Twenty-Three
Saturday
During an Idaho summer, there are two kinds of folks: mountain bike people and ATV people. The mountain bike people are generally
lean, college-educated liberals who feel superior about it. The all-terrain vehicle people are often thickset high school
grads with a libertarian conservative lean who love the sound of an engine gunning in open air. During an Idaho winter, these
same groups transform into ski people and snowmobile people (aka slednecks).
Before heading into Cheap Thrills Rentals for a snowmobile in McCall, I’d donned Phoebe’s red Little Mermaid wig, while Layna
wore a platinum-blond number that had once been part of a Kill Bill costume. A grumpy clerk with hair bottle-dyed the exact color my mom always used—L’Oréal Paris Light Amber Brown—fitted us
with suits, boots, and helmets and gave us a map to the snowmobile pickup site. But when she asked for an ID, I panicked.
I’d emptied out the Therapy Jar to pay for the rental in cash, but hadn’t considered I’d need to show identification. I’d
meant to drop Miranda’s driver’s license in her mailbox, but with everything going on I’d forgotten. Now I slid it across
the counter. The guilt pang only lasted a moment. Miranda did me dirty in high school. Some would say she had this one coming.
Though I’d never ridden a Ski-Doo, as Layna and I walked across the snowy parking lot in our black snowmobile suits, I felt
we were doing a decent approximation of slednecks.
“I’m having second thoughts about this probably terrible plan,” I confessed.
“What choice do you have?” Layna said, tossing platinum strands over one shoulder. “You’ve got to get some proof Errol murdered
the mansicle.”
“By five thirty,” I reminded her.
Last night after I’d put the twins to bed, I’d found Emmylou sipping Malibu rum and Diet Coke on her purple velvet couch while
watching a comedic lesbian murder mystery set in Tasmania. Instead of confessing everything, I rattled off a white lie about
getting an evite reminder for a baby shower in McCall I’d totally forgotten about. She agreed to loan me her all-wheel-drive
Subaru to make the two-hour-and-fifteen-minute snowy trek up ID-55. All I had to do in return was swear on The Comedy Bible I’d be back by five thirty so she could make it to her date with Oat Willimena.
“I wasn’t sure Oat Willimena would be your type,” I’d said. Nate was my type. Just last night we’d nearly kissed and now he
was completely and permanently out of reach.
“Oat Willimena is from a huge Catholic family,” Emmylou said. “It’s not the same as being raised Mormon like me, of course.
But the guilt parallels are there. And she pulls a tarot card every day! Do you know how hard it is to find a man in this
town who doesn’t think the King of Cups is a brewpub?”
“I’m excited for you! Oat Willimena seems really—” I searched for words to describe my interactions with the potter. “Artsy
and . . . and knowledgeable about raccoons. Is she really into animals? Maybe she’d want to adopt Little Sister.”
Emmylou made a face. “This is about my date, not your desire to dump that dog. Just promise me again you won’t be late.”
“I promise,” I said.
Now the neon-yellow snowmobile wrapped with the Cheap Thrills logo sat waiting for me and Layna at the end of the parking lot.
A bulky guy wearing a worn fleece and well-fitting jeans waved us over.
His baseball cap said The Man Behind the Bump.
There was perhaps nothing more irritating than a man trying to take all the credit for the hard work a woman does growing,
carrying, and giving birth to a baby.
“Where are you two coming in from?” the Man Behind the Bump asked.
“Boise,” I said.
“Twin Falls,” Layna said at the same time. She shot me a look.
“I mean, I’m from Boise, but we both live in Twin,” I said.
“The sleds are pretty simple.” He showed us how to turn the snowmobile on, hit the gas, brake, and change gears. “Eco mode
will get you up to forty-five or so.”
“Miles an hour?” I said. Jesus, Mary, and Joan Rivers, these things could fly.
“Yep. But if you really want to rip, you can switch it into Sport mode.”
“I’m sure Eco mode will be fine,” I said primly. I didn’t intend to go wild.
