Read Online Murder at Lost Dog Lake by Vicki Delany - Free Book Online

but spread out along the
shoreline. Three sides were thick with trees, brush and bramble but
the front opened up into the expanse of beach and the lake beyond.
The wind, blowing from behind the camp, was almost completely
muffled by the density of the forest, so the little clearing stood
calm, still and welcoming.
    Perfectly happy with our choice, Dianne and I disobeyed
orders (what was he going to do, throw us in the brig, maybe make
us walk the plank?) and pulled up onto the sand. We checked the
site out in an instant and set to unloading the canoe and unpacking
the equipment.
    In
perfect agreement, we giggled like schoolgirls, explaining to each
other that even if he wanted to carry on, Craig would never expect
us to repack everything. Would he?
    Dianne
went in search of the ‘treasure chest’, and I walked back down to
the beach. Some thoughtful soul had arranged a thick log in the
perfect position so as to make a beach chair. I settled down,
rested my back, and happily wiggled my bottom into the soft sand.
The three canoes remained a distant speck against the
horizon.
    I idly
wondered if I had time to construct a barricade to repel boarders.
Maybe I could carve a sword out of a dead bough of jack pine and
whip off my T-shirt to tie into a bandanna over my head. I would
settle into this patch of warm sand and live here forever, stirring
now and again to hunt and cook my food. I could probably learn to
hunt (with what?) but I only had two paperback library books in my
pack. Woman does not live by bread alone, she does require reading
material. With a sigh I abandoned my fantasy and stood up to offer
a broad, welcoming smile to greet the others.
    Craig
looked at me sternly, but I wasn’t a P.I. for nothing; he couldn’t
disguise the twinkle in his eye or his delight as he looked around
the beach and the early efforts we’d made at establishing a camp. I
winked at him and was rewarded with a ferocious blush, which he
tried to cover up by efficiently organizing the rest of the group
to pull their canoes out of the water and carry the packs up to the
clearing.
    Everything was soon settled and I slipped into our tent to
dig my book out of my pack. Dianne was laid out in her sleeping bag
sound asleep.
    I
returned to my primitive version of a beach chair and settled
comfortably back to bask in the delights of murder most vile in the
fog-shrouded streets of Victorian-era London.
    Gaslight
and mist and mysterious cloaked figures distracted me only briefly
from delight in my surroundings. I picked up a tiny, broken twig
and carved patterns in the sand. With no conscious thought I drew a
big heart with my initials across the top, like we all did when we
were kids at the beach or in the sandlot on summer
vacation.
    “ C.P.: Craig Patterson.” A voice boomed behind me, loud and
intrusive. Craig walked around my log and crouched in front of me
gesturing to my crudely drawn heart. “You could write C.P., right
there.”
    Embarrassed at being caught daydreaming, I scribbled across
the little sketch with my broken stick. “That would be a bit
presumptuous, wouldn’t you agree?”
    He
shrugged and sat in the sand beside me. “Nice spot this. You and
Dianne chose well.”
    “ It’s lovely. Perfect.”
    He
nodded at the paperback folded on my lap. “Do you like mystery
stories?” Craig stretched his long legs out in front of him, bent
the knees and wiggled his toes into the sand, as I had done
earlier.
    We
talked for a while about books. We hadn’t read a single thing in
common, but we were both passionate about what we liked. Then we
moved on to movies, for which we both had considerably less ardor.
The sun moved across the sky and dipped toward the horizon. A
family of Common Mergansers, a type of duck with reddish brown
heads and gray bodies, sailed majestically past, Mom proudly
showing off her huge brood. Three of the more adventurous
youngsters waddled up onto the beach full of hope that the
intruders might have something