The Bear Mountain Secret

by Gayle Siebert

  “That’s what some of the board members are saying and Doctor Malone is pushing it. It would add to the work load. We’d need a few more staff, for sure. And you know how often they just bug out without a word to anyone.”

  “Maybe we should look into it when that happens, though? Maybe they’re still too vulnerable to just be let loose like that. What if that woman is right?”

  “It’s pretty far-fetched, but suppose she is. We have nothing to do with it.”

  “But what about the police? Did you ask Jacques? What did he say?”

  “She flipped out when she was at the Detachment, just like she did at Heather’s. She’s at Nechako Manor now. Apparently, she’s been in and out of there a few times over the years, always hearing voices, complaining she’s being followed. Jacques called to update me this afternoon. Told me this in confidence, so it stays here.”

  “Of course. Okay then. Maybe it will come to nothing.”

  “Yup, I imagine it’ll die a natural death. No use worrying about it, babe. And this little retirement party will be just what we need to get all our minds off it. You’re all fixed up and you look so pretty, you don’t want to waste it! Give the guys a chance to see you without your ball cap, although now that I think about it, it’s not really fair to them, knowin’ all they can do is look and I’m the lucky guy who gets to take you home.” He grins, then takes a more serious tone. “I know the place is kinda rough but the guys are comfortable there and it’s customary for the boss to present the watch.”

  “I’ll stay home,” Wilson offers, “I don’t mind.”

  “I think we can afford to pay a sitter,” Denver assures him, “that’s not the point.”

  “Don’t be silly, Wilson,” Astrid says, “You deserve a night out more than anyone and you like those guys, don’t you? When you all get your heads together over in your corner solving all the world’s problems it’s as if no one else exists. You can argue all night about whether Guy Lafleur had a better wrist shot than Bobby Orr, or if GM is better than Ford. You wouldn’t want to miss that!”

  “Don’t forget Dora Mae,” Denver says. He’s finished closing his shirt and loosens his fly to tuck it into his jeans, then zips up and fastens his big silver belt buckle. “She’s been askin’ all week if you were comin’. You got an admirer there, Wil! When’re you gonna give that poor lonely widow woman more’n a smile?”

  Wilson shrugs and turns away.

  Astrid notices Wilson’s ears turning red. She says, “Well, we sure don’t want to disappoint Dora Mae!”

  “We won’t stay late,” Denver promises as he heads to the door. “I’ll go pick up Jessie now. Can you two be ready to go as soon as I get back?”

  Astrid nods and Wilson says, “Ay-yuh.”

  As Denver goes out the door, Astrid watches with amusement as Wilson follows him out to the porch. He keeps his almost non-existent backside to her but he’s gone to the cupboard where the shoeshine box is kept, and is bent over, giving his boots a buffing. He’s not shining his boots and wearing his bolo tie with the silver and turquoise slider for the guys.

  Denver returns with the sitter in under fifteen minutes. The girls are fond of Jessie so after the excited greetings, they take her hands and tow her into the living room to show her their horse ranch, so engrossed in telling her all about it they barely look up to say good-bye.

  ♦♦♦

  THEY ARRIVE AT the fisherman’s and enter the low-ceilinged, dark room to find half has been sectioned off for the noisy Dark River Sawmill crowd. It’s hot and stuffy with the heat of so many bodies coupled with the warm August night; even with the double doors giving onto the patio next to the river being wide open, there isn’t enough of a breeze to move the air.

  Wilson joins his group of friends at their usual table in the corner under the moose antlers while Denver and Astrid work their way through the crowd, engaging in the usual small talk with everyone they pass. The press of bodies is oppressive. At last they’re outside, where there’s shade from the huge old firs and the breeze from the river, slight though it is, stirs the bushes surrounding the patio. Astrid draws a deep breath of the cooling evening air and sighs.

  Caterers in white chef’s coats are busy setting the long food table. Rows of tables and chairs have been arranged around the flagstones. Women from the office are at the table closest to the river. Mary Ann looks up and beckons.

