Bram watched Darby walk off to her cabin. He’d hoped for expert help but understood the line she had to walk. He drummed his fingers on the picnic table. She hadn’t looked at him when he confirmed he was persistent. He hoped she hadn’t noticed his double meaning.
What if she had? What if . . .
He slammed his hand down on the table, then stood. He had a job to do on the arson fires and no time for idle thoughts and useless speculation.
He didn’t need to wait for the supply wagon to head to town. Roy had mentioned a second helicopter would be taking one of the parents to Idaho Falls. He’d ask them to drop him in St. Anthony.
Roy stepped out of the barn.
Bram waved to him, rose, and trotted over. “Would it be okay if I take a look at where the accident occurred?”
“Sure. Are you thinking it could be anything other than a terrible accident?”
“Just being thorough.”
“I’d appreciate it. What bothers me is I know my staff. None of them would be careless enough to leave a pitchfork on the ground.”
“You’ve already asked them?”
“All the ones who would have reason to be in the barn.”
“All right. Can you make out a list of your staff? And what about your guests?”
“Of course, although I can’t see any of them messing around in the barn—”
“Riccardo was.”
“So he was,” Roy muttered. “I’ll get you that list. Let me show you where it happened.” In the barn, he led the way to the end of the hall. Bloody hay, medical packaging, and a pair of blankets lay underneath an open trapdoor to the loft. A pitchfork, missing three tines, leaned against the wall.
Squatting down, he shifted the hay, looking for lengths of baling twine. If any had been there, they were gone now.
“Do you think he could have slipped backward off the ladder?” Roy asked.
Bram stood, stepped over the blankets and other debris, grabbed a rung, and climbed to the loft. “The wood has been worn smooth and could possibly be slippery.” He looked down at Roy. “But he would have had to step over the pitchfork and know it was there.” He surveyed the landing area and hall. “There’s a lot more hay directly below here, which makes me think he fell through this opening rather than off the ladder.”
He climbed up another rung and looked for the nails and baling twine thread. The nails were there, but no orange fibers. He took out his phone and snapped a few photographs anyway.
“What are you looking for?” Roy asked.
“At this point, just looking.” He climbed down. “Who handled the pitchfork?”
“The medical staff, of course, when they cut the tines. Wyatt. Um . . . me. Probably all the outside staff at one time or another.”
Interesting. Roy didn’t ask him why he wanted to know.
The older man dry washed his face. “I did it, finally. Took the offer.”
“Offer?”
“To buy the place. Today was the final straw. I think the new owner will keep the staff on. I hope so. I haven’t told anyone so far. I don’t want them to be angry or get their hopes up.”
“Who bought it?”
“I don’t know. Quite frankly, I signed all the paperwork a month ago and left it with the real estate agent. The money’s in escrow. I just had to give the final yes. I just kept hoping things would change, get back to . . . well, you know.”
Bram patted the man on the arm. “You should have a tidy nest egg to retire on.”
“Yeah. Right. Nest egg. More like retire before this place kills me.”
* * *
The art room had been neatly placed back into order. A swift look at the backpack in my locker showed my wallet and Shadow Woman’s drawings undisturbed. Five sets of supplies mutely spoke of the absence of the Rinaldis, Mrs. Kendig, and the Easons.
I took my place at a long table.
Angie held up a plastic tub. “You’ll need water, so fill your tub three-quarters full. Be sure the water is cool, not hot. Hot water isn’t good on your brushes.” She pointed to the side of the room where a wide shelf ran underneath the windows. “Speaking of water, remember to stay hydrated. It helps prevent altitude sickness. Those carafes hold decaf, coffee, and hot water for tea. Cold drinking water is in the pitcher.”
Everyone lined up at either the sink to fill buckets or the ledge to get refreshments. I poured a glass of water and started to take a drink.
The water smelled of boggy plant life.
I moved the glass away from my face and sniffed the room. A hint of turpentine mixed with a pine cleaner. I smelled the drinking water again. It reeked of the pond, filled with the parasite giardia.
“Stop!” I shouted.
Angie sloshed the bucket of water she’d been carrying to her table. “What is it, Darby? You scared me to death!”
“Don’t drink the water in the pitcher. I think it’s from the beaver pond.”
Grace dropped her glass, shattering it on the floor. Dee Dee raced to the sink and vomited. Angie dashed to the pitcher and sniffed. Color drained from her face.
I wasn’t crazy. This was deliberate. Again.
* * *
Bram took his place with the other passengers awaiting the chartered helicopter. The chuff, chuff, chuff of the whirling blades drowned out any conversation with Mr. Rinaldi or Mrs. Eason. Bram turned his head to keep the flying debris out of his eyes. When the copter-driven wind slowed, he looked back at his ride. The pilot nodded at him and the copilot gave a salute.
Darby burst from the lodge, waving her arms frantically.
He ran toward her. Conversation was impossible over the noise. He pointed to the lodge. Once inside, he asked, “Change your mind?”
“No. I think someone tried to poison the guests.”
Bram’s chest tightened. “What happened?”
“Come with me.” She led him to the art room. Angie was rubbing Dee Dee’s back as she bent dry heaving over the sink. Grace was frozen over a mess of shattered glass. The remaining two members of the class, Peter and Stacy, were seated at their table holding hands. Darby pointed. “Someone put water from the beaver pond into the drinking pitcher.”
The clatter of the copter blades increased.
I need to ask them to wait. Bram bolted from the room but was too late to catch the pilot’s attention. He returned shortly.
“I’m sorry,” Darby said. “I made you miss your ride, but I thought this was important.”
“I’ll catch the supply wagon. What makes you think it’s not fresh drinking water?”
“Smell it.”
Bram picked up the pitcher, held it to the light, then sniffed. It did smell like a stagnant pond. He turned to Angie. “Do you have a sterile jar or container of some kind?”
She nodded and left the room, returning with a jar and lid. “Will this work?”
Bram grimly nodded, then poured some water into the jar. “I’ll take this with me for testing. I’d like to speak with each of you individually, starting with you, Angie. The rest of you should remain here.”
Darby caught his gaze and mouthed, Twine?
He shook his head, then turned toward Dee Dee. “Did you drink the water?”
She nodded.
“The good news is giardia is pretty easy to treat. Did any of the rest of you take a drink?”
No one spoke.
“Okay. I’ll find Roy, update him, and see if I can borrow his office.”
A search of the lodge turned up cleaning staff at work and Cookie. He debated telling her but decided to wait until he’d spoken to Roy. He finally found Roy standing next to Wyatt at the fenced field.
Roy’s face was pinched and he was compulsively opening and closing his hands.
“What’s wrong?”
“Looks like the helicopters must have spooked the horses. They pushed through the gate. A couple of us are going to go after them.”
“Including the Belgian that pulls the supply wagon?”
“No. He was in the barn. I thought you were leaving with the second copter.”
“Something came up.”
Roy turned to leave, then stopped. “What do you mean, ‘something came up’? What now?”