Wolf Lake

by John Verdon

  “Yes, but then I thought dinner would be even better—more casual, especially with Madeleine present, a good way for you to get to know who Richard really is.”

  “He had no objection to that?”

  Jane dabbed at her nose with a tissue. “Well . . . I did tell him a small fib.”

  “How small?”

  She took a step closer to the couch and leaned forward in a conspiratorial attitude. “I told him that I’d asked for your help but that you had major reservations about the case, and that you were reluctant to get involved. Since Richard doesn’t want you—or anyone else—involved, then naturally he’d be more relaxed with you if he thought you were backing away.”

  “Then why would I be here now?”

  “I told him that you and your wife would be passing through the Adirondacks within a few miles of Wolf Lake on your way to a Vermont ski vacation, and I invited you to stop and have dinner with us.”

  “So your brother will be happy to have me in his house as long as I’m not interested in the case?”

  “As long as you’re not involved in the case. Some degree of interest would be normal, right?”

  “These major reservations I’m supposed to have about getting involved—did he ask you what they were?”

  “I said I didn’t know. If he asks you, you can just make something up.”

  This woman wasn’t just a caretaker and a fixer, thought Gurney. This was someone with an appetite for manipulation. An arranger of other people’s lives who saw herself as a selfless helper.

  His natural curiosity about the case was starting to be outweighed by these awkward twists in the process of his involvement. Reluctantly, however, he accepted the new plan—telling himself there would be exit doors if he later changed his mind.

  “Dinner—where and what time?”

  “At Richard’s chalet. Five thirty—is that okay? We eat early in the winter.”

  He looked at Madeleine.

  She nodded. “Fine.”

  Jane’s eyes brightened. “I’ll let the chef know. He’s limited these days, but I’m sure he’ll manage something nice.” She sneezed, applied her now-crumpled tissue to her nose. “Richard’s chalet is easy to get to. Stay on the lake road. It’s just a half mile or so around the tip of the lake, on the forest side of the road. There are three chalets. The first two are unoccupied. Richard’s is the third. If you come to the boathouse or to Gall House, where the road ends, you’ll know you’ve gone too far.”

  “Gall House?”

  “The Gall family residence. Of course, the only one living there now is Peyton. Peyton and . . . his guests.”

  “Guests?”

  “His lady friends—although they’re not really ladies and not really friends. No matter. None of my business.” She sniffled. “It’s a huge, depressing stone house, looming up out of the woods, right at the base of Devil’s Fang—with a big ugly fence around it. But I really don’t think you’ll get that far. You can’t miss the chalet. I’ll make sure the outside lights are on.”

  “Good,” said Gurney, starting to feel restless. Questions were accumulating in his mind that he wasn’t comfortable asking just yet.

  CHAPTER 15

  The drab winter light coming through the suite windows didn’t so much illuminate the space as cast an ashen pall over it. Madeleine stood, her arms crossed over her breasts, while Gurney moved from lamp to lamp, switching them on.

  “Does that fireplace work?” she asked.

  “I imagine so. Would you like me to get a fire going?”

  “It would help.”

  At the hearth Gurney found a neat pile of firewood, some kindling, half a dozen waxy fire-starter bricks, and a long-stemmed butane lighter. He began to arrange the materials on the iron grate in the firebox. He found the task a simple respite from the issues on his mind, which were not simple at all. As he was about to apply the lighter to the kindling, his phone rang. The screen told him it was Rebecca Holdenfield.

  To take the call or not to take it—that was the question. He still hadn’t reached a decision about their proposed meeting at the Cold Brook Inn; but maybe she had information that could nudge the decision one way or the other.

  He took the call.

  She told him that she now planned to be in Plattsburgh for at least two days that week—from the following morning until the evening of the day after that.

  He promised to get back to her as soon as his schedule became clearer—which could happen later that evening, once he’d met with Hammond—and ended the call.

  Madeleine frowned. “What does she want?”

