Murder on High (20 page)

But she wasn’t complaining. She was happy to be here. After her foil packet of chicken curry, prime rib with Yorkshire pudding was going to taste pretty good. And who was she to cast stories? she thought as she sucked on the whiskey-soaked cherry of her second Manhattan, her sore muscles no longer seeming quite as sore as they had a short while ago.

She and Tracey were trying to talk about Pamola over the noise.

“Where would he have gone from there?” she asked, referring to the Saddle Slide, where the tracker had lost Pamola’s trail. Her map of Katahdin was spread out on the table between them.

Tracey shrugged. “He might’ve gone down the other side, and followed the Perimeter Road north, then cut over to one of the old logging roads on the western boundary. Or he might have wickie-upped on the mountain, and be waiting until everybody’s gone home to come back down.”

“Wickie-upped?” said Charlotte, who still wasn’t familiar with all of Tracey’s Downeast expressions.

“Bedded down on the trail,” he said. “I guess it must be an Indian word.”

Charlotte nodded and studied his possible routes on the map.

Looking up at the moose head over the mantel as she put the map away, she observed to Tracey how difficult it must have been for him to make his way up the flank of a mile-high mountain at night wearing a headdress of moose antlers.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Tracey said. “One of Haverty’s men found the antlers this morning. They were hidden in the woods off the Saddle Slide in a burlap bag. He was probably planning to come back for them.”

“Are you going to test them for fingerprints?”

He nodded. “I picked them up at park headquarters when I came back for you. Of course, if this guy’s prints aren’t on file anywhere, neither the rattle nor the headdress are going to do us any good.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of the proprietor, an amiable young man who introduced himself as Bruce the Moose. He brought their salads, and with them the message that there was a telephone call for Lieutenant Tracey.

Tracey took the call at a telephone table under the stairs leading to the second-floor rooms. From where she was sitting, Charlotte could see him holding a hand to one ear in an effort to drown out the reveling of the rafters.

He was back in a minute. “That was Gaudette,” he said, referring to his supervisor. “He just got a call from the Indian police. They’ve got a body in a shallow grave at the retreat center.”

“A body!” she exclaimed.

“A detective from the Indian police is on his way up now from Indian Island with an assistant to take a look. He’s made arrangements for us all to fly in. We’re supposed to meet him at the Katahdin Air Service in an hour.”

Charlotte moved the Pamola prankster up on her suspect list, and Jeanne down. Unless Jeanne had some connection to the retreat center, this removed her from the top spot. As it did Keith, who wouldn’t have sullied his own nest.

“Another crossbow murder?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t hear much.” He frowned at the noisy group of rafters. “But I don’t think he knew much more than that anyway. The grave is on the north shore of Little Beaver Pond.”

Pulling out her map again, Charlotte spread it out between them. “Here it is,” she said, pointing at a small drop of blue just east of Beaver Pond, and just west of the park boundary.

“The only alternative to flying in is to drive on a logging road twenty miles up the West Branch to a sporting camp named Big Eddy”—he pointed to a site near the Ripogenus Dam—“and hike in three or four miles from there.”

“Where are you headed?” asked Bruce as he served their main course. He was a lithe and fit young man, distinctly un-mooselike, and clearly curious about the business that had brought the state police to his neck of the woods.

“Beaver Pond,” said Tracey.

“The Katahdin Retreat Center?” he asked.

Tracey nodded. “We’re supposed to fly in from the Katahdin Air Service. Do you know where it is?”

Bruce nodded at the door. “Out the door and across the road. On the shore of Ambejejus Lake. It will take you exactly two minutes. On foot. Longer if you have to get in the car and drive.”

Tracey smiled his Cheshire cat grin. “Which means we’ll have plenty of time to enjoy this delicious meal,” he said, studying with relish the pink slab of roast beef and the mound of Yorkshire pudding on his plate.

“Please do,” said Bruce graciously.

Charlotte was glad to be sharing her time with somebody who had his priorities straight, which meant that food came first. She also was glad Maine was still the kind of place where people had their dinner at midday.

