Murder at Lost Dog Lake

by Vicki Delany

  “Nice waterfall and swimming hole little over a mile up the trail. The path breaks off to the right of a large white rock. Good spot for a break before continuing.”

  The boy nodded his thanks, but the man bustled up, overflowing with his own importance. “No time, no time. We have to get on our way.”

  The boy grinned at us, shifted his pack and lumbered off down the trail. I had a feeling they would be stopping at the waterfall.

  “Fool,” Craig muttered, watching them go. “If you want to keep to a schedule, you might as well stay in the city.”

  Once again we all stooped to pick up packs or canoes. Rachel cast about looking for something light and compact. She gathered up an armful of life jackets and stood to one side, smiling while she watched the rest of us load up like pack mules.

  “You can manage this, Rachel.” Craig stood in front of her, a heavy orange pack in his hands. He gestured to her to turn around and held the pack out, ready to place it over her shoulders.

  “I have something.” She displayed the lifejackets.

  “Those can be carried by anybody. They’re nice padding against the weight of the canoes.” Smiling, he stood in place, heavy pack extended like an offering.

  Joe was already gone, weighed down by a canoe. No one would be leaping to Rachel’s rescue.

  She looked at each of us in turn, some watching with open faced interest, others, like myself, at least trying to pretend that we weren’t paying any attention at all.

  “That’s too heavy for me.”

  “No, it’s not. Barb can manage. Leanne can manage. You can too.” Still smiling he continued to offer the pack.

  Rachel looked around for help. None was forthcoming.

  “I don’t think so,” she said finally. “This is supposed to be a holiday.” And she shifted the lifejackets, turned on her heels and sauntered up the path.

  Smile frozen into place, Craig lowered the pack.

  I shrugged and forced a grin at him. “Keep saying to yourself, ‘the customer is always right.’”

  A touch of genuine warmth crept back into his face. “Thank you for reminding me, Leanne. I was about to lose it there. Again.”

  “Her loss really.” I bent over and bounced on my toes to shift the pack a bit higher up my shoulders. “Sometimes you have to test yourself. Poor Rachel is failing.”

  We walked up the path together, chatting lightly, comfortable together.

  “Give Rachel a bit of slack, Craig.” I said while the other side of my brain calculated how much further we had to go. Too far for my aching shoulders. I shifted my burden once again. “She didn’t even know this was a camping trip, you know. Joe apparently was afraid that she wouldn’t agree to come, so he let her believe they were going to a fishing lodge sort of place.”

  Craig snorted. “Damn fool thing to do. Did he think she might possibly never notice?”

  I shrugged, which wasn’t really a good idea considering the weight on my shoulders. “He’s trying so hard to impress Dianne and Richard that maybe he didn’t think at all.”

  “Dianne seems like an okay sort of person. At least she knows one end of a canoe from another. But that husband of hers is a total write off.”

  The edge of acid in his voice came out of nowhere. “Why do you say that?”

  “Spoiled rich dude. Scum of the earth. I hate them all.”

  With that, Craig fell into a sullen silence, and we finished the portage without another word.

  Chapter 11

  Day 7: Late afternoon.

  After helping us put the canoes into the water and load them up, Craig pulled out the map and showed those of us who were interested what would be the next leg of our trip. A tiny, little lake, more like a giant puddle, led to a long, thin, winding river. The end of this river broke into a huge open body of water where, Craig informed us, we would have our choice of superlative campsites before one more portage tomorrow, which would lake us to his favorite spot in this section of Algonquin Park: Lost Dog Lake. We’d spend the night at Lost Dog and then a long day back to the lodge and the end of the trip.

  This time I traveled with Craig and settled myself comfortably in the front. Late in the afternoon, the sun sat low on the horizon, stretching long, thin shadows out before us. But hot, still very hot.

