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NEVER NECK AT NIAGARA
    A Leigh Koslow Short Story
     
    Copyright © 2001 by Edie Claire
     
    Originally published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam, Inc. in the anthology AND THE DYING IS EASY: All-New Tales of Summertime Suspense.
    Digital edition for PubIt published in 2011 by the author.
     
    This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
     
    All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
     
     
    Dedication
     
    For my husband, in honor of our favorite weekend getaway.
     
     
     
    ***
     
     
     
    Up until now, the morning had been almost perfect.
    Leigh Koslow had begun her day by gorging on an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet at the hotel (heavy on the bacon and complete with pastries), then atoning for it with an ambitious bike ride. Exercise was ordinarily anathema to her, particularly during a weekend vacation, but for the trail that ran alongside the Niagara River upstream to Fort Erie, she made an exception. She loved Niagara Falls. There was something about the thunder of the rushing water and the coolness of the rising mist that always lifted her spirits—and her energy level. This particular bike trail, with the calm upper Niagara on one side and a spread of spacious, large-windowed homes on the other, was her favorite. The slight grade going up was almost undetectable—even to a biker as out of shape as she was; yet going down, it proved a faithful ally. The mild May weather of southern Canada was divine, the crowds were still sparse, and if she weren't biking alone, life would be perfect.
    But it was near perfect. After all, she wasn't really alone. Her new hubby had been at the hotel when she had left, and he would be there, somewhere, when she got back. True, he would be so busy with his convention duties that they would hardly ever see each other, but she had expected that. After all, it wasn't as though this was supposed to be a romantic weekend. It was merely another of the boring political junkets he was frequently attending—it just happened to be one in a location worthy of her tagging along. Since they had returned from a fabulous ten-day honeymoon cruise in the Mediterranean only a few weeks ago, she could hardly complain.
    Until just now, that is, when the peculiar noises had awakened her, and she was forced to wonder once again what the heck was wrong with her karma.
    Her ride complete, she had loaded her bike onto its rack on the Cavalier (which she'd cleverly parked for free at the nature preserve) then headed off to stake out a place to recuperate. The preserve was gorgeous, and wonderfully peaceful in the off-season. Water from the river had been diverted into a series of greenish-blue lagoons, which wound in picturesque fashion around shady, bridge-connected islands filled with wildlife and secluded footpaths. At the height of summer, this spot would be teeming with extended families from every imaginable culture—or at least those with traveling money. Unfamiliar scents would drift up from the barbecue grills as grandparents rested on blankets and children and teens swarmed over rocks and under waterfalls in the shadow of "no swimming allowed" signs. But on this happy morning, the only other visitors she'd seen were an older couple picnicking and a middle-aged bird watcher with binoculars.
    She had headed for the interior of the largest island, and had soon found the ideal spot for some quality meditation. At least, that had been the plan. But once she had settled herself comfortably in the lower limbs of an obligingly built maple tree, sleep had taken over. She was, if not athletic in any way, an expert tree climber, and it