“Maybe politicians are already flying in for the Winter Games,” he mutters.
They both follow the flight of the plane as it loses altitude.
His brother frowns.
“Is it landing on the ice?”
“Near Savage Beach, if you ask me. Maybe it’s something to do with the Viking house.”
Rick was one of the workers employed in the construction of the sod house. As far as he was concerned, they could build another one like it. The pay was good, and he could go home after work. Jobs like that are in short supply in the south of Labrador. He could have looked for work in the north, in the nickel mine in Voisey’s Bay or at the new dam at Churchill Falls. But he doesn’t want to be separated from his family for weeks at a time. He needs his wife, and he needs frequent sex. He prefers to fish a little in summer and see to it that he’s employed now and then by a government job-creation program. He’s proud of the new Viking house, as are most of the locals. Port Brendan now has a tourist attraction. Maybe he can work on a second sod house next summer. He hopes to, for Meeka’s sake. His wife can perform in the Viking house as a throat singer on festive occasions. She also has an engagement for the Winter Games, beginning in two days. She’ll perform in the arena during the opening and closing ceremonies. He’s proud that he’s married to the prettiest Inuit woman far and wide. He fell in love with her early on, but she first had a child by a man whose name will never cross his lips. A white man like himself. The guy deserted Meeka because their child has Down syndrome, and Meeka, after a hysterectomy, can’t have children anymore.
For Rick, little Dulcie is a gift. He’d always known that he’d not have Meeka if he didn’t have her child as well. To his surprise, he’d give his life for Dulcie today. For Meeka, too. Children are the salt on his fish. Sometimes Meeka takes care of Inuit children from a community up north that social workers take from broken families. That’s fine by him. It keeps Meeka busy. She doesn’t want to constantly travel around anymore to do her throat singing.
“Are we done here or what?” his brother asks.
It apparently hasn’t escaped him that Rick is only cutting down the skinnier trees, halfheartedly.
“Yes, that’s enough for today,” he answers.
He sold a good part of his firewood to some old people. Now he’s got to restock his supply. That doesn’t bother him. It’s a pleasure to take his snowmobile into the woods on a sunny day. Especially after a snowstorm. He feels the freedom out here. Only him and the universe. He always goes out with his brother. When you’re cutting down trees, an accident can happen just like that. They take a break from time to time in the trapper’s cabin in the forest.
Those are moments of total well-being for him. It’s almost like lying in bed with Meeka. But she doesn’t want to sleep with him so often these days. Maybe she doesn’t feel that she’s a complete woman on account of her hysterectomy. Poor Meeka. As a young girl, she’d surely never dreamed that would happen.
The new policewoman hadn’t paid a visit to their place. Probably they don’t do this as spontaneously in Vancouver as they do here. She’s reserved, not as effervescent as Meeka. He’s happy that Calista Gates has rented the house on the slope above them. Before her there were troublemakers in there who drank all the time and harassed his wife. Now there’s peace and quiet.
The noise from the plane has cut out. The politicians certainly don’t want to miss the Winter Games. It will be a huge spectacle for a village like Port Brendan. Dulcie will be part of the mummer group. She likes dressing up from head to toe in the Labrador tradition and dancing and singing. Meeka sewed a new costume together with her and made a new mask. The weather was much too bad at Christmastime, when the mummers normally go from door to door. The kids had to stay at home. His daughter was inconsolable. But she’ll be able to make up for it in two days.
“I don’t think it’s politicians in that plane,” his brother suddenly notices, a bit out of breath from bending over and loading wood. “It’s landed at Savage Beach.” He leans on the sled. “Maybe it’s got something to do with Lorna Taylor. Or with the dog’s head.”
Rick ties down the chainsaw to the fully loaded sled with a rope.
“What’s that about a dog’s head?”
“Didn’t you see it on Facebook? They found a severed head from that funny poodle out on Ghost Bay.”
“What funny poodle?”