  The river was narrow and the navigation channel closely hemmed in by thick watery growth above and below the water line. The banks of the river were covered by masses of water-loving plants, fields of tall purple flowers stretching through the water to the shore, the occasional small yellow wild daisy or one of an infinite variety of wildflowers, for which I did not know the name. The edges of the river itself were thickly matted with water lilies, whose lovely flowers, pure white, open to reveal a heart of the deepest yellow. They look like a hard-boiled egg, the top chopped artfully off by Martha Stewart herself, ready for the spoon.

  I reached out to grasp the flower of one tall plant, standing high over the water and lesser vegetation, it’s foliage ripe and lush. The plant was tough and resisted my determined tug.

  “Pitcher plant,” Craig said. “Pretty, eh?”

  “Um,” I mumbled.

  “Deadly too. If you’re an insect anyway. The pitcher plant’s a meat eater. Bugs land on the flowers and are sucked down that long stem never to see the light of day again.”

  “Ug.”

  “Nature’s cruel,” he reminded me. “We may be a bit higher on the food chain than the bugs, but out here we’re still part of that food chain, and we’re fools if we forget it.”

  The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and I shivered. Several more of the attractive plants drifted by, but I made no further attempt to pick one.

  “You can stop paddling while we’re on the river if you like, Leanne,” Craig said from the back of the canoe. “I can manage by myself along here.”

  Needing no encouragement, I wiggled my bottom comfortably into place and lay back to stretch luxuriously out across the packs between the canoe seats. The sun was low in the west but still strong enough to heat my body through and through. I felt her gentle, warm kiss on my face and dangled my arm over the sides of the canoe. My fingers itched to trace gentle patterns in the cool water, but they fell disappointingly short.

  “Ten o’clock, do you see it?” Craig said.

  I opened my eyes. A huge bird soared high above. Coasting lazily on the thermals, it eyed us carefully. Wondering, no doubt if it could make a lightening raid and catch me unawares. As tasty as I might have looked, he decided that I am a bit too big, and with two flaps of the massive wings the bird disappeared into the sun.

  “Hawk?” I asked.

  “Bigger, an osprey.”

  “Lovely.” I closed my eyes and drifted back into the sun’s caress.

  “Lovely, indeed,” said the voice behind me.

  The craft creaked slightly as Craig shifted his weight. A shadow fell across my face and my eyes flew open. Craig smiled above me. He reached out one hand and stroked my cheek.

  I leapt upright so fast I was momentarily afraid that the canoe would tip. But it rocked gently and then returned to its gentle rhythm.

  Craig sat back on his haunches and smiled even more broadly. “You’re quite lovely, Leanne. If I may say so.”

  “Jesus, Craig, you scared me. Thanks for the compliment, but shouldn’t we be joining the others?”

  “Oh, they’ll be a long time coming. It’s tough to navigate this river, because of all the bends, and I put on a bit of speed.”

  He held out one of the giant white water lilies that I’d admired earlier. Heart pounding, I accepted it and sniffed deeply. The scent was rich and earthy, full of the fragrance of the blooms and of the river water in which it grew.

  “The Ojibway say that this flower is the embodiment of a star maiden who chose to come down to earth, to stay here and live amongst the people.”

  “I can almost believe it.”

  “I was hoping we could get together after the trip,” Crai
g said. “Maybe you could stay up north for a few days before going home?”

  “Uh, no. I have to be back at work. But um, Craig, are you like, asking me out?”

  “Yes, I guess I am.”

  “You don’t think that I am a bit, well, old for you?”

  He laughed, showing perfect, white teeth. The sun was behind him now; it filtered through his thick, curly hair and cast a bright halo around his head. I gulped.

  “Well, if you want to look at it like that, Rachel is more my age. And she’s as useless as tits on a bull, as they say.”

  “Barb seems rather impressed by you.” I wondered why I was trying to talk him out of liking me. Fear, I guess, plain fear.

