Eleven huskies, p.11
Eleven Huskies, page 11
As they began reloading their canoes on the shore of Parsons, Peter spotted a canoe in the distance.
“Look, a canoe,” he said, pointing. “We didn’t see it before — it was probably behind that island when we came down.”
The other three stopped what they were doing and squinted out over the lake. Stuart rummaged in his pack and pulled out a pair of binoculars.
“Great! I’m glad you brought those. I thought about it, decided not to, and then promptly regretted it,” Peter said.
“I’m hoping to see a golden-crowned kinglet on this trip,” Stuart said as he adjusted the focus on the binoculars.
Peter didn’t know Stuart was such an avid birdwatcher. He liked birds well enough himself, and always enjoyed seeing them, but he didn’t make a point of seeking out specific species. He gave the tall Nigerian an appraising look. He was apparently full of surprises, which both intrigued Peter and, if he was honest with himself, unsettled him a little.
“OK, it is a green canoe. Not one that belongs to the lodge. It is a single man paddling,” Stuart said.
“Hmm, funny coincidence. It’s not a popular route.”
“But with the fire near Shankie Lake, maybe other people had the same idea we did,” Laura said.
“Fair point,” Peter agreed. “Can you see anything else?” Peter was going to add “like a rifle,” but didn’t want to sound anxious.
“Not much, just that this man has a large white beard.”
Kevin and Peter looked at each other.
“Really, a large white beard? Like Santa Claus?” Kevin asked.
“Yes, now that you put it that way, just like Santa Claus. But no red suit. He is wearing brown. And no red hat with a white pompom, just a camouflage-coloured cap. Do you know this man?”
“Maybe know of him. A guy named Marty Sullivan worked as a guide at the lodge last winter, and he has a Santa Claus beard. Lives out in the bush somewhere, although I don’t know where. Could be out this way.”
“The way his bio read, I assumed it was much further out, but I could be wrong,” Peter said.
“Who knows?” Kevin said as he took the binoculars from Stuart. “Each lake is just a stepping stone. Put them in the right sequence and you can go as far out as you like. All the way to the Arctic if that’s your jam.”
“Do you think he’s seen us?” Peter asked.
“Maybe, but I doubt it. He’s close to the shore, so he’s got to watch where he’s going. No reason to look back,” Kevin replied.
“Why are you guys so interested in this backwoods Santa?” Laura asked. “Is he a suspect?”
“Dog poisoner, just maybe,” Kevin answered, handing the binoculars to Peter, who had his hand outstretched for them. “Triple murderer, probably not. Not my case, though.”
“You don’t think the dog poisoner is also the murderer? You really still think that’s a coincidence?” Peter asked while he pulled the binoculars wider. He hadn’t realized before how closely Kevin’s eyes were set together.
“Like I said, not my case, so I’m just guessing. And I’m on vacation, so I’m going to stop guessing.”
“Hey, he’s pulling onto land. I don’t remember a portage there.”
Laura was in charge of the map. She took it out of its waterproof Ziploc and unfolded it. “No, no portage marked there.”
“Maybe he’s making camp early, which sounds good to me,” Kevin said. “We should stop gawking and get a move on. I’m getting hungry for Stuart’s gourmet dinner creation tonight.”
Laura and Stuart returned to getting the canoes ready, but Peter continued to stare through the binoculars. “He stashed the canoe and walked into the woods with a big pack. Looks like there’s a dog with him. Small one or a puppy.”
“So, maybe his cabin is there somewhere. And he likes dogs after all. We all do. Who cares? If it makes you feel better, I’ll tell Todd what we saw when we get back.”
“It’s weird, though. Wouldn’t his cabin be on the water?”
Kevin sighed and pulled the binoculars away from Peter, who was scanning up and down the far shore. “Like I said, Pete, who cares? We’re on vacation. The evidence that he tried to do in the huskies is flimsy, like toilet paper in a sauna . . .”
Laura chortled.
