Footprints to Murder Page 3

  ‘There’s going to be several hundred people at Flat Rock Lodge this weekend who are likely to disagree with you,’ Jake said pleasantly.

  The massive plaid shoulders shrugged. ‘Reckon you’re right.’

  ‘Not everybody’s a believer, though,’ I said, remembering my conversation with Susan two nights earlier. ‘Martin Radcliffe, for example. He’ll be there.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Scott asked.

  Jake answered for me. ‘He’s a professional debunker. Has a TV show on the History Channel – maybe you’ve seen it? Called Don’t You Believe It!’

  ‘Nah,’ Scott muttered. His eyes drifted to the rear-view mirror. ‘You ever watch Forensic Files, you being a cop and all?’

  Jake rested a hand on Harley’s head and stroked it gently. ‘Uh, no. That would be a little like going to work early.’

  I suppressed a grin. ‘Do you know this guy Radcliffe, Jake?’

  ‘Only by reputation,’ he said.

  As miles of pine forest spooled by outside my window, I asked, ‘Why’d they pick Flat Rock for this conference anyway, Scott? It seems so remote.’

  ‘There have been sightings here ever since the 1800s. The Indians talked about bear-like creatures that came down from the mountains at night to steal salmon.’

  ‘Tsiatko,’ said Jake. ‘That’s what the Native Americans called ’em. ‘Stick Indians. They reportedly kidnapped children, too.’

  ‘Sasquatch, Bigfoot, Yeti, Swamp Ape, Yowie … whatever,’ Scott muttered. ‘It’s big business here, you know, so I don’t like to make waves.’

  ‘When you say it’s big business, what do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘I have two words for you, Mrs Ives: Prairie Flower.’ He raised a hand from where it rested on the gear stick. ‘I’ll say no more.’

  I stole a sideways glance at Jake, who shrugged, apparently as mystified by his comment as I was.

  Harley’s ears twitched. He glanced from Jake to me and back to Jake again before resting his muzzle on his paws and closing his eyes. If the dog knew anything about someone (or something) called Prairie Flower, he was staying mum.

  Twenty miles further on, a carved wooden sign erected by the Kiwanis Club welcomed us to Sisters, a gentrified town of one- and two-story buildings featuring 1880s western-style facades. Boutiques, art galleries, restaurants, microbreweries and coffee shops lined both sides of the generously wide street, punctuated here and there by stately pine trees. By night, the streets would be illuminated by old-fashioned lanterns suspended from wooden cross beams; by day, floral hanging baskets brightened the scene. As we passed Dixie’s Western Wear I made a mental note to stop by on my way back. I’d buy a pair of cowgirl boots – proper leather boots, too, the kind Santa Claus never brought me, despite years of pleading letters to the North Pole.

  On the outskirts of Sisters the well-maintained highway ran remarkably straight through high desert sage; in the distance, pine forests formed a dark green skirt around the mountains, clearly visible now, still wearing their caps of winter snow. Traffic was light and Scott seemed in no particular hurry, avoiding the passing lanes and seemingly content to keep pace with the SUV and a long-distance trucker just ahead.

  Just after the turnoff for Black Butte Ranch – ‘fancy dancy’ according to Scott, ‘built by the lumber company back in the seventies’ – he steered north onto an unpaved national forest road and we began a gradual, winding climb through a forest of ponderosa pine. We passed a yellow warning sign – Flood Hazard Area – pocked with bullet holes. Just when it seemed we’d run out of road and I began thinking how handy it was to have a cop and a K-9 on board in case Scott had driven us out to the middle of nowhere with murder on his mind, the curtain of trees parted.

  I gasped.

  Harley’s head shot up.

  ‘Damn,’ said Jake. ‘That’s swanky.’

  In the clearing before us stood a sprawling, three-story, red-roofed Swiss chalet built of white stucco accented with dark wooden shutters and carved gingerbread trim. Bright red geraniums filled the window boxes that decorated each balcony. Flat Rock Mountain Lodge was so relentlessly Bavarian that I expected Heidi and her grandfather to round the corner at any minute, followed by a herd of goats.

  A paved trail lined with a low, split-rail fence snaked off and disappeared into the pine needles on our right. To the left, surrounded by the same rustic fencing, was a parking lot. ‘Lots of cars here already,’ I observed.

