Goats, Boats, and Killer Cutthroats Read online

  Until I turned into the driveway for the hotel.

  At least they call it a hotel. It looked almost remarkably like the lodge that we had just left, except that it might have been even bigger, if that’s possible.

  I valeted the car and went inside to get checked in. For the second time in a similar setting, I was stunned. The interior was almost exactly like the first lodge, too. A big, open lobby with two layers of continuous balconies around all four sides, and two long rows of huge tree trunks holding up the roof. Exposed wooden stairways highlighted the three levels and added to the rustic atmosphere. The fireplace was a little smaller, but this one was in the middle of the room and open all around, making it just as prominent. The two resorts were so similar, I wondered if they had shared the same architect.

  I heard music and followed it to a guy with a guitar singing a song I recognized: Wild Montana Skies. I stuck around for Take Me Home, Country Roads and Rocky Mountain High. Apparently, John Denver is the Jimmy Buffett of the Rockies. I didn’t mind. I meandered back to the registration desk to check in still in awe of the beautiful lodge I was in.

  The receptionist checked us in and handed me the card keys. To my initial chagrin, they had us on the third floor! Without Jack, how the heck was I supposed to get the suitcases up there? I asked if I could leave our bags at the desk while I parked the car, and the woman there offered to have someone carry my bags up to the room. I jumped at that, and tipped the guy well after he delivered them. Best five bucks I’ve spent on this trip.

  The room at this lodge was different than the last place. More five star in finishes—nicer than most hotel rooms I’d ever been in. At the first lodge, I had been so transfixed by the giant logs and the overall appearance of the building that I gave them a pass on the room details, but this lodge seemed to have it all together. It made me look forward to trying out the dining room. I hoped that Jack would make it in time to join me.

  I was thinking about Alison as the two Indian Affairs agents discussed their next steps while we drove back to their office. I hoped she was doing okay on her own. Burd dropped off Mike, and I moved up to the front seat for the ride to Many Glacier.

  “You know these people saw you,” Burd said to me once we were back on the main road. “The question is, how well?”

  “I don’t think they could recognize me, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Why not?”

  “I always had my camera in front of my face. Just like I couldn’t get any good photos of the boss’s face because he always had his binoculars up.

  “He saw your hair. He saw your jacket. You never know.”

  Actually, I did know. The magnification that I got through my telephoto was roughly the same as most binoculars, so as clear a view that I got of the boss’s face, he got of mine.

  We were outside of town now, and Burd upped our speed to about ninety. “We get a lot of photographers here in the park, but big cameras stand out a lot more now than they used to. You might want to keep any big lenses you have under wraps, just to be safe.”

  “But I’m a photographer. That’s what I do.”

  “Do you want to be a dead photographer?” Agent Burd had a talent for getting to the point. “Look, we don’t have a clue yet who the victim was or who the perps are. Mike’s working on the victim right now. We’ll know in a day or two who’s gone missing, and that might lead us in the direction of the killers. Where are you going to be the next few days?”

  I told Burd our schedule of lodges and explained why we were in Glacier in the first place.

  “Okay. If we learn anything that could affect your safety, I’ll get hold of you. In the meantime, lay low. Write your article and don’t do anything to stand out. That should include using big camera lenses.

  I wondered if I hid my smirk well enough.

  5

  Trophy Goats

  I settled into the desk in our room and started my article. After my interview with Samuel, it practically wrote itself. I roughly outlined the rest of the article in my head with some lodge choice advice folded in with the descriptions: if you like this, go to this lodge; if you prefer that, go to that lodge. Typical travel mag stuff.

  I finished getting down everything I wanted on the first lodge and decided that I needed to get some information for this one. My interview with the manager here wasn’t scheduled until the next morning, but I wanted to check out the dining choices. After missing lunch, I was more than ready for that kind of work, Jack or no.

  I walked down the stairs and took a quick tour around the Great Hall. A big wall of plastic sheeting and an accompanying sign told me that there was a sizable renovation going on. It looked like about half the lodge was closed. Maybe they’ll install an elevator.

  I found the Ptarmigan Dining Room and stepped inside. In contrast to the all-log dining at the first lodge, the fully-carpeted floor and the flat beige ceiling gave this dining room a more traditional, if somewhat dated, appearance. Part of the room looked like the kind of hall that highway hotels used for small conventions, trade shows, mlm meetings—the usual smoky room events held at hotels. But there was one massive detail, a bunch of coats-of-arms hung from the ceiling in big flags that I’m sure provided sound absorption as well as decoration. It was like King Arthur meets Holiday Inn.

  I was seated at a table for two and left alone with a menu. The selection looked scrumptious, but I was too hungry to ponder over a decision and quickly chose the bison tenderloin. Unfortunately, it was over twenty minutes until a girl younger than me came over to take my order. You’d think with half the rooms empty from the renovation, they’d be able to respond a little quicker. She was very polite, though, so I didn’t complain. I’ve been there and I knew it likely wasn’t her fault.

