hell, give me instructions, I’d be fine with that.”
“No, that’s quite all right—” Rose began.
Mal cut her off. “Ah, go on. Give him a hand, sweetheart. He’s pooped, too. And your cooking might be a small down payment for his hospitality.”
“These days, I only cook for myself,” Bascombe said. “Mostly I’m a connoisseur of the lumpy, the soggy, and the burned. Be nice to eat a decent meal for a change.”
“All right, Seth. If you’re sure.”
“If I didn’t want your help, Rose, I’d say so. On the Angle, we all pretty much speak our minds. Follow me.”
The lodge turned out to be an amiable place, far less austere than the cabins. It had a small dining area with four tables and chairs. The knotty pine walls were hung with maps of the Lake of the Woods and photographs of fishermen holding up prize catches, and a couple of stuffed muskies, huge and with vicious-looking teeth, mounted on polished plaques. There was a long glass counter with a display, dusty now, of lures and fishing knives and bug repellent and pamphlets about U.S. and Canadian regulations. Set into one of the walls was an open fireplace with a fieldstone hearth, and everything in the lodge had the distant, pleasant scent of woodsmoke. Mal, who was hobbling around on a pair of wooden crutches that Lynn Belgea had scrounged from somewhere back at Young’s Bay Landing, sat at a table, and the others, except Rose and Bascombe, joined him. Rose followed the big man into the kitchen and was pleasantly surprised to see that it was quite modern, with a large refrigerator and commercial stove, both stainless steel. There was a pantry, modestly stocked at the moment, but it could have held supplies for an army. The stainless-steel sinks were broad and deep.
“Back in the days when this place was still a moneymaking operation, I had me a fine cook,” Bascombe said. His big shoulders slumped a little, and there was a mist of sadness over his words. “Renee McGuire. That woman could do things with walleye should’ve been illegal.”
“What happened to Renee McGuire?” Rose asked, because she had a strong sense there was a good deal to the story.
“In the end, I guess, both me and this place proved to be disappointments to her. She found herself better prospects down in Warroad.”
Rose looked at the man, who was bearded, bear-big, wild-haired, and from the musky smell coming off him, a good day or two overdue for a shower, and she understood what a challenge he would present to any woman.
Bascombe waved off his dour mood. “But that’s water under the bridge. Tell me what you need, and I’ll see what I can find.”
Rose made frittatas with diced ham and onion and melted cheese. She fried potatoes as an accompaniment, and Bascombe toasted bread. When they brought everything to the table, along with a pitcher of orange juice, the eyes of the others grew big with anticipation.
“Thanks, Aunt Rose,” Anne said.
Aaron, who’d been mostly quiet since their meeting at Young’s Bay Landing, said graciously, “Thank you, Rose. This looks incredible.”
“This barely scratches the surface of what our Rose can do.” Mal gave her an appreciative wink.
They ate without much talk at first, but as their appetites were satisfied, they turned eventually to a discussion of the situation on the lake.
Bascombe said, “Heard someone at the landing say that the storm ripped through Kenora, then turned east and was looking to tear a path all the way to Quebec.”
“A derecho,” Aaron said.
“A what?” Bascombe gave him a look of incomprehension.
“I heard on the radio that the weather service called it a derecho. They said it was a storm made up of straight-line winds of hurricane force. Gusts in Baudette in excess of a hundred miles an hour. They’re rare, apparently, but when they hit . . .” He stopped and eyed the lake outside, which was full of islands as numerous as flies on a carcass. “When they hit,” he went on, “they tear up everything in their path.”
“Jenny’s all right,” Rose said to him. “They’re both all right.”
He accepted her assurance with a nod and nothing more.
“Okay,” Bascombe said. “Let’s see what we can pin down. When they left, did they say anything to you about where they were going?”
Anne said, “Just to the Angle to pick up Aaron.”
“Where were you anchored?”
“In a bay up above Tranquil Channel,” Mal replied.
“Okay,” Bascombe said. He stood and went to the nearest wall, where a huge map of the lake hung. He pointed to a wide area of relatively empty water. “To get to the Angle there would be three main routes. Anybody who knows the lake knows that you have to stay with the main routes, otherwise you’re very likely to hit one of the rocks or reefs hidden just under the surface. Did they have GPS?”
“Yes,” Mal said. “Loaded with a program specifically for Lake of the Woods.”
“So he would have been able to follow the main routes, known where the shallows and reefs are. Okay. This Cork, is he a pretty responsible guy?”
“Most definitely,” Stephen replied without hesitation.
Bascombe looked to Rose for confirmation of the son’s confidence in his father, and she nodded.
Their host went on. “What time did they leave?”
“A little before two,” Stephen said.
“What time were they supposed to pick you up?” he asked Aaron.
“We set it up for three-thirty,” Aaron replied.
“An hour and a half to get to the Angle.” Bascombe scratched his beard and studied the map and seemed disturbed. “What were they in?”
“A small dinghy,” Mal said.
“What kind of engine?”
“Evinrude. Don’t know the model. Not much horsepower, though.”
“Hmmmm.” Bascombe thought and shook his head. “Even with a small outboard, an hour and a half is way too much time. The storm swept through a few minutes before three. They should have been at Young’s Bay Landing easily by then.”
Silence settled over the room, then Stephen said, “Wait. I think Dad said something about making a stop along the way.”
“Oh? Where?” Bascombe asked. “Do you remember?”
“I don’t think he said exactly. I think it was going to be kind of a surprise or something for Jenny.”
“Think, Stephen,” Mal urged. “Anything you remember might be helpful.”
Stephen squinted, as if trying to picture the past, and then spoke carefully. “He told her to make sure she took her camera. I don’t know what that was about, though.”
“Some interesting sight he wanted her to see?” Rose speculated.
“That could be any number of places,” Bascombe said. “There’s nowhere on earth that’s quite like Lake of the Woods.”
“Something Ojibwe,” Anne said suddenly.
Bascombe looked to her. “What do you mean?”
“This morning—yesterday morning,” she corrected herself, “Dad said something kind of enigmatic. He said he was going to give Jenny an Ojibwe lesson about children.”
“Children?” Bascombe said.
Rose glanced at Aaron, who sat tall and, at the moment, stiff in his chair. She and Jenny had talked at length about the issue of children, something divisive in Jenny’s relationship with Aaron.
“Not much help probably,” Anne said.
Bascombe gave her a hopeful smile. “You never know.” He turned back to the map. “Like I said, there are basically three routes through the maze of islands to the Angle. The south track and two branches of the main track.” He followed each route quickly with his index finger. “The central track would be the most logical, unless Anne’s right and he made some kind of excursion to see something special. But for the moment, let’s stick with considering this track. It would have taken them through Tranquil Channel—”
