Sundown on Top of the World: A Hunter Rayne Highway Mystery (14 page)

“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “but I’m finding your company so very pleasant that I would love to stay on a few more days. Would either of you mind terribly if I did?”

Goldie looked at her grandmother, waiting for her response. She knew from experience that what she herself thought wouldn’t matter.

“You’ve certainly made yourself useful here,” Gran said, wiping a spot of gravy off her chin with the back of her hand. “The rabbit you brought back this morning made a good stew.”

“Ah, but I just brought home the rabbit. You’re the one who made it into such a tasty stew, my dear.”

Watching her try so hard not to smile, Goldie felt a rush of affection for her grandmother. Her heart almost ached, she was wishing so hard that Gran would allow herself to be happy.

“I don’t see any reason why you can’t stay another day or two.” Gran didn’t sound enthusiastic, but at least she didn’t say no.

“Thank you, Betty. Goldie?” Orville turned to her.

“Of course,” she said. “It’s been nice having you here.”

Goldie volunteered to clean up after the meal, and to make tea for them all.

“Later, perhaps. I’d fancy a walk after dinner. How about you, Betty?”

Goldie watched the two of them walk away, following the trail that led down toward the river. Orville pointed at something in a tree; Goldie saw her grandmother’s gaze turn in that direction and caught a glimpse of a smile before her face disappeared from Goldie’s view. Although her first instinct had been to celebrate the fact that her grandmother had found a new friend, she couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling. What was Orville doing here? Why was he working so hard to befriend an old and unfriendly bush woman? How much did her grandmother know about him? Was there some past connection that Goldie hadn’t been told about?

She had half-filled the wash pan with water from the barrel they kept beside the summer kitchen, then warmed it up with water that had been heating on top of the woodstove. As she washed the plates and put them on a towel to dry, her thoughts turned again to the mystery of her mother, and to Mark’s comment: ‘You are an enigma to yourself.’ She felt a flutter of excitement. Meeting Mark, her grandmother meeting Orville, now the appearance of a man who may have known her mother: suddenly her life was opening up like a flower and her future was now as big a mystery as her past.

In the cool evening that followed the seniors’ walk, the three of them sat around the fire pit, the old Englishman entertaining them by playing songs on a battered guitar he’d pulled out from behind the seat of his truck. One of the songs he sang went, “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh,” and Goldie recognized it as the tune he’d been whistling earlier. At Orville’s urging, even Gran chimed in on the chorus, “Alive, alive, o-oh, alive, alive, o-oh, singing cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh.”

After some moments of silence, as they all stared into the orange flames dancing around the evening’s last log, Orville picked up his guitar again. “This one’s for you, Betty,” he said. “I learned it from an old partner of mine.” He fiddled with the tuning on a couple of strings of his guitar and apologized for the sound, saying he hadn’t replaced the strings for ten years or more, then began to play.

Goldie had heard the song before, but she wasn’t sure if Gran had. The way Orville played it, strumming gently on the strings, the words were clear. Gran seemed to be listening intently. As the old man sang the final words, “May you stay-ay-ay-ay-ay, forever yo-o-ung,” her grandmother nodded, said a curt goodnight, then got up and walked away. By the time Goldie had thanked Orville and excused herself, Gran was in her bed, behind the alcove’s curtain.

Goldie drew back the curtain and sat on the bed for a moment to see if her grandmother would stir, but she didn’t. She seemed to be holding her breath, as if she wanted Goldie to think she was asleep and to go away. Goldie took the hint, but rested her hand softly on her grandmother’s shoulder for a few seconds before leaving.

Tomorrow, she thought, as she brushed her hair, getting ready for bed. Tomorrow I’ll tell her about the man called Hunter.

– – – – – NINE

Elspeth Watson took a deep breath, leaned her elbows on her desk, and lowered her face into her open hands. “Oh, shit,” she said. “Shit, shit, shit.”