  “I’ll join the girls,” Astrid tells Denver. “You go ahead and circulate.”

  A server is working her way through the crowd; Astrid orders a liter each of house white and red and a jug of draft for the group to supplement the bottles of wine Dark River Sawmills contributed to the party. The mood is light, the mosquitoes aren’t too bad thanks to the perimeter of citronella torches, and the meal of Caesar salad, mashed potatoes, herbed carrots and roast beef with horse radish and gravy is very good.

  Mary Ann and her boyfriend come to sit with them to eat. Dora Mae somehow managed to get next to Wilson in the queue at the buffet and they join them, too. Despite Wilson being his usual reserved self, Dora Mae is cheerful and laughs easily; conversation is lively and enjoyable, and the hour passes quickly.

  After everyone has been through the dessert table, it’s time for the speeches. Astrid goes to stand at the head of the table where Barney and his wife sit, and turns to face the crowd. Once the chatter hushes, she says, “You all the know the reason for this party is to see Barney off onto the next phase of his life. I’d say we’re doing it in style! The meal was great, and we have the staff party fund to thank for putting it on. Let’s give the catering staff a hand for doing such a good job.” After the enthusiastic applause, she continues: “Yeah, sounds like you enjoyed the food. Show them some love by dropping a little something in the tip jar.”

  She turns to Barney as she addresses the crowd: “As you know, Barney works in the yard, and since I don’t spend much time out there, I don’t see him often. Still, I feel like I know him better than any of the other guys, and I have since my first day on the job. I know him intimately, you might say. I might know more of you guys intimately, too, but I haven’t stumbled into the men’s washroom by mistake since.” Everyone laughs.

  “It wasn’t yer fault!” Barney says loudly enough to be heard in the back. “Them A-holes thought it would be funny to pull a joke on the new boss lady by switching the signs around!”

  “Yeah, and I’d still like to know whose idea that was!” Astrid responds. “But seriously, it’s been a great experience working with all of you, and Barney, you are a big part of it. I know you and Irene are looking forward to becoming snowbirds and you’re getting your nice new motorhome ready to go.

  “This company, by any of its names, was a huge part of your life. For anyone to work for the same company for forty-five years in any business, but in this business especially, is remarkable. There is no way to adequately repay you, but there’s a little cheque in the envelope, and I know I speak for all of us when I say we hope when you look to see what time it is, you’ll think of us. It goes without saying, I hope there will be no swearing when you do.”

  Astrid allows the chuckles to dwindle before continuing. “Seriously, though, you will be missed.” She hands him the box with the watch. Everyone claps as she returns to her seat.

  “You did good,” Denver whispers, taking her hand. She gives his hand a squeeze.

  Barney stands up and gives his acceptance speech, tearing up at one point, and promises to keep in touch. After various of his co-workers finish telling their own Barney stories, the party begins to break down into groups. Wilson returns to the table under the moose antlers, leaving Dora Mae with Barney and Irene.

  “I see why he’s been a bachelor all his life,” Astrid remarks. “Anyway, I know it’s early, but I’m ready to leave when you are.”

  “I’m ready now. Canucks are playing tonight. If we go now and you take Jessie home, I can still catch part of the last period.”

  “Thought you were recordi
ng it.”

  “I am. But I’d rather watch it in real time, at least the end. Unless they’re losing badly. If they are, I’ll just delete the recording and save myself gettin’ pissed off watchin’ tomorrow.”

  “Ahh. But isn’t it still pre-season? Does the game even count? You could just check the app on your phone.”

  “There’s that,” Denver agrees, “but three hours is long enough for the bosses to hang around putting a damper on the party.”

  Together they go to see if Wilson wants to stay. “I don’t mind coming back later to get you,” Denver tells him.

  Wilson jumps up and comes away from the group with such speed that as they walk out, Astrid says, “sorry to tear you away.”

  “I’m more’n ready to go. Can only stand so much stupidity,” he snorts. “Goddamn George Mahoney, never done nuthin’ for ranchers and goddamn Carson thinks he’s the greatest!”

