Everything To Prove. Nadia Nichols

      “That’s terrible,” Libby said. “I’m assuming he was an experienced pilot, after all that flying in the war. How did it happen?”

      “LUANNE!” Frey belted out for the second time, causing Libby’s heart to skip several beats. She heard the same soft scuffle and the young woman reappeared, eyes downcast. “Where are my medicines?”

      “Coming, sir,” Luanne said, retreating.

      “No matter how many times I tell her, she always forgets. You can’t train them. I don’t know why I waste my time trying.” Luanne made another appearance, bearing a glass of water and two tiny pills on a small tray, which she left on the table. Frey picked up the two pills, placed them in his mouth, and chased them down with a swallow of water, followed by a bigger swallow of liquor. He puffed on the cigar for a few moments, then gave her another predatorial glance.

      “Who’re you writing this story for?”

      “Actually, sir, the Libby Foundation asked me to write it.”

      Frey grunted and seemed satisfied with her answer. “Ben did a lot of good things. He had people and organizations after him all the time with their hands out. He supported more damn causes and still felt like he wasn’t doing enough.”

      “Was his son the same way?”

      “Connor didn’t hold a candle to his father.”

      “Were you here at the lodge when Connor…crashed the plane?” Libby asked.

      “I was fishing up on the Kandik. The first I knew something had happened was when I saw the warden’s plane buzzing up and down the lake.”

      “So they think the plane went down in the lake?”

      “That’s what they figure. Only thing they found were the two floats hung up about half a mile down the Evening River, just below the big rips.”

      “No other wreckage was found? No body was recovered?”

      Frey shifted in his seat. His shaggy white brows drew together in a frown. “I thought this article was supposed to be about Ben.”

      “Yes, sir, it is, but the fact that he had a wife and child is a great human interest angle. Where do you suppose Connor was going when he took off that day?” Libby asked, fishing for some mention of Connor’s wedding.

      “LUANNE!” Frey belted out, startling Libby yet again. For the third time Luanne scuttled out onto the porch, eyes downcast. “Get down on the dock and tell that bastard he’s not welcome here.”

      For the first time Libby noticed the canoe that was approaching the dock. “Who is it?”

      “That damn Indian guide who works for those flatlanders across the lake. He knows this place is off-limits to him. He tried to sic the Department of Human Services on me last summer for some alleged infractions of human rights. He told them I mistreated my employees, didn’t house them properly or pay them their legal wages and overtime. Overtime, for cripe’s sake. They actually sent someone out from Fairbanks to inspect their living quarters and check my books.” Frey made a sound of disgust. “Overtime! They’re lucky I pay them anything at all.”

      Luanne was speaking to the man in the canoe. She turned and walked swiftly back to the porch and stared at Mr. Frey’s slippered feet. “He says he is here to take Ms. Wilson back across. He says Joe Boone is busy guiding two clients and couldn’t come.”

      Libby stood, folding her notebook. “Thank you so much for your time, Mr. Frey.”

      Frey grunted and picked up his glass of whiskey as Libby started down the steps. She paused at the bottom and glanced back. “Were you surprised that Connor left everything to you in his will?”

      Frey shook his head. “He didn’t have anyone else.”

      “Did they ever find Connor Libby’s plane?”

      “They’ll never find that plane. This lake is bottomless, part of an old volcanic cirque,” Frey said with a shake of his head. “End of story.”

      “On the contrary, Mr. Frey,” Libby said. “I haven’t even started writing it yet.”

      CHAPTER FOUR

      LIBBY WALKED OUT onto the dock to meet the canoe, and the man seated in the stern nodded to her. He was much younger than Joe Boone and stockily built. Black raven’s wing hair was pulled back with a strip of red cloth that hung between his shoulder blades. He wore faded jeans, a red flannel shirt and a green wool cruiser. On his feet were a pair of moose-hide moccasins. “I’m Graham Johnson, one of Mike and Karen’s guides. Karen thought you might prefer a canoe ride this time of evening.”

      “She’s right. This is much nicer than a motorboat. Thank you for coming to get me,” Libby said. She knelt in the bow of the canoe and picked up the paddle as he swung around and started along the edge of the lake.

      “How did your interview with Daniel Frey go?”

      “Okay.” It was a beautiful evening. The wind had died, the lake was calm and reflected the majestic mountains upon its silken surface. “Actually, I didn’t learn anything new. A plane crashed in this lake twenty-eight years ago and I came here to see what Daniel Frey might know about it.” She spoke without turning, and the air was so still that she feared for a moment that Frey might have overheard.

      “You’re talking about Connor Libby’s plane?”

      “Yes. Do you know anything about the crash?”

      “It happened before I was born, but there was a lot of talk in the village about it.”

      “What kind of talk?”

      “My mother had a cousin who worked here at the time. Frey gave all the hired help the weekend off because Connor was getting married to a native girl from Umiak, who worked at the lodge and had invited them to the wedding. But Daniel Frey didn’t come and never planned to come. So mostly the talk was about why he wouldn’t attend his godson’s wedding.”

      “Why wouldn’t he?”

      “Everyone thought it was because he didn’t want his godson to marry a native girl. He doesn’t like Indians much. That’s common knowledge. And some thought he didn’t want to be in the plane, either.”

      “Because Frey knew it might crash?”

      “Maybe.” Graham’s answer was noncommittal.

      “Is there anyone else at all who might know something about it, other than Daniel Frey?”

      There was a long pause, just the sound of the paddle dipping into the water. “My father, maybe,” Graham said.

      Libby felt a jolt of surprise. “Was he living around here at the time?”

      The silence stretched her tension to the limit before Graham spoke again. “My father lived out here most of the time, fishing in summer and running a trapline in winter. He only came home maybe once, twice a year. When I was old enough, I spent summers with him. He didn’t talk much, but every once in a while he’d tell me a story. There was one story he liked to tell, to scare me and make me stay close. It was the story of a yellow three-legged dog. He said the dog howled in the night like its heart was broken and wandered like a ghost along the shores of the lake, looking for lost souls. He said if I wandered off into the woods, Windigo would get me. He told me the three-legged dog would carry my soul to the land of the forgotten. When I got older, the people in the village told me that dog belonged to a white man from the lodge, the one who died in the plane crash.”

      “Do you think your father would tell me that story?” Libby asked, turning to face him.

      A brief pause followed, the length of three paddle strokes. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask him.”

      “Where does he live now?”

      “Where