Return to Spinner's Inlet

by Don Hunter

  Rachel agreed, as she needed to take a run to Salt Spring to stock up on supplies for her three setters. And what harm could it do anyway, with Silas being the old newshound and used to digging up stuff?

  She stayed over with friends that night, and when she returned there was a letter on her porch bearing the return address of the law firm Ezekial Watson & Co., which actually meant that it was from Ezekial, who was also the “& Co.” and who had recently moved from Burnaby and hung up his shingle next door to the Cedars pub in his plan for part-time early retirement.

  The letter required Rachel to cease and desist from associating his client with such evil characters as Tomás de Torquemada, known for his penchant for torture and other horrors in the fifteenth century, and to “forthwith withdraw and retract the claims made in the most recent edition of The Tidal Times newspaper under the heading of ‘Our Families.’”

  It seemed that Silas had become confused while researching Maggie’s Spanish antecedents, for whom there was little in the way of records, and his Spanish had become somewhat rusty, as had his knowledge of world history. He had assumed that the Spanish Inquisition had been some kind of public examination rewards board, and in order to speed up the process, and with his own deadline looming, had thought that connecting Maggie with that body would elevate her in the eyes of the community.

  Maggie pinned the page from the Times along with the letter from Ezekial up on the three community notice boards, at the post office, Gilbert’s Groceries, and outside the Cedars pub.

  Rachel gave up on her quest to help others with their family histories. Silas filled the space by offering a “Buy and Sell” feature free to Times subscribers, or anyone else.

  And Maggie Wilson wondered how she would handle the five hundred dollar bill for legal services rendered that she received from Ezekial Watson & Co.

  The Grand Opening

  The grand opening for Evelyn and Jackson Spinner’s B & B got off to a shaky start. From there it sped downhill.

  First, the mayor of Vancouver phoned Evelyn from Tsawwassen.

  “What do you mean, you couldn’t get on the ferry?” Evelyn demanded. “You never bring your car so it’s easy—you walk to the ticket booth, pay, then walk aboard the Queen. And walk off on this side. And you are my keynote speaker, so …”

  “Who else you got?” the mayor asked.

  “Never mind that now. Anyway, how could you not get on? I mean …”

  “You know how they have that rule about ratio of crew to passengers and if one or the other number is out of whack, then the ship can’t sail, no matter how much room there is left?”

  “Go on.”

  “There’s this group. They’re hunting for a berry they say grows only in Spinner’s Inlet. Apparently it produces a health drink like no other. There’s a dozen of them, arrived on a bus, rushed aboard, the last to get on, and that was it. Too few crew for the number of passengers. I suggested adding a couple more crew but got told that would run into overtime and with contract negotiations going on, that was not going to happen. So …”

  Evelyn had had the phone on speaker, which brought Samson Spinner into the conversation; he had come to see if any help was needed at the opening. “Maybe crowd control,” he had suggested wittily.

  “It’s a myth,” Samson explained. “The berry story, old as the hill itself.” He was referring to Spinner’s Mountain, all five hundred feet of it, where someone many years ago had claimed that the berry and its healthful content existed. “The story gets resurrected every so often, and you get a swarm of health freaks. They’re wasting their time.”

  “They’re buggering up my opening,” Evelyn grumbled.

  The mayor was not the only one with bad news.

  The middle-aged couple who had arrived on the previous night’s ferry for a week’s stay was going to have to leave, following a phone call from Edmonton that had the wife weeping and the husband growling about “darned spoiled kids … never gonna grow up … in their bloody thirties.” Evelyn felt she could not accept their offer to pay for the rest of the booked stay, them being so upset, and even made them ham sandwiches to take on the ferry, no charge.

  “Maybe they’ll come back sometime, you see.”

  Rachel Spinner had just arrived, also to oversee something. “And I need to talk to Jackson. Where is he?”

