Murder on High

by Stefanie Matteson

  “A body!” she exclaimed.

  “A detective from the Indian police is on his way up now from Indian Island with an assistant to take a look. He’s made arrangements for us all to fly in. We’re supposed to meet him at the Katahdin Air Service in an hour.”

  Charlotte moved the Pamola prankster up on her suspect list, and Jeanne down. Unless Jeanne had some connection to the retreat center, this removed her from the top spot. As it did Keith, who wouldn’t have sullied his own nest.

  “Another crossbow murder?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t hear much.” He frowned at the noisy group of rafters. “But I don’t think he knew much more than that anyway. The grave is on the north shore of Little Beaver Pond.”

  Pulling out her map again, Charlotte spread it out between them. “Here it is,” she said, pointing at a small drop of blue just east of Beaver Pond, and just west of the park boundary.

  “The only alternative to flying in is to drive on a logging road twenty miles up the West Branch to a sporting camp named Big Eddy”—he pointed to a site near the Ripogenus Dam—“and hike in three or four miles from there.”

  “Where are you headed?” asked Bruce as he served their main course. He was a lithe and fit young man, distinctly un-mooselike, and clearly curious about the business that had brought the state police to his neck of the woods.

  “Beaver Pond,” said Tracey.

  “The Katahdin Retreat Center?” he asked.

  Tracey nodded. “We’re supposed to fly in from the Katahdin Air Service. Do you know where it is?”

  Bruce nodded at the door. “Out the door and across the road. On the shore of Ambejejus Lake. It will take you exactly two minutes. On foot. Longer if you have to get in the car and drive.”

  Tracey smiled his Cheshire cat grin. “Which means we’ll have plenty of time to enjoy this delicious meal,” he said, studying with relish the pink slab of roast beef and the mound of Yorkshire pudding on his plate.

  “Please do,” said Bruce graciously.

  Charlotte was glad to be sharing her time with somebody who had his priorities straight, which meant that food came first. She also was glad Maine was still the kind of place where people had their dinner at midday.

  After dinner they headed across the road to the Katahdin Air Service. While Tracey checked in at the office, a small log cabin with a sign out front advertising scenic rides, Charlotte studied their itinerary on the map. As a child, she’d had an uncle who went fly fishing in Maine every spring, and the long Indian names brought back memories of his stories about the Maine woods, which in turn brought back memories of happy family gatherings. Ambejejus was near the beginning of the string of lakes, falls, and deadwaters that made up the West Branch of the Penobscot. Her uncle used to entertain the children by reciting them in fixed order: Pemadumcook, Ambejejus, Passamagamet, Debsconeag, Pockwockamus, Aboljacarmegus, Nesowadnehunk, Amberjackmockamus, Ripogenus, Chesuncook. In a Maine wilderness version of Peter Piper, she would occupy herself for hours on end trying to meet his challenge of doing the same without tripping on her tongue. She could still recite them today, though her memory had been refreshed by the previous night’s reading of Thoreau’s account of the same trip.

  When Tracey emerged from the office they boarded the red and white float plane that was waiting at the dock. A second plane was awaiting the arrival of the Indian detective and his assistant. Once the pilot—a bearded bear of a man who occupied more than his share of the tiny space—had gotten them loaded on and buckled in, they took off with a roar across the lake, and then rose slowly into the air. Charlotte was amazed to see that what appeared from the ground to be a wilderness lake was actually surrounded by dozens of small cabins—what the Mainers called “camps”—tucked away into the woods. But the signs of habitation became less commonplace as they traveled up the West Branch, and by the time they turned north toward Beaver Pond at Big Amberjackmockamus Falls, there was nothing but dark green forest interrupted only by an occasional tote road and the patches of lighter green where the forest had been clear cut by the lumber companies. Looming over all was the majestic presence of Katahdin. A few minutes later, they had skidded to a stop in the small bowl of dark blue that was Beaver Pond. The plane ferried them over to the west shore, and they disembarked at the dock, where another float plane was anchored. The retreat center sat at the head of a meadow that sloped down to the lake, a ski-chalet-style building made of giant peeled logs.

