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  “What kind of pistol?”

  “Colt Woodsman,” said the sheriff. “Look. I know you were out fishing with Redbird today. I assume you’re friends and that you like him and can’t believe he’d do something like this. Yet several people told me that they overheard him and Elaine Hoffman having a bad argument, and then the murder weapon turns up in his cabin. What do you think?”

  “I think anybody could’ve put that gun in Franklin’s cabin,” said Calhoun. “None of the guides lock their cabins. They don’t even give us a key. You think Franklin is so stupid that he’d go shoot somebody and then stick the gun back in his own drawer?” He shook his head. “I also think folks could easily misunderstand when they overhear a conversation, think it’s an argument when it isn’t. You’re right. I got to know Franklin pretty well, fishing with him today. You can learn a lot about a man, spending a day on the water with him. He’s a peaceful man with a clear conscience.”

  “Well, then, Mr. Calhoun, why don’t you help me out. You’re a deputy. You know how this works. If it wasn’t Franklin Redbird, who could’ve done this?”

  “Look,” said Calhoun, “I’ve barely been here twenty-four hours. Except for Franklin, and that half hour or so last night talking with Elaine, and a float plane flight with Curtis Swenson, I don’t know anything about anybody up here. Oh, and Marty interviewed me before he hired me. The others, I’ve barely said hello to. I have no idea about grudges or conflicts worth committing murder for.”

  The sheriff picked up his coffee mug, took a sip, put it down, and looked at Calhoun. “People who heard Redbird and Ms. Hoffman arguing,” he said, “a couple of them told me that your name was mentioned.”

  Calhoun shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “No? No idea why they might’ve been arguing about you?”

  “No. Not a clue. When was this so-called argument?”

  “Just before dinner last night.”

  “Elaine and I didn’t even meet each other until dinnertime. I’d met Franklin briefly before that. He came to my cabin to welcome me and to tell me he wanted to take me fishing.”

  “That was it?”

  “That was it,” said Calhoun. “We talked about fishing, that’s all.”

  The sheriff peered into his notebook again. Then he closed it and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Okay, Mr. Calhoun. I got no more questions for you right now. I guess if I come up with some later, I’ll be able to find you.”

  “I’ll be here for a month or so.”

  “Marty’s going to have to scramble for guides,” said the sheriff, “with Elaine Hoffman dead and Franklin Redbird under arrest.” He pushed himself back from the table and stood up.

  “What happened to Elaine?” said Calhoun. “Her body, I mean.”

  “The coroner from St. Cecelia drove up, examined her, declared her dead, speculated that the three bullet holes in her chest were the cause of death, zipped her into a body bag, got Robert Dunlap to help him lug her out to his van, and took her back to St. Cecelia with him.”

  “Did he speculate about the time of death?”

  “Around midnight last night,” said the sheriff. “Give or take an hour or two.” He picked up his hat from where he’d put it on the table, fitted it onto his head, and turned for the door.

  “Wait a minute, Sheriff,” said Calhoun. “About that Colt Woodsman. Your murder weapon.”

  “What about it?”

  “I own a Colt Woodsman. I kept it in the drawer of my bedside table. I’m wondering . . .”

  “You think someone took your .22 and used it to murder Elaine Hoffman?”

  “Could be,” said Calhoun. “They could’ve gone into my cabin during dinner or after that, when I was talking to Elaine out on the dock.”

  “Why would anyone do that?”

  Calhoun shrugged. “Because the Woodsman’s a good murder weapon, I guess.”

  The sheriff cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at Calhoun. “You said Franklin Redbird welcomed you and invited you to go fishing with him yesterday afternoon. Did he come into your cabin?”

  Calhoun nodded. “We had a Coke.”

  “What about your Colt? Might he have noticed it when he was there?”

  “It was in the drawer of my bedside table. I don’t see how he could’ve seen it. He didn’t go prowling through my drawers when he was there.”

  “Maybe you left the room while he was there?”

  “There’s only one room,” Calhoun said, “and I didn’t leave it.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “So maybe you mentioned something about the weapon to him.”

  Calhoun shook his head. “No, I don’t believe I did. He would’ve had no way to know about that gun. You got the wrong man.”

