A tall, attractive woman with shoulder-length dark hair, wearing a long-sleeved khaki shirt with the Hidden Hollow logo above the breast pocket, stood behind the reception desk. The sleeves of the shirt were rolled up to her elbows and she held a pen in her right hand. She smiled at me and said, “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” I replied, smiling in return and thinking she looked familiar. “I’m Rob Vance. I believe you have a reservation for me.”
“Yes, we do. We’ve been expecting you. I’m Allie.” When she said her name the synapses fired and I recognized her as the woman I’d seen with Carlyle Wilson in the profile photo on his Facebook page.
“Nice to meet you, Allie,” I said, hoping to keep any trace of surprise off my face.
“Nice to meet you also. Amy said you were bringing your dog…where is she?”
Props to Amy for remembering Preacher and passing along the information. I said, “I left her outside in my vehicle. I wasn’t sure if she’d be allowed in the lodge. But I do need to let her out to stretch her legs. Is there an area where I can do that?”
“Just beyond the parking area in the grass is fine.”
“OK, thanks. I saw the kennel building…which run should I put her in?”
“I have her in run number four,” Allie said. “There are numbers on the gate to each run. So after you let her stretch her legs you can walk her over to the kennel building, or drive over, and get her settled. There’s a water bucket in the run and we also have feed dishes if you need one.”
“Thanks, but I brought hers from home,” I said.
Allie smiled. “Do you want to take care of her now or shall we go ahead and complete your registration?”
“Let me get Preacher squared away and then I’ll come back in,” I said. “She’s been riding for about three hours without a break so I’m sure she needs to pee.”
Allie laughed. “That’s fine. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
The kennels were clean and well-kept, with concrete-floored runs enclosed by chain link panels, and while I’d have preferred to have Preacher stay in my room with me, I was confident she’d be comfortable in her temporary quarters. We’d done this quite a few times before at other facilities and she knew the drill.
I unlatched the gate to run number four and Preacher trotted in. She circled the run a couple times, sniffing at the fencing and the entrance to her sleeping area, which was located inside the building. The runs on either side were empty and I wondered if that meant they were unoccupied or if their occupants were currently in the field.
I confirmed Preacher’s water bucket was full and latched the kennel gate. “You be a good girl and I’ll be back in a little while to feed you,” I told her. She wagged her tail a few times as though to say, “I’ll be fine.” I turned and headed back over to the lodge.
When I entered, Allie was behind the bar, restocking a tall glass-fronted cooler with longneck bottles of Bud Light. She looked over, smiled and said, “Be with you in a sec.”
“No problem,” I said, and glanced around the room again. As lodges went, this was one of the nicer ones, well-appointed and comparable to some of the top-drawer facilities I’d hunted at in South Dakota and a few other western states. It gave every indication of being an expensive operation and I wondered if it was profitable.
“This is a very nice place you have here,” I said as Allie finished her restocking task and came back to the reception desk.
“Thanks,” she said. “We’re proud of it. We’ve been open for about five years. Mitch and Amy put a lot of work into this place to get it going and it’s finally starting to pay off.”
“Amy is who I talked to when I called to make my reservation.”
“Right. She’s my sister. I’ve worked here for about three years now. We’re always filled up during deer season but we’re also starting to attract more and more bird hunters like yourself. We have two other parties of bird hunters here right now; you’ll meet them at dinner tonight.”
“Look forward to it,” I said. “I think Amy said dinner was at 6:30?” I was still assimilating this latest revelation, that Allie and Amy were sisters.
“That’s right.” She gestured over her shoulder. “If you just follow that hallway toward the back of the building you’ll come to the dining room. You’re also welcome to help yourself at the bar before dinner; there’s usually an informal happy hour here in the lounge for anyone who’s staying here.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “You said there are two other parties here right now?”
