booming voice from outside, “you all know what Mitch looks like, but the woman he’s with—Lisa Vaughn—is about five feet five, blond hair to her shoulders, slender, but athletic-looking, green eyes, real pretty face….”
Oh yes, Christine thought, a real pretty face all right. Obviously Mitch’s ideal, maybe Spike’s, too. She saw out the opposite set of lodge windows that Ginger had come back across the lake. She was not putting in at her usual spot but ran the prow of her old motorboat up on the shore farther down. Christine went out to fill her in. The two of them were going to hold the fort in case Mitch or Lisa came back or the sheriff or medical help needed to be summoned from Talkeetna.
Christine strode the path to the lake landing and hurried down to it.
“Any news yet?” Ginger asked as she tossed her little anchor on the pebbled shore. Like Spike, she was lanky and redheaded, but with gray eyes and a distant gaze that could really unsettle you. Sometimes she seemed to look past or through you. Even for backcountry Alaska, Ginger Jackson was as eccentric as they came, dressed in a combination of gypsy and frontier-woman clothes.
Ginger lived mostly hand to mouth. Besides baking for the lodge, she picked up random short-term jobs in Bear Bones and always helped Mitch with ziplining for his guests. Ginger’s brother, Spike, loved flying, but Ginger’s high-flying thrills came from zipping along on a steel cable through tall Sitka spruce. Christine admired Ginger’s independence. She’d turned down an offer of marriage from a guy because he insisted she move into town. Ginger wouldn’t accept anything from her big brother but thefirewood he cut for her baking and heating stoves for the cold months. She was even scrimping to save money to pay Spike for that, since the price of jet fuel was, literally, sky-high. Yet since Ginger’s mail came to the lodge, Christine knew that she received lots of high-end catalogs with all kinds of exotic luxury goods—her “dream mags,” she called them.
“We still don’t know anything,” Christine called to her, hurrying closer. “It’s like they vanished into thin air.”
“Maybe they just had things to settle and said the heck with everyone else. That’s what I’d of done. Did Mitch talk about her? I mean, we knew somebody threw somebody over, but I’ve learned never to hold people’s pasts against them.”
Christine wondered if she meant her own past. “No, he didn’t talk about her until just before they arrived,” she admitted, wishing Mitch had confided more to her. That was another thing she liked about Ginger—live and let live. But she didn’t like the way the woman was staring at her, still standing in her boat, hands on her hips, head tilted, almost as if she were accusing her of something. Christine had gone through enough of that.
“What?” she challenged Ginger.
“There!” Ginger pointed past her. So she wasn’t staring at her after all. “Maybe Mitch didn’t put the red kayak I saw here earlier into the lake. See? Someone shoved a kayak up or down here and to or from where? That ridge path above the lake and river?”
Christine turned and looked, then had to shade her eyes and stand back a bit to see what Ginger was pointing at. She gasped and scrambled up the bank toward the path with Ginger right behind her.
They looked at the path, then down it to the other side. Strewn there was the food and cooler Lisa had carried as well as the path of what could well be the kayak sliding down toward the river. A wolverine hunched there, too stubborn to move, bolting down the food, but that wasn’t what upset them.
“Mitch decided to take her white-water kayaking?” Ginger screeched. “Is he nuts? We gotta make folks search the river!”
“But this food strewn here…” Christine began, then stopped in midsentence. “Or maybe she just set the cooler down here and that wily wolverine opened it after they took off. But I
Oh yes, Christine thought, a real pretty face all right. Obviously Mitch’s ideal, maybe Spike’s, too. She saw out the opposite set of lodge windows that Ginger had come back across the lake. She was not putting in at her usual spot but ran the prow of her old motorboat up on the shore farther down. Christine went out to fill her in. The two of them were going to hold the fort in case Mitch or Lisa came back or the sheriff or medical help needed to be summoned from Talkeetna.
Christine strode the path to the lake landing and hurried down to it.
“Any news yet?” Ginger asked as she tossed her little anchor on the pebbled shore. Like Spike, she was lanky and redheaded, but with gray eyes and a distant gaze that could really unsettle you. Sometimes she seemed to look past or through you. Even for backcountry Alaska, Ginger Jackson was as eccentric as they came, dressed in a combination of gypsy and frontier-woman clothes.
Ginger lived mostly hand to mouth. Besides baking for the lodge, she picked up random short-term jobs in Bear Bones and always helped Mitch with ziplining for his guests. Ginger’s brother, Spike, loved flying, but Ginger’s high-flying thrills came from zipping along on a steel cable through tall Sitka spruce. Christine admired Ginger’s independence. She’d turned down an offer of marriage from a guy because he insisted she move into town. Ginger wouldn’t accept anything from her big brother but thefirewood he cut for her baking and heating stoves for the cold months. She was even scrimping to save money to pay Spike for that, since the price of jet fuel was, literally, sky-high. Yet since Ginger’s mail came to the lodge, Christine knew that she received lots of high-end catalogs with all kinds of exotic luxury goods—her “dream mags,” she called them.
“We still don’t know anything,” Christine called to her, hurrying closer. “It’s like they vanished into thin air.”
“Maybe they just had things to settle and said the heck with everyone else. That’s what I’d of done. Did Mitch talk about her? I mean, we knew somebody threw somebody over, but I’ve learned never to hold people’s pasts against them.”
Christine wondered if she meant her own past. “No, he didn’t talk about her until just before they arrived,” she admitted, wishing Mitch had confided more to her. That was another thing she liked about Ginger—live and let live. But she didn’t like the way the woman was staring at her, still standing in her boat, hands on her hips, head tilted, almost as if she were accusing her of something. Christine had gone through enough of that.
“What?” she challenged Ginger.
“There!” Ginger pointed past her. So she wasn’t staring at her after all. “Maybe Mitch didn’t put the red kayak I saw here earlier into the lake. See? Someone shoved a kayak up or down here and to or from where? That ridge path above the lake and river?”
Christine turned and looked, then had to shade her eyes and stand back a bit to see what Ginger was pointing at. She gasped and scrambled up the bank toward the path with Ginger right behind her.
They looked at the path, then down it to the other side. Strewn there was the food and cooler Lisa had carried as well as the path of what could well be the kayak sliding down toward the river. A wolverine hunched there, too stubborn to move, bolting down the food, but that wasn’t what upset them.
“Mitch decided to take her white-water kayaking?” Ginger screeched. “Is he nuts? We gotta make folks search the river!”
“But this food strewn here…” Christine began, then stopped in midsentence. “Or maybe she just set the cooler down here and that wily wolverine opened it after they took off. But I
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