On the far side of Bracebridge, which stood exactly halfway between the Equator and the North Pole, according to an official plaque, I began seeing signs at the side of the road for a place called Norchris Lodge. I needed a place to stay on Lake Muskoka and Norchris Lodge was on Lake Muskoka, just where the Muskoka River empties into it from the highlands of Algonquin Park. I drove off the two-lane road I’d been on since Bracebridge, followed the signs and at a moderate speed made it to the gravel lane leading to the office. This was housed in a large log building with, as I later discovered, a monstrous stone fireplace. Through the boughs of trees and bushes, I could see glimpses of the lake, a beach, a water slide, docks, boats and a lawn with rustic bright red wooden chairs lined up to point out the view. It was early, the season hadn’t properly started yet, so I couldn’t see many guests looking at the lake.
Christopher McArthur and his wife, Norma, ran the lodge. They were a friendly young couple with several youngsters of various ages. They were all making lastminute repairs to window screens, door hinges, motorboat gear and sailboat rigging. I could hear a boy’s voice calling: “Stuart! Renée! Abigail needs you!”
“That’s Winston,” Norma said. “He likes organizing things.”
I told the McArthurs what I needed, and they told me what they could provide. Across the lagoon formed by the outlet of a creek into something they called “The Cut,” Norma pointed out a cottage called “Nova” or was it “Scotia”? Here I could cook or not cook as it suited me. The main dining-room of the lodge, she explained, wasn’t open for the season yet. I took a look at the cabin, which was luxurious compared to what I had been expecting. The shingles on the roof were partly covered by fallen pine needles. I could imagine what the place must look like under the falling leaves around Thanksgiving. I made a mental note.
Chris helped me get my stuff from the car. He was amazed that the Olds was still holding together. I guess there aren’t many cars of that vintage still operating on the forty-fifth parallel. The bed was comfortable, the bathroom well appointed and in working order. Through my windows, I could see a rack of red canoes and kayaks of yellow and blue. There were paddleboats, and motorboats for the more ambitious. A cream-coloured float plane was moored to a dock just at the edge of my vision on the right. A Japanese-inspired bridge joined together the land cut in two by the lagoon-like harbour, which ran behind or in front of several of the cottages. I also had a clear view, not only of the lake, but also of a most inviting hammock strung between massive pines. I was beginning to like this job.
In the hammock, less than twenty minutes after signing in, and looking at my pale, bare toes, I opened the paperback I’d bought at Book City about Dermot Keogh. It was a slim volume with pictures reproduced from magazines and newspapers. It had the look of a book flung together in a hurry on a computer, or several computers, judging from the many changes in font. The author was described as “a sometime critic and music lover.” The chapters carved Keogh’s life into convenient phases. From childhood and youth, we went on to triumphs in London, Moscow and New York. I saved the part about his untimely death for later, like it was the icing from my birthday cake. I was beginning to feel guilty about the hammock. This Cooperman had no real aptitude for relaxation. I knew in my heart that I had to get back to work.
A plan began to form in my twisted little mind. I would locate, if I could, Vanessa’s cottage. Inside, I would try to find some proof that she had been there within the last two weeks or so. I’d question the neighbours, speak to the gas-station attendant and otherwise try to place my client away from Toronto on the date of Renata Sartori’s murder.
I drifted into a thoughtful reverie, and from there slid into something more dream-like. I was back in my car, driving through a pine forest, which surrendered to tundra and then to icefields. I kept checking the road-map to see whether I’d come too far. Whatever I saw on the map, it didn’t convince me to turn the car around. The icefields became a frozen river, the right of way marked out by empty oil drums. There was a shimmer to the ice and snow, and I couldn’t see the road properly even with sunglasses. There was no other traffic on the single track now over a bleak frozen lake. I tried to turn the car around and managed to get stuck in the slush and ice at the edge of the frozen highway.
I was awakened from this suddenly by the sound of a steam whistle. Was a ship caught in the ice? Was a boat crossing the frozen lake? Then I saw my white toes at the end of the hammock. I looked up to see several people along the waterfront watching a long, narrow steamship moving at a steady pace through The Cut. Built low to the water, without being wide in the beam, white-hulled, she cut across the background of trees. As Cary Grant used to say, she was yare: nimble, lively, trim and gorgeous; everything a steam yacht ought to be, with lots of dark wood and brasswork gleaming even from where I was lying. She let out another whoop as she began her turn into the mouth of the river.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Norma McArthur was shielding her eyes from the sun to get a better look. “During the season, she puts in here, and you can go for a ride. She’s chartered now. Private charter.”
“What’s her name?”
“Wanda III. She was built for Lady Eaton. You know, the department-store family.”
“They still run her?”
“Oh, no. There were three Wandas. I’m not sure about their history. If you want accuracy, there’s a book inside. Let me see, the first was sold after she failed to get a kid to hospital in time to save his life. Very dramatic story. Wanda I raced from Port Carling to Bracebridge at twenty knots, but it wasn’t fast enough for a burst appendix. The second Wanda burned in a fire at the time of World War I.”
“Who owns number three?”
“The Muskoka Steamship and Historical Society. Local. But she’s chartered right now to Hampton Fisher, the TV and newspaper tycoon, and his movie-star wife, Peggy O’Toole.”
“Peggy O’Toole? I’d heard that she was up here somewhere.”
“You’re a fan, then?”
“Isn’t everybody?”
“I’ve seen a few of her pictures. She was terrific in Deadly Intent II. Did you see that?” I told her I agreed, but didn’t add that a few years ago, when she was still a young actress, I’d met her on location in Niagara Falls. She used to call me “Pistachio” for some reason. But that was many summers ago.
“Well, you just missed seeing her in the flesh. They say she loves running about in Wanda.” Norma had the blonde good looks of her kids. When they stood together, which wasn’t often, they looked like a set of pan pipes with a thatch of blond hair on top. Their skins already had the beginnings of a deep summer tan. Their mother quizzed me about my knowledge of Bracebridge. She recognized near complete ignorance when she tripped over it and proceeded to fill me in on where to buy everything from gas to worms. I knew that if the assignment up here threw me a curve, I could depend on Norma to help me out.
The opportunity for this came sooner than she might have guessed. I got her to go over the map with me, to fit Vanessa’s instructions into the real estate and lakes at hand. I watched while she charted my course from the main road that passed by the lodge to Milford Bay. From here, she abandoned my map and found one of her own, which showed the shoreline in greater detail. “The place you’re looking for, Benny, is not really that far away either by water or by car. Are you renting a boat or keeping your feet on terra firma?”
“I’ll take the car this time. How long a drive is it?”
“Not more than half an hour. Forty minutes at the outside. The road is fairly good. It’ll take you to the turnoff to Millionaires’ Row. The road after that isn’t much. I hope you’re carrying a spare tire.”