Everything To Prove

“Yes, sir, it is, but the fact that he had a wife and child is a great human interest angle. Where do you suppose Connor was going when he took off that day?” Libby asked, fishing for some mention of Connor’s wedding.

“LUANNE!” Frey belted out, startling Libby yet again. For the third time Luanne scuttled out onto the porch, eyes downcast. “Get down on the dock and tell that bastard he’s not welcome here.”

For the first time Libby noticed the canoe that was approaching the dock. “Who is it?”

“That damn Indian guide who works for those flatlanders across the lake. He knows this place is off-limits to him. He tried to sic the Department of Human Services on me last summer for some alleged infractions of human rights. He told them I mistreated my employees, didn’t house them properly or pay them their legal wages and overtime. Overtime, for cripe’s sake. They actually sent someone out from Fairbanks to inspect their living quarters and check my books.” Frey made a sound of disgust. “Overtime! They’re lucky I pay them anything at all.”

Luanne was speaking to the man in the canoe. She turned and walked swiftly back to the porch and stared at Mr. Frey’s slippered feet. “He says he is here to take Ms. Wilson back across. He says Joe Boone is busy guiding two clients and couldn’t come.”

Libby stood, folding her notebook. “Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Frey.”

Frey grunted and picked up his glass of whiskey as Libby started down the steps. She paused at the bottom and glanced back. “Were you surprised that Connor left everything to you in his will?”

Frey shook his head. “He didn’t have anyone else.”

“Did they ever find Connor Libby’s plane?”

“They’ll never find that plane. This lake is bottomless, part of an old volcanic cirque,” Frey said with a shake of his head. “End of story.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Frey,” Libby said. “I haven’t even started writing it yet.”

CHAPTER FOUR

LIBBY WALKED OUT onto the dock to meet the canoe, and the man seated in the stern nodded to her. He was much younger than Joe Boone and stockily built. Black raven’s wing hair was pulled back with a strip of red cloth that hung between his shoulder blades. He wore faded jeans, a red flannel shirt and a green wool cruiser. On his feet were a pair of moose-hide moccasins. “I’m Graham Johnson, one of Mike and Karen’s guides. Karen thought you might prefer a canoe ride this time of evening.”

“She’s right. This is much nicer than a motorboat. Thank you for coming to get me,” Libby said. She knelt in the bow of the canoe and picked up the paddle as he swung around and started along the edge of the lake.

“How did your interview with Daniel Frey go?”

“Okay.” It was a beautiful evening. The wind had died, the lake was calm and reflected the majestic mountains upon its silken surface. “Actually, I didn’t learn anything new. A plane crashed in this lake twenty-eight years ago and I came here to see what Daniel Frey might know about it.” She spoke without turning, and the air was so still that she feared for a moment that Frey might have overheard.

“You’re talking about Connor Libby’s plane?”

“Yes. Do you know anything about the crash?”

“It happened before I was born, but there was a lot of talk in the village about it.”

“What kind of talk?”

“My mother had a cousin who worked here at the time. Frey gave all the hired help the weekend off because Connor was getting married to a native girl from Umiak, who worked at the lodge and had invited them to the wedding. But Daniel Frey didn’t come and never planned to come. So mostly the talk was about why he wouldn’t attend his godson’s wedding.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Everyone thought it was because he didn’t want his godson to marry a native girl. He doesn’t like Indians much. That’s common knowledge. And some thought he didn’t want to be in the plane, either.”

“Because Frey knew it might crash?”

“Maybe.” Graham’s answer was noncommittal.

“Is there anyone else at all who might know something about it, other than Daniel Frey?”

There was a long pause, just the sound of the paddle dipping into the water. “My father, maybe,” Graham said.

Libby felt a jolt of surprise. “Was he living around here at the time?”

The silence stretched her tension to the limit before Graham spoke again. “My father lived out here most of the time, fishing in summer and running a trapline in winter. He only came home maybe once, twice a year. When I was old enough, I spent summers with him. He didn’t talk much, but every once in a while he’d tell me a story. There was one story he liked to tell, to scare me and make me stay close. It was the story of a yellow three-legged dog. He said the dog howled in the night like its heart was broken and wandered like a ghost along the shores of the lake, looking for lost souls. He said if I wandered off into the woods, Windigo would get me. He told me the three-legged dog would carry my soul to the land of the forgotten. When I got older, the people in the village told me that dog belonged to a white man from the lodge, the one who died in the plane crash.”

“Do you think your father would tell me that story?” Libby asked, turning to face him.

A brief pause followed, the length of three paddle strokes. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask him.”

“Where does he live now?”

“Where he’s always lived, a few miles up the west arm.”

“Could we go there now? It won’t be dark for another three hours.”

“He might not talk to you. He doesn’t like whites much.”

“I’ll take my chances. I need to learn all I can about that plane crash.” She waited with bated breath for his answer, because his expression wasn’t promising.

“All right,” he finally said. “We’ll trade our canoe for a motorboat and take a trip up.”

KAREN WAS WAITING on the dock when they arrived. “I hope you didn’t mind coming back by canoe,” she said as Libby climbed onto the dock.

“It was wonderful. Thank you for thinking of it.”

“How did your meeting with Mr. Frey go?”

“He was more talkative than I expected.” Libby glanced back to where Graham was already shifting his gear into a motorboat. “Graham is going to take me to talk with his father. He says he might have something to add to the story.”

“How’s Solly doing, Graham?” Karen asked.

“Not so good. He still has a cold, but he won’t see a doctor. Doesn’t trust the white man’s medicine.”

“I’ll pack you some food to bring to him,” Karen said, and Libby accompanied her up to the lodge. “Well, you’ve managed to accomplish two things in less than a day that I’ve been trying to do for several years,” she said wryly while arranging food in a basket in the kitchen. “You’ve met Daniel Frey, and now you’re going to meet Solly Johnson, though I don’t know what light he’ll be able to shed on Ben Libby.”

“Actually, I’m hoping he’ll know something about the plane crash that killed Ben’s son,” Libby explained.

“Ah. Well, it’s possible. And if nothing else, you’ll get a good boat ride with Graham. He’s our best guide. He knows this lake better than any of the others, all the lore and legends, and he knows where the best fishing can be found. Our guests really enjoy being guided by him. They request him more than all the others.”

“Does he have any family other than his father?” Libby asked.

“His mother lives in a village on the Yukon, and I believe he has several brothers and sisters,” Karen replied. “I think he has a soft spot for a certain girl who works for Daniel Frey. Luanne Attla. He’s brought her here a couple of times. She’s a nice girl.”

“Yes, I met her this evening. She has a tough job.”

“I offered to hire her but she seemed determined to stay with Frey. He must pay his help a whole lot better than I can.” Karen handed the basket to Libby and smiled. “Tell Solly he’s welcome here any time. And good luck.”