close to the water here, some with roots that jutted out over the lake.
“It’s only about three or four feet up to land,” Caldwell murmured a bit later. “Can you stop here?”
She stopped their forward motion and looked at the roots he was examining. “If a boat was already in the water, I guess you could get into it from there,” she said. “But look at those trees. How would you get a boat of any size at all through them?”
“Trails and such up there?”
“Yes. You can hike from the cottages all the way to Coop Halburtson’s property, it’s shorter than going by the road, actually. Up there the trail merges with the road.”
Caldwell made a noncommittal sound, then said, “Okay, onward.”
He had her stop once more, another place where, if there was a boat already in the water, a person could come down the side of the shore and board it, but it would be impossible to get a boat up there in the first place. After that she headed toward the ramp.
Remembering the year Jud and Coop Halburtson had built the ramp. For years it had been simply a dirt incline, but winter rains kept eroding it, guttering it, and they had built a new one of logs. It had taken a year of weekend labor to fell the right trees, cut them the right lengths, peel off the bark, and get them to the shore. She could see Jud digging, smoothing dirt, then gravel, using a sledge hammer to drive long metal bars into the ground to hold the first log at the edge of the water. That one was ten feet long; they had borrowed a horse to help move it into place. Jud called it the anchor log, the one that held all the others back. The rest were six feet long, and they had placed them carefully, sinking them just enough, filling in between them with more dirt, tamping it down. She had been their water girl, trotting back and forth to the house above, bringing them water, or iced tea or lemonade from Florence’s kitchen. For the first several years she had been afraid the ramp would sink so far into the ground it would disappear, but Jud said it was just settling in, getting comfortable, and it had been years now since there had been any change. When it was rainy, the ramp was slick and it was easier to pull the boats up it, but it was treacherous underfoot. Today it was dry.
The second the boat touched the ramp three very large dogs began to bark.
“Spook!” she called. A gray dog appeared ready to jump into the water to meet them, nearly manic with excitement, and the other two dogs stopped barking.
When they got out of the boat, Caldwell helped her pull it up the ramp, all the way to the shed. Spook danced around her the whole time, not jumping on her, but too excited to sit still as the others were doing. After the boat was put away, Abby knelt down and hugged Spook, and the dog licked her face, licked her hands, making a soft whimpering noise.
When Abby stood up, her eyes were hot with unshed tears. Softly she called, “Here, Sal. Come on, Bear.” They came to her and she petted them both as they greeted her with licks on her hands.
“Sal is their mother,” Abby said then. “Coop always said she went out and mixed it up with a bear, and these two were the result.” Sal was also large, but sleek, a grey, short-haired dog of no particular breed; her offspring were both much bigger than she was, both shaggy, one black and brown, Bear, the other gray and black, Spook.
“Do you have to check in with the Halburtsons, anything like that?” Caldwell asked, as Abby rubbed her hands on her jeans.
She shook her head. “I called and told them I’d pick up the van and take Spook home with me. I told them I’d be with the police. They won’t expect me to pay a visit today.”
She couldn’t face them again so soon, she thought. Florence had wept so hard before the memorial service, she had become faint, and Coop had not been much better, the shock of discovering Jud’s body still making his hands shake, his voice quavery. Their grief was