Night Falls in the Gorge: A Pacific Northwest Mystery

1

She pushed the WRX hard up Corbett Hill, barely slowing for the turns, tires hissing as they slashed through the film of wet pavement. Spotting no other cars as she turned onto the old Columbia River Highway, she accelerated into a straight stretch just as a quick check in the rearview mirror caught the red and blue lights. With a silent curse she steered the Subaru to a stop at the side of the road, lowered the window, and turned off the engine. Now she waited, watching the mirror.

The way the sheriff hauled himself out of the cruiser and walked toward her car, she figured he didn’t spend a lot of time at the gym or the firing range. An old-style, stop-and-change-your-tire kind of cop. Moments later a Multnomah County Sheriff’s Deputy uniform filled the driver’s side window, strained lower buttons revealing a white T-shirt underneath.

See your license, registration, insurance? He looked into the back seat, didn’t make eye contact.

Jan Bentley rummaged through her purse for the plastic card, searched the glove compartment for the papers, and suddenly rattled, wondered if her license was current. She handed them through the window and while he went to run a check, she peeked into her checkbook and drew a deep breath. Nowhere close to covering a speeding ticket, and her next payday was sometime in the distant future. She sat quietly until Deputy Alwyn, according to his badge, reappeared and handed back her cards.

Lady, you been hell-bent since you came up Corbett Hill. I clocked you at seventy-five going down this road. The heck were you thinking?

Officer, I’m really sorry. It’s a new car, and I guess I didn’t notice it going faster downhill. Her voice turned into a question as she spoke, leaving open the possibility of just a friendly warning this time.

Not a chance, said the look. Again, he leaned over and studied her leather bag and laptop case on the backseat.

I’m on my way up to Cougar Lodge, and I’m running late, she said, trying again. I’m joining a tour group and writing an article about the lodge. For a magazine, she added. Stop chattering, she told herself.

He nodded and spoke as he wrote. I’m getting ready to go steelhead fishing, myself. You can either send in a check or appear in court if you want to contest it—if you believe you weren’t going that fast. He handed her the ticket. It’s all spelled out for you right here.

Jan scanned the ticket and exhaled, sending wisps of blonde hair upward. Surely they do MasterCard, she thought.

You take it easy now, he said, as he walked back to his vehicle.

Easy? Nothing is easy, she wanted to say. She gripped the steering wheel and pushed back thoughts of paychecks, health insurance, and the retirement account that hadn’t quite vested when a late-December memo left her jobless. Now she was starting over as a freelance writer, worried that the sporadic income would barely cover the mortgage, much less a hit like a speeding ticket.

It won’t happen again, she pledged, and eased the Subaru back onto the road. She kept the car window and the speed down as she followed the road toward Crown Point, watching the rearview mirror as the cruiser moved out of sight, heading in the opposite direction. When the NPR station announced the time, three-thirty, she glanced at the dashboard with satisfaction. Every clock in her house had a slightly different version of the current time, but here in the black interior of her WRX, the readout matched the radio. Every time. She pressed hard on the gas pedal—nearly a half-hour late already. Not a good start for this first visit to Cougar Lodge, and no excuse for it. She knew this road and should have allowed extra time.

Her mood lifted as she slowed to loop around Vista House, set on a point more than 700 feet above the Columbia River. Now comes the fun part, she thought, as she took a deep breath and downshifted for the descent. It was a pure delight—and almost worth the price of a ticket—to run the WRX through the series of beautifully banked figure-eight turns, one after another, that took the car into an elevation drop of some 600 feet in less than a mile. On the exposed cliffs, parts of the original stone guardrails or their newer wooden version prevented a plunge over sheer rock walls.

Now she entered the magic zone, where maples and Western red cedar towered, and roadside trees hungry for space formed a canopy over the two-lane road. She’d been waiting to road-test her car on this twisting descent. Modeled after the great mountain roads of Europe, the Historic Columbia River Highway literally paved the way to the gorge in the early 1900s. It was a feat of engineering and artistry that had been called a poem in stone, a work that was forgotten when Interstate 84 opened down along the river itself. After being left to crumble, a twenty-two-mile restoration had returned parts of the road to its former glory. And now there was a renovated lodge, with food that merited the drive from Portland, and she had the story. The perfect spot to jump-start her freelance writing career.

