Mystery

Forty years before, his mother had looked out this window and seen Anton Goetz running toward his lodge through the woods. Now he could not even see the ground.

He turned from the window. Barbara Deane was sitting on the bed beside his suitcases, looking at him. The black skirt came just to her knees, suggesting legs that would have looked better beneath a miniskirt than Mrs. Spence’s. She pulled the edge of the skirt over the tops of her knees, and Tom blushed. “The lake’s very quiet now. I prefer it like this, but it might be dull for you.”

Tom sat on a spindly chair next to a small square table with an inlaid chessboard on its surface.

“Are you a friend of Buddy Redwing’s?”

“I don’t really know him. He’s four or five years older than me.”

“It’s disconcerting—you look much older than you really are.”

“Hard life,” he said, but she did not answer his smile. “Do you live here all year-round?”

“I come to the lodge three or four days a week. The rest of the time I spend in a house I own in the town.” She looked around the room as if she were inspecting it for dust. “What do you know about me?” She kept her eyes on the bare shining planks of the wall opposite the bed.

“Well, I know you were my midwife, or my mother’s midwife, or however you say it.”

She glanced sideways at him, and brushed an elegant strand of hair away from her eye.

“And I know you were one of the witnesses at my parents’ wedding.”

“And?”

“And I guess I knew that you took care of this place for my grandfather.”

“And that’s all?”

“Well, I know you ride,” Tom said. “When we drove in this afternoon, we saw you riding between the lodges.”

“I usually go riding early in the mornings,” she said. “But there was a lot to be done in here, so I had to put it off. In fact, I just finished changing when you knocked on the door.” She gave the ghostly sketch of a smile, and smoothed her skirt down over her thighs. “We will be here together at least part of every week, and I want you to know that my privacy is important to me. My room is out of bounds to you—”

“Of course,” Tom said.

“I stay out of the way of people from Mill Walk, and I expect them to return the favor.”

“Well, can we talk, at least?”

Her face softened for a moment. “Of course we can talk. We will talk. I didn’t intend to be short with you, but …” She tossed her head, a gesture that looked feminine and petulant at once. She intended to tell him something she had thought to keep hidden. “My house was robbed last week. It upset me very much. I’m the kind of person—well, I don’t even like most people to know where I live. And when I came back to the town from here and found my house ransacked …”

“I see,” Tom said. It explained a great deal, he thought: but it did not explain why she was the kind of person who wanted to keep even her address a secret. “Did they find who did it?”

Barbara Deane shook her head. “Tim Truehart, the chief of police in Eagle Lake, thinks it was a gang from out of town—maybe as far away as Superior. There’ve been a number of burglaries around here in the past few summers. They hit the summer people’s lodges, usually, and grab their stereo systems and TV sets. But you never think it’s going to be you. Most people in Eagle Lake don’t even lock their doors. I’ll tell you the worst part.”

She looked at him directly now, and twisted on the bed to face him. “They killed my dog. I suppose I got him partly as a watchdog, but I didn’t think of him that way anymore. He was just a big sweet animal—a Chow. They cut his throat and left his body in the kitchen like a—like a calling card.” She was struggling to control herself. “Anyhow, after that I moved some of my things over here, where they seemed safer. I’m still—jumpy. And angry. It’s so personal.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

And that broke the spell. Barbara Deane jumped up from his bed and frowned. “I didn’t mean to bore you with all of that. Don’t mention this at the compound, will you? Eagle Lake people detest any kind of unpleasantness. I’m sure you’d like to get out and acquaint yourself with this place. They’ll start serving dinner at the club at seven, unless you want me to cook something for you.”

“I’ll try the club,” Tom said. “But could we talk later?”

“If you like,” she said, and left him alone in the bedroom.

Tom listened to her footsteps moving down the hall. Her bedroom door clicked shut. He went to the bed and unzipped his suitcases, took out his books and clothes, and hung the clothes in a closet that looked like a coffin with a lightbulb. He pushed the bags under the narrow bed. When he stood up he looked around at the bare little room with its narrow planking. Without Barbara Deane in it, the whole room reminded him of a coffin. He picked up a book and went out into the hallway.

On the other side of the staircase, Barbara Deane’s door remained closed. What do you know about me? He pictured her sitting in a chair, looking out at the lake.

A speedboat barked.