Rick had heard about it, naturally, but acted as if he didn’t have any idea. Perhaps his brother can tell him something new. He wasn’t able to get into Facebook this morning because he uses Meeka’s iPhone to do it—a present from him, by the way—but she’d left for occupational therapy with her daughter and the iPhone was gone.
“Kris Bakie’s dog.”
Rick drops the rope.
“Is that true?”
Often the most absurd rumors make the rounds on Facebook. Too many people butt in who would be better off keeping their mouths shut. Everybody’s everybody else’s friend. But that can’t be a good thing. Meeka has about two thousand Facebook friends.
“Gerald found him. Gerald Hynes. And your new neighbor. They found the dog’s head on the ice. And Lorna Taylor’s sweatshirt.”
His brother brushes sawdust and bark from his old winter jacket, which is covered with resin. Then he says darkly: “That’s a bad omen.”
His brother is extremely superstitious, the opposite of himself. But in this case, he doesn’t think he’s overreacting. Who would cut off a dog’s head? Kris Bakie’s dog. And Lorna Taylor’s sweatshirt on top of that. Did Bakie have anything to do with Lorna’s disappearance? He’ll discuss it with Meeka. He suddenly wants to hurry home.
He makes a loop with the rope and lashes it down to the sled with a sailor’s hitch.
“C’mon. We’re leaving.”
19
Fred pushes the bell on Shannon’s door. We wait, then I ring. Nothing. I look around. Just see tire tracks, no parked vehicle. Without a word, Fred trots over to a shed painted white like the house. He rattles the black wooden door. Locked. He peeks through a tiny window on the side.
“An SUV,” he shouts.
Why didn’t I get the idea earlier that a car could be hidden in there?
“Someone must be here,” Fred says, coming back to hammer on the front door.
“Open up! Police!”
I wade through the snow to the front windows on the bay side. This time the enormous glass panes remind me of indoor compounds in the zoo. Looking permitted, touching impossible.
I peer inside. Then I take my right glove off and slap my bare hand repeatedly against the window. Whack, whack, whack. The glass is surprisingly warm from the sun’s rays.
Suddenly someone is standing behind the window. A woman in a smeared painter’s smock, a bandana in her long hair. Angrily, she’s waving her hands around.
“Police!” I bellow through the glass separating us, pull my ID out of my pocket, and hold it up. She makes a vexed hand motion toward the entrance. I stomp back through the snow.
Fred has already vanished through the open door. He’s taking off his boots in the vestibule. Shannon is next to him, now looking more befuddled than unfriendly. I take off my jacket and head-warmer and introduce myself. She points to her smock as if saying to ignore it.
“I was painting, so I had my earphones in as always. I block everything out, listen to music, and paint and paint. I mustn’t be interrupted, or the euphoria is gone instantly.”
The sunlight flows in behind her so that her face is in shadow. She’s older than I expected, probably midforties. Patiently she waits for us to finish with our boots and clothing, then she takes off her bandana and removes her smock. In the twinkling of an eye, she’s transformed into the seductive blonde Closs spoke of. She wears a soft, mohair sweater, and color-coordinated stretch jeans that emphasize her long, slim legs.
Her blond hair is “cascading over her shoulders,” my youngest sister would write in one of the romantic novel
s she churns out for a publisher. Actually, not far off the mark. Shannon Wilkey’s emergence from her chrysalis takes but a few seconds.
I glance sideways at Fred. He’s visibly charmed.
Shannon takes us into her sun-washed temple. I absorb the space in silence and must secretly admit: this is a place I’d like to sit in every day. So much light and lofty space, and a harmony of color and proportion. The lady hasn’t just got money but taste as well. The icy wilderness spreads out in front of the glass wall, as if the frozen ocean lay at the feet of the lady from Texas. From here, the scenery looks different, like a movie set.