This is a start, but I am so sick of starting over, she thought. I need this splashy article on Cougar Lodge for a portfolio piece, and who knows? A chapter in a travel book could lead to something with this Roads Less Traveled operation. She slowed to marvel at the dark poles of tree trunks below a backlit canopy of green, taking in the noisy energy of spring as the WRX negotiated the winding road past the waterfalls—Latourell, then Shepperd’s Dell, and the magical Bridal Veil Falls. High above, there’d be Pacific dogwood and trillium blooming along the trails.

She was close to Wahkeena Falls when she spotted the sign for Cougar Lodge and made the sharp right turn. The WRX, her Silver Streak, dug into the narrow road that pointed nearly a half-mile up a steep slope and sprayed gravel as it swung into the gravel parking lot and came to a stop in a circle drive in front of the lodge. A blonde with silver streaks of her own, Jan climbed out and tugged at the slim denim skirt that—damn it—tended to ride up with the extra winter pounds. She pulled her duffel and laptop case out of the car and then opened the trunk and unloaded a picnic basket. She scooped up her gear and stopped to take in the setting: the two-story log structure was surrounded by a sprawling lawn, which it shared with a tiny house, not much bigger than a cabin. She could see a path connecting the lodge to the house—probably the owners’ home. Another path looped around the grounds, and a third branched off into the thick forest. At the entrance she looked up at the massive wood doors. Great shot, she decided. I’ll get it later.

Inside the open lobby area she looked around approvingly for no more than a few seconds before a swirl of purple tunic, the clink of silver chains, and the tap of boot heels announced an entrance. Ellen Mills here. You must be our writer.

Yes, I’m Jan Bentley. Sorry I’m a bit late. Someday I’m going to learn how to dress like that, Jan thought, but right now my working wardrobe is denim.

You’re not late at all. We’re so pleased that you want to do an article about our place. Bracelets clanked as Ellen extended a manicured hand. John, she called, come meet Jan.

Ah. Welcome to Cougar Lodge. John Mills ambled over and smiled as he shook Jan’s outstretched hand. In contrast to his wife, he opted for faded tan cords, desert boots, and a cotton turtleneck. In this human version of a couple, Jan thought, the female has the bright plumage and the male blends in with the woodwork. She liked them immediately. It will be fun to develop the travel piece, as long as one of them—the peacock, in this case—is a good talker.

As you know, Jan reminded them, "this article is for Northwest Cuisine. But I have something more in mind than a food story. She pulled a paperback travel guide from the side pocket of the laptop case. I’m also working with the editor of the Northwest Discoveries series, and this lodge would be perfect—a Columbia River Gorge destination. You’ve got an undiscovered gem here."

Ellen beamed. We certainly think so, and our guests love being able to stay right here along the waterfall route. She pressed on to offer scrapbooks full of before and after photos, the original history of the building, maps of hiking trails—whatever Jan needed.

What I really need, Jan said, "is access to the kitchen. It’s the food that draws Northwest Cuisine readers. Of course, we’ll have some lodge photos, too—this is great, all that you’ve done here—and maybe I’ll borrow your historical material for background."

No problem, Ellen assured her. Our chef is not only a terrific cook, he’s unflappable. Let’s go meet him before we get you settled in upstairs. There was a slight pause, and Ellen glanced at her husband as she continued in a casual tone. You were very gracious to accept the change of rooms. I appreciate it, and I’m sure it’ll work out. It’s a family suite, really, double the size of a regular room. And I’ve already explained to your roommate that you’re on assignment and you’ll need the extra workspace. Anyway, you’re here first, so just claim it.

Jan hadn’t been the least bit gracious when Ellen Mills called with the request, but the shared room was to be temporary. Now there was no mention of a move to a private room. Best to let it go for now, she decided, and followed the floating silk toward an inviting aroma. As they entered the kitchen, food preparation came to a silent stop and two heads looked up. Ellen introduced Jan to the chef, TJ Chen, and his assistant, Lorena Mullins, and told them about Jan’s magazine article.

Jan looked up at a tall—nearly six feet, she guessed—young Asian American, probably in his mid-twenties, with dark hair pulled into a ponytail. He wore a clean white T-shirt with cut-off sleeves that revealed tattoos on lean, muscled arms.

She greeted them both, then surveyed the polished stainless steel tables and overhead racks with every kettle and sauté pan hanging in order by size and function. There had obviously been some money sunk into this place. The gray-haired helper nodded and went back to cutting bread cubes.

I promise not to reveal any secrets, but I’d love to spend some time here when you’re not too busy, Jan said to the chef.

