Catch Me if Yukon Read online

  “Can you tell us where to find him?” asked a brunette with official-looking credentials dangling from her neck.

  “I’m Bob,” said Dad, observing the reporters with polite calm.

  “Stephanie Strange, Talkeetna Tattler,” said the brunette by way of identifying herself. “Where were you when you shot your photo of Bigfoot, Mr. Andrew?”

  “Were you on the mountain behind the resort when you spotted it?” prompted another man as the group of reporters crowded around Dad like pioneers circling their wagons, muscling out everyone else.

  “How did you feel when you saw the creature?” demanded another guy who was filming Dad on his phone, the words Alaska Entertainment Magazine splashed across his jacket.

  Dad shrugged. “Didn’t feel anything.”

  “Not even a twinge of excitement? Really, Mr. Andrew, you had to have felt something.”

  “A little dizzy from the tower swing maybe.”

  “How did you manage to take his picture?” the gaggle shouted out in a blare of voices.

  Dad shrugged again. “I was shooting scenery and the ape showed up in the frame.”

  Excitement amid the reporters.

  “Did you get a close-enough look to determine if the creature actually was an ape?” asked the phone guy.

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “Would you say it looked more like a gorilla, a baboon, or an orangutan?” pressed the brunette.

  Dad gave them a palms-up. “Dunno.”

  “But you called it an ape. What type of ape?”

  “The kind that looks like a tree.”

  “A tree ape? So it resembled a chimpanzee rather than a great ape?”

  “Or a gibbon?” suggested the TV guy.

  The brunette guffawed. “How does KUTE’s puff piece golden boy have time to learn about gibbons?”

  “Nature documentary. On a competing network. Did it look like a gibbon, Mr. Andrew?”

  “Did you hear me say I didn’t see it?”

  Bernice sashayed into their midst, hips swaying and eyes sparkling, causing a momentary break in the action. “My, my, my. What have we here? Lights. Cameras. Notepads.” She primped her wire whisk helmet of over-permed hair. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me? Bernice Zwerg? Former magazine model?”

  In less than a heartbeat, attention quickly shifted back to Dad. “Could we interview you in the lobby, Mr. Andrew?” asked the KUTE reporter. “We’ve got a whole slew of questions.”

  “And we’d like pictures of you posing with your Bigfoot photo,” insisted the brunette. “This is huge entertainment news, Mr. Andrew. I hope you realize that you and your picture are in danger of claiming a glorious fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Did you read the post on social media about Bigfoot killing a hiker?” interrupted Bernice as she stood on tiptoes outside the circle of reporters, struggling to breach their protective wall. “I wrote that. I was very nearly an eyewitness. And I’m available to be interviewed.”

  “Yah, yah,” said the brunette in a dismissive tone. “We’ll get right on that.”

  “It’s not fake news! I have 659 likes to prove it.”

  The KUTE reporter peered down at Bernice. “Sorry, lady. We’re the entertainment media. We don’t do the hardcore stuff.”

  “So, Mr. Andrew,” said the brunette, shifting her attention back to Dad, “are you ready for that interview? Should take a couple of hours. Entertainment junkies love lots of frilly details.”

  Dad checked his watch. “I’m supposed to go shopping with the missus in an hour.”

  “Then we’ll wrap things up in forty-five minutes. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on a shopping trip with your wife.”

  As the girlieness of the day’s activity seared into Dad’s brain, he registered the kind of panic common among men whose shopping skills were limited to the purchase of power tools and machinery…from a catalog. He checked his watch again. “Two hours should be about right.”

  And with that he was swept away like a swimmer in an undertow, trapped in the center of the reporters’ phalanx as they stutter-stepped their way to the lobby.

  With the hoopla over, the rest of the group scattered in an obvious rush not to be late for their next scheduled event, all except Mom, who stood rooted to the spot, looking perplexed.

  “Well, that was unexpected,” I said as I walked over to her.

