Cabin Girl (3 page)

April closes her eyes and shakes her head. “God, Bailey, get a grip.”

“Just do one thing,” I say. “Turn around three times, counterclockwise.”

“Why? To make the spirits dizzy? Don't be dumb.”

“It'll take you two seconds. It might not undo your seven years of bad luck, but it can't hurt.”

“You're serious, aren't you?”

I don't say anything.

She closes her eyes again, but she does spin around. “There. Are you happy now?”

I bob my head. “Yup.”

Chapter Four

It's a major changeover day at the lodge. Half the guests are moving out and a new bunch are moving in. That means a busy morning for me.

I finish cleaning the cabins and changing the beds as the first plane arrives. It's only eleven o'clock, but the day is already hot, and my T-shirt is sticking to me. As I pile the last of the soiled linen into my little red wagon, I glance toward the dock. There are bodies, boxes and bags everywhere. It looks like mass confusion, but it's not. In a few minutes the new guests will be on their way to the lodge, the departing guests will be winging their way home, and the dock will be empty—until the next plane comes in. I grab the handle of my wagon and head for the washhouse. After leaving the dirty laundry with Winnie, I make my way to the storage shed to park my wagon.

My stomach growls. Time for lunch. I've barely started up the path to the staff dining room when I hear my name. I look around to see Gabe standing in front of the lodge, waving me over. One of the new guests is with him.

The man and Gabe are probably around the same age, but Gabe's body is hard and lean while the other guy looks like he's spent his life behind a desk. He's on the short side, balding and thick through the middle. The parts of him that aren't fleshed out are giving way to gravity. But he has a friendly face, and when Gabe introduces us, the man smiles like he means it.

“Bailey,” Gabe says, “this is Dennis Savoy. He'll be with us for the next three days. Cabin two. Dennis, this is Bailey. She's our cabin girl. She'll be knocking on your door with morning coffee and tidying up while you're fishing.”

The man sticks out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Bailey.”

I don't usually get introduced to guests, so I'm a bit puzzled. I return the guy's handshake. “Welcome to Witch Lake, Mr. Savoy.”

“Bailey, I wonder if you could show Mr. Savoy to his cabin to get his tackle box and then take him to the store to pick up some fishing gear. Ed will meet you there.”

I nod and smile. “Sure. No problem.”

Gabe glances at his watch. “See you back here for lunch at noon, Dennis.”

As if on cue, an engine sounds overhead, a plane clears the trees, and Gabe takes off for the dock.

“Busy place,” Dennis Savoy says as we start up the path leading to the guest cabins.

I nod. “On changeover days for sure. Otherwise, it's pretty peaceful.”

“And beautiful,” he adds, lowering the case he's carrying and kneeling to open it.

Inside is an impressive-looking camera, complete with a big zoom lens. He slips the strap around his neck, pops off the lens cap and starts shooting. He swings around one way and then the other like he's on a swivel.

“Are you a photographer?” I ask when he finally lowers the camera.

“Nah,” he smiles. “Just a wannabe.” He puts the lens cap back on, and we continue walking.

“Is this your first time to Witch Lake?” I ask.

“Actually, it's my first time to any fly-in fishing lodge.”

“Really? Well, you made the right choice. You're going to love it here.”

“Good to know. Truth is, I didn't choose this place. The fishing trip was arranged for me.”

“Sweet.” I grin. I noticed a wedding ring on his finger when we shook hands, so I say, “A gift from your wife?”

He shakes his head. “No. The people I work with set it up.”

As the guest cabins come into view, he stops and snaps a few more photos. Then he says, “I'm not really much of a fisherman. Oh, I've done some fishing, but nothing like most of the people who come here.”

“I kinda figured that,” I say.

“Oh?” He looks surprised. “What gave me away?”

I try not to smile. “Well, you're looking to get some gear from the store, for one thing. Most guests come here with enough gear for five people. Also, you're not really dressed for fishing—dress pants, dress shoes, dress shirt…” I shrug and leave the sentence hanging.

He grins. “Hey, I ditched the tie.”

We both laugh.

“So did you come straight from work to the plane?”