  “Took a party to Salt Spring. Should have been back by now.” Evelyn turned and pointed down to the marina, which was empty save for an American motor yacht and a local twelve-foot runabout waiting for gas. There was no sign of their water taxi, the Chief JP, which was usually tied up at the small dock south of the fuel pumps. “I think I’ll need to talk to him, too.” Evelyn said with a kind of tight smile. Then, “Anyone seen the Clements kids? I hired them for the event. They can get stuff ready and clean up after.”

  “I saw them at Gilbert’s,” Samson said. “Helping Finbar load the delivery van and looking like going with him. Maybe they forgot. Kids, eh?”

  Others had arrived for the grand opening. Annabelle Bell-Atkinson with the geeks in tow stood by. Henry or Harvey raised a hand as if to speak but stopped when the new lawyer, Ezekial Watson, quipped, “Beware of geeks bearing gifts,” and laughed at his weak pun. Ezekial had turned up with a raft of business cards, handing them out to everyone present. The cards read, “Personal injury, libel, and slander, et al.” He moved through the gathering, muttering cryptically, “Just in case, y’know?”

  A horn announced the arrival of the Gulf Queen at the dock, and the unloading began. The berry seekers came off like a commando unit, shoving people aside and flourishing maps as they headed up to the main highway and continued hurrying north.

  A breathless phone call from an American couple who had booked the only ensuite room for a week advised they had been unable to board the Gulf Queen due to circumstances they didn’t quite understand, which would never have been tolerated on the Washington State ferry system. They would not be arriving after all and hoped that their cancellation notice would be sufficient for a refund. Especially as they might return another time, when BC Ferries got itself sorted out.

  Three Englishwomen strode off the ferry and collared Evelyn. “You look as if you’d know,” one said. “We’re looking for the area that’s a little bit of Olde England.” She waved a colourful brochure in Evelyn’s face.

  Constable Ravina Sidhu was close, having come to see if she could be of help with anything. She chuckled and tried a couple of sentences in her dad’s Bradford accent. “Olde England,” she explained to the trio, who seemed baffled, being from London.

  “Don’t you have anybody to arrest?” Evelyn suggested, and to the women, “You need Victoria. Different island.” She would have added that she could recommend her husband’s water-taxi service to deliver them, but there was still no Jackson in sight.

  The owners of the two vessels waiting for fuel waved, and one of them hollered, “Anybody home?!”

  Evelyn glared at Samson, who put down his wineglass, headed to the dock, and started pumping.

  The Englishwomen declined Evelyn’s offer of space now available at the B & B, saying they did nothing but five-star, and would wait for the later ferry by way of Salt Spring. They bought three bottles of sparkling water and sat at a dining room table for the rest of the day. Evelyn did not feel that she could ask them to vacate the seats because they might be future patrons. Who knows?

  By mid-afternoon the B & B remained empty. Complimentary bottles of wine had been breached and emptied by locals such as Randolph Champion and Charlie Wilson, who declared the event a smashing success and wished Evelyn well for the future.

  Now the weather closed in, with heavy-bellied clouds filling in the western sky and delivering fat drops of rain that in seconds grew into a deluge, while the temperature plummeted. People crowded into the dining room, filling the space, bu
t stopped talking when the community emergency siren began blaring.

  At the same time, Samson’s cellphone rang, as did those of all the Spinner’s Inlet Search and Rescue team across the island. A group, apparently of hikers, on Spinner’s Mountain was in trouble. One woman had fallen into a suddenly flash-flooded creek and broken a leg. Two others had been injured trying to haul the woman out and none of the crowd was dressed for the kind of conditions now in play.

  “They never are,” Samson grunted. “Christ.”

  Nor were any of them confident enough to begin the trek down the mountain without help as darkness began to intrude.

  Samson advised the room what was happening, and left.

  A minute later Jackson Spinner rushed in, waving his cellphone. “Have to go,” he said, giving Evelyn a quick hug. “Broke down in Ganges harbour earlier. Figured you’d be fine. How’re things going?” as he left to join the rescue operation.

  It was another two hours before the survivors and saviours limped in. Alun and Jillian Clements, who had become caught up in the excitement and followed the search and rescue, trailed in at the end, covered in mud, grass, and leaves, and went to wash up in one of the new and so far unchristened bathrooms.

