It was a cold wind.
It would bring closer that big bank of black weather hulking in the distance. Stella needed to get her chunky plane up into the air and over that spine of mountains sooner rather than later. Crosswinds in this terrain could be tricky. And deadly. She checked her watch. Irritation flickered through her.
The RAKAM Group contact person, Amanda Gunn—the one who’d hired Stella’s West Air charter—had informed Stella that her passengers would be on the dock and ready to board before 10:00 a.m. The Beaver’s doors were open and waiting. Stella was prepped to load baggage, warm up her bird, and give a quick safety briefing. But it was now 10:23 a.m. and still no sign of the tour group. Tension tightened her stomach. She glanced at the wind sock again. It puffed and flicked and snapped as the breeze gathered force. She reached for her cell. But as she was about to call Amanda, a gleaming black minibus with the Thunderbird Lodge logo pulled into a drop-off bay on the bank above the floatplane dock.
Relief washed through her. Stella pocketed her phone as the bus door opened and a very slender woman disembarked, black hair ruffling in the wind. She was dressed in black jeans topped with a black leather jacket. A white, diaphanous scarf wound voluminously around her neck. Under her arm she carried a clipboard. A man in a hotel uniform alighted behind her. He scurried to the rear of the bus. The woman directed him to offload the bags as the rest of the passengers started to disembark. She then hastened down the stairs toward the floatplane dock and picked her way carefully over the gangway in her high heels.
“Amanda Gunn,” the woman said breathily as she reached Stella. She proffered a delicate hand and monstrous smile. “We met on the phone.”
Stella couldn’t read her eyes. They hid behind big, black designer sunglasses. She shook Amanda’s hand. The tour guide’s palm was cool and as smooth as a baby’s bum in contrast to Stella’s chapped, working hands. The wind swirled and gusted, sending a waft of Amanda’s scent toward Stella along with a scattering of dry autumn leaves at her feet. The woman smelled of perfume and menthol cigarettes. Stella disliked her on the spot.
“I’m so sorry we’re late,” Amanda said. “One of our guests woke up sick, and—” She glanced over her shoulder to check that the hotel porter was helping the guests carry their bags down. “I thought he was just hungover.” She spoke quickly, as if to get it all explained before the others arrived on the dock. “We had an open bar last night, and there’s always one or two who hit these things too hard. I thought he’d get himself into shape after a hot shower and some strong coffee this morning, so we waited, but he really is quite ill. He claims there’s no way he can fly today, so you’re one passenger down, I’m afraid.” She tried to force another smile but came off flustered.
Stella fetched her passenger manifest. “Who are we down?” she asked.
“Dan Whitlock,” Amanda said. “I have a rental waiting. I’ll take him back to the city with me, drop him off at a doctor on my way. The shuttle bus will remain here for the return trip when you bring the guests back.”
Stella scanned the list in search of Dan Whitlock’s name. As she did, the hotel porter approached, carrying two bags.
“Where shall we put the luggage, ma’am?”
She motioned to a spot near the rear of the plane where the loading door had been lifted upward.
“Shall I load it right in?” he asked.
“Not yet. Just stack it in front of the loading door.” She wanted to cross-check each bag against the passenger list. In her experience, guests did not take seriously the weight restrictions required of small-aircraft travel and often tried to sneak on extra belongings. Loading a plane badly could result in a deadly accident, especially during takeoff or landing, when weight radically affected aircraft performance. She found Dan Whitlock’s name, crossed it off her list. “Have you weighed the bags?” she asked Amanda.
“Before we left the hotel at YVR yesterday, and again this morning. Everything’s on target.” The guide looked increasingly edgy. “I made it clear that everything they required would be provided by the spa, from eco-toiletries to top-of-the-line alcohol and food.”
As she spoke, the guests gathered around them.
Introductions were made, and Stella checked each passenger off her manifest: Bart Kundera—transit-company guy. Monica McNeill—catering woman. Nathan McNeill, Monica’s husband and her plus-one for the junket. Deborah Strong—housekeeping woman. Katie Colbourne—travel journalist and ex–TV news personality. And Jackie Blunt—security woman. Jackie held Stella’s gaze for a moment too long, and Stella saw a questioning look in the woman’s intense and close-set eyes. It sent a frisson through Stella, and a tiny bead of concern formed down deep in her gut.
“Have we met?” Stella asked.
Jackie’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so.”
But the way she said it made Stella believe Jackie might think otherwise. While they spoke, Katie panned her small camcorder across the group, causing Jackie to step back slightly, and her facial expression turned benign.
“This place is freaking Swiss-chocolate-box gorgeous,” Katie said, turning in a slow circle to capture the amphitheater of snowcapped peaks.
“Swiss chocolate boxes have nothing on this,” Monica said, her voice lounge-singer husky. “This is a real slice of heaven. And right in our own backyards.”
“Right? What did I tell you guys?” Amanda offered them all a big white smile, working to keep her clients in a good frame of mind.
Stella gave the porter the go-ahead to load the bags.
“What kind of plane is this?” Katie asked from behind her camera.
“De Havilland Beaver Mk 1,” Stella said, conscious of a need to address potential viewers. “The iconic Canadian bush plane, a post–World War Two workhorse. The first Beaver was rolled off a Toronto production line in the forties. It was called the aerial dogsled of the north.”
Katie panned her lens over the bright yellow-and-blue floatplane as Stella spoke.
“Okay, everyone,” Stella called out, “gather round and listen up. Number one rule, do not cross that red line painted on the dock.” She pointed. “Because we’re pressed for time, I’m going to start warming the aircraft, then I’ll give a quick safety briefing. But you need to score that no-cross line into your minds. A meeting with that propeller will change—or end—your life.”
Glances were exchanged and the mood shifted slightly. Stella was glad to assert her authority, making it clear she was boss as long as they were in that plane. She made for her cockpit door.
“Oh, wait,” Amanda called from behind Stella. “We’re still waiting for one more guest.”
Stella stilled. She did a quick head count.
“We have six passengers.”
“Yes. But we’re still expecting Dr. Steven Bodine. He’ll make it seven, then.” Amanda consulted her designer watch. “He phoned from Squamish about twenty minutes ago, so he really should be here any second now.”
Stella eyed Amanda steadily, then reached again for her list. She checked it carefully. “There’s no Steven Bodine on my list.”
“There must be.” Amanda came closer and looked.