Bill Pronzini: Boobytrap

The road dropped down and followed the shoreline. The first buildings appeared ahead, set on a wide peninsula: a long, low structure with a green metal roof, a good-sized A-frame that was probably the Judsons’ living quarters behind that, and eight small, plain cabins strung out on either side of a boat launch and a dock with a gas pump at its outer end. A driveway led to a parking area in front; judging from the number of cars there and fronting the cabins, the resort was both full and a popular social gathering place. A sign jutting above the roof of the main building read:

“Food’s great in the cafe,” Chuck said as we passed. “Super burgers.”

Beyond Judson’s the road began a series of sharp loops around trees and outcrops. The first summer home was situated a few hundred yards from the resort; the rest — a couple of dozen or so — extended around the curve of the western end. All were set below the road at the lake’s edge, on lots that were narrow but very wide, separated from one another by vegetation and humped ground so that each had a certain amount of privacy. The architectural styles were as different as the people who’d built them: single-story log cabins, shingle-walled and redwood-shake cottages, A-frames, and a two-story job with an alpine roof which loosely resembled a Swiss chalet.

The Dixons’ cabin was a little more than halfway around: old redwood boards and shakes, dark green shutters, its roof one long forty-five-degree slant; a railed deck built on pilings, with steps leading down to a stubby dock and a shedlike boathouse. A steep drive connected the road to a slender strip of ground along the cabin’s near side, hard-packed and wide enough for maybe three cars to park.

As I neared the drive Marian said, “Tom Zaleski’s property is next along — you can just see the roof of his cabin through the trees. We can stop there first, if you like.”

“No, let’s get you and Chuck settled in first.” I made the turn and eased down the gravel incline. “Nice place. You and Pat build it?”

“No. His dad built it thirty years ago and Pat inherited it. Some day it’ll pass on to Chuck and then to his children — I hope.”

“ I’d never sell it,” he said. “No way.”

He bounced out as soon as I stopped the car, began to unload his fishing gear from the trunk. Marian said, “I wish I had half his energy.”

“I’d settle for a third.”

“Oh, Lord, smell that air.” She seemed much more relaxed now that we’d arrived. “And not a breath of wind.”

“Usually windy up here?”

“This time of day, yes.”

“Hot enough for a swim,” Chuck said. “After all that riding in the car, I’m ready.”

“Water must be pretty cold,” I said.

“Man, it’s like ice. But I like it cold.”

“Your swim will have to wait,” Marian told him. “There’s plenty to do first.”

It took us three trips to carry everything inside. Then we opened windows and shutters and doors to let the fresh mountain air in to do battle with the stuffy mustiness that accumulates in houses long closed up. The cabin was good-sized: kitchen, pantry, dining room, two bedrooms with a shared bathroom between them, and a huge living room whose glass outer wall overlooked the lake. Simple furnishings designed for comfort, most of which looked old enough to also have been inherited from Pat’s father.

Marian put fuses in the switch box, then tested both the electricity and the plumbing; there seemed to be no problems with waterlines, septic tank, or generator. I offered to hook up the propane stove for her, but she said she’d take care of it later. She unlocked the sliding door to the deck, led me out there. From its outer end you had a clear view of the back side of Tom Zaleski’s cabin, a plain green-walled structure that sported a deck, dock, and boathouse similar to the Dixons’.

“It’s small,” she said, “there’s just Tom and his wife, but it has all the amenities. The keys to the boathouse and Tom’s boat are on the ring Pat gave you, in case he forgot to tell you that.”

“What kind of boat?”

“Rowboat with a small outboard.”

“Zaleski doesn’t mind if I use it?”

She smiled. “As long as you buy your own gas.”

Lean and wiry in his trunks, Chuck came hurrying out of the cabin. “First dip of the summer coming up,” he said.

“Don’t stay in,” his mother told him. “Cool off and get right out.”

“Okay.” He crossed to the steps, paused to peer lakeward before he started down. “Here comes Mr. Ostergaard, right on schedule.”

A bright red skiff with a single occupant was angling away from the last dock on the western shore, heading in our direction. The low-pitched whine of its outboard seemed overly loud in the stillness, even across a quarter-mile of water.

“Nils Ostergaard,” Marian said. “Did Pat tell you about him?”

“He did.”

“A character,” she said fondly. “You’ll like him—”

“Hey! Hey, you guys!”

The shout came from Chuck. He was at the side door to the boathouse, excitedly waving an arm.

“What’s the matter?”

“Somebody’s been in here. The lock’s gone.”

When Marian and I got down there I saw that the door had been secured by means of a padlock through a hasp-and-eyehook arrangement. The lock was missing, all right, and the door stood open a crack. Chuck had hold of the handle and was tugging on it, but the bottom edge seemed to be stuck.

“Crap,” he said disgustedly. “Who do you figure it was, Mom? Homeless people?”

“Way up here? Not likely.”

“I’m gonna be pissed if they stole our boat.”

I took the handle, gave a hard yank. The second time I did it, the bottom popped free and the door wobbled open. Chuck leaned inside, with Marian and me crowded in behind. There were chinks between warped wallboards; in-streaming sunlight let me see an aluminum skiff turned upside down on a pair of sawhorses. Its oars were on the floor nearby. Otherwise, the shed appeared to be empty.

“Still here,” Chuck said. “Man, that’s a relief.”

“I don’t see an outboard,” I said.

“We lock it up in the storage shed under the deck. Jeez, you think they got in there, too?”

“We’ll go and look.”

The storage shed was built into the foundation of the cabin, with a heavy redwood door secured in the same fashion as the boathouse. The padlock was missing from the hasp there as well. I let Marian open the door and pull on a hanging cord to light a low-wattage bulb.

“Hey,” Chuck said, “this is weird.”

Weird was the word for it. Evidently nothing was missing from the shed, either; Marian made a quick inventory to confirm it. An Evinrude outboard, additional fishing tackle, shovels, rakes, an extra oar for the skiff, miscellaneous items and cleaning supplies were all in their places on shelves and on the rough wood floor. No sign of disturbance. No evidence that anyone had even come inside after removing the padlock.

I asked Marian what kind of locks they’d been.

“Heavy duty, with thick staples,” she said. “The kind they advertise on TV as withstanding a rifle bullet.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Chuck said.

“What is?”

“What they were after. The locks. You know, a gang of padlock thieves.”

His mother didn’t smile and neither did I. Heavy-duty padlocks couldn’t be picked by anyone other than an expert locksmith. About the only way to open one without using a key was to hacksaw through one of the staples, which even with a battery-powered tool would take some time and effort. Why go through all the trouble if you weren’t planning to commit theft? There didn’t seem to be any rational explanation for it.