I take a look around. An impressive collection of art unfolds in front of my eyes—and this in isolated Labrador! On the extra-high walls there are paintings everywhere, some huge, others no larger than a serving tray. All of them depict unspoiled meadows in bloom. Shannon evidently likes contrasts. I’m probably the last person to hang flowers on the wall. I like African carvings and black-and-white photographs. But Shannon’s colorful meadows are exuberant. They sparkle with a zest for life. Her colors burst like little bombshells that make you want to take cover.
“Can I offer you something to eat? A sandwich?”
I’m so hungry that, contrary to my habit, I accept. I’d never have done that in Vancouver. Fred is just as receptive as me. While in her supermodern kitchen that opens out onto the living room, a relaxed Shannon chatters away in her Texan singsong. She talks about her fascination with contemporary design. She acts casually, as if she’s in the dark about recent events here. As if she knew nothing about Lorna’s skeleton or the dog’s head.
“It was a nightmare, getting those Italian tiles delivered. And the cooking stove. It’s from Germany. I’d planned all the built-ins; I’m a perfectionist, really obsessive. I’d never have made it without Gerald Hynes; the man really runs a tight ship as far as his workers and craftsmen are concerned.”
And on and on in the same vein. The floors of long-lasting bamboo. The cleverly designed lighting. The choice of a Finnish fireplace.
At some point I remember the seriousness of the situation and sit down on the barstool beside the kitchen counter. Fred lets me run the interview.
“Mrs. Wilkey, have you wondered why we’re here?”
She looks up briefly and lays asparagus on smoked salmon. And dill and capers. My mouth is watering.
“I suppose because of the license for the fundraiser. We’ve found the solution in the meantime,” she replies.
I’m surprised.
“What’s the problem?”
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” She smiles, almost conspiratorially, flashing her perfect teeth. “Somebody complained to the police that we don’t have permission from the tax department to fundraise. Which was true,” she confesses airily. “We thought we could simply do it through the hospital. We were mistaken. But now we’re going through the Rotary Club, which is a nonprofit organization.”
She nods and pours the coffee.
“People here are great, but also a bit small-minded. And jealous. They don’t want anybody to get all the credit.”
She laughs like someone who’s really enjoying herself.
I wonder if Shannon Wilkey is aware that her flaunted wealth must stir up different emotions. There are many who are unemployed in Port Brendan. Maybe the Texas lady is one of those well-heeled people who regard their money as a deserved privilege. Nevertheless, she’s helping with the fundraising. She doesn’t have to.
We bring the cups and plates with the smoked salmon toast over to the living room area, which includes three huge divans. Fred has been glued to the cushions in silence since we came. So it’s up to me to drill down.
“Why do you live here off and on?”
“Oh,” she says, holding her coffee cup elegantly, like a hovering object. She waits for a few seconds before explaining: “I came here four years ago on a cruise. It was a voyage to the Arctic. Five hundred tourists on board; so many fascinating people. They came from all over the world. What an adventure. We saw polar bears! And so many icebergs. It was fantastic. But I was in a personal crisis. Very bad. I couldn’t paint anymore. I had a total block.”
She pushes back her blond mane again and again. A gesture I cannot stand. It forces the person she’s talking with to observe it. Looks affected. Maybe it’s a diversionary tactic, too.
“Only artists understand how existential a crisis like that can be. Labrador cured me. Our ship couldn’t put in anywhere because it was too stormy. That’s why I came back the next year. To see Battle Harbor. And Red Bay. You certainly know that Basques from Spain fished there five hundred years ago and built summer houses. I rented a little abode in Port Brendan and began to paint again. It was a release.”
Just as I’m about to ask a follow-up question, Fred butts in.
“You complained about a black-and-white dog?”
She’s taken aback, her big, blue eyes directed at Fred.
“Complained? That’s not the right word. I saw the dog running free. The poor animal. It’s so cold out. But”—her hand brushes away some invisible thing in the air—“I then learned it belonged to Kris. Kris Bakie, the chef. The dog had run away.”