  Their introduction to the retreat center came in the form of another vicious black fly attack. The flies moved in the moment the propellers stopped whirring. This time, Charlotte was prepared. “Good job,” said Tracey appreciatively as she produced a container of Bug Ammo. She had bought it on the way up to Katahdin after a sign warning tourists not to “pet the black flies or ride the mosquitoes” reminded her of their experience in Hamlin’s Woods. But, oddly enough, she hadn’t needed it on Katahdin. She suspected that the black fly season on the mountain came a little later on account of the altitude.

  By the time they had finished anointing themselves, the second float plane could be seen heaving into view above the tips of the pines. A few minutes later, it had discharged its cargo of passengers: the detective from the Indian police, whose name was Bill St. Louis, and his young assistant. Both looked as much French as they did Indian, and probably were.

  After introductions, the four of them headed up toward the retreat center. When they were halfway there, Keith emerged and headed down to greet them. This time, no introductions were necessary: Keith already knew the police officers. As he himself explained, on an island with only six hundred residents, everybody knew everybody else.

  Once the greetings were dispensed with, Keith addressed the little group in a quiet but commanding voice; it was clear that he was accustomed to being in charge.

  “As you already know, one of our vision questers discovered a shallow grave near Little Beaver Pond this morning. I called Lieutenant St. Louis, and he in turn called the state police because of the possible link with the murder on Katahdin. As you’ll see, it looks like a fresh grave.”

  “Do you have any idea who the body might belong to?” asked St. Louis. He was a tall, thin man whose quiet demeanor and soft voice seemed at odds with his choice of profession.

  Keith shook his head. “No. When I found out about the grave, I immediately went to check on our vision questers. A vision quest is a solo fasting ceremony that’s conducted in the wilderness. Each of the vision questers is on his own, but I know where they all are.”

  “And they’re all here?” asked Tracey.

  He nodded. “We have fourteen in the seven-day Native American course right now. They’re scattered around at various locations in the woods.”

  “Do they know we’re here?” Tracey asked.

  “No. They probably heard the planes, but that wouldn’t mean anything to them. They didn’t even know that I was checking up on them. I didn’t see any point in interrupting their journeys until we know what’s going on.”

  “What about the vision quester who found the grave?” asked Tracey.

  “Eagle Woman,” said Keith.

  “That’s her name?” said Tracey.

  Keith nodded. “Each of the vision questers picks a name to use during the quest,” he explained. “She was very upset about it. She thought about dropping out, but then decided to continue. The vision quest ends this afternoon anyway. She’s moved her power place to the other side of Little Beaver Pond.”

  “What’s a power place?” asked Tracey.

  “Each of the vision questers chooses a site that speaks to them; it’s where they carry out their vision quest.” Keith paused for a minute, then asked: “Any other questions?”

  “Not at the moment,” said Tracey, speaking for them all.

  “Then we’ll head over there,” said Keith. “The site’s about a half mile from here, on the north shore of Little Beaver Pond. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk whil
e we walk. Voices carry easily over the pond, and I wouldn’t want to disturb the vision questers.”

  After stopping at a tool shed to pick up a shovel, Keith headed off into the woods, with the others stretched out Indian file behind him along a trail that followed the shore of the pond.

  With conversation ruled out, Charlotte found herself observing the way the Indians moved, especially Keith. They moved lightly and gracefully, with knees bent and torsos hunched over, touching down with the balls of their feet first, and then lowering their heels, without making a sound.

  Fascinated, she tried to imitate them, but found that she couldn’t keep her balance. Where had they learned to walk like that? she wondered, and concluded that it must be in their blood. As Keith had said, you could take the woods away from an Indian, but you couldn’t take it out of him.

  After a few minutes, they came to the end of Beaver Pond, whose shore had been denuded of trees by the industrious beavers for their lodges. Several of these lodges were visible in the shallow water. Beyond the pond, the trail followed a stream for a short distance before reaching Little Beaver Pond.

