``No, afraid not.’’
The wind blew, shaking the wood frames of the room’s only window. Outside, a break in the cloud revealed the half slice of the moon, a sliver of white hanging low in the sky. The tops of the trees danced and jerked as the wind licked at their branches.
Ingrid King drew herself in as the lodge creaked and moaned in time with the stiffening breeze.
``There’s another blanket in the closet if you need it. Nights can get cold this time of year.’’
``The duvet should be fine. I like a cold bedroom.’’
``All the same, it’s there if you need it. I hope you can get some sleep. I, myself, may have difficulty.’’
``Perhaps we can talk again tomorrow. After breakfast.’’
``Yes, that would be fine.’’
Brant pulled the duvet up to his chin when he’d changed into his pajamas and had slipped between the covers. The bed was gloriously comfortable. Not too hard or soft. As he waited to be overcome by sleep, he stared at the wood-paneled ceiling, his mind playing back the grim details of the autopsy and the conversation he’d just had with Ingrid King. Allison Carswell loomed large at the periphery of his thoughts. So, too, did Clatterback and Malloy and the question of how their investigations were going in Boston.
Before long, he was falling and then there was darkness and he was asleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
``Tell me again how you knew him.’’
``We met at one of the cafes in town. He was searching through the job postings on the bulletin board. I knew right away he’d probably have guiding experience.’’
``And did he?’’ Brant asked.
``Expert level. He could handle a kayak even better than me.’’
John King smiled at the memory as he took his wife’s hand in his own.
They were sitting in front of the stone fireplace in the main room. The stereo played in the background. A mix of light jazz and classical. Nothing too offensive.
They’d finished breakfast. Though the sky was gray, daylight streamed in through the windows, dappling the hardwood floors with spots of light.
He’d run into them on his way back from the makeshift autopsy room where he’d stopped to ensure the body remained undisturbed.
``I heard he was good with the customers.’’
``Very good,’’ Ingrid King said, glancing quickly to her husband. ``He was very passionate about the lake and the outdoors.’’
``I’ve heard he was popular, particularly the women.’’
John King smiled awkwardly. Brant wanted to shake him, to provoke more of a reaction.
``Not much we can do about that to be honest,’’ King finally said.
``How did that make you feel, Mrs. King? Did you have a problem with that?’’
Ingrid King picked at an invisible tuft of fluff on the couch.
``I didn’t like it, but as John said, there’s not much we could do about it in the end.’’
``But you confronted him about it?’’
``John had words, yes.’’
``And what about you? Did you ever discuss it with Mr. Eichel?’’
Ingrid King cocked her head to the side in contemplation as she considered the question.
``Ingrid steered pretty clear of that,’’ John King finally said, answering the question for his wife. ``We both felt it better that I deal with the situation.’’
``I see,’’ Brant said, and after a moment added: ``And did you? Deal with it, I mean?’’
``I warned him to be careful. I told him that if it were to become an issue, we’d have to do something more drastic. But we’re all adults here, lieutenant. We’re all mature enough to know these things happen.’’
Brant backed away. ``Yes, they do happen, don’t they. How did he react…when you confronted him?’’
``I suppose he was aggressive and slightly confrontational. He didn’t make it easy, but that’s what made him such a good guide in the end. He pushed the limits and liked to push others. The guests responded to that. They knew he was good.’’
``Do you recognize any of these women?’’
Brant placed the photographs recovered from Eichel’s room on the polished wooden coffee table in front of them. He’d held the photos in reserve, not wanting to play his hand until he was sure the timing was right. The snapshots of Allison Carswell were at the top of the pile.
John and Ingrid King passed each of the prints back and forth to each other as they scrutinized the scenes. Ingrid King furrowed her brow slightly.
``One or two of the women may have been guests last year,’’ she said, finally. ``We get a lot of bookings. It’s hard to keep track.’’
``No one from this season?’’
John King pursed his lips as he took the photos in hand for a second time.
``None that I recognize,’’ he said.
``What about this woman?’’ Brant said, selecting a photo of Carswell blowing a kiss in the photographer’s direction.
``Sorry, no, I don’t recognize her? Ingrid?’’
John King turned to his wife, who dismissed the photo with a wave of her hand. ``Is she special?’’
``She might be,’’ Brant said, holding his cards close to his chest. He was unwilling to reveal Eichel’s relationship with the dead woman unless left without choice. ``What about this one? Looks like some of the shots were taken here at the lake. A few seem out of place, but I’d be willing to bet that’s the shoreline right there.’’
Brant drew his finger along the bottom of a print showing placid water and the fuzzy green border of the lake’s perimeter.
``I guess you’re right. But I don’t really see what the relevance is to Franz’s death,’’ John King said with feeling. ``I guess I saw him taking photographs from time to time. But that doesn’t really mean anything, does it?’’
Brant sucked air in through his teeth. ``No, it doesn’t. I’m just bothered by one thing. We found these in a shoebox at the back of Eichel’s closet. They’re in sequential order. Except some are missing. Either that or he lost interest in photography at some point down the line.’’
John King handed back the photographs he’d been holding.
