Murder at Lost Dog Lake

by Vicki Delany

  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.

  The peaceful silence of the northern woods settled back over the camp as if it had never been disturbed. My nerves twitched and I whirled around to find the young guide standing beside me. I didn’t hear him coming, but suddenly he was there. He was a large man, looming over me in the darkness. I took a step backwards.

  “What’s all the commotion?” I asked, my heart settling back into my chest and my curiosity mounting.

  He looked at me carefully, deciding whether to talk or not. “Scott took sick. They’ve taken him to the hospital.” His voice was deep but melodious, soft and very attractive.

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “Don’t know. But he won’t be taking any trip out tomorrow, that’s for sure. Guess that leaves me, if Barry can’t find anyone between now and tomorrow morning.” He held out a rough paw. “I’m Craig. I’ll probably be on your trip. Hope that’s okay?”

  “Leanne.” I took his hand. “Fine by me.” It probably wouldn’t be okay with Barb. She had seemed quite taken with the classically handsome Scott.

  “I’m going back to bed now. Big day tomorrow.”

  We said our goodnights and I slipped into the lodge and made my way up the stairs to my room. The little blonde had finally stopped trying to wake the dead and I snuggled under the quilt.

  My last waking thought was of Scott and the look on Rita’s face as she bent over her patient in the back seat of the car.

  Chapter 3

  Day 2. Early Morning

  The wake-up bell clanged much too enthusiastically, a rude disturbance cutting into the lovely dream I was having of dining in a fancy Toronto restaurant accompanied by some rich and fabulously handsome movie star.

  “Bleedin’ ‘ell,” Barb mumbled from beneath the quilts, “It’s not even morning yet.”

  “The sun is up,” I said.

  “Not me.”

  “Suit yourself.” I pulled the curtains open. Our room was on the east side of the building, and sunlight flooded eagerly into the room. Barb groaned in disgust and covered her head.

  I slipped down the hall to the communal bathroom. By the time I returned, the grumbling girl was sitting up in bed, combing her fingers through her long fair hair.

  A light knocking on our door and a woman’s voice whispered. “Breakfast in fifteen minutes.”

  A huge meal consisting of freshly baked muffins, hot oatmeal, fruit, scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages, was served buffet style around the indoor fireplace which stood cold and empty, waiting for the onset of winter.

  When we’d filled our plates, accompanied by brimming glasses of orange juice and mugs of hot coffee, and taken a seat on the wooden benches, a tired and ill-kempt Barry
cleared his throat and moved to stand in front of the empty fireplace.

  “Before we get ready for your departure, I have a bit of news. Unfortunately, Scott, whom you met last night, won’t be able to take your trip, as had been planned.”

  Barb groaned, while her companion, the skinny, pale English boy, grinned ever so slightly.

  “What happened to him?” the older woman asked “I’ve used him as a guide before, he’s very good.” Her voice was strong, as if she was accustomed to being listened to.

  “He was taken ill, in the night.”

  “Not the water!” The pretty young woman with the fabulous red hair, the one accompanying the older man, squeaked. I had caught her name the night before, Rachel, but not his. “Did he drink the water?”

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that.” Barry rushed to assure us. His smile was tight and strained; he wiped his hands on the back of his shorts. “A bit under the weather, that’s all.”

  Most of the group nodded and returned their attention to their breakfasts. One guide was as good as another.

  The redhead mumbled to her companion and I caught the reference to “bad water”. He hastened to assure her that she had nothing to worry about.

  Fortunately, Barry went on to explain, another of their regular guides, Craig, was still here and he would be happy to take over. The young man who’d stood with me last night watching the car careen out of camp, stood and smiled shyly at the group, his brimming breakfast plate held awkwardly in two huge hands.

  In the daylight I got a better look at our new guide. He stood well over six feet and was thickly muscled to match. A bushy black beard covered the lower half of his face, but his youth showed in his eyes, clear gray and still unlined. His mane of light brown hair was his best feature. Shoulder length, it tangled in thick, wavy masses around his head and down to his shoulders. He wore an Ontario Parks T-shirt that stretched over the muscles of his chest and arms, and a pair of loose drawstring shorts.

  I tore my eyes away before I managed to embarrass myself and returned to my eggs.

  “When we’ve finished breakfast, I would suggest we gather outside as it looks like it’s going to be another fabulous day, and I can give you a few tips on what to expect on your trip,” Barry said, clearly relieved at being able to return to more familiar subjects.

  Breakfast over, we filed out of the lodge. The whole front of the building consisted of a wide and welcoming porch, overlooking the sparkling waters of the lake beyond. Wooden Muskoka chairs, polished to rich amber by the rubbing of countless bottoms, lined the deck. A heavy table of interwoven wooden planks held pitchers of juice and a platter of fresh fruit (not enough breakfast?) An old dog dozed lightly in the sun, arthritic joints twitching as she dreamt of past glories - chasing fast rabbits and cheeky squirrels.

  Barry offered instructions on how to pack up and the rules of the trip. If anyone was unsure of what to pack, he told us, bring it down to the porch and one of the staff would be happy to give him or her a hand.

  Lecture over, we went our separate ways to try and figure out how on earth we could fit more than a week’s worth of clothes (with no laundry facilities along the way) into one stuff sack. Eventually the feat was accomplished and I managed to force my sleeping bag into its sack on the fourth attempt. Flushed with success, I made my way downstairs to see how the others were faring.

  The female half of the middle-aged couple leapt about the porch full of enthusiasm and endless advice for us all on what to bring and what could safely be left behind. She was tall and quite chubby in a manner that before Heroin Chic and Kate Moss had been approvingly called “plump”, and she seemed possessed, even at this early hour, of boundless energy. She advised Craig on how to pack the cooking equipment and foodstuffs, advice that I noticed he accepted with a gentle smile and words of thanks and then proceeded to do it all his own way once she turned her back and danced off to help someone else.

