Murder at Lost Dog Lake

by Vicki Delany

  Where had I last seen Joe? During the card game. When it broke up, he walked towards the tents and I didn’t pay any more attention.

  Who would want Joe out of the way? Dianne had no love for the guy, but no need to get rid of him either. Her money would do that very nicely, thank you. His marriage to Rachel was not a good one, to put it mildly. He was verbally abusive and threatening, there was therefore good reason to believe that when not in the company of business associates and total strangers he would try more physical means of attempting to control her.

  I believe in the battered wife defense, totally. I had seen women beaten and frightened into submission who finally found the strength, somewhere, to take steps to protect themselves or their children. But I couldn’t see Rachel in that mode. The battered woman only struck out in a last ditch attempt when she had reason to fear for her life or the lives of her children. If violence was a characteristic of Rachel and Joe’s marriage, she would have known that she was much safer here amongst all of us than at home alone.

  Other motives then? Money? If Dianne pulled her financial support out of their company, Joe would lose it all. Perhaps Rachel knew that. So she took the opportunity to at least get some insurance money out of the deal. The idea had possibilities and I filed it away in the back of my mind. Jeremy, Barb and Craig didn’t seem to have any reason to harm Joe. They’d never met before, as far as I knew.

  At least my suspect list was whittled down by one. Richard didn’t do away with Joe.

  I stopped in my tracks. Or did he? Not today, of course, but maybe yesterday. Is it possible that Richard was killed by someone acting in self-defense, that Richard was the aggressor? Maybe Richard argued with Joe, egged on by Dianne’s threat to withdraw her money from their business venture. The men fought and Joe swung at Richard with his canoe paddle.

  I called the scene back to the forefront of my mind. There was only one visible injury to the side of Richard’s head, no sign of defensive wounds, his knuckles were unscraped; therefore it was unlikely that he’d been in a physical fight. And Joe didn’t have a mark on him. Again, there was no indication of a struggle.

  Pushing that theory to the back of my mind to join all the others, I concentrated on the search.

  I hiked the length of the portage, huddled into Rachel’s raincoat, which was straining mightily to stay zipped across my hips. My eyes stayed downcast, my head swung rhythmically from side to side. And then, reaching the other lake, I turned and re-traced my path.

  Nothing.

  But I did take the opportunity to slip off the trail and recover my daypack from where I had been forgotten it in the confusions around the recovery of Richard’s body.

  Only Craig was still out searching when I got back to camp. The look on the assembled faces let me know that Joe had not been found.

  I took advantage of the borrowed raincoat to sneak up on the rocks and inspect the tent and the wrapped paddle. The tent appeared secure, everything tied down nice and tight. No need to venture inside.

  A touch of ice reached down my spine as I looked around and realized that something was amiss with my carefully saved evidence. The yellow rain coat was stuffed into the crevice between the rocks where it had been left. But it was far too flat and rumpled to contain anything as substantial as a canoe paddle.

  I stumbled recklessly over the rocks, risking a twisted ankle, or worse, on the wet, slippery, slimy surface, to retrieve my rain gear. My heart sank into my wet, cold toes as I shook out the yellow coat. Not so much as a splinter remained wrapped up in it. To add insult to injury the coat had been thrown down turned inside out. So it was thoroughly soaked and wouldn’t even serve its original purpose.

  I cursed mightily and loudly. My mistake, through and through. I hadn’t given a second’s thought to guarding the evidence. Anyone of them could have seen me carrying the paddle out of the woods and hiding it in the rocks, and it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to guess what the little bundle contained.

  Then, obligingly, we had split up and gone off helter-skelter in the search for Joe. Easy enough for one person to slip back unnoticed and retrieve the incriminating paddle.

  I had hoped that the paddle would carry some trace of the killer’s fingerprints. Of course, it would be covered with the prints of everyone who had used it or carried it. But maybe that the holding pattern of someone using the paddle to simply paddle would be different from that of someone swinging it with enough force to bash the side of a man’s head in.