“Like that one? I just made it up on the spot. And it’s extra special weird if he shot down the plane, because that Icelandic lady saw the canoe coming from the direction of the lodge, not the Parsons portage.”
“I suppose,” Peter said, frowning and still looking to where he saw the man disappear. There was an exposed ridge of granite above that spot. He wondered whether he might catch sight of him walking up there. Peter wondered what was on the other side of the ridge.
“Stop supposing and start paddling.” Kevin laughed and gave Peter a slap on the back.
Peter watched for a moment longer, but the man didn’t reappear. He handed the binoculars back to Stuart and trotted over to his canoe, where Laura was waiting.
Chapter Fifteen
Peter loved small island campsites. He not only loved the practical advantages — far fewer bears, far fewer people — he loved the idea of being granted temporary overlordship of a miniature kingdom. He raced through the camp chores of helping put up the tent, filtering water, and organizing the campsite, so he could get to his primary objective as quickly as possible, which was to explore. The island they chose was the last in a chain of four ever-smaller ones, halfway up Parsons Lake, beginning with the larger island they had seen from the portage. On their way, they paddled close by where the bearded man had pulled in. They saw nothing to indicate he had ever been there. He had stashed his canoe well.
While the others lounged on a flat shelf of granite that served as a beach and enjoyed their drinks — rye whisky for Kevin, lemonade from powder for Stuart and Laura, and water for Pippin — Peter gave a cheery wave and headed off down the west shore of the island to see how far he could get. It was not very far. The granite shelf gradually sloped up to a rocky point. Once Peter was over that and back down to the waterline, he could see that the way forward was obstructed by fallen trees. He doubled back, passing the others, who were now deep in conversation about fishing, it seemed, and went the other way. This time Pippin bounded up and followed him. Peter assumed that there had been no snacks offered with the drinks, and that Peter’s walk looked more interesting to the dog than the boring blah-blah.
On this side of the island there was a path of sorts through a dense spruce forest carpeted with thick moss. At times the path dipped down to the water’s edge, and at other times it ran along a small cliff, where the forest suddenly ended in a ragged edge, like a cookie snapped in half. The water was only three metres below, but large algae-covered boulders broke the surface. A fall, while not fatal, would be unpleasant at a minimum, and quite possibly result in a broken ankle or wrist. Peter wasn’t afraid of heights, but he wasn’t fond of them either. Looking down from high up was no trouble when there was no risk of falling, but the absence of a rope, railing, or best of all, a big wall with a window unnerved him.
Just as Peter was contemplating this, his foot slipped on a loose piece of moss. He grabbed a small spruce to prevent himself from going over the edge. Pippin, sure-footed as always, cocked his head and looked at his master, who was now gripping the tree tightly. Peter debated about going on. The path was still recognizable, but barely, as if only small mammals typically went further. It seemed even deer gave up at this point. To his frustration he could now see how close he was to the north end of the island. It had become cloudy. The colours were muted and dull, but the now grey water at the north tip beckoned. Even if he couldn’t circumnavigate the whole island, he could at least claim to have walked from the southernmost extremity, by the campsite, to the northernmost. The others wouldn’t care in the slightest, but others not caring never bothered Peter.
The westering sun suddenly pierced through a gap in the clouds in full strength. Peter looked at the path again and squinted to try to make out its course. Then he caught sight of something glinting near the north point. Was it metal or glass? He wasn’t sure. He tested the footing on the next part of the path, but he could feel it begin to give way. Peter muttered a quiet but forceful “Drat!” Pippin looked up at him again. This was doubly frustrating now! Not only would he be unable to walk the island end to end, but he wouldn’t be able to reach whatever was catching the sun. But the exploration hadn’t been a complete failure. At least he now had a good sense regarding the topography of the island, and he also had a story to tell the others about how he almost fell to his doom and how there was a mysterious object near the other end of the island.
