Dark Tiger (15 page)

A couple of the guides nodded to him. The others kept their eyes averted. Curtis Swenson, as usual, was reading at the table. This time he had a magazine open in front of him. He didn't even look up when Calhoun walked in.

“You don't have to stop your conversations on my account,” Calhoun said.

After a few minutes, some of them began talking about the fishing they'd had that day.

Mush, the heavyset guide, who was sitting beside Calhoun, said, “The sheriff give away any secrets to you?”

“Secrets on what subject?” said Calhoun innocently.

Mush rolled his eyes. “The murder. The Indian. You spent the day in a canoe with him. So did he do it, you think? Did he say anything?”

“You mean Franklin?”

Mush nodded. “The Penobscot. Yes.”

“He didn't do it,” Calhoun said.

“You know this?”

Calhoun nodded. “I do.”

“The sheriff thinks he did.”

“The sheriff's wrong,” Calhoun said.

“Did you tell him that?”

“I did.”

“I guess he don't believe you,” Mush said, “or else they wouldn't've taken Redbird away on the plane.”

“I suppose they think he did it, but he didn't.” He turned to Mush and, imitating the soft voices he'd heard as he came in, he whispered, “I bet you got a thought. You think it was Franklin Redbird?”

“Nah, I don't reckon it was him,” said Mush. “Maybe he's an Indian, but I happen to know he's a peaceful feller. Wouldn't hurt anything or anybody. He don't even hunt.”

“So who do you think did it, then? Who killed Elaine?”

Mush's eyes darted around the room. He leaned his head toward Calhoun and whispered, “I don't want to say nothing.”

“If you think you know,” Calhoun said, “you gotta tell the sheriff.”

“Oh, I talked to the sheriff. Yes, sir. I talked to him, all right.”

At that moment Robin came into the room carrying a big tray of food. She put the platters and bowls on the table. Baked halibut steaks, mashed potatoes, string beans, loaves of hot bread, green salad.

Robin knelt down beside Ralph where he lay beside Calhoun's seat and rubbed the dog's belly. “I bet you're hungry,” she said softly.

Ralph lifted his head and looked at her with liquid eyes, which was as good as saying, “I'm starved.” “Hungry” was another one of his food words. With dogs, it's all about food.

Robin straightened up, looked at Calhoun, and said, “I'll bring Ralph's supper right out.” She looked around the table. “Can I get anybody anything else?”

They all shook their heads, and Robin left the room.

Calhoun wanted to ask the guides questions about Elaine—who her enemies were, what secrets she kept, what there was about this pretty, quiet woman that didn't meet the eye—but if anybody knew anything, they were either keeping it to themselves or they'd already told the sheriff. They'd be unlikely to reveal anything along those lines at the dinner table.

So they all focused on their food.

After Robin came in to clear the table and bring the blueberry pies and vanilla ice cream, Kim, the other female guide, said, “So, Stoney. How'd you enjoy the fishing today?”

“We had excellent fishing,” he said. “We actually spent much of the day just looking around. Franklin gave me a quick lesson on your lakes and where the fish like to lie. We did catch several nice salmon and one squaretail that must've gone at least four pounds. That Franklin, he's a helluva guide. Made us a terrific shore lunch.”

“He's a good guide, all right,” Kim said. She looked around the table with narrowed eyes. “A good guy, too. He's just the sweetest man. Anybody who thinks he could've murdered somebody is plain crazy.”

 

As Calhoun was leaving the lodge after dinner, Marty Dunlap hurried over to him and said, “Stoney. Got a minute?”

“Sure. What's up?”

“Well, as you know, we're suddenly finding ourselves short of guides, with Franklin getting arrested and Elaine . . . um, Elaine getting killed. We've still got a business to run here. I'm
going to have to press you into service a little sooner than I expected.”

Calhoun nodded. “Okay by me. Franklin showed me around. I think I can find the folks some fish. Just tell me when.”

“Monday,” said Marty. “Tomorrow's Saturday, a getaway day for most of our guests, and we'll have some new sports coming in on Sunday. The regulars can handle those who'll be fishing over the weekend. Monday we'll definitely need you.”