  Some P.I. you are! Cursing myself for a fool and an incompetent fool at that, I swung, full of anger and humiliation, at the rock with my foot. The pain went a long way to help clear my head.

  Perhaps Rachel saw someone abandon the search and creep over the rocks. Unfortunately she claimed to have gone to rest in her tent after finishing her (read my) dinner and saw and heard nothing until the searchers returned.

  The group gathered around the remains of the fire as Craig attempted to stoke it back to life with a bit of damp wood and a lot of huffing and puffing. All he managed to produce was a lot of smoke and a tiny yellow flame.

  We watched each other with frightened eyes, no one saying a word. Jeremy muttered under his breath, something about Ten Little Indians. I hoped he wasn’t referring to the Agatha Christie classic in which the guests gathered in the English country house are methodically murdered one-by-one.

  Craig started up the propane stove and went about the task of making coffee and hot chocolate. He found a few crushed cookies in the bottom of the food pack and we sipped and chewed in silence.

  The dark was total, but no one seemed inclined to go to bed. We pulled out our flashlights and cast their dull glow up into the sky and through the trees to make circles of light in a puny attempt to keep the terrifying night at bay. And still the rain fell and the wind blew and the lightening flashed and the thunder roared.

  We were in a Provincial Park, in the heart of the most populous province in Canada, yet the wilderness that had seemed so benign, so welcoming and friendly only the day-before-yesterday, had turned into a place of hostility and darkness. I contemplated the nature of civilization and wondered how thin was its veneer, as I threw the human-made light into cheerful figure eights above the canopy of the trees.

  Only I, and one other person, knew we were up against a human killer, not a natural one. But the thought didn’t do anything to calm my supernatural fears, and I didn’t notice anyone else in the little group looking any easier than the rest of us.

  Jeremy heard it first and cocked his ear to one side, “What was that?”

  “What was what?” We screeched in unison, hearts pounding as we could only imagine what terrors the forest would unleash upon us next.

  “That noise, listen.” Jeremy hushed us and we all strained to hear. Thin and distant and disguised by wind and rain a weak human voice shouted against the elements.

  We leapt to our feet, jumped up and down and screamed for all we were worth. Rachel crawled out of her tent, her face showing nothing but annoyance.

  Barb screamed in delight. Arms held out in front of her, she fled in the direction of the voice.

  Craig shouted in an attempt to stop her headlong rush into the darkness but he made no effort to go after her.

  Seconds later, Barb returned, a gasping and sobbing Joe clutched in her arms. Rachel poured herself a fresh cup of coffee.

  We gathered Joe around the fire. Barb tossed more logs onto into the pit, generating far more smoke than flame. Dianne served coffee and Jeremy scraped the remains of the uneaten lentil stew back into the pot and placed it on the stove to re-heat.

  We all spoke at once, shouting and questioning and demanding answers and berating Joe for scaring us. He finished the drink with a sign of contentment and took a few steps toward Rachel.

  She stood up and slapped him soundly across the face.

  “You scared us so much, you bastard,” she screamed. “Where the hell have you been? People were out looking for you for h
ours.” A slight exaggeration. And with that she stepped past him and, head held high, returned to her tent.

  Joe watched her go, and then shrugged as more important matters came to mind. “That stew smells good. Can I have some?”

  Jeremy served up a heaping plateful (there was a lot left over) and Joe dug in like a man back on land after weeks lost at sea.

  We sat on our heels and waited patiently until he came up for air.

  “Where have you been?” Craig demanded. “We searched everywhere. We thought… well, never mind what we thought. What happened?”

  Joe’s face and hands were scratched as if he had gone nine rounds with a pissed-off house cat. He had lost one shoe and the remaining sock was torn almost to shreds. His raincoat flapped open. He was drenched to the skin and probably well beyond. But it was his face that told the story. His eyes were haunted, his skin pale, and his cheeks shrunken and gaunt, when he burst back into our circle. As he ate and drank and gobbled up our attention the color returned and his eyes recovered the light and he came back to us.