After dinner they headed across the road to the Katahdin Air Service. While Tracey checked in at the office, a small log cabin with a sign out front advertising scenic rides, Charlotte studied their itinerary on the map. As a child, she’d had an uncle who went fly fishing in Maine every spring, and the long Indian names brought back memories of his stories about the Maine woods, which in turn brought back memories of happy family gatherings. Ambejejus was near the beginning of the string of lakes, falls, and deadwaters that made up the West Branch of the Penobscot. Her uncle used to entertain the children by reciting them in fixed order: Pemadumcook, Ambejejus, Passamagamet, Debsconeag, Pockwockamus, Aboljacarmegus, Nesowadnehunk, Amberjackmockamus, Ripogenus, Chesuncook. In a Maine wilderness version of Peter Piper, she would occupy herself for hours on end trying to meet his challenge of doing the same without tripping on her tongue. She could still recite them today, though her memory had been refreshed by the previous night’s reading of Thoreau’s account of the same trip.

When Tracey emerged from the office they boarded the red and white float plane that was waiting at the dock. A second plane was awaiting the arrival of the Indian detective and his assistant. Once the pilot—a bearded bear of a man who occupied more than his share of the tiny space—had gotten them loaded on and buckled in, they took off with a roar across the lake, and then rose slowly into the air. Charlotte was amazed to see that what appeared from the ground to be a wilderness lake was actually surrounded by dozens of small cabins—what the Mainers called “camps”—tucked away into the woods. But the signs of habitation became less commonplace as they traveled up the West Branch, and by the time they turned north toward Beaver Pond at Big Amberjackmockamus Falls, there was nothing but dark green forest interrupted only by an occasional tote road and the patches of lighter green where the forest had been clear cut by the lumber companies. Looming over all was the majestic presence of Katahdin. A few minutes later, they had skidded to a stop in the small bowl of dark blue that was Beaver Pond. The plane ferried them over to the west shore, and they disembarked at the dock, where another float plane was anchored. The retreat center sat at the head of a meadow that sloped down to the lake, a ski-chalet-style building made of giant peeled logs.

Their introduction to the retreat center came in the form of another vicious black fly attack. The flies moved in the moment the propellers stopped whirring. This time, Charlotte was prepared. “Good job,” said Tracey appreciatively as she produced a container of Bug Ammo. She had bought it on the way up to Katahdin after a sign warning tourists not to “pet the black flies or ride the mosquitoes” reminded her of their experience in Hamlin’s Woods. But, oddly enough, she hadn’t needed it on Katahdin. She suspected that the black fly season on the mountain came a little later on account of the altitude.

By the time they had finished anointing themselves, the second float plane could be seen heaving into view above the tips of the pines. A few minutes later, it had discharged its cargo of passengers: the detective from the Indian police, whose name was Bill St. Louis, and his young assistant. Both looked as much French as they did Indian, and probably were.

After introductions, the four of them headed up toward the retreat center. When they were halfway there, Keith emerged and headed down to greet them. This time, no introductions were necessary: Keith already knew the police officers. As he himself explained, on an island with only six hundred residents, everybody knew everybody else.

Once the greetings were dispensed with, Keith addressed the little group in a quiet but commanding voice; it was clear that he was accustomed to being in charge.

“As you already know, one of our vision questers discovered a shallow grave near Little Beaver Pond this morning. I called Lieutenant St. Louis, and he in turn called the state police because of the possible link with the murder on Katahdin. As you’ll see, it looks like a fresh grave.”

“Do you have any idea who the body might belong to?” asked St. Louis. He was a tall, thin man whose quiet demeanor and soft voice seemed at odds with his choice of profession.

Keith shook his head. “No. When I found out about the grave, I immediately went to check on our vision questers. A vision quest is a solo fasting ceremony that’s conducted in the wilderness. Each of the vision questers is on his own, but I know where they all are.”

“And they’re all here?” asked Tracey.

He nodded. “We have fourteen in the seven-day Native American course right now. They’re scattered around at various locations in the woods.”

“Do they know we’re here?” Tracey asked.