  Scott brought the van to a stop under the portico. ‘Most people arrive by car – either rent or drive their own,’ he said as he opened his door and climbed out. I heard a beep and the door to my right slid open. Scott appeared almost at once, dragging a brass-colored bellman’s luggage cart. ‘I’ve got another pickup at the airport at two,’ he said in way of explanation as he heaved Jake’s and my bags unceremoniously onto the rolling cart. ‘There’s a minibus laid on at four for a big group from LA. A bit close, but it should get the lot of ’em here in time for the opening reception.’

  ‘What a relief,’ I said.

  I must have sounded snarky because Jake frowned. ‘You a skeptic, too, Hannah?’

  I smiled. ‘As the hired help, my opinion doesn’t really matter. But, between you and me … and Harley here … let’s just say that when it comes to Bigfoot, the jury is still out.’

  Jake relieved a grateful Scott of the luggage cart. ‘This conference will open your eyes,’ Jake said as he pushed the cart with our bags on it into a lobby furnished with red plush-covered sofas, armchairs upholstered in a caramel-colored plaid and sturdy occasional tables painted off-white. A massive stone fireplace dominated the far end of the room, flanked by picture windows that soared from the weathered, oak-planked flooring straight into the rafters. In spite of warm, late-May temperatures, a small fire glowed in the grate and the four wing-back chairs facing the hearth were occupied. One of the occupants, a teenager, plugged into his iPod and nodding to some thankfully inaudible tune, had his bare feet deeply buried in the fur of – Dear Lord, help us! – an enormous bearskin rug. ‘I wouldn’t have wanted to meet that creature in the woods,’ I said, indicating the rug that had me fixed in a glassy-eyed glare, teeth bared.

  ‘At a conference like this, anything can happen,’ Jake said.

  Jake, Harley and I joined the line at the reception desk behind a well-dressed couple in their fifties who were loudly petitioning the desk clerk for a room change. She, with flyaway, improbably red hair, waved a printout under the young woman’s nose. ‘We don’t want a double. We want a king. King. Sized. Bed,’ she said, emphasizing each word. ‘No smoking. Says so right here, doesn’t it, Jim?’

  Jim, balding and bespectacled, flushed, seeming to shrivel inside his three-piece suit as if willing himself to disappear. The clerk smiled, held her hand out for the printout, bowed her head and tapped a few keys. A minute later the pair trundled off behind a bellman pushing a cart loaded with two matching suitcases and an assortment of rectangular black boxes.

  I checked in without incident.

  ‘Don’t forget to take a cookie,’ the receptionist said, indicating a basket sitting on the counter nearby. The basket, woven in an intricate Native American design, was filled with waxed paper bags, each containing a homemade chocolate-chip cookie.

  ‘Heat it up in the microwave,’ she advised. ‘To. Die. For.’

  I didn’t need to be told twice.

  ‘See you at six-thirty?’ Jake asked.

  ‘I’ll be around and about, I imagine.’ I saluted him with my key packet, gave Harley a pat and headed for the elevators and my room on the third floor.

  Once inside room 313, I dropped my bag on the bed then stepped out on the balcony to admire the view. Just beyond the parking lot below and to my right, acres of pine stretched off as far as the eye could see. On the left, however, just visible through a gap in the trees behind the tennis courts, I caught a glimpse of the enormous granite slab that must have given the lodge its name. Below that a ribbon of
river danced and sparkled in the early afternoon sun.

  Kudos to Susan for the view, I thought as I reluctantly slid the door closed. I ran a damp washcloth over my face, my fingers through my curls and freshened my lipstick. Then I headed back to the elevators, eager to track down my friend.

  THREE

  Nootka Sound, British Columbia, 1792. ‘I do not know what to say about Matlox, inhabitant of the mountainous district, of who all have an unbelievable terror. [Native people] imagine his body as very monstrous, all covered with stiff black bristles; a head similar to a human one, but with much greater, sharper, and stronger fangs than those of the bear; extremely long arms; and toes and fingers armed with long curved claws. His shouts alone (they say) force those who hear them to the ground, and any unfortunate body he slaps is broken into a thousand pieces.’

  Jose Mariano Mozino, Noticias de Nutka: An Account of Nootka Sound in 1792. Iris H. Wilson, trans. Toronto, McClelland and Steward, 1970, pp. 27–28

  I found Susan by following a trail of yellow plastic Bigfoot prints that led from the lobby, past the coffee shop and down a long hallway to a registration desk set up just outside the Cascades Ballroom. The minute Susan saw me, she leapt to her feet. ‘Am I glad to see you!’ Without giving me time even to click my heels, salute smartly and say, ‘Reporting for duty, ma’am,’ she turned and introduced me to the woman sitting next to her behind the table. ‘Hannah, this is Carole Pulaski, one of the volunteers.’

