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Harriet came down to the front hall of the lodge early the next morning, Shan was in the tiny office bent over something on the desk. It was unusual for him to be there unless his wife was present. He glanced up at the sound of her boots on the floorboards, tucking something into his shirt pocket. There was an element of secrecy in the movement that stirred Harriet’s already agitated suspicions.
“Morning, Shan.”
“Mornin’, Harriet” He moved out of the office.
As he passed her one hand patted his pocket in an unconscious manner. As if he was assuring himself whatever the missive was it was safe in its hiding place. Harriet narrowed her eyes at his broad back as he left the building.
“What was that all about? Instructions from Tom’s family perhaps? He must be going to share the information with Mark.” Still examining her slate of suspicions, Harriet filled a cup of coffee and sat near a window, elbows on the table, chin resting on her hands. Steam from the cup rose in tendrils in the cool morning air, tantalizing her nose with the scent. In spite of temptation, she left it untouched while her gaze followed the patterns of the twisting vapour. “So many twists and turns, so many possibilities, but where does the truth lie? And too many people who might have wished Tom harm. But if my suspicions pan out, I should soon have some concrete evidence to relay to Mark and the Thomson family,” Harriet whispered the words.
Heavy footsteps interrupted her reverie. “You know what they say about people who talk to themselves.” Annie Fraser tromped across to stand by Harriet’s table.
“Umm, well, yes.” Harriet sipped her coffee. “It helps me organize my thoughts to speak them out loud.”
Annie leaned over with her calloused hands flat on the tabletop. “Organize all you wish, my dear. But keep your thoughts out of other people’s business. You hear?”
“Whatever do you mean?” Harriet blinked in what she hoped was an innocent manner.
“Just mind what I said.” The older woman straightened up to her full height and glared down at Harriet. “No good comes of rooting around in things that don’t concern a person.” Annie nodded once and then left the room.
Somewhat disturbed and more curious than ever, Harriet finished her coffee. Time to have a few words with Mark Robinson. She hiked out to the ranger’s cabin, but found Mark gone. Returning to the lodge, she couldn’t resist the somewhat macbre urge to paddle out to the island and look at Tom’s body. Even though her mind accepted the reality of his demise, her heart was having a harder time coming to terms with it. Giving into her heart, she took her canoe around the end of Little Wapomeo where she found Mark Robinson, Dr. Howland, and a man she didn’t recognize bending over the body. The paddle splashed the water and Mark looked up.
“Harriet, Miss St. George...what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to be sure the body was okay.” She shrugged helplessly. “It just doesn’t seem real...”
“Miss St. George.” Dr. Howland nodded at her.
The third man jerked upright and stared at her. “Miss St. George! You are the last person I expected to find here. Your...er...father has told everyone you went to Toronto and were marrying that Featherswallow fellow he was squiring about town a ways back.”
“Oh, hello Roy.” Now she saw the man’s face, she recognized the embalmer from Sprucedale. “Yes, well Father must have thought he needed to save face after I refused to obey his commands.” She lifted her chin and sniffed. “I have no wish to marry now or anytime in the near future. It would be best if you didn’t mention to anyone in Sprucedale that you’ve seen me.”
“As you wish. I have no desire to enrage your father.” Dixon turned back to the job at hand.
“What’s going on?” Harriet beached her canoe and turned to Mark. “What are you doing with Tom?”
The ranger shrugged. “There has been no instruction from the Thomson family, so I’ve asked Mister Dixon to remove Tom from the water. He will prepare the body as best as he can, given the amount of time the body has been in the water.”
“Oh, I see. Then what is planned?” Harriet was uneasy about the lack of arrangements from the Thomsons. Earlier, Shan and Annie had their heads together over a telegram that arrived recently, but Harriet had no luck in discovering the contents.
“When Mister Dixon is ready we’ll wait for the undertaker Shan has contacted to remove the body to Mowat. It’s a Mister Flavelle from Kearney, he brought Dixon here with him as he isn’t an embalmer himself, but just a furniture maker,” Mark said.