“Yes. A father and son down from Chicago and another group of three guys over from Peoria. They’re all out in the field right now; Mitch is guiding the father and son and Matt is guiding the Peoria group.” She glanced at the wall clock behind the bar. “They should be finishing up and coming in anytime now.”
“I look forward to meeting them,” I said. Mr. Congenial.
“They’re looking forward to meeting you also.”
“Oh?” I said. I tried not to look concerned.
“Amy told them at lunch about you, that you were coming over to possibly write a story about our place for your magazine.”
“Well, I hope they’re not expecting some kind of celebrity,” I said, playing for nonchalance but wishing Amy hadn’t been quite so chatty. “I’m about as far removed from that as you can get.”
“Oh, I don’t think they’re expecting a celebrity, necessarily. But they all said they knew your magazine so I think they’re just a little curious—you know, to see if you can actually do what you write about.” She laughed as she said this last and I smiled. It wasn’t the first time I’d encountered this attitude.
“Meaning, can I actually hit anything with a shotgun?” I said.
“I’m sure that’s part of it,” she said. “That, plus they want to see your dog.”
I smiled. “Really? She’s not a celebrity, either.”
“You might be surprised. When Amy told them about you, one of the Peoria guys nodded and said something like, yeah, he hunts with a big German wirehair. See, they know about you and your dog.”
“Sheesh,” I said, shaking my head. “Our fame precedes us.”
After I’d filled out the registration forms, including one for a five-day non-resident Illinois hunting license, Allie showed me to my room. It was on the second floor and had twin beds and a small bathroom with sink, stool and shower stall.
Like the rest of the lodge, the room was paneled in knotty pine. There was no closet, but there were plenty of brass hooks to hang clothes and gear. A flying pheasant mount hung on one wall, opposite a framed Robert Abbett print of an English setter on point. On the nightstand between the two beds stood a small shaded lamp with a base made of upright interwoven deer antlers. Above the nightstand was the room’s single window, covered with a curtain that featured—you guessed it—flying gamebirds.
“Very nice,” I said, glancing around.
“Thanks,” Allie said. “I hope you’ll be comfortable. Towels and washcloths are in the cabinet under the sink, along with extra TP, etcetera.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Well, just let us know if there’s anything else you need. Otherwise, we’ll see you at 6:30 for dinner. Speaking of which, I need to get down to the kitchen and give Amy a hand.”
“OK,” I said. “Thanks again.”
Chapter 22
After Allie left to help Amy prepare dinner, I went back downstairs and drove my SUV across the driveway to the kennel building. I stepped inside the building through the door next to the kennel runs and went down the row of runs to number four. Preacher had come in from the outer run and stood wagging her tail, no doubt anticipating being fed.
The kennel runs extended into the building for about eight feet, and in the corner of each was a platform raised a few inches off the floor and surrounded on each side by a six-inch rail. The floor of the platform in Preacher’s run was bare wood but a la
rge plastic bin labeled “Cedar Shavings…Help Yourself” stood at the end of the row of kennel runs. A two-gallon–bucket stood next to the bin.
The shavings, I knew, were to be used for bedding in the raised platforms. The platforms in a couple of the other runs were filled with shavings but the rest were bare, like Preacher’s. The two with shavings were presumably the kennels where the dogs of the other two hunting parties were housed.
I’d brought an old stuffed dog bed of Preacher’s from home so I decided to forego the shavings, but I made a mental note to mention this amenity in the story I wrote for the magazine. Supplying fresh bedding material for guests’ dogs was one more indication of a well-run, class operation, and worth noting.
I returned to the SUV and carried the dog bed and Preacher’s bin of dog food inside. I dropped the dog bed onto the platform in her run, then dished up her food and placed it in her run as well. Never a finicky eater regardless of her surroundings, she immediately fell to.
I pulled the SUV back across the driveway to the parking space outside the lodge, grabbed my two large duffel bags and an old briefcase and went inside and up to my room. It was a few minutes past five, which gave me plenty of time to unpack and take a shower before I headed back downstairs for the “informal happy hour” Allie said usually took place before dinner.
