My instructions were simple; do whatever it is you have to do to freshen up, and we'll crawl back in the car and search out something to eat. I didn't tell Brenda, but I wasn't holding out much hope that we would find some unknown culinary wizard practicing his cooking magic in some undiscovered hideaway on the bay. The truth is, I was going to be more than grateful for any warm food, a hot shower and a good night's sleep.
Three-quarters of an hour later, darkness had arrived, and we had cased out the village of Chambers Bay. It consisted of one stop light, three churches, five taverns, a public pier, a combination constable's office and volunteer fire department, four stores (one bait, one hardware, one variety and one drug), two gas stations and three restaurants (two of which were closed).
Our only choice was a diner about a quarter of a mile from the motel. Inside we found a booth that looked out over the darkened bay. The waitress, as it turned out, was one notch above the sullen young clerk back at the motel; she didn't smile, but at least she could talk.
From the series of lighted signs and advertisements littering the grubby walls, I easily determined that the house specialty was Moosehead and that there was no limit to the variety of ways they could serve it. Considering it a challenge, I taxed the scowling barmaid with an order for two bottles, chilled, opened and poured in glasses. I'm sure the woman did her best, but the Moosehead was no better than lukewarm. Brenda didn't seem to mind, so I let the matter rest.
"Somehow I had it pictured a little different from this," she admitted.
I gave her the stock E.G. Wages quizzical look.
"Oh, you know, successful author, cocktail parties, the beautiful people hanging on your every word." She looked around the dingy room, and her pretty mouth curled into a portrait of disappointment. "This place is the pits!"
"This is where we think the story is, remember?"
Before she could respond, the room was suddenly filled with a barrel-chested mountain of a man with several chins, squinty blue eyes and a mop of unruly dishwater blond hair. He towered six foot four or five and strained his faded chambray shirt to the maximum. He didn't need an invitation. He headed straight for our booth, leaned over and extended a grizzly-sized paw in greeting. I wouldn't have been a bit surprised if the ham-sized appendage had sported two thumbs and three fingers.
"Howdy, folks. I'm Constable Madden, but everyone calls me Jake." With that opening volley he was already leading two to nothing. Jake Madden was a Chambers Bay marvel — he could both smile and talk.
"Evening, Constable." My own response sounded inordinately stuffy compared to Brenda's.
She was gushing. "Hi, Jake." She hauled out her dewy-eyed smile, shifted slightly in the booth and batted her eyes. Big Jake promptly forgot about me.
"You folks just passin' through or plannin' to stick around a couple of days and do a little fishin'?"
"May do a little fishing," I acknowledged.
"Just passing through," Brenda informed him. The answers came out almost simultaneously.
Madden laughed. "Funny," he countered, still smiling, "I got the impression you two were traveling together." With that he lowered himself into the booth next to Brenda and signaled the waitress for another round. With three fresh ones sitting in front of us, he eased back, shoved his hat back and sighed expectantly.
Over the years, I've developed a lot of habits — some good, most bad. Generally speaking, I'm somewhat cynical and almost always skeptical about people I meet, but Jake Madden had an entirely different effect on me. It was instant like; there was something about the man. I knew this when I heard myself actually blurting out our reason for being there. "I do research and Miss Cashman here is similarly occupied."
"What kind of research?" Jake grunted.
"Local lore… Canadian stuff… off-the-main-highway stories," Brenda informed him.
Jake leaned forward with an air of confidentially and lowered his voice. "It ain't that I'm snoopin', you understand. Fact is, most folks drivin' through here don't give us much more than a polite nod. But things is a little different these days with all this weird shit that's been goin' on." The words had no more than escaped big Jake's ample mouth when his face began to color. "Sorry," he muttered, "I usually don't get sloppy with my talk when I'm around ladies."
"What kind of weird shit are you referring to?" Brenda smiled. In one fell swoop she put the big man back at ease.
Madden lowered his voice again. I'm not sure why, since we were the only ones in the place besides the waitress, who was listening to the radio. "To tell the truth, when I walked in here and saw you two, I figured you might be reporters. If you was, though, you'd be the first ones that stayed overnight."
"Reporters?" Brenda was working him over. Now it was the wide-eyed, innocent question routine. I wondered if Jake Madden had any idea what kind of buzz saw he was seated next to.
"Well," Jake confided, "seems like a couple of 'em have been showin' up just about every day. They ask a few questions, go down to the drugstore, talk to Percy Kramer, ask me if they can go out to the Carson farm to see where it happened and by nightfall, they've hightailed it outta' town."
"See what?" Honest to God, she was actually fluttering her eyes at him.
"Surely you heard about it," Jake wheezed. "It's been in all the newspapers and was even on television over at Thunder Bay."
"We haven't heard much news. We've been on the road the last couple of days."
"We got somethin' weird goin' on. The RCMP thinks we got some kinda marauder type animal runnin' around these parts, killin' other animals and eatin' 'em. There s been hell to pay the past couple of days. People are pretty nervous."
Brenda emitted an appropriate "echh" sound, and Big Jake smiled knowingly. I knew exactly what he was thinking; as far as he was concerned, the little lady was having trouble handling the big man's sordid story of the real life in the wilds of the Canadian woods. How wrong could one man be? Brenda had him right where she wanted him.
It was time for me to jump in. "What kind of animal?"
Jake Madden shook his head, grunted, checked his watch, looked at the starry-eyed Brenda and decided he'd better earn his keep. "Well, I can tell you one thing — we'll get the critter. It's just a matter of time." He crawled out of the booth and extended his hand again. "You folks have a good time while you're here."
He lumbered across the room, patted our sullen waitress on her ample behind, muttered something in her ear and disappeared out the door.
Jake had been gone for several minutes Brenda batted her green-blue eyes, snapped up the menu, and began to scour it. "I think I'm hungry," she said, smiling.
Back at the motel, we found ourselves a couple of old metal lawn chairs, propped them up so that we had a view of the motel parking lot and, for the most part, escaped into a world of our own private thoughts. Whatever she was thinking caused her to frown. I, on the other hand, was replaying the conversation with the Chambers Bay Constable. So the RCMP thought it was some kind of animal; that seemed logical in view of the fact that only animals had fallen victim to whatever it was so far. The hand-paw prints were throwing them off as well. At this point, I was reasonably certain no one had tied it in to the four previous incidents — if in fact there was a tie-in. I had to keep reminding myself that the whole thing could be a wild goose chase.