Murder at Lost Dog Lake (2 page)

“
I think I see something, over here.” Stepping gingerly over a
fallen log, I called to Craig. For a moment I lost sight of it,
then a flash of lightening directly overhead lit up the scene like
lights being turned on in Toronto’s SkyDome. The arm of a bright
yellow rain slicker lay on the ground, largely obscured by
moss-covered rocks. Heedless of my tender right hand, I scurried
through the undergrowth and over the rocks.

Craig
crashed through the woods behind me.

I fell
to my knees beside the raincoat. The body lay face down, arms
extended out to the sides like a figure on a cross, face buried in
a rapidly widening puddle of mud. The silly forest ranger hat lay
off to one side, sinking slowly into the muck. His burden of
assorted life jackets and one bright orange pack lay scattered to
the side. I placed two fingers onto the neck. Everything beneath my
touch felt cold and still.

Craig
reached me, and together we rolled him over.

He wiped
the man’s mouth gently, tilted the head back and bent to give CPR.
I reached out a hand to stop him. “Too late,” I said. “He’s long
gone.”

“
Craig looked at me, failing to understand. “Maybe he’s passed
out. He fell unconscious into this puddle and stopped
breathing.”

I shook
my head. I have seen dead bodies before, and I knew that I was
looking at one now. The dark eyes stared up at us, but their light
was out, the mouth gaped open, a thin mixture of mud and blood
dribbled down the cheek to rest in a pool on the forest
floor.

I didn’t
need all my years of police training to notice that the side of the
head was bashed in and sticky particles of skin and blood and bone
and brain coated the flat blade of the canoe paddle tossed to one
side.

Chapter 2

Day 1: Late night.

If you
have never been far from the city and its continually spreading
suburbs, or even small towns or farmland or cottage country, then
you can’t imagine true darkness. Night in the wilderness of
Northern Ontario is like nothing you would have experienced. The
darkness is so total it becomes a physical presence. A warm,
comforting presence to some, a thing of threat and danger to
others. It all depends on your state of mind, of that particular
night or perhaps of your life.

My state
of mind was something I was unsure of these days. I’d pulled over
to the side of the road and switched off the car engine but kept
the lights shining while I debated whether to get out or turn and
flee back to the familiarity, although not necessarily the
friendliness, of the city.

After a
few moments, which might have stretched into hours, I took a deep
breath and flicked off the headlights. The dark was deeper and the
quiet even more encompassing than I remembered from canoe trips
long ago with University friends. I stepped out of the car with
caution, unsure if this narrow cut-off in a faint road hacked
through the bush was the right place.

The
night was warm. A light covering of clouds obscured moon and stars,
and anything I might be able to navigate by. A few insects sensed
fresh blood and buzzed curiously around my head. I could hear the
far-off shout of a dog’s frantic barking.

I
stumbled down the rough driveway, pack slung over one shoulder,
dragging my suitcase over the rocks and bumps littering the rough
road behind me. My flashlight was buried deep in the suitcase. Bad
bit of packing that.

A tiny
light peeked through the trees ahead, as I rounded the first bend -
the only indication that I might be going in the right
direction.

I pushed
on toward the light; the line of trees broke and the narrow
driveway widened into a full clearing. Through the heavy blackness
of the night I could just distinguish the welcoming bulk of a
chalet, one small propane light burning cheerfully in the
window.

Dropping
my bags at the bottom of the steps, I pushed open the
door.

“
Anyone here?” My voice cracked into the darkness.

With a
rush of giggles and flying blond dreadlocks a heavyset young woman
dashed across the room, propane lantern bobbing in her
hand.

“
Gosh, I’m sorry.” She shifted the lantern to her left hand
and held out the right in greeting. “I didn’t hear your car.
Totally lost track of the time. The others aren’t here yet. They
had some trouble in Toronto with the van that’s bringing the rest
of your group up, but they’re on the way now. Come on in and make
yourself at home. I’m Rita.”