  “Barb likes anything that will pay her a bit of attention. Besides I really don’t want Jeremy following us around everywhere, peeking out from behind menus and scurrying down alleyways. Can you blame me?”

  I laughed and buried my nose in my flower. “Not really.”

  “So, what about it?”

  I considered the question. What about it, indeed? He was attractive, no doubt about that, and fun to be with. The temper could be a bit much at times, but I wasn’t thinking of getting into anything serious. Nothing wrong with having fun, I reminded myself. And I hadn’t had a lot of fun since my divorce. The horrors of the bitter custody battle and the devastation of losing my sons, then leaving the Police Force and trying to start up in business with Wayne had left me with a pretty narrow social life over the last few years. Maybe it was time to move back into the dating game. Nothing serious, just a bit of fun.

  I grinned. “Sounds good to me.”

  He smiled back.

  “There they are,” Dianne hooted from the lead canoe as the little convoy rounded the last bend. “We thought we’d lost you.”

  “No such luck.” Craig said softly as he offered me one more beautiful grin before returning to his seat and picking up his paddle. “Almost at the lake,” he shouted over his shoulder, digging into his stroke once again.

  “You lie back and relax a bit more, Leanne. The wind is picking up, and I’ll need your help when we get out in the open.”

  We broke out of the long grasses that enveloped the river, to emerge into a wide, dark lake. The surface shimmered brightly in the low sun.

  There were no other canoes as far as I could see.

  We were deep into the park now.

  I set to with my paddle and we ploughed straight across the lake. My shoulders still ached from the last portage and I was tiring rapidly. And I had had a rest. The others probably weren’t up to doing much more.

  Fortunately Craig had his eye on a spot straight ahead. The wind was building steadily and little white caps were popping up across the water. But the wind was at our back and we crossed the lake as if powered by sails.

  “Don’t like the look of that sky much,” Craig mumbled behind me.

  Eyes locked on our destination, a beautiful campsite facing the soon-to-be-setting sun, surrounded by tall, splendid trees and a bit of sandy beach, I barely heard him.

  “What does it look like?” I finally clued into the words and twisted in my seat, but could see nothing but a slightly darker smudge on the horizon.

  “Like a storm coming. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure. But we might get a bit of rain tomorrow.”

  I laughed as we coasted onto the strip of sand. “Might cool things down a bit. Besides I’ve been dying to wear my fashionable new raincoat.” The canoe scraped the lake bottom and I leapt out to drag it up onto the shallows.

  Chapter 12

  Day 8: Early afternoon.

  It is easy, in the bustle and noise of the big city, or the constant rattle of the over-populated suburbs, to forget how primal, how terrifying, a storm at its worst can actually be. The first dim flash of lightening, the first distant rumble of thunder, and we rush for shelter. We sit in warm comfort at our living room windows, or at the sealed and climate controlled windows of our office towers, and watch the storm. We are overawed by the brilliance of the light, the crash of the thunder, and we fool ourselves that we are experiencing nature in all of her terrifying glory. But we forget that we are protected by electricity and heating and air-conditioning, by steel and by glass. Outside of our little circle of civilization a storm has more danger and more anger and more ferocity than we can imagine. Dangerous and loud and bright and primal. We are rarely equipped to face it.

  A bright flash illuminates the storm-encrusted sky and at that instant, while you are still marveling at the wonders of light from the heavens, a roar of thunder echoes round and round inside your head. So loud and immediate and terrifying that you are left clutching yourself in terror. It reverberates endlessly, the sound diminishing note by note like an over-enthusiastic orchestra coming reluctantly, slowly, to the finale. But, of course, the finale never really arrives, because one clap of thunder dims gently, melodiously into the background, only to be followed by another, and yet another. Each competing like malicious Grecian gods as to who can frighten the silly, fragile, feeble humans the most.

  Peal upon peal, roll upon roll, each bolt of lightening brings each clap of thunder cascading over your head, every one louder and more terrifying than the last.

