Beth Carpenter - Alaskan Hideaway

* * *

MAC WATCHED HER go from behind the curtain. Figured. He’d driven thirty-nine hundred miles to get away from people, only to have some strange woman pounding on his door three hours after he’d finally managed to fall asleep. Well, she didn’t literally pound, but she might as well have considering the barking fit her visit inspired.

To add insult to injury, the bounce in her step as she strolled along his driveway seemed to indicate she was enjoying her morning, in contrast with his pounding head and gritty eyelids. A cold nose pressed into his hand. He turned to greet the dog. “I see you’ve been hard at work already.”

The pit bull wagged her tail and jerked her head toward the empty bowl in the kitchen. He took the hint and filled it with kibble before starting a pot of coffee for himself. While it brewed, he dropped to the rug for his usual round of push-ups. He used to go out for a run every morning before breakfast, too, but the paparazzi put a stop to that.

Once he’d completed fifty push-ups, he got up and pulled the curtain aside to make sure the woman was gone and had latched the gate behind her. The dog scratched on the door, so Mac opened it to let her out and stepped onto the porch, shivering in the cold. A newspaper and plate of rolls sat on the table—cinnamon pecan, according to the cutesy label shaped like a daisy. Underneath, he found a note asking him to call her.

Just what he needed—some nosy neighbor trying to woo him with homemade treats. He’d sworn the local lawyer to secrecy, but somehow word must have gotten out he was here. Well, she wasn’t the first woman to make a play for him since he’d become successful, and like all the others, she was doomed to disappointment. He whistled for the dog and returned to the cabin, dropping the note into the trashcan under the sink. He started to pitch the rolls in after it, but his stomach growled, reminding him he’d not yet had a chance to buy milk for his raisin bran.

No sense letting good food go to waste. He picked up a roll and bit into it. Cream cheese frosting melted in his mouth. He chewed, savoring the blending of fresh bread and sweet cinnamon. Quite possibly the best cinnamon rolls he’d tasted since he was a boy, visiting his grandmother’s house. He took another bite. These might in fact edge Gram’s off the middle podium. Shame he wouldn’t be getting any more once she figured out he was a lost cause.

He poured a cup of coffee and sank into a chair at the scrubbed pine table, pushing aside a pile of mail he’d found in a box when he unpacked. A return address caught his eye. A bill from the private investigator. Chandler had sounded almost apologetic about billing him for the hours spent following leads that went nowhere, but Mac didn’t care how much it cost, how many possibilities turned out to be dead ends. They couldn’t quit. Not until they found Andi’s killer. Eventually, they would. People didn’t just vanish.

He set the bill aside to pay later and slid the newspaper from its sleeve. A subscription offer fluttered to the ground. He opened the paper and took another bite of cinnamon roll. And another. There was something restful about perusing local politics and events that didn’t concern him. By noon, he’d written a check to the investigator, unpacked all the boxes marked kitchen, called to subscribe to the Anchorage newspaper and wiped out the entire plate of cinnamon rolls. He washed the plate and set it in the drainer to dry. His family used to eat off blue-and-white plates not too different from this one when he was a boy.

His job was to wash dishes, and his mother would dry. She’d wipe each plate, stack them in the cupboard and sigh because there were only seven. He’d heard the story a dozen times. How her cousin had taken home a plate of leftovers one evening and moved off to California without ever returning the plate, leaving her with an incomplete set. He was never clear exactly why Mom couldn’t have asked for the plate back or bought another one, but she didn’t. Instead, she mourned the loss nightly.

He eyed the plate in his drainer. According to the note, the woman lived in the big house on the next property over. He needed to drive into Seward that afternoon to buy groceries. He could easily drop off the plate on the way. But his polite gesture could be misconstrued as a friendly overture, which posed a danger to his privacy. If he ignored her, she’d leave him alone.

And that was really Mac’s only goal in moving to Alaska. To be left alone.

* * *

URSULA HAD WAITED three long days, but the call never came. How was she going to convince the guy it was in his best interest to sell if he wouldn’t talk to her? Her cinnamon rolls seldom failed, but maybe he really didn’t eat gluten. Time to pull out the big guns.

She took a jar of smoked sockeye she’d canned last summer from her pantry. Chopped green onions, lemon juice, cream cheese and a few secret seasonings turned it into her special salmon dip. She filled a crock and tucked it into her backpack, along with a bag of moose jerky, and strapped on her snowshoes.

A fresh snow had obliterated the tracks on the ski trail since their aborted outing a few days ago. No doubt the groomer had laid fresh tracks on the main trails but he could no longer reach her property with the gates closed. Getting them opened should be her first order of business.

She reached the gate, relieved to see the SUV parked between the house and the garage. Good. He was home. Hopefully, the dog was in the house with him, but if not, she had a plan B. Ursula rattled the gate and waited.

Sure enough, a black-and-white blur bounded toward her, almost disappearing into the deep snow between leaps. The dog must be in great physical condition to be able to bark and run at the same time.

The pit bull reached the gate and bounced into the air, almost head high, barking. Ursula wasn’t sure this was going to work, but she had to try. She laid down her ski poles to take off her backpack. The barking stopped. She looked up. The pit bull still watched her. Ursula reached toward the poles, and a low rumble emanated from the dog’s throat.

Aha. “Bad experience with a stick? Poor puppy.” Ursula left the poles lying on the ground and spoke in a gentle voice. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’d never hurt you.” She unzipped her backpack, pulled out a stick of jerky and tore off a bite-size piece. “Would you like a treat?” She tossed the bite to the dog.

The dog jumped into the air to catch the tidbit. Tail wagging, it waited expectantly. Ursula smiled. “That’s a good boy.” She checked. “Girl, I mean. Want some more?”

The pit bull cocked her head. Ursula tossed another bite. The dog came closer and stuck her nose between the gate and the fence, wagging her tail harder. Ursula handed her another bit of jerky. The dog licked her hand and gently took the meat from her. “All that bluster is just for show, isn’t it? You’re really a marshmallow.”

The dog wagged in agreement. Leaving the ski poles behind, Ursula pulled the chain up over the post to unlatch the gate and slipped inside. She fastened the gate behind her and gave her new best friend another bite of jerky. Together, they crossed the meadow between the gate and the house, Ursula on snowshoes and the dog crashing through the snow beside her.

Before she reached the house, Ursula noticed a light in the window of the oversize detached garage. When Betty’s husband built it forty years ago, he’d included a woodworking space as well as room for cars. The light was coming from the workshop area.

The dog headed straight for the workshop and squeezed through a new dog hatch cut into the outer door. The door must not have been completely latched, because it opened when the dog pushed against it. Ursula removed her snowshoes, pulled the crock of salmon dip from her backpack and followed the dog inside.