by P W Ross
“Turns out I know more about Chablis than Bob. The Romans first planted vines along the Serin River in the twelfth century, and the monks of Petite-Pontinguay carried on from there. He gave us a Jean Claude Marti. Should be marvellous.”
She was full of surprises.
Jack prepped the grill abutting a five- foot granite outcrop upon which a chattering red squirrel religiously appeared when he barbecued and was rewarded with a few salted peanuts. Anna was in and out of the cabin, setting a picnic table overlooking the lake by the side of the cabin. She brought out the fish and set it on a thick red-checked tablecloth held snug by four clips.
“This trout is red as salmon. Just hook it?”
“Couple of hours ago. It is sort of a salmon. A char, really. They were landlocked here when the pre-historic lakes receded. Funny that in this lake you're never sure what colour they will be; pale ivory, pink or a red not quite so deep as a sockeye. They grow slow. That trout's probably seven or eight years old. Big ones can be sixty years old and go up to a hundred pounds. But you know all that stuff.”
“Not a hundred in this lake.”
“No, farther northwest in Great Bear. Biggest one out of here was forty-four pounds.”
“Lots bigger than that, Jack. Just not recorded.”
He placed four pieces of trout on a Teflon mesh rack sitting on the grill.
With the skin-side down so they wouldn't curl, he buttered the surfaces and closed the top, cooking slowly on medium.
Across from each other at the table, sipping the last of the merlot, he asked,
“So, Anna MacKenzie, what's your story?”
“You make it sound like an interview. I should’ve brought along my CV.”
“You know, for first dates I'm thinking that's a pretty good idea. Gets tiresome telling the life story.”
“How many first dates have you had?”
Jack shot her one of his wry grins.
“Too many.”
Chapter Twenty
“How ‘bout you?” Jack asked. “Plenty I’d guess?”
“Jack, Western University is in London, Ontario. Being brown there isn't that easy. Toronto maybe diverse and multicultural, but it’s not there.”
“Were born in Toronto, Jack?”
“Yep, brought up in an old house down in the Beach. Father had a successful small electronics business and mother was a critical care nurse.”
“I know that neighbourhood. Went down to it a lot in those years I was in T.O. A small town in the middle of the city; parks, gazebos, tennis courts, the lake, and the boardwalk. Nice place to grow up ... very white.”
“More like a village,” Jack recalled fondly. “Has its own ‘main street’ and everybody knows each other, shopkeepers, neighbours, police. Folks sit on their porches with a drink reading the newspaper and chat with friends as they pass by. I was an only child but there was no shortage of playmates and when I wasn't with them I went over to the park to sketch or try my hand at watercolours. Summers, I spent at camps here in Temagami.”
“How'd you end up at Western?”
“Well, if I don't say so myself, I had a great grades and could've gone anywhere.
But Western offered me some inducement perks, a good rate on first year residence and an excellent no-interest payment schedule for my tuition. Also, I could do both my undergrad and law degree there.
Found out when I'd been there a few months that quite a few other freshmen had received the same perks. Took another month for me to realise that all of the recipients were ‘of colour’, as they say.
“Handful of Indians — dot and feather, Chinese, Japanese, Mexican, African and so on. Get the picture?”
Jack nodded.
“Token multicultural-rationalisation time. But you think there was a professor or lecturer that was of colour’? No way, José.
So, I sucked up the patronising bullshit. Retaliated with first in class graduation and transferred to Queen's Law School in Kingston for four years.”
“Small town. Three legs of the stool — Kingston Max Penitentiary, Royal Military Academy and Queen's University.”
“Very white, British descendants of old Empire Loyalists but at least not the constant paternalism. Just half the time.”
“Next?”
“To Toronto and joined a Federal agency called... are you ready? Called Indian Affairs. Now called CIRNAC, Crown Indigenous Relations and Northern Affairs Canada, relating to First Nations, Inuit and Metis.”
“Quite a mouthful.”
“Did pro-bono legal work for what they call ‘The Aboriginal Constituency’ for five years. Sad work but rewarding in some ways.”
“How so?”
“Well, I practiced general law. You took whatever came at you. From domestic abuse, to worker’s rights, to homicide. Some folks you could save. Some you could give a leg up. Without our group, most of my clients would have ended up incarcerated. Jack, its Canadas’ dirty little secret. More than thirty percent of inmates in Canadian prisons are Indigenous. You know what the indigenous population of Canada is?”
“Not a clue?”
“Five percent.
It's a national travesty. Eventually the work just wore me out and when the Bear Island Council called me to help out on the land claim, I was more than ready to say yes. So here I am. I don’t really want to dwell on that time any more. Too tiresome.”