Now’s a good time, TJ answered with an easy smile. I’ll give you a sneak preview of our opening night dinner.

And I’ll let you two get acquainted. Ellen moved toward the door, then turned toward Jan. You can stop by the office for the room key when you finish here. The double doors swung shut behind her.

Jan turned to the young chef. I’m curious. How in the world did you end up here? Too direct, she realized, as TJ tensed up and wiped his hands on his apron. Then he relaxed and mustered a slight grin.

I’m not sure what you mean, Ms. Bentley, but we’re just over a half-hour from the city. I go home every night, so this is not exactly uncharted wilderness. And if you mean me personally, there’s been a sizable Chinese population around here for generations. And Japanese, for that matter.

I know, Jan said. I live in Portland.

TJ went on to explain that he was originally from Orange County and moved to Portland to study at the Western Culinary Institute. He looked at her squarely and added, I’m twenty-four, and I’ve paid my dues.

Something in his tone made her look hard at the young man, with his sleeveless T-shirt, tattoos, and a slightly defensive attitude. Was that a trace of anger she’d heard? Sadness? Maybe a little of both. Or maybe it’s just that he’s the only minority around here.

TJ seemed to read her thoughts. Don’t worry. I clean up pretty well.

Sorry, Jan said. I realize I’ve interrupted you on a workday and started peppering you with questions. I’m very impressed with your background and look forward to getting better acquainted with you—and this beautiful kitchen. The compliment seemed to soften him a bit, and she moved away from personal questions. Everything I’ve seen of the lodge says Northwest, and I understand that’s true of the food as well.

That’s right. I picked these juniper berries—he handed her a sample of the tiny, tart pellets—on the slopes of Mount Hood. And every summer I get huckleberries from there and Mount Adams and freeze a supply for sauces and desserts. We’ll be having some this week.

Would you be willing to let me have the recipe for that sauce for my article? Jan eyed the mixture of red wine, garlic, and herbs to which TJ added a sprinkle of the potent juniper berries.

Heady aromas began to fill the kitchen as he adjusted the flame under the saucepan. I’m inventing it as we speak, he said, so taste it at dinner tonight and see what you think. He grinned. Seriously, I’ll have to ask Mrs. Mills, but I’m sure it’ll be all right, if I catch her at the right time. You know, this week is a very big deal to her. Besides the tour group, her brother and his wife are coming. I think she wants to impress them. I mean, we all want this week to go well.

Jan watched him backpedal after this bit of insider gossip. So, let’s talk about food, he said quickly. Of course, we’ll have some special dishes this week, but the menus always depend on the season. John and Ellen Mills are big supporters of local growers, and they’ve encouraged me to buy locally. All summer I explore the back roads, from Sauvie Island down to Silverton, making connections with local farms and farmers’ markets. It’s the best job in the world, he gushed. I love it.

This has all the ingredients for a great article, Jan said, as she underlined the quote and watched TJ glance up at the clock and turn his attention to the prep table. But I understand deadlines. I’ll stop back another time. One great article coming up, she thought. She put away her small spiral notebook and pictured a two-page spread, with a jump to finish the story and photos that caught the light reflecting off the pots hanging overhead. But how to frame it? She shaped her thumb and index finger into a cropping tool—an old habit—to compose a photo she’d take later.

TJ stopped his work. What are you looking at? Is something wrong?

Not at all. I want to get a shot of those beautiful pots and pans when the light is just right. You probably picture the finished meal, or the platter ready to serve, when you start working. I see the finished page, photos and headlines in place, before I begin writing a major article. I’ll bet we’re similar in that way—we both know what we’re working toward.

Cool. His face brightened.

She smiled. This will be fun.

As she crossed the dining room, Jan saw a dark-haired figure in a blue chambray shirt sitting alone, thumbing through papers, and decided to see if her luck was holding. She stopped at the table.

Are you Paul Santos? I’m Jan Bentley. I’m here—

Oh, right. Ellen told me you’d be joining the group. You’re doing an article on the lodge? He stood and reached for her outstretched hand. Slim, tan, a smile that crinkled his eyes, indicating time outdoors, with sunglasses lost or forgotten. And a gold band on his left hand that she glanced over quickly.

"Food is the focus of the article for Northwest Cuisine, Jan said, but I’m also contributing a section on the Columbia River Gorge for a travel book, so I’ll be experiencing the lodge as a starting point for exploring the area. Will this be a regular venue for Roads Less Traveled Adventures?"