  “If he went into your cabin and poked around, he’d have found it easily enough.”

  Calhoun shrugged. “I suppose so. Anybody could’ve done that. The Colt was just sitting there in the drawer. Not exactly well hidden.”

  “Well,” said the sheriff, “Colt stopped making the Woodsman .22 about thirty years ago, but it’s still a pretty common sidearm around here. Why don’t you take me to your cabin. Let’s see if yours is still there.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The sheriff and Calhoun walked along the path from the lodge to his cabin, with Ralph trotting on ahead of them. When they got there, the sheriff said, “Why don’t you wait out here. I’ll go in and check out that drawer where you put that Woodsman of yours.”

  Calhoun shrugged. “Okay by me.” He snapped his fingers at Ralph. “You wait here with me.”

  Ralph sat down.

  The sheriff went inside. He came back out a few minutes later shaking his head.

  “It’s not there, huh?” said Calhoun.

  “No gun in that drawer.”

  “It’s probably your murder weapon, then,” said Calhoun.

  The sheriff looked hard at him. “Did you shoot Elaine Hoffman and plant the murder weapon in Franklin Redbird’s cabin?”

  “Me?” Calhoun shook his head. “No. Why would I do that?”

  “That’s for me to figure out, I guess,” said the sheriff.

  “Neither of us did it,” Calhoun said. “Whoever planted the gun had to’ve done it while Franklin and I were out fishing.”

  The sheriff gave a little shrug.

  “You think I did it?” said Calhoun.

  “I don’t know. You could have. It looks like the murder weapon belongs to you.”

  “I’ve got less motive than Franklin,” Calhoun said. “I only just met Elaine Hoffman. Why would I want to kill her?”

  The sheriff shrugged again. “We’ll figure that out.”

  “So who you going to arrest here,” Calhoun said, “me or Franklin?”

  “Him,” said the sheriff, “but I got a feeling you’re not telling me everything, Mr. Calhoun, and when I figure out what it is you’re not saying and why you’re not saying it, maybe I’ll come back and arrest you. Maybe I’ll arrest you both, you and Redbird. Maybe you two have got some kind of conspiracy thing going on here, hm?”

  “And maybe what you’re going to figure out,” Calhoun said, emphasizing the maybe “is that neither of us did this.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Maybe so. We’ll see.”

  “You check the serial number on that gun. If it’s mine, you’ll see that it’s properly registered. Also, you might want to remember, I’m the one who told you that the murder weapon could’ve belonged to me. I didn’t need to do that.”

  “I guess we would’ve figured it out pretty quick without your helpfulness,” said the sheriff, “looking up the gun’s serial number in our computer files, seeing who it was registered to. It would’ve appeared more suspicious if you hadn’t said anything.”

  Calhoun nodded. “I guess you’re right about that. I had no quarrel with Elaine Hoffman, though.”

  “Franklin Redbird did.” The sheriff shook his head. “I’m enjoying this chitchat, Mr. Calhoun, but it’s gro
wing repetitive, and I’ve got a prisoner to fly to Houlton for processing. I expect I’ll be back here at Loon Lake before we’re done with this case. So I’ll be seeing you again.”

  The sheriff touched the brim of his hat with his forefinger, turned, and headed back toward the dock.

  Calhoun sat on the front steps of his cabin. Ralph came over and plopped his chin on Calhoun’s knee. He scratched the dog’s muzzle. “So how do you think all this is connected to McNulty?” he said.

  Ralph didn’t say anything.

  “It’s my fault, you know,” Calhoun said. “What happened to Elaine. Me asking about McNulty, and her having that argument with Franklin. It’s got to have something to do with McNulty. I’m feeling awfully bad about Elaine. I liked her. I can’t imagine somebody shooting her. A terrible thing. I feel bad about Franklin getting arrested, too, though I don’t see how they can hold him very long if all they’ve got is some hearsay about an argument and that gun of mine that was obviously planted.”

  Without lifting his chin, Ralph rolled up his eyes to give Calhoun a look of sympathy and understanding.