She had just gotten off the phone with Hunter Rayne, and he’d told her that the delivery to the mine outside of Fairbanks was going to be late. His truck was in Whitehorse waiting for parts; he said he’d just talked to the mechanic and the parts weren’t expected for another two days. Now it was her job to call the customer, and she wasn’t looking forward to it.

“Why me?” she wailed, addressing the small black dog curled up in a basket beside the photo copier. He tucked his nose back under his tail, evidently unmoved by her despair.

She had tried to extract the promise of a guaranteed ETA, but Hunter’s response had been, “This far north, there’s no such thing as a guaranteed delivery date.” The call was short but not very sweet. He told her he was on a satellite phone from some godforsaken place in Alaska and that it was costing him a fortune, plus the connection was less than perfect. She wanted him to tell her something more so she’d be equipped with details for the purchaser at the mining company, but he hung up on her before she could even yell at him. It crossed her mind that she was usually the one hanging up on him, but decided that was her right, as his dispatcher.

Wally, her warehouseman, walked in from the warehouse with paperwork from a delivery. “What’s up?”

“Where in hell is Eagle, Alaska?” she asked him.

“Sorry,” he said. He dumped the papers in her in-basket and beat a retreat.

She pulled her beat up copy of the Motor Carrier’s Road Atlas across the desk and opened it up at the Alaska page, noting that the Hawaii page opposite it had a map of Oahu that was almost as big as the map of Alaska, plus contained ten times as many orange lines denoting highways. “Good God! Eagle is at the end of the road.” The nearest dot was for a town named Chicken. “What the hell is he doing there?”

Her phone buzzed and line one flashed. “Watson,” she barked into the mouthpiece.

“I’m looking for Hunter Rayne.” It was a man’s voice, kind of official sounding.

“So am I,” she said. “Who’s calling?” Realizing it could be a prospective customer, she added a quick, “please.”

“This is Staff Sergeant Bartholomew Sam from the Whitehorse RCMP Detachment. Do you know how I can reach Mr. Rayne?”

El knew that Hunter had friends in the RCMP, that he’d worked in the Yukon at one time and might still have friends there, but the voice was so official sounding, she was pretty sure it wasn’t a social call. “What’s this about?” she asked.

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Was Hunter in some kind of trouble? Why would the cops be calling him on official business? She ran through a few scenarios: his truck was stolen, a tragic or suspicious death in his family, he was wanted for questioning. Less than six months earlier, he’d been the prime suspect in a murder; did they want to talk to him about that again? But this guy was calling from Whitehorse, so it had to be something new.

“He’s on the road and I’m not sure if I can reach him, but I can try to get a message to him and have him call you.” She took down the Sergeant’s number and put the receiver back in its cradle, then sat drumming her fingers on the desk, thinking. Hunter was up to something, she decided, and reached for the phone again.

Hunter was just walking out to the Blazer after a quick breakfast when Sally hailed him from the front porch of the lodge. “Phone’s for you,” she yelled.

It was El. “What’s going on? Why do the police want to talk to you?” She sounded excited, just shy of angry.

He refused to tell her anything until she explained. “Briefly,” he added.

“Staff Sergeant Barth–”

“Got it,” he said. “I’ll give him a call.”

“Whoa! What the hell is it about?” she asked. “And don’t hang up on me again.”

“A murder.”

“Who? Where? Is it something I should know about?”

Hunter knew she’d be on his case until he gave her at least some information. “It’s one of two things. Either he has some information for me about a cold case I asked him about, or he wants to talk about a knifing that occurred in Whitehorse the day before we arrived there.”

“A murder? Does he want you to be part of the investigation? How will you have time for that? You’ve got a delivery to make.”

Hunter sighed. “No, El, I don’t know what he wants, but the Yukon RCMP detachment has no need for my help. Look, this is a pretty expensive call.”

“Goddamn it, Hunter. I’ll pay for the fuckin’ call. What’s this about a cold case?”

