Murder at Lost Dog Lake (4 page)

I didn’t
look back until we were almost halfway across the lake. Only then,
I remembered the rest of our group and checked to see how they were
doing. Not terribly well. Craig was with Barb. Jeremy and Richard
were turning in ever increasing circles while the guide shouted
instructions and demonstrated how to keep the thing in a straight
line. Rachel and her partner, (Joe! I finally remembered his name)
were at least going straight, although slowly as Rachel delicately
dipped the nose of her paddle into the water once a minute or
so.

“
Perhaps we should wait up for the others.” I rested my paddle
across my knees and took a deep drink from my water
bottle.

Dianne
snorted. “I hope we’re not going to be held up by that bunch for
the whole trip. At least you look like you have a vague idea what
you are doing.”

I
decided to take that as a compliment. “I did quite a bit of
canoeing many years ago. But I haven’t been out since I was first
married.”

“
Well it shows. That Rachel doesn’t look like she’s ever been
north of Highway 401 in her entire, short life. What possessed
Richard to invite them, I have no idea.”

“
Maybe this afternoon we should split up? Put one of the
weaker paddlers into this canoe with you. Sort of balance the
load?” I suggested hopefully. I didn’t particularly fancy spending
the entire trip with Dianne. After her bit of faint praise I would
feel myself compelled to try to live up to her
standards.

Which
Jeremy didn’t appear to be doing, as regards whatever standards
Dianne’s husband might have. We were far away but even so it was
obvious that Richard was already impatient at the boy’s failure to
master the little craft. His face was turning red and puffing out
at the cheeks. He finally gave up paddling all together and sat
rigidly in the bow, clutching his paddle and staring forward. He
threw a comment over his shoulder at the English boy. I couldn’t
hear what he said, but Jeremy flushed and his mouth gathered into a
taught line.

Eventually, with gentle, persistent coaching from Craig,
Jeremy grasped the concept of the “J” stroke (used by the person in
the back, called the stern, who has total responsibility for the
direction of the little boat, to keep the craft from veering off
course) and he managed to keep his canoe in somewhat of a straight
line. Richard sighed theatrically and resumed paddling.

Poor
Jeremy, it wasn’t a nice way to begin one’s vacation. Richard
looked to be quite the snob and if he didn’t keep a lid on it, it
wouldn’t be long before he was in everyone’s face.

Joe and
Rachel (mostly Joe) plodded on and eventually they all caught up
with us.

Craig
pointed out the direction we were to take and once again, like
horses out of the starting gate, Dianne and I were off. The guide
had explained earlier that we would paddle up this long, thin lake,
and then portage around the rapids at the end. We reached the
portage, recognizable by the bright yellow sign nailed to a tree,
long before the others.

The
portage, a trail overland joining two bodies of water where the
lake or river is impassable, was crowded this close to the Park’s
entrance. Five or six canoes in a spectrum of cheerful colors were
dragged up onto a scruffy little bit of beach. Piles of packs, life
jackets, paddles and other required paraphernalia lay scattered on
the rocks.

Dianne
guided our canoe onto a spare patch of beach. I stepped out into
the warm, shallow water and dragged the nose of the craft onto the
sand. The moment we touched dry land, Dianne tossed our stuff out
of the canoe and gestured for me to stand with my back to her so
she could load me up with a pack. We would return for the canoe
once the packs were transported to the far end.

“
Shouldn’t we wait for the others?” I said. ”Craig may have
his own way of doing this.”

“
Not necessary,” she barked. “I know what to do.” And she bent
into her pack, picked up a paddle in both hands and set off down
the trail. I was only surprised that she didn’t run. Swept up in
the force of the woman’s enthusiasm, as helpless to resist as
debris in a hurricane, I followed.

Luckily,
it was a short portage, less than 100 yards. The trail was wide and
well established with wooden risers placed into the side of the
hill to aid wet footsteps. Even so, my sandals were damp and
fastened too loosely, my feet slipped wildly about and I feared
that I would fall. Head down, shoulders braced against the
considerable weight of my pack, I forced myself forward.