“Okay. That's what I'm here for.”

Marty gripped Calhoun's arm. “Good. Thanks.” He paused. “Listen. I don't know what Franklin might've told you . . .”

“About what?”

Marty shrugged. “Just . . . anything.”

About McNulty
, Calhoun thought.
You want to know if Franklin talked to me about McNulty
.

“We just talked about fishing,” Calhoun said. “Franklin knows his stuff. Made a helluva shore lunch.”

“He's a good guide, all right.” He patted Calhoun's shoulder. “Everything satisfactory in your cabin? Anything we can do for you?”

“The cabin's good,” he said. “Very comfortable.” He thought about mentioning the fact that somebody had entered his cabin, which had no locks for the doors, and stolen the Colt Woodsman that was used to murder Elaine Hoffman, but he decided not to. Until he knew whom he could trust, he figured the less he said to anybody the better. “Oh,” he said. “There is one thing.”

“What's that?”

“When we had lunch at the Sandpiper, you told me the guides would have access to an automobile on their days off, and sometimes they'd drive down to St. Cecelia.”

“That's right,” Marty said. “You want to take a car?”

“Tomorrow,” said Calhoun. “Would that be all right?”

“I guess so.” Marty smiled. “Hell, Stoney. You've only been here a couple days. You feel like you've gotta get away already?”

“That ain't it,” said Calhoun. “I got some business I didn't have a chance to finish up before I came here, that's all. I'd like to get it out of the way. Of course, if you don't think . . .”

“No, that's fine,” Marty said. “I was just kidding. I'll meet you over by the car barn after breakfast tomorrow morning, get you fixed up. It's not a problem. As long as you're ready to do some guiding on Monday.”

“I'll be good to go,” said Calhoun. He hesitated, then said, “Has Franklin got a lawyer, do you know?”

Marty nodded. “I hooked him up with an attorney I know in Houlton.”

“Is he any good?”

“Sure he's good. We take care of our people.”

“If he's any good,” Calhoun said, “Franklin should be back in a day or two. They don't have any evidence against him.”

Marty shrugged. “I don't know. We'll see, I guess.”

“You think Franklin did it?”

“I don't know, Stoney. I can't imagine anybody doing it, but it was done. I guess Franklin Redbird could've done it as well as anybody else.”

After Marty went back into the lodge, Calhoun and Ralph headed down to the dock. He took off his shoes and socks and sat on the end dangling his feet in the water as he had the previous night with Elaine. Ralph sprawled beside him. Calhoun reached over and scratched the back of the dog's neck.

The sun had gone down, and the moon was obscured by the clouds. Only faint ambient light seeping through the cloud cover prevented the darkness from being total. Some night birds were swooping over the surface of the lake catching insects.
From the woods behind the lodge came the hoots and whoops of a pair of barred owls. Then, echoing from somewhere out on the lake, came the crazy, haunting laugh of a loon, and a moment later, another loon answered. The call of a loon was the wildest sound in nature, Calhoun thought, and it never failed to send a shiver up his spine.

A minute later, Ralph lifted up his head, and a low growl rumbled in the dog's chest.

Calhoun said, “Shh.” He put his hand on Ralph's back and turned to look around.

Somebody was coming down the dock. In the darkness, it was just a shadowy shape, and Calhoun couldn't tell who it was, although by the way he walked, it appeared to be a man. He was sticking to the darkest shadows along the dock, moving silently. Surreptitiously, Calhoun thought. Sneaky.

The man stopped beside the Twin Otter float plane. He hesitated, and it appeared that he was looking around to see if anybody had followed him. Then he climbed out onto one of the pontoons and disappeared in the darkness.

A moment later Calhoun saw the narrow beam of a small flashlight flickering through the windshield of the plane.

He kept his hand on Ralph's back. He wasn't sure what to do. If he got up and walked down the dock to the landing, he'd go right past the plane, and whoever was in it would be likely to see Calhoun and figure Calhoun had seen him. It was pretty apparent by the way he'd been slinking around in the darkness that this person on the plane didn't want to be seen, and Calhoun didn't want to be identified as a person who'd seen somebody who didn't want to be seen.

