The Bear Mountain Secret – ©Gayle Siebert, 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons either living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Gayle Siebert
www.gaylesiebert.com
Cover by Aspire Book Covers https://aspirebookcovers.com/
Author’s photo by www.ckellyphoto.com
Other books by Gayle Siebert:
Secrets Series:
The Pillerton Secret
The Dark River Secret
Lisa Rogney Series:
Wembly
Call Me Lisa
Silver Buckles
The Bear Mountain Secret
By Gayle Siebert
One
The Phoenix
HE’S ALWAYS BEEN lucky. Some people might not agree. He didn’t think so himself when he was growing up and the old man used his fists on him. That stopped once he was big enough to put the bastard on his ass and things were okay after that. It would have been worse if he’d gone to live with his father because then it wouldn’t have been the little girl who was thrown in the river with a caved-in head, it would have been him.
He stands on the berm surveying the construction site around him. Everything’s nearing completion; the trucks filling the enlarged parking area are for electricians, gasfitters, HVAC and security system techs. The tile setters are packing up their tools. The big truck just rolling in is delivering the overhead garage doors.
The explosion and fire destroyed the old building, but like a phoenix, the new improved version is rising from the ashes. Aside from the prow-front two-storey great room and the log construction, it’s vastly different than the original. Bigger and better. No more staircase jutting awkwardly into the great room; instead, the service staircase is at the far end of the hallway and there’s an elevator in the lobby. The lobby is also new.
No second, redundant doorway into the great room. No more cubby hole bathrooms. Spacious commercial kitchen complete with glass-front refrigerators and a walk-in freezer. New twenty-five meter pool and the hot tub, enlarged and irregular in shape, is in its own separate tropical rainforest-themed grotto with plants everywhere and water trickling down the rock wall. A tropical rainforest in the middle of a temperate rainforest!
The location is remote; it’s rainy, cold and snowy half the year but in summer, a cool respite from the heat, and fresh, clean air year round. Right in the middle of the world’s largest remaining grizzly bear population. Book a wildlife tour and you’re pretty much guaranteed to see at least one, or dozens in fall when the chum salmon are running. Hiking trails will become ski-doo runs in winter. Separate tracks for skiing and snowshoeing. There’ll be a covered skating rink, and in due course, a string of horses for trail rides. Something for everyone, for every season. Who wouldn’t want to vacation here?
Upgrades like these don’t come without cost, though, so cutbacks had to be made. He chose not to replace the original art. Who would recognize an original Picasso or Dali or a Beauchamp if they fell over it anyway, and they were insured for appraised value, straight cash with no requirement to replace them. They’re irreplaceable, after all. His father had told him these ridiculously overpriced works of so-called art were priceless but he had no clue how valuable they were until his lawyer had met with the insurance people. Saying it was a nice surprise would be an understatement.
The project manager appears at the side door to greet the driver of the newly-arrived truck, looks up at him and waves. He raises a hand in acknowledgement.
Yes, he’s always been lucky. His luck began when he was born a boy and his father’s wife wanted a girl.
Two
Best pie
THE COWBELL OVER the door jangles and a small, dark-haired girl in cowboy boots, purple tulle princess dress, and a shiny red cape printed with Supergirls sails into the diner. “HI AUNTIE FRANNY!” she calls out.
“Hey, Lisey,” Franny, behind the cash register, responds. “You drive here all by yourself today?”
“NO SILLY! THEY’RE COMING.” She points out the window to a man in a cowboy hat with a smaller girl on his hip, just passing the sign on the boulevard that declares Dot’s Diner has the “Best Pies North of Kamloops!”
“Okay, let’s get a table for you, then.” Franny picks up a menu, and leads the girl through to a booth by the window. Lisey climbs up on the bench and Franny slides a colouring placemat and a bin of crayons in front of her.
In a moment the man comes through the door, sees Franny and Lisey, and comes to deposit the child he’s carrying on the empty bench before sliding in beside her. “She got away on me again, Franny. Don’t tell Astrid.”
“You’ll have to be a lot quicker to keep ahead of that one, Denver,” Franny says with a chuckle.
“Well, it’s dangerous.” He turns to Lisey with a frown and says, “Elise, you know you’re not supposed to run through the parking lot like that. You’re supposed to hold my hand…”
“I KNOW. I SORRY.” But she doesn’t look up; she’s got the black crayon in her small fist and is obliterating the kitten’s face.
Denver sighs and says, “What can you do?”
“Short of a leash, not much,” Franny agrees. “Just the three of you today, or will Astrid be joining you?”
“Nope,” Denver says, “just us. Wilson’s getting his cataracts done today, obviously can’t drive, so Astrid took him. She wanted to do some shopping in Prince George anyway. I had some things to deal with at the mill, so the girls had to spend a few hours in the office. I promised to treat them if they were good, and the ladies said they were. I thought Dairy Queen, but Elise wanted to come here.”
“I WANT PIE!” Lisey declares, the booming voice incongruous coming from her slim little body.
“Well,” Franny says, “Pie it is! If Daddy says it’s okay.”
