“Won a couple awards,” Rowdy adds with a glint of pride in his eyes.
“How come Fish and Wildlife doesn’t spearhead a project like that?” I ask. “Sounds like something we’d be involved in.”
Maybe it’s my use of “we,” or maybe Rowdy’s interpreting my question as a jab, but he stiffens next to me. “Only so many hours in a day, and the Clearwater-Lower Bitterroot is one of the biggest and most varied in the state.” He shoots me a steady glance. “You’ll learn that you can’t do it all.”
“Right,” I say even though his patronizing undertone makes my hackles perk up. I refocus on Linnea. “Is that what made you want to” —I stop myself from finishing that withbecome a wildlife biologistjust in time— “are you still involved with the project?”
She averts her gaze. “No, I…had to step away.”
“Linnie was busy with her graduate studies followed by back to back internships,” Rowdy says. There’s a hint of tension in thisexchange, but before I can figure out how to get to it, the phone in the kitchen rings, drawing everyone’s attention.
Rowdy pushes his chair back and hurries toward the phone. He answers the call in a calm, brisk tone, his back to us.
Linnea arches one accusatory eyebrow at me. “Top secret huh?”
She has every right to be mad that I didn’t tell her about my job, but if I can get her laughing, maybe I have a shot? “It kept you guessing, right?”
From the kitchen, Rowdy’s tone has turned urgent. He tucks the phone into the crook of his neck and scribbles something on a pad of paper.
“Cassidy Jordan,” I say.
She cocks her head. “Jordan’s your middle name?”
I shake my head. “I just have two first names. Jaymes is my middle name.”
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips—her soft, pink lips. She nods at my left hand. “Who’s the rose for?”
I give the design a caress with my thumb. “My mom.”
Rowdy hangs up the phone, his eyes dark. “Sorry to rush off, Linnie, but…” He glances at me, his lips tight. “Someone’s found a body.”
Chapter Ten
This is goingto be a helluva first day.
By the time we get to the lake, it’s blowing at least twenty and snowing hard. The snowplows are working overtime to clear the highways, forcing Rowdy to drive at a snail’s pace. He was so busy during the drive coordinating with the other agencies responding and planning ahead that I didn’t get a chance to ask questions, though I soaked in what I could from overhearing his side of the conversations.
Being essentially ignored also gave me time to review the evening with Linnea.
I still don’t know her reasons for keeping dear old Dad in the dark about us being acquainted.
I still don’t have her number and I got the feeling that I won’t be getting it.
That stings. Did I misinterpret everything that night at the Sweetwater?
Rowdy pulls the truck to a stop in the boat launch parking area and jumps down, jerking me back to our mission. “Unload the sled while I check in with the sheriff.”
He’s awfully spry for someone his age. I pull on my wool hat and a pair of gloves and jump out. Icy wind and blowing snow cut into my face and bare neck. I zip up my brand-new IDFW parka, the fleece lining soft around my throat. Had I known we’d be responding to an emergency on a frozen lake, I would have at least thrown more winter gear into my truck. How are we going to get a dead body out of the lake in the middle of a snowstorm? How long has she been in the water? To end up in the ice, she must have been close to the surface. How did she get there?
The parking lot is crisscrossed with tire marks from the ice fishermen who probably left at dusk, but several personal vehicles with empty snowmachine trailers are still here, covered with several inches of snow. Does this mean the fishermen who found the body are still out there? I shiver just thinking about it.
A few stalls away, beneath the light pole closest to the shore, is the Clearwater County Sheriff’s rig, engine running. There’s also an SUV withCASCADE LAKE LODGEwritten in yellow lettering on the door, parked closer to the shore. Its headlights cast a blue glow across the surface of the frozen lake, which is lumpy with crisscrossing snowmachine tracks.
While Rowdy talks with the sheriff, I climb onto the trailer and unhitch the sled, then release the ramp and back the sled down. Before we left the house, Rowdy put in the double seat adapter, so I flip up the back and secure the tabs on the base. By the time I have it ready, Rowdy and a man in jeans, snow boots, and a thick parka are walking toward me. He’s mid-sixties with ruddy cheeks and kind eyes.
“Jake Kelso,” the man says over the howling wind, extending his mittened hand. “I run Cascade Lake Lodge. One of my guides found the body.”
We shake, then he refocuses on Rowdy. “Sheriff Thomas said not to callyou, but?—”