That’s always the hope, he said. She caught a brief hesitation, as he shifted from one foot to the other and then made a smooth recovery. The setting is a good match for our programs.

Exploring little-known places in small groups, Jan quoted from the travel company’s website, prompting a smile from its founder. I love the concept—and the name.

The Columbia River Gorge is a perfect fit for us. Incredible natural beauty, ancient spirits you can almost feel, near a big city and yet quiet, remote. We don’t want to be on the tour bus route, he finished.

When he offered no invitation to stay and talk, Jan gave him an out. I’m sure you have lots of last-minute things to take care of, so I’ll let you get back to your work. Maybe we can continue this conversation another time.

Sure. I look forward to that, Paul Santos said.

Jan made her way to the front desk, picked up her key, and lugged her bags up the stairs. She opened the door and stopped for a moment to survey the room, a corner suite that was a smaller version of the great room downstairs: earth tones, a pair of mission-style chairs with matching ottomans, and a round oak table. Separate sleeping alcoves held double beds with matching nightstands, reading lamps, and clock radios.

First come, first served, she decided, and claimed the bed in the alcove around a corner, with a view of the forest outside. Her laptop and camera case went on the table, and just to be sure, she spread her files across the top. Like a male dog marking territory, she thought, not too pleased with her actions. But this room sharing wasn’t my idea.

The picnic basket went into the corner, and then she turned her attention to unpacking the leather bag. No matter how many times she’d packed alone, driven alone, and taken care of everything else alone since the divorce, Jan still resented it. Security had eluded her there, too. Stay positive, she told herself, as she pulled out the Wedgwood blue silk shirt. It set off her still-blonde hair, and, with luck, there might be someone worth looking her best for this week. She smiled at the thought and hung a silk scarf with it. Then she crammed the mainstays—jeans, turtlenecks, well-worn fleece—into a dresser drawer and pushed the bag into the closet.

2

More bad news, I assume?" John Mills asked, as Ellen put down the phone. His voice had the dejected tone of someone expecting the worst. He added a chunk of fir to the woodstove in the corner. The stove was the only source of heat in the office they’d added to keep the business side of Cougar Lodge separate from their home life. He closed the creaky iron door and brushed off his hands. He had a knack for building fires, and the blaze quickly crackled to life.

Ellen spun her chair a quarter-turn to the right. Actually, no, she said. Good news. That was the Detroit woman, asking about a hair dryer. She and Jan Bentley talked earlier, and they’re both fine with sharing a room. That’s fifteen. The tour is full. We made it. She raised both arms in a victory cheer that John Mills did not join in.

You need to subtract three, as far as paying guests, he said. The writer is a comp, and I’m sure your brother and his wife are, too.

Michael and Caroline are paying. They can afford it, and besides, it would be awkward if we didn’t treat them the same as the rest of the group. But, since you’re counting so closely, of course the writer is comped. John frowned and she immediately regretted snapping at him.

Even with a full program, we’re in trouble, he argued. We can’t pay the bills. He picked up a stack of envelopes and dropped them back on the desk. "Two rooms are out of commission, and the plumber wants cash. Everybody wants cash from us." He sank into his chair.

I know, sweetheart, but it’s a temporary cash flow situation. We need to forge ahead, stay positive. Things can turn around in a snap, and this tour group could do it for us. If Paul Santos likes the lodge and how we handle the next week, we’ll have Roads Less Traveled back again. And imagine what a magazine article will do for us. And a mention in a travel guide.

Ellen stood up, walked over to her husband, and put her arms around him. Her cheek pressed the top of his thinning, sandy-colored hair and her hair fell against his face as her lips grazed his creased forehead.

I know it’s been slow, she said. I know you’re worried.

Slow? He pulled away. You don’t understand. We’re going under, Ellen. Every dime—all our retirement money—is tied up in this place. If it fails, we’ll have nothing left but an oversize cabin in the Oregon woods.

Listen to me, John. She held his face in her hands. Yes, we took a risk, we made an investment here, and it’s going to pay off. We’ve got a full house. We’re about to turn the corner—you’ll see. Now listen. I need you here this weekend, part of the welcoming committee. But, first thing Monday, you go talk to the bank about a loan.

The bank has already said no.

"Just a bridge loan, just to buy us a little time and get us to the end of the week. Oh, and buy us a bottle of bubbly. When we get the final