
the flirtatiousness and look-at-me-now gestures were gone. Much
better. A guy like Craig would prefer quiet competence in a woman
to flamboyant attempts to attract attention any day.

Or maybe
not. He grinned up at me and winked broadly. My cheeks flushed and
I glanced away, with an embarrassing degree of haste.

Rachel
crouched at the lake’s edge, trailing her fingers in the water. A
few ducks were paddling lazily off shore, watching her, waiting for
more handouts. The rain streamed off her coat-hood and slithered in
a little river down her back. Her feet were almost buried in mud,
but she didn’t seem to mind.

Of Joe
and Jeremy, I could see no sign, and didn’t much care.

I
watched the dinner preparations with little interest; Craig did
what he could with the mushrooms, but supplies were getting low and
not many ingredients remained. Eventually the fungi were coated
with a touch of oil and the last of the soy sauce and grilling
nicely. The cooking surface of the pot resting over the little
propane stove was so small he could only cook a handful of
mushrooms at a time. But they smelt delightful and I was almost
content for the first time since we started the horrible portage to
Lost Dog Lake.

Barb
called us for dinner and one-by-one we settled around the fire. I
checked on Dianne who was still sleeping soundly, and left her in
peace.

Craig
served the first batch of mushrooms and Barb passed around the
plates. “Where’s Joe?” She stood with one extra plate in hand,
looking around the circle.

“
Who cares?” Rachel picked up a delicate oyster mushroom,
dripping with juices and oil, in her well-manicured fingers. “These
are good.”

We broke
into a chorus of “Joe, dinner.” Only the wind and the rain bothered
to reply.

Craig
kept cooking and we kept eating, munching our way through the
through the piles of mushrooms in silence. It was still early,
although hard to judge daylight in the thick pall cast by the
continuously raging storm. The solitary little tent on the rock was
only occasionally visible between sheets of pelting rain and barely
perceptible variations in the cloud cover.

“
Perhaps someone should go and check on Joe,” I said. “He
wasn’t in our tent when I looked in on Dianne.”

The
others stared at me vacantly, not showing much interest. Except for
Craig, no one made a move to get up and he only went as far as to
stir the lentil stew, which he had placed on the stove to
reheat.

Barb
collected the plates and carried them back to Craig for the second
course. How quickly the trappings of civilization fall away: we
didn’t even care that the plates weren’t washed between courses, or
whether we got the same plate back again, or someone else’s
entirely.

“
He’s not in our tent,” Jeremy said.

“
Craig, don’t you think maybe we should go looking for Joe?” I
said.

The
guide looked up from the stew pot. “He’s probably visiting the box.
Let the poor guy be.”

“
He’s been gone a long time.”

“
He’s off sulking in the woods.” Rachel sighed theatrically.
“Like the little boy he still is. Who cares anymore?” She shrugged.
“Is that stew ready yet? I’m hungry.”

I looked
at Craig. “If Joe has gone off for a pleasant little walk in the
sun-drenched woods, someone should go after him, wouldn’t you
agree? Before he succumbs to a serious case of
sunstroke.”

Craig
stared into the pot. If serious glances could cook a meal this
would be a fabulous dish.

“
I guess you’re right.” He tossed the wooden spoon to one side
with a sigh to rival Rachel’s. “I’ll go and look for him. The rest
of you stay here. Barb, serve up the dinner. Please.”

He
pulled the hood of his purple coat over his hair, set off up the
path toward the “treasure chest”.

Barb
dished up the stew, a glutinous mass of brown lentils, underdone
chunks of boiled potatoes, carrots and a few button mushrooms, all
congealing into a thick brown guk the minute it left the
heat.

We were
staring into our bowls when Craig returned, alone. “He’s not up
there. I guess we’d better organize a search.”

Jeremy
was eager, but he was the only one. Rachel dug happily into her
lentil stew, while Barb picked at it with a look of pure
disgust.

Dianne
emerged from her tent, rubbing sleep filled eyes. “What’s all the
noise? What’s going on? Why didn’t anyone call me for dinner?” Her
eyes and nose were still red and swollen but the crying had
stopped.

“
Joe seems to have wandered off,” Jeremy said. “Someone’s
going to have to go looking for him.”

I dished
up another bowl of the unappetizing stew and offered it
apologetically to Dianne. “At least it’s hot, if nothing else.” She
smiled at me, merely a turning up of the edges of her mouth but a
smile, nonetheless. “Thank you for your kindness, Leanne.” She took
her meal to a vacant patch of log and tentatively lifted the fork
to her mouth.

“
We can’t all be running though the woods,” Craig said. “Or
we’ll all be lost.” Almost the exact words that he had said
yesterday. Was it only yesterday? I pushed aside the remembrance of
what we found then.

“
Jeremy, you walk along the lake to the left. It looks like a
good path and we can’t see how far it goes. Keep the lake in clear
view at all times. If you can’t go any further and have to turn
inland, come back. Understand?”

Jeremy
nodded.

“
Do you have your whistle?” Craig held up the bright, plastic
orange whistle that, like all of us, he wore on a string around his
neck.

Jeremy
showed his in acknowledgement.

“
Everyone have a whistle?”

We
fumbled under shirts and pulled up the desired object. Dianne ate
her dinner.

“
Leanne, I want you to take the trail back down the portage.
Stay on the path and don’t move off it. Blow your whistle if you
think there’s a need to leave the trail, and I’ll come running and
go with you. Understood?”

It was
as if Craig had forgotten that we had gone through practically the
exact same routine yesterday, but I nodded anyway.

“
I’m going to cut through the woods past the box. He might
have kept going up that way.”

“
What about me?” Barb asked, pushing her untouched supper bowl
to one side. “I want to help.”

“
You take the rocks on the other side of… Richard’s tent. Can
you do that?”

Barb
gulped, but nodded.

“
I’ll go with her,” Dianne spoke up. “It might be a bit spooky
over there.”

Barb
flashed her a grateful smile.

“
Okay,” Craig said, “but like I told Jeremy, make sure the
lake is always beside you. Don’t wander inland. If the trail ends
you stop walking with it.

“
Keep your eyes open for anything that Joe might have dropped.
Even if you don’t find him, if we can determine which way he went
then we can concentrate our search in that direction. Got
it?”

We
nodded in unison.

“
No one is to blow the whistle unless you need help. If you
hear a whistle, return to camp immediately, then we can go to the
aid of the whistler. Understand?”