Standing under the warm spray of water, I pondered the fact that Allie Marshall and Amy Halvorsen were sisters. I wondered if Marshall was their maiden name, and whether any of this had any significance beyond the coincidental. It was easy to succumb to the temptation to go chasing after these wild hares, but I couldn’t see how that would help me figure out what to do about Charlie Flanagan.
Based on what I’d seen on Carlyle Wilson’s Facebook page, I could reasonably assume that Allie and Carlyle were involved in a romantic relationship. If this were the case, Allie had to be worried about Carlyle’s incarceration and his upcoming trial. She hadn’t appeared distraught when I’d talked to her, but of course, she wouldn’t—welcoming Hidden Hollow clients in a friendly fashion would be a basic job responsibility and she wouldn’t let her private fears or problems interfere with doing that.
Still, if the subject of Wilson’s trial could be broached, she could undoubtedly provide more insight into the circumstances than I’d been able to glean so far. Only problem was, I couldn’t think of a way to accomplish this without tipping my hand. I was ostensibly at Hidden Hollow in my capacity as editor of American Wingshot and in that role I wouldn’t know anything about Wilson’s predicament. Unless someone else raised the subject, I was pretty much stuck on first.
I toweled off, dressed and headed downstairs. Several middle-aged men, presumably the members of the other hunting parties Allie had mentioned, were gathered at the bar. I walked up and said, “Good evening. This looks like a place where a guy might be able to get a beer.”
“It is indeed,” said a fellow in a checked Columbia shirt. He appeared older than the others in the group. “Help yourself.”
I moved around the bar and scanned the rows of longnecks visible through the glass door of the tall cooler. “One of these will work,” I said, pulling a Sam Adams Winter Lager from the cooler. I popped the cap with the opener lying on the bar. The fellow in the checked shirt extended his hand to shake.
“Dave Larson,” he said, nodding toward a younger man a couple of feet away. “This is my son, Michael.” Michael stepped forward to shake hands also.
“Rob Vance,” I said, and they both smiled.
“You’re the magazine guy,” Dave said.
“I’m the magazine guy,” I repeated. “Drove over this afternoon from Des Moines.”
“We’re from Chicago. Came down last night and hunted this morning and this afternoon. This is a great place.”
“It looks like it,” I agreed. “Is this your first time here?”
“No, we were here last year also. Liked it so much we decided to come back. Nice accommodations, great food, strong-flying birds. The guides bust their tails to get you into plenty of birds, which is great for your dog if you bring one.”
“That’s good to hear; I did bring my dog. You did also?” I was pretty sure I already knew the answer but there’s no better way to get a bird hunter talking than to ask about his dog.
“Yes, we did. He’s Michael’s dog, actually, a black Lab named Jasper.”
“How old?”
Michael answered. “He just turned three. So he’s still kinda young, but he’s beginning to settle down and put it all together.”
“Mike’s too modest,” Dave said. “Jasper does a fine job. We shot more than a dozen birds this afternoon and he retrieved every one of them. He found most of them and flushed them in range too.”
“You can’t ask for more than that,” I said. “My dog’s a German wirehair. But a good buddy of mine had a great Lab, a chocolate named Beaver, and we used to hunt them together. His Lab and my wirehair made a good team.”
“Interesting. You didn’t have any problems working a pointing dog and a flushing dog together? Or was your buddy’s dog one of those pointing Labs?”
“No, Beaver was a flushing dog, although Mike—that’s also my buddy’s name—trained him to stop and honor my wirehair when she went on point. It took a few hunts and some adjustment by both dogs but we eventually got it worked out. Basically, his Lab took care of the close birds and Preacher, my wirehair, handled the ones farther out.”
“You said your buddy had a great Lab and you used to hunt them together…you don’t still do that?”
