The Spy I Loved
Authors: Dusty Miller
Tags: #thriller, #suspense, #satire, #spy, #international intrigue, #dusty miller, #the spy i loved
The Spy I Loved
Dusty Miller
Copyright
2014 Dusty Miller and Long Cool One Books
Design:
J. Thornton
ISBN
978-1-927957-69-1
The
following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person
living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely
coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are
the product of the author’s imagination.
This
ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may
not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to
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respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Lindsey
was cleaning the kitchen in Cabin Fifteen. The place smelled of
booze and stale tobacco. She had the windows open and a fresh
breeze coming through. The place had been shut up for two months
now. The ice fishermen who rented it last must have been real pigs.
They had heaped up the dirty pots and pans and left them to harden
by the sink. They had used every cup, knife, fork and spoon in the
place without giving them as much as a rinse. Going by the track of
built-up mud coming and going from every room, they had left their
boots on at all times, except for possibly when they were asleep.
Even the bedding smelled of fish. There were one or two fish scales
on the bed sheets.
The
shower enclosure was the cleanest place in the house. Her
conclusion was that they hadn’t used it.
She had her first year down. Lindsey was studying history at
the U of T. School was her ticket out of Godforsaken
Espanola,
if she kept
her nose clean and did the work. A summer of grunt labour at Uncle
Dale’s fishing camp was a necessary evil. There were many of those
in life, as Dale often said, faded blue eyes glazing over as he
launched into yet another long and seemingly pointless
story.
Just when
she thought she’d heard them all, he came up with another one.
She’d accused him of making them up one time, and the hurt look he
gave her still raised doubts. They might be true, after all—he’d
operated the camp for quite a long time. It was back in the late
eighties when he quit his job as a fireman in Kitchener and bought
the run-down old place with his life savings.
It might
be a wonderful dream. What might be his dream was not Lindsey’s
dream.
His old
war stories were the worst. They were often the prelude to a big
drunk and a good cry.
There
were some things you never got used to.
She had
grown up there, after her parent’s death in a hotel fire in Vegas.
She was six years old when that happened. What a sad little girl
she must have been. Those memories were the strongest, her memories
mostly fantasies—the fantasy that it was all just a mistake, and
that they would come back to her one day.
She knew
their names, at least, and some people didn’t even have
that.
Her dad
played the piano and her mom sang. Her mother had a voice like a
nightingale. That’s all Lindsey knew. They had become fading photos
in a handful of albums, her early childhood memories treasured but
indistinct.
It was a
painful subject and it was best not to probe. At one time, decaying
VHS tapes of her parents had fascinated her. She hadn’t looked at
them in years.
Today was
looking like a very long day.
She knew
the job. For the most part, people were good. They were patient and
understanding. Most people would be friendly enough, and nice
enough. There would be one or two stinkers. There would be one or
two big tippers and one or two real assholes. There would be some
real gems in there and that helped to make life interesting moment
by moment.
At the
end of a very long and winding road through the boreal forest of
the Canadian Shield, the park was a microcosm of a larger
community. It was a model. It was isolated, self-contained and
having much of its own infrastructure. All of this cost money. It
had to be tended with effort and attention, some of which took
brains, and a lot of which was hard on the back.
Some of
it was a pain in the neck.
Next came
the bathroom, with a ring of ashes stuck to the floor by what must
be dried pee around the toilet. It grated at the sponge as she
scrubbed. Smokers weren’t her favourite people. These ones had been
drinkers too, and particularly slovenly by the evidence left
behind. There were no caterpillars burned into the floors and the
rugs and that was something.
They
clearly didn’t worry too much about what staff thought of them and
that applied probably every place they went. If nothing else, such
folks were usually pretty good with the tips.
Hopefully
Mark had done all right.
Making up
a short mental list, for there didn’t appear to be too many of the
usual household cleansers under the kitchen sink, she headed for
the main lodge to get her cleaning supplies.
The first
guests were expected this weekend, the big May Two-Four, and it was
almost upon them.
She had
her work cut out for her.
***
The main
lodge had its own kitchen. Their personal living quarters were on
the back of what was the largest building in the camp. She found
oil soap for the floors, clean sponges, the glass cleaner and the
dish detergent. Mark, their winter caretaker, was partly to blame
for the mess in Cabin Fifteen. He had left them with nothing, not
even a washcloth. You couldn’t always blame the customer. She
pulled the sponge mop out of the broom closet and headed for the
lobby and the front door.
