Bride and Doom

by Deborah Donnelly

  He gunned the engine and had us roaring south on I-5 in a matter of minutes. I was glad of my shoulder belt. Gordo was an uncomfortable driver, all sudden speeding and swerving, but Rose just giggled. Young people think they’re immortal.

  “We’re stopping in Issaquah to pick up Rob Harmon,” she told me, hanging over her seat back like a kid. “He’s staying with friends there. I hope it’s OK with you that he’s coming?”

  “That’s fine with me. What a terrific idea!” I was nearly babbling with relief. “It’ll be more fun with four of us, and I’d love to spend some time with Rob.”

  “I bet!” Rose crowed with laughter, mistaking the source of my enthusiasm. She nudged her fiancé playfully. “He is pretty handsome, for an older guy.”

  “Charmin’ Harmon,” said Gordo, chuckling along. “Gets ’em every time. Were you a big fan of his, Carnegie?”

  “No,” I protested, feeling a blush creeping up my cheeks. “I mean, sure, Rob was a great pitcher, but—”

  “Don’t worry,” teased Rose, “we’ll keep your secret. Won’t we, Gordy?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, watching me in the rearview mirror. His sunglasses were like a mask. “We’ll keep your secret.”

  Issaquah used to be a quiet hamlet in the foothills, on the road that crossed the Cascades over Snoqualmie Pass. Now Snoqualmie is a popular ski area, the road is the I-90 freeway, and Issaquah is a burgeoning bedroom community for Seattle and Bellevue, with upscale condos and pricey tract houses creeping up into the evergreen slopes.

  Rob’s friends had a four-car-garage house near the freeway exit. Gordo pulled up and beeped, and Rob emerged from the white-columned entrance and ambled over to us. He wore jeans and a denim jacket and carried a blue knapsack with a gold emblem slung over one shoulder.

  “Morning, everybody.” Rob’s cheeks were stubbly and his eyes were sleepy, but he looked all-American gorgeous. As he climbed into the backseat and buckled up, two feet away from me, I was suddenly sorry that the car was so big. “I had to borrow a pack from one of the kids, so I’m a Boy Scout today.”

  “Some Boy Scout you are!” cried Gordo, zooming back to the interstate. “Remember that weekend in Vegas at the end of your last season? Rosie, this guy was putting down vodka shooters like they were water…”

  The raucous reminiscing between the two men went on for the next half-hour, as the highway shook off towns and malls and gas stations to curve its way into the forest, and the hills rose to mountains around us. But I would have enjoyed the scenery more if Gordo hadn’t taken to teasing me about my enthusiasm for Rob’s presence.

  “You should have seen Carnegie’s face when she found out you were coming, Charmin’.” Gordo gave me a big grin in the rearview mirror. “She lit up like a Christmas tree.”

  “All the ladies have a crush on Rob,” Rose chimed in. “Don’t they, Carnegie?”

  I didn’t like the sound of “ladies”—it went right along with “older guy”—but as the engaged couple chortled and Rob raised an eyebrow at me, I didn’t reply. I could hardly explain the real reason I was glad to have Rob along. And what’s a graceful way to say that you’re not attracted to a man, especially when you are?

  Luckily, the scenery soon took everyone’s attention. At first the peaks were clothed in fir trees right to their tops, but as we gained elevation the lofty summits became silvery granite with patches of snow, their skylines sharp-edged against the azure sky of a perfect October day.

  The Cascade Range stretches from Canada into California, but the Alpine Lakes Wilderness that lies north of I-90 is its heart and soul—at least in my book. Studded with glaciers and scattered with meadows and dotted with hundreds of high-elevation lakes, the area is sometimes called the American Alps. I’ve never been to Switzerland, but I love the Alpine Lakes more than any place on the planet.

  As we crested the final rise to the vast bench of Snoqualmie Pass, the steeply tilted mountain meadows were tapestries of crimson and burgundy and gold. The others exclaimed at the panorama, and I was eager for the trailhead myself, but there was one vital stop to make first.

  “Take the exit for the ski area,” I told Gordo. “You might want to slow d—own!”

