"That's of concern, is it?" I asked, casually.
"Naturally. Asian travel dollars are eager and plentiful. My partners are South Korean," he added matter-of-factly.
"Is that right? And they're interested in backing a project here on Bear Lake?"
"That's the plan." The developer paused for a beat, "In spite of a few hurdles."
"Oh?"
The eyes suddenly narrowed, the spark disappeared. "Don't play coy. It's unbecoming in a woman of your reputation. I'm sure your good friends the Craddocks have told you of their reluctance to sell the lodge."
"True enough," I replied. "But they also gave the impression that you were quite persistent and determined. It would be surprising for a man such as yourself to give up so easily."
"You're right," he conceded with a grudging half-smile. "This is undeniably the best site within a hundred square miles. And I do mean to get it."
"Despite the Craddock's objections?"
"Everyone has a price," Edelman informed me confidently. "It's just a matter of patience and negotiation. The Craddocks will come around."
My suspicions probably caused me to read more than I should have into Edelman's statement and tone of voice. But a shiver coursed up my spine. It was a relief to hear him express polite regret at having to leave. Preoccupied, I downed the last of my wine and wandered back to our room.
Matt was still out. Disappointing, but not surprising. And the fearsome felines, exhausted and stoned, dozed in a catnip-induced haze, offering little entertainment value. A hot soak appeared to be the best option for putting in time. Dosing the tub with a liberal dollop of my newly acquired bubble bath, I retrieved the new novel, which had also been among our many purchases, and settled in. The book looked promising, but after I found myself rereading the first paragraph for the third time, I abandoned the attempt and allowed my jumbled thoughts free reign.
It was a relief when a clatter in the outer room announced my wandering shutterbug's return. A moment later a grinning head appeared in the doorway. "What's the word, Scoop? Did you break him down?"
"No confession," I admitted, feigning disappointment. "Seriously, though, he did say enough to keep himself at the top of my suspects list."
Matt came in, making himself as comfortable as anybody can be, perched on the closed lid of a toilet. We're really married now, I thought, before recounting the details of my encounter with Edelman. Matt quickly agreed that the profit potential involved in getting control of Bear Lake Lodge was still the best motivation we'd managed to uncover. And provided that he was, as we suspected, teamed up with Rachel van Brennen, means and opportunity were also in the bag.
Conclusions drawn, I asked about his assignment. "Did you talk to Dan?"
"Yes, I did." Matt frowned and shook his head slowly from side to side. "He's one mighty worried guy."
"It was definitely arson, then," I said, reaching for the hot water tap. As long as I was turning into a prune, I might as well be comfortable. Freezing to death wouldn't help Dan.
"Uh-huh. The deputy chief said there was no doubt. It was a pretty amateurish job, but smart enough. Whoever did it, knew enough to use diesel fuel instead of gas."
I looked blank.
"Apparently gas isn't very reliable," Matt explained. "The fire gets so hot, it can burn right through the floor and go out. Diesel's slower, burns longer."
"How can they tell what was used?" I wondered aloud. "There was so much damage."
Matt explained. "Evidently the fuel leaves a residue, in this case, behind a segment of baseboard. And that's not all. As amazing as it may seem, there was also residue of a fuse. The old cigarette left to burn down into a book of matches trick."
"Don't put me on," I said, crinkling my eyebrows in disbelief. "That's strictly B-movie stuff."
"Not according to the deputy chief," Matt countered. "As far as he's concerned, it's standard practice. That kind of fuse gives the arsonist about six minutes to get out of the way."
Who knew! Of course, it made sense. Even though diesel fuel is less volatile than gas, it must be a pretty chancy business to splash it around then just toss in a match. "Doesn't do much to help us narrow down the suspects," I grumbled.
"No, and that's a big problem for Dan and Brooke, because arson is usually related to money. From the fire department's point of view, the Craddocks are prime suspects. Unless somebody can convince the deputy chief and the police that the cabin fire is part of an overall plot, they're in lots of trouble. Even if no charge is actually laid, the insurance company will be very reluctant to pay up."
