Murder Sees the Light (15 page)

“… and bloody well stay out! You come here again and I'll twist your other arm. Now clear out! Clear out!” George picked himself up out of the dirt and tried to untwist himself from the clothesline full of bathing suits and towels that he had fallen into.

“You won't take on so high and mighty when it's known. You hear? When people find out, you just remember throwing me out of your place. I just come to talk.”

“Next time I'll throw you out the
front
door!” Des went back into his unit, and while the screen was open I could see the pale face of Delia Alexander through it. George McCord pulled a bathing suit off his shoulder, hurled it to the ground and shambled off.

Thinking about what that all added up to was interrupted by a racket from the direction of the generator. I wanted to get back to polish off the last of my Cokes, but curiosity again got the better of me.

It sounded like an old-fashioned siren on a fire engine at first, but I then placed it as a circular saw, as it changed pitch. The Delco shed and the woodshed backed on the extremity of the clearing occupied by the lodge. The low ground, where the cars were parked, lifted slightly as you got near the sheds. From here too you could look into the back of the motel units. Only there was nothing to see except rickety back steps and patched screen doors. From the Delco I could see a cloud of sawdust, like an aura, around the open front of the woodshed. I walked around into the yellow fog and noise and could see two figures decked with sawdust on their heads and eyebrows. They were feeding cordwood into the spinning saw. Most of it was birch, but there was a mixture of other hardwoods too. I shouted something but it disappeared in the racket. Joan Harbison appeared from nowhere and killed the switch. That was a shock to all of us. The restored silence sat there like a snared animal, while both of the yellow figures by the saw blinked. One of them—I saw that it was Lloyd—removed a pair of earmuffs and wiped his face with a cloth cap after slapping it on his leg. He looked from Joan to me without reading any answers to his questions in either of our faces.

“Lloyd, give her a rest for a bit. She heats up if you run her steady,” Joan said. The other man lowered a yellow kerchief from his nose and removed his earplugs. It was the neighbour from across the lake. He added the last sawn log to the accumulated pile.

“Come away out of the dust, Benny,” Lloyd said, and he tipped up a couple of uncut, drumlike tree sections to sit on.

“Lloyd, you were after Aeneas to take you in to Little Crummock Lake. Did you ever find out how to get there?”

“There's no secret getting in there. I just wanted Aeneas's company. We fished every other lake up here just about. Oh, say, you wouldn't be acquainted with Dalt Rimmer, would you?” He indicated the other man who was already glaring in my direction and giving me a look at one of the more neglected mouths in the north woods. Most of his teeth were stumps of blue, stained with tea or tobacco. I reminded Lloyd that we'd met at the Annex Thursday night.

“Up to Little Crummock, is it?”

“Looking for lake trout and speckled,” I said.

“That's a rough way in,” said Dalt Rimmer. “You'd best take the York River and go up from Four Corner Lake. They call it Buck on the map. Fish is good in there.” I smiled my answer and turned back to Lloyd.

“Joan says that other people have been in to Little Crummock. I may look like a tenderfoot, but I think I can follow a trail or carry a pack if necessary.” Now it was Lloyd's turn to smile.

“Little Crummock's about thirty feet higher than this lake. The river that joins them—”

“The Durwent River,” added Dalt Rimmer with a gleam in his eye.

“Yes, on the early maps it is, but around here you won't hear it called anything but the Tom River, named after Tom Mowat, who was foreman at the lumber camp up on Deer Lake.”

“That's Bice Lake on the map,” said Rimmer.

“How far up the river can you go by boat?”

“You can go around the first two bends in a motorboat if you stay in the middle of the channel. You may go half a mile farther in a canoe, but it becomes too shallow and full of boulders after that.”

“The portage trail goes up the right-hand side about a mile up from the lake.”

“What are you saying, Dalt? Dick Berners told me himself that the trail winds up past the dam from the left. The early map, Benny, shows it as Crummock Water, because of the long length of it with a twist at the north end.” I must have looked confused. “A crummock is a shepherd's staff, his crook, you see. There's a river feeds into it from Pine Lake.”

“And that's called Percy on the map,” added Dalt Rimmer to make everything perfectly clear.

