Murder in a Cold Climate: An Inspector Matteesie Mystery by Scott Young Page B

rode in silence until we got to the police office and sat a moment outside. I was thinking, what’s next? So was he.
    â€œI’d better go to Fort Norman,” I said.
    â€œAnything particular in mind?”
    â€œWell, it doesn’t seem fair to have two great brains in the same place, where some places haven’t got any at all.”
    Grinning, “Too true. But what do you really have in mind?”
    â€œSomebody has to find William Cavendish.”
    It had been confirmed by the Fort Norman detachment that William had landed there Wednesday morning. Then he seemed to have vanished. Of course, he was on his home turf, relatives and boyhood friends sometimes being willing accessories to this and that. It wasn’t certain, either, that anyone would talk to me. The farther you get south the farther you are from Inuit country, and although we and the Dene got along a lot better than we had in olden times when they felt they ought to kill us because we looked different, and we thought we should kill them first, to avoid that fate, we still don’t always bend over backwards for each other.
    â€œNothin’s flying,” Charlie said. The radio weather forecaster had been droning on about the weather getting worse before it got better. Charlie waved a hand at the windshield bashing sleet and snow as evidence.
    â€œCan you let me have your snowmobile?”
    â€œBetter you than me. But I can’t spare anybody to go with you.”
    â€œDid I ask?”
    I looked off to the south to where now, ever so faintly, I could see more signs of dawn. “Let’s get moving. I can use all the daylight I can get.”
    That was good enough for him. “I’ll drop you at Mack House first and then go check for phone calls and load the snowmobile,” he said.
    In my room I unpacked and got out the stuff I didn’t use unless I needed it. I needed it now. Stripped down, I regarded with regret my little brown pot belly. “The great lover,” I muttered aloud. I pulled on thermal longs, a thermal top, heavy socks, a wool shirt, then the wool pants I’d been wearing. My kneehighs were the best, leather with rubber sales and a felt liner. Down vest. In my parka pocket I tucked goggles and a new face-mask I’d bought, better than the old-type woolen balaclava. Designed much the same, with eye slits and a mouth-nose opening but made of some material that didn’t absorb moisture and fitted almost skin tight. Some things I didn’t have to worry about. Helmet, rifle, snowmobile tools, spare parts and other equipment would be in the machine or available. I packed the rest of my stuff in my carry bag. I might be in and around Fort Norman a while.
    I felt no foreboding, only excitement. For a long time, it seemed, I’d been with people, most of the challenges, if any, cerebral. Now I was going out on my own where the challenges were the kind that come at you out of the blue. It had been years. I missed that.
    The van was waiting outside for me, the detachment’s snowmobile loaded on its trailer. Before getting into the van I climbed onto the trailer. Charlie watched me with a little grin as I opened the snowmobile seat and made my inspection; a flashlight, pipe wrenches, spare sparkplugs and flashlight batteries, spare drive belt, pliers, screwdriver, airtight container of matches, a light block-and-tackle with nylon rope and pulleys with which I could pull myself out of trouble if I had to and could find a nearby tree, stump or rock as an anchor. A spare fuel tank, full, was strapped on the sled hitched behind along with canvas saddlebags containing two Thermoses and some plastic containers of sandwiches. Held by clips alongside the right side of the machine was a loaded rifle.
    The corporal watched me during this check.
    When I nodded, he nodded.
    â€œThere’s a two-way radio under the sandwiches,” he said. “Use it once in a while. Tell me what’s