``Sorry, we can’t really help you. Maybe you’re right. He may have grown tired and moved on to something else.’’
``Yes, that must be it,’’ Brant said, pocketing the photos for safe keeping.
He found her back in his room when he returned from the interview with John and Ingrid King. Mark Burnard had earlier offered to meet by the rack of lifejackets, perhaps even to take him kayaking should the weather hold. He’d need to change if he was to head out on the lake.
Mallek held two pieces of paper between her fingers. The edge of the first paper had curled upwards. A second similar-looking document was charred and flaked at the touch.
``I thought you’d want to see this,’’ she said, gingerly handing him the most degraded of the two documents.
``Where did you find this?’’
``I was poking around in the dumpster at the back of the lodge. I don’t know if it means anything but I thought it was interesting. This one looks like it was thrown into a fire or something.’’
Brant inspected the paper she’d handed him. She was right. The document — whatever it was — had been set on fire.
Most of the text was unreadable. Brant squinted, tightening his focus for a better view of the faint letters set against the blackened background of what remained of the charred paper.
``I’m not really sure I can make it out,’’ he said at last.
``It’s difficult.’’
``But you have a theory?’’ Brant asked, impressed at Mallek’s instinct and ingenuity.
``I can’t be sure exactly, but I’d say it’s an invoice of some kind.’’
``How can you be certain?’’
``Here.’’
She pointed to the heading at the top of the document and ran her fingers down to the charred and jagged border.
&nbs
p; ``It’s really faint but that’s a medical equipment company’s logo. I recognize it because the university uses them for some of our lab equipment. They even make centrifuges.’’
``Centrifuges?’’
``Hmmmm. We use them to separate blood cells from plasma cells in the lab.’’
Brant handed back the document and said: ``Not much use for that around here.’’
``Did you find anything else while you were dumpster diving?’’
Mallek shook her head. ``Just the usual garbage.’’
Brant smiled at the response. ``What were you doing digging around the dumpster in the first place?’’
Mallek shrugged. ``Isn’t that what you do? I just thought it made sense, that’s all.’’
``You’ve got heart, I’ll give you that.’’
She smiled at the compliment, but was unsure what she’d accomplished.
``So you think there’s something here?’’ she asked.
``I didn’t say that. Let’s hold on to these for the moment.’’
CHAPTER FORTY
Mark Burnard stood outside by the racks of kayaks and lifejackets. The afternoon had softened, and the threat of the storm had temporarily receded, leaving a lustrous, mellow light bathing the tops of the trees. The sky was the color of egg shells. The lake beckoned.
``The Extreme. From TideRace. She’s a beauty.’’
Burnard ran his hand along the length of the fiberglass kayak he’d been washing down. His fingers caressed and probed as if he was massaging the back of a lover. The big man brushed beads of water from the kayak’s gently rounded nose.
``You’re an expert.’’
``I know my kayaks, if that’s what you mean.’’
``Tell me about this one.’
``The Extreme? It’s one of the new ones we bought this season. She’s about 17 feet long. A day hatch at the front, another round day hatch near the bulkhead, and an oval rear hatch. Fiberglass bulkheads, recessed deck fittings, safety lines with reflective threads. Adjustable seat with foam inlays for cushioning. You didn’t come here to talk about kayaks.’’
``No I didn’t.’’
``So what can I do for you? Here, help me with this.’’
Burnard turned the kayak on its side, sending a rush of water out through the rear hatch. Brant took the bow of the kayak while Burnard steadied the stern. Together, they turned the craft over to expel the last of the water. Satisfied, Burnard nodded in the direction of a half dozen kayaks laid side by side like tinned fish.
``We’ll move them into the barn for the winter but for now this’ll do. You had questions?’’
Burnard brushed dirt off his hands. Brant would have preferred the lodge where they could have sat alone in one of the guest bedrooms or perhaps the main dining hall. Most interrogations had a rhythm. They were like lovemaking. They started off slow with each of the participants probing and feeling out the mood, the temperament, the state of the other.
``Where were you when you heard Eichel had been shot?’’
``You mean when he shot himself, don’t you? That’s the theory, isn’t it?’’
``Let me rephrase. Where were you when you heard the gunshot?’’
Burnard paused in thought as he reached for the thermos of coffee.
``I was in my room. Reading.’’
``And where is your room again?’’
``Other side of the lodge. A few doors down from Mallek’s.’’
``And when you heard the gunshot?’’
``I jumped. It startled me so I rushed out to see what had happened. I met John in the hall if you’re trying to ask whether someone can vouch for me.’’
``I wasn’t, but I can check with him for corroboration.’’
``You go ahead and do that.’’
``I gather you didn’t care much for Mr. Eichel.’’
``Is that a question? It sounds more like a statement, like you’ve already made up your mind. I can imagine who you’ve been talking to so I have a pretty good idea what you’re getting at.’’
``You two had an altercation the night he died. I know because I was there and I saw you both go at it.’’
``Yes, I remember.’’
``So, not a very good look, is it?’’