“Why not just draw him a map, Lloyd? That would be simpler,” Joan asked from the sidelines. “All the fish will have died of old age if he has to wait for you two to agree about anything.” Dalt looked lean and awkward on his stump, as though his joints were leftovers from a bigger man.

“Is there a lean-to, or cabin, or shelter of some kind?”

“There's Dick's place. I guess it's still standing. Nobody's been in there since they carried poor Dick out dead. Glover and them brought him out.”

“Now if you want another way to get in there, you can take the lumber trail past Kettle Point …”

“That's the point past Giffords' Point,” Lloyd added by way of clarification.

“You can also go up the Durwent, or Tom River …”

“That's Mississippi on the map, right?” I asked.

THIRTEEN

It took me about three-quarters of an hour to boil a bunch of eggs until they were as hard as I like them and then make them into part of a cook-out supper wrapped in bread-plastic. I thought of taking the fish fillets on the trip but voted the idea down. One look at them in the refrigerator led me to believe they'd been multiplying while I was gone. Oh, for a little leftover turkey!

Before I left Lloyd, he'd sketched a map of how to get into Little Crummock and where at least two people thought Dick Berners's cabin might be.

There was a new car in the parking lot between the Lamborghini and an OPP cruiser. From the lake I could hear more voices, but these were laughing and squealing with pleasure. Most of the lodge's population was gathered on the dock: Cissy and the kids belonging to a new couple had just come in from swimming. Aline was working on her tan, and Westmorland and Delia were approaching the shore in a rowboat. They'd had all my cooking time to settle down. I saw no sign of George. Or David Kipp. A stranger with a comfortable paunch and a can of beer in his hand and Joan Harbison's arm around his shoulders was sitting in a deck chair. He had a chubby face that still managed to look athletic, although I couldn't see any sign of motion. He was wearing tan shorts and an inverted gob hat pulled low on his brow. Joan stayed close and was apparently telling him the news of the week. Roger Kipp stood to one side watching them. He didn't know how to deal with the fickleness of women. His brother, Chris, was trying to interest him in taking pictures. I walked down to join the people. Joan made the introductions. Mike Harbison took off his sailor hat to reveal curly grey locks that looked like they had been arranged not by the artistry of nature but rather by the cunning of some Toronto hairdresser. He was wearing a Lacoste T-shirt with a little crocodile nibbling his left nipple.

“I've just been catching up on the terrible news,” he said, shaking his ringlets. “It could do the lodge a lot of harm.”

“I see the police have come back. Is it Glover or somebody else?”

“There are five of them. They've got string wrapped around trees, sort of roping off the area around the culvert and the old Pearcy site. That's where Aeneas had his tent. There's a detective inspector and a sergeant. The others are trying to find Aeneas's pick-up truck. Glover's not been back, but I'm not surprised.”

“Why's that?”

“Well, simply put, Aeneas had a girl, but Harry Glover put a stop to it.”

“Why was that?”

“Aeneas was an Indian, and the girl, well, she wasn't.”

“And Glover of the OPP broke it up?” Mike nodded, and I could see he didn't want me to press him any harder.

Dripping kids were running the length of the dock, making Aline sit up quickly. Roger Kipp had taken his brother's camera and was trying to get everybody bunched together for a picture. He waved his hands like a traffic cop, and we all said “cheese,” and he pushed a button to make us immortal. Westmorland and his girl, just coming up to the group, were also in the picture. The group expanded after the picture, like we'd all been holding our breath. Roger and Chris were talking to Des Westmorland. Delia stood by.

“Come on, Roger,” he said. “You and your brother get in the picture.” Roger was pulling back and shaking his head. “Come on. Show some spirit. We'll get one of you and your brother. Come along now. Nice big smiles, before the party breaks up.” Roger reluctantly turned the camera over to Des who began examining it from all sides. The two boys jammed into the group between the Pearcys and Harbisons. I could hear Chris muttering, “He's got his stupid finger over the shutter.” I found my party smile where it was vacationing and paraded it out again. Meanwhile Des had discovered what all the mechanical outcroppings on the camera were for and was squinting seriously through the viewfinder.

“Make sure it's my good side, Mr. Westmorland,” said Joan.