  He geared down abruptly, throwing me and Rob against our seatbelts and making Rose squeal. We rolled past the ski lodge and the chairlifts on our right and the Summit Motel on our left. The motel lot held a scatter of cars on this early weekday morning, but also rows of huge long-distance trucks. Interstate 90 runs from Seattle to Boston, so for truckers Snoqualmie Pass is just a stop on the way.

  Then, just before the frontage road swung back to the freeway, I spied my objective: a cute little building that, here at three thousand feet, was no doubt the highest espresso stand in Washington State. “That’s it, pull over.”

  There was much kidding about Carnegie’s caffeine addiction, but three of us bought lattes and Gordo got a quadruple Americano—making me wonder about his pumped-up metabolism. But I was distracted, as we stood in the chilly sunshine with our drinks, by the pointed attentions of Rob Harmon.

  He’d insisted on paying for my coffee and was now sipping at his in unnervingly close proximity. Damn Gordo and his teasing, I thought, as a blush rose up my throat and across my cheeks—no doubt adding to Rob’s mistaken impression about me.

  “Y’all should see your hair in this light,” he said quietly. “It’s like fire.”

  I mumbled something or other, but we both could have shouted without being noticed. Gordo was nuzzling the back of Rose’s neck, and she was clearly oblivious to us, the mountains, and the rest of the universe.

  This is not a girl who thinks her guy is a killer, I thought as we bore our cups into the SUV. Then, as I directed us to the trailhead, But if he isn’t, then who is? “LT knows,” the notebook said. Maybe I should have stayed in town and tracked down Leroy Theroux.

  One reason I love hiking is that I lose myself in nature and in the rhythm of moving my body along the earth. But I’d never done a hike before with so much on my mind. The first stretch of the trail, a steep pitch through woods, went by before I knew it. Then as it leveled out into a string of little meadows between groves of Douglas fir, I went on pondering, with no useful result.

  Enough! I told myself at last. You’re here now, so you might as well enjoy it.

  I always enjoyed the trip to Snow Lake. It was a hike I’d done many times, with many different friends, in the snowdrifts of June and the skinny-dipping heat of August and the blazing colors of October, just like today. So while the sun rose into the bowl of blue above us, my thoughts slowed and my senses awakened.

  The air smelled of evergreens and warm rock, while birdcalls rose thin and sweet from the tree shadows. And everywhere around us, the foliage colors of the dwarf huckleberry and shrub willow and mountain ash were bright enough to break your heart.

  My companions were certainly enjoying themselves. Rose and Gordo, in the lead, had eyes mostly for each other, but also for the view up the broad valley up ahead. And Rob, walking behind me, was stopping often to take photographs.

  “Can I get one of you?” he asked as we picked our way across a field of tumbled boulders. “Just for scale, you know. Come sit over here…Beautiful.”

  I perched on the sofa-sized stone, shaded my eyes from the sun, and smiled a most self-conscious smile as the camera whirred and clicked. Then he helped me down from my perch and held my hand just a moment longer than necessary. Was this just simple friendliness on Rob’s part or the first steps in a dance of casual seduction? Professional athletes, even retired ones, tend to be good at that dance.

  Years ago I would have been thrilled at the prospect, but not now. Maybe I was flattering myself, but just in case…

  “If that comes out,” I said, retying the scarf in my hair, “I’ll have to get a print for Aaron.”

  “Aaron?”

  “My fiancé. He’s with the Sentinel. You might have met him the other night.”

  “Oh, rig
ht, Aaron Gold. Nice fellow.”

  There, I thought, as the four of us reached the switchbacks that zigzag up the final ridge above the lake. That takes care of that. We stopped for a breather, gazing back down the valley and marveling at how high we’d climbed already—and when I moved away from Rob, he didn’t come closer.

  Then we tackled the switchbacks, me huffing and puffing a little, Rose leaping lightly ahead, and the two ballplayers taking the climb with measured, apparently effortless strides. I noticed, with some satisfaction, that none of us had breath to spare for conversation until we reached the top of the ridge and looked down the other side at the lake. Then we all found our voices.

  “Wow!” said Gordo, between swigs from his water bottle. “It looks like a calendar or something.”

  “It sure does.” Rob’s camera was going nonstop.

