Murder at Lost Dog Lake by Vicki Delany Page A

smile. “He kinda thinks I blew it with the
wife.”
    I
laughed. “Tell you what. If you want, I’ll help you through this.
If you don’t know what to do or you feel uncomfortable with
anything, come to me and we’ll work it out. How about
it?”
    Her
smile lit up the already bright sky. “That would be great, Leanne,
just great.”
    “ We’ll make a woods woman out of you yet. But let’s get going.
I can’t see Dianne any more and Craig looks like he’s about to
lasso us and pull us along behind.”
    She
lifted her paddle and turned to face forward. “Thanks, Leanne.
You’ve been a big help.”
    I
shrugged. Self-survival really. “By the way, how long have you and
Joe been married?”
    “ Three months next week,” she giggled.
    I
groaned. No wonder he was happy to have a private tent.
     
    We put
in a long day and covered a lot of ground, both water and land. The
sun beat relentlessly overhead in a clear blue sky. Jeremy, as pale
as the proverbial Englishman in the noonday sun at the beginning of
the trip, was turning an alarming pink and Craig spent most of the
day reminding him to put on sun block. He hadn’t brought a hat, so
at our break Craig demonstrated the art of making of a bandana out
of a spare T-shirt and watering it down regularly. The poor boy
didn’t even have sunglasses. The glare off the lake was bothering
his eyes, so I lent him a spare pair. He looked rather ridiculous
with a T-shirt tied over his head and enormous women’s sunglasses
perched on his peeling nose, but at least he would be safe from
sunstroke.
    While
Craig and I ministered to him and Dianne lectured us all on the
dangers of too much sun, Barb sat with her back to us, ignoring
Jeremy as if he had the plague. He kept glancing toward her, but
said nothing.
    The next
day was to be a rest day so Craig was determined to push us on in
order to reach a favorite spot of his. He drove us hard but I loved
watching the lake slip under the bow of our canoe and the rhythmic
movement of my paddle as it ate up the blue water, stroke after
hungry stroke. My city weary muscles balked at the unexpected
exercise, but soon I found my second wind and we seemed to fairly
fly across the sparkling surface of the lake.
    Rachel
rested a few times more than should be necessary. I pretended not
to notice as she lifted her paddle out of the water and barely
skimmed it over the surface, or took an extraordinary length of
time to refill her water bottle and apply sunscreen. But she was
trying.
    Our last
portage of the day was a long one, well over a mile and tough
going. As we progressed further into the park the trails were less
used, and nature in all her rough glory struggled to take back even
that little bit of ground that humans had arrogantly claimed for
their own.
    We were
all looking pretty haggard and just about out for the count as we
collapsed at the end of the portage in a mess of canoes, packs,
paddles, life jackets, shoes, daypacks, and water bottles. All
except Craig, of course, who bounced down the trail under the last
canoe as if he had recently risen from his warm and comfy
bed.
    “ Oyster mushrooms,” he announced, grinning from one ear to the
other as he deposited the canoe carefully back into the lake where
it belonged. “A whole mess of them, back a bit. They’ll be great
for dinner. Who wants to help me pick them?”
    I
struggled to my feet. Might as well be adventurous. After all I
paid good money to be so.
    “ How do you know they’re edible?” Joe asked. “There must be
all kinds of poisonous mushrooms and toadstools around
here.”
    “ There are,” Craig said. “But I know mushrooms and these ones
are good eating.” He headed back up the trail with me tagging along
behind.
    “ We haven’t got anything to carry them in.”
    “ Improvise.”
    The logs
weren’t far. Huge old trees, fallen to the forest floor long ago,
were decaying slowly back into the earth from where they came, but,
proving that nature wastes