“
Leanne Aimes.”

“
Pleased to meet you, Leanne. Welcome to Canadian Backcountry
Expeditions.” The girl dug a box of matches out of the pocket of
her overalls and gestured behind her with the lantern. “We’re all
sitting on the deck for a bit. Why don’t you go on out and make
yourself comfortable. I’d better get some of these lamps lit before
anyone else gets here.”

Following the low murmur of voices and a trail of cigarette
smoke I made my way through the chalet and out to the front deck. A
small group of young people sat in companionable silence in the
darkness, clearly enjoying the quiet of the evening.

A man
with dreadlocks even blonder and longer than Rita’s smiled and
welcomed me into the circle. “Are you here for the Algonquin trip?”
he asked.

“
Yes. Nine days, leaving tomorrow?”

“
Welcome. I’m Barry, the Lodge Manager.”

Introductions were made. I knew I wouldn’t remember one other
name. An anonymous someone slipped a glass of red wine into in my
hand. No one attempted to make conversation with me, and I was
happy to do nothing but settle back and enjoy the peace and the
first moments of real relaxation I’d experienced in months. The
wine was cheap, but welcome. I closed my eyes, melted into the
rough wooden chair, and listened to the occasional soft murmur of
conversation and the gentle hum of the darkened woods.

My glass
was nearing empty when the crunch of tires on the gravel drive, the
clatter of doors opening and closing, and voices calling out in
greeting, broke the serenity of the northern night. Everyone on the
deck rose to their feet and drifted towards the front of the lodge
to greet the new arrivals. Gulping the last swallow of wine, I
followed.

A
passenger van had pulled up in front of the lodge, disgorging
passengers and piles of luggage. They stood about awkwardly, unsure
of where to go or what to do. There were seven new arrivals, one of
whom stood on the van roof supervising the tossing down of various
suitcases, packs and bedrolls.

A woman
- I couldn’t make out any features in the thin, soft light cast by
the lanterns - greeted Barry with an enthusiastic shriek and an
enormous bear hug. Rita and most of the others also received hugs
and kisses on both cheeks.

While
the staff organized unloading the van, we were politely bustled
along a path running along the main building and down towards the
dark waters of the lake. A rough circle of wooden logs had been
laid out around a cheerful blazing bonfire. More glasses of wine
and platters of crackers and cheese were passed around and we
settled in.

This
trip was a last minute decision and I had traveled up north
overwhelmed with doubts and indecision. At one point, lost on the
access road to Algonquin Park, I almost gave up, wrote off the
money I’d paid for the trip and turned tail to run (or rather
drive) as fast as my determination and my little car would carry
me, back to the city. But now, happily lost in the depths of the
crackling flames and the warm glow of the wine, I was glad that I’d
come.

Barry
stood up to make a short speech of welcome and asked us all to
introduce ourselves. We mumbled our names in the manner of
strangers thrust awkwardly together. Six of these people would be
my companions for the next nine days.

There
were two couples. One middle-aged, with the appearance of
long-married comfortable contempt, the female member of which was
the woman who seemed to know everyone. The other a man well into
his 40’s accompanied by a simpering, perfectly made-up woman young
enough to be his daughter but who I supposed to be a new wife or
girlfriend.

Plus two
students from England: a gangly, awkward boy, and a pretty girl who
was already casting bold glances at Barry and the
guides.

And then
there was me, Leanne Aimes, 30ish, ex-cop, brand new Private
Detective, mother of two, bitterly divorced and trying, I guess, to
recapture some of the fun of my youth.

Our
guide for the week was introduced as Scott, young and fresh faced
and wildly enthusiastic about the upcoming trip. He was darkly
handsome with short black hair, a wide smile and sparkling green
eyes that reflected the dancing flames from the fire pit. A small
hoop earring decorated each ear and a thin braided leather rope
looped around his neck to disappear under his shirt. The English
girl appreciatively eyed the bulge of muscle under his tank top and
the slim hips neatly packaged into a pair of cargo shorts. I did
some admiring myself.