  “I’m torn,” she confided, elevating her palms as if they were the scales of justice. “On the one hand”—she raised her right hand slightly above the left—“I need to make sure nothing happens to your grandmother in Girdwood with this Bigfoot creature on the loose, but on the other”—down went the right, up went the left—

  “I don’t want to miss out on the opportunity to hear your father utter complete sentences.”

  “You should definitely listen to Dad,” I encouraged, knowing that Nana would actually be able to enjoy her day if Mom wasn’t around to form a protective wall around her. “You can go shopping anytime, Mom, but listening to Dad communicate with people for two hours? Potentially constructing compound sentences that might include subordinate clauses? Now that’s a once in a lifetime event you can’t afford to miss.”

  “He’ll never last two hours. Two minutes maybe. Three, tops. And I won’t hold out hope for the subordinate clauses.”

  “Don’t be so sure. He could surprise you.”

  She worried her bottom lip. “Okay. I’ll stay with your father, but you be sure and tell Etienne he needs to tail your grandmother as if she’s a fugitive from justice—close enough so he can make sure absolutely nothing happens to her.”

  “You bet.”

  She took a half-dozen steps toward the lobby before turning back to me. “I suppose there’s one upside of those reporters finding your father.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Once they finish their interview, maybe his phone will stop pinging.”

  Wanting to double-check the departure time for the shuttle once again, I headed for the concierge desk, where complimentary issues of what looked like a local newspaper were stacked in a tidy pile. Grabbing one off the top, I felt my stomach turn over in a slow, sickening somersault as I read the headline that appeared in boldface type above the fold.

  Oh. My. God.

  ten

  “Recent Anchorage Homicide Might Be Work of Serial Killer.” Back in our room Etienne read the headline aloud as I lingered beside him, watching him scan the article.

  “Do you think this could be why the police are so hesitant to release any information about Delpha’s death? Are they afraid they might be dealing with a serial killer?”

  He continued to read, absorbing content like a human sponge, his former police inspector instincts kicking into high gear. “Serial killers often have rituals they follow in the execution of their crimes, bella. The same patterns. The same methodology. I assume that’s what a forensics team might be trying to determine today. If they do find the pattern repeated in Delpha’s death, it would make her his fourth victim. So they’ll need to play their cards close to the vest. They won’t want to slip up and divulge any pertinent evidence that would alert the killer that they’re onto him.”

  He set the paper down and exchanged a sober look with me. “If Delpha died in a hiking accident, it’ll be recorded as an unintended mishap. But if they discover it’s the handiwork of their serial killer, it would mean he’s expanding his territory, and that could well cause a public panic, especially among visitors during the height of tourist season.”

  A shiver tap-danced its way up my spine. “Ennis mentioned a baker who’s still in prison for killing at least forty-nine women in the Anchorage area in the eighties. He also said the Pacific Northwest boasts a lion’s share of known serial killers. It creeped me out when he said it, but I’m even more creep
ed out now because it looks as if he really knew what he was talking about.”

  Etienne hugged me against him, wrapping me in the protective circle of his arms, suppressing inspector Etienne to allow husband Etienne to surface. “Despite the newspaper article, bella, and contrary to your worst instincts, we don’t know what caused Delpha’s death. We’re only grasping at straws. So can we refrain from drawing any conclusions until we learn the specifics? I can guarantee it’ll save you hours of needless hand wringing.”

  “Easier said than done. It’s genetic. You’ve met my mother, haven’t you? The woman with the little moon face and the steamer trunk of worry grafted onto her back?”

  “Listen to me, Emily. Based on my police experience in Switzerland, where mountains are the geologic norm and hiking is the national pastime, I can almost guarantee that Delpha’s death was an accident.”

  “I hope you’re right.” I inhaled a calming breath. “Did you have to investigate many serial killer cases in Switzerland?”

  “Uh…none, actually. Switzerland ranks rather low on the percentage chart of citizens who become deranged murderers.”

  Yup. That made me feel much better.