I want to know what sort of a person she is, so I hasten to speak up: “Does your family come to visit when you’re here?”
Her eyes wander back to me. I ignore Fred’s surly look as she speaks: “My husband comes sometimes—not often, he’s very busy. He has a huge corporation. He’s the CEO. He understands that I need peace and quiet to be creative. When I’m in Dallas, I must forever invite people over or go to receptions. Here, nobody disturbs me.” She laughs. “I simply tell my friends that in Labrador they’ll be eaten alive by mosquitoes in summer and that there are a lot of bears. So they’re never tempted to visit me.”
“Is that right about the mosquitoes?” The question escapes my lips spontaneously.
“Don’t be afraid. If there’s a wind, it’s not a problem. It almost always blows along the coast in summertime.”
She winks at me. Shannon is not only attractive; she also has considerable charisma.
“I’d like to come back to the dog because it was found dead,” Fred says.
“Oh, no!” Shannon’s smile disappears. “Was it run over?”
“We’ve only found the head, out there on the bay.” Fred points to the ice.
“Just the head?” A vertical line appears on Shannon’s forehead.
“Yes, did you see anything unusual on the ice?”
“You mean, did I see the dog on the ice?”
“Yes, or people with the dog.”
She shakes her head.
“I’m often in the studio, painting. Then I’m totally absorbed and won’t let myself be distracted.”
“Did you see a blue garbage bag on the bay, either yesterday or the day before?”
“No. Why . . . The blizzard surely blew it away. Why do you ask?”
Is it slowly dawning on her that it’s not only about a dead dog?
“The bag was weighed down with a fisherman’s chain and was bright blue. That stands out. Constable Gates and Gerald Hynes drove out and brought it back from the ice.”
Shannon’s face has suddenly tensed up.
“You think somebody killed the dog? Could it have been coyotes? There are a lot in the area. What did Gerald say?”
“At the present moment we assume that somebody killed the dog and severed its head. But we’re still waiting for the forensics report.”
Shannon crosses her arms as if she has to protect herself.
“Does anybody want to take revenge on Kris?”
Fred and I burst out with the same question: “Does he have any enemies?”
She purses her full lips. “I can imagine there are some people who’d make short work of a stray dog.”
“Would they do it to take revenge on Bakie?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask people who know him better.”
Fre
d is interested at once and follows up on the lead. “How well do you know him?”
“Just vaguely.”
“He tried to come and see you yesterday. Constable Gates ran into him in front of your place.”
If Shannon is surprised, she doesn’t show it.
“He probably wanted to talk with me about the banquet in the Viking house. I’m organizing it with him.”
She stands and gets the coffee pot from the kitchen and pours a second cup. Her hand is trembling slightly.
I think it’s time for more information, because Shannon evidently hasn’t seen anything on Facebook.
“We also found something else in the garbage bag, a cap from the Winter Olympics in Vancouver and a red sweatshirt with the words Animals Are the Better People on it. Apparently a young woman also had a shirt like that—Lorna Taylor, whose skeleton was found on Savage Beach recently.”
Shannon sinks down in slow motion onto the divan.
“Can you repeat that?”
I list everything again.
Shannon looks at me, concentrating, and blinks.
“Does Ann Smith know about this? She lives in the house across the bay there. Have you asked her yet?”
“She phoned us because she saw something and thought it might be an injured animal.”
At that moment we hear a telephone ring. It sounds like a land line. Shannon gives a start.
“Excuse me, but I must answer that.”
She leaves the living room, and we hear her distant voice.
Fred finishes his sandwich. He doesn’t respond to my questioning look, just the way I ignored him earlier.
Shannon storms back all of a sudden, her eyes wide open.
“Kris Bakie is dead. They found him in the Viking house. His sister just phoned me. She’s talking about murder. Why did you keep that from me?”
We’re both speechless. Too dumfounded that Bakie’s sister is already talking about murder. Where was the leak this time?
Shannon sinks down on the divan again.
CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1) Page 12