“I suggest the body be buried as soon as possible as there is nowhere to keep him cool and the decomposition is very advanced.” Mr. Dixon looked up from his work. “I believe Flavelle brought one with us on the train.”
Mark nodded. “Shan has arranged for Mister Flavelle to come with a suitable coffin. But it may take a bit of time, from the train it is one and half mile journey from the station followed by another mile by canoe to reach us here.”
“Where are you planning to lay Tom to rest?” Harriet fiddled with a loose thread on her shirt. Somehow, the whole situation felt wrong, out of step with how she felt things should be.
“I believe internment will be in the little cemetery at Mowat. Fraser has arranged for a grave to be dug,” Mark informed her.
“Surely, the Thomson family would have sent their preferences for the funeral arrangements,” Harriet protested. “Why is Shan taking charge of everything?”
Mark shrugged. “Seems odd, I agree. But to the best of my knowledge there hasn’t been instructions received from the family. He’s asked Martin Blecher Sr. to conduct the service.”
Harriet snorted at that revelation but held her tongue. He was the last man she would have picked to say the last words over Tom.
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Harriet waited while the embalmer did his work, then sat with Mark until Mr. Flavelle arrived with the coffin and some local men to help with the awkward burden. The body was placed with some difficulty into the wooden box.
“Shouldn’t it be lined with lead or copper?” Harriet whispered to Mark.
“That is usual, but I believe that time was of the essence what with the condition of the body, and I’m afraid a few corners may have been cut.”
She shook her head. “I just can’t imagine his family not providing a proper casket, and not wanting to bring him home to Leith or Owen Sound.”
“I can only go off what Shannon Fraser has told me,” Mark replied, although his expression suggested he had his suspicions about the veracity of the information.
“I suppose.” Harriet floated her canoe into deeper water and settled into it for the paddle back to the lodge, following the canoes bearing her friend’s body. The rough wooden coffin was secured length ways across the gunwales of two canoes, with two men in each vessel to paddle.
Once they reached the docks, many hands lifted the coffin onto dry land. Harriet glanced around expecting to find Winnie in the group gathered by the shore. The woman was nowhere in sight. Thinking that was quite odd, Harriet stored her canoe and joined the huddle of people around the coffin.
Six men shouldered the coffin and set out for the small burial ground near Mowat Lodge. Harriet fell into step with the Frasers and other local people who trailed behind the pall bearers. Winnie arrived breathless and joined the procession, her face fixed and grim, eyes glassy with unshed tears. Flies plagued the group as their passage disturbed the grasses underfoot and the bushes as they passed. Harriet slapped at the swarm of mosquitoes, brushing them off her sleeves. The trip to the cemetery seemed endless and yet when the men set down their burden by the grave, it felt no time had passed.
How can it be ending like this? It seems so sordid and ignoble for Tom to be treated so. Where is his family and a proper minister or priest? And Blecher Sr., of all people, to read the service. This is just wrong, so wrong. And yet, there is nothing I can do to make it more acceptable. Yes, Tom is in awful shape, but still, what is the hurry to have him buried and gone? Somehow I sense the Fraser’s hand in this, and possible the Blecher’s as well.
Harriet’s thoughts were interrupted by the thump of the casket against the bottom of the deep grave. She swallowed and offered up a silent prayer for the repose of Tom’s soul, wondering once again how Winnie was going to manage. Martin Blecher Sr. stepped forward and held what passed for the funerary rights using Robinson’s small Anglican prayer book which he always carried with him. Blinking back tears she refused to shed in public, Harriet stood aside while the men filled in the hole, the sound of the clods of earth hitting the casket echoing in her chest. When it was done, she lingered until the others had left. She knelt by the freshly turned earth and placed a spray of wildflowers and fern leaves on the grave in front of the hastily constructed cross that tilted drunkenly at the head of the mound. Inside the fenced-in area nearby, two markers stood alone. James Watson, a mill worker who died in an accident in 1897 and Alexander Hayhurst, eight years old, the victim of black throat diphtheria in 1915. She rather thought that Tom wouldn’t mind their company over the eons.