  With good reason. On a day like this one, the view down to Snow Lake was postcard-perfect. The water was turquoise in the shallows, shading to deepest cobalt in the center and sparkling with the reflected glints of light that my mother calls sun pennies. The shore of the lake winds in and out to form miniature fjords and peninsulas, and in places it juts out in granite ledges high above the water’s surface, making perfect picnic spots.

  The only other people visible this morning were a trio of fishermen on the farther shore, but they were too distant to show up in a photograph. I’d taken innumerable snapshots of Snow Lake, but I got out my own camera anyway. I left my pack open at my feet while I focused, then moved away to get a better angle.

  With my eye at the viewfinder, I didn’t see Gordo until after I’d snapped the picture. When I turned around, he was rummaging in my pack—which held Digger Duvall’s notebook.

  “Hey, what’s this?” he said, straightening up.

  “Leave that alone!” It came out loud and angry, startling us both as I rushed over to him.

  “Sorry,” he said, dropping the object in his hand. “Just joking.”

  “Um…” I trailed off sheepishly when I saw what it was that Gordo had reached for: my extra-large Cadbury bar. Rose and Rob were staring at me curiously. “Um, so was I. Anybody want some chocolate?”

  We each ate a sweet creamy bite or two, but first I hung my camera around my neck and zipped up that inner pocket. Then we made our way down to the lake.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Had Gordo seen the notebook or not? I couldn’t be sure, and I pondered the question all through lunch. I also wondered what Rose’s personal question might be, because she had made no effort to take me aside and ask it. She must be afraid of Gordo overhearing, I thought. Though she doesn’t seem afraid of Gordo.

  The four of us sat cross-legged on a little promontory of rock, squinting against the glitter of sunlight on the rippling blue-green of the lake. Rose and me with our rolls and cheese, Rob with a roast beef on rye that his friend’s wife had made for him, and Gordo with a submarine sandwich the size of both my boots. He devoured it with implausible speed, washing down each mouthful with a slug of dark beer from an outsized bottle that he’d brought wrapped in a jacket.

  “You guys sure you don’t want any?” he asked, extending the bottle.

  No takers, but sadly enough everyone accepted more of my chocolate when I offered it around. I tried to hide my disappointment, but Rob chuckled at my rueful expression.

  “Don’t worry, Carnegie.” He rummaged in his own pack and produced a double handful of baby Mars Bars. “Boy Scouts come prepared. Here everybody, dig in.”

  Lolling back against our plateau’s single fir tree, alternating bites of apple and candy, I alternated between worrying about Gordo and absorbing the serenity of the lake. It was hard to suspect anyone in a benign and exquisite setting like this, and as our conversation died away, my worries dissolved into the stillness and the sunshine. I drifted into a reverie, only half awake.

  “Carnegie?” came a whisper, followed by a light touch on my shoulder.

  I sat up. Rob smiled at me, then glanced over at Rose and Gordo. The groom was sprawled flat on his back on the warm stone, snoring placidly, while his bride lay curled into his shoulder, also in dreamland.

  “I’m setting off exploring,” whispered Rob. “Want to come?”

  There’s something mischievous about being awake while others are sleeping, and the one thing I did feel sure about now was Gordo’s affection for Rose. Whatever the truth about Digger, I was no longer concerned about leaving her alone with him. In fact, the notion that this good-natured teddy bear of a fellow was a cold-blooded killer was seeming more and more absurd.

  But then what was her personal question about? If not the murder, then maybe just the steroids? Gordo could be a drug user without being a murderer. But whatever the question, Rose wasn’t going to ask it until she woke up. So I nodded, and Rob helped me to my feet. Once again he retained my hand for an extra moment, and once again I pretended not to notice.

  We didn’t talk much as the main trail took us up over another promontory and on around to a small half-moon bay with a pebbly beach. Here the trail dipped right down to the water’s glistening edge, and we paused to admire the bay. Then Rob plucked up a flat stone and, with a deft sideways flick of his arm, skimmed it far out on the silvery surface. The stone made a long shallow curve of tiny splashes before it disappeared.

  “Oh, do it again,” I said. “I want to get a picture.”

