The boy shrugged.
“Is fishing good in this bay?”
“We never come here. Tillie never does. Sand and small rocks. No weeds in the bay. They didn’t fish here.”
“Then why did they come?”
For a time Turkey Trot did not answer. Then suddenly his face brightened. “Lots of raspberries back there.” He nodded toward the fringe of forest that skirted the shore. “Clearing, back a little way. Lots of trails. Might have gone back there and got lost.”
“But the anchor? The cut painter? The dead fish?”
Once more the boy shrugged. “All I know is, we might find something back there. We can’t find anything more here.”
To this argument Jeanne found no answer. They silently grounded their boat on the sand. Turkey Trot drew it up on the beach. He did the same for Tillie’s light craft.
“It’s funny,” he murmured, as he gazed at the painter. “Brand new rope. Looks like it had been chawed off.”
Turning, he put out his hand for the flashlight, then led the way into the timber.