Chapter 8
The stars shone through the window, distant and diamond.
The bed creaked a bit as Aisha turned to me. "What are the odds?" She asked.
"Huh?"
"Of snagging a body with a fishing lure."
"It wasn't a big lake."
"Nonetheless…."
"Pretty small," I sighed. "I wouldn't bet the house on it ever happening again."
"And how many people paddle cross that lake in a summer?"
"In my mind, only one. Me." My back itched in a place I'd never get it.
"Obviously not."
"Not this summer, in any case."
"Do the police suspect you?"
"I don't think so." I thought about it. "I would."
"Maybe you're a psychopath, making sure the portages don't get too crowded."
"Ha," I said, "Ha. You'd have known."
"The wife never suspects." Aisha reached around me and scratched my back. "I could have sold my sad story to all the papers."
"Thanks," I said, "but we don't even know for sure it was murder."
"The coroner thinks it's quite possible, although the autopsy isn’t compete yet."
"Aren’t you sleepy? It's after eleven." I yawned broadly, but in the starlight she might have missed it.
"My husband's probably been out killing strangers in the woods, and I should go to sleep with the bastard right beside me?"
"Have I mentioned he was quite dead when I caught him?"
"But was he dead when you first met him? That's what we all want to know."
I sighed again. "Maybe I didn't get enough sleep the night before."
"Is that a threat?" Aisha laughed. "I can't actually imagine you killing anybody."
I took that as an insult to my manly pride. "Oh, I don't know…."
She rolled onto an elbow. Mine. "I think," she said, "that those two geologists did it."
"The geologist and the geographer. I'm sure they lured George out into the middle of nowhere for the pleasure of killing him." I yawned again.
"I can't see why they needed a guide, anyway." Aisha shifted in bed, and I scratched her head.
"It does seem a bit strange. But what do I know? Maybe it's standard practice to hire a local when they go somewhere."
"Maybe they found a gold mine and he threatened to talk."
"Doubt that,” I said. “He'd just want his share. Maybe they were engaged in some bizarre sex practice with a moose and he took their picture."
"With a moose? What an idea! Now I'm wondering what you really do on all those canoe trips."
I ignored the implication. Besides, moose are harder to catch than you might think. "The police think Kele, the artist, did it," I mentioned.
"That seems pretty farfetched, if you ask me."
"Why." I reached over and dragged her closer. She snuggled in, putting her head on my shoulder.
"Because," she said, "there must be a million easier ways to kill someone than trekking miles through swamp and bush with a canoe on your head. And when you get there, you'd have to separate the guy from the other people."
"Without them knowing," I added. I began scratching her head again. That usually puts her to sleep.
"That's right," Aisha said. "If anyone knew you were there, you'd be the only suspect.”
"If it wasn't him, then you think maybe it was Bob?"
"The Brit with the knife?" Aisha squiggled a bit. "Was he anywhere near?"
"Maybe," I said. "We'll check that out tomorrow."
"It still doesn't seem much of a motive. A fight over an old girlfriend." Aisha sounded sleepier. There was hope.
"Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?"
"Still think it was the mad photographer who just wanted to be alone." Aisha was almost asleep.
"You're sleeping on his shoulder," I pointed out.
"Mmmm hmm."
I thought by this time that I wasn't going to get to sleep. I was wrong.
Death on a Small, Dark Lake Page 9