Digging For Trouble: Pine Lake Inn, #2

Chapter 1

There’s a tradition in Australia known as walkabout. It’s for people who have lost their way. Lost their motivation.

Lost themselves.

I love taking strolls around my home of Lakeshore, here in Tasmania. We’re the southernmost tip of Australia, an island all to ourselves separate but part of the Lucky Country. Lakeshore’s nearly as far south as you can get in Tasmania, too, without ending up in Southport. We’re about an hour southwest of Geeveston, if that gives you any kind of reference, smack dab in the middle of the Hartz Mountain National Park. The peaks rise up against the horizon, and tall Monterey pine trees grow everywhere, and flowering bushes make decent homes for small animals like bilbies and echidnas.

Beautiful.

Lots of folks come here every month to experience this view. Since Lakeshore’s primary industry is tourism, there’s plenty of trails leading off into the bush for the wayward traveler to take advantage of. They meander through forests and hills and along the shores of the three lakes that give our town its name. Pine Lake, Gallipoli Lake, and Lake Bowen. It’s a great place to do walkabout, if that’s what you’re looking for.

Me, I’m just looking for a little exercise and fresh air this morning.

I’ve never stood in anybody’s way if they came to Lakeshore looking for themselves. I just can’t for the life of me figure out why there’s so many lost souls out there.

Maybe they just need someone to help them find their way.

I’m not a guide. I’m not a philosopher or a counselor, either. I’m just an ordinary Innkeeper, although that’s plenty enough for me. Yup. Adelle Powers, owner and operator of the Pine Lake Inn. Dell, to my friends.

‘Course, I suppose I’m not all that ordinary. Been a few developments of late that wouldn’t fit into any list of ordinary I’ve ever seen.

Like, talking to ghosts.

Well, just one ghost. So far.

Anyway, the Pine Lake Inn is kind of like the port in the storm for folks in trouble, I guess. A place to sit and rest a while from their troubles. My Inn gives people more than a place to rest. It gives them a place to start an adventure.

That’s exactly what it says on the brochures. Thought that one up myself.

We’re almost full today, back at the Inn. Thirteen of my fifteen rooms are rented out. The honeymoon suite, too, even though that one costs a bit more cash. Not surprising. Lakeshore’s had more’n its fair share of publicity in the past year. Murders and thieves and whatnots. Hard to believe this is still just a sleepy little town with a police force of six people and a mayor who’s old enough to remember when Christ was still a bright-eyed child. On the surface, it still looks like that same place. All the houses and buildings painted white, and the streets clean, and the fountain in the town center still bubbling its pathetic stream of water.

Yes, all of the houses are white. Most of the buildings, too. It’s a nod to our history and while I’m all for showing pride in our roots, my Inn is a lovely shade of yellow, nestled in among a few tall Monterey Pines, close to the shore of Pine Lake. It’s a welcome splash of color for tourists coming to town. I had to fight with the town council for permission to do it, but I’m glad I did. It gives my Inn character.

So do the guests.

I was actually taking a rare morning off from the guests, and the paperwork, and the daily running around that I have to do to keep the Inn running smoothly. Out here for a walk in the warm breezes of November—remember, we’re on the other half of the world, and here we have summer when most people have winter—leaving the Inn in the capable hands of my business partner, Rosie Ryan. There weren’t any arrivals due in until tomorrow, and all of my own work was caught up, so it seemed like a good time to stretch my legs and go for a walk on those trails I was talking about earlier.

At least, that was the theory.

Couldn’t have been more wrong if I tried.

Rosie and the staff are more than capable of handling the Inn for an hour or two while I’m gone. That’s not the problem. Rosie’s the chef, and she runs the kitchen and dining room side of things while I take care of the paperwork and all the rest, but even though her head’s in the clouds most of the time I would trust that woman with my life. Our Inn, too.

No. That wasn’t the problem.

Crazy old men with their crazy dreams. That was the problem.