He pauses. “Sort of.”

“What do you do?” And then, because I realize it's none of my business, I backtrack. “Sorry. I shouldn't be so nosy.”

He waves my apology away. “It's a natural question. Everybody works.”

We've reached his cabin, so we put our conversation on pause and I sit down on the step while he goes inside. When he returns, he has his tackle box and he's changed his clothes. He's wearing cargo pants, a short-sleeved shirt and deck shoes. It's not quite jeans and runners, but it's definitely an improvement.

As he locks the door, I say, “Do you have a hat and sunglasses? Sunscreen? It can get pretty intense on the water.”

He shakes his head.

“Never mind. You can get those at the store too.”

We begin walking and he chuckles. “Are you sure you're not somebody's mother?”

I snort and shake my head.

“So this is a summer job?” he says.

“Yeah. The lodge is open from mid-May to mid-September, depending on the weather, but I'm only here for July and August. I have school the rest of the time.”

He nods. “Are most of the staff high-school kids?”

I shake my head. “No. I'm the only one. Everyone else is older. Some just come for a summer or two to earn money for university. But Cook, Winnie and Ed have been working here for years. For some staff, it fills a gap until they find something more permanent.” I grin. “Like April—she's one of the waitresses. When fishing season's over, she's going to open a flower shop.” I kind of gasp as I realize I've blabbed April's secret. Not that telling a guest is going to matter.

Dennis Savoy nods. “So how many people work here?”

I shrug. “I've never counted, but a full camp is forty-four guests, so that's twenty-two guides right there. Actually, twenty-three. Gabe likes to keep an extra on hand. Then there's Cook and the kitchen girl, the laundry lady, April and Meira, Tricia, the camp boy, Gabe, Ed and me. I'm the cabin girl.”

“That must be tough, cleaning the cabins all by yourself. If you're the only one, how do you get a day off?”

“I don't,” I tell him. “Nobody does. Working at the lodge is a twenty-four/seven job. But it's not like we're hard at it all day. After I deliver coffee and clean the cabins, I'm pretty much done. I might dust and vacuum the lodge, and sometimes I help the laundry lady fold bedding, but that's about it. The girls in the kitchen have it harder than me. Cook works all day long.”

“And the waitresses?”

“Mostly they serve the meals—breakfast and supper. Lunch too if there are new guests, like today. Basically, they're responsible for the dining room. Setting tables, filling salt and pepper shakers, making sure the bar is stocked and serving food. If it's really busy, they help Cook in the kitchen.”

I see Ed standing in the doorway to the store, so I wave. He waves back.

I turn to Dennis Savoy. “Well, Mr. Savoy, this is it. Ed will help you from here. Enjoy your stay.”

As I jog toward the staff dining room, I think about Dennis Savoy and the conversation we just had. He seems like a nice guy, and he's certainly easy to talk to. We covered a lot ground of during our little walk. And he took a pile of pictures. The thing that puzzles me, though, is why someone who isn't really interested in fishing would come to a fishing lodge.

Chapter Five

“After you finish serving breakfast, do you want to help me clean cabins?” I ask April as we make our way up to the lodge the next morning. “With two of us, we'd be finished in no time. Then we'd have the entire afternoon to chill. We could paint our nails, flip through fashion magazines and pig out on chocolate. My mom sent me a care package.” I waggle my eyebrows.

The frown on April's face tells me she is not impressed. “You want me to clean cabins? Forget it. Been there, done that. I'll stick to waitressing, thanks. The tips are better.” Then her face clears. “But I will help you eat that chocolate.”

Since there are guests in every cabin and only me to clean them, my morning's work stretches into early afternoon. I start with cabin eleven and work my way backward. It's an easy way to keep track of how many I have left to do. Dennis Savoy's cabin is next to last, so by the time I get to it, I'm feeling punch-drunk tired and light-headed from hunger. It's no wonder I dump the contents of the wastebasket all over the floor.

I growl through gritted teeth as I kneel to scoop the mess into a garbage bag. Thank goodness there aren't any pencil shavings, used tissues or chewed gum in the debris. Mostly, it's crumpled paper, and I have it picked up in a few seconds.

