Murder at Lost Dog Lake (10 page)

“
Then we got to that lodge. It was okay, for one night. I
thought the next stop would be more luxurious.”

“
Listen Rachel,” I said, “the others are waiting for us so we
have to move on. But I have a little bit of advice for you. Never,
never, accept what someone tells you without checking it out, not
if it’s important. Even if it is Joe. Sometimes people don’t mean
to deceive you, they just don’t want to tell you the whole truth.
Would you have come on this trip if Joe had told you exactly what
it would be like?”

She
looked at me in amazement. “Of course not.”

“
There we are. He didn’t tell you because he knew that you
wouldn’t come if he did. So you should have asked. Do you
agree?”

She
nodded glumly. “I guess so.”

“
Don’t be afraid to ask questions. You have to protect
yourself, you know.”

“
But, Joe loves me.”

Deep
inside my chest I screamed and mentally pulled out all my hair, but
on the outside I managed a faint smile. “I’m sure he does. But even
Joe doesn’t always know what is best for you. No one does. In fact,
Joe might be regretting bringing you. Things don’t seem to be going
very well right now.”

She
returned my smile. “He kinda thinks I blew it with the
wife.”

I
laughed. “Tell you what. If you want, I’ll help you through this.
If you don’t know what to do or you feel uncomfortable with
anything, come to me and we’ll work it out. How about
it?”

Her
smile lit up the already bright sky. “That would be great, Leanne,
just great.”

“
We’ll make a woods woman out of you yet. But let’s get going.
I can’t see Dianne any more and Craig looks like he’s about to
lasso us and pull us along behind.”

She
lifted her paddle and turned to face forward. “Thanks, Leanne.
You’ve been a big help.”

I
shrugged. Self-survival really. “By the way, how long have you and
Joe been married?”

“
Three months next week,” she giggled.

I
groaned. No wonder he was happy to have a private tent.

We put
in a long day and covered a lot of ground, both water and land. The
sun beat relentlessly overhead in a clear blue sky. Jeremy, as pale
as the proverbial Englishman in the noonday sun at the beginning of
the trip, was turning an alarming pink and Craig spent most of the
day reminding him to put on sun block. He hadn’t brought a hat, so
at our break Craig demonstrated the art of making of a bandana out
of a spare T-shirt and watering it down regularly. The poor boy
didn’t even have sunglasses. The glare off the lake was bothering
his eyes, so I lent him a spare pair. He looked rather ridiculous
with a T-shirt tied over his head and enormous women’s sunglasses
perched on his peeling nose, but at least he would be safe from
sunstroke.

While
Craig and I ministered to him and Dianne lectured us all on the
dangers of too much sun, Barb sat with her back to us, ignoring
Jeremy as if he had the plague. He kept glancing toward her, but
said nothing.

The next
day was to be a rest day so Craig was determined to push us on in
order to reach a favorite spot of his. He drove us hard but I loved
watching the lake slip under the bow of our canoe and the rhythmic
movement of my paddle as it ate up the blue water, stroke after
hungry stroke. My city weary muscles balked at the unexpected
exercise, but soon I found my second wind and we seemed to fairly
fly across the sparkling surface of the lake.

Rachel
rested a few times more than should be necessary. I pretended not
to notice as she lifted her paddle out of the water and barely
skimmed it over the surface, or took an extraordinary length of
time to refill her water bottle and apply sunscreen. But she was
trying.

Our last
portage of the day was a long one, well over a mile and tough
going. As we progressed further into the park the trails were less
used, and nature in all her rough glory struggled to take back even
that little bit of ground that humans had arrogantly claimed for
their own.

We were
all looking pretty haggard and just about out for the count as we
collapsed at the end of the portage in a mess of canoes, packs,
paddles, life jackets, shoes, daypacks, and water bottles. All
except Craig, of course, who bounced down the trail under the last
canoe as if he had recently risen from his warm and comfy
bed.