I passed
several groups of people, either returning empty for another load
or struggling under canoes and packs on their way out of the
park.

A woman
at least twice my age hummed cheerfully as she passed me, loaded
down with paddles, lifejackets, daypacks and fishing rods. I
returned her nod. Seeing her gave me some much-needed confidence,
and I continued on my way, feeling a bit better.

Dianne
was waiting impatiently when I finally reached the end of the
trail.

“
What took you so long?” She eased the heavy pack off my
shoulders. I sighed with relief.

“
There are a lot of people here. We have to be careful to keep
our equipment separate from theirs, particularly as some of this
gear looks quite a bit alike. I’ve put our packs over here, on the
left. Keep them together.” She tossed my pack on top of hers and we
went back for our canoe.

The rest
of our group was disembarking when we returned to the little beach.
Joe leapt out of his canoe and slogged through water and sand to
haul the bow of the craft onto dry land, presumably so Rachel could
step out without getting her little feet wet.

“
Barb, Jeremy and Rachel, you each take a pack and whatever
else you can carry, paddles or daypacks or whatnot. Joe and Richard
take a canoe,” Craig said.

“
I don’t think so,” Rachel mumbled underneath her breath. I
was the only one close enough to hear. Dianne was already gripping
the back of our canoe and calling for me to come and take the front
end.

“
To your knees. One, two, three,” she shouted. Fortunately I
remembered at the last minute what that meant and hoisted my end of
the canoe to knee level. On her next command we flipped the canoe
over and rested it onto our shoulders. A shower of muddy water
cascaded through my hair and down my neck.

Up the
stairs and down the trail at Dianne’s frantic pace. If she started
to run, I would let her carry the blasted thing herself. Blinking
water out of my eyes, I almost collided with one tree, but
otherwise we reached the end of the portage without
mishap.

We
placed our canoe carefully back into clear blue water and reloaded
the packs. “You can rest now, if you want,” Dianne informed me.
“I’ll go back and help the others.” I was sorely tempted to sink
onto a nice soft rock and do just that, but I wasn’t about to let
Dianne show me up. I never could resist a challenge. So I set off
down the trail one more time.

We
passed Barb and Jeremy laboring under their burdens, and Rachel
sauntering along swinging her own daypack. Craig carried a canoe by
himself as if it were a part of his body. Joe and Richard struggled
under the weight of their canoe, manfully but vainly trying to
disguise how difficult they were finding the unaccustomed load.
Dianne and I scooped up daypacks and lifejackets.

On the
way back I took the opportunity to sneak into the woods. Seeking
privacy, I scrambled over moss covered rocks and pushed aside
branches. The forest floor crackled under my feet, hard and brittle
and dry. It hadn’t rained for so long that the papers were calling
it drought conditions.

I was
settling into a nice spot and wiggling down my shorts when my
breath caught in my throat and my heart started racing. Lying
almost at my feet, half-buried in a pile of rotting leaves, lay a
little brown rabbit, eyes open wide staring at nothing, tiny
stomach torn open, red entrails spilling out.

Task
forgotten, swallowing furiously, I scurried out of the clearing
toward the sound of voices, pulling up my shorts as I
went.

“
Look Rachel, we really need your help with all of this
stuff.” Craig’s voice sounded calm and reasonable as I burst out of
the woods.

I was
breathing heavily, and no doubt was ashen faced, but no one paid
the slightest bit of attention to me.

“
It really isn’t as hard as it looks,” the guide said.
Everyone has to pitch in to make it a fun trip for us all. You’d
agree with that wouldn’t you?”

Rachel
pouted prettily. “Joe will carry my share, right
sweetie?”

