any. Set in a lowlying area near the water’s edge, the diminutive clapboard residence had been claimed by the creek’s overflowing banks. Water rippled around the house, which stood like a beleaguered island.
“So much for the caretaker,” muttered Marla. “It’s just us and the ghost of the bride.”
“Excuse me?” said Bo, his eyes on the road. “When we scattered Adele’s ashes up here, it was because her Episcopal church was still arguing about a columbarium. I never heard any of the history.”
Marla tsked. “They gave us the spiel on the reason for the creek’s name at the historic lands luncheon. There was a popular hotel downstream. Early in the century, the place was famous for luxurious honeymoon cabins.” She sighed, as if renting a honeymoon cabin was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard of: “In the twenties, one newlywed couple came up in their Rolls and took over the most spacious cabin. Under a full moon, and presumably after the marriage had been consummated, the bride stepped out for a stroll. She got too close to the creek, slipped, and drowned. Now people say they see her ghost by the water. Especially when there’s a full moon.”
“We probably won’t be able to see the moon tonight,” Arch commented pragmatically. “Too cloudy.”
“Yeah, well,” Marla said knowingly. “That doesn’t mean she’s not still out there. They couldn’t do autopsies back then, the way they do them now. My guess is her new husband pushed her into the creek and held her down. You’d have to be pretty dumb to fall into the water. Pushing somebody, that’s altogether different. At least, that’s what they kept telling me down at the Furman County Jail.”
“Tell me about the cabin,” Bo demanded as we rounded a stand of evergreens. The rain had once again turned to mist. “I suppose it’s historic, too?”
“Yes, we heard all about it last fall, too,” I said wearily. “Built around… oh, what did they say? 1860. It was a trapper’s cabin by the stream. The cabin became a stage stop and then a schoolhouse ? the only one between here and Aspen Meadow. Then it morphed into a general store. Furman County came up about twenty years ago and claimed the cabin was on their right-of-way. They needed to pave the road along Bride’s Creek, and they wanted to tear the cabin down. Mrs. Hardcastle’s mother, Maureen Colbert, stepped in and waved a preservation flag, probably one of the first. Mrs. Colbert, who was also a big benefactor of the Denver Zoo, bought the cabin from the county, purchased this adjoining property, and had the cabin reassembled, log by log, on higher ground. When she died, she left it to her only daughter, Edna, who married Whitaker Hardcastle, a petroleum geologist. They’ve got a daughter, too, and she was supposed to get married up here this spring, but she reneged.” I remembered how much my bank account and I had been looking forward to catering the Hardcastles’ daughter’s wedding reception. Now my bank account seemed like the least of my problems.
“Yeah,” Arch interjected, “but we did that lunch fund-raiser here last fall, after Julian left. It was one of the first times I helped Mom on my own.”
We passed the toolshed, pump, and outdoor shower the Hardcastles had constructed near the cabin. Mrs. Hardcastle’s mother had wanted the cabin not just to be moved but to be restored, so that when you came up to visit, you could stay there and imagine yourself a trapper.
Make that a very wealthy trapper. A real trapper wouldn’t have built a fake well next to the pump. In her desire to make the cabin look authentically rustic, Edna Hardcastle had constructed a cute little well superstructure ? the round, roofed type the Disney folks might have put by a cabin in Frontierland. It was in the well bucket, I remembered suddenly as we pulled up, that the Hardcastles kept their spare key. I thanked heaven I’d remembered, and then silently requested forgiveness for felony trespassing.
We all jumped out. Jake immediately lifted his snout to the skies and howled; Arch shushed him. The well crank squeaked ominously as I hauled on the rope, but the bucket popped up, and I fished out the dark plastic container that held the key to the cabin’s massive front door. As the general busily unloaded gear from the rear of the Jeep, Arch continued to reassure a nervous, !barking Jake that he would eat soon. Marla stood apart, refusing to join us. Her arms were crossed, and she gazed into the distance. More than ever, I wanted to get her through this mess.
With a determined shrug ? we were, after all, adding breaking and entering to our list of crimes ? I put the key into the lock. Before turning it, I noticed deep, new grooves beside the doorjamb. It looked as if someone with a crowbar had preceded us.
Without touching the key, I pushed on the knob. The door creaked on its hinges and opened wide. Immediately a flood of damp, musty air washed out onto the stoop. I said weakly, “Somebody’s broken in.”
