Death Takes a Gander Read Online Free

down the bike path. Blanketed in snow, it wandered eastward, separated from the golf course to the north by a thicket of willows and alders stripped bare by the winter winds. A playground for warblers in the summer, the thicket now housed a flock of black crows that inhabited the area year-round. In a semicircle to the west, the jagged peaks of Rocky Mountain National Park rimmed the town and lake like giants at the edge of a frozen pool. And to the south, a copse of ponderosa pines gave way to the lakeshore.
    Staring out over the ice, she listened to the honking of geese. The high-pitched sounds interspersed with squeaks indicated something was wrong.
    The ice ran deep at this end of the reservoir. In the distance, a dozen small fishing huts, decorated with flag banners, dotted the lake’s surface. The huts made Angela think of an R.E.I. winter camping display—no doubt John Frakus’s idea in celebration of Elk Park’s First Annual Ice Fishing Jamboree.
    My reason for being here, she reminded herself.
    She checked her watch again, then turned off the path, heading toward the lake through the Paris Mills Memorial Bird Sanctuary. Frakus, wherever he was, could wait. The birds were more important. The geese would be in open water if they could find some. The only possibilities were where Black Canyon Creek emptied into the reservoir or near the spillway on the other side. Based on the honking, she opted for Black Canyon Creek.
    Circling right, she stayed close to the trees. Arriving at the mouth of the creek, she turned left, skirting the west bank of the promontory. Here, pools of dark water met blue layers of ice, swirling in gentle eddies before giving way to the harder expanse of white.
    She tramped along the lake’s edge for ten minutes, casting about with a flashlight. She found nothing on the open water, and the honking of the geese had faded. Giving up, she turned back toward the truck.
    Wait! Was that movement she’d seen?
    She aimed the flashlight across the frozen expanse. Several yards out, away from the open water, a Canada goose pounded its wings, then collapsed on the ice.
    Angela flashed on Barr Lake, on the spent swan, on the mist net.
    Her heart pounded.
    What should she do now?
    Call for backup .
    She wasn’t sure if it was her own internal voice or Ian’s that whispered in her head, but she reached for her cell phone and dialed. Unable to locate Kramner, dispatch patched her through to the Raptor House, a bird rehabilitation facility based in Elk Park.
    “Linenger.”
    She recognized his thick accent. He was the park ranger from Norway, a friend of Ian’s. She’d met him at the funeral.
    “Angela Dimato.” She reminded him of who she was, then said, “I’ve found a bird on the ice. It’s not acting right.”
    “Only one?”
    “No, I can hear others.” She gave him her location.
    “Stay where you are, Angel. I’ll be there in five minutes.” His use of her nickname endeared him to her, yet angered her at the same time. Only the people closest to her called her Angel—her parents, friends, Ian.
    “Better bring help,” she replied. “I think we’re going to need it.”
    Putting away the phone, she squatted on her haunches and studied the goose. She’d left a coil of rope behind in the truck. Maybe she should go get it while she waited for Eric. With a rope, she could tie herself off to a tree and inch her way onto the ice. As things stood, she had no idea how deep the flow was here and no way to get out to the bird without taking a risk.
    A calculated risk, if she took it slow. It was worth trying.
    Easing herself onto the lake’s crust, she crept toward the bird. It took two inches of ice to hold up a man, six inches to bear a team of horses. Surely there was enough ice here to hold up a short Italian woman, even if she was ten pounds overweight.
    With every step, the ice creaked and popped. Normal sounds that now caused Angela’s heart to pound. The goose started honking again,