Chapter 2

There is nothing in the world, he thought, that can take away from the pleasure of a fresh-caught three pound largemouth bass on the grill next to a batch of home fries and a pot of coffee laced with egg shells. And, Jonathan Abram's thoughts went on, a bottle of Canadian Ale on the picnic table next to the grill.

Except the phone ringing.

But not if you ignore it and pick up the ale instead.

He finished breakfast, saved some fish for the dog, cleaned up and decided to walk across the bridge to the hotel. He whistled for the dog, whom he knew from the splashing sounds was being driven crazy by the duck. Every morning a Mallard would come close to shore, make enough noise to get the dog's attention and when the dog plunged in the lake, the duck would back-paddle just enough to be out of the dog's range. Jonathan could never figure out how the duck knew exactly how far out the big shaggy dog was able or willing to swim, but the bird measured it to the foot. The dog would swim back to shore, shake himself off; the duck would come back in and the whole thing would start again.

"When are you going to learn, Alexander?" Jonathan asked him as he bolted down the piece of fish. "You're smart as hell, but every morning that duck cons you out of your collar."

The dog shook himself off again and looked at him with the patience of one who knows that no person was ever going to understand the ways of ducks and mutts.

"C'mon," Jonathan said. "Let's walk over to the hotel. I'll have another cup of coffee and maybe you can scrounge something from the kitchen."

As Jonathan did every time he walked across the wooden bridge to the hotel, he stopped and looked up the lake and then at the Hotel Kenney, each locked in his mind over the years as the most beautiful place he knew or could imagine. The lake was mirror calm this morning, the sunlight coming through the narrows like a golden cloak. The old three-story hotel gleamed as it picked up the early sun and sent it back to the lake. The old willow trees on the front lawn looked like southern belles in cotillion dresses as they bent low over the dock, adding their courtly bows to the new morning.

A loon called from somewhere.

As he walked up the steps to the side entrance, the door opened and the owner stepped out on the porch. "You want coffee?" he asked, then turned to Alexander. "Something for you sir?" The dog wagged his assent. Tom Kenney went back in and in a few minutes came back out with two steaming cups of black coffee and something in a dish for the dog. They sat on the steps. Jonathan sipped his coffee and looked up.

"You laced this," he said. "Thank you. You joining me?"

"No," he answered. "Lot to do today. I'm an innkeeper, not a big-time author who can while the day away."

"While away hell," Jonathan answered. "If I can't get something to my publisher pretty damn soon, I might be asking you for a dishwasher job."

"New book not going well?"

"Not really. I think it's partly your fault. This place. Too damn beautiful. Too damn peaceful. You keep making it more modern, but you don't change the essential place. My father could walk in and feel right at home."

"And I think my father would approve," he said. "And they'd both be pleased that you bought the cottage across the inlet."

They sat there for a while, thinking their thoughts and sipping the coffee. "I forgot to tell you," Tom said. "Someone wants to reach you real bad. Two calls last night and one early this morning. I heard your phone ringing a while ago, noticed you didn't pick up. Must be the same person."

"Probably my publisher threatening to send the Mounties after me," Jonathan answered.

"I don't think so. Sounded like a close friend. Said to give you a message. A real strange message."

"What do you mean?"

"'Mrs. Peel, we're needed.' Honest, that's what he said to tell you."