"And if they are charged, the damage to their reputation and the legal costs will absolutely put them under."
"That's how I see it."
It was hard to imagine things getting any worse.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Our investigation progressed no further overnight and I think Matt was feeling as helpless and depressed as I was. As sure as we might be of our conclusions, they were still based on nothing more than a string of probabilities. Without a shred of concrete evidence to back them up, we had nothing to take to the police. No way to help Brooke and Dan.
"Let's go for a walk," Matt suggested, at the end of a pensive breakfast. We had slept very late and missed our usual companions.
I readily agreed, glad to get outside—into the optimistic sunshine. As it had on each of the preceding mornings, sunlight streamed from the near-cloudless sky, steadily warming the earth and lengthening the days. We took the beach path past the equipment shed and boat house to the gravel road skirting the lake, our footsteps crunching in steady rhythm. A pair of ducks flew overhead, echoes of their calls sounding up and down the valley. Tiny wavelets pattered onto the gravel beach. We said nothing.
Five hundred metres off shore, a sailing dingy from the lodge made lazy progress in the fitful breeze. I raised my arm to return the energetic greeting of one of its passengers. "We should try that," I suggested. "It looks like fun."
"Ever done any sailing?" Matt asked, following my gaze.
"Not a chance. I'm a farm girl, remember?"
"True. But you've lived by the sea for the last few years."
"Also, true." I shrugged. "Guess I just never got the urge."
"Or the time?"
I laughed. "That too. Though I've made time for other things I wanted to do. What about you?"
"No sailing. Just a little water skiing."
"In San Francisco?"
Matt shook his head. "Not likely. Hey," he said, suddenly stopping.
"Something's wrong."
Out on the little boat a second figure had joined in what I suddenly realised was more than a friendly wave. The pair were frantically trying to attract our attention. It was too far to hear their voices, but the gestures were now unmistakable. While the one continued to flag us with both arms, the other bent down and began scooping water over the side.
"This way," Matt cried, grabbing my hand. Our destination was instantly clear. Fifty metres down the shore a small aluminium skiff lay bobbing alongside a floating dock. Within seconds we were there, panting as we cautiously crossed the tippy surface. "Locked," Matt gasped, lifting a length of chain.
"It must belong to the people in that cottage," I said, already leaping for shore and dashing toward the neat little house across the road. My urgent pounding and screams for help produced quick results. The front door swung inward and a figure I recognised filled the frame. "Bea!" I exclaimed, unreasonably startled to see the lodge cook away from her work kitchen. After all, even generals take a day off sometimes. Quickly recovering, I raised the alarm. "The sailboat out there is sinking. We need your boat."
Bea didn't miss a beat. "Come get the key," she ordered, retreating toward the back of the house. In her own kitchen, she lifted a bright yellow bob from a hook by the fridge and tossed it to me. "Get cracking. I'll call the lodge."
I ran for the boat. Matt already had the motor running. Like a character in a bad movie, I fumbled
with the lock. We were barely free when Matt gunned the throttle and the rescue craft leaped forward. It seemed only minutes since the two sailors had signalled, but their situation was fast growing desperate. Though they both continued to scoop handfuls of water, the battle was long since lost. The dinghy now floated so low, it showed as nothing more than a narrow white band running parallel to the surface. Already knee deep in water, they'd soon be chilled to the bone. And life jackets notwithstanding, they wouldn't have lasted long submerged in the icy lake.
My heart raced, apparently trying to keep time with the engine, and my fingers grew cramped where they clutched tight at the gunwales. Eons passed before our game little boat drew close. Then time suddenly compressed and everything seemed to happen at once. Matt drew carefully alongside. The derelict had sunk deep enough I had trouble reaching over to grab hold.
"Thank God!" gasped a tall man, whose once smart casuals now clung to his skinny legs in saturated folds.
"I'll sue the bastards," raged his companion, his face suffused with rage.
