Murder at Lost Dog Lake (12 page)

“
Yes, I am. But I do wish everyone would stop
fighting.”

She
waved one hand in dismissal. “That’s what men are like, they always
have to be fighting over something.”

“
No, they don’t. I know lots of men who never fight.” I took a
breath and plunged in. “Pardon me for saying so, but I don’t think
you’re helping the situation much, Barb.”

“
What do you mean, me? I’m not fighting with
anyone.”

I
sighed, but carried on regardless. Normally I wouldn’t interfere in
someone’s private life (well, not much). Let her make her own
mistakes. But on a trip like this things are different. We’re
living closely, very closely, almost in each other’s pockets and
everyone has to get along. If Barb was playing little-girl games it
was time for her to give it up.

I
stopped paddling and allowed the canoe to drift. A great blue heron
took off from shore with a loud flapping of powerful wings. We
watched as the bird circled once over the lake only to disappear
into the trees. Better fishing elsewhere.

“
You’re playing Craig and Jeremy off against one another and I
don’t think that’s terribly wise.”

“
I am not. Craig’s really cute. I’ve noticed you looking at
him you know. Are you interested in him for yourself? If you want
me to back off, just say so,” she offered generously, blue eyes
twinkling. “Not that I’m saying I will, mind. But we should be
honest and open-like, don’t you think? So we know where we both
stand.”

“
I am not interested in having anything with Craig, and that’s
not what I’m saying. I don’t think you’re being too honest
yourself. It isn’t fair to Jeremy to make him jealous over the
attention you’re playing to Craig. You can do what ever you want
the rest of the time, but we’re all feeling the strain
here.”

Barb
threw back her head and laughed. A bright clear laugh, it echoed
across the lake and bounded back at us from the trees along the
shoreline. Ahead I saw Craig’s head turn.

“
You think I’m trying to make Jeremy jealous? Oh that’s rich,
that is. Honestly, I couldn’t care less what Jeremy thinks. If he’s
not having a good time on this holiday, then that’s his fault,
isn’t it? Not mine.”

Now I
was confused. Could this woman really be as shallow and
cold-hearted as she appeared to be? “But Jeremy’s your boyfriend.
Of course he’ll be mad if you start flirting with another guy,
don’t you think so?”

Barb
laughed again. “Jeremy’s certainly not my boyfriend. Why on earth
would anyone think that?”

To my
horror I realized that I had rather jumped to conclusions. A
dangerous habit in my line of work. “He seems to think so. At least
he acts like he wants to be your boyfriend.”

“
I’m sure he does. But it isn’t going to happen, not in this
lifetime anyway.” Barb dabbed at her eyes.

I was
glad I’d managed to amuse her so much. Now that I thought about it
a bit more, I hadn’t seen Barb and Jeremy acting particularly
intimate, not even once. Nothing more than friendly, actually.
Maybe she was a bit flirty on occasion, but that was her
personality. “I am sorry, Barb,” I apologized meekly. “The way he
behaves, it’d obvious how jealous he is, and came on the trip
together…”

“
Oh, I can understand if that’s how it looks to all of you.
‘Cause we’re traveling together and all.” She turned around and
watched the other canoes disappearing into the distance. “We’d
better catch up. Or Jeremy will be wondering what I am doing out
here with you. Jerk.” She picked up her paddle and dug viciously
into the water.

I joined
her and we set off towards the others. Once we resumed a steady
pace, Barb started talking again. “I only met Jeremy at Heathrow. I
was with my best friend, Annie. We’ve been planning this trip
forever. For absolutely years, all the time we were growing up, me
and Annie planned our big trip to North America once we finished
school.

“
The plane was like really late leaving Heathrow. We sat
around the airport for hours and hours waiting. That’s when we met
Jeremy and his pal Josh, who were on the same flight. They were
nice boys so we thought we would all travel together.”

“
Where’s Annie now?”