“Rest in Peace my friend.” She laid a hand on the grave, letting her tears fall now that she was alone. After a time, she got to her feet and retraced her steps back to the lodge. On the way she detoured to the Trainor cottage hoping to find Winnie, but seeing the cottage was deserted, she continued on to the lodge.
She halted in the doorway of the entrance hall. Winnie Trainor was shouting at Shan about the shabby funeral arrangements. Not wanting anymore drama, Harriet avoided notice and hurried up the steps to her room.
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Coming down much later, she discovered Mr. Flavelle and Mr. Dixon had left to catch the train back to civilization. Winnie was still pacing in the front hall, muttering to herself.
“Harriet! There you are.” Winnie strode across to pull Harriet out of earshot of the office where Annie was sitting. “I can’t tell you how upset I am.”
“What’s happened now? Where did you go after buried Tom? I expected you to be there for a while at least. I found I just couldn’t leave him there alone when everyone left.” Harriet pried the other woman’s fingers off her arm.
“I need to contact Tom’s brother, George. I have to go and find a phone and let him know what has gone on here. The Thomsons won’t be happy, I can tell you. I need to set this right, for Tom. Help them in any way I can to get Tom back to them.”
“His brother? But Shan said no one had heard from the family—”
“Shan is a liar,” Winnie growled, “Thomson’s sent a telegram informing Fraser they wanted Tom’s body sent home to be buried in the family plot in Leith.”
“A telegram? When did they send that?” Harriet swallowed hard. Her gaze darted toward the two Frasers huddled in the tiny office, her earlier suspicions given new life.
“Right after they found Tom, and Mark let George Thomson know.” Winnie glared across the lobby.
“But what on earth would he have to gain by hiding that information?” Harriet’s suspicions grew stronger.
“I don’t know for sure, but I have my suspicions why they wouldn’t want someone they didn’t arrange for to look at poor Tom’s body. I’m positive they have something to hide, something they don’t want anyone to know.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree with you on that score,” Harriet said. “Oh, I wonder who this is?” A tall man stood in the doorway of the lodge, obviously looking for someone in particular.
“Excuse me, could someone direct me to where I might examine the body of Tom Thomson?” He spoke to the room at large.
Harriet exchanged a horrified glance with Winnie.
“Who might you be?” Shan strode across the room to confront the man.
“Why, I’m Doctor Ranney. The coroner from North Bay sent by the Thomson family to examine the body prior to transferring the body to Leith for burial in the family plot.”
“There might be a small problem with that.” Fraser hooked his thumbs into his belt and glowered.
“What could possibly be the problem? I was assured I would find the body at this location.” Ranney frowned.
“The problem is Tom is already buried. We buried him this morning in the Mowat cemetery. You surely understand that after eight days in the water the body wasn’t in any condition to leave lying about. The undertaker and embalmer recommended we take care of the burial as soon as possible. Which we did.”
“Mister Churchill has been already? I understood he was coming later today?”
“Churchill? I don’t know no Churchill,” Fraser replied.
“Mister Churchill is the Thomson family’s undertaker who is arriving with a coffin in order to transfer the body. Who are you referring to when you say undertaker and embalmer? I’m sure the family did not authorize anyone else.” Ranney was firm in his speech.
“Well, you have to understand, we didn’t hear from the family and things had to be taken in hand. So, I got the furniture maker from Kearney, Mister Flavelle to bring out a coffin and he, not being an undertaker or embalmer, brought Mister Roy Dixon from Sprucedale to prepare the body. We had a right nice little service for Tom, and he’s buried in the little cemetery overlooking Canoe Lake.” Fraser waved in the general direction of the burial.
“This is most unusual, I must say. I have no intention of digging up the body in order to examine it. Was there any examination done prior to the burial?”
“Why sure. Tom come ashore on the island where Doctor Howland from Toronto was staying, so he did an exam and the park ranger Mark Robinson watched him. He can tell you that I’m saying the truth about this.” Fraser wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.
“I will need to see this Doctor Howland and any notes that were made. Can you arrange this?” Dr. Ranney looked somewhat dismayed and more than a bit annoyed.