“I just asked him to look up the file on a case from the seventies. A girl I knew, she disappeared along with the man she was living with. I wanted to know if they’d ever found her.”

He heard a grunt. “The seventies? Cold is right. Good luck. So if you’re not helping the RCMP, why would he call you about this knifing?”

“He asked me to keep an eye out for a person of interest. Maybe he wants to know if I have anything to tell him.”

“And do you?”

“No, and I probably never will. Can I go now?”

Her tone changed. “Listen, Hunter. You know I’m here for you if you need anything. If there’s information I can get for you related to that cold case, or whatever.”

He groaned inwardly. El found his involvement in murder investigations fascinating and frequently tried to help, sometimes with disastrous results.

“If you need me to make some phone calls, look things up, whatever. You just let me know.”

What could it hurt? “There is one thing you can do,” he said. “That girl who disappeared in 1972, her name was April Corbett. She was from a town called Hastings in Michigan. Maybe just see if you can find any current phone listings there under the name of Corbett. You never know, she could have left the Yukon by choice and ended up back in her home town. Or maybe her parents are still there and they’ve heard from her.”

“I’m on it,” she said.

He could hear the scratching of a pen on paper. She must be taking notes. “Just look for numbers, that’s all, okay? We can let the RCMP make any phone calls that may or may not be necessary. I’ll call you as soon as I hear about my truck,” he said, but there was no reply. As usual, his boss had hung up without saying goodbye.

He tried calling Bart, but the call went to the receptionist, who told him the Staff Sergeant was on another call. He left a message that he’d called and would call again later.

An unusual smell drifted into the cabin and prompted Goldie to roll over and sit up in bed. Fresh coffee. Her grandmother habitually drank tea in the morning, and Goldie had never picked up a coffee habit, although she enjoyed the occasional cup with Sally at the lodge. She sniffed again to be sure. Yes, it was coffee. A cup in the morning would be a nice treat. She pulled on her jeans and a tee shirt, grabbed her Yukon Sally’s sweatshirt and headed for the outhouse.

She found her grandmother and Orville sitting at the table in the outdoor kitchen, a tin percolator shuddering with each perk on top of the woodstove. A thin line of smoke, barely visible, rose from a green mosquito coil at the edge of the table. Hootie lay snoozing in a bowl he’d carved out of the dirt just outside the kitchen, frequently flicking an ear to dislodge a mosquito.

“Ah, here’s our girl,” said Orville. “Just in time for coffee.”

Goldie nodded a good morning. “You too, Gran?” she asked, as she watched the old man pick up the pot and start pouring coffee into the first of three mismatched mugs lined up along the planking that served as a counter. “No tea this morning?”

“Had my tea,” she said. “Orville wanted to make coffee.”

He smiled and spoke without turning around. “Betty thinks all Englishmen should drink tea in the morning. I may still speak like an Englishman, but I’m a Yukoner at heart.” He put the pot on the back of the stovetop to stay warm. “I enjoy a good cup of tea, but I love a fresh coffee to start my day. Here you go, Betty.”

Goldie pushed a can of evaporated milk across the vinyl tablecloth to her grandmother and unscrewed the lid on the sugar jar. She remembered that she wanted to talk to Gran about the man at the lodge, and hoped that Orville would leave them alone. Or perhaps that was the wrong strategy? On a sudden impulse, she found herself saying, “Have you told Orville about my mother?”

Gran was stirring sugar into her coffee but stopped suddenly, staring straight ahead with unfocussed eyes, holding the spoon upright in the mug.

Orville set his mug down on the table and slid onto the bench beside her, raising his eyebrows, obviously curious. When she didn’t speak, he said, “No, she hasn’t. She must have been beautiful, though, to have such a beautiful daughter.” His voice was low and gentle when he addressed the stone-faced woman beside him. “And a beautiful mother? Was she your daughter then, Betty? Goldie’s mother?”