Now, I’m not against having a good man to hold you in his arms during the long, cold winter months of June, July and August. I had one of those myself before he up and left me without a word. After forty-plus years living on this earth, and five years without a good man to mark the birthdays with me, I figure I might just be ready to try it again. I’m open to having men in my life.

Just not with our resident town coot, old Arthur Loren. He was quite possibly the last man in all of Tassie that I wanted to run into this morning.

Yet, here he was.

About two miles away from town the pine trees have thinned out again in favor of dry patches of earth carpeted in brown grasses. We’re having a nasty dry spell here in Tassie. It’s the Queen’s own weather, to be sure. Thank God I brought my big plastic water bottle with me because my long auburn hair is dark with perspiration already and sticky across my forehead and cheeks. I’d changed into khaki shorts and a red tank top before leaving the Inn, and I was glad of the cooler clothing in the heat.

Arthur Loren had apparently forgotten to check the weather forecast.

He was in a heavy red wool shirt, frayed at the elbows and cuffs, and an old pair of jeans that he’d tucked into bulky leather work boots. The tips of them were scuffed down to the steel-toe inserts. The wide, drooping brim of his hat was giving him a paltry amount of shade, and his face was beat red. Sweat dribbled down his cheeks as he puffed away at what he was doing. Dirty, dusty, and scratching at his curly white beard, the old man slammed his shovel into the hard dirt, over and over.

Everyone in town knew Arthur. The old fossicker coot was harmless enough, muttering to himself as he walked the streets of Lakeshore, never really talking to anyone. Just himself. That house of his had once been a fine single story home. Now it was falling in on itself, the siding warped and gone completely in some spots.

Kind of like the man himself, I have to say, standing here now with no way forward on the trail except by walking past him. Once upon a time, Arthur Loren was probably a spunk of a man. Time and toil had taken away his good looks. He was kind of hunched over now, which masked how tall and muscular he really is. His face was sharp and angular under that scruff. Clean him up, remind him what manners were in a civilized society, and those faded brown eyes of his would probably be the centerpiece of a handsome, eligible bachelor.

Uh, just not the way he is now.

My hand found the carved wood of the unicorn necklace I wear everyplace I go. It’s my good luck charm. A very good friend of mine gave it to me just before she died, and any time I feel stressed or worried I smooth my fingers over its small, intricately carved mane and curling horn. Makes me feel better.

When a crazy man is trying to dig his way to the States right in front of you, shouting at the ground over and over, I figure it’s a good time to find some peace of mind.

Give it back! Arthur shouted in a lispy rasp. Give it back or so help me, I’ll gut this whole place to find it!

Oh, snap. Where’s my Kevin when I need him?

Kevin Powers, my son and ace police officer, would know exactly what to do here. All I’m wanting to do is run back the way I came.

But if Arthur has finally gone full on crackers, him running after me with a shovel in his hands didn’t really set a good image in my head.

So, what to do?

Arthur? I asked, hesitantly, taking a few more steps toward him. Are you having some troubles?

When he spun on me I gasped and took my steps back. Never thought old Arthur Loren could move that fast. He had the shovel up crossways to his chest, one hand on each end, and suddenly the broken tip of it seemed very, very sharp.

Dell! he shouted. Then, with a squint, he looked at me closer. Dell? That you? What’re ya doin’ out here? This ain’t no place fit for a Sheila like you!

These are the walking trails, Arthur. I kept my distance and reached for my cell. Not great service this far out in the foothills of the Hartz Mountains, but I’d rather be ready to call for help if I need it. Ever hear stories of hikers dying in the wilderness with their mobile still in their pocket? Yeah. That’s not going to be me. I’m ready to dial 000 if I need to, and I’ve got my Kevin’s mobile on speed dial.

Walking trails? What the devil are ya talking… about…? He trailed off, and his searching eyes looked all around us, at the scrub trees, and the forest not that far behind me, and the rise of the mountains in the distance over Gallipoli Lake. Well, he said, letting his shovel drop, this ain’t right.

