That is my first thought. My second is: “Holy shit! Someone just knocked at the door of my cabin in the woods.”
“Hello?” I call as I reach for my pocket knife.
A gust of wind catches the door and bangs it against the post, and I exhale with a shaky laugh.
I hadn’t heard someone knock. It was just the open door banging in the lake breeze.
I stride over and shut the door. Then I return to the bookshelf. I think I’ll take?—
Two staccato raps send me spinning again. I stare at the now closed door and mentally replay the sound. A definite double-tap at the door, quick and friendly.
Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
I resist the urge to say the words and instead stride over and yank open the door, hoping to catch the trespasser off guard.
No one’s there.
I step outside.
“Hello?” I call.
The wind rustles through the trees. Somewhere on the lake, a loon’s haunting call sends a chill down my spine.
I walk to the edge of the bluff, knife in hand. I tell myself to relax. People use the lake, even if it’s usually empty this late in the fall. I have neighbors. Distant ones. Seasonal ones. But the point is that people are out here, and they sometimes stumble over our hideaway and poke about, ignoring the polite “Private Property” signs.
“Hello?” I call, louder now.
The loon answers. Then the wind rattles the door against the jamb.
Is that what I heard? I close my eyes. The rattle seems much softer than the double rap I remember, but I’d already been on edge. Itcouldhave been the same sound.
One last glance around and then, seeing nothing, I head for the main house.
I’vebeen in the house long enough that any lingering unease has disappeared. It’s been many years since I came up here alone, and I’ve forgotten how easy it is to get spooked. The dogwould growl, and I’d envision winter-hungry bears, only to see a young fox trotting past. Voices would raise the hairs on my neck, and I’d envisioned a showdown with belligerent hunters, only to see kids canoeing across the lake. We’ve never had to deal with more than drunk college kids camping on our beach…which wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t also expect to use our bathroom in the morning.
Everything is fine. It has always been fine, and that is part of the story I’m spinning. It would be far less of a mystery if we’d been in constant conflict with local hunters or under constant siege by entitled campers. No, when the authorities look for clues there, they won’t find any.
I spend the next hour setting up clues inside the house. There’s a storage space under the stairs, where I move items around and hide a stash of wrappers from British import candies. Then into the crawlspace under the house, where I place two shoe prints. One is a boot larger than my own, and one a shoe significantly smaller. A single print each, in a soft spot on the earthen floor. As for the actual shoes, they don’t exist. I’ve made the soles from papier-mâché.
I take the shoe models outside. I’m going to put one set of prints behind the long-abandoned outhouse, and the other behind the cabin. Then I’ll burn the papier-mâché down to ash. That will be the start of my fire set-up, where I’ll also half-burn a page from one of my novels. It’s an old edition, long out of print.
None of the clues connect to one another. That is the trick, as I’ve learned in my writing. A mystery reader wants to take seemingly unconnected clues and figure out what actually links them, because something will. That’s fair play. This is an altogether different story. There is no link between British candy wrappers and a half-burned page of my books and the half-dozen other clues I’m planting. This is pure set-up, with no solution. But those who undertake the puzzle won’t know that.
As I place the fake footprints, I consider where to place another clue. It’s a receipt from the shop where I bought my supplies. Not my receipt, but one I found outside. It hadn’t been part of my plan, but I’d been unable to resist grabbing it. The receipt is for one pack of cigarettes, two cans of soda and a bag of beef jerky, paid for in cash, bought two hours before I made my own credit-card purchase. The receipt will fit perfectly with the cigarette I brought, which will be partially burned and left behind the writing cabin. The police will examine it for DNA and find none.
So where should I leave the receipt? It has to look as if it fell out of a pocket. What if I?—?
A whistle cuts through the air. My head jerks up. It wasn’t a loud whistle—like Richard calling the dogs—but a soft one, like someone imitating a bird call.
Because itwasa bird call, silly.
I shake my head. I really am jumpy out here. Mistaking bird calls for people imitating bird calls. Next thing you know, I’ll?—
Another low whistle, and the hairs on my neck rise.
That’s not a bird call. I’m not even certain it’s supposed to sound like one. More like someonepretendingto be imitating a bird.