But there's one item that eludes me—a coffee-stained business card that gloms onto the floor like it was glued there. I try to lift a corner. I try to slip a fingertip under the side. I even try pushing on the ends to crumple it. The card stays pasted to the floor. Finally I pull off one of my latex gloves, lick my finger, stab it onto the back of the card and lift. The card rises off the floor for a split second before letting go, but it's long enough.

“Gotcha!” I mutter as I snatch it in midair. Then, as if I need to identify my adversary, I flip it over and read the front. The embossed logo is a bird in flight and the company name, Hawke & Associates
.
Below that is Dennis Savoy's name and his job title. Then there's a telephone number and email address.

I read the card again. Dennis Savoy is a field investigator. I'm fairly certain he doesn't investigate pastures and meadows, but that's as far as my powers of deduction go. He's an investigator of something, though I have no idea what. And I can't ask him without incriminating myself. The business card was in the wastebasket, so the only way I could possibly have read it is by snooping through his trash. If he found out, he might report me to Gabe. Gabe would probably fire me. And my parents would never let me out of their sight again until I'm thirty.

I have no choice but to put the matter out of my head. That's easier said than done, especially when I exit the cabin and see Dennis Savoy standing beside my wagon. Before I have a chance to hide my surprise, he snaps my photo. Talk about a picture of guilt.

He laughs. “You should see the look on your face.”

My guilt morphs into indignation. “Why did you do that?”

He must realize I'm upset, because the smile slides from his mouth, and he apologizes. “Sorry.” Then he pushes a couple of buttons on the camera and says, “There. The photo's gone.”

I'm still a bit shaken, but I make myself smile. After all, Dennis Savoy is a guest. As I pile everything into my wagon and prepare to move to the last cabin, I try to sound cheerful. “How was fishing?”

“Great. My guide really knows his stuff.”

I glance at my watch. “You're back early.”

He sighs. “Yeah. I'm beat. Too much sun, I think.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No. I'll be fine. I just need a nap. But thanks.”

A half hour later, both my work and my body are done. All I want is to stretch out in the sun and let my bones melt. But first I have to put away my wagon and supplies.

As I cross the clearing to the wash-house, I catch the unmistakable drone of an airplane engine. That's odd, because this morning I heard Gabe tell Ed it was a plane-free day. I shield my eyes from the sun, waiting for the plane to come into view.

I'm not the only one who's heard it. Suddenly, people are heading to the dock from everywhere. Gabe is sprinting from his office. Ed is hurrying from the generator shed. The kitchen crew is traveling in a swarm from the lodge. Sid is trotting out from the trees. Dennis Savoy is even part of the parade, snapping pictures like the paparazzi.

I frown. I thought he was napping.

Something's not right. I abandon my wagon and follow the crowd. “What's going on?” I ask when I reach the dock.

It's Tricia, the kitchen girl, who answers me. “Meira burned her arm—bad. Dumped a pot of boiling water. Cook did what she could—soaked Meira's arm in lukewarm water and put plastic wrap around it. We gave her ibuprofen for the pain, too, but she needs a proper doctor.”

As soon as the plane reaches the dock, Meira is helped aboard and Ed climbs in beside her. Gabe says something to the pilot, and then the plane is gone.

“All right, everybody, the excitement is over,” Gabe tells us. “There will be an ambulance waiting for Meira in Kenora, and I'll let you know her condition as soon as I hear.” He doesn't add, “Company dismissed,” and no one salutes, but we all get the message.

The little knot of staff unties itself, and people return to what they'd been doing before. I start walking toward my wagon but stop when Gabe calls me and April. The two of us exchange puzzled looks and retrace our steps.

“I'm sure Meira is going to be fine,” Gabe begins. “She has a bad burn, but Cook acted quickly, and that makes all the difference. However, she isn't going to be able to work for a while, which means we're short a waitress.”

“I can handle things,” April says. “I'll just speed up.”

“I appreciate that, April,” Gabe replies, “but we have to think of our guests. They pay good money for top service, and one waitress—no matter how hard she works—can't provide that service for a full dining room. You need help.”