  He was taken aback by her tone. He felt his own frustration rising. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Madeleine said nothing, just shook her head.

  He paused. “Ever since yesterday morning, there’s been something going on with you. Do you want to tell me about it?”

  She began rubbing her upper arms with her hands. “I just need to get warm.” She turned and walked to the bathroom doorway. “I’m going to soak the cold out of my bones.” She went in and closed the door behind her.

  After several long seconds, Gurney went to the hearth and lit the kindling. He watched for a few restless minutes as the flames flickered and grew.

  When the fire was well established, he went to the bathroom door, knocked and listened, but heard only a heavy stream of water. He knocked again, and again there was no response. He opened the door and saw Madeleine reclining in the huge claw-foot tub as the water gushed down between her feet from a pair of oversized silver faucets. Wisps of steam rose from the surface of the water. A film of condensation was forming on the tile wall next to the tub.

  “Did you hear me knock?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t answer.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She closed her eyes. “Go out and close the door. Please. The cold air is coming in.”

  He hesitated, then shut the door, perhaps a bit more firmly than was necessary.

  He put on his ski jacket and hat, picked up the big key to the suite, went downstairs through the reception area and out under the portico into the frigid air.

  He thrust his hands into his jacket pockets and started walking along the narrow lake road with no destination or purpose in mind beyond a desire to be out of the lodge. Wolf Lake, now the color of deeply tarnished silver in the deepening dusk, stretched into the distance on his left. The spruce forest on his right appeared impenetrable. The lower spaces between the trees were filled with interlocking tangles of spiky branches.

  He inhaled long, deep, cold breaths as he walked, in an effort to clear out the toxic jumble. But it wasn’t working. There were too many details, too many eccentric personalities, too much emotional confusion. Barely thirty-two hours ago his only concern was an oddly behaving porcupine. Now he was grappling with mysteries buried under impossibilities.

  Never had Gurney felt so completely stymied by the basic questions in a case. And he couldn’t get Bowman Cox out of his mind—the man leaning forward over the Formica table in the diner, flecks of spittle at the corners of his mouth, insisting on Hammond’s responsibility for the death of Christopher Wenzel.

  Gurney passed by an extended clearing in the forest with three impressive log-and-glass chalets set comfortably apart from each other. He walked on and soon came to a large structure occupying the space on his left between the road and the water. In the dusky light it took him a minute to identify it as a cedar-shingle boathouse. Given the moneyed history of the estate, he imagined the boathouse might be sheltering a fleet of vintage Chris-Craft runabouts.

  As his attention shifted to the jagged prominence of Devil’s Fang, black against the gunmetal clouds, a slight movement caught his eye, little more than a speck in the sky. A bird was slowly circling above the desolate peak—perhaps a hawk, but at that distance in the failing light it could as easily have been a vulture or an eagle. He regretted leaving his bino
culars in his duffel bag.

  Thinking of things he wished he had with him, the flashlight in the glove box—

  His train of thought was broken by the sound of an approaching car. It was coming from somewhere on the road behind him, and it was moving fast, faster than made sense on a narrow dirt and gravel surface. He stepped quickly away from the road toward the spruces.

  Seconds later a gleaming black Mercedes hurtled past. A hundred yards or so farther along the road it slowed, its headlights illuminating a tall chain-link fence. A motorized gate was in the process of sliding open.

  One or more windows of the car must have been rolled down, because Gurney could now hear shrieks of female laughter. A burly man emerged from a small security booth by the gate and waved the car through. He returned to the booth and the gate slid shut. There was a final shriek from the receding car, then nothing.

  Nothing but the absolute silence of the wilderness.

  CHAPTER 16

  By the time he got back to the lodge the grandfather clock in the reception area indicated it was a quarter past five. When he went upstairs to the suite, he half expected that Madeleine would still be soaking in the tub, immersed in the preoccupation she was unwilling to discuss. But he found the bathroom empty, a wet towel draped over the end of the tub.