“I can do that right away. We can use the Blecher’s cottage, he’s the man who spoke at the funeral. It was his son and daughter what found Tom’s canoe floating between the two islands,” Fraser assured him.
“If you would be so kind as to conduct me to this cottage and arranged for any people who might have useful information about the incident to be present also. Be sure Doctor Howland and the ranger are present.”
Fraser nodded and led the coroner out the door. Winne and Harriet trailed behind them.
“This should prove interesting,” Harriet whispered to Winnie.
“I wonder how many lies he and Blechers are going to have to tell to make sure they come off looking like heroes rather than the villains I’m sure they are,” Winnie hissed back.
In due course Dr. Churchill arrived at the Blecher cottage, accompanied by Shannon Fraser. There they were greeted by Martin Blecher, both Jr. and Sr. along with Bessie Blecher, Hugh Trainor and his daughter, Winnie, Geroge Rowe and Mark Robinson.
Blecher Sr. served beer and offered around cigars which seemed a trifle celebratory in a gathering to discuss the death of a friend. At least that’s how it seemed to Harriet who lurked outside the cottage under an open window.
Dr. Ranney confirmed the date of discovery of the body, refusing the offer of spirits. “Could I see the results of your examination please, Doctor Howland?”
“Yes, of course.” There was a rustle of paper being passed across the table. “Mark was kind enough to record my findings as I was knee deep in water at the time, as you understand. It was not conducted under the most ideal conditions.” He omitted any mention of Harriet’s presence at the exam, which was fine with her. Best to keep a low profile given her suspicions.
Ranney cleared his throat. “Yes, yes. Most unfortunate circumstances.”
Paper scraped against the table; Harriet risked a quick look over the windowsill. The coroner had his head bent as he scanned the pages, flipping them over as he finished.
“Most unusual. You noted blood coming from the left ear. That could only occur while he was still alive. Corpses do not bleed, nor do they bruise. So, the contusion on the left temple must also have occurred while he was still living. And no water in the lungs...well I suppose that might be possible...”
Harriet caught her lip between her teeth, now more certain than ever that someone had done harm to Tom. Perhaps with the intent to keep him quiet about what he suspected. Maybe it was only supposed to be a warning, but something went horribly wrong. She ducked down below the sill again when Ranney raised his head to stare out the window.
“Tom, he might have stood up to have a piss over the side and lost his balance, hit his head on the gunwale or a rock when he fell,” Fraser offered an explanation.
Harriet muffled a snort of disbelief and peered over the windowsill again.
“The man was too good a woodsman and canoeist to do that,” Robinson objected. “It is far more likely, that if his death was due to a fall, he slipped while getting out of the canoe in water shallow enough that he could have hit his head on a rock when he fell.”
“I suppose that is possible. Without actually examining the body, I could not say,” Ranney sounded troubled. He flipped the notebook closed, tapping a few pages back into the dog-eared cover and handed it to Howland. He asked a few more questions and listened again to George Rowe describe how he and Larry Dixon came across the body. Mark Robinson insisted he felt there was no way Tom could have drowned in a lake he knew so well.
“And there is the issue of there being no water in the lungs. Surely if the man died by drowning there would be a fair amount of water in his lungs,” Mark insisted.
“The body was very bloated and full of gases,” Howland broke in.
“Again, without examining the body myself, I cannot comment.” Ranney met the gaze of each person in the room. “Based on the evidence I have to hand I have to rule that Tom Thomson died from misadventure. In short, it was an accidental death.”
Harriet ducked below the sill as the occupants of the cottage made ready to depart. In her gut she couldn’t shake the belief that Tom was murdered. And what of the fishing line around his ankle. The suggestion that he sprained his ankle and tried to support it by wrapping fishing line around it was absurd. To begin with, if he had hurt himself that close to the lodge, surely he would have just paddled back to the lodge or halloed for someone to come and help. Sound travelled far and easily across water; everyone knew that. No, there were just too many unanswered questions and far too many suspicions.
