The moment distance allowed, the boat's driver waved over the edge of the cracked windshield and, in a great, banked turn that sprayed a huge fantail of water out behind him, headed towards the exact spot where Celluci stood. Celluci's fingers tightened around the handle of the mug but he held his ground. Still turning, the driver cut his engines and drifted the last few feet to the dock. As empty bleach bottles slowly crumpled under the gentle impact, he jumped out and tied off his bow line.
'Frank Patton,' he said, straightening from the cleat and holding out a callused hand. 'You must be the guy that developer's brought in from the city to capture the spirit of the lake.'
'Detective Sergeant Mike Celluci.' His own age or a little younger, Frank Patton had a working man's grip that was just a little too forceful. Celluci returned pressure for pressure. 'And I'm just spending a long weekend in the woods.'
Patton's dark brows drew down. 'But I thought'
'You thought I was some weirdo psychic you could impress by crushing his fingers.' The other man looked down at their joined hands and had the grace to flush. As he released his hold, so did Celluci. He'd played this game too often to lose at it. 'I suggest, if you get the chance to meet the actual investigator, you don't come on quite so strong. She's liable to feed you your preconceptions.''
'She's'
'Asleep right now. We got in late and she's likely to be up investigating tonight.'
'Yeah. Right.' Flexing his fingers, Patton stared down at the toes of his workboots. 'It's just, you know, we heard that, well' Sucking in a deep breath, he looked up and grinned. 'Oh, hell, talk about getting off on the wrong foot. Can I get you a beer, Detective?'
Celluci glanced over at the Styrofoam cooler in the back of the boat and was tempted for a moment. As sweat rolled painfully into the bug bites on the back of his neck, he remembered just how good a cold beer could taste. 'No, thanks,' he sighed with a disgusted glare into his mug. 'I've, uh, still got coffee.'
To his surprise, Patton nodded and asked, 'How long've you been dry? My brother-in-law gets that exact same look when some damn fool offers him a drink on a hot almost summer afternoon,' he explained as Celluci stared at him in astonishment. 'Goes to AA meetings in Bigwood twice a week.'
Remembering all the bottles he'd climbed into during those long months Vicki had been gone, Celluci shrugged. 'About two years now — give or take.'
'I got generic cola'
He dumped the dregs of cold bug-infested coffee into the lake. The Ministry of Natural Resources could kiss his ass. 'Love one,' he said.
'So essentially everyone in town and everyone who owns property around the lake and everyone in a 100-mile radius has reason to want Stuart Gordon gone.'
'Essentially,' Celluci agreed, tossing a gnawed chicken bone aside and pulling another piece out of the bucket. He'd waited to eat until Vicki got up, maintaining the illusion that it was a ritual they continued to share. 'According to Frank Patton, he hasn't endeared himself to his new neighbours. This place used to belong to an Anne Kellough who What?'
Vicki frowned and leaned towards him. 'You're covered in bites.'
'Tell me about it.' The reminder brought his hand up to scratch at the back of his neck. 'You know what Nepeakea means? It's an old Indian word that translates as 'I'm fucking sick of being eaten alive by black flies; let's get the hell out of here'.'
'Those old Indians could get a lot of mileage out of a word.'
Celluci snorted. 'Tell me about it.'
'Anne Kellough?'
'What, not even one poor sweet baby?'
Stretching out her leg under the table, she ran her foot up the inseam of his jeans. 'Poor sweet baby.'
'That'd be a lot more effective if you weren't wearing hiking boots.' Her laugh was one of the things that hadn't changed when she had. Her smile was too white and too sharp and it made too many new promises but her laugh remained fully human. He waited until she finished, chewing, swallowing, congratulating himself for evoking it, then said, 'Anne Kellough ran this place as sort of a therapy camp. Last summer, after ignoring her for thirteen years, the Ministry of Health people came down on her kitchen. Renovations cost more than she thought, the bank foreclosed, and Stuart Gordon bought it twenty minutes later.'
'That explains why she wants him gone; what about everyone else?'
'Lifestyle.'
'They think he's gay?'
'Not his, theirs. The people who live out here, down in the village and around the lake — while not adverse to taking the occasional tourist for everything they can get — like the quiet, they like the solitude and, God help them, they even like the woods. The boys who run the hunting and fishing camp at the west end of the lake'
'Boys?'
'I'm quoting here. The boys,' he repeated, with emphasis, 'say Gordon's development will kill the fish and scare off the game. He nearly got his ass kicked by one of them, Pete Wegler, down at the local gas station and then got tossed out on said ass by the owner when he called the place quaint.'
'In the sort of tone that adds, and 'a Starbucks would be a big improvement'?' When Celluci raised a brow, she shrugged. 'I've spoken to him, it's not that much of an extrapolation.'
'Yeah, exactly that sort of tone. Frank also told me that people with kids are concerned about the increase in traffic right through the centre of the village.'
'Afraid they'll start losing children and pets under expensive sport utes?'