  “I wanted to go for a little walk. To think about Richard and what I’m going to do now.” He glanced at Dianne and continued. “I guess I went too far. I couldn’t find the way back. I kept moving, kept thinking that every second I would come up against the camp.” He gulped hot coffee and shivered.

  “Let me tell you, it was spooky out there. Shadows and sounds all around, and so dark, not even a speck of light in the sky to see by. I thought I heard a wolf, like we did last night. But even closer this time. Are there any wolves on this piece of land?”

  Craig shrugged. “There might be. There are plenty of wolf packs in the park.”

  Barb moaned. Joe continued his story. “Well, I guess I stumbled around in circles, and I was about to give it up for a while and try to find a bit of shelter to pass the night when I saw this light. It was just a little light, but in this bloody storm any light means humans, right?”

  We all nodded.

  “So I followed the dancing light and it was Leanne’s flashlight and here I am. Any more of that stew?”

  Jeremy leapt to get more. We shouted questions in a cacophony of panic relieved.

  “We’ve been searching for you everywhere.” Dianne’s powerful voice broke above the babble. “Didn’t you hear us calling?”

  He shook his head. “Even your voice can’t carry far over the wind and the rain.”

  “What happened to your whistle?” Craig said.

  “Whistle?”

  “Yes, your whistle.” He held his up as evidence. “You’re supposed to have your whistle on you at all times, for just this sort of incident. That sound carries much further than any human voice.”

  Barb dug into Joe’s shirtfront and pulled out the bright orange plastic whistle.

  He had the grace to look sheepish. “Sorry, forgot all about it.”

  Dianne huffed.

  Barb screeched and whacked his shoulder, but she was relieved to have him back.

  As was I. One murder at a time was all that I could cope with right now.

  Chapter 18

  Day 10: Early Morning.

  Another fitful night. Possessed of an inexhaustible supply of fury the storm continued to rage, all through the long, long night, outside our little circle of two tents and one drooping tarpaulin. I tossed and turned for hours, my exhausted bones discovering every stone and pebble and tiny grain of sand lying under the tent floor. Judging by the sounds emanating from both inside and outside my tent, not many of the others managed much sleep either.

  Still cursing my oversight in failing to protect the murder weapon, I considered posting myself as a guard over Richard’s tent, but gave that idea up in a flash. It was both impractical - I can’t stay awake forever - and unnecessary. The wind and the rain had done their work on Richard’s body well before I got him to shelter; there was no evidence left.

  It’s a lot harder, and a great deal messier, to dispose of a fresh human body than a canoe paddle.

  I must have managed to doze a bit, after most of what passed of the endless night, because I awoke to the sound of Craig swearing furiously as he realized that the storm continued, unabated.

  I groaned and pulled my sleeping bag up over my head, hoping that I was still fast asleep and dreaming, but the cursing only got louder and more vehement.

  Soon the banging of pots and the clatter of setting up the makeshift kitchen accompanied the curses and I was forced to face reality: I really was back in the clear, cold light of consciousness. I stuck my head out of the tent flap and let loose with some swearing of my own.

  Rain continued to fall. The patch of ground around the tents was nothing but a teeming puddle of thick, black mud. Visibility out over the lake was practically non-existent. Clouds and land and water blended together to form a solid wall of pewter.

  From behind my tent the crack of a tree breaking under the wind tore through the noise of the storm. I ducked in reflex and a thick, leaf encrusted branch flew overhead to land with a splash in the lake. It bobbed briefly amongst the heaving waves, a touch of cheerful green amongst the endless gray, and then it disappeared from view.

  Finished with that tree, the wind turned its attentions to our little tent and tugged furiously against the moorings. The fabric walls shivered and stretched in answer, but the pegs held fast. Defeated, the wind moved on and the tent sighed gently before settling back into its patch of ground.

  I tied on my sandals and struggled upright. Pulling my fingers through my hair and brushing my teeth with my tongue, I scrambled out of the tent. I stepped into a river of mud snaking its way through the camp; the thick ooze slithered over my sandals and wiggled into the gaps between my toes. We were lucky the interior of the tents remained as dry as they did.

