Chapter 9
IMOGEN
Imogen focused on the red roof peeking through the trees to stop from being sick.
They’d been on the speedboat for nearly forty-five minutes and her stomach had been roiling since the moment they motored away from the rinky-dink marina dock on Massassauga Lake.
Their captain, the owner of the cottage, was a leather-faced man named Rick whose golden retriever, Betsy, was accompanying them on the trip.
Imogen made sure to sit as far from Betsy as possible, and spent the ride fighting flares of annoyance that Rick had assumed they’d all be okay with him bringing his pet, even if she was a super-chill dog.
Rick was oblivious to Imogen’s discomfort, smiling as he steered the boat into the wind.
He seemed to take great pleasure in hitting every single wave, sending slaps of lake spray across the boat.
Imogen’s fresh blond extensions were a matted tangle and she was sure her mascara had melted into raccoon circles under her eyes.
Imogen looked across at Celeste, who was gazing serenely at the passing scenery with not a hair out of place—her low ponytail tucked under a chic ball cap—and a smile on her lips.
When they’d first boarded Rick’s vessel and set off from the marina, Celeste had immediately turned to Marta with an inquisitorial tone in her voice.
“Marta, I hate to be blunt, but if I don’t say something now, the whole weekend’s going to be weird.
Um, how are you even here? I don’t mean to be insensitive, but didn’t the police tell you not to leave town?
Not that you’ve done anything wrong, god, this must be so awful for you .
. . but wouldn’t you want to be there, like, at the house, in case they find .
. . in case Derrick comes home? I mean, when he comes home. ”
“She hasn’t done anything wrong, Celeste, why would you say that?” Imogen interceded on Marta’s behalf, but was secretly glad that Celeste had asked the question they’d all been wondering about.
“I’m not trying to be mean! But maybe it’s better to have it all out in the open instead of having a missing-husband-elephant-in-the-room situation all weekend,” Celeste huffed. “Marta, we’re all here for you, but I think we can support you better if you actually talk about what’s going on.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” said Marta in a soft voice, barely audible over the hum of the boat’s engine.
She hugged her arms around her body. “I’m allowed to be here.
The police asked me not to leave the province, but they didn’t have a problem with me coming here.
It’s basically just protocol, the spouse is always a suspect . . . you all know how it is.”
Of course they did. They’d read the books, watched the documentaries, listened to the podcasts. It’s almost always the spouse, but the spouse is almost always the husband.
Marta let out a groan. “Actually, it sounds like they think he took off on his own. It doesn’t seem like they’re taking it that seriously.”
Imogen took a deep breath in when she heard that, deeper than she’d been able to manage for weeks, but her new-found ability to breathe easy was immediately challenged by a rough patch of water, and the wavy conditions quickly put a halt to further conversation.
When they finally pulled in to the wooden L-dock on the island, Imogen’s hands were clammy and cramped from gripping the side of the boat.
All the women clambered out of the boat, with Imogen leading the way (she practically vaulted over Marta to get her feet on dry land), then Rick helped unload their bags, groceries, and the cooler full of alcohol.
“Wow, ladies, you certainly know how to party—from the weight of it, there’s enough booze in here to host a rager.
” Rick placed the cooler on the dock with a grunt, then flipped his sunglasses up over his head so they rested on the backwards brim of his baseball cap.
“I’ll give you my little spiel, then let you get down to living it up.
Welcome to Snakebite Island here on the bee-yu-tee-ful Venom Lake!
Technically, this is Massassauga Lake—that’s what you’ll see on all the maps—but the true locals call her Venom Lake because the Massassauga rattlesnake is the only venomous snake in this part of the country.
” He paused and gave them a mischievous grin. “But fear not!”
Imogen swallowed hard. The only use she had for snakes was as snakeskin accessories.
It wasn’t just dogs she had a problem with—she basically hated all animals.
And bugs. And the outdoors in general. She’d made it very clear to Bernie that wherever they booked had to have indoor plumbing or she wouldn’t come.
And now she was supposed to be vacationing in some kind of viper pit?
Really, if it were up to her, they’d have booked their weekend at a Four Seasons, but Celeste and Marta didn’t have the budget for that kind of trip.
