“But?” she asked.
“If they were simply victims of stupidity and an accident, why were their bodies burned? Who burned them? Why did the guy in the Quonset hut not try to get out? And why were Zinkerton and Vasily murdered?” Elin sighed. “This whole thing is like an onion. I just keep finding more layers.” She glanced at Murphy. “Hey, I’m sorry. It’s not your problem.”
“I don’t mind helping you.” And she needed to stay close to the case or Bertie wouldn’t get her the information she needed on her sister. “Um, keep me in mind if you need any more drawings or anything.”
“Be careful what you ask for.” Elin smiled.
They arrived at the lodge, but Elin kept the SUV running. “I’ve got a million things to do today. I’m still working on Vasily’s and Irina’s murders, so I’ll say good-bye.”
“The spare key?”
“Next time.”
“Okay then, bye. And thanks for the clothes.” She jumped from the SUV and ambled into the lodge.
Denali was on the phone at the wet bar. When he spotted her, he put his hand over the receiver. “Olga left you a sandwich. It’s in the fridge with your name on it.” He pointed to the kitchen. “This call’s going to take some time.”
She nodded. Entering the kitchen, she found everything spotless and smelling faintly of bacon. The sandwich, wrapped in clear plastic, sat next to an apple. She grabbed both and returned to the main room of the lodge. Denali’s black Lab sat by the front door, staring intently at the wood as if he could mind-meld the door open. She pointed to the dog, then shrugged her shoulders to Denali.
Denali waved that she could let the Labrador out.
As if sprung from prison, the canine sprinted down a path toward a line of trees. She followed slowly, eating the apple. Through the pines on her right was the main guest lodge, a three-story log structure with masses of glass windows. She pushed through the branches to the parking area. A Porsche Cayenne, two Cadillac Escalades, and a Mercedes SUV were parked in a row. A group of guests were waiting to load into the Salmon Run van. All wore waist-high waders, expensive cameras, and designer travel attire. One guest, an older woman, waved to her.
“Going bear watching with us?”
“No.” Murphy smiled. “Looks like you’re going fishing.” She nodded at the waders.
The woman laughed. “Apparently the best bear viewing this time of year is Katmai National Park, on the mainland. We’ll fly in on a floatplane, land in the bay, and have to wade in about half a mile. Quite the adventure.”
The van driver strolled from the lodge and gave the signal to load.
The black Lab nuzzled Murphy’s hand and headed back toward the residence. “I get you, dog,” she whispered. “Staff and other riffraff stay on the other side of the trees.”
Before entering the woods the path meandered past a storage barn with four-wheelers, a truck with a snowplow, and maintenance equipment. Birds chirruped, whistled, warbled, and called from the trees. The sun made a brief appearance before clouds engulfed it. The trail ended at a split. The dog was waiting for her, tail whipping the air, feet dancing.
“Do you have a preference?” she asked.
His gaze drifted to her sandwich.
“I see. I was thinking more directional.”
He may have been a retriever, but at the moment he was impersonating a pointer. His liquid-brown eyes studied the food in her hand with intense interest.
“If I give you a bite of my sandwich, will you suggest which path I should take?”
He answered with a loud licking of his chops.
She opened the wrapper. Before she could remove one side of the sandwich, the dog snatched all of it. One gulp and lunch was gone.
“Okay then. Have a sandwich.”
Unfazed by her sarcasm, he held up his side of the bargain and turned to the trail on the left. Patches of fog shrouded some of the trees, and the air was tangy with pine. The forest ended in a small clearing. A black iron fence enclosed a small cemetery punctuated with jagged gray headstones. The fog was heavier here, curling around the edges of the glade. The birds were silent.
Denali’s grandson was inside the fence, staring at a headstone. His shaggy brown hair tumbled over his brow. His long, thin arms poked from his hooded sweatshirt as if he’d just had another growth spurt. His face was losing its childish roundness, stretching into adult proportions.