Joe had
the grace to flush. “I’m happy to, honey, you know that, but I
think that Craig feels that it isn’t fair on the others if you…”
Catching sight of Dianne and I listening, he broke off in
mid-sentence, shrugged and turned on his heels. Craig raised his
eyebrows to us as he passed in Joe’s wake.

Rachel
dug into her daypack and produced a tiny compact. Flipping it open
she touched up her lipstick and applied a dab of powder to her
nose. I thought I heard a bear standing beside me, but it was only
Dianne. She glared at Rachel then waded back into the water to
resume her position in the stern of our canoe.

“
Come on, Leanne. We don’t have all day!”

Dutifully I scrambled for my paddle, guided us off the rock,
and jumped in. Actually, we did have all day.

We
couldn’t get too far, Craig hadn’t yet told us which way to go. So
we drifted in lazy circles off shore while the others finished the
portage, loaded their canoes and pushed off.

“
I’m rather surprised that Rachel has come on this trip,” I
said once we were underway again. “She doesn’t quite seem the
type.”

Dianne
growled her bear imitation again. “Useless creature. Almost as
stupid as the fool who brought her.” She fell silent and we watched
the trees and the water drift by.

I
wondered if the “fool” she referred to was Joe, or her own husband,
Richard, who presumably had suggested the trip to the other couple.
It seemed a bit strange to me, to invite people one barely knew on
a trip that has this sort of intensity. Not quite like a visit to
Club Med, in some exotic locale, where you could go for long walks
along the beach or hide in your room all day to avoid certain
people if you didn’t want the pleasure of their company. And what
Rachel herself, as out of her element as a fish on the surface of
the moon, was doing here, I was dying to know.

I’d come
on this trip to be alone, to enjoy the wilderness in solitude and
hopefully regain some sense of my own place in the universe. All
that life-affirming, good stuff. But I wasn’t adverse to a nice bit
of tasty gossip, either.

It was a
short distance to the second portage where, Craig had told us, we
would have lunch. Then only a quick trip along the shores of the
next lake to find a campsite for the night.

I was
dreaming happily of a hearty lunch and a chance for a nice rest
when Dianne spoke up, so softly that if it weren’t for the calm
peace of the lake and the direction of the winds I would have
missed it. “If that woman expects all of us to wait on her hand and
foot, I might put her out of her misery myself.”

Chapter 4

Day 2: afternoon

As soon
as I saw the site I knew that it would be perfect. Once you get
into the backwoods areas of Algonquin Park the campsites are well
spaced out, maybe a good ten minutes paddle from one to the next.
They’re marked with an orange sign nailed to a tree prominently
placed looking out over the water and come with absolutely no
amenities. The way I like it. A clearing in the trees, a bit of a
fire pit, with maybe some logs arranged around it for seating, and
an outhouse set far back. Further into the park, the outhouses are
gone, replaced with a wooden box with a lid and a hole in the seat.
The "Treasure Chest” we called it when I was young.

Dianne
and I drifted off shore waiting for the others to catch up before
pulling our canoes up onto the rocks and exploring the site. Dianne
pronounced it “perfect” and I agreed. The fire pit was large and
nicely arranged. The previous inhabitants had kindly left us an
ample supply of neatly stacked firewood. Three good-sized logs
formed an open-ended square with the pit located in the gap. Thick
stands of pine, mostly red and jack, towered overhead. A small
beaten path led up the hill to the outhouse, where it ended.
Otherwise, like all the best camping places, no access was in or
out through the dense woods.

The
shore was rocky, but got deep very quickly: good for swimming. I
have a phobia of stepping on grass or seaweed or anything else in
the way of vegetation when I’m in the water. My father always
reminded me that there is nothing cleaner, and I know that’s true,
but I still refuse to venture in if anything growing is likely to
wrap itself around my feet underwater.

Dianne
set to unpacking the tents the instant we arrived. I was hoping for
a swim first, but once again, caught up in the woman’s enthusiasm
and afraid of looking incompetent, I pitched in to help.