Imogen couldn’t help thinking that she needed to start making wealthier friends.
Rick continued, “There is absolutely no reptilian threat to you here. I’ve never seen a rattler—or any snake for that matter—on Snakebite in over twenty years.
The name of the island actually comes from an aerial view of the place; our tiny paradise is roughly circular and there are two boulder formations that look kinda like the puncture marks of a snakebite.
There and there.” Rick pointed at the rocky outcroppings on either side of the dock.
“But that’s enough geography for the day.
You’ll have plenty of privacy here—this is the only cottage on the island.
Plus, you see the trees over thattaway?” There was a faint line of green in the far distance across the water.
“That’s all Crown land, which means no development, just sweet, sweet nature.
Get out and enjoy the lake if the weather co-operates.
There’s a paddleboat and a kayak, so feel free to take them out for a spin, but stay close to the island as Ms. Massassauga can get real feisty.
You need one of these babies to properly handle the conditions out in the deeps.
” Rick slapped the side of his motorboat.
“Water safety should be your number one priority, because Venom Lake has taken lives. You’ve got the rapids and the falls if you go about two klicks in that direction.
” He pointed west. “So my advice would be—don’t.
Every decade or so, we lose someone to the dark waters, but it’s always someone who was acting foolish—drinking and boating, going out in poor conditions, no life jacket .
. . you get my point. As long as you act smart, you’ll stay safe.
All righty, that’s the end of my lecture. ” Rick took a slight bow.
“Um, excuse me, Rick?” Marta asked, holding up her cellphone. “Is there cell service out here? My phone doesn’t seem to be working. Or what about Wi-Fi?”
“Cell service is shit out here,” said Rick.
“Practically non-existent. Plus, our region got hit by a lightning storm earlier this week that damaged some towers, and they’re still working on getting it all back up and running.
Next year we’re supposed to get some kinda satellite thing that’ll provide better coverage, but for now you’re outta luck.
Maybe you’ll catch a bar from time to time, but it’s nothing to count on.
And we don’t offer Wi-Fi here—it doesn’t jibe with our nature-first philosophy. You’re outdoors! Enjoy it.”
Imogen reflexively checked her phone and cursed under her breath. She should have responded to that message from Fran-cesca before coming out here. Imogen pushed the thought aside and told herself it would be fine. A few more days is nothing.
Rick hopped back into his boat and Betsy followed him.
“Of course, if you really do need to get in contact with anyone, use the land line. You can always get me on my cellular—you’ll find the number taped to the fridge.
I wish you a lovely vacation at Villa Pines.
” He gestured behind them at the cottage.
“My husband and I went to Italy for our fifth anniversary, and when we got back, he decided the place needed a fancy name.” Rick spread his arms wide, as if to encompass the sparkling expanse of blue.
“Oh, and I should let you know there’s a storm fixing to roll in this weekend, so enjoy this last gasp of warm weather while you can.
Have a good stay, ladies! I’ll be back Sunday morning to collect you. ”
The women thanked Rick and he motored off with Betsy.
Imogen was feeling more like herself again, her queasiness and irritation with Rick receding as his boat disappeared from view.
She was finally able to take in her surroundings with appreciation.
The two-storey A-frame cottage looked out over the lake from a slight elevation and the whole front of the wooden structure was glass—a tasteful marriage of rustic and modern.
In front of the cottage there was a firepit ringed with Muskoka chairs, and the L-dock they’d landed on was deep enough to accommodate several loungers.
The island was small—approximately an acre—and shaded by a scattering of pines, maples, and birch trees.
The late afternoon sun glittered on the lake as Imogen scanned the horizon.
Except for the far-off smudge of green that Rick had described as belonging to the Crown, there was no other land in sight.
The four women carried their luggage inside—a monogrammed Louis Vuitton for Imogen (she didn’t see why she shouldn’t travel in style, even on a cottage weekend); a full-size rolling suitcase for Celeste; a sleek carry-on for Bernie; and a gym duffle for Marta—and then traipsed back down to the dock to collect the cooler and heavy bags of food.