  The lights were on in the main room, just as he’d left them. The fire he’d started was still burning. Warren Harding was still projecting an image of scowling respectability.

  He checked the sleeping alcove and its four-poster bed, but the bed was untouched. Madeleine’s duffel bag was open on a bench at the foot of it, but there was no sign of Madeleine.

  Then the glass door leading out to the balcony opened, and she stepped into the room. She was wearing black jeans, a cream silk blouse, and her ski jacket. She’d even put on a trace of makeup, a rarity for her.

  “Time to go?” she asked.

  “What were you doing out there?”

  She didn’t answer. They went downstairs in silence and got in the Outback. They didn’t speak again until they arrived at the chalet.

  JANE HAMMOND MET THEM AT THE DOOR AND USHERED THEM IN, taking their jackets.

  The entrance area of the chalet was formed by three partitions of lustrously varnished honey-colored wood. In addition to creating a kind of foyer, the partitions served as display surfaces for stone tomahawks, deerskin pouches, and other primitive tools. Eyeing the tomahawks, Gurney couldn’t help thinking of Barlow Tarr’s hatchet.

  Jane leaned toward him. “Were you aware of anyone following you?”

  “No. But I wasn’t checking. Why do you ask?”

  “Sometimes there’s a big SUV lurking out there on the lake road. Richard is sure he’s being followed every time he leaves the house. I think they want him to fall apart. By putting all this pressure on him. Do you think that’s what it is?”

  He shrugged. “At this point, there’s no way of—”

  He was interrupted by his phone. He glanced at the screen, saw that the call was from Rebecca Holdenfield, and, despite a strong desire to speak to her, let it go into voicemail.

  “Come,” said Jane nervously. “We can talk about this later. Let me introduce you.”

  She led them into the chalet’s cathedral-ceilinged great room. A small, slim man with his back to them was fiddling with the logs in a massive fieldstone fireplace. His delicate physique was a surprise. Gurney had been imagining someone larger.

  “Richard,” said Jane. “These are the people I’ve been telling you about.”

  Hammond turned toward them. With a wan smile that could have been an expression of lukewarm welcome or plain weariness, he extended his hand first to Madeleine, then to Gurney. It was small and smooth, a bit on the cool side, the grip unenthusiastic.

  His silky blond hair, almost platinum, was parted on the side. In the front it had fallen down in wispy bangs over his forehead, like a little boy’s. But there was nothing childlike about his eyes. A disconcertingly luminous aquamarine, they were riveting, almost unnerving.

  By contrast, the man’s voice was soft and nondescript. Gurney wondered if it was a form of compensation for the uniquely startling eyes. Or a way of reinforcing their dominance.

  “My sister told me a lot about you.”

  “Nothing disturbing, I hope.”

  “She told me you were the detective who managed to capture Peter Piggert, the incestuous murderer who cut his mother in half. And Jorge Kunzman, who kept his victims’ heads in his refrigerator. And the Satanic Santa, who mailed out body parts as Christmas presents. And the demented psychiatrist who sent his patients to a sadist who raped and skinned them before tossing them off the back of his yacht into the ocean. That’s quite an accomplished career you’ve had. Quite a few madmen you’ve managed to vanquish. And here you are at Wolf Lake. Just passing through. On your way to a romantic inn. Am I right?”

  “Yes, that’s where we’re heading.”

  “But, for the moment, here you are. In the deep wilderness. Miles from nowhere. Tell me—how do you like it so far?”

  “The weather could be better.”

  Hammond produced a forced little laugh, while his gaze remained steady and observant. “It’s more likely to get worse before it gets better.”

  “Worse?” asked Madeleine.

  “Rising winds, falling temperatures, snow squalls, ice pellets.”

  “When is this supposed to happen?”

  “Sometime tomorrow. Or the next day. Forecasts here are always changing. The mountains have unpredictable moods. Our weather is like the mind of a manic-depressive.” He smiled slightly at what he seemed to regard as a joke. “Do you know the Adirondacks?”

