Read Online Murder at Lost Dog Lake by Vicki Delany - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vicki Delany
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on this trip
was eating the guy, bad.
“ I don’t know why he has to get so mad at me,” Rachel sobbed.
“This is the most horrid week of my whole life.” I would never have
thought it possible to look pretty while crying, but Rachel pulled
it off. Her cheeks glowed a fresh pink and her eyes glistened. A
drop of dewy moisture clung to her thick, dark lashes.
“ Craig’s way out of line. It’s not your fault you haven’t been
on one of these trips before. It’s his job to tell you what to do,
not to yell at you for making a mistake.” I made soothing noises as
we walked back up the hill to the camp.
Joe
rushed over to gather the weeping Rachel up in his arms. He guided
her toward their tent, and I thanked the goddess of housekeeping
for sparing me from having to learn how to wash clothes in the
wilderness. I just wear them dirty and then wash everything once I
get home.
Craig
wandered up from the beach, hung-dog expression fixed firmly in
place, already regretting lashing out at mild, ineffectual
Rachel.
I smiled
at him ruefully and shrugged.
For
dinner that night Craig whipped up a wonderful dish of macaroni and
cheese. In my ‘real life’, I don’t normally get terribly excited
about good old mac and cheese, but after a day’s canoeing there is
nothing better in the entire universe than comfort food cooked over
an open fire. Craig stirred in thickly sliced onions and handfuls
of dried spices and so much rich cheddar cheese that it pooled into
soft yellow puddles on our plates as we ate.
After
dinner Barb put a pot of water onto the fire to heat for hot
chocolate, and we roasted marshmallows impaled on sticks, carefully
gathered from the surrounding forest, over the glowing embers. The
English couple didn’t quite know what to do with the gooey mess,
but Dianne lectured them on the proper preparation of the ultimate
Canadian campsite delight. Full of self-importance and desperately
serious about her responsibilities, she demonstrated to Barb and
Jeremy how to hold the stick just so, the distance required to keep
the marshmallow out the fire yet at the same time allow it to
toast, and how to turn it every few seconds to get a nice, even
brown coat.
Myself,
I like to watch the thing burst into flames, burn off about half of
the treat and then blow out the blaze and suck off the burnt bit.
My own little charcoaled piece of cloud nine.
The
universal glazed expression of good manners failing to conceal
total boredom spread over Barb’s face as Dianne launched into a
monologue of remembrances of toasted marshmallows and bonfires
past. The English girl held her stick out over the fire for a
moment too long and hungry fingers of bright blue flame instantly
consumed most of the white blob of marshmallow. Barb laughed in
delight and waved the stick in the air before her, drawing joyful,
wild and indecipherable words in the night air.
“ No, no. That’s not how it’s done,” Dianne admonished Barb
sternly. “Now it’s all burnt and will taste horrid.”
“ But Leanne cooked all of hers that way.”
I stared
at the dying embers as they devoured the last scraps of firewood.
Unwilling to go down without a fight, a cluster of twigs at the
side of the pit, which so far had remained unscathed, flashed up in
a miniature firestorm, only to expire in a final blaze of
glory.
Dianne
sniffed. She had the most amazing way of expressing herself without
a movement or an intelligible word. Lapsing into stereotypes, I
assumed that was the result of a rich, indulged childhood: raised
with the understanding that she would be surrounded by people who
were aware of her every need, and if on the occasional instance
they didn’t, then she would make sure they got in line mighty
fast.
“ Oh, for God’s sake, Dianne. Do you have to control
everything?” Richard threw his stick into the fire and rose to his
feet. Fingers of flame eagerly licked the sticky, sugarcoated end.
“These people can cook marshmallows without
was eating the guy, bad.
“ I don’t know why he has to get so mad at me,” Rachel sobbed.
“This is the most horrid week of my whole life.” I would never have
thought it possible to look pretty while crying, but Rachel pulled
it off. Her cheeks glowed a fresh pink and her eyes glistened. A
drop of dewy moisture clung to her thick, dark lashes.
“ Craig’s way out of line. It’s not your fault you haven’t been
on one of these trips before. It’s his job to tell you what to do,
not to yell at you for making a mistake.” I made soothing noises as
we walked back up the hill to the camp.
Joe
rushed over to gather the weeping Rachel up in his arms. He guided
her toward their tent, and I thanked the goddess of housekeeping
for sparing me from having to learn how to wash clothes in the
wilderness. I just wear them dirty and then wash everything once I
get home.
Craig
wandered up from the beach, hung-dog expression fixed firmly in
place, already regretting lashing out at mild, ineffectual
Rachel.
I smiled
at him ruefully and shrugged.
For
dinner that night Craig whipped up a wonderful dish of macaroni and
cheese. In my ‘real life’, I don’t normally get terribly excited
about good old mac and cheese, but after a day’s canoeing there is
nothing better in the entire universe than comfort food cooked over
an open fire. Craig stirred in thickly sliced onions and handfuls
of dried spices and so much rich cheddar cheese that it pooled into
soft yellow puddles on our plates as we ate.
After
dinner Barb put a pot of water onto the fire to heat for hot
chocolate, and we roasted marshmallows impaled on sticks, carefully
gathered from the surrounding forest, over the glowing embers. The
English couple didn’t quite know what to do with the gooey mess,
but Dianne lectured them on the proper preparation of the ultimate
Canadian campsite delight. Full of self-importance and desperately
serious about her responsibilities, she demonstrated to Barb and
Jeremy how to hold the stick just so, the distance required to keep
the marshmallow out the fire yet at the same time allow it to
toast, and how to turn it every few seconds to get a nice, even
brown coat.
Myself,
I like to watch the thing burst into flames, burn off about half of
the treat and then blow out the blaze and suck off the burnt bit.
My own little charcoaled piece of cloud nine.
The
universal glazed expression of good manners failing to conceal
total boredom spread over Barb’s face as Dianne launched into a
monologue of remembrances of toasted marshmallows and bonfires
past. The English girl held her stick out over the fire for a
moment too long and hungry fingers of bright blue flame instantly
consumed most of the white blob of marshmallow. Barb laughed in
delight and waved the stick in the air before her, drawing joyful,
wild and indecipherable words in the night air.
“ No, no. That’s not how it’s done,” Dianne admonished Barb
sternly. “Now it’s all burnt and will taste horrid.”
“ But Leanne cooked all of hers that way.”
I stared
at the dying embers as they devoured the last scraps of firewood.
Unwilling to go down without a fight, a cluster of twigs at the
side of the pit, which so far had remained unscathed, flashed up in
a miniature firestorm, only to expire in a final blaze of
glory.
Dianne
sniffed. She had the most amazing way of expressing herself without
a movement or an intelligible word. Lapsing into stereotypes, I
assumed that was the result of a rich, indulged childhood: raised
with the understanding that she would be surrounded by people who
were aware of her every need, and if on the occasional instance
they didn’t, then she would make sure they got in line mighty
fast.
“ Oh, for God’s sake, Dianne. Do you have to control
everything?” Richard threw his stick into the fire and rose to his
feet. Fingers of flame eagerly licked the sticky, sugarcoated end.
“These people can cook marshmallows without
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