  “But look at all we’ve learned,” said Calhoun, giving the dog’s ears a rub. “We’ve learned that just mentioning McNulty’s name around here is enough to get somebody riled up to the point of committing murder. We know we got a killer among us, and I’ll be awfully surprised if it turns out to be Franklin Redbird. We can guess that Elaine knew something about McNulty, even though she said she didn’t, and if she did, others probably do, too. All that’s pretty good work for just being here twenty-four hours, wouldn’t you say?”

  Ralph didn’t have much to say on the subject.

  Calhoun looked at his watch. “Well, it’s time for dinner.” He stood up. “Ready?”

  Ralph knew the word “dinner.” The dog had an extensive vocabulary of words related to food. He scrambled quickly to his feet and started trotting down the path to the dining room.

  Calhoun heard the guides talking as he and Ralph went down the short hallway to the dining room. Muffled, conspiratorial voices. He guessed there was plenty to gossip about, with Elaine getting shot and Franklin Redbird getting arrested and the sheriff questioning everybody.

  The voices stopped suddenly when he and Ralph entered the room. “Evening,” he said, nodding to everybody as he took an empty seat.

  A couple of the guides nodded to him. The others kept their eyes averted. Curtis Swenson, as usual, was reading at the table. This time he had a magazine open in front of him. He didn’t even look up when Calhoun walked in.

  “You don’t have to stop your conversations on my account,” Calhoun said.

  After a few minutes, some of them began talking about the fishing they’d had that day.

  Mush, the heavyset guide, who was sitting beside Calhoun, said, “The sheriff give away any secrets to you?”

  “Secrets on what subject?” said Calhoun innocently.

  Mush rolled his eyes. “The murder. The Indian. You spent the day in a canoe with him. So did he do it, you think? Did he say anything?”

  “You mean Franklin?”

  Mush nodded. “The Penobscot. Yes.”

  “He didn’t do it,” Calhoun said.

  “You know this?”

  Calhoun nodded. “I do.”

  “The sheriff thinks he did.”

  “The sheriff’s wrong,” Calhoun said.

  “Did you tell him that?”

  “I did.”

  “I guess he don’t believe you,” Mush said, “or else they wouldn’t’ve taken Redbird away on the plane.”

  “I suppose they think he did it, but he didn’t.” He turned to Mush and, imitating the soft voices he’d heard as he came in, he whispered, “I bet you got a thought. You think it was Franklin Redbird?”

  “Nah, I don’t reckon it was him,” said Mush. “Maybe he’s an Indian, but I happen to know he’s a peaceful feller. Wouldn’t hurt anything or anybody. He don’t even hunt.”

  “So who do you think did it, then? Who killed Elaine?”

  Mush’s eyes darted around the room. He leaned his head toward Calhoun and whispered, “I don’t want to say nothing.”

  “If you think you know,” Calhoun said, “you gotta tell the sheriff.”

  “Oh, I talked to the sheriff. Yes, sir. I talked to him, all right.”

  At that moment Robin came into the room carrying a big tray of food. She put the platters and bowls on the table. Baked halibut steaks, mashed potatoes, string beans, loaves of hot bread, green salad.

  Robin knelt down beside Ralph where he lay beside Calhoun’s seat and rubbed the dog’s belly. “I bet you’re hungry,” she said softly.

  Ralph lifted his head and looked at her with liquid eyes, which was as good as saying, “I’m starved.” “Hungry” was another one of his food words. With dogs, it’s all about food.

  Robin straightened up, looked at Calhoun, and said, “I’ll bring Ralph’s supper right out.” She looked around the table. “Can I get anybody anything else?”

  They all shook their heads, and Robin left the room.

  Calhoun wanted to ask the guides questions about Elaine—who her enemies were, what secrets she kept, what there was about this pretty, quiet woman that didn’t meet the eye—but if anybody knew anything, they were either keeping it to themselves or they’d already told the sheriff. They’d be unlikely to reveal anything along those lines at the dinner table.

  So they all focused on their food.

  After Robin came in to clear the table and bring the blueberry pies and vanilla ice cream, Kim, the other female guide, said, “So, Stoney. How’d you enjoy the fishing today?”