  She hesitated. “Not really.”

  “These mountains are different from your Catskills. Far more primitive.”

  “I’m just concerned about getting snowed in.”

  He gave her a long curious look. “That concerns you?”

  “You don’t think it should?”

  “Jane told me you were driving to Vermont to find snow. Walk in it, ski in it. But perhaps the snow will find you first.”

  Madeleine said nothing. Gurney noticed a tiny involuntary shudder go through her body.

  Hammond licked his lips in a rapid little snakelike movement, his gaze shifting to Gurney. “Wolf Lake has become such an interesting place lately, hasn’t it? Irresistible, I would think, for a detective.”

  Jane, perhaps concerned at her brother’s ironic tone, intervened brightly. “Dinner is laid out on the sideboard—salmon canapés, salad, bread, chicken with apricot sauce, wild rice, asparagus, and some nice blueberry tarts for dessert. Plates at the near end of the sideboard; silverware and glasses on the table, along with bottles of chardonnay, merlot, and springwater. Shall we?”

  Her tone was as bubbly as her brother’s was edgy. But it served the purpose of getting everyone to the food and then to the table. She and Richard seated themselves across from Dave and Madeleine.

  Before anyone could say another word the lights went out.

  In the sudden near-darkness only the dying fire provided glimmers of illumination.

  “It’s just the generator,” said Jane. “It’ll be back on in a few seconds.”

  When the lights came back on, her hand was on Richard’s arm. She withdrew it and turned her attention to Gurney and Madeleine. “We’re twenty miles from any kind of civilization, so the lodge compound has its own pair of generators. They switch from one to the other every so often, and we get short blackouts. Austen says it’s perfectly normal, nothing to worry about.”

  “You do have phone service here, right?” asked Madeleine.

  “The lodge compound has its own cell tower. But once you pass over the high ridge, there’s a dead zone with no reception until you get to Plattsburgh. Of course, the cell tower depends on the generators, so if they go out . . .” Then she quickly added, “But there’s virtually no chance of both generators failing at the same time.”

>   Gurney changed the subject. “I gather Ethan Gall was quite a presence in the world.”

  Richard answered. “Indeed he was. A remarkable man—dynamic, generous, supportive. My work here was his idea.”

  “Now that he’s gone,” said Madeleine, “will you be going back to California?”

  “My two-year contract was up last month, but shortly before his death Ethan offered to renew it for another year, and I accepted the offer.” He hesitated, as if considering how much he wanted to disclose. “Ethan died before the agreement was signed, but Austen was aware of it, and he assured me it would be honored.”

  Gurney saw an opening for a question he’d been wanting to ask. “I gather that Austen Steckle, despite his background, has become a man of some integrity?”

  “Austen has rough edges, but I have no complaints.”

  “What was his conviction for?”

  “I’d prefer that you asked him.” He paused. “But I have a question for you. Why did you tell Jane you didn’t want to get involved in my situation here?”

  Gurney decided to answer as truthfully as he could. “Jane told me that you refused to hire professional help, but that she’d like me to help her gather facts and figure out what’s behind these apparent suicides. She certainly has a right to explore the affair for her own peace of mind. But frankly, I’m not comfortable being involved in that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re the key to it all. Somehow, you’re at the heart of what’s been happening. You may not be at the heart of it the way Gilbert Fenton says you are. But in some way, you’ve been pulled into the center of it. It would be foolish for me to get involved without your cooperation.”

  Jane’s eyes widened in alarm. This was plainly not the casual approach she wanted him to take.

  A silence ensued during which Richard appeared to be imagining dark possibilities.

  Gurney decided to take a risk. “Remember, Richard, at the end of the day . . . there was no dead body in the trunk.”

  If Hammond was shocked that Gurney was aware of the incident, he concealed it well. His only reaction came after a delay of several seconds.