For a second, I worried I wouldn’t be able to get my helmet on without dislodging my wig, but I managed. Once I’d swung my
leg over the beast, Layna climbed on behind me. When I squeezed the throttle gingerly, the snow machine jolted forward and
Layna let out a happy shriek.
Soon we were flying along Warren Wagon Road under blue skies, surrounded by the vast expanse of Payette National Forest. I’d
only been on the road in the summer, when my mom would drive us to Burgdorf. Unplowed in winter, the thoroughfare transformed
into a snowmobile highway. Fresh powder piled high on every branch and needle of every ponderosa pine and Douglas fir. In
Boise, I longed for LA—warm weather, relentless sunshine, palm trees, the sense of being in the middle of everything that
mattered. But even I had to admit there was nothing in SoCal quite like this.
“Faster, pussycat, faster!” Layna yelled in my ear. I pushed on the gas and the speedometer needle crept up to thirty-five. Forty. Forty-five. “Take it out of Eco mode!”
“No way!” I shouted. We were on track to get to the hot springs early. We did not need to go that fast.
After an hour, I spotted the gate up ahead, beyond which a snow-packed lane led to the cluster of historic log cabins built
around a rising cloud of steam. I’d never witnessed this lonely, snowbound version of Burgdorf. I felt sad my mom never had
a chance to see it like this.
A tight U-turn had the snowmobile parked with its nose facing back toward Warren Wagon Road. Layna and I tucked our wallets
and phones into the console, not wanting anything on us by which Baylee might discern our true identities. Layna grabbed her
bear spray.
When I pulled off my helmet, my wig came off with it, but Layna helped me wrench it back on. We both donned oversized sunglasses
to hide as much of our faces as possible.
“It’s not too late for us to hightail it out of here,” I said.
“No way,” Layna said. “You need that SIM card. Besides, I’m not leaving here without a soak.”
I glanced at my watch—it was twelve thirty, and we were supposed to knock on the door of Baylee’s cabin at one. We crunched
past two battered old snowmobiles parked front to end like cars on a train. The front office attendant waved us on in to the
hot springs.
The fifteen log cabins, built in a haphazard semicircle in the late 1800s, didn’t have running water or electricity and could
be rented for a couple of days at a time. Cabin Nine sat about a hundred yards from the pool edge. The red bathing suit hanging
on the line made it easy to spot. In a wooden hut marked Dressing Room, Layna and I stripped out of our snowmobile suits next to a wood-burning stove. We’d both worn bikinis underneath. Layna
yelped as we made our way across freezing stepping stones to the steaming rectangular pool. A relaxed-looking old guy floated
on his back and a couple kissed in one aqueous corner. Otherwise the pool was all ours.
“I wish I could have you take my photo for the Gram,” Layna said. “This place would inspire FOMO in anyone.”
As I lowered my freezing body into the steaming-hot water, I groaned. I’d forgotten how amazing this place was. It really
did beat anything I’d ever done on a Saturday in LA. “If we weren’t here to secure evidence proving I didn’t commit murder,
I would feel so relaxed.”
“Except I kind of like that that’s why we’re here,” Layna admitted. “You know, all those years when I was playing supportive
wifey to the douchebag, I didn’t realize it, but I think this was the woman I wanted to become. I mean, I’m finally doing
it. I’m finally investigating a murder.”
“I get it,” I said. How to explain it, even to myself? Being out here in the wilderness somehow felt better than just being
a grief-stricken wreck. “Should we practice what we’re going to say to Baylee?”
“We’ll say Connor sent us,” Layna said. “He was embarrassed to tell her, but he’s too scared of Errol to come. He wants her
to send her smashed phone and plans for Day of the Rope with us.”
“What about the grenades?” I said.
“We take them and maybe ditch them later?” Layna said. “We can play that by ear.”
We were quiet for what felt like a long time. The steam rising around us, clouds rolling in, no kids around, the tips of our
wig hair trailing in the water. I couldn’t even find it in me to be nervous anymore. I was in a snow-capped world of warm
water. For once I was living in this very moment as it happened.
Layna looked down at her watch. “Looks like it’s go-time,” she said.