  Susan gestured to the chair she had just vacated. We did a quick do-si-do and switched places. ‘It’s going to be busy from now until registration closes at five-thirty,’ Susan said. ‘I have to check on the catering, so you’ll have to excuse me, but Carole will show you what to do.’

  After Susan left, I sat down on the folding chair, still warm, and tucked my knees under the long, skirt-covered table. While I wore slacks, I suspect Carole was grateful for the table skirt. Whoever had designed the black leather miniskirt she wore probably never envisioned anyone actually sitting down in it. She’d topped the skirt off with a Lycra animal-print scoop-neck T-shirt that was, in my opinion, at least two sizes too small, but when one was blessed with a full figure like Carole’s it would be hard to resist the temptation to flaunt it. A drop-shaped polished agate suspended from a thin gold chain nested comfortably in the woman’s cleavage.

  Four trays of what I presumed were registration packets lay on the table in front of us. ‘You have A to M,’ Carole instructed. ‘I’m handling N to Z.’ Since A to M sat right in front of me, that was a no-brainer. Besides, I had to confess I was looking forward to seeing Jake Cummings again. ‘Your badge will be in that batch, too.’

  I thumbed through the envelopes, found my packet and opened it. My badge, like Carole’s, had a Bigfoot silhouette printed in the upper right-hand corner. My name and hometown – Hannah Ives, Annapolis MD – was printed on it in Times New Roman, with my first name, ‘Hannah,’ several font sizes larger. A red stick-on ribbon invited conference attendees to ‘Ask Me.’ Good luck with that.

  Carole reached under the table. ‘Everyone gets one of these little bags of tchotchkes.’

  ‘Swag?’

  Carole laughed. ‘Hardly. Van Cleef and Arpels was fresh out of diamond stick pins this year.’

  I took the bag from her outstretched fingers. ‘Been busy?’ I asked, noticing that the tray in front of me still had at least fifty packets in it.

  ‘They’re having a break right now but I expect we’ll be swamped in ten minutes or so, once the coffee runs out.’

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ I asked, fingering the blue plastic drawstring that held it closed.

  ‘Take a look.’

  I undid the drawstring and upended the bag onto the tabletop. A fridge magnet shaped like a footprint dropped out. A koozie from Alpine Snowmobile Rentals to keep my canned drinks cold. Ponderosa Vacation Rentals was offering me a ten-day ski holiday rental for the price of seven. And there was an official-looking, gilt-edged gift certificate for twenty percent off the DVD of Brad Johnson’s new video, In the Steps of Bigfoot.

  I waved the certificate. ‘Have you seen this video?’

  Carole shook her head, setting the gold, double-hoop earrings she wore bouncing against her neck like miniature chandeliers. ‘No one has. It’s the one he’s filming here at the conference.’

  That was a surprise. Susan hadn’t mentioned anyone filming the proceedings. Had I but known, I might have taken the time to have my eyebrows waxed. ‘Who’s Brad Johnson, anyway?’

  Carole shrugged. ‘I’ve never met him, but Ron – that’s Ron Murphy, owns the Ford dealership? He’s one of the conference organizers so he’s read all the résumés. Ron told me the kid came out of NYU film school and did a bit of work in Hollywood. Guess this is his first big project. Hopes to sell it to the Discovery Channel or something.’ She snorted. ‘Fat chance!’

  I tucked the loot back into the bag. ‘Whoops, almost missed this one,’ I said, taking genuine delight in a Bigfoot-shaped air freshener designed to hang on the rear-view mirror of my car. Pine scent. That would come in handy next time I took my daughter’s labradoodle, Coco, to the doggie beach at Quiet Waters Park.

  I was squinting at the small print on a keychain flashlight from a pool and spa company in Bend – 22 Years in Business! Our Spas are Made in Oregon! – when the last van from the airport arrived and the registration desk was deluged with conference attendees. As the clock ticked down to the time of the opening reception, each attendee seemed more anxious than the last.