  We had a dog when I was a child, a great hulking German shepherd, all teeth and attitude and loving belligerence. But the threat of a thunderstorm, hours before it opened over us, when the weather report predicted nothing but sunny skies and tropical temperatures, had her hiding beneath a bed, any bed she could squeeze her bulk under. And there she would remain, all day and all night if necessary, until all trace of the thunder and the lightening and the wind had vanished from her ferocious senses. Long after she was gone, thinking about her always made me smile and made it easier to get through the storm.

  I thought of her now, and wished I could join her under a bed until the danger had passed.

  Instead I tugged at Craig’s arm, trying to pull him away from the crumpled body behind the rocks. Another crash of thunder sounded directly overhead and the accompanying burst of sharp white light illuminated the guide’s shocked and bewildered face staring over his shoulder and up at me. The thick, matted beard stood out sharply against the pale white of his face, all the dark summer tan drained from his skin, his expression unreadable.

  I jerked again and reluctantly his arm followed my pull, and he stumbled to his feet.

  “He’s dead. That’s clear,” I shouted into Craig’s face, unsure of how much he was taking in. I’ve seen it before, quite a few times, what shock can do to a person in a matter of seconds. Sometimes they shut down, right before your eyes and become almost catatonic. But not now. Please, not now.

  I was breathing deeply myself, my stomach turning somersaults and the bile rising into my throat. I forced it down and remembered to breathe slowly and carefully. I had been used to seeing some pretty horrible things when I was on the force, but this was different. This time it was someone I knew. Someone I had talked to, someone I had known as a living, talking, laughing, arguing, breathing body. This was different.

  I had to get myself under control if I had any hope of controlling Craig. I tried to look fierce and in command and stared directly into his wide, frightened eyes. “There’s nothing we can do here. We need to get back to the canoes, and find some shelter.”

  “But what about…” Craig’s voice came out as barely a squeak and the words broke, but he was talking. A good sign.

  “We’ll take care of him soon. You take his pack and the lifejackets he was carrying and go back to the others. Don’t tell them what’s happened, yet. I don’t want a panic. Just say that Richard had a fall, and I am with him.”

  He stared at me, his eyes empty, not a touch of emotion in the young face. I stepped around him and gave a hard shove in the middle of his back. “Go. Now! They’ll come looking for us in a minute and then we’ll have five more people lost in the woods.”

  The phrase ‘lost in the woods’ got through to him. Craig remembere
d his duty and stumbled off in the direction from which we had come.

  As soon as he was out of sight, which was not more than a second given the almost total lack of visibility offered by the curtains of rain and the premature night, I crouched down beside the body and began a slow careful inspection. Eyes only, no touching. I was no longer a cop, but this was now a crime scene and it wouldn’t be much of a stretch of the imagination to guess that I was the only one in the vicinity with any idea at all of what to do.

  And that wasn’t much. Even if we could get a fully outfitted forensic lab team up here in record time, the scene was already compromised beyond belief. Unabated, the rain fell in torrents; the air itself was liquid. In the few short moments since our arrival, the little puddle of mud under Richard had almost doubled in size. Thick, brown water, mixed with liberal quantities of blood, rose steadily, reaching greedy, lapping waves towards the gaping wound in the side of his head.

  I had no hope of keeping the body secure. I couldn’t leave it where it lay, as I should. I slipped off my raincoat and gently wrapped as much of the paddle in the yellow cloth as I could. Hopefully I could preserve something of the murder weapon. For murder it almost certainly was, and the paddle was probably all the evidence that would ever be found.

  I studied the ground around the body, but if a herd of rampaging elephants had passed by earlier, all trace of their passage was now obliterated, along with anything left by the person (or persons) unknown who did poor Richard in. Even the impressions of Craig and my sandals were almost consumed by the eager rushing water. In moments they would be obliterated, as if we had never passed.