"Let me help you," I commanded in a tone intended to focus his attention on the here-and-now. "You won't be suing anybody if you tip us over." And that was no idle threat. Between his fit of temper, the eagerness of both men to escape their sinking boat, and their inability to co-ordinate bone-chilled limbs, the stability of our little craft was being tested to the limit. We were lucky to get them aboard with no more damage than a couple of bruised shins and a jammed finger.
Both men shivered violently as we settled them in the centre of the boat and Matt once more opened the throttle. It hadn't occurred to me to ask Bea for some blankets when I ran for the key, an oversight I now bitterly regretted. Not only our passengers were suffering as the speed-generated wind fanned their soaking clothes. We too had managed to get pretty wet in the course of the transfer. By the time Matt brought us alongside the dock, I probably couldn't have controlled my fingers enough to tie up the boat. Fortunately, Bea was waiting with Walt Craddock at her side.
As he helped us hoist each passenger ashore Bea stood ready with an outstretched blanket. Soon the men were bundled up, deposited in the heated four-by-four, and on their way back to the lodge.
"Now you two come in the house and get yourselves warm," she directed, taking charge in her bossily maternal way. Not that we had any inclination to protest. I for one was chilled clear through and only too happy to submit to her efficient ministrations. One after the other, we were processed through a hot shower, draped in cosy flannelette sheets and treated to a steaming bowl of homemade soup, while our clothes spun away in the dryer.
Over seconds of hearty chicken rice and vegetable we filled Matt in on our hostess's connection with the Craddocks. A life-long resident of the area, Bea Quinn had first started to work at the lodge more than a quarter of a century before. Early widowhood had left her with the need to make her own way and she'd been glad to find local employment. When the senior Legges passed on, leaving the lodge to their son Kenny, Bea had wanted to quit. But work was hard to come by, so despite her dislike of the new owner, she stayed on. The Craddock's arrival a few years later seemed like nothing short of deliverance and she was grateful to this day.
Eating soup and listening to the ageing woman talk was a wonderful way to pass the time until our clothes dried. I was feeling fully rejuvenated when Dan turned up at the back door to tell Bea the disabled dingy was now pulled up on her beach. He'd motored down the lake in the lodge's powerboat to tow it ashore.
Our friend stopped long enough to tell us that a quick inspection of the hull under the floorboards had revealed the source of our morning's adventure. One small, perfectly round hole had been drilled in the fibreglass just behind the mast ensuring that whenever the boat was launched, it would begin to fill with water—but not too fast. The plan was obviously to keep the leak small enough that the sailors would be well away from the beach before they noticed.
"This is bad business," said our hostess as she closed the kitchen door on her employer's retreating back. Dan had been in no mood for prolonged conversation or speculation. He was fed up—and mad. Bea's kindly face contorted with worry. "This is truly getting out of hand."
"And we're no closer to knowing who's behind it," I grumbled. "The hole could have been drilled in that boat any time since it was laid out on the beach this spring."
"I don't think so," Matt countered, pulling his hand across the back of his head.
"Why do you say that?" I asked.
"Because all of these incidents have been timed for maximum impact. Take the mess-up with the reservations—only one day. But that day just happened to be when a very important group would be affected. Same thing with the rattler attack."
"You're right. Then nothing at all until the next major group arrived."
"And wasn't that an interesting coincidence? The fire breaking out right when a whole busload was arriving."
"Then the mess with the freezer," Bea chimed in. "On a Sunday when there would be the most food in storage and trouble getting somebody to make repairs."
"Not to mention a maximum number of people inconvenienced if it hadn't been handled promptly," I added ruefully. "The lodge is practically full again."
"So, I don't think there's anything random about the timing of this boat accident. Somebody who knew the equipment reservation schedule made sure there'd be another incident to mar this government retreat."
There was no arguing Matt's logic. But it didn't help. We were still left with the same slate of candidates and no fresh ideas. It was time for a new perspective and Bea was practically family. "Okay, we're obviously dealing with an insider," I began, planting my elbows on the Formica tabletop and resting my chin on my hands. "Who would want to hurt the Craddocks, Bea?"