  We parted company at the lobby, where a throng of tourists stood around watching Dad being interviewed and Mom displaying her heart on her sleeve as she offered him an assortment of encouraging facial expressions. I wasn’t sure what the two of them planned to do after the interview, but at least Mom wouldn’t be bugging Nana. And since all the ladies had decided to follow Nana’s lead and spend the day in Girdwood shopping for souvenirs, we abandoned the shuttle idea in favor of the tour bus. So while Steele brought the vehicle around to the front door, I packed my mosquito spray and skipped out the back entrance to take the shortcut to the tram station, where Alison and the guys were already waiting.

  “We’re all here,” she spoke up. “All eight of us, present and accounted for.” Even though she was wearing nondescript jeans with holes in the knees, a generic short-sleeved tee, a baseball cap with her ponytail poking out the back, and off-brand sunglasses, she still looked like a million bucks, which was not lost on her admiring companions, who looked as if they were suddenly feeling decades younger.

  “Hush, you muskies,” barked Dick Teig as he cracked an imaginary whip into the air.

  “Dude,” chortled Dick Stolee, “you just failed Sergeant Preston of the Yukon 101. The command is mush, you huskies.”

  Dick bunched his features into a knot. “You sure?”

  “Depends on what you’re trying to do,” needled George Farkas. “Spur a dog team forward or hush a bunch of fish.”

  “And you can lose the whip,” lectured Grover Kristiansen. “Mushers don’t use whips on canines. Ever. They’re driving dogsleds, not chariots. And speaking of dogs, did you know the only dogs allowed to run in the Iditarod are Siberian huskies and Alaskan malamutes? Interestingly, that rule came about because one fella had the idea of training a bunch of standard poodles to run in the race, so he—”

  “Ho-lee Hannah,” interrupted Thor Thorsen as he peered at the vehicle rumbling down the drive toward us. “I think our ride is here.”

  It arrived with a deafening blare of heavy metal music blasting out from the cab and a rack of humongous moose antlers perched above the windshield. Looking like a cross between an all-terrain vehicle and a jeep, it sported a closed cab, an extended flatbed with a canvas canopy, six wheels, and the word pinzgauer stenciled on the glass beneath the moose rack. It was painted a brilliant fire- engine red because it was obviously too easy for drivers to miss a vehicle rumbling down the road with giant moose antlers mounted on the roof.

  The vehicle screeched to a stop ten feet away and the driver jumped out with a clipboard, all teeth and energy. “Hey, folks, are you my pick-ups for the dog mushing adventure? Nine guests from Destinations Travel?”

  “You bet,” hooted the guys, who immediately began to circle the vehicle, oohing and aahing over its heavy steel construction as if it were the Batmobile.

  “My name’s Matt. I’m your driver today, and as soon as I check off your names, we’ll hit the road.”

  “Is this vehicle military?” asked Thor as he ran his hand along the front quarter panel.

  “Sure is. Austrian made and used by Delta Force teams for special operations behind enemy lines. A sweet ride, isn’t she? With mounts available for attaching weapons systems like M2 machine guns and MK19 grenade launchers. ’Course, we don’t need those mounts right now, but it’s a real comfort to know we could get them if we needed ’em.”

  Right. Like on those terrifying occasions when Alaska faced the threat of imminent invasion from Saskatchewan.

  Whistles from the guys. Chests puffing out. Testosterone spiking.

  Matt brandished his pencil in the air. “Okay, when I call your name, raise your hand.”

  Attendance taken, he shouted out final instructions before loading us into the back. “It’ll take us about forty minutes to get there. Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. And like my grampa always said to his wife”—he offered his hand to Alison with a winsome look in his eye and a smile on his lips—“ladies first.”