“All right, let me check this out,” the general ordered. He assumed a straight-backed military bearing and pulled out his gun. In his free hand he brandished a I high-powered flashlight that made the silver tube affairs I’d known from summer camp look like toys. Skimming silently across the floorboards with the Glock poised, he swept the interior space with the beam of his light. After a few minutes of probing, he seemed satisfied that the place was empty. He put the gun and the flashlight down on a table, fished out matches, and scraped one of the more sturdy- looking chairs into the center of the room. Then he lit the kerosene lamps hanging from the ceiling. Light filtered to the far edges of the cabin interior.
The small interior space ? about four hundred square feet-was authentically without electricity or telephone. No sign of an intruder was evident. The antique furnishings that came into view were as lovely as I remembered: rocking chairs, a wooden love seat, two small beds, a fireplace that had been put in when the cabin had been reassembled, a spinning wheel, the black cookstove in one corner, an antique corner cupboard in another. There was even a chair that had a bucket underneath-a frontier toilet. But who had broken in? And when?
“Hold on,” said the general as he scanned the room. The glow from the lamp also illuminated the room’s most unusual furnishing: an enormous tiger skin, complete with head. When Maureen Colbert had been a benefactor of the Denver Zoo, she had paid for a tiger to be brought from India. When the large female tiger ? named Lady Maureen by the zoo director, to pay homage to Mrs. Colbert ? had died some years later, the zoo had sent the animal to the taxidermist, then presented it to Mrs. Colbert. This way, she would forever have a reminder of her gift-albeit on the floor of her restored cabin. I didn’t know what Jake would make of the Lady Maureen rug, and wasn’t eager to find out. The general nodded to me, and I moved toward the tiger skin. When I’d heated up the pork on the cabin cookstove last fall, I’d spent quite a bit of time looking at Lady Maureen. Now something about the dead tiger didn’t look right.
“Damn, it’s cold,” Bo muttered. “Looks like who ever broke in didn’t leave much of a trace. I don’t suppose the owners keep firewood inside. Or whoever’s been here used it up.”
“There should be plenty of wood under a plastic cover,” I said quietly, “out by the toolshed.”
When he reholstered the gun and nipped out the door, I knelt beside the tiger skin. Outside, I could hear Marla and Arch insistently telling Jake to hush up. I turned back and examined the rug from one side, then the other. After a moment, I figured out what looked strange. Someone ? perhaps with a sense of humor ? had wedged a flesh-colored balloon deep inside the tiger’s mouth. The balloon was packed in so deeply that the plastic was barely visible between the tiger’s teeth. I felt along the sharp incisors and touched the folds of the object. It was thicker than plastic, more like latex. Carefully, I pulled the rubbery thing out.
It was not a balloon. It looked like a flesh-colored covering of some kind. In the dim light, I could discern drops of dried liquid. I rubbed the pale bumps gently. Makeup came off on my fingers.
Check the trash, I could hear my mother’s voice saying in my ear, her favorite means of getting to the source of the problem. I scanned the room and made for the stenciled trash can beside the wood stove. At its bottom was a small pile of crumpled sheets. I set the pink rubber thing aside and examined the sheets. They were pristinely dustless; they had not been in this trash can very long.
Five cellophane wrappers from Oriental noodle packages crinkled in my hands. I put these aside and reached for the rest: crumpled pages of type that appeared to have been photocopied from a book. The first was a sheet of instructions that included a diagram of an ear. Above the diagram in capital letters was the warning: “Be very careful when cutting around ears, that you cut only the cap.” And at the bottom, a new section: “Applying Makeup.”
I flipped through the pages until I came to one of photographs of men. The heading read: “Woochie Professional Quality Bald Cap.” The introduction to the instructions began: “Woochie premium bald caps can sometimes be reused… .”
I stared at the pink balloon. A bald cap. Who’d put this thing in the tiger’s mouth, and why?
I stuffed the papers and cap into the trash, replaced the can, and ran outside to check on Arch. My son was driving down on the water pump handle with all his strength. Water was not issuing from the spigot. Jake continued to howl. Marla yelled at the dog to hush as she showed Arch how to prime the pump with a full rain bucket. General Bo stood by the toolshed loading his arms with firewood. I ran over to him.