“Gettin’ close to supper time and Astrid and Wilson won’t be home until late, so I think a grilled cheese sandwich or something first,” Denver says.
“I WANT PIE!”
“Okay, Lisey, you can have pie after you eat some supper.”
The small blonde girl pops her head out from behind her dad and says, “pie!”
“Tell you what, Lisey,” Franny says, “I’ll make you your special grilled cheese sandwich, okay? You know, with the smiley face on it. How about that?”
Lisey looks up at Franny through narrowed eyes and asks, “WIFF KITTY EARS?”
“Sure, with kitty ears.”
“KA-CHUP WISTERS?”
“Ketchup whiskers.”
“PICKLE EYES?”
“Pickle eyes.”
“NOT BIG PICKLE EYES!”
“Nope, just the right size pickle eyes.”
“OKAY.”
“What do you say, Lisey?” Denver prompts.
“OKAY PLEASE!”
“That’s very polite, Lisey. I guess everyone in the place heard you,” Denver says with a shake of his head.
Franny grins, then turns to the other little girl and asks, “What about you, Kylie? You want a grilled cheese sandwich like Lisey’s?” But Kylie has already burrowed back behind her father’s arm.
“NO! KYLIE WANTS CHIKAND FIGGERS.”
Denver sees the amused looks from the grand-parent-types at the next table. He smiles and says to them, “four years old
with a drill sergeant’s voice.”
“FOUR AND A HALF!”
“Maybe she’ll be a stage actor,” the white-haired woman chuckles. “No trouble hearing her at the back of the theatre!”
“Or a contract negotiator. A little bit’s cute, but lately we negotiate everything, right down to the clothes she’s going to wear, all day, every day. Which explains what she has on, if you’re wondering.” He sighs and turns his attention back to Franny. “Wilson’s no better at it than I am. We both feel like we came out on top if we can get her to wear panties.”
Lisey gives him a dark look before refocusing her attention on colouring, now adding heavy red streaks.
“Well, panties are over-rated anyway,” Franny says.
“I like how you think. Astrid doesn’t agree, though.”
Franny chuckles and gives his shoulder a fist bump. “You know what you want, Den, or should I bring you a coffee or a beer while you decide?”
“Yeah, a glass of beer would be good, milk for the girls, and I’ll have a look at the menu.”
“I WANT A CHOCKLIT MILKSHAKE WIFF WIFF CREAM ON TOP. KYLIE WANTS A STRAWBERRY ONE WIFF WIFF CREAM ON TOP.”
“Okay, milkshakes, then,” Denver agrees. “How come you’re working the floor today, Franny?”
“Just getting ready for the dinner rush. We’re short-staffed anyway and one of the girls called in sick. You wouldn’t think it would be so hard to get servers. ‘Course all the ones that quit for the summer will be wanting jobs again once their kids are back in school, right about when we slow down and don’t need them.”
“The joys of being the owner, eh?”
“Yup. Never a day off, just like your business. I wouldn’t have it otherwise. Besides, it’s a good thing we’re busy now; once winter sets in and the tourists are back at home, we’ll be tight again. Still workin’ that loan off. Good thing Bill’s on steady, even though it’s the short early shift for fire season.”
“Yeah. Looks like we’ll have to shut down logging completely pretty quick, though. Just waitin’ to get word.”
“You can’t help that.”
“No. Makes it hard for the guys, though. But they’ll all be back at work before too long, if we get some rain soon. You might be busy all winter, too, what with that lodge opening up. They got trails for cross-country skiing and snowshoeing, snowmobiling and so on, apparently they think they’ll have as many customers in the winter as in summer.”
“Well, if that’s true, maybe some of them will stop here for lunch on their way through.”
“I imagine they’ll want to come to town, too, and come in here for some of that pie, if nothing else.”
“I hope you’re right.” Franny puts her pad and pencil into her apron pocket and scurries off.
Three men wearing ball caps with Dark River Sawmill embroidered on the crowns come through the door. Franny calls out, “You guys sit wherever you want and I’ll be right with you!”
They head for a booth at the back, but hold up beside Denver. “Hey, Boss,” one says, “no Missus Boss today?’
“She had to go to Prince George,” Denver tells them, “but don’t worry. She’ll be back Monday to make sure no one’s slacking off.”
Three
The Biscuit Tin
FRIEDA FLAMAN STUMPS her way along the narrow walkway through her corn patch to the shed at the lane, a small bag of garbage on the seat of her walker. She doesn’t need the walker, really, but the concrete is so broken and frost-heaved after five decades of Saskatchewan winters it’s treacherous going anytime, and especially if she’s carrying something.
The whole sidewalk needs to be torn out and replaced, but on her pension there’s not much money left by the end of the month. Certainly none to put aside for a new path to the back lane she only uses to take the garbage to the bin. Her grandson Trevor has no problem with the broken sidewalk and he usually takes it out for her when he stops by on his way to the new high school two blocks over, but she forgot to get him to do it this morning, and the garbage truck should be coming by in a few minutes.
When she rounds the corner of the shed, she sees garbage strewn across the lane. The garbage can is on its side, and laying there with the rumpled Kleenexes, Oh Henry! wrappers and Styrofoam meat trays is the lid, flattened.
