Murder at Lost Dog Lake by Vicki Delany Page B

nothing, before they were completely
gone they provided a home for a thriving mushroom farm. Thick,
white oyster mushrooms, some as much as six inches long and almost
as wide, lined the rotting tree trunks in neat little
rows.
    Barb
walked behind me, and Jeremy followed close on her heels. Craig
showed us how to gently lift the mushroom from its log and shake it
in order to release the spoors so as to provide for the next crop.
Barb brought a plastic bag but Craig and I lifted the edges of our
T-shirts to use for baskets to hold the delicate white
fungi.
    As we
worked Craig described in mouth-watering detail how he would
prepare the little treat over the campfire as an accompaniment to
our dinner.
    When
we’d finally gathered all that would fit into one plastic bag and
two T-shirts we returned to the others, poured our harvest into the
empty lunch bucket, loaded up the canoes, and set sail once
again.
     
    We had
worked hard to get here, but our destination was worth it: a
good-sized camping spot facing directly west to catch the last rays
of the setting sun. I found a large rock with a perfect curve to
serve as a backrest and settled down beside the lake with my book.
Barb and Jeremy went swimming. He was quite the sight with his
shrunken, lily-white chest and cheerfully pink arms, neck, and
legs. But fortunately for him, the pink was still pink and not too
red. They splashed each other playfully and Barb squealed and
pretended to fall over. Typical mating behavior. Jeremy beamed
broadly, the happiest I had seen him since I met the fellow. I
hoped Barb knew what she was doing, but I doubted it.
    As usual
Dianne disappeared for a nap as soon as camp had been set up.
Richard poked aimlessly at a pile of small rocks lining the shore
with a long stick. Joe and Rachel came down to the water. This time
Rachel swam far out with long, firm, graceful strokes, Joe watching
her every movement. Behind me Craig started the fire, heated up
water, and sliced vegetables to make dinner.
    “ Would you like me to take a picture of you sitting there,
Leanne?” Rachel had climbed out of the water and stood on the rocks
straightening out her long red hair with her hands.
    I smiled
up at her and handed over my camera. When she gave it back she
knelt down and whispered in my ear, “Would you show me how to wash
my panties, please? I don’t mind ringing out my T-shirt in the lake
too much, but I want to wash my panties. Is that
possible?”
    With
regret I once again abandoned the intriguing world of Victorian
society; my characters had left the mysterious fog-shrouded city
and were spending the weekend at a grouse hunting party at the
great country estate of Lord and Lady So-and-so. I hoped they would
still be there when I got back.
    We
filched a cooking pot from Craig, and I showed Rachel how to fill
it with water and carry it well back from the lake. Not so hard,
really. You just have to know what to do. We walked into the woods
and I swept a little area clear of brush. Rachel produced a tiny
packet of powered soap and I left her scrubbing happily
away.
    It was
not too long before a line of frilly lace and satin underpants in a
shade of the most delicate peach, accompanied by a matching push
up, fasten-at-the-front bra, were fluttering gaily on our
clothesline. The men threw furtive glances in that direction all
evening.
    I
reclaimed my piece of rock and my novel as the huge sun made its
final descent towards its nightly bath. There wasn’t a cloud in the
sky. The light danced across the water as the dying sun cast
ripples of apricot and gold across the lake in a straight line
pointing directly towards my rock. I delighted in the feeling that
the sun was putting on this show for me and me alone. I remembered
my sons and hoped to get the sun to perform for them one day.
Before they’re too old, before they’re too “cool” to enjoy it. Then
I clambered up the rocks towards the sound of dinner being
served.
    The
mushrooms were wonderful,