“
Would’ya believe it? Years we’ve been planning this trip, and
then right after we get here, Annie falls down and breaks her leg.
We were in Ottawa, visiting the Parliament buildings, a lovely tour
it was too, but then Annie ups and trips on nothing. Tumbles down
the stairs, ass over tit and bang! It’s all over.” She slapped the
water with the blade of her paddle, startling a lone Canada goose
who was, until then, oblivious of our passing. With an offended
honk, the goose scuttled across the surface of the water, wings
flapping furiously, and took to the air.

“
So I packed Annie back off to England and carried on with
Jeremy and Josh. Josh was nice and we all had great fun at first.
We went to Montreal and Quebec City and it was great; we practiced
our dreadful school French and ate at little bistros, but then out
of the blue Josh decides to go to the States to visit some cousin
and said he’d meet up with us later. Annie and I had already paid
for this canoe trip, so I mentioned to Jeremy that I was still
going, and he took Annie’s place. It really wasn’t until a day or
two before we got the bus to the lodge that he started coming over
all possessive and jealous. It’s quite a pain, you know? He’s
always watching me, and acting all controlling like. Jerk.” The
bright smile had faded long ago and a worried frown touched Barb’s
face. She pulled her hat off and scratched at her scalp. “Boy, it’s
hot. Didn’t know it got so hot in Canada. Annie was all for packing
gloves and wool hats, ‘just in case’, she said, until she read a
brochure that told us what the summer temperatures were
like.”

“
Keep drinking water,” I reminded her, unable to think of
anything less mundane to say.

“
So what do I do now, Leanne?” She lifted her arms behind her
head and re-rolled the masses of blond hair into a loose knot
before plopping the cap back on. I knew she wasn’t asking for tips
on how to keep cool.

We were
at a halt once again. I leaned over the side to fill up my water
bottle. “I don’t really know what to tell you. You don’t want
advice on handling men from me, that’s for sure.” My laugh was
tight and forced.

We
picked up our paddles and resumed the journey in
silence.

After
dinner we all snuggled back into our own comfy spot of log
clutching mugs of hot chocolate. The last remaining marshmallows
bobbed in the rich, dark drink.

With one
finger I poked my marshmallow down into the liquid and then licked
the gooey remains.

The
clouds had moved in fast and covered all trace of moon and stars.
The camp seemed remote indeed. Only our little fire cast a
flickering circle of light into the darkness that surrounded.
Clutching my mug I wondered what it must have been like for the
vast majority of all humanity, with only the tiny flame of a
carefully guarded fire standing between them and the terrors of the
night.

Jeremy
flicked on his flashlight and played it across our faces. In a
second I lost the image of rough, hairy, but determined,
pre-historic women huddled around the cold fire pit, clutching
naked babies to their thin chests and trying to blow life back into
the fire.

“
Cool,” he said. “You all look, like, really
weird.”

“
You must know some good stories about the park,” Barb asked
Craig. “Tell us some, please.”

“
Any ghost stories?” Jeremy focused his light directly into
Craig’s eyes.

Craig
covered his face with his hands and swallowed his annoyance. “I
know only one,” he began. “And it’s not a ghost story, but there
was a death, a very famous death in this park. And some people say
it was murder.” He paused for effect and eyed us all in
turn.

Jeremy
switched off his flashlight and allowed the firelight to play
across the faces around the circle.

Even
Rachel seemed impressed. “The death of someone famous.” She
breathed. “Who?”

“
Tom Thomson.” He waited for us to search our memory banks and
catch up.

“
Of course, the painter.” I fairly shouted. “Canoe Lake,
right?”

Rachel
sighed with disappointment. I suppose that in her mind the only
famous people were last year’s crop of movie stars.

But Barb
was interested. “Who’s Tom Thomson?”

“
A painter,” Dianne said. “Probably the most famous Canadian
painter of them all. The inspiration for, and unofficial member of,
the Group of Seven. Painter of the Canadian Shield, lover of the
wilderness. He died in 1915 was it? In Algonquin Park, I know that.
But it was a canoe accident.”