``No, it isn’t,’’ Burnard said, the corners of his mouth showing the hint of a wry smile. ``You think I’d be stupid enough to kill him after getting into a fight just a few hours earlier?’’
Brant shrugged. ``You’d be amazed at how stupid people can be when they’re angry.’’
``I wasn’t angry.’’
``Really? You looked it to me.’’
``That was a friendly clash of personalities, lieutenant. Nothing more.’’
``Over what?’’ Brant asked, realizing he’d yet to hear an adequate explanation as to why the two men had gone at it.
``Franz was being an asshole. He kept hitting on women. He hurt a lot of people in the process.’’
``Anyone in particular?’’
Burnard shook his head in mock frustration. ``You don’t give up, do you?’’
``I try,’’ Brant said in response.
``You know about Chris Mallek?’’
``I do, yes. Anyone else?’’
``Other guests earlier in the season. He had a girlfriend in Boston.’’
``How do you know that?’’ Brant asked, his interest piqued.
``It was an open secret. He went down there a few times this summer to hook up with her.’’
``Any idea who she was?’’ Brant asked.
``No, no idea.’’
Burnard threw the remains of his coffee into the bushes abutting the wooden racks holding the lifejackets. He screwed the cup back on the thermos then took two lifejackets from the racks, tossing one to Brant in the process.
``Tell you what, lieutenant, why don’t we go for a kayak. The lake’s calm. The storm won’t hit for another couple of hours. The sun’s about to set in another hour or so.’’
Burnard looked at his watch. It was a Casio G-Shock with an oversized face and worn leather strap. The silver casing glowed in the afternoon light.
``We have just enough time.’’
Brant hesitated. Try as he might, he couldn’t dislike Burnard. He could feel the big man’s pull, the allure that Mallek had described earlier.
What the hell, he thought, eyeing the rippling surface of the lake and the wavelets washing the pebbled shoreline.
``Lead the way.’’
They pulled two kayaks from the racks. Both were single-seaters meant for the ocean. Burnard’s had a hatch in the front and in the back. The safety lines were worn and bleached from the sun. The kayak’s surface was matted, as if it, too, had spent a considerable time in the sun. Brant’s was newer. The fiberglass shone like a polished apple. His had a single hatch in the front covered with a black rubber seal.
Down at the beach, Burnard showed how to use the paddle, explaining that the tip of the blade should kiss the surface of the water but that pulling too deep would upset the balance and cause the kayak’s stern to fishtail. After the brief introductory lesson, they were out on the water, Burnard’s mastery of the sport immediately evident. The big man dipped his paddle into the water with confident, strong strokes. His kayak sliced through the water. It was a thing of beauty. No extra wake. No splashing or extraneous effort. All force seemed to be directed with infinite focus on each and every movement of the paddle. Brant, by contrast, seemed to flail inelegantly through the water. Sometimes, his paddle would go too deep. The stern would break out of alignment, and the kayak would set off in an unintended direction. Other times, the paddle would slap uselessly on the surface of the lake, breaking the kayak’s forward momentum.
``You’re using too much force,’’ Burnard called over. He circled back and came up alongside. ``You don’t want to be too gentle, but you don’t want to fight the water, either. Here, watch what I do. You’re right-handed, so use that as your control hand. That’s the one that’ll domin
ate. Don’t change the grip on your control hand.’’
Burnard tipped the right-hand side of his paddle into the water and pulled. Eddies formed in the water as the kayak shot forward. Brant imitated the motion with less success. Though he held the paddle firmly in his right hand, the paddle still seemed oversized and awkward. The blade slapped against the surface of the lake, sending a spray of water outward.
``You’re still trying too hard. Relax and let the movement of your body and the blade carry you forward.’’
Burnard stroked ahead while Brant fumbled. He wasn’t completely hopeless. He’d learned to balance his weight to the point where the kayak stayed mostly upright. His strokes were smaller, more measured. He’d learned to relax his shoulders and hips, meaning the kayak moved generally in a straight line. Burnard pushed him onward with encouraging comments and instruction.
``Let’s check out that outcropping,’’ Burnard said, pointing his paddle to a section of shoreline in the distance.
Out on the water, the sky seemed bigger, more expansive. The afternoon light had continued to mellow, and the surface of the lake glittered with an intensity Brant found unexpected. A breeze had arisen from nowhere and the water had become rougher, making the kayaking harder going. Waves lapped against the fiberglass hull. The bow had begun to crash through successive waves, sending a spray of water into the air.
Back on shore, Burnard helped steady his kayak as Brant pulled himself free of the craft. His body ached. His legs were tight.
``You’ll get the feeling back in your legs in a few minutes,’’ Burnard beamed.
Brant stood on the beach, wavelets lapping at his feet, his nylon shell sodden and heavy from the water that had sloshed over the sides of the kayak and into the cockpit. The lodge loomed above them on its hill. The waning sun, now a brilliant, fiery red, beat down on his back, casting long, alien shadows on the shoreline. A chorus of frogs filled the air with their singing. A beautiful summer’s evening, he thought. And yet there was a melancholy, too. The sadness of an ending, of a conclusion to a season that had given its best and had no more to offer.
Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller Page 30