  Evelyn hurried to produce fresh coffee, served the berry hunters scones and soup, and poured a Scotch for Dr. Timothy. He had joined the fray and was checking for sprains and cuts and such. He drained the drink and said, “Well, no great harm done, after all.” The broken leg had turned out to be a bad sprain. “Mainlanders,” Timothy sniffed.

  “What time is the ferry back?” The leader of the berry gang asked.

  “End of the week, if you’re lucky,” Samson advised. “There’s a strike and a lockout, just announced.”

  Mutterings among the berry fanciers.

  Then the berry leader to Evelyn: “How many rooms do you have? For, like, a dozen, for a little while.”

  Evelyn smiled. “How many would you like?”

  The New Doctor

  Dr. Timothy was retiring. Finally. Not just talking about it again, but taking the last step. He announced that he had sold the practice to a newly minted doctor, whom he was going to introduce at a public meeting at the community hall, and that he and Megan would be leaving shortly.

  “Sold” the practice was a bit of an overstatement. Medical practices all over BC had been sitting unsold for several years, with so many young physicians opting for jobs in walk-in clinics where they worked bankers’ hours and could be fairly certain of paying off their student loans in a reasonable time. Dr. Timothy had never worked bankers’ hours, or anything close to them.

  “No one’s going to replace him,” Rachel Spinner had predicted. “Though they might take over his practice.”

  There was a standing-room-only turnout at the meeting because most of Spinner’s Inlet had never known any doctor but Timothy. He had birthed and/or buried someone from almost every family. It was not uncommon for people to remain sick and wait for Dr. Timothy and Megan to return from their annual vacation to the Turks and Caicos Islands, rather than ride the Gulf Queen over to Salt Spring or Victoria and the tentative quality of care that one might find in either of those places.

  “You never know where they might have come from,” Charlie Wilson warned once. “Vancouver, anywhere.”

  Timothy and Megan walked onstage with a slight Asian girl and the three of them took seats. The audience murmured and whispered and looked offstage in expectation, and then back to Timothy, who finally raised a hand for silence and stepped to the microphone. It gave its usual initial shriek of protest until he kicked its base and succeeded in saying, “Testing, testing.”

  He said, “You all know me,” which created a wave of laughter. “We have been through a lot together over the years. Most of you have been patients …” there was a lengthy pause as Timothy seemed to have to deal with a cough of sorts. He waved away an offer of a glass of water from Annabelle Bell-Atkinson, who had assumed a vague kind of supervising stance at the corner of the stage.

  “… mostly good times,” Timothy was saying, “and it is time for me to say goodbye.”

  This evoked a quiet rumble of protest, which Timothy quelled with a raised arm and shake of the head. “And to welcome and introduce to you your new doctor,” and he turned and gestured to the Asian girl sitting next to Megan. “Dr. Daisy Chen.”

  “Christ,” Samson Spinner blurted. “Little Daisy!” He looked around and saw Gilbert Chen a couple of seats away offering a wide smile and two thumbs up.

  Beside him, Charlie Wilson asked, “Who?”

  “Daisy. Gilbert’s granddaughter, from Surrey. Remember? She used to come and spend summers when Gilbert first moved here and bought the store from the Logans. She was about nine or so.”

  “And now she’s what? Ten?” Charlie laughed.

  “… recently licensed to practise … and we are fortunate that she has chosen our community to begin her career. Please welcome …” and Dr. Daisy Chen got to her feet and went to stand beside Timothy, whose six-foot-one frame rose over her by almost a foot.

  There was applause, hesitant at first but picking up when Dr. Timothy glared about the hall, challenging anyone daring to display less than unfettered enthusiasm.

  “That’s better,” he grunted.

  “Thank you,” the new doctor said. “My office will be open as of eight o’clock tomorrow. And please, call me Daisy.”