She started to turn around. Cemeteries were creepy, and way outside her comfort zone. And she never knew what to say to someone standing at a grave. The Lab raced up and bumped into the young man. Lucas patted the dog’s head. “Hello, Quinn.” He turned and spotted her. “Oh, hi, Ms. Andersen.”
“Hi there, Lucas. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“S’okay,” he muttered.
Taking a few steps nearer, Murphy caught sight of the largest headstone, an obelisk mounted in the center of a square granite slab. Near the bottom of the obelisk was a metal plaque engraved with Paul Stewart, 1918–1946. So. This was the family cemetery that Denali had referred to.
The young man turned his back to her, picked up a rock, and chucked it at a tree. He missed. Folding his arms, he looked down.
She selected a stone and tossed it at the same tree. She hit it.
Lucas looked at her out of the corner of his eye, bent down, and chose another pebble. He took aim, then threw it at a sapling. Thwap!
Murphy moved closer, found a small rock, zeroed in on the same tree, and let fly. Whack!
His mouth twitched in a tiny smile. “Not bad.”
After finding a perfectly round pebble, she sidled next to him, bent forward a bit, and hurtled it at a stump. It bounced off, flew up, and smacked the sapling.
“That’s awesome. I bet you’re fantastic at skipping rocks.” He looked at her directly for the first time and relaxed his stance. “Have you ever used a slingshot?”
“Yup. Both kinds.”
“Both kinds? I didn’t know there were two.”
“The standard Y-shaped slingshot and the shepherd’s sling.”
He furrowed his brow.
“Think Daniel and Goliath.”
“I think it’s David and Goliath.”
“Just seeing if you were paying attention.” She casually nodded toward the large obelisk. “Paul Stewart. Is that your great-grandfather?”
“Yeah. Grandpa’s dad. He was a war hero, you know. He won a Distinguished Service Medal.”
“I saw that in the lobby. Very impressive.”
“He was a doctor.”
“I see. Medical or PhD?”
“Medical. Like a scientist. Come here and see.” He moved to the other side of the obelisk and pointed. Recessed into one side was a rectangular metal plaque divided into six squares with cast images on each one—an ant, a bird, some kind of amphibian, a shaggy cow, a turtle, and a shark. Carved above into the granite were the words All creatures great and small. “He studied stuff. I figured out those are invertebrates, birds, amphibians, mammals, reptiles, and fish.”
“Very clever of you.” She squatted in front of the plaque. “All the granite here looks the same. So does the lettering and even the plaques. I wonder why.”
“Ask Olga. I don’t know.”
She stood and waved her arm at the forest. “I didn’t realize your family owned this place for so long.”
“Grandpa Denali was born here. Great-Grandpa Stewart built it but never lived in it because he died in the war.” He pointed to a smaller headstone. “That’s Great-Grandma’s grave.” The dates indicated she’d died in her midforties. A small sculptured angel was on one side. “And that’s Grandma Stewart.” JoAnne Stewart had been only fifty when she died. Her tombstone had Proverbs 31:6 and a plaque with praying hands.
“I wonder why Denali’s parents weren’t buried next to each other.”
“I asked Grandpa about it once. He said she was mad at him. Probably because he died so young.” Murphy sidled over to a marker nestled on one side
of the small family plot. Two names were carved into the surface—Shawn Taylor and Elsa Stewart Taylor. Above the names was a bas-relief of a fisherman holding on to the wheel of a boat. Murphy had seen this image once before—she cast her memory about until she could recall. Yes, it was the same likeness as the bronze sculpture from the Gloucester Fisherman’s Memorial in Massachusetts. She’d visited Gloucester when finishing her degree in Rhode Island. Carved into the granite above were the words They that go down to the sea in ships.
She thought about the photograph she’d seen in the lobby of the young couple.
“Shawn Taylor was my father,” Lucas offered. “Elsa was my mom.”
Both had died the same year. Before she could ask, the young man guessed her question. “I was almost two when they died. They were fishermen. Their boat was eventually found, but . . .”
She reached over and touched his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “It’s been a long time.” He stared at the ground and whispered, “Such a long time.” Shaking his head, he said, “Even though I never really knew them, I still come here almost every day and talk to them. And to find it.”