You’re telling me, I thought. This old fossicker digs everywhere for gold, as any good fossicker will, but not on the hiking trails where people walk every day. I kept those exact words from coming out, but it was a near thing. Best not to antagonize the crazy man.

Instead, I called his name in a gentle voice. Arthur. Why don’t we both get out of this sun, eh? We can maybe go down to Cindy’s Milkbar and have an iced tea. How’s that sound?

Don’t like tea, Arthur grumped, taking off his rumpled hat and using it to mop the sweat from his brow before settling it back over the slick and tangled strands of his gray hair. Then he blinked at me again. Dell? What’re ya doin’ out here?

Oh, boy. Come on, Arthur. Let’s get you back to town.

He looked down at the shovel in his hand, almost like he was surprised to find it there. What’m I doin’ out here?

I looked down at the ground at his feet, seeing the multiple attempts he’d made to dig holes in the ground. On the path there were maybe half a dozen. Around us, outside of the tamped-down walking trail, in the grass and weeds, there were twice as many, maybe more. None of them were very deep but… how long had Arthur been out here?

I think that’s enough holes for one day, I suggested. I’ve seen Wombat’s do less work than you’ve done out here.

His jaw dropped and his wide eyes looked through me as his grip tightened on the shovel again. The holes! That’s it! I need to find it. Gotta find it. Give it back! And with that, he whirled and ran off into the brush, his heavy boots dragging a little. Give it back! Give it back…!

Too late, I reached out for him, but he was already gone. Screaming, swinging the shovel like a baseball bat, he made the tree line and disappeared.

I could go after him. I probably should go after him. Somehow, though, the thought of chasing a crazy old man through the trees and around the shoreline or wherever he was headed next just didn’t sound like the best plan.

Looking up at the clear blue sky and its scorching white sun, I knew I couldn’t just leave Arthur out here. I’ve just been on a nice, relaxing walk, and already I’ve got perspiration trickling down my spine, under my shirt. For my age I’m in good condition, too. Better than good, thank you. I can only imagine what an old, worn down man like Arthur must be feeling in this heat.

So this time I did take my phone out. Kevin’s number is the first one in my list. Always has been. Not because I’m his mom and want to keep tabs on my son. He’s well past the age where his mother has to worry about him.

I still keep his number handy, because it’s surprising how many times having a cop in the family comes in handy.

He’ll know what to do.

I don’t know what you expect me to do here, Mom.

Okay, so sometimes he still needs some direction from me.

I want you to find Arthur and bring him in before he dies out there, I explained. Again. He needs our help.

He needs to change his medication, is what he needs. Kevin looked up at the sky just like I had, shielding his eyes from the sun with his arm. You’re right, though. That old crank is going to get himself killed in this heat.

Kevin had joined me out on the trail. In his dark blue uniform shirt with its shiny badge and his black duty belt snug around his waist, he wasn’t exactly dressed for a hike any more than Arthur had been. And, it took him nearly an hour to get here, while I sat in the shade of the pines and drank some of my water.

We were right at the part in the trail where the Wailing Lady stood, so I’d nestled down against one of her legs to wait. She’s a pretty famous landmark out this way. A single Monterey Pine, standing by itself away from the others, with a trunk that managed to grow all twisted and weird so that it looked just like a pair of women’s legs running in a dress. Two thick limbs stretched out like arms, complete with fingers that tapered down to twigs full of fat, green needles.

If that weren’t enough, the trunk narrows at just the right place for a neck. A trick of light and imagination even creates the shapes of a screaming oval mouth and two sad eyes in the rough, hoary bark. The whole tree looks like a woman running after something she’s lost…or away from something that terrifies her.

The Wailing Lady. Lots of stories about that tree in local legend. All I cared about, right now, was that she made for a comfortable spot to sit, and wait.

A phone call to Rosie full of static and repeated words had let me know that everything was going fine back at the Inn so I had the time to wait, thankfully. Although apparently our resident border, Mister Brewster, wanted to speak to me. Something about his bill. No idea what that’s about but I know it can’t be that important.

Now that my son