“No, unfortunately. Beaver died just a few days ago, and needless to say, Mike and his family were really broken up about it.”
“Oh, man, that’s tough. We’ve been through it several times too, and you’re right; it always tears you up.”
Before I could reply, the other three men at the bar approached and introduced themselves. There was another round of handshaking and “So you’re the magazine guy” comments, and I tried to sound self-deprecating in my response. As I’d told Allie earlier, I don’t regard myself as any kind of celebrity, and I was still hoping to keep my visit to Hidden Hollow and Rushville as low key as possible.
The three men were brothers named Aaron, Wayne and Steven Parks. They had driven over from Peoria that morning, eaten lunch at the lodge and hunted in the afternoon with Steven’s German shorthair, a dog named Baron.
“It gets a little confusing sometimes,” Steven said. “I’ll holler something at Baron, telling him to whoa up or whatever, and if I say his name, Aaron thinks I’m yelling at him.”
“That’s right,” Aaron said. “I’m always asking him why he’s telling me to whoa when it’s the dog that’s supposed to point the birds.”
I laughed. “I can see where that might be a problem,” I said, nodding at Steven. “If you tell Baron to fetch, does Aaron run out and bring back your bird?”
Aaron snorted. “That’ll be the day,” he said, and all three brothers laughed.
Allie Marshall appeared in the doorway of the hall leading back toward the dining room and announced that dinner was on the table.
And what a dinner it was, served family style, beginning with a mixed salad followed by baked quail stuffed with cornbread dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans seasoned with crumbled bacon, fresh-baked dinner rolls and apple pie a la mode for dessert—a bird hunter’s feast, in other words. We all sat at one large table and passed the serving dishes back and forth, and Allie and Amy—this was the first time I’d seen Amy in person, and she did indeed look like the actress Amy Carlson—hovered and made sure drink glasses were filled and no one lacked for anything.
Not surprisingly, the conversation revolved around bird hunting and gun dogs, and I was asked quite a few questions about Preacher, the magazine and other locations I’d hunted that season. They were a bit surprised when I told them that so far I’d been hunting close to home and this was my first out-of-state hunt for the year. “Somebody has to stay in
the office and make sure the magazine gets to the printer on time,” I explained.
“Oh, sure, that makes sense,” Dave Larson said. “So, are you going to be writing about this place for an upcoming issue?”
“That’ll depend on whether I can hit what I shoot at tomorrow,” I said, getting a laugh from the group. “But yeah, that’s my plan. We like to showcase topnotch facilities, and so far everything I’ve seen says this place would appeal to our readers.”
“I think your readers would definitely enjoy themselves here,” Wayne Parks said. “We’ve been coming here for five years now…it’s become a family tradition.”
“We need a few more families with that tradition,” Amy chimed in, leaning over my shoulder to refill my water glass. She smiled and added, “Does anyone need anything else? We have a fresh pot of coffee brewing that will be ready in another minute or so.”
“A cup of coffee would be great,” I said, and the Parks brothers and Mike Larson added their request.
“None for me,” Dave Larson said, “or I’ll be up all night. I need my sleep if I’m gonna hope to hit anything tomorrow.” That got another laugh and someone said, “Time to start rolling out the excuses!”
“Speaking of tomorrow, here’s the line-up,” Amy said. “Rob, you’ll be hunting with Mitch, my husband, in the morning. Dave and Mike, you’ll be going out with Allie, and Matt will be taking out you Parks brothers. Breakfast is at 8:00, just like this morning, and you’ll head out to the fields at 9:00.”
“Sounds good,” Mike Larson said, and the rest of us nodded in agreement. I wasn’t surprised that Mitch Halvorsen was going to be my guide; no doubt the proprietor wanted me to see his operation in the best possible light and make sure my experience was a positive one. Well, I couldn’t blame him; a favorable review in a national magazine would give his business a nice boost.
The Killer in the Woods Page 12