“Find it?”
“Yeah. I overheard Grandpa say he’d find it here, but when I asked, he only said ‘something from the past.’”
“The past. I suppose past memories are here.”
He nodded. “Grandpa’s pretty much raised me. And Olga. Sometimes Uncle Jake.”
“Jake Swayne is your uncle?”
“Yeah. Grandpa’s half brother. They had the same mother.”
“And that’s why he eats at the lodge so much. He’s part of the family.”
“Sure, but he lives right over there.” He pointed toward the woods.
“I see.”
Lucas bent down to scratch the dog’s ear. “There’s pictures of my folks at the lodge.”
“I saw them as well. You look like your mother.” She checked her watch, then looked around. The fog had grown thicker, swirling over the gravestones. “I hope I don’t get lost out here in this fog.”
He pointed. “Stay on that trail and keep to the right when it branches. You know you’re on the right path when you reach the equipment shed. The other path will take you to the hangar, the private landing field, and eventually the road.”
“Hangar? Private landing field?”
“Uncle Jake has an apartment in the hangar. And a lot of our guests are stinking rich and fly in on their own planes.”
“I saw the main lodge on the way over here. How big is this place?”
“Big. And this year we’ll be getting bigger. Grandpa’s putting in another lodge building. It’ll double our size.”
“So your grandpa and Jake will run—”
“Not Uncle Jake. He told me he doesn’t want to be tied down. That’s why he’s a pilot.”
“He’s sure picked a beautiful place to fly around. I’ve got to go. Come on, Quinn.”
The Labrador jumped to his feet, staggered a few steps, and vomited.
CHAPTER 17
Lucas knelt beside the dog. “What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know.” Murphy joined him. “He seemed fine when we left.”
The vomiting grew more violent. “Not good,” she said. “Help me get him back to the lodge.” They pushed, pulled, and urged the dog up the trail. The Lab alternately staggered, vomited, and lay down as if exhausted. She took off her jacket, passed it under the dog, and handed one side to the boy, creating a sling. They got as far as the storage barn before the dog could no longer stand at all.
“I’ll get help,” Lucas said. “You stay with Quinn.” The young man took off.
She sat beside the dog on the wet ground and cradled his head. “Quinn. Poor puppy. You’ll feel better soon. The vet will know what to do.” The damp coldness seeped into her. She shivered.
Shortly Lucas appeared. “I told Grandpa. He called the vet, then told me to watch for his truck and point out where you are.” His lower lip quivered. “Is Quinn going to die?”
“I hope not.”
He touched the dog, then ran back up the trail.
“Good Quinn. Don’t die . . .” She stroked the dog’s head. The dog acts like he was poisoned, Dallas whispered in her mind.
“But—” She pictured Quinn snatching her lunch.
That’s right. You were supposed to have eaten that sandwich. Dallas’s voice faded.
It seemed like hours but was probably less than twenty minutes before Ryan arrived. “I just heard.” He bent down and lifted the dog. “Come on, big guy, let’s get you some help.”
She trotted behind, trying to keep up with his long strides. As they reached the lodge, a truck pulled up and a large man with an impressive black beard, green flannel shirt, jeans, and rubber boots jumped out. Lucas grabbed his arm and pointed at us.
Ryan placed the dog on the ground as the man charged over, knelt, and pulled a stethoscope from his rear pocket. He listened to the dog’s heart and lungs, checked his gums and eyes, then, still without speaking, effortlessly scooped him up.
Murphy followed him, her arm around Lucas. The vet loaded Quinn into his truck. “I’ll call when I have something, son.” He ruffled Lucas’s hair, jumped in his pickup, and sped off.
Lucas wrapped his arms around her shoulders and sobbed. “Don’t let him die! Please don’t let him die!”
It had been so long since anyone had hugged her, leaned on her like that. She stood arms akimbo for a few moments before she awkwardly patted him on the back. In spite of herself, her vision blurred. When she could speak around the brick in her throat, she said, “I’m sure the vet will do everything he can. Let’s get you inside and get you a tissue.”
