Everything To Prove. Nadia Nichols

      Had he been conscious when the plane went under? Had he struggled to escape as the frigid lake water filled the cabin? Libby pushed to her feet and shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. According to the pilot who had flown her to the lake, all the planes took off up the west arm, heading due north into the wind that came through the pass. They used the west arm because there were no big rocks just beneath the surface, and if they had to crab their takeoff or landing, the terrain was flatter to the east and west, making for a safer climb-out. Her father would have taken off the same way. His plane would have been visible from Frey’s lodge for a long distance, until the west arm curved enough to close it out of sight behind a fringe of dark forest.

      She had watched the pilot who delivered her to the lodge take off. His plane had lifted into the air not a quarter mile from the dock, but he’d been flying a turbine engine Cessna 206 with a very powerful motor. The de Havilland would have required a longer takeoff run. Still, that gave her a general idea of where the plane might be.

      Sort of. She had exactly twenty-four hours until Dodge arrived to look over the situation and decide if he was taking the job. Twenty-four hours to find out as much as she could about where that plane went down. A lot to do, and not much time.

      She studied the lodge across the lake. From a distance, she couldn’t make out exact details, but she could see enough to realize it was quite the place. The Rockefeller clan could have lived quite comfortably in such a log mansion. Being a hermit, Frey must have greatly resented the arrival of Karen and Mike and the construction of their new lodge. That’s probably why he had refused to greet them when they came to introduce themselves.

      She wondered if Frey had eaten the pie and the bread Karen and Mike had left behind.

      LIBBY RETURNED TO HER little cabin and took a nap, something she hadn’t done in many years and hadn’t intended to do at all, but sitting propped up against the headboard, jotting down the questions she intended to ask Daniel Frey, her eyelids became so heavy that it was impossible for her to resist the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore, the lonely sigh of wind through the spruce, the snap of firewood in the woodstove. She set the notebook aside, slid down until she was lying flat and laced her fingers across her stomach. The next thing she knew she was being roused by the sound of a clanging bell. She sat up, muzzy headed and drugged with languor. Karen had told her that she’d ring the supper bell at exactly 6:00 p.m., and sure enough it was exactly 6:00 p.m. Libby had slept for four solid hours.

      The guests were already seated at the table when she arrived. Eight wealthy middle-aged fishermen, temporarily escaping corporate America and their wives and families, leaped out of their seats like jack-in-the-boxes when she stepped into the room. Karen introduced her around, then brought her into the kitchen to meet her husband Mike, a genial forty something Willie Nelson look-alike who was helping her prepare the meal. Karen began bringing forth yet another gastronomic tour de force while Libby pitched in, and the two of them smothered laughter in the kitchen at the expressions on the faces of the eight corporate clubhouse boys.

      “Whatever will they do with such a beautiful guest in their midst? It’s too bad you don’t fish,” Karen said. “I’ll introduce you to Joe after supper. He seems to think he can wrangle you an interview with that old hermit, Daniel Frey.”

      Conversation during dinner began like spurts of machine-gun fire then rapidly progressed to a nonstop barrage as her fellow dinner guests sought to outboast one another to gain her attentions. Bottles of wine circulated around the table, fueling the frenzy. Each had a story to tell, an important story about themselves. Libby concentrated as best she could, nodding and smiling her appreciation of their intelligence and importance, but she was relieved when the meal was over. She helped Karen clear the table and would have plunged into the task of washing the dishes except that her hostess led her outside onto the porch.

      “Joe?” she said as a lean, wiry gray-haired man with a deeply lined and weather-beaten face pushed off the railing. “This is Libby Wilson. She’s staying with us for a few days. Libby, meet Joe Boone. He’s been guiding since he was seventeen years old.”

      Joe shook her hand. “Karen tells me you want to talk to Dan Frey. Dan and I go way back. He’s a crotchety old coot, no doubt about that, but I bet I could soften him up for you.”

      “That would be great. I’d so appreciate any time at all he could give me. I’m writing an article about Ben Libby and all the philanthropic things he did with his money over the years before he died. I was hoping Mr. Frey could cast a more personal light on the man, having known him for so long. I’m sure you could, too.”

      “Oh, no doubt. You busy right now? I could run you over in my boat. This is a good time to catch him. He likes to sit on the porch with his whiskey and cigars. I’ll hook the two of you up, and come pick you up in a hour or so. We can talk then, if you like.”

      Libby could hardly believe her luck. “I’ll just grab my notebook and meet you down on the dock,” she said.

      SURE ENOUGH, AS THEY approached the opposite shore Libby could see Daniel Frey on the vast covered porch that fronted the log mansion and faced the lake. He watched their approach without moving, sitting in a recliner with a side table at each hand. Libby stayed on the dock while Joe Boone climbed the steps onto the porch. After a few minutes he turned and motioned for her to come up. She drew a steadying breath and climbed the porch steps as Frey rose to his feet.

      “Hello,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Daniel Frey.”

      All of her life she’d wondered what this moment would be like. She looked at Frey and was amazed that lightning didn’t streak across the wronged heavens. She marveled that the evening could remain so calm in the midst of the emotional tempest that raged within her. She smiled and shook the hand of the man who had robbed her of her identity and may have had something to do with her father’s plane crash. “Libby Wilson. Thank you for seeing me, sir.”

      Frey was even more imposing in real life than he’d been depicted in the pages of Forbes magazine. He was a tall, vigorous and handsome eighty-two-year-old man, with the hawklike eyes of a predator. His hair was thick and pure white, brushed back from the weathered, tanned brow. “Please, have a seat,” he invited. It was obvious her name meant nothing to him. “Joe, will you have a glass of whiskey with me?”

      “Thanks, but no. Have to guide a couple sports for the evening hatch. I’ll return for Ms. Wilson in about an hour or so, if that’s all right, or if I can’t make it I’ll send another guide along.”

      Joe Boone returned to his boat and motored back across the lake. Libby perched on the edge of the matching leather recliner and waited while Frey tried to light his cigar. At length an acrid stench flavored the air and he grunted with satisfaction. “I don’t like people very much,” he said, refilling his shot glass. “Normally I wouldn’t talk to you, but Joe said you wanted to discuss Ben Libby.”

      “Yes, sir. I’m writing a story about him. I won a scholarship from the Libby Foundation and that helped pay for my education.”

      “LUANNE!”

      Frey bellowed so suddenly that Libby jumped in her seat. She heard a little scurrying sound and the screen door of the log mansion opened to reveal a very timid-looking young woman, maybe eighteen or twenty, pretty, dressed in a maid’s uniform that harkened back to the 1950s.

      “Yes, Mr. Frey,” she said, advancing with her eyes on the floor.

      “We have company. Perhaps you could offer Ms. Wilson something to eat or drink. That’s what I’m paying you for, isn’t it?”

      “Yes, Mr. Frey.” The girl glanced questioningly at Libby. “Miss?”

      “I’m fine, thank you, Luanne. I just had a wonderful meal at the lodge across the lake.” Libby watched as Luanne rushed back inside. “She must be from one of the native villages?”

      “Athapaskan,” Frey said. “They’re all I can get out here. Now, what do you want to know about Ben Libby?”

      Libby poised her pen over