“What kind of cheese will it be this time?” asked Aline.

“Push together more, please, you in front. Look pleasant, everybody.” With his eye still on the viewfinder, Westmorland began moving backward. Before anybody could say anything, he had backed off the edge of the dock, like a comic in a movie. The camera went back over his head as he suddenly found himself overbalanced and falling.

“Look out!”

“Mr. Westmorland! Look out!”

“Desmond!” We all got a little wet with the splash. As soon as he picked himself up in the four feet of water, with his glasses dangling from one ear and we were sure that he was all right, we broke up laughing. Mike was first. It exploded in loud bursts. Roger and Chris forgot for the moment that it was their camera and split themselves at the sight of the man standing bewildered and surprised up to his belly in Big Crummock Lake.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “I'll never live this down.” He began to join in on the fun. Lloyd Pearcy went to the edge and offered him his hand, but Westmorland shook his head, and walked ashore first and joined us on the dock looking very red in the face.

“Would you do that again, so we can get a picture of it?”

“You've fed my best smile to the minnows,” said Aline. He took the ribbing as well as he could, but finally retreated to get changed. He took the boys with him, probably making his peace with the owner of the camera.

“I don't know what we can do to top that bit of excitement,” said Mike Harbison, taking a sip from the beer can and wiping his chin with the tanned flat of his hand. “I could invite everybody for hotdogs tonight around the barbecue. How's that?” The new kids liked that, and began dancing up and down, then ran off to report the news to their parents. Joan rolled with the punches, I thought.

“I do enjoy an old-fashioned hotdog roast,” confided Cissy, looking up at me for confirmation.

“Yeah, they're a lot of fun. We used to hold them at camp when I was younger. A little sing-song, a story, some marshmallows. Nothing like it. Unfortunately, I won't be here this evening.”

“Not be here?” She was blinking in disbelief, like I'd said that God was a toaster.

“I'm just getting ready to head off on a fishing expedition. I want to get some big ones in Little Crummock Lake.”

“Oh, I see. But it's too late to start today. Why don't you make an early start tomorrow? We'd so like to have you. Especially if there's going to be singing.”

“Thanks, but I think there's light enough to see me most of the way. I've got a good map. Doesn't look too difficult. Not for an old camper like me.”

“I see. Well”—she was adjusting to a smaller universe—“you'll be missed.” She was playing balletic games with her small red hands over the back of her chair. “Did you hear, Lloyd? Benny's not going to be here for the roast. He's going in to Little Crummock to camp out.”

“Too late to start today, Benny. I'll help you pack so you can get an early start in the morning.”

“That's what I told him.”

“It's rough going.”

“I'll only be gone overnight. Besides I've got your map.”

“Well, I guess you know your own mind. The worst of the sun is over. Have you got a sleeping bag?”

“I was just going to take a blanket roll.”

“Don't say another word. Joan has plenty of sleeping bags. Have you gassed up?”

“I've got most of a tank. It'll see me up and back.” Cissy passed the word to Joan, and soon everybody was planning my trip for me. For a minute I thought I was going to get a replay of the conversation with Dalt Rimmer and Lloyd. Joan left the dock to find me a pack sack. Cissy went to wrap a piece of cake. Mike Harbison was beginning to tell me how to make bannock over a fire, when I caught Lloyd off at the end of the dock scanning the clouds for signs of bad weather. I'd just about decided not to go when things started arriving back at the waterfront: a canteen of water, a first-aid kit, a knapsack big enough for a marshal of France to set up a recruiting office in, and a heavy-duty sleeping bag wrapped in a ground sheet. There was no way out.

I watched the way Joan packed. She was efficiently made and didn't waste a gesture. Meanwhile, Cissy packed the way she talked, full of sudden pauses and second guesses. I didn't lift a finger; I wasn't allowed to.

“Do you like sardines, Benny?” Joan slipped in two cans. Mike came back into the picture carrying a box from Switzer's Delicatessen in Toronto. He took three frankfurters from it and wrapped them in foil. Franks from Switzer's and I wouldn't be there to help eat the rest of them. I wondered if there wasn't a way out of this yet. I walked out to the end of the dock to talk weather with Lloyd.