On the other hand, if he just kept sitting there on the end of the dock, the man inside the plane might spot him, and he'd know that Calhoun had been there the whole time.

Well, that seemed the better of two bad options. So he and Ralph slid down to the corner where their shapes would be hidden in the shadow of the pilings, and they remained sitting there on the end of the dock listening to the loons while somebody prowled around inside the Twin Otter.

Calhoun kept glancing back at the plane. The light from inside was moving around. It flickered dimly through the windshield. Calhoun guessed the prowler was searching for something down in the cargo area of the big plane.

He figured the person had actually been on the plane for no more than two or three minutes, although it seemed much longer than that, when the light went out and the shadowy figure climbed out of the plane and began walking back along the dock. Something dangled from his hand, something he hadn't had with him when he walked out onto the dock. He'd picked it up from somewhere inside the plane. It looked like a small suitcase.

Calhoun looked hard at the departing figure, trying to figure out if he recognized him. He didn't. It was just a man's shape seen from behind in the darkness.

It could've been Curtis Swenson, Calhoun thought. The pilot was the only one he could think of who might have a reason to poke around the plane. If it
was
Swenson, it raised the question of why he would feel he had to sneak around in the darkness to go into his own plane.

The figure reached the end of the dock and turned right onto the path that skirted the edge of the lake, heading away from the lodge and in the direction of the boathouse. A moment later the darkness swallowed him up.

Calhoun gave him about ten minutes. Then he put his socks and shoes on, stood up, snapped his fingers at Ralph, and headed back to his cabin.

When they got there, Ralph hopped up the steps, put his nose against the door, and growled.

“Again?” said Calhoun. “That's two growls in less than an hour. What is it this time?” He knew enough to trust Ralph. If the dog growled, something was going on. “Somebody's in our cabin,” he whispered to the dog. “Is that what you're telling me?”

Ralph kept his nose against the door and continued to growl softly. No lights showed in the cabin windows. If somebody was waiting inside, they wanted it to be a surprise.

Calhoun was mindful of the fact that somebody had shot Elaine Hoffman in her cabin the previous night. Now, if Ralph was to be believed, somebody had snuck into his cabin and was waiting there in the darkness.

Well, it was his damn cabin, and he had no intention of not going in.

He guessed whoever was inside, if somebody was indeed in there, had heard them by now. He wasn't going to surprise anybody. He just had to hope they wouldn't open fire on him when he walked through the doorway.

“Well, old dog,” he said loudly, for the benefit of whoever might be inside, “here we are. You tired? I'm pooped. We had ourselves a hard day of fishing, didn't we? Let's go to bed.”

He turned the knob, pushed the door open, slipped inside, and moved quickly away from the open doorway where his silhouette would make an easy target. “Who are you?” he said. “Who's here?”

A sound in the darkness came from the direction of his bed. It was a soft human sound. If Calhoun wasn't mistaken, it was the sound of a woman crying.

 

 

 

 

“It's me,” came a soft voice in the darkness. “It's Robin. I'm sorry.”

Calhoun reached over and hit the switch on the wall. When the ceiling light came on, he saw that Robin, the young waitress, was sitting on the edge of his bed. She was hunched over and hugging herself. A wrinkled handkerchief was clutched in one of her hands. Her face was red, and her eyes were swollen.

He went over to where she was sitting and squatted down on the floor in front of her. “So what's up?” he said to her. “What's going on?”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I hope it's all right. I didn't know who to talk to. I'm not sure who I can trust anymore. I figured, you just got here, you couldn't . . .” She looked up at him with her wet eyes.

“I couldn't what?” he said.

She shook her head. “Just, things that've been going on here, they started before you came. So I figure you didn't have anything to do with them.”

“Well, you're right,” Calhoun said. “You can talk to me. I won't say anything to anybody.”

Robin dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. Then she blew her nose into it. “I'm the one who found her. Her body.”