  “Oh! Politics. One of those nights.”

  “Wisht we’da stuck to trucks or hockey! If you hadn’t come along I mighta had to punch that stupid Carson’s lights out.”

  “You wouldn’t!” Astrid exclaims. “He’s got six inches and a hundred pounds on you!”

  “You worried about Wilson?” Denver asks. “It’s Carson you should worry about.”

  As they’re outside heading toward the truck, someone calls from the side of the building, “Give me a minute, Denver?”

  Denver turns and sees a man in the pond of light from the kitchen door beckoning him. “Sure, Brent,” he responds, then hands the keys to Astrid and says, “go ahead. I’ll catch up.” He goes to stand beside Brent. “What’s up?”

  “I hope you don’t think I was rude. I just thought your good wife might not want to hear this, you know, because it might remind her of, well, of what happened.”

  “Okay …?”

  “Well, there’s a woman been asking about Hank. Said he was working at a logging camp thirty-five or forty years ago. I said I didn’t know anyone by that name, and that’s the truth, the two of them both bein’ dead now, but I overheard one of the other guys telling her he knew a Hank, but he got killed in an explosion. He was talking about Hank Junior. He wasn’t one of that group Junior ran with, too much younger, but a lot of them young guys looked up to that shithead for some reason. Girls got sucked in, too. He had some kinda, er, charm.”

  “Yeah. Charisma. I never felt it but my brother and my ex-wife did, I guess.”

  “Oh, that’s right, your ex was there when it went up—"

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Small town, Denver, ain’t you used to that by now? Anyhow, I guess charisma’s a handy quality to have if yer gonna be a serial killer. If you knew him you remember he threw Senior’s money around like he was a big fuckin’ cheese and that impresses a lot of dumbasses. Anyway, she said something like, no, he’d be too young.”

  “She’s lookin’ for someone and all she’s got to go on is a first name?”

  “Yeah, just a first name and that he worked in camp. Which camp? She had no idea there was more than one, and a-course didn’t know the name of it. And such a long time ago.”

  Denver shrugs. “You know how it is. Since they unsealed the adoption records, there’s lots of people looking for their birth parents. Could be why she’s looking for him now.”

  “Could be, but wouldn’t she know his last name?”

  “Yeah, she would at that.”

  “She didn’t say he was her father, now that you mention it, but something like she’s looking for her sister or brother and he’s the only one who can help her find him or her, something like that. Could be Hank Senior, I think. Sure as hell couldn’t be Junior. ‘Sides bein’ too young he never did a day’s work far as I know but I seem to remember the old man talking about workin’ out at the old Bear Mountain camp, like he was proud of it, as if just about all the fallers around here didn’t work in camp one time or another. He sure liked to brag himself up, always goin’ on about how he was a self-made man, started off in camp and worked up to owning the whole works. Never bothered to mention everything he had he got by marryin’ the boss’s daughter. Sure had a lot of people around here kissin’ his ass, too, even guys my age callin’ him Mister Hazen, like he was special. That little group of his was special, all right. Glad you took ‘em all out.”

  “Well, I didn’t, actually—”

  “You’re the one who got the gals out, though.”

  “Well—”

  “Anyhow, I didn’t tell her Junior’s father went by Hank, too. I thought she might be out to make trouble for you. Maybe she read about the explosion, how it wiped out the Hazen Sawmills family, and dreamed up a story, thinkin’ to claim she’s related so she could tap into your good wife’s inheritance or something.”

  “After all this time?”

  “Ain’t been all that long. What, three years?”

  “Nearly five.”

  “That long, eh?” Brent shrugs. “Well, someone else might tell her, but at least it won’t be me. She asked me to ask around and to let her know if anyone came up with anything.”

  “You get her name?”

  “Kathy. And she’s staying at the Riverview, Room 110. Just thought you should know.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Denver says. They shake hands, then Brent turns and goes back in the kitchen door.