  At Little Beaver Pond, they followed a trail along the shore for a short distance before turning into the woods, which consisted mostly of birch and scrub spruce. Once they left the shore, there was no trail, but Keith seemed to know where he was going.

  A few minutes later they emerged at a fern-fringed forest dell, in the middle of which stood a freshly dug shallow grave. A cross made of two sticks lashed together with a leather shoestring was stuck in the middle.

  Why the cross? Charlotte wondered. If a murderer had wanted to conceal a body, he wouldn’t have marked it with a cross.

  Keith held up the shovel. “Who wants to do the honors?”

  St. Louis nodded at his burly assistant, who was the obvious choice on account of his broad back and strong shoulders. He took the shovel and began to dig energetically.

  After a few minutes, the shovel struck something hard, which the next shovelful revealed to be a loose-leaf notebook. Reaching over, Tracey lifted it off the shovel and brushed the dirt off the cover. “‘Psychology 101,’” he read. “‘Jonathan Norwood, Harkness Hall.’”

  “Let me see,” said Keith, reaching out a hand.

  Charlotte noticed how delicate and hairless his fingers were.

  “Jonathan Norwood was a vision quester in the last session,” he explained. “He went home a week ago last Tuesday.” His flared eyebrows were drawn together in perplexity. “His power place was right up there.” He nodded at a shelf of granite just above them. “His name was Molting Snake.”

  “Look at this,” said St. Louis’ assistant. His shovel had turned up a stack of envelopes fastened together with a rubber band. “Bank statements. Columbia Bank and Trust. Jonathan Norwood again.”

  As the little group looked on, the digging continued to turn up other artifacts from the life of Jonathan Norwood: a freshman beanie, a high-school yearbook, several photograph albums, even some grade-school report cards.

  “What’s the story on him?” Tracey asked as he leafed through the yearbook, which was from a high school in Massachusetts.

  “He was a very unhappy person,” Keith replied. “In and out of college. Couldn’t get his life together. He lived with his mother, worked at a job he hated. He said he had come on the vision quest in hopes of gathering the courage to find a new direction for his life.”

  “Hence the name Molting Snake,” said Tracey.

  Keith nodded.

  “Here’s an appointment book,” said St. Louis, bending over to pick it out of the pile of upturned earth.

  “And what was he doing here?” asked Tracey. “Burying his past?”

  “It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  11

  Half an hour later, they were back at the retreat center, feeling a bit silly about the whole incident. “I guess everybody around here is a little spooked,” said Tracey, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. After saying goodbye, St. Louis and his assistant took the waiting float plane back to Ambejejus Lake. Since the other plane had been called back to service some other customers, and the one that was already there was Keith’s, Charlotte and Tracey had to wait until St. Louis’ plane returned. This meant that they were temporarily stranded with Keith and his girlfriend, Didias. Charlotte wasn’t unhappy about the delay. She wanted more time to talk with Keith, who was back at the top of the suspect list now that the dead body had turned out to be a false alarm. After they had seen the plane off, Keith explained that he and Didias would have to excuse themselves: they had to get the sweat lodge ready for the vision questers who were due back later that afternoon.

  Keith had expressed relief that the grave had contained only the mementoes of a vision quester past; a body wouldn’t have been good for business, he said. Charlotte was also glad there was no second body, except for the fact that it put them back where they had started, with Iris murdered and an unknown prankster prowling the park. Keith didn’t know anything about the former (or so he said), but Charlotte suspected he might know something about the latter, and she decided to take advantage of the wait by asking him about it.

  “What do you have to do?” she asked him, in reference to the sweat lodge ceremony. “Maybe we can help.”

  “We can use all the hands we can get,” Keith replied. “It’s up that path there.” He pointed to a wide swath that had been cut through the meadow grass to the right of the retreat center.