He let go.
Touching his narrow shoulders, she gently nudged him toward the residence.
Ryan held the door for them. She mouthed, Thank you to him.
Denali was in the living room as they entered. He reached under the blanket covering his legs, pulled out a starched white handkerchief, and held it out for Lucas.
The boy took it and blew his nose, then hugged his grandfather.
Denali slowly rubbed the boy’s back and murmured in his ear. When Lucas finally stood, Denali said, “Go wash your face, son.”
Lucas trudged toward his room.
Denali’s intense gaze followed him. When the door closed behind Lucas, Denali looked at her. “Someone will pay for making my grandson cry. Now, what happened to my dog?”
“I don’t know. He seemed fine, full of energy, then he started to throw up.”
“Did he eat anything?”
The little hairs on her arms stood on end. “He ate . . . my sandwich.”
Denali waved away her answer. “That wouldn’t have hurt him. Did you see him eat anything else?”
“No. Do you think someone . . . tampered with my food?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Olga made that lunch for you. Are you accusing her of trying to kill you?” His face was now flushed.
“Of course not.” She backed away. “I’m sorry. I . . . I think I’ll go for a walk.” She brushed past Ryan and headed outside before she could say anything else that would anger Denali.
She couldn’t blame him. Someone poisoned his dog.
No. Someone tried to poison you.
She jogged toward the cemetery. It was far more comforting to believe Quinn had grabbed a piece of rotting animal that made him sick. Slowing as she approached the family plot, she picked up a stick and used it to peer between the clumps of salmonberry brambles and pushki.
She’d made it all the way to the grave site without finding anything and was returning to the lodge when she ran into Ryan, standing at the fork in the trail.
“Ah, Murphy, are you all right? I don’t think Denali is mad at you.”
“No. He’s worried. I’m fine. I was just retracing our path, looking for something Quinn could have eaten.”
“Any luck?”
“No.”
“Well then, maybe you could direct me? Which way to the cemetery?”
“Go down this way.”
She was about to brush by him but stopped. “So why are you wanting to see the family graves?” She took off her glasses and stared into his eyes. Removing the lenses seemed to help people trust her.
Ryan blinked a few times, then folded his arms. “I thought you knew I’m a journalist doing a story on Salmon Run Lodge.” He started walking toward the graveyard.
“But you’re not?” She joined him.
“That’s partly true. I’m an investigative journalist following up on a story. An old story, or so I thought. It brought me here.”
A cool breeze slithered up the back of her sweater. She rubbed her arms.
He didn’t say anything until they reached the graves. Slowly he walked around Paul Stewart’s obelisk, then he moved to Lucas’s parents’ grave. “What happened to them?”
“I understand it was a fishing accident.”
“Who told you that?”
“Lucas.”
His eyes narrowed. “Seems the whole family is willing to talk to you.”
She shrugged. “You just have to know how to throw rocks.”
“What?”
“What old story brought you here?” Again she stared into his eyes.
He seemed to be unable to look away, then he laughed. “Wow. I just remembered a dog I had when I was a kid. He had the same kind of look in his eyes.” Turning completely around, Ryan surveyed the surroundings, sniffed, and rubbed his neck. “I haven’t thought of that dog in years.”
“What happened to him?”
He shrugged. “We lived on a farm. When my dog couldn’t work anymore, my dad shot him. He said when something’s no longer useful, it’s time to get rid of it.”
“I’m sorry.” She continued to stare at him, but he no longer looked at her face. “Tell me what brought you here.”
“To the lodge?”
“The cemetery.”
He lowered his voice. “What do you know about Operation Fair Cyan?”
“Cyan?” she asked. “Like the color?”
“Yes.”
“And fair? Like pleasant looking, or like f-a-r-e?”
“F-a-i-r. I found it on a heavily redacted letter in a dusty file. Someone had inked over much of the material, but in a few places, the ink wasn’t opaque. I was able to get a document examiner to help me decipher the writing.”
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