“
Oyster mushrooms,” he announced, grinning from one ear to the
other as he deposited the canoe carefully back into the lake where
it belonged. “A whole mess of them, back a bit. They’ll be great
for dinner. Who wants to help me pick them?”

I
struggled to my feet. Might as well be adventurous. After all I
paid good money to be so.

“
How do you know they’re edible?” Joe asked. “There must be
all kinds of poisonous mushrooms and toadstools around
here.”

“
There are,” Craig said. “But I know mushrooms and these ones
are good eating.” He headed back up the trail with me tagging along
behind.

“
We haven’t got anything to carry them in.”

“
Improvise.”

The logs
weren’t far. Huge old trees, fallen to the forest floor long ago,
were decaying slowly back into the earth from where they came, but,
proving that nature wastes nothing, before they were completely
gone they provided a home for a thriving mushroom farm. Thick,
white oyster mushrooms, some as much as six inches long and almost
as wide, lined the rotting tree trunks in neat little
rows.

Barb
walked behind me, and Jeremy followed close on her heels. Craig
showed us how to gently lift the mushroom from its log and shake it
in order to release the spoors so as to provide for the next crop.
Barb brought a plastic bag but Craig and I lifted the edges of our
T-shirts to use for baskets to hold the delicate white
fungi.

As we
worked Craig described in mouth-watering detail how he would
prepare the little treat over the campfire as an accompaniment to
our dinner.

When
we’d finally gathered all that would fit into one plastic bag and
two T-shirts we returned to the others, poured our harvest into the
empty lunch bucket, loaded up the canoes, and set sail once
again.

We had
worked hard to get here, but our destination was worth it: a
good-sized camping spot facing directly west to catch the last rays
of the setting sun. I found a large rock with a perfect curve to
serve as a backrest and settled down beside the lake with my book.
Barb and Jeremy went swimming. He was quite the sight with his
shrunken, lily-white chest and cheerfully pink arms, neck, and
legs. But fortunately for him, the pink was still pink and not too
red. They splashed each other playfully and Barb squealed and
pretended to fall over. Typical mating behavior. Jeremy beamed
broadly, the happiest I had seen him since I met the fellow. I
hoped Barb knew what she was doing, but I doubted it.

As usual
Dianne disappeared for a nap as soon as camp had been set up.
Richard poked aimlessly at a pile of small rocks lining the shore
with a long stick. Joe and Rachel came down to the water. This time
Rachel swam far out with long, firm, graceful strokes, Joe watching
her every movement. Behind me Craig started the fire, heated up
water, and sliced vegetables to make dinner.

“
Would you like me to take a picture of you sitting there,
Leanne?” Rachel had climbed out of the water and stood on the rocks
straightening out her long red hair with her hands.

I smiled
up at her and handed over my camera. When she gave it back she
knelt down and whispered in my ear, “Would you show me how to wash
my panties, please? I don’t mind ringing out my T-shirt in the lake
too much, but I want to wash my panties. Is that
possible?”

With
regret I once again abandoned the intriguing world of Victorian
society; my characters had left the mysterious fog-shrouded city
and were spending the weekend at a grouse hunting party at the
great country estate of Lord and Lady So-and-so. I hoped they would
still be there when I got back.

We
filched a cooking pot from Craig, and I showed Rachel how to fill
it with water and carry it well back from the lake. Not so hard,
really. You just have to know what to do. We walked into the woods
and I swept a little area clear of brush. Rachel produced a tiny
packet of powered soap and I left her scrubbing happily
away.

It was
not too long before a line of frilly lace and satin underpants in a
shade of the most delicate peach, accompanied by a matching push
up, fasten-at-the-front bra, were fluttering gaily on our
clothesline. The men threw furtive glances in that direction all
evening.