  With that, they set out, Tracey walking with Keith and Charlotte with Didias. If Keith looked Japanese and St. Louis looked French, Didias looked like Pocahontas. She was a beautiful young woman, with long, shiny black hair held back by a porcupine quill ornament, and high, wide cheekbones.

  Meeting her, Charlotte remembered that they still had to check out Keith’s alibi. But it would be better to wait until Keith wasn’t around, she decided. Also, it was more a matter of routine than anything else; all Didias could do was confirm that he hadn’t been with her, which didn’t mean much.

  “Didias,” Charlotte repeated. She turned to her companion. “I’ve never heard that name before. Is it a Penobscot name?”

  She smiled. She had small, perfect white teeth. “A nickname, really. It means blue jay. It’s a name that’s traditionally given to a young woman by her beloved.” She looked lovingly over at Keith, who was chatting with Tracey. “My real name is Mary. Keith is big on unearthing forgotten Penobscot traditions.”

  “Isn’t that good?” asked Charlotte. Looking at Keith, she was struck again by the difference between the way he and Tracey walked.

  “Very good,” Didias agreed. “If it weren’t for him, a lot of the old ways would have died out. He’s committed to Black Elk’s vision of the red road. He was a Sioux spiritual leader whose teachings are considered by many to be the Native American Bible,” she explained. “He believed in the unity of mankind.”

  They had passed the retreat center, and were now entering the woods on the hillside behind it.

  “Keith is always quoting him,” Didias continued. “‘And I saw that the sacred hoop of my people was one of many hoops that made one circle, wide as daylight and as starlight, and in the center grew one mighty flowering tree to shelter all the children of one mother and one father.’”

  “Then his belief in Black Elk’s vision is why he wants to perpetuate Native American traditions among whites?” said Charlotte.

  Didias nodded. “A lot of Penobscots don’t approve. They want to keep our traditions to ourselves.”

  They walked for a moment in silence; then Charlotte said, “It would seem to me that since a lot of Maine Indians have a fair amount of white blood, to deny their traditions to whites would be hypocritical.” As always, she wasn’t unwilling to put in her two cents.

  “Exactly,” Didias concurred. “Nobody’s full-blooded anymore. Nobody was full-blooded a hundred years ago. Even Chief Orono, who died in 1801, was three-quarters French,” she said
, naming the chief after whom the town was named.

  They had arrived at a clearing, in the middle of which stood an enormous woodpile that had been stacked in a square, like a Lincoln log construction. On top of the woodpile was a pile of rocks. On the far side was a level area on which an altar had been laid out. This consisted of a pole from which hung streamers of various colors, and, at the foot of the pole, a large rock crystal. The sweat lodge skeleton stood beyond the altar. It was a wigwamlike structure, about six feet high at its peak and about ten feet in diameter, made of bent saplings that had been lashed together. These were supported around the middle by a girdle of more poles.

  Keith had stopped at the woodpile and was explaining the ceremony to Tracey. “The grandfathers, as we call the rocks, are heated to red-hot in the fire, and then they’re brought into the lodge and put into the fire pit,” he said. “Then water is poured on them to make steam.”

  “It’s the Indian equivalent of the Finnish sauna, but with a spiritual element,” Didias interjected.

  “Each sweat lodge is consecrated to a particular purpose,” Keith went on to explain. “In the ceremony that will be held this evening, the vision questers will be calling on the spirits to help them interpret the meaning of the visions that came to them during their quests.”

  “Very interesting,” said Tracey.

  “What would you like us to do?” Charlotte asked.

  “Lieutenant Tracey can take the wheelbarrow and gather some more rocks, and you can help me with the blankets,” he replied. “The rocks have to be a certain size,” he said to Tracey. “Didias will show you. She’s going to collect some more kindling.”

  Tracey picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow. “Let’s go,” he said to Didias. Then they disappeared back down the path.

  After Tracey and Didias had gone, Keith led Charlotte around the altar to a pile of Indian blankets on a pallet behind the sweat lodge, which was protected from the weather by a sheet of plastic.