She worked her way through the bush and arrived back at the lodge before the group containing Dr. Ranney, Shan and Winnie came trooping through the door.
Winnie drew her aside. “What do you think?” she hissed. “I saw you peeking in the window, so I know you heard what was said. Do you believe it was an accident?”
“I can’t come to terms with that.” Harriet shook her head. “It makes no sense. If Tom hit his head when he fell it might account for the blood and the bruise, but to drown he would have still had to be breathing when he went in. There would be water in his lungs. Therefore, I believe he must have already been gone before he went into the water. My question is, who hit him and who put him in the water? Was it just one person or more than that? And why for God’s sake?”
“I think we know the why,” Winnie said. “He was opposed to the bootlegging to the natives and was somewhat vocal in his intention to report his suspicions to the park rangers. Or it might have been more personal, maybe a warning for him to stay away from me? I know him and Martin Jr. have had words over me in the past.”
Harriet glanced across the hall to where the Frasers and Blecher Jr. were speaking in low voices. Dr. Ranney waited, tapping his foot with impatience, for Shan to return him to the Canoe Lake train station so he could catch the next train to North Bay. It was a long journey, and it was obvious he was anxious to be gone.
“I’m taking the evening train to Scotia Junction,” Winnie said. “I need to call the Thomsons and let them know what’s happened and that Shan ordered Tom buried already instead of doing what the family asked. I’m sure his brother George will be angry as the whole family wants Tom returned home. I feel it is the least I can do for Tom. God, I can’t believe he’s gone. It’s just so unreal.” She wiped moisture from her cheek with the back of her hand.
“Are you travelling alone? Please be careful if you are. I agree Tom’s family must be made aware of what has transpired. Although Tom might be happy to spend eternity in a place he loved so much, I’m sure his family would want him closer to them where they can tend to his grave.” Harriet’s throat closed on the last words.
“I’m travelling with another guest, Miss Terry. At least as far as Scotia.” Winnie assured her. “I need to go. I can catch a ride to the station with Doctor Ranney.”
“Yes, you go take care of things. I’m going to poke around here and see what I can turn up.” She patted her friend on the arm and turned toward the stairs, then stopped. “Have you seen that odd little man around lately?”
“What man?” Winnie frowned and picked up her valise.
“You know, the one Shan was meeting with and the same man I saw with him and Bleacher Junior. I fairly certain he’s their contact with the bootleggers.”
“Not recently. But maybe a week or ten days ago, I did see someone who might have been the same man leaving the Blecher’s late at night. I wouldn’t have noticed except it was a bright night and he must have tripped on the path because he cursed load enough for me to hear him. I was on my way back from the privy.”
“What can you remember? Do you think he was one of the natives? I’ve never been able to get a decent look at him.”
“He sounded French, but he could be Metis I guess as easily as someone from Quebec. I have to go, Harriet. Miss Terry is waiting. Please be careful.” Winnie hurried across the wooden floor, long skirts brushing the sand from the boards as she went.
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Harriet struggled out of the twisted blankets which bore mute testament to her troubled sleep. Morning sun slanted through the open curtains of the second story room, highlighting bits of detritus left from her boots and trouser hems. She blinked bleary eyes and vowed to take Annie to task about the quality of her housekeeping, or lack thereof. On second thought, she might be better to let things lie. The last thing she needed was Annie snooping through her things and who knew what might accidentally disappear to be blamed on some passing crow who flew in her window, left negligently open by herself, and made off with something shiny. She dressed and gathered up her paintbox. There was no real urgency or, in truth, any inclination to put brush to board. But for appearances sake, she took them down to breakfast. Her real intent this morning was to make some sense of the knot of unanswered questions and suspicions churning in her mind. The door to the office was ajar when she passed. A quick detour showed her the place was empty with papers strewn haphazardly across the writing surface. Undecided, she hovered by the door. If I could just look through those papers and maybe rummage through the drawers a bit. I bet I would find some interesting things about their operations. I wonder if I dare...
“Something I can help you with?” Annie’s voice was cold.
“Oh, you startled me!” Harriet took a step back from the office.