  At this moment I would have traded my non-existent fortune for a half an hour in a steaming, bubble-filled bath.

  The mood of the group was dark, to say the least. Day upon day of unending rain is hard to take at the best of times, and this was certainly not the best of times. I thought of my sons and was only glad that they weren’t with me. At least they were safe, warm and dry even if they did have no one but the nanny to kiss them goodnight and tuck the Obi Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker duvets firmly under their chins. Their father and his new young wife, Marlene the social butterfly, were certainly unlikely to be there.

  Head down, avoiding all eye contact, Craig kept himself busy putting on the coffee and preparing what he could of breakfast. We had past the expected nine-day duration of our trip and the food was almost gone.

  Barb, Jeremy and Joe stood off to one side, huddled together under their raincoats, talking in low voices. They were well outside the protection (what little it continued to offer) of the tarp; they must be plotting. Another mutiny.

  “Look, Craig.” Joe moved back into the circle. His legs were braced apart, hands on hips and chin jutting forward. “We can’t stay here forever. We have to get moving.”

  Porridge ladle in one huge hand, Craig turned his attentions from the fire. “We can’t do anything else, Joe,” he said calmly. “We can’t cross that lake in this wind. And that’s final.”

  “Well one of us has to make the attempt. And you’re the only one who knows how to get the hell out of here.” He shifted his hands tighter on his hips and planted his feet firmly in the mud.

  Behind him Barb and Jeremy nodded as they also settled hands on hips. Dianne watched dispassionately from a log in front of the fire pit, empty coffee cup held loosely in front of her, awaiting filling.

  “Look,” Craig said calmly. He sounded much like a patient university tutor lecturing particularly dense first-year students, waving the ladle in the air like a pointer. “We’re not the only people stuck in this you know. The park rangers and the police will be on the water as soon as they can, checking campsites and remote lakes. I filed the planned details of our route back at the lodge, and we’ve pretty well kept to it. The safest thing to do is to just
sit tight. This storm can’t last forever, then we’ll flag down a ranger and get help.”

  “Well, we’re sure as hell the only people out here with a dead body and a murderer on the loose,” Barb shouted. “And I’m not going to sit here waiting for help that might, or might not, come.”

  “What do you mean, murderer?” I said.

  “Oh, come on, Leanne. Any idiot could tell by the way you were cuddling that paddle to your chest and burying it under rocks that you think it’s some kind of evidence. And going back to the body with your camera after Richard was found, that wasn’t because you wanted to take a few action shots of your summer vacation, I would venture to guess.”

  I sucked in my breath and tried to steady my breathing. Dianne dropped her coffee cup as if she’d found a snake curled up for a nap in the bottom and leapt to her feet.

  “Murder!” she screamed. “What are you talking about? It was an accident. Richard fell; no one would want to murder him. Everyone loved Richard.”

  I doubted that but placed one hand on her arm as she lunged toward Barb, ready to take her shock and anger out on the Englishwoman’s face.

  Rachel scuttled out of her tent in alarm. Apparently she had run into some difficulties applying this morning’s make-up. Probably not enough light - the lipstick line overflowed the natural curve of her mouth in a jagged edge and green eye shadow highlighted one lid but not the other.

  “Murder, murder.” Jeremy and Joe whispered the emotion-packed word at each other, eyes wide with alarm, all trace of aggression and rebellion gone like wisps of smoke rising from the damp fire.

  “You mean you didn’t know.” Barb looked around in a fair resemblance of disbelief. “It’s as plain as the rain in front of your face.” She laughed. “Some detective you are, Leanne, sneaking around in the dark. Don’t give up your day job.”

  The hair on my arms bristled, but before I could throw a retort, Craig stepped in. “Never mind all that. Nothing matters now, but this: we’re trapped here, in this storm, on this little point of land. And we’ll wait here until the storm ends or until someone passes by. Get it?” He glared at each of the mutineers in turn. “Get it?” he repeated to Joe.