Gran finished stirring her coffee and passed the spoon to Goldie. “You know I don’t like to talk about her,” she said sternly. Then to Orville, “Goldie knows I don’t like to talk about her.”

There was half a minute of uncomfortable silence before Orville cleared his throat and said, “What would you like me to do today, Betty? I noticed that you have a broken shutter on that side window. Perhaps I can find a new hinge at the Mercantile in town, what do you think?”

Goldie sipped at her coffee, regretting her impulse to broach the subject of her mother in Orville’s presence. “I’m sorry, Gran.”

She half expected her grandmother to leave the table, but instead she remained sitting quietly, her hands wrapped around the mug in front of her, and suggested that Orville check out the remains of an old cabin near the airport. Early in the winter a fire had burned most of it up, she told him, but she thought there might still be a usable hinge in the rubble, maybe even a whole shutter.

Goldie decided it wouldn’t hurt to push a little. If she had already blown her chance, what difference would it make? “I met a man at the lodge yesterday who said I looked like someone he used to know.” She stared down into her coffee as she spoke, then raised her eyes to her grandmother’s face.

Her grandmother said nothing, just stared back at Goldie, her expression unreadable.

“They say we’ve all got a doppelganger somewhere,” said Orville. “I’m sure you’re curious to meet whoever it is that looks like you. As for myself, I wouldn’t be. I don’t even like to see my reflection in the mirror.”

“Who was this man?” Her grandmother’s tone was almost belligerent.

“His name is Hunter, and his car had Yukon plates. That’s all I can really tell you.” She frowned. “Except he drove up with a big guy who looks like Hulk Hogan, and that he seemed like a nice man. Hunter, I mean.”

Orville stood up and retrieved a pan of buns from the warming oven. “A little jam, a boiled egg. These buns of yours will make a fine breakfast.” He set the buns down on the table, then resumed his spot on the bench. “Tourists, these men?”

Goldie shrugged. “I guess so. They had no reservations at the lodge, just showed up.” She tapped an egg on the tabletop to crack the shell, picked the peel off it before reaching for a bun. Hootie raised his head to watch as the food appeared, panting softly.

Her grandmother had been silent, frowning as she watched Goldie pick a small piece of shell off her egg.

“She wasn’t my daughter,” she said.

Goldie was momentarily stunned. “Then – my father was your son”

Gran shook her head, her eyes on the table between them. “I’m sorry, Goldie.”

Goldie said nothing as she tried to process what her grandmother had just said.
She is not my real grandmother. She is not a blood relation.
“Then, how –?”

Orville cleared his throat. “I think I should go for a walk.” He had torn a bun in half and spread each side with cranberry jam. He squashed the two halves together and got to his feet, looked from Gran to Goldie and back again. Goldie turned to look at him and he smiled, then picked up his half-empty coffee mug and walked away. Gran watched him leave.

“I’ve been afraid to tell you.”

“Afraid?”

“Afraid to lose you, child.”

Lately, Gran seldom called her ‘child’. Goldie swallowed hard.

“You are the reason I live in Eagle, the reason I trap and skin and sew, the reason I plant a garden. If I lost you –” Her voice trailed off.

The conversation was moving into familiar territory. Gran didn’t want her to leave. Gran’s secret had been another way to keep her here. Goldie wanted to say,
How could you? How could you lie to me all these years?
It had been a lie, hadn’t it? Not telling the whole truth was a type of lie, wasn’t it? She didn’t know whether to scream or cry. The why of the old woman’s secret was clear, but what about the how, and the who, and the where?

“But who then, Gran? Who is my mother? What happened to her?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Why am I here? Tell me that, Gran. How did I come to be with you?”

Gran lifted up her chin, listening. Alerted by her movement, Hootie growled. Then Goldie heard it, too. The sound of a vehicle, slowing to navigate the ruts and potholes as it approached.