* * *
“So, Pete, discover fabulous new lands? Gold? Riches beyond imagining? Or maybe great gleaming mounds of bear scat?” Kevin called to him as he returned. He was by himself on the granite shelf, still sipping rye, while Stuart and Laura were preparing dinner on the far side of the campsite, well away from the tents.
“Absolutely! All of the above.”
“Have a seat, have a snort, and do tell,” Kevin said, pouring a glug of whisky into an enamel mug and handing it to Peter. Peter sniffed it suspiciously. He considered himself to be a discerning whisky aficionado, and experience had taught him not to trust his brother-in-law’s taste, but as they were on vacation and everyone was in a good mood, Peter decided not to say anything beyond “thank you!”
After he described what happened and what he had seen, Kevin laughed and said, “Well, given that I outweigh you by at least 50 pounds, I had better not go on this rabbit trail! Mind you, when I need to be, I can be as nimble as a ballerina.” He put his arms above his head to form a circle and turned from side to side, laughing again. “So, this shiny thing, what’s your theory, Pete? You know I’m always dying to hear your theories.”
“Although it’s in a weird place, I’d have to say garbage. Maybe aluminum foil from some campfire meal, somehow blown in there.”
“So not husky poison or a sniper’s scope?” Kevin said, grinning.
“Brother-in-law, dear, my mind has many tracks, not just one. That would not be logical. In fact, either of those theories would be so illogical as to be farcical.”
“Good. Glad we’re on the same page there. More rye? It’s that Costco stuff from the States. Pretty good, eh?”
Peter suppressed a grimace. He had been waiting for an opportunity to surreptitiously dump his whisky when Kevin wasn’t looking. “Yeah, it’s . . . interesting.”
“Right? No need to drop a hundred bucks on snob water. This has got all kinds of flavours. All kinds. So, another splash then?”
Peter tasted malt and he tasted alcohol. So, two “flavours.” That was it. But he sensed that Kevin was in one of those states where he might be willing to talk about police work with him, so he said, “Sure, why not? The devil rides tonight! Isn’t that what you say?”
“That is exactly what I say!” Kevin slapped Peter on the back hard enough to make him cough, and then poured an alarming amount of rye into his mug.
Peter decided to test his luck. “Speaking of theories, totally off the record, of course, just us two brothers-in-law chewing the fat, what do you really think is going on at Dragonfly?” Peter held his breath. He knew Kevin always felt conflicted between his irritation at Peter meddling in his work and his natural volubility. Duty versus chattiness. Officer versus buddy.
Kevin was quiet for a moment, and Peter worried that he had misjudged the situation, but then he said, “Oh, I got my theories, all right. How couldn’t I? I’m a cop, right? This mind” — Kevin tapped the side of his head with his free hand while the other one reached for the bottle of rye — “never stops. Constantly analyzing. Constantly theorizing. Constantly questioning. For example, who’s Santa Claus, really? Why is he here? And that’s just for starters.” Kevin took a big swallow. “Just for starters,” he repeated, nodding his head.
Peter knew not to interrupt him, even though he had several questions.
“I might have told you guys that ‘I don’t care ’cause I’m on vacation,’” Kevin continued, “but I was lying. I do care. Even on vacation I care. Just can’t stop that cop mind. Can’t. Stop. It. Don’t want to either.” He nodded in the exaggerated way of someone who is unaware of how drunk they look.
There was another pause for another big drink.
Peter waited again.
It was a quiet evening with only the occasional distant caw of a crow and the murmur of conversation from Stuart and Laura. Glancing northeast, Peter saw the smoke had increased substantially since he had last looked. What had been two separate plumes was now an ominous wall of solid grey above the treeline, with a faint tint of orange along its bottom edge. It still looked many kilometres away, and the steady southeast breeze should push it even further away, but Peter swore he detected a faint tang of smoke.
“So which theory do you want to hear first? Attempted canicide? Or actual homicide?”
“While the latter is admittedly more dramatic, the former, the ‘canicide’ as you put it, is obviously much more in my bailiwick.”