  “We had excellent fishing,” he said. “We actually spent much of the day just looking around. Franklin gave me a quick lesson on your lakes and where the fish like to lie. We did catch several nice salmon and one squaretail that must’ve gone at least four pounds. That Franklin, he’s a helluva guide. Made us a terrific shore lunch.”

  “He’s a good guide, all right,” Kim said. She looked around the table with narrowed eyes. “A good guy, too. He’s just the sweetest man. Anybody who thinks he could’ve murdered somebody is plain crazy.”

  As Calhoun was leaving the lodge after dinner, Marty Dunlap hurried over to him and said, “Stoney. Got a minute?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Well, as you know, we’re suddenly finding ourselves short of guides, with Franklin getting arrested and Elaine . . . um, Elaine getting killed. We’ve still got a business to run here. I’m going to have to press you into service a little sooner than I expected.”

  Calhoun nodded. “Okay by me. Franklin showed me around. I think I can find the folks some fish. Just tell me when.”

  “Monday,” said Marty. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, a getaway day for most of our guests, and we’ll have some new sports coming in on Sunday. The regulars can handle those who’ll be fishing over the weekend. Monday we’ll definitely need you.”

  “Okay. That’s what I’m here for.”

  Marty gripped Calhoun’s arm. “Good. Thanks.” He paused. “Listen. I don’t know what Franklin might’ve told you . . .”

  “About what?”

  Marty shrugged. “Just . . . anything.”

  About McNulty, Calhoun thought. You want to know if Franklin talked to me about McNulty.

  “We just talked about fishing,” Calhoun said. “Franklin knows his stuff. Made a helluva shore lunch.”

  “He’s a good guide, all right.” He patted Calhoun’s shoulder. “Everything satisfactory in your cabin? Anything we can do for you?”

  “The cabin’s good,” he said. “Very comfortable.” He thought about mentioning the fact that somebody had entered his cabin, which had no locks for the doors, and stolen the Colt Woodsman that was used to murder Elaine Hoffman, but he decided not to. Until he knew whom he could trust, he figured the less he said to anybody the better. “Oh,” he said. “There is one thing.”

  “What’s that
?”

  “When we had lunch at the Sandpiper, you told me the guides would have access to an automobile on their days off, and sometimes they’d drive down to St. Cecelia.”

  “That’s right,” Marty said. “You want to take a car?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Calhoun. “Would that be all right?”

  “I guess so.” Marty smiled. “Hell, Stoney. You’ve only been here a couple days. You feel like you’ve gotta get away already?”

  “That ain’t it,” said Calhoun. “I got some business I didn’t have a chance to finish up before I came here, that’s all. I’d like to get it out of the way. Of course, if you don’t think . . .”

  “No, that’s fine,” Marty said. “I was just kidding. I’ll meet you over by the car barn after breakfast tomorrow morning, get you fixed up. It’s not a problem. As long as you’re ready to do some guiding on Monday.”

  “I’ll be good to go,” said Calhoun. He hesitated, then said, “Has Franklin got a lawyer, do you know?”

  Marty nodded. “I hooked him up with an attorney I know in Houlton.”

  “Is he any good?”

  “Sure he’s good. We take care of our people.”

  “If he’s any good,” Calhoun said, “Franklin should be back in a day or two. They don’t have any evidence against him.”

  Marty shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll see, I guess.”

  “You think Franklin did it?”

  “I don’t know, Stoney. I can’t imagine anybody doing it, but it was done. I guess Franklin Redbird could’ve done it as well as anybody else.”

  After Marty went back into the lodge, Calhoun and Ralph headed down to the dock. He took off his shoes and socks and sat on the end dangling his feet in the water as he had the previous night with Elaine. Ralph sprawled beside him. Calhoun reached over and scratched the back of the dog’s neck.

  The sun had gone down, and the moon was obscured by the clouds. Only faint ambient light seeping through the cloud cover prevented the darkness from being total. Some night birds were swooping over the surface of the lake catching insects. From the woods behind the lodge came the hoots and whoops of a pair of barred owls. Then, echoing from somewhere out on the lake, came the crazy, haunting laugh of a loon, and a moment later, another loon answered. The call of a loon was the wildest sound in nature, Calhoun thought, and it never failed to send a shiver up his spine.