  “And now school will break for recess,” muttered Jackson Spinner who was standing with his wife, Evelyn, and next to his Aunt Rachel. “Is this really happening? What if I have to take my pants off when I go …”

  “You’ll have to grin and bare it,” said the nearby Samson. “You know, as in …”

  “Shut up.”

  As it happened, Jackson met Daisy sooner than he had expected to. Two days after her introduction, he was gassing up the water taxi at the marina and chatting to Cameron Girard, who was just nosing around looking for gossip, or even real stuff. A small sound of distress from the end of the marina nearest the B & B entrance, not unlike that of a lost kitten, was followed by a thump, and Cameron yelled, “Good God, Evelyn!” He started galloping along the wharf to where Evelyn Spinner lay sprawled, and still. “Call for help, Jackson!” Cameron ordered as he ran.

  Jackson did so and soon also reached Evelyn’s side. She was struggling to breathe, and continued to struggle as a panicking Jackson tried to lift her. “Evelyn? Evelyn!”

  “CPR,” Cameron snapped. “Chest compression. Try it! Turn her on her back!”

  A patter of soft shoes on the decking. “Stand back,” Daisy Chen said. “Let me have a look.”

  Jackson looked up and shook his head. “She needs …”

  “STAND BACK!” Like a whip-crack. Then small but surprisingly strong hands pulled on Jackson’s shoulders and he was out of the way and on his arse.

  Evelyn was choking, trying to breathe.

  Daisy began checking Evelyn’s hands and bare arms.

  “What the hell are you doing? It’s her heart! She needs CPR!” Jackson shouted.

  Daisy Chen waved him away and continued examining Evelyn’s arms.

  “Somebody get Doctor Tim …”

  “Ah!” Daisy reached for her black leather bag, brought out a blue-and-green cylinder with a blue end and an orange one, with “needle end” printed on the orange. She slid the needle end through Evelyn’s jeans and into her thigh, then watched. She smiled as Evelyn took a deep breath and almost immediately started breathing regularly. Within a few minutes Evelyn was on her feet, shaky but approaching normal again, and being held tightly by Jackson.

  “Let her breathe,” Daisy Chen said. “Then you can squeeze her if you like. It was a bee sting.” She pointed to a small red mark on Evelyn’s left wrist. “She is super-sensitive, allergic. She was goin
g into anaphylactic shock. Her throat and mouth were swelling and preventing her breathing. Can be fatal.”

  She held up the cylinder. “EpiPen,” she said. “Basically, adrenaline. Injects automatically into the muscle in the thigh. You’ll need to get her one to carry with her so she or you or anyone else can do what I just did.” She added, “However, get your taxi and we’ll run her to Salt Spring for a hospital check. Just to be sure.”

  Cameron Girard was making notes. “Great story,” he said. “Let me get a pic.”

  Daisy posed with the needle. “Make sure you spell my name properly,” she said.

  Dr. Timothy pulled up on his way to the ferry. Megan peered out from the passenger seat, and suitcases sat piled on the rear.

  Timothy called from his opened window. “I saw something was going on,” he said. And to Jackson, “How’re things?”

  Jackson smiled, gave a little wave. “Things are fine, Doc. You’re good to go.”

  A Twosome

  The partnership that had developed between Tony Marconi and Howard Kennington-Longworth appeared to be in danger of breaking up.

  Tony was a former longshoreman from Surrey, a burly, swaggering character and a weekender with a place at the south end. Born and raised on Vancouver’s gritty east side, Tony affected the poise and charm of his namesake from the Sopranos TV SERIES.

  Howard Kennington-Longworth retired from his sales job at a men’s clothing store and settled in the seniors complex about the same time Tony made his first appearance at the golf course, nearly three years before. It was no secret that Howard had been separated from much of his savings in a notorious Ponzi scheme, and his closeness with a dollar was understood.

  Each had signed up as a member. (Nothing fancy like some of the mainland courses, where a commitment to forty thousand dollars will get you onto a waiting list. Here, a hundred and fifty dollars a year gets you fourteen-day advance booking privileges, a ten percent discount on pro-shop equipment and bar drinks, and two dollars off green fees for anyone playing with a member.)