“If you think Russell Pelletier conspired with Truman to murder those men, weren’t you afraid to go over there?”
“I had my shotgun.”
Charley pulled on his chin in a reflective way. “If Truman called you last night, why did you wait until this morning to contact Detective Soctomah?”
“Because they already arrested me once. Those cops think I’m a liar. I didn’t think they’d do anything if I told them.”
“So why call them at all?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I guess I wanted someone to know in case.”
“In case what?”
“In case something bad happened.” She gazed directly into my eyes. “You should have heard him on the phone.”
Looking into her eyes, I was disturbed again by the animal reaction I had to her. It troubled me to be attracted to this woman. “What exactly did Truman say?”
“He said, ‘You goddamned bitch. What lies are you telling about me?’ And I said, ‘It’s the truth. You killed those men, you and Russell.’ And he said, ‘I’ll kill you, too, if you don’t shut your fucking mouth.’ Then I hung up.”
“So that was it?”
“Yeah.”
Charley leaned forward. “How long did you know Bill Brodeur?”
She looked startled. “Who?”
“Bill Brodeur, the sheriff’s deputy who was murdered with Jonathan Shipman.”
“I didn’t know him.”
“You never met him at the Dead River Inn?”
Suddenly, far off in the forest, we heard a horn honking, followed by the noise of an approaching truck engine. Brenda leaped to her feet and ran to the screen window looking out to the road. Charley kept his eyes on her as he rose.
“It’s Pelletier,” she said.
Charley turned to Brenda. “Why don’t you stay here while we go see what he wants?”
“I don’t want to talk to that asshole, anyway.”
I reached down and grabbed the shotgun. Then I followed Charley out the door and through the middle cabin.
Pelletier’s new truck was coming down the road fast, bouncing over the sun-hardened ruts. It braked at the edge of the dooryard, and Pelletier poked his head out the window and shouted over the diesel engine, “You got a call back at the camp.”
“Who from?”
“Soctomah. He needs your plane.”
I felt my stomach sink. “What’s going on?”
“Truman’s disappeared. They need you to help search for his truck.”
“What the hell for?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. Soctomah wants you to call him. Hop in and I’ll drive you back to camp.”
Charley stepped close to me. “This is strange,” he said in a whisper.
“What do you think is happening?”
“Maybe the state police found something at Truman’s place.”
“What should we do?”
“Go talk to Soctomah, I guess.” He turned back to the window from which Brenda was watching us. “You mind coming out here, Miss Dean?”
“What for?” came her voice.
“We’re going to take a ride over to the camp.”
“No way!”
I looked at Charley. “You want me to drag her out?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll go with Russell and talk with Soctomah. You stay here with the girl.”
“Do you trust Pelletier?”
“Trust him? No, but I don’t think he’s a murderer. I may have to leave right away. If I do, I’ll leave a message with him. You can call me over the radio-or call Soctomah and he’ll tell you what’s going on.” He took a step toward the idling truck.
“Wait,” I said. “Why were you asking her about Brodeur?”
“Whoever killed those men knew Brodeur was planning on driving out the back way, down that logging road. How did they know? I’m guessing Brodeur told the shooter himself.”
“You think he was in on it? You think someone double-crossed him?”
“Charley!” Pelletier shouted. “Soctomah said it’s urgent.”
“Stay with her,” Charley said. “Whatever you do, don’t let her out of your sight. And hang on to that shotgun.”
I glanced back at the kitchen cabin and saw Brenda move behind the screen. “I plan to.”
He patted me on the shoulder and gave me his big grin. “I’ll be back in no time. If you run into trouble, call me on the radio phone!”
If I was confused before, this turn of events left me completely bewildered. Was it possible that Brenda was telling the truth about Truman? And if so, what did that suggest about Pelletier’s involvement? Charley didn’t believe that Russ was a killer, but I was past the point of trusting my instincts.
I found Brenda in the kitchen cabin, sitting up on the picnic table, smoking a cigarette, drinking a beer: the dictionary definition of a nervous wreck. “What happened?”
“The police are searching for Truman. They need Charley’s plane.”
“I told you he did it!”
“We don’t know what’s going on.” I remained in the doorway, the shotgun against my shoulder. “It might be something else.”
“It isn’t,” she said confidently. “So why are you still here?”
“Charley thought I should stay.”
“I don’t need a bodyguard.” The words were defiant, but the look on her face was playful.
“How about a babysitter?”
She jumped down from the table and took a step forward, coming face to chest with me. “I want to sit on the porch-if it’s all right with you.”
I stepped aside. She shoved open the screen door and plopped into one of the two Adirondack chairs my dad had built by hand. I leaned against the porch railing, gazing out at the water. The lake shined with a blue light through the trees.
There was a long silence between us that made me uncomfortable.
“You really cleaned up this place,” I said at last. “I almost didn’t recognize it.”
“Jack needs someone to take care of him. All men do.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “You think we’re all a bunch of slobs.”
“The one thing I know about-living here all my life-is men.”
I was still chewing over that remark when I heard the sputter of Charley’s Super Cub coming to life. Then the plane came skimming by on its pontoons and I watched it lifted upward into the sky as if by an invisible hand. The sound it made-an insect-like hum-grew fainter and fainter until finally all I could hear were the real insects in the pines and the lake lapping against the shore.
“Well,” I said, mostly to myself. “He’s gone.”
“Good,” she said.
28