“Bailiwick, canicide, listen to us two. What a pair of refined, eloquent gentlemen we are,” Kevin said, affecting a comic British accent, as he regarded the contents of his mug with a look that indicated he was surprised by how little was left.
“So canicide it is. My money, dear brother-in-law, is on the Russkis . . .”
“Belarusians.”
“Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to.”
“Not really, but proceed, I won’t interrupt again. Scout’s honour.”
“Scouts aren’t all that honourable, but yes, if you could refrain from interrupting with your know-it-all-ness, that would be grand. So, the Belarusskis make the most sense. They had ample opportunity and — now I know this probably doesn’t pass your science brain test — but my cop instincts say not to trust them. And that’s not because they’re foreigners! You know I’m not like that.” Kevin drained the rest of his mug in one gulp. “It’s just my gut, and my gut is usually right on the money. But the big reason is means. Liver poisons aren’t just lying around everywhere, so suspicion must immediately fall on those who do have access. Didn’t you say that mushroom poisoning could cause the liver damage? And these guys are all about mushrooms, right?” Kevin inclined his head toward Peter. “Now you may speak.”
“That could be the means,” Peter said, trying to keep skepticism from creeping into his voice. “Fly agaric mushrooms are probably present here. In fact, I’ve been keeping an eye out for them. And I suppose they had the opportunity, but what about motive?”
“Ah, motive. Often dark and inscrutable on first glance! You amateurs are all about motive, but we pros worry about that last. Something always bubbles up when you dig a bit. But I’m not in a position to do the digging.”
“So, just generally speaking, what are the basic motives for crime? Greed? Hate? Love? Revenge?”
“Yeah, those, and a bunch of others such as anger, insanity, jealousy — although I suppose that’s what you mean by love. There’s also crimes committed to hide a secret, and those meant to protect someone or something. I’m sure there’s more, but this rye, although totally excellent, is making me forget some . . . stuff.” There was a hint of slur in Kevin’s booming voice.
“Any casual thoughts on which of those could possibly apply here?”
Kevin tried to take a drink from his empty mug. He set it down and scratched his bushy red beard. “Hard to see a money or sex angle, so it would have to be something in the hate, revenge, or anger line. Once this gets investigated, they’ll look for how the Russkis, pardon me, Belarusskis” — he grinned at Peter — “know Reynolds and whatever communications there were between them. I mean, isn’t it odd for those guys to come all that way just for mushrooms. Trust me, it’s fishy. Pretty damned fishy.” Kevin picked up the half-empty bottle of rye, and then, after a long pause, put it back down, sighing.
“OK, reasonable points, I guess. And the homicide?”
Kevin took a deep breath and turned to look Peter directly in the eye. “I’d be taking a hard look at old Reynolds himself.”
“Dinner’s ready!” Stuart called in a singsong, while banging a pot lid with a wooden spoon.
Chapter Sixteen
The obe eja dindin, which Peter learned was Yoruba for “fried fish king” stew, was, as Kevin had predicted, excellent. The fish was first fried, hence the name, and then stewed with tomatoes, onions, garlic, ginger, red bell peppers, chilies, and basil. Stuart had asked in advance how spicy he should make it: “baby spicy, Canadian spicy, normal spicy, dragon spicy, or volcano spicy?” Kevin loudly pushed for “volcano spicy” but was outvoted. Stuart made it “normal spicy” but gave Kevin a small bowl of chilies to add. After a couple of spoonfuls, Kevin declared that it was very tasty this way and he didn’t want to be a show-off by piling more chilies in. He drank a lot of water.
While they ate, Kevin rambled on about fishing. The fish in the stew was apparently smallmouth bass he had caught earlier in the day, and which he declared to be perfect for the purpose. He had also caught pickerel but wanted to save it to pan-fry with butter for breakfast. Pickerel was too delicate for any sauces and shone on its own. Kevin was partway into a dissertation on why they were called pickerel in parts of Canada and walleye everywhere else, when Peter interrupted him.