  Denver is about to turn away, too, when movement in the bushes next to the walkway attracts his attention. Someone is there, spying? He takes a few steps closer to investigate. A man in dark pants and hoodie comes stumbling out, zipping his fly, head down and mumbling. Denver shakes his head, then turns and continues to the truck, where Wilson and Astrid are waiting inside.

  “What did Brent want?” Astrid wants to know when he gets in.

  “Nothing, really.” He takes a sharp breath, glad it’s dark and Astrid can’t see he’s embarrassed at the lie. He starts the engine, backs out of the parking stall and aims the truck up the driveway to the road, avoiding looking at Astrid. He feels the weight of her stare and is relieved when she faces forward again.

  As they approach the one-lane bridge, they pass a man in dark clothes walking on the narrow gravel shoulder. “Jeez, didn’t see him until the last second!” Denver exclaims.

  “You see how he’s lurching along? I thought he was going to stumble out right in front of the truck.” Astrid says. “He shouldn’t be walking out here in such dark clothes.”

  “Probably didn’t plan to walk,” Denver says. “I think he’s the guy that was in the bushes takin’ a piss when I was talking to Brent. Pretty shitfaced, I think.”

  “Least he ain’t stupid enough to drive in that condition,” Wilson observes.

  Once across the bridge, they pass a row of vehicles parked there. “Overflow from the pub,” Denver says. “Didn’t think it was that busy. And why park halfway into the bushes like that? And I think it was a Range Rover. You see it, Wilson?”

  “Yup,” Wilson responds, “guess the owner don’t care about scratchin’ the paint.”

  “Expensive vehicle like that and you don’t care about the paint? Wonder whose it is.”

  “Seems kinds outta place, don’t it?”

  “Yeah, it does. Wonder who around here has the money to shell out $200K for a vehicle.”

  “People have different priorities and you don’t know how deep in debt they are, either,” Astrid points out. “Same with Barney and Irene. I wouldn’t have thought they would have the bucks to buy that expensive new motor home, especially at this point in their lives. I sure hope they didn’t take on a lot of debt for it.”

  “I heard they mighta sold their house,” Wilson says.

  “Oh, I hope not!”

  Denver turns on the stereo, relieved Astrid isn’t pressing him about his conversation with Brent. He hates lying to her, but she doesn’t need a reminder of her ordeal. His thoughts turn to that Range Rover as he wonders whose it is.

  Ten

  Table Talk

 
; THE ROOM IS not much bigger than the table. According to its history, it was built where it stands, filling the only part of the room where there’s a full-height ceiling. Made of thick slabs of clear fir trimmed with native maple, it has been worn shiny by the elbows that have rested on it and bellies that have rubbed up against it over the past hundred-plus years.

  From his seat at the head, Bearon looks at the possessors of the bellies in front of him and has a fleeting thought they should make use of the workout room at the Lodge, but knows they won’t. The hot tub, sure; the pool, maybe, but the rest? Never. The lawyer is a weedy little runt and will never change but the other three are becoming more rotund by the day, happy to keep buying bigger clothes. The upside is, they’ll probably die off before they get much older, but he’ll be stuck with the lawyer forever.

  He snaps his thoughts back to the present, pulls the balaclava away from his mouth, and says, “Okay, let’s get started.”

  The big man at the far end noisily demolishing the super-size plate of nachos in front of him breaks away from his food and says, “we ain’t gonna wait til Reardon gets here?”

  “No, Preach, nothing we have to discuss today concerns him.”

  “Good. I don’t trust him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s too…I dunno,” Preach looks up and they make eye contact for a heartbeat before he looks away. “Too slick, I guess.”

  “You mean he looks fit and prosperous? That’s why he’s good at his job.”

  “I could drive a Porsche if I wanted one, too.”

  Bearon dismisses the comment with a wave of his hand; he turns to the barrel-chested fifty-something man at his elbow and says, “So, Brent, when I was leaving here last night I heard you telling Danielson about that woman.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “So? We decided he—they—didn’t need to know. That it would be better if she didn’t connect with Danielsons and that she didn’t find out about Hazens, so she would go back to where she came from.”