  “You’ve been wilderness camping before, I would guess,” I said as she bent over to retighten the drawstring of my sleeping bag’s sack.

  She beamed at me. Her eyes were a strange but attractive shade of brown, with plenty of gold mixed in, giving them a touch of the mystery of cat’s eyes.

  “Many, many times. I have been coming up here for years. On one trip or another. And do you know, this is the first time that I have been able to drag my husband along with me.” She nodded in the direction of the man I’d long ago guessed to be her better half. “He’s always too busy, you know how it is.”

  I mumbled agreement.

  “Richard prefers to spend our summers at the cottage where he can receive phone calls and use his computer to keep in touch with the goings-on at the office.

  “I know we met last night, but I’m no good with names. I’m Dianne. Dianne Blackwell, and that’s my husband Richard over there in the red shorts and the hat, don’t you simply adore that hat! Makes him look like Smokey the Bear.”

  “Uh, Leanne,” I squeezed in.

  “Would you believe it? After all these years, he suddenly upped and said he would like to come along with me. And he brought friends as well. Isn’t that great?”

  Without waiting for an answer she bustled off to help the little blonde English girl who was having trouble forcing her sleeping bag into it’s sack and had dragged everything outside, looking pitifully lovely as she searched for aid.

  She received Dianne’s help, however, with some degree of ill grace. The girl cast glances at Craig out of the corner of her eye and was obviously hoping for assistance from that direction.

  Despite her air of country familiarity and cheerful attempts to act like a true woodswoman it wasn’t hard to notice that Dianne’s hair was expertly and expensively cut and colored, her Eddie Bauer clothes were all new, her sandals brand-name Tevas, and her sleeping bag top-of-the-line. The single diamond ring she wore on her left hand would come in handy if we were lost and needed to signal a passing aircraft.

  In contrast, the stunning redhead who I’d noticed the night before sitting around the fire with a look of total boredom, was still sitting around, this time on a Muskoka chair by the door of the chalet, looking just as bored. She studied her long red fingernails as her husband? boyfriend? companion? prattled endlessly trying to encourage her into showing some interest in the proceedings.

  “I don’t think you need these, do you Rachel, sweetie,” he implored, holding up a demure little pair of Winnie the Pooh shortie pajamas.

  Her husband, I struggled for his name, had earlier walked up the beach with Richard Blackwell, supposedly to inspect the canoes. In his absence, Rachel had carried down her suitcases in their entirety, not even bothering to sort things out for packing into stuff sacks. Then she placed the bags on the porch and tapped her brilliantly painted toes impatiently, waiting for someone to load them.

  She looked up from her nails. “I guess not,” she sighed. She really was quite beautiful, a perfect size four with long red hair, immaculate makeup, flawlessly groomed nails. I made a bet with myself on how long the nails would last and slapped my mental money down: gone by the first portage. The neatly painted toes were wrapped in a tiny pair of gold sandals secured by one thin strap. Her outfit would have been perfect for a cruise in the Mediterranean, but it didn’t look too likely to stand up to a week in the Ontario bush.

  Craig eyed her with trepidation. Lovely as she was, she would be a handful. She noticed his glances and ran her hands through her red hair and sat up slightly straighter, the better to show off her chest, I guess. He scowled and looked away.

  Rachel’s companion continued pulling stuff out of her suitcase and holding it up for her inspection. I left them arguing over footwear and wandered off to take some photos of the lodge and environs.

  The English boy, Jeremy, stood about, looking awkward and quite out of place with his pale skin, button-down, short-sleeved shirt, too tight shorts and black socks pulled up to bony, white calves. His pack was neatly prepared and resting at his feet. J
erky little eyes watched Barb’s every move.

  Unlikely as it seemed, eventually it was all sorted out. Rachel had been persuaded to trade the dainty gold sandals for a pair of thick socks and hiking boots and Craig called us all together to carry equipment down to the lake.

  Dianne picked up the heaviest of the packs, flung it on her back and marched down the hill. I bent to do likewise and found myself unable to even lift the thing, much less toss it casually across my shoulder. With a chuckle Craig picked up the pack, rested it on my back and showed me how to slip my arms through the straps. I staggered for several steps until I decided that the indignity of falling on my back with my arms and legs in the air like a trapped turtle would be too much for my feeble pride. I steadied my burden and followed Dianne.

  We gathered at the lakefront and selected four yellow canoes to serve as transportation. Craig supervised storing the packs into the boats and helped us to choose lifejackets and paddles. He folded out his map to show the proposed route, where we would stop for lunch, and where we would spend the first night. The rest of the trip he filled in with “if you want to” and “what everyone decides.” Dianne had plenty of suggestions, but I knew we would do exactly as Craig suggested. Rachel stared out over the lake, paying no attention at all to the map or the selection of route.

  Then, at long last, we were off into a beautiful day. Postcard perfect, featuring a bold blue sky, bright sunshine, azure water, and a gentle sprinkling of fluffy white clouds. The sun sparkling off the lake was dazzling. I stopped paddling for a moment to take a deep breath and sigh with contentment. Truly Heaven on Earth.

  I had been paired with Dianne, I don’t really know why. She had leapt into the first canoe, assumed her position in the stern, or the back, and shouted “Leanne, you can ride with me.” I saw no reason not to, so I clambered into the bow. We were off before my bottom touched the seat. She was a strong paddler and at first I had to work to keep up. But before long, some faint remembrance of canoe trips past floated to the surface and I fell into a regular, natural stroke. Our canoe cut through the water like we were born to it.