Fiction
Gil had gone to an open area to use the satellite phone. He came back to the group, loaded his skewer with marshmallows, and dropped down beside Simpson.
"Are you going to call home every five minutes?" Turnbull fixed Gil with a mocking smile.
Gil flushed. "No."
"Makes a person wonder if you know where we're headed."
"Any news?" Miss Miller asked when Gil didn't respond to Turnbull's provocation.
"I was talking to my fifteen-year-old cousin. He's not big on news."
"I wonder if the police have found out anything about that poor man in the ditch?" Margaret worried.
"At least he wasn't found on our property," said Rudley.
"The murders that take place on our property are usually committed by our guests or their associates," said Margaret.
Turnbull turned to stare at the Rudleys.
"They are usually in-house," Simpson agreed.
"And usually with a well-defined motive," Norman added. He looked to Miss Miller. "I don't recall a murder at the Pleasant that was committed purely for pleasure."
Miss Miller thought a moment. "I agree, Norman. In each case the motives were clear."
Turnbull looked into the trees. "Did they catch the perps?"
"Oh, yes," said Geraldine. "Every single one of them."
"We have Miss Miller to thank for much of that," said Margaret.
Turnbull looked at Miss Miller and shook his head dismissively.
"Really," said Norman. "Miss Miller is a capable sleuth."
"Nothing escapes her attention," Geraldine added.
Miss Miller tilted her head in a self-deprecating gesture. "I believe we should give Detectives Brisbois and Creighton appropriate credit."
"Which would be almost none," said Rudley. "The two of them couldn't find their own car in a parking lot."
"Maybe someone else is on the case," said Gil.
Norman frowned. "Oh, I don't think so. They seem to look after most of the goings-on in the district."
Rudley crossed his eyes.
"Well, we have nothing to worry about here." Geraldine turned a fond eye toward the guide. "We have Gil to protect us."
"I'll do my best, Mrs. Phipps-Walker."
A sudden footfall interrupted the conversation.
Peters jumped. "What was that?"
Norman speared two marshmallows. "Given our location in the boreal forest, I believe it could be a deer, possibly a moose." He held his skewer over the embers. "Nothing to worry about. A moose can be formidable, especially in mating season, but..."
"I think the steps were too light to be a moose," Geraldine said. "It was probably just a raccoon."
"Or a mad trapper," said Turnbull, grinning.
"Yes," Margaret wondered, "what would we do if a mad trapper materialized out of the darkness pointing a high-powered rifle at us?"
"Why, I would throw myself on him," Rudley said with a jaunty smile. "Take one for the team."
Margaret beamed. "Why, Rudley, how gallant of you."
Turnbull smiled smugly. He picked up a marshmallow, started to skewer it, changed his mind, and popped it into his mouth. He poked the skewer into the embers and watched it catch fire before thrusting it the rest of the way in. "If someone showed up with a high-powered rifle, he'd just pick us off one by one and we couldn't do a thing about it."
Miss Miller gave him a cool smile. "You might choose to do nothing, Mr. Turnbull, but Mr. Rudley is prepared to be heroic." She turned to Simpson. "And Edward would also challenge the gunman. Wouldn't you, Edward?"
"Of course, Elizabeth." Simpson had just swallowed a marshmallow. The words came out in a high-pitched squeak.