There was
a noise as she rounded the corner.
A little
squawk came when she ran right into what was a fairly tall man with
a very hard, wide chest. In that brief contact, she noticed his
aftershave, and the smell of male sweat. There was nothing else
quite like it. He smoked a pipe, she knew that
instantly.
“
Excuse me, Miss?”
“
Oh!”
“
Sorry.”
He was
unusually well-dressed, in a charcoal blazer, white shirt open at
the neck and dark grey trousers. She approved of the soft,
chocolate brown loafers. Grey shoes would have killed it. The
gentleman stood dangling expensive salmon-stalker sunglasses from
one hand, his car keys in the other.
“
That’s all right. I didn’t hear you come in.” There was a
bell over the door, swinging on a hook.
It had
been disengaged, snapped back out of the way of the door, but Mark
had been alone for much of the time in the off season. She did the
same thing herself sometimes. Going over, she reached up and fixed
it.
“
How can I help you?”
“
Well. My name is Kimball. Liam Kimball. I have a
reservation…” He smiled slightly, face dimly perceived, backlit by
the glare of the front and south side windows.
He had a
deep voice but spoke gently, in a cultured English accent. His look
into her eyes was not exactly ingenuous. There was some real
character visible there in spite of his age or lack of it. He had
an athletic appearance. That youthfulness stemmed more from the
posture, the way he padded about like a big cat. He took in the
contents of the store at a glance, those glinting hazel eyes
curious about everything. He was older than he looked. There was a
hardness there, one not often seen…not by her, anyways. Maybe it
was confidence, but confidence of a different kind.
Turning
to her left, she put her cardboard box down on end of the reception
counter. She propped the mop against the end and went in behind the
cash register. The book, which should have been on top of the
counter, wasn’t there. She cursed Mark inwardly. The counter was an
all-glass display cabinet with maps, brochures and a few rather
tacky fishing-themed gifts and cards priced at what she knew to be
a ludicrous rate of mark-up. Changing the display was one more item
on her list. The store, still darkened as he wandered about
stretching his legs, was in need of a good dusting before
restocking the shelves for opening.
“
Shit.” Mark and her uncle had left everything to her and that
included behind the counter.
There
were open shelves, above that the pigeonholes and key-hooks, and
then a row of cabinets. She opened door after door. Not seeing it
at first, she dropped down and had a look on the bottom shelves. It
struck Lindsey that the fellow was pretty quiet. She snuck a look
but he had his back to her. This was a slight relief. Some males,
away from home and the wife, were inveterate prowlers and she
wasn’t in the mood right now. Some of them could be downright
grabby. She’d felled more than one with a drop-kick to the centre
of their existence. They might not know she was underage, but she
sure had at the time.
It was
the sort of thing Dale didn’t need to know about and she had
figured out an appropriate response all on her little
lonesome.
“
Ah.” Pulling out the registry book, she blew off a thin cloud
of dust and then gave it a quick wipe with the heel of her grubby
palm before Kimball turned around.
Clad in
her usual informal garb, it struck Lindsey that she was wearing a
halter top, skimpy cut-off jean shorts. She had a red bandanna
round the neck, along with narrow-strapped doeskin
sandals.
Damn, how
her heart fluttered. The sandals were an indulgence, a luxury, as
well as being a bit of a temptation. Some of them old fishermen had
some very good-looking sons and nephews and brothers and
sons-in-law.
A little
eye candy went a long way towards bringing them back from year to
year.
There was
always that contradiction, wasn’t there?
Look but don’t touch.
She felt
terribly foolish all of a sudden, with this attractive professional
coming in here and she swallowed a lump in her throat. She’d met
all sorts of guys in school. Some of them left quite an impression,
one which didn’t always reflect well on the male gender in general
terms.
More
specifically, some of them were real creeps.
Kimball
seemed distant, quite frankly tired-looking. She’d read the list of
reservations on the computer screen, but the book was a tradition.
The computer took a moment to warm up. You couldn’t allow guests to
rummage through the computer. They could look at the book and see
where famous hockey players or one or two others, soap stars and
the like, some otherwise unremarkable people on CBC Radio, had
signed it years ago.