  Rob complied, and I backed up along the crunching pebbles to photograph the legendary Navigator pitcher skipping stones. If only Aaron was here, he’d love this. It was funny, but I didn’t feel a bit guilty about letting Rob appreciate my company. Now that he knew I was engaged, what was the harm?

  Done with the pebbles, Rob looked around and pointed at a rocky crag that rose beyond the next bend of the trail.

  “Think we can get up there? I bet the view is great.”

  I was feeling adventurous. “Let’s try.”

  We weren’t the first to try. A faint side trail led around the crag and sketched a route up the farther, less-precipitous side. We stepped from rocks to tree-roots to rocks again, sometimes grabbing at a trunk for a handhold but mostly just stair-climbing. They were nearly vertical stairs, and several times Rob reached back a hand to help me up a steep bit. He was remarkably strong.

  “This’ll be harder going down,” I said, panting happily. I took the last giant step up to stand on the summit, a tilted platform of rock barely five feet square. “But it’s worth it!”

  The view was glorious, with the half-moon bay opening before us like an arc of green glass. At our feet the face of the crag dropped a hundred yards straight down to a perfect still life of tumbled rock and bright-hued foliage. I lifted my camera, but a stray breeze set the leaves quivering, so I stepped back—and right into Rob.

  “Carnegie.” His arms went around me.

  “Rob, this isn’t—”

  “Just a kiss.” His face was close to mine. “C’mon…”

  It really isn’t fair on a girl, to be offered the kiss she used to daydream about and then have to refuse it. And I was about to refuse Rob—I’m pretty sure I was—when a man’s voice came from the trail below.

  “How’d they get up there?”

  “Shut up, idiot, can’t you see they’re makin’ out?”

  We broke apart, me blushing and Rob scowling, and I peered over the edge of our little mountain. The trio of fishermen stood gazing up at us, their faces tipped skyward like curious cows. I waved and tried to find my voice.

  “There’s a trail up the back,” I called. “It’s steep but not too bad. Wait, though, we’re coming down.”

  Rob was silent on our way back to the picnic site, until we reached a spot on the trail overlooking the picnic site. Rose and Gordo were wide awake now, packing up for the hike out, but they hadn’t seen us yet.

  “Carnegie, I am truly sorry.” Rob was frowning into the distance. “That was out of line.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I was flattered, a
ctually. It’s just that I’m—”

  “Engaged, I know. You made good and sure to drop Aaron’s name back there, didn’t you?”

  “Well, yes.”

  He shook his head. “I should be better than that at picking up signals. I guess what Gordo was saying on the drive up here just went to my head. Friends?”

  He looked straight at me and held out a hand. I shook it and smiled.

  “Friends.”

  “Hey, guys, over there!”

  Rose waved an arm, and I waved back. We rejoined them, and the four of us fell into line on the trail, taking the climb over the ridge at a rapid clip. As we began to descend the switchbacks on the other side, I gestured the men ahead.

  “You guys go on,” I said, sinking onto a convenient log. “I need a breather. Rose, could you help me fix this scarf?”

  Rob and Gordo kept going, no doubt to talk baseball, and Rose returned. She gave me a quizzical look as I pulled the scarf off altogether and tucked it into my pack.

  “What’s up?”

  “What’s up with you?” I patted the log beside me in invitation. “What’s this personal matter you wanted to talk about?”

  Rose took a seat without speaking. I waited. She picked up a stick and poked at the dirt with it. A preoccupied chipmunk came hip-hopping down the path until it noticed us, then squeaked in alarm and hightailed it—literally—out of sight.

  “Rose,” I said, “you can trust me. If it’s something about Gordo’s…well, his career—”

  “What do mean, his career?”

  I tried again. “Look, if there’s something about Gordo that you’re uneasy about, you can tell me.”

  She poked harder, and the stick snapped. “It’s not Gordo I’m worried about, it’s me!”

  “You? What’s worrying you?”

  Her face reddened, and her lips clenched tight, as if to guard some secret. Then she blurted, “Sex!”

  “Sex.” A flurry of possibilities arose in my mind. Infidelity? Incompatibility? Disease? Every guess but the right one. “What exactly is the—”