“No. They probably heard the planes, but that wouldn’t mean anything to them. They didn’t even know that I was checking up on them. I didn’t see any point in interrupting their journeys until we know what’s going on.”

“What about the vision quester who found the grave?” asked Tracey.

“Eagle Woman,” said Keith.

“That’s her name?” said Tracey.

Keith nodded. “Each of the vision questers picks a name to use during the quest,” he explained. “She was very upset about it. She thought about dropping out, but then decided to continue. The vision quest ends this afternoon anyway. She’s moved her power place to the other side of Little Beaver Pond.”

“What’s a power place?” asked Tracey.

“Each of the vision questers chooses a site that speaks to them; it’s where they carry out their vision quest.” Keith paused for a minute, then asked: “Any other questions?”

“Not at the moment,” said Tracey, speaking for them all.

“Then we’ll head over there,” said Keith. “The site’s about a half mile from here, on the north shore of Little Beaver Pond. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk while we walk. Voices carry easily over the pond, and I wouldn’t want to disturb the vision questers.”

After stopping at a tool shed to pick up a shovel, Keith headed off into the woods, with the others stretched out Indian file behind him along a trail that followed the shore of the pond.

With conversation ruled out, Charlotte found herself observing the way the Indians moved, especially Keith. They moved lightly and gracefully, with knees bent and torsos hunched over, touching down with the balls of their feet first, and then lowering their heels, without making a sound.

Fascinated, she tried to imitate them, but found that she couldn’t keep her balance. Where had they learned to walk like that? she wondered, and concluded that it must be in their blood. As Keith had said, you could take the woods away from an Indian, but you couldn’t take it out of him.

After a few minutes, they came to the end of Beaver Pond, whose shore had been denuded of trees by the industrious beavers for their lodges. Several of these lodges were visible in the shallow water. Beyond the pond, the trail followed a stream for a short distance before reaching Little Beaver Pond.

At Little Beaver Pond, they followed a trail along the shore for a short distance before turning into the woods, which consisted mostly of birch and scrub spruce. Once they left the shore, there was no trail, but Keith seemed to know where he was going.

A few minutes later they emerged at a fern-fringed forest dell, in the middle of which stood a freshly dug shallow grave. A cross made of two sticks lashed together with a leather shoestring was stuck in the middle.

Why the cross? Charlotte wondered. If a murderer had wanted to conceal a body, he wouldn’t have marked it with a cross.

Keith held up the shovel. “Who wants to do the honors?”

St. Louis nodded at his burly assistant, who was the obvious choice on account of his broad back and strong shoulders. He took the shovel and began to dig energetically.

After a few minutes, the shovel struck something hard, which the next shovelful revealed to be a loose-leaf notebook. Reaching over, Tracey lifted it off the shovel and brushed the dirt off the cover. “‘Psychology 101,’” he read. “‘Jonathan Norwood, Harkness Hall.’”

“Let me see,” said Keith, reaching out a hand.

Charlotte noticed how delicate and hairless his fingers were.

“Jonathan Norwood was a vision quester in the last session,” he explained. “He went home a week ago last Tuesday.” His flared eyebrows were drawn together in perplexity. “His power place was right up there.” He nodded at a shelf of granite just above them. “His name was Molting Snake.”

“Look at this,” said St. Louis’ assistant. His shovel had turned up a stack of envelopes fastened together with a rubber band. “Bank statements. Columbia Bank and Trust. Jonathan Norwood again.”

As the little group looked on, the digging continued to turn up other artifacts from the life of Jonathan Norwood: a freshman beanie, a high-school yearbook, several photograph albums, even some grade-school report cards.

“What’s the story on him?” Tracey asked as he leafed through the yearbook, which was from a high school in Massachusetts.

“He was a very unhappy person,” Keith replied. “In and out of college. Couldn’t get his life together. He lived with his mother, worked at a job he hated. He said he had come on the vision quest in hopes of gathering the courage to find a new direction for his life.”

“Hence the name Molting Snake,” said Tracey.

Keith nodded.

“Here’s an appointment book,” said St. Louis, bending over to pick it out of the pile of upturned earth.

“And what was he doing here?” asked Tracey. “Burying his past?”