  By then I had my spiel down pat. Tell me your name. Here’s your packet – the badge holder is inside. Hospitality suite is down the hall, just past the restrooms. Simply follow the big yellow footprints. Ha ha ha. Please check your banquet ticket to make sure your entrée is correct. Blue for chicken, red for beef and if you asked for vegetarian, your ticket will be green.

  And, Relax, you have plenty of time to check in. We’ve ordered tons of hors d’oeuvres.

  Then I’d shove a goody bag into their hands, smile and move on to the next customer.

  I’d ducked under the table skirt, fishing for an errant goody bag when I heard a familiar voice. ‘Hey, Hannah.’

  I bumped my head on the way up. ‘Ouch!’ I said, gently rubbing the spot. Then, ‘Hi, Jake.’

  I found Jake’s packet filed among the Cs and handed it over. When he opened it I was amused to see that Harley also had a nametag and a red banquet ticket. ‘We’re both meat and potato men,’ Jake informed me with a wink as he clipped the tag to Harley’s collar. ‘See you at the reception?’

  I shrugged and turned to Carole. ‘What time do we finish up here, anyway?’

  ‘Five-thirty or thereabouts.’

  I smiled up at Jake. ‘Then, yes, I’ll be there, although if Susan has anything to say about it I’ll be running around making sure the crab balls don’t run out.’

  ‘All work and no play?’ Jake winked.

  I felt suddenly warm and all a-fluttery. Tongue-tied, too. As I watched Jake stride away, long-limbed and lean, I gave myself a good talking-to. Don’t flatter yourself, Hannah. He’s sure to have noticed the wedding ring on your finger. The guy’s simply a natural flirt.

  ‘That’s it, then,’ Carole was saying when I came to. ‘Only ten packets left. They’ll have to wait until tomorrow.’

  I helped her tuck the trays of registration packets and the box of goody bags under the table. ‘Will they be safe here overnight?’

  Carole rolled her eyes. ‘We’re in Flat Rock Freaking Oregon,’ she said, as if that explained everything. Then she waved vaguely and hurried away.

  Back in my room, I stripped off my limp, frankly embarrassing travel clothes and left them in a heap on the floor. After a quick shower I changed into the black slacks and colorful embroidered jacket I’d worn to the president’s reception at Oberlin a few evenings before, then slipped into a pair of black Gucci nameplate flats I’d bought on sale at DSW for $149. Telling my reflection i
n the mirror, That will have to do – I picked up my iPhone and texted Susan: What next and where?

  She replied: Catering office. Stat.

  Oh, joy. An issue with the food already.

  I found Susan standing guard over a platter of crudités arranged fan-shaped around a crystal bowl filled with what looked like ranch dip.

  ‘Hannah, thank God. I have to run. Explain to this woman, please, the difference between vegetarian and vegan.’

  With a wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights, what-did-I-do-wrong expression on her face, the young woman stammered, ‘I’m just filling in; the catering manager is out tonight with a sick kid.’

  I’d gone through a vegan phase, as Susan well knew, back when I was recovering from breast cancer. I’d loosened up a bit in recent years but was still careful to shop for groceries where I could be assured that any meat I decided to buy would be hormone and antibiotic free. ‘What’s in the dip?’ I asked as Susan straight-armed her way out the door, leaving me alone with the nervous girl.

  ‘Creamy ranch. It doesn’t have meat in it, honest,’ she said. ‘I can show you the jar. You can read the ingredients for yourself.’

  ‘Vegans eat no animal products whatsoever,’ I explained, surprised that someone her age, which I judged to be around twenty, wouldn’t already be familiar with twenty-first-century dietary trends. ‘And that includes milk, eggs and honey.’

  ‘Oh.’ Clearly, this was a new thought.

  ‘A vegan would eat a carrot stick plain,’ I pointed out. ‘Or dip it in salt, maybe with oil and vinegar on it.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You can leave the ranch dip on the tray but I suggest you label it so that there’ll be no confusion.’ I touched her arm. ‘Look. Even a vegan who’s never eaten a restaurant meal in her entire life isn’t going to chance it by dipping into something white, but I know she would appreciate a head’s up.’

  Looking somewhat relieved, the young woman handed me a printout of the menu, presumably for my review and approval, although if I objected to something I didn’t know what good it would have done now, just twenty minutes before cocktail hour was scheduled to begin. I made a production of skimming the menu, nodding, um-uming over each appetizer in what I hoped was an encouraging way, noting, in particular, the stuffed mushrooms, then handed it back. ‘Cash bar?’