I
reclaimed my piece of rock and my novel as the huge sun made its
final descent towards its nightly bath. There wasn’t a cloud in the
sky. The light danced across the water as the dying sun cast
ripples of apricot and gold across the lake in a straight line
pointing directly towards my rock. I delighted in the feeling that
the sun was putting on this show for me and me alone. I remembered
my sons and hoped to get the sun to perform for them one day.
Before they’re too old, before they’re too “cool” to enjoy it. Then
I clambered up the rocks towards the sound of dinner being
served.

The
mushrooms were wonderful, coated in a dressing of cooking oil with
a touch of soy sauce and roasted on the grill. We ate them as an
appetizer. For dinner Craig had prepared a casserole of lentils and
sweet potatoes topped with mashed potatoes and a thick layer of
cheddar cheese.

Without
cooling equipment there would be no meat for the remainder of the
trip. Joe and Richard regarded their plates with a bit of
trepidation. Middle-aged Canadian men that they were, they had
probably never eaten a lentil in their lives. But they cleaned
their plates and both asked for more.

We were
all tired and the camp settled down right after dinner. Fortunately
there were no more matrimonial disagreements, and I fell asleep
almost immediately.

Chapter 8

Day 5: Morning.

That
morning we were all slow and lazy; it was our rest day and we were
determined to take full advantage of it. Craig went out fishing
while it was still dark, long before the rest of us were up. He
caught three perfect trout and had them gutted and cleaned and
sizzling over the fire in no time. I awoke to the incomparable
smell of an open fire, fresh brewed coffee, and frying
fish.

The
flaky white flesh fairly fell off the bones and melted in the
mouth. They were fabulous and although they didn’t go too well with
the muslix that constituted the rest of our breakfast, no one
seemed to mind. Our only complaint was that half a trout just
wasn’t enough.

“
Next time you should plan to pick the mushrooms and catch the
fish at the same time, Craig.” Rachel teased him gently. “That
would make quite a meal.”

We all
laughed and Craig grinned at the complement.

“
There’s a raspberry patch along the shore a bit,” he
announced once all the plates were scraped clean. “Plenty of
raspberries on the bushes. Anyone want to come picking with
me?”

Barb got
to her feet in a flash. “I’d love to. I love raspberries. Me mum
always goes raspberry picking in the spring. She makes the best
jam.”

“
Well, let’s go then. Though I don’t promise you any jam.
Anyone else?”

We shook
our heads.

Jeremy
was nowhere to be seen - gone to visit the “treasure chest” most
likely. He returned as Barb and Craig’s canoe rounded the headland
and disappeared from sight.

“
Where’s that lot off to then?” he mumbled to no one in
particular.

“
A bit of berry picking,” I said brightly. “There’s a good
sized raspberry patch along the shore a bit. It’s not far.” It
could have been on the dark side of the moon for all I knew. “So
they’ll be back soon.”

It was
my turn to wash the dishes; I was kept busy carrying pots of water
up from the lake, heating them over the fire, and scrubbing dishes
and pans. The only part of a camping trip I really hate. Too bad no
one has yet invented a portable, environmentally friendly
dishwasher.

Richard
and Joe pulled out a heavy binder and sat over it, well out of
hearing range, poring over graphs and figures and jotting down the
occasional notation. Dianne produced her little sketchbook and box
of colored pencils and settled down, with her back resting against
a huge old white pine, facing out over the water. She worked with
total concentration, her strokes fast and determined. I strolled
casually by and glanced over her shoulder. With just a few swipes
of color she’d managed to capture the joyous, sparking waters of
the lake, and the mysterious dark breadth of the forest
beyond.

Rachel
slipped into a bikini, laid her towel out on the rocks in the sun,
slathered herself with sunscreen and stretched out to catch the
rays. Joe glanced up once from his notes and from then on paid her
no attention at all. All morning Rachel tossed and turned and
snorted and fidgeted. The Precambrian rocks of Northern Ontario are
not noted for being particularly soft and comfortable.