We sat
around the fire until late into the night. Occasionally, someone
would get up and toss another log into the pit, or stir the embers
to life, and someone else would pass the bottle around the circle.
The staff entertained us with stories of previous trips and all the
does and don’ts of wilderness camping.

Rita, of
the wild dreadlocks and happy smile, was the company’s chief cook;
she prepared menus and packed all the food required for the trips.
As the evening progressed, she shimmied across her log to sit
closer and ever closer to the handsome Scott. He moved at the same
pace in the opposite direction until he was perched at the end of
the log - one more wiggle and he would be right off. But his
beautiful smile didn’t crack for a second.

He was
rescued when another guide, back from a weeklong trip, called him
out of the circle. The two stood off to one side, talking in low
voices for a long time, while the party wound down and one-by-one
we made our way to the comfortable rooms in the main lodge where we
would spend the night before getting an early start in the
morning.

Most of
the night, I tossed and turned like a wild thing, and a highly
uncomfortable wild thing at that. The room was more than pleasant:
rustic and heavily beamed, furnished with well-crafted wooden
pieces, romantically illuminated by a now-extinguished propane
lantern, the bed enveloped in the warmth of a traditionally
patterned quilt. Unfortunately as a ‘single’, I was sharing with
the English girl, Barb, who emitted a rousing chorus of snorts and
whistles all the long night. A tiny little thing, weighing all of
about 90 pounds in a heavy rainstorm, with long, straight blond
hair and a cheerful sprinkling of freckles across her nose, she
snored like a drunken sailor.

I was
still haunted by thoughts that this trip was a mistake. Doubts
resurfaced about the wisdom of spending a week with a group of
total strangers. I flopped onto my back, pulled the quilt up to my
chin, (it was hot, but oh, so comfy). No luck. Eventually, I gave
up the struggle and tiptoed down the stairs and out of the lodge,
hoping for a glimpse of the stars, and if I was really lucky, the
northern lights.

But the
skies hadn’t cleared and all remained dark, excepting for a small
circle of lantern light standing guard by the driveway. I stood
outside for a long time, wrapped in a cloak of warm velvet night,
listening to the sounds of the forest: a tree creaking in the wind,
a small animal scurrying for cover, waves lapping against the
shore, the distant whine of a motorboat as a cottager hurried home
from a lakeside party.

My
reverie was rudely interrupted as footsteps raced past me and on up
the path toward the main staff quarters. A man’s voice shouted for
Barry as the cabin door crashed open. Lights sprung up all over the
building and several figures dashed out. Barry’s dreadlocks bounced
behind him as he pulled on a shirt and zipped up his shorts as he
ran. The other guide, whose name I didn’t remember, came running
down the path hopping on one foot as he slipped on his sports
sandals.

The
group rushed past me without a glance. Rita came last. The
flashlight she carried emitted enough light to show flashes of a
frothy nightgown of peach satin and white lace. I reached out and
caught her by the arm. “What’s happening? What’s the
matter?”

“
Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” She pulled out of my grip and
slowed to a walk. “You go back to bed now. Nothing to worry
about.”

I
watched her walk down the path as fast as she was able, like a
little child who has been told not to run, but is in a real hurry
to get there. I was tempted to follow them, but forced myself to
remember that this really was none of my business. I’m not a cop,
anymore.

Barry
ran at full tilt back up the hill to the staff parking area. An
engine started up, and a small car shot by, the white-faced Manager
at the wheel, heading towards the small cabins that housed the
out-trip guides. Minutes later the car returned, back down the path
to the main road, with Barry driving and Rita crouched over
something in the back seat. The wheels spun on the gravel road
before they caught, and the car roared off into the
night.