  Unlike the older, smarmy convention center halls, one wall in this room was almost entirely composed of floor-to-ceiling windows. The view overlooked a beautiful, deep blue lake with a tall, triangular mountain on the opposite side. It was spectacular, and I wished that I were closer to a window, but I could see only four-seat tables over there and I guessed that was some kind of rule—never waste a four top on only one patron.

  The dining room also had its own big stone fireplace, and someone appeared to be arranging wood inside it to start a fire.

  I sat with my chin on my palms and studied my fellow diners, wondering why each of them was here. My energy reserves were draining fast, and by the time my meal arrived, I could have eaten the whole buffalo. The tenderloin was overcooked and not very tender, but at that point I no longer cared. I sawed it vigorously into bite-sized pieces and had it down in two minutes and pushed at the paltry scoop of mashed potatoes.

  I felt a firm tap on my shoulder and looked behind me, but no one was there. I turned back forward and jumped when I saw Jack sitting in front of me, grinning from ear to ear. I kicked him under the table and asked him how he was doing, thinking that digging up a body can’t be a pleasant experience.

  “Much better, now that I see you.”

  I just can’t stay mad at this guy.

  The server instantly appeared and asked Jack if he would be staying to eat.

  “Yeah, do you have any big burgers? I’m starved.”

  “We have a bison chili burger.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “With fries?”

  “Sure.”

  She left, and I said to Jack, “So, how’d it go?”

  “Not as well as I’d hoped. There was no body in the hole.”

  “What do you mean, there was no body in the hole?” I ducked my head and looked around, thinking I’d said that a little too loudly, but nobody was paying me any attention.

  He was unfolding his napkin and tucking it into his collar. It occurred to me that only a man could get away with doing that.

  “Well?” I asked, more quietly this time.

  He leaned forward.

  “Exactly that. Somebody had to have gone back since I saw them and dug up the body and fille
d the hole back in. It just wasn’t there.”

  “There wasn’t enough time for that, was there?”

  “Sure there was. It only took them a half hour to bury the guy the first time.”

  “Jack!” I whispered, looking around again.

  Our server reappeared from behind me, and I jumped again. She set a plate in front of Jack with a super-thick, juicy burger and a huge pile of fries.

  I stared, aghast at the speed of Jack’s service. It’s impossible to cook a hamburger that fast—especially one so thick. She had to have stolen that from someone else’s order. I wondered why the heck mine had taken so much longer.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asked Jack with a tilt of her head. “Maybe some ketchup?”

  “Mmm.” Jack nodded as he took a huge bite, using a finger to stuff some stray bun into his mouth.

  The server sauntered off with a smile and let her hand linger on his shoulder on the way.

  My jaw dropped at that. My gaze slowly shifted from the server to Jack.

  Jack swallowed. “What?”

  I just shook my head and stabbed a forkful of fries from his plate before he drowned them with ketchup.

  “There wasn’t time for the killers to leave, change their mind, then return to the site, dig it up, and leave again before you got back there.”

  “Well, even though it looks bad, we can’t be sure those men were the killers.”

  I ignored that. Of course they were the killers. Men with guns who aren’t guilty of murder don’t bury bodies deep in the woods.

  “You were only gone from there—what, three hours—until you went back with the police? The Indian agents or whatever?” I asked.

  Jack looked at me, considering this. I looked around again and leaned in closer.

  “Jack, they saw you, so they dug the body back up and put it back in their truck as soon as you left.”

  “So, what would they have done with it after that?”

  “How should I know? Find somewhere else to bury it. But that’s not the important part.”

  “If that’s not important, then what is?”

  “Jack, they saw you! They could come after you!”

  “Yeah, but I don't think they got that good a look at me. And what are the odds that they’re going to run into us again at another lodge?”

  “I don't know,” I said, “but I still don't like this.”

  The server brushed beside me, presenting Jack’s ketchup like it was a bottle of wine, and I jumped once more, dropping my fork this time.

  “You really ought to do something about that nervous twitch of yours,” Jack told me.

  “How can you joke around at a time like this?”

  Now I sounded like my mother. The server looked at me. I told her I’d like to speak with the chef. I was writing an article about the lodge and had some questions for him. She looked at Jack, and he nodded, so she took off to fetch him. Incredible.

  He came out and politely answered my questions, but he didn’t really seem to warm up to the idea of an interview. I got out of him that his name was Michael, but I could not get him to elaborate on anything else. So, I tried to take it to the next level by asking him if we could go back into the kitchen with him.

  He was really hesitant about this. I repeated my explanation of the magazine article. Jack and I both gave him our business cards, and he relented.

  Now, I know my way around a kitchen, and I can usually get people to warm up to me real fast once I make it that far. This chef was still very guarded, so Jack tried to help.

  “Tell me, Michael, what do most guys do around here for fun?”

  Michael seemed taken off guard for an instant. “Um...a lot of us go hunting and fishing.”

  “Cool. You ever serve any of your prey here, or is that strictly for at home?”

