Dead in the Water by Ted Wood Page B

was no way of knowing whether the mad doctor had a gun of his own and had staked the place out. He hadn't. Sam made a quick spin around and came back to me. I went in and checked. The birds had flown, sure enough. The suitcases and few hanging clothes were gone. The bed was still unmade, but one thing had changed. The Cinzano ashtray was full of butts.
    I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but that was evidence. Angela Masters didn't smoke. Somebody had been here, spent a little time. I checked the butts. Two brands, both American.
    I pulled the door shut and went over to the office. There was nobody at the desk and I leaned on the bell. Still nothing. I figured that the boss was taking a tumble with the hired help. Jenny Saunders isn't much to look at, but neither is Mike and she didn't do much work in making up the cabins. I figured they were mom and popping out back.
    As I waited I heard a wailing of horns out on the highway. I looked out and saw a snake of motorcycles threading down the white lines on the highway, passing everything. My gut tightened. It was the motorcycle gang from Toronto. If they knew I was here they'd feel obliged to hoorah the place, just to show how ballsy they were. And if I came outside they would fight. I found myself breathing shallow, tense as a bow string. I had a murder to look after, plus an abduction and a disappearing boat. This was not the day to get into a bloody hassle with some spaced-out speed freaks who would have a holiday in the newspapers if I took the gun to them, and would leave me for dead if I didn't.
    My luck was running good that minute. They sailed on by, not looking sideways to see the cruiser in front of the bin. If they remembered, they would be back, and the fight would be on.
    I was turning to go when Mike Higgins came out, yawning to let me know he had been sleeping, not making out. He didn't have anything much to tell me. The room had been paid for with an envelope stuffed under the door of the office. It was an envelope from the drawer of the cabin and it had a U.S. twenty stuffed inside. Someone had written "Cabin Four" sprawling letters on the envelope.
    I left him, still yawning and scratching, willing me to leave so he could get back to his woman. I made my way back to the cruiser and drove down to Ferry Beach Lodge. It was time to take a real look around.
    Sissie Lowrie was still working, and working on a bottle of rye that she covered with a towel when I came into the cafeteria. There were three or four teenagers in the place. They had cokes but weren't drinking them. When they saw me they left, pronto. I wondered just what Winslow's place was famous for. It sure wasn't the haute cuisine. I walked through the little lift-up flap to the back of the counter and took the towel off Sissie's rye. "Is this what Ross is selling the kids?"
    She looked at me for perhaps half a minute, wondering if I'd go away. When she decided I wouldn't, she said, "I just work here, eh?"
    "And you shouldn't be drinking."
    She narrowed her eyes and worked her mouth a little. I guessed she was worried that I'd tell her husband and he'd give her hell for not bringing the bonanza home with her. "You ain't gonna make trouble, eh, Chief?"
    I picked up the rye bottle. "You didn't answer my question. Is this what makes Ross so popular with the kids?"
    She shook her head and sat down helplessly. "He never tells me nothing. I guess he lets the lodge guests have the odd bottle on the weekend."
    "So what's with the punks hanging around here?"
    Her eyes were on the bottle, like Moses staring at the Promised Land. "Why'nt you ask them?"
    I set the bottle down again. Her sigh filled the muggy kitchen like steam. "I'm going to take a look around inside," I told her. Maybe she knew it was outside my rights. She didn't care. As long as the bottle stayed in the kitchen, so would she. She just nodded and I nodded back, polite as a couple of Mandarin dolls, then I went on through the back exit of the kitchen, into Ross