“
1917.” Craig corrected her. “And a lot of people believe that
his death was no accident. You see, Thomson was totally at home in
Algonquin Park. He walked and canoed and painted these trees and
lakes and hills for years. In his love of the wilderness,
appreciation of the colors of the trees and the water, the majesty
of the forest, he really was the first. He painted here for years,
and brought his work back to show in Toronto. They actually didn’t
believe him at first. In the beauty of the colors, I mean, the
breadth of the forest. He was the first, and only when others
followed did they finally believe what he had seen.

“
One nice summer’s day, in 1917, he set off in his canoe, as
normal, onto Canoe Lake, it’s quite a bit south of here, but still
in the park. A few days later they found the canoe, floating upside
down. No trace of Thomson himself, until about a week later when
the body itself was found, in rather a poor state, as you can
imagine.”

A true
storyteller, he paused for a moment and glanced at us all in turn,
one after the other, around the fire.

“
Of course they immediately assumed it was an accident. But
then the locals got thinking. Tom was an expert canoeist; he knew
the wilderness like the rest of you know your own back yard. Plus,
there was an enormous bruise on his forehead and a length of
fishing line wrapped around his legs. Over and over and over,
around and around and around.”

“
How did that get there?” Barb asked, engrossed in the
story.

“
Ah! There lies the mystery. As it turns out, Thomson had been
in a bitter argument with one Martin Blecher the night before he
disappeared. It was in a bar, so we can be suspicious of some of
the reports of their fight, but is there some truth remaining?” He
looked directly at Barb.

She
shivered and gestured to him to continue.

“
Apparently this Mr. Blecher was rather fond of one young lady
whose family owned a cottage on the lake. A lady who, people said,
was engaged to none other than Tom Thomson himself, although the
announcement was not yet official. To complicate matters this
Martin Blecher was an American draft dodger escaping from World War
One, and Thomson had apparently tried to enlist but had been turned
down for health reasons.

“
Do we see a conflict? I do.”

“
So what happened,” Rachel gasped. Thomson may not be famous
by her standards, but she knew a good story when she heard one.
“Surely no one thought that the fishing line got there by accident
did they? Didn’t this Martin whatsit go to trial or
anything?”

“
Unfortunately,” Craig continued, “very little happened. No
one investigated the cause of Thomson’s death, and it continued to
be officially classified as an accident. Remember that there was a
war on, so people had more important things on their minds. And in
those days Algonquin Park was an extremely isolated
place.

“
And that’s it?” asked Barb.

The soft
hooting of an owl sounded from a nearby branch, almost as if
encouraging Craig to continue with the story. It called only once
and the forest closed in on us again.

“
Not quite.” Craig said. He was clearly enjoying himself and
although I knew snatches of the story, I was enthralled to hear it
recounted among the trees and the descendents of the animals who
were witnesses to the events so long ago.

“
You see, Thomson’s family fully believed that they had
received possession of his body when they asked for it. Any more
hot chocolate in that pot?” Smiling Craig held out his
mug.

Barb
hurried to fill it. “What do you mean, ‘they believed’? It wasn’t
his body?”

“
People have some real suspicion about the disposal of the
remains. It was buried first in the park, but his family arrived
and wanted to take it back with them. They were given a nice box
and took it away. A lot of the locals said that the box they got
was much too light to contain anything as substantial as a human
body.

“
Years passed. Sometime in the 1950’s, I forget when, an old
fellow decided to look into what exactly happened that day on Canoe
Lake in 1917, and in the weeks afterward.

“
The young lady, object of Thomson’s affections, and
apparently the desire of the ill-suited Mr. Blecher as well,
remained despondent for years. She never married; she never left
the lake. And she continued to visit the original grave of Tom
himself, the resting place in which he was first laid before his
family requested the return of the remains to Toronto.”