  “I only serve what’s on the menu, and we get all of our meat from a local supplier.”

  The guy was still putting up the icy front.

  “Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” Jack said ignoring it. “But I bet you have some great recipes for deer…and trout. You know, Alison’s a great cook, but I don’t think she’s ever had a chance to cook any wild game.”

  “You don’t want fancy recipes for game,” Michael replied. “It’s best to just cook it in a skillet with a little seasoning.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him exactly how wrong that was, but Jack jumped in before I could.

  “Come on now,” he punched the man’s shoulder. “You make something better than that. I just know it.”

  He thought for a moment and his demeanor shifted a little. Did I see a crack in the armor developing?

  “I do have a stew I make with venison.”

  “Oh, tell me about that,” I said, jumping in.

  After that, I got him to open up a little more, but not much. He might be a great chef, but he was also still a man. That was the fundamental problem. But I got enough for my article, I thought. There was a lot more to this lodge than just the dining room.

  It was getting late and I saw Jack yawning more and more as we finished our meals. It was clear that he was exhausted from the body search and I was pretty tired from chasing staff around and trying to get them to talk to me. When Jack turned down dessert, I knew it was time to hit the sack. He went to his room and I went to mine. Even the romantic charms of the Many Glacier Lodge took a backseat to a good night’s sleep. I might’ve dreamed about an interlude or two, but I kept that to myself.

  The next morning, we found that the main dining room put out a rather generous continental breakfast. However, in the interest of tasting the expanded selections—especially the biscuits and gravy—I opted for the grand breakfast buffet. Jack, of course, did the same only so he could vacuum in the most bacon and eggs.

  My biscuits and gravy were better than I expected for being so far away from their southern origin. I’d still take my grandma’s over them, but I’d take her biscuits and gravy over just about anybody’s. I also tried the cinnamon raisin French toast with a sample of each of their delicious toppings, which included fresh berries. So far, the breakfast experience here was far superior to dinner. Plenty to write about.

  I had asked Jack to take his camera down to breakfast to get some pictures for me, I sampled as much as I could and made copious notes. I felt good about what I had so far. Now, I just needed to get something—anything—from the manager.

  Well, you guessed it, I didn’t get the manager—again—but I did get an assistant manager who was very glad to help me with my article. I don’t know why, but being put off from the manager to an assistant seemed totally different this time. Maybe, I was just getting used to it.

  This guy was wearing khakis that were all scratched up, and hiking shoes. I guess that's just what passes for business casual in these parts.

  Anyway, his name was Matt Siegel, and he told me all about the history and construction of the lodge. It was almost identical to that of the first lodge we stayed at, built by the same railway as soon as they completed the first one.

  “I worked at Glacier Park Lodge last season,” Matt said. “I just transferred here this year. The biggest difference between the two to me is the scenery. The Many Glacier Hotel is located right in the heart of Glacier National Park instead of along the edge. It’s built on the shore of a big lake, surrounded by mountains.”

  Matt walked me outside onto the deck to show me the view across the lake unobstructed. It was chilly out, especially standing in the shadow of the lodge, but the view was spectacular.

  I had never seen the Rockies before. I’ve seen lots of pictures and TV shows with them, but nothing prepares you for seeing them in person so close. They are literally the biggest things I’ve ever seen in my life, and standing in the middle of them was almost surreal.

  Matt pointed out one particular mountain, the tall, pointy pyramid just across the lake. “That’s how this area got its nickname, the Switzerland of North America. Because that mountain looks
so much like the Matterhorn. You’ve probably already seen our Swiss Lounge and Heidi’s Snack Shop.”

  Most of the mountains had snow on their peaks, even though this was August. Matt said that there are a lot of hiking trails in the park that have snow on them year-round.

  As we took in the amazing scenery, I asked him about the man we saw singing when we checked in, and he said that they have live music in the lobby most evenings.

  “We try to provide as complete of an experience as we can right here. During the day, guests can rent a boat or hike one of the trails that pass through the hotel grounds. It’s also just a short drive to the Saint Mary Visitor Center, where you can take one of the free shuttles down the Going-to-the-Sun Highway to get an excellent view of the center of the park from the eastern to the western border and back.”

  We walked back inside, and I mentioned the lack of animal heads in this lodge compared to the last.

  Matt smiled. “Each of the lodges has its own theme. Given that the style of construction is identical, there’s not a lot you can do to differentiate them, but yeah, all the big animal heads went to the Glacier Park Lodge. There are a few smaller ones here, though, scattered around.”

  As he spoke, I was already changing the overall article structure in my mind to emphasize the similarities among the lodges as much as the differences.

  I thanked Matt for his time and looked around to locate Jack. I saw him taking pictures of one of Matt’s decapitated animal heads and talking to some guy. I walked over but stayed back to not interrupt their conversation.

  “Are there different kinds of mountain goats?”Jack asked the man.

  “No, but the quality of trophy varies a lot from place to place,” he replied.

  “What do you mean?”