"Sure nobody obvious comes to mind," she replied, the faded cornflower of her eyes nearly lost in the folded wrinkles of her frown. "Now Shane Deeks had a spot of trouble with the law. But he's really not a bad boy. Dotes on his mother and sisters. He'd do anything for 'em. And Dan did give him a job when not many others would have."
"What about Lyle?" I prompted.
Bea looked at me as though I had two heads and a third eye.
"Or not," I conceded in hasty retreat.
Bea laughed, setting her jowls and extra chins in motion. "You're way off base there, honey. Lyle Abel is the most honourable man I know. He'd sooner cut off his right arm than do anything to hurt a friend. And Dan Craddock is his friend. But you know who I've been wondering about?"
"No. Who?" My husband and I spoke as one voice.
"That new bartender fella. The Chinaman."
I winced. The slur probably shouldn't have surprised me, coming as it did from a woman of her generation, but it seemed out of character for such a warm and friendly person. "Adam's not a Chinaman," I couldn't help remarking. "He's from Peachland, just down the road." Bea shrugged, clearly unconvinced. Her response annoyed me, but for the moment there were bigger fish to fry. Grudgingly I returned to the primary issue. "What's he done to raise your suspicions?"
"Well, for starters, he's got a rifle in the trunk of his car."
"You saw it?" Matt demanded, wide-eyed.
"Of course, I saw it." Bea said, planting her hands on her hips and staring down my husband like he was just plain dumb. "How else would I know it was there?"
This was a startling revelation. Adam had certainly led us to believe that he was a confirmed conservationist, interested in shooting wildlife only with a camera. What would such a person be doing with a rifle? Matt and I exchanged a puzzled look.
"And he was in the freezer Saturday morning," the cook announced with relish, as if the implicit crime were self-evident.
"That's unusual?" I asked, somewhat baffled.
"It sure is. Normally he turns up about eleven-thirty when he's doing opening prep. The fruit for his garnishes is kept in the walk-in fridge."
"Nothing in the freezer?"
"Not a thing."
"Meaning there was no reason for him to be in there?" Matt prompted.
"None that I know of?" she declared with conviction. Her tone made it clear that if Bea Quinn knew of no reason, then there plainly wasn't one.
I frowned. "Did you ask him what he was doing?"
"No. I was busy at the time. In fact, it really didn't register 'til all the fuss broke loose on Sunday and Mr. Fisk said the gas had been leaking for a whole day."
"Anything else suspicious?" Matt asked, picking up the tag-team.
"No," she allowed reluctantly.
"How about the other staff?"
Bea lifted her ponderous shoulders. "Can't think of anything?"
"You've definitely given us something to mull over," Matt told her.
"Though I still can't help wondering about motive. If Adam Tang is really behind all this, the burning question has to be, why?"
"There's certainly nothing obvious," I agreed. "But this is the first new idea we've had in days. I suggest we do a little digging."
Chapter Twenty-Four
Since the site of our proposed excavation was a relatively busy place, timing would be crucial. Our best bet appeared to be the dinner hour when nearly all of the staff were occupied in and around the dining room. Only two residents of the Playpen might get in the way. Shane Deeks and Vicky were both scheduled off that day. But Brooke assured us they would not be a factor. Shane would no doubt be cooking for his mother and Vicky had gone into town.
Our only other problem was really just a small technicality. It involved the minor fact that breaking and entering is illegal. Not that that would have stopped us. However, by supplying a master key, Brooke did reduce the potential offence. And though both Craddocks wanted to get in on the act, we finally agreed that Matt and I should conduct the search alone.
There was no real reason for concern. Our planning was careful and thorough, but my primal instincts refused to get with the program. As Matt pushed open the heavy wooden door and I followed him into the staff's spacious common room, my whole body felt like an over-wound watch spring. My heart was doing a double-time gig and somebody was twisting my stomach into an uncomfortable knot. With an effort of will, I remembered to breathe.
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