“Looking for something?” Annie’s eyes narrowed.
“Umm, yes. I was looking for you. I wonder if I could use your broom for maybe a quarter of an hour this morning. I’ve made quite a mess of my room traipsing dirt in from my rambles in the bush.” Harriet prevaricated.
“You have a problem with my housekeeping?” Annie took an aggressive step nearer.
“Of course not! I just don’t feel it’s fair for anyone to have to clean up such a mess.”
“There’s one in the cupboard under the stairs. Put it back when you’re done.” After a moment’s hesitation and another glowering look, Annie pushed open the door of the office and shut it firmly behind her.
“Now I suppose I will have to go sweep my room.” Harriet sighed and went to fetch the broom.
Twenty minutes later she returned the broom to the closet and forgoing breakfast, Harriet strode off into the bush along the trail she normally chose. Once out of sight of the lodge, she changed direction and circled back toward the Blecher boathouse. To the best of her knowledge, the Blechers were occupied elsewhere this morning, so it was as good a time as any to have a bit of search and see if it confirmed or contradicted her suspicions. Perhaps I’ll get lucky and discover what it is they hide under the tarp on their trips up to Tea Lake Dam.
After making sure the cottage was indeed empty and that Louisa Blecher hadn’t stayed behind when the rest of the family went off, Harriet wriggled through the thick bushes down the slight incline to the back of the boathouse. The door was unlocked, the padlock hanging by the shackle through the hasp. She winced at the squeak of the door as she pushed it open. The interior was dim after the sunlight outside. Leaving the door a little open, she moved down the boarded walk that ran beside the motor launch. A piece of canvas hung over the opening to the lake, letting in a bit of light now her eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom. The back of the boathouse housed a workbench with an array of tools that Blecher Jr. stored there.
To her dismay, the centre of the launch was barren. There were marks on the bottom boards where something heavy had rested, but no indication of what that might have been. A folded canvas lay under the deck of the bow. Dare I get in the boat and see what if anything is under there? If someone comes along I’ll have nowhere to hide...but I wonder.... Before commonsense could prevail, Harriet stepped into the boat, glad she’d left her paintbox secreted some way back in the bush. The vessel rocked against the walkway as she entered so she steadied herself with a hand on the gunwale. Making her way to the bow as carefully as possible she knelt and pulled the folded canvas toward her. The scent of raw mash whisky rose from the material and threatened to make her sneeze. Pinching her nostrils together with one hand, she pulled the canvas further out and ducked her head to look into the apex of the bow. Something was wedged against the side of the boat; laying on its narrow edge was a paddle. Harriet reached under and slid it toward her. A canoe paddle! Not one a person would normally use for a boat like this one. Tom’s favourite paddle was missing when the canoe was found. Is this his? Maybe it’s just innocent. Blechers found the canoe, perhaps they just stowed the floating paddle and in all the chaos forgot to turn it over...but why then hide it under the bow of their boat? Why hide it all? I’ve come looking for answers and found only more questions...
“Why is the boathouse door open?” Martin Jr.’s voice came clearly through the silence.
“You must not have locked it,” Bessie accused her brother. The voices came nearer.
In a panic, Harriet shoved the paddle back where she found it and replaced the folded canvas as best she could. Where to hide? There wasn’t room under the bow to go unnoticed in the daylight. Nor was there time to climb up into the rafters and hope no one looked up. Taking a deep breath, she threw her leg over the side and slipped into the water, cursing the wavelets that rocked the boat and lapped at the side of the boathouse.
“Who’s there?” Martin Jr.’s voice was heavy with menace.
“Don’t be silly, no one’s there. You’re just being paranoid. Why would anyone be in our boathouse?” Bessie chided him. Mutter makes sure no one trespasses.” She giggled. “Remember when she chased that park ranger off with a broom? And all because he thought our stars and stripes shouldn’t fly above their red ensign. Such nonsense.”
“You never know. Lot of people been asking questions about the death. We never should have said we found the canoe. I told you so.” Martin Jr. was out of breath. “Should have left it float there. Better if the body had never some to the surface too.”