She heaves a sigh, pulls the bag off the seat of her walker, and sits. Why would someone drive over the lid? Hardly any cars use the lane and it’s not like the lid is invisible. Now because of other people’s carelessness she has a mess to deal with and she’ll need a new garbage can besides. Damn that mutt of Clarkson’s, she thinks.
Of course she’d never say damn out loud, but it feels kind of good using foul language in what her daughter calls her inside voice. It’s nothing compared to the F-word everyone uses now. That young man with the green hair and tattoos and earrings sprouting from his lips and eyebrows used it when he yelled at her for parking in the handicap zone outside the Co-op last week, just because she’d forgotten to put her tag up on the dash. Kids have no respect these days.
I’ll have to go speak to Clarksons about keeping their damn dog in their own damn yard again, too, for all the good it did last time. Isn’t it just like those people in the new part of town! They seem to think just because they’ve moved out of the big city they can let their dogs roam. Well, they’ll find out! Next time I see him on the loose, I’m going to call the Town Office! And look at that, he’s been digging a hole!
She gets garden gloves and a rake from inside the shed, scrapes the garbage into the can, then sets the can upright again. That done, she decides to organize the odds and ends of wood that have accumulated around the bin over the years and deal with the hole the dog dug under the roots of the forsythia that winter killed. Maybe the dirt is loose enough now she can pull it out. Maybe the damn dog did something good after all.
The rake is useless at pulling the dirt away from the roots, so she bends over and uses her hands. The scent of the soil is primal and enjoyable and she hums as she works. When she’s cleared much of the dirt away from the roots, she grabs the dead shrub and pulls. It’s stubborn. She leans her weight against it. Finally, it gives; off balance, she stumbles back a couple of steps, only to be grabbed from behind. She lets out a shrill “AAKK!” and her heart thumps alarmingly.
“Mom! What are you doing back here?”
“Chrissy! Can’t you give a body some warning? You scared the daylights out of me! One of these days you’re going to give me a heart attack and I’ll fall over dead right before your eyes.”
“If that happens can I have that pearl pin you always wear on your coat?” Chrissy chuckles. “Don’t be silly, Mom, you’re strong like bull.”
“And schmart like tractor, isn’t that how it goes?” Frieda clucks her tongue and tosses the dead shrub toward the woodpile. “You should’ve shown up sooner so you could clean up the mess that darn dog of Clarkson’s made.”
“That’s the thanks I get for saving you from landing on your ass? I would’ve pulled that out for you, if you told me about it.”
“I told Doug about it.”
“You don’t really expect him to do stuff like that, do you? I can’t get him to do any work in the yard at home; he sure isn’t going to come over here—”
“And look at the lid for my garbage can! Someone ran over it. It’ll never stay on the can now. Don’t suppose you can buy just a lid?”
“I don’t think so. Have the garbage guys take the can along with the garbage today and I’ll pick up a new one for you next time I’m at the Co-op. Maybe a plastic one with wheels so you can leave it by the stoop and just have Trev wheel it out on garbage day. Then you won’t have this problem. You can pay me back in corn, which is what I’ve come to get.”
“If I do that, what’s to stop that darn mutt coming right into the yard and dumping the garbage all over my patio? And don’t those plastic things break in the winter?”
“We can put a bungy on it if we need to, and then the
worst he could do would be to roll it around. And they’re pretty durable. I’ve had mine for years. Anyway, looks like the garbage is cleaned up, so what are you doing still poking away here?”
“Well, that darn mutt dug a hole but I guess it’s not all bad. I wouldn’t have been able to pull out that dead shrub otherwise.”
“Was he trying to burrow under the shed? Maybe he was after a rat. What’s this?” Christine brushes past her mother, pokes in the loose dirt for a moment, and comes up with flat tin box. “Why’d you throw this away, Mom?”
She takes it from Chrissy to examine all sides before handing it back, declaring, “That’s not mine. I’ve never seen it before.”
“Oh? Maybe it’s Dad’s stash.”
“It’s too small for a bottle.”
“I meant weed. You know, marijuana.”
“Oh. Ha ha! He didn’t smoke marijuana.”
“You sure about that?”
“Course I’m sure! He was dead five years before they legalized it.”
“You think that stopped him? Why do you think he came all the way out to the shed to smoke?” Chrissy shakes the tin and rubs some of the dirt off with her sleeve. “It looks old. Quite pretty, eh? And there’s something inside.” She works at the lid but it’s rusted and refuses to budge.
“Be careful,” Frieda says. A shiver courses through her despite the heat of the south Saskatchewan summer. “Maybe you shouldn’t open it.”
“Why not?”
“It could be anything. Maybe something awful. I got a bad feeling, a terrible feeling all of a sudden. Like a goose walked over my grave.”
“What’s with you and dying and graves today? Don’t be so maudlin! It could be something good, too, like jewelry or money! Or maybe even weed.” The lid gives and Chrissy pulls it off to reveal a package of letters tied in a ribbon. “Rats! Nothing but a bunch of letters.”
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