  The music began blaring again when he started the engine, giving onlookers the impression that we were a traveling rock concert on six wheels. It blasted out with ear-piercing loudness as we sped down highways that snaked through primal forests…as we caught fleeting glimpses of houses that seemed to be cobbled together from hand-hewn lumber and spit…as we passed abandoned A-frames whose weathered signs might once have advertised dinner specials…as we spied cisterns and rain barrels, rusted pickups and tar paper privies…as we covered our ears to block the wind from puncturing our eardrums…as we jolted along uneven pavement until we hit the sign that warned End Road Maintenance…as we bounced down the teeth-clacking dirt road that led to the rutted cow path that meandered through flower-glutted meadows, over sparkling streams, and into a dazzling valley that was bounded on three sides by towering mountains with razor-sharp peaks.

  Matt killed the engine inside the entrance of a compound that was enclosed on two sides by a plywood fence and was home to a couple dozen small wooden hutches whose occupants were barking frenetically at our arrival, causing me to wonder if I should have packed flea spray rather than mosquito spray. Dick Teig plugged his finger into his ear and gave it a rattle as Matt lowered the tailgate. “Anyone else lose his hearing on the way over here?”

  “what?” shouted George as he wiggled a finger in his ear.

  “You gonna play any better music on the way back?” Dick Teig groused to Matt as we climbed out.

  “Sure, man. What’s your pleasure? Death Angel? Anthrax? Slayer?”

  Dick stared at him, nonplussed. “How about something that’d be good in a more confined space? Say, like, an elevator.”

  As the dogs continued their chorus of howls and barks, the man who looked to be our host sauntered over to us with an easy stride and confident smile. “Welcome, welcome. I’m Jean-Claude, but it’s these scamps”—he spread his arms wide to include all the animals in the broad gravel yard—“who are the real stars of our adventure.”

  He spoke with a slight accent I couldn’t identify, but with a name like Jean-Claude, I figured he probably hailed from one of two places.

  “You’ve got an accent,” Grover pointed out in what might have been a cheesy attempt to shine the spotlight on himself in front of Alison. He elevated his chin at a jaunty angle. “You from Canada?”

  “Brittany,” said Jean-Claude.

  “Is that near the Yukon?” enthused Dick Teig. “We’re gonna be visiting Yukon Territory sometime while we’re here.”

  I shook my head. “No, we’re not.”

  “Yes, we are,” said Dick. “It’s on our itinerary.”

  I shook my head again. “No, it’s not. The Yukon’s in Canada.”


  “Brittany, where I come from, is a region,” Jean-Claude clarified, “in France.”

  “So you’re Canadian, are you?” asked Osmond as he turned his hearing aids back on. “I fought alongside Canadians in the war.”

  I hung my head. Oh, God.

  My phoned chimed out Jackie’s ringtone, which not only spared me from having to witness any more of this conversation, but filled me with admiration for the telecommunication giants who’d had the foresight to erect cell towers in the middle of nowhere. “’S’cuse me,” I mouthed to the group as I slunk away to a more isolated spot.

  “Hi,” I whispered into the phone. “What’s up?”

  A pause. “Why do I hear dogs barking in the background? Are you at a greyhound racetrack?”

  “Dog mushing adventure. The pooches are happy to see us. So how is Mildred? Did her face shrink back to normal size?”

  “Not yet, which is why she’s still in the hospital. The doc thinks something else is going on, so they’re keeping her for further observation. But she’s pretty perky because she’s got company now.”

  “Aw, that’s so sweet. Did her family drive down from Windsor City to visit her?”

  “No. I mean, she’s not the only tour guest in the hospital anymore.”

  A chill lifted the down on my arms as if the tiny hairs had been electrified. “Another guest has been hospitalized?”

  “Uhh…actually, would you believe two guests?”

  I fought to remain calm as I scanned the compound for somewhere to sit, but there was no bench. No stool. Nothing.

  With gnawing fear and trepidation, I asked the question I had to ask. “But…the two guests are still alive, right?”

  “Oh, sure. No chance of their dying from their injuries. They only suffered broken bones and bruises.”

  “How? What were they doing that they suffered broken bones? And which two guests are you talking about?” Jean-Claude must have invited the group to show the animals a little love because the guys had spread out and were wandering among the hutches, scratching and petting the dogs, who were leaping and barking in response.