The door to the boathouse swung open and light flooded in. Harriet kept her head above water and peered out from under the walkway where she’d hidden herself. Well, this might prove interesting after all. What did Martin mean, they never should have said they found the canoe. Did they know where it was the whole time Tom was missing?
“See, I told you no one was here,” Bessie crowed in triumph.
“I’m not so sure. Look at the canvas, it’s been moved. I’m sure of it.” The boat tilted when he got in, creating small waves that forced Harriet to hold her breath until they quieted. “Someone’s been in here. The canvas isn’t where I left it and” his voice became muffled as if he had stuck his head under the bow, “and the damned paddle is moved too.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, bruder. There was much wind last evening, the boat must have moved about a bit and shifted everything. You worry too much. Vater says all is fine and the deliveries can continue as planned for the rest of the summer. Come, I’m hungry and Mutter is preparing sauerbraten for lunch.”
The boat lurched and Harriet held her breath while the water lapped over her face. “You must be right. Nothing is missing and only a bit out of place. We must get rid of the paddle though. I don’t know why we didn’t leave it with the canoe. It was stupid to keep it.”
“You know why we kept it. The edge of it was bloody and Vater wasn’t sure the lake would wash it all off. I tried, as you know, but the stain refused to disappear.”
Footsteps echoed on the walkway, then the door snicked shut followed by the click of the padlock shackle sliding home. Harriet took a deep breath and swam to the open end of the boathouse, glad she was wear trousers. More than anything she wanted to collect the paddle and take it directly to Mark Robinson. He would believe her, even if no one else would. But the Blechers, especially Martin Jr., were worried about the paddle. Moreso now that he thought it was moved from its hiding place. Which it had been, she supposed. But how to go forward? Abandoning the idea of securing the paddle for the moment, she ducked under the canvas covering the large boathouse door and swam around the side of the structure away from the cottage. Making as little noise as possible, she waded out of the lake and dodged into the bushes on the shore. Retrieving the paintbox required some backtracking, her soaked clothing clung to her body hindering her progress. With a sigh of relief, she collected the box and set off back toward the lodge. The heat of her body and the sun dried her shirt in no time, but the waist and hems of her trousers remained quite soggy.
“What in the world have you been up to?” Annie demanded.
Harriet paused on the doorstep. “I got overheated hiking and then missed my step when I was filling my canteen.” She shrugged with what she hoped was a wry grin, even though her heart was pounding. “Ended up in the water.” There’s no way Annie could know where I was. It isn’t possible. Calm down.
“Seems to be a lot of that going around. You should be more careful.” Annie skewered her with a pointed look.
“Yes, well. I believe I will go and change into something a bit drier.” Harriet moved toward the stairs.
Annie sniffed hard through her nose and retreated into her office.
Once in her room, Harriet set the paintbox down and stripped off the wet, grimy clothes. Pulling on a flannel shirt and dry trousers she sat down hard on the edge of the bed. Her fingers itched where she’d touched the paddle. Bessie said the edge was bloody, does that mean what I think it does? Tom’s blood, from where he was struck in the head? But who hit Tom? Not Bessie, I’m sure. But Martin Jr. has a wicked temper, and he was at odds with Tom over Winnie, not to mention the bootleg aspect. Perhaps he sought to solve two problems with one stone, so to speak? I’m not sure that makes sense, though. Why kill Tom? Shan has that look on his face the last few days, as if he knows more than he lets on. Does that explain why he ignored the telegram from the family and had Tom buried so quickly before the official coroner could get here? And what of the telegram the coroner said he sent informing of his arrival. The telegram Shan said they never received. More questions and no answers. Oh, my head hurts.
Harriet collapsed back on the bed, bare feet hanging over the edge. Nothing was making sense, but some of it was starting to make far too much sense. There were missing pieces to the puzzle, but one thing was clear to her. Somehow, the Blechers and the Frasers were involved and that odd man with the French accent...how did he fit in? Finally, the exertions of the morning caught up with Harriet and she let her eyes close.