“Okay, but there most have been some highlights in the Big Smoke.”
“Like what?”
“Relationships.”
“Jeez Jack, you sure can pick ’em. I'll take relationships for a thousand, Alex.”
“Hey, didn't mean to touch a nerve, just trying to lighten things up.”
“Affairs, a few. Relationships, not really. Seemed like just a string of men searching for something new, fantasising, filling out a portfolio.
“Looking for the next best thing.”
“The exotic Indian.”
“The personal Pocahontas.”
“The younger, brown femme-fatale.”
“The arm candy.”
“The tamed wild thing.”
“The noble, educated savage.”
“Take your pick.”
“Bad as all that?”
“Sometimes worse. Often times easy to figure from the first date. Some were actually quite frank about their desires. Some curious about the sex, wanting a taste of brown honey. But, one thing you always knew for sure, they're never taking you back to the mid-west to meet the folks in the land where they used to basically kidnap indigenous kids and lock them up in residential schools. Just too many cringy events with white dates. Walks down the street with the sideways, or more often, looks of derision, judgement, scorn and of course the not-so-under-the-breath comments. Just exhausting.
How ‘bout you Jack? Doubt you've been a dull boy.”
He unhooked his leg from the bench of the picnic table and went to the barbecue. He was not one to readily talk about himself and unsure what he was willing to share with a woman he hardly knew but found intriguing. When in doubt, lateral arabesque.
“This fish is ready, we'd best get to it.”
Anna grated parmesan, ground pepper corns, and tossed the salad while Jack cracked open the Chablis. Banal small talk and local town gossip accompanied the meal and they scrutinised each other over the top of their wine glasses. She was careful not to mention the murders. All part of the dance.
A Whiskey-Jack swooped down from a birch and perched on the table, kitty-corner from Anna. Jack slid over a couple of peanuts. With a peanut between her thumb and forefinger, she rested her hand on the table. The grey jay came boldly forward, snatched the offering and darted off into the bush.
“Cheeky little bastards, aren't they. How ‘bout we finish off the wine along with those last two fillets. The best part, tailpieces.”
“shouldn't, but let's go for it anyway.”
Half an hour later they were slouched in Muskoka chairs on the dock and, over brandies, Jack
started in.
“You know what a crystal set is?”
“What's that got to do with the story of your life.”
“Everything. My father was an electronics junkie and when I was a kid, he gave me a crystal set. You cobble together a copper oil, an antenna, some earphones, a crystal detector. It’s a kind of semi-conductor. Voila, you had a radio with no plug-in and no batteries. I thought it was brilliant, like goddam magic. Little bit later I find out that at the turn of the century, Marconi had sent a message twenty-one hundred miles from Newfoundland across the Atlantic to Cornwall.
Fast forward and like I said, University of Waterloo, spent five years with IBM, quit and lived in Mexico for a few years.
Returned to Toronto. Was staying with the folks back in the Beach trying to figure out what to do next. Found my best friend from IBM, guy named Fenwick, had started his own software company. Needed some capital and next thing I know I'm in for fifty percent. Guess where we take the company?”
“The crystal set?”
“Exactly... the wireless business. Wasn’t rocket science. We just needed to develop something that would go from one microwave tower to the next. Better still, we were at the height of the dot com era and there was no shortage of capital available. Ten years of fifteen-hour days, our company, Trandsdat, developed one of the first handheld wireless data transmission devices and ... to make a very, very long story short, we end up pulling off a classic high-tech start up, IPO, and exit. A combination of smarts, timing, luck and balls spawned by naiveté.”
Anna nodded, but let Jack continue.
“Innovative tech companies were being acquired for outrageous multiples. The old established players, still run by old white-haired dinosaurs, acquired them as a hedge against a future marketplace they didn't understand and couldn't predict.
We made sure the staff were well taken care of, signed on the dotted line, and then bounced.”
“Can I ask?”
“Sure, public company, public record.”
“How much?”
He said it slowly, not for dramatic effect, but because he still had difficulty comprehending the number.
“Four hundred and seventy-five million — US.”
Incredulity saucered her eyes.
“Jeez Jack, no tag days on the horizon for you.”
“Who was I to argue with the fools and their money?”
Cheeks puffed out, he exhaled and abruptly changed the subject.
“Getting cool out here. Let's get back up to the cabin, light a fire and have a nightcap.”
They settled into the wing-backs fronting the fireplace. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang. Irritated, Jack exhaled and shrugged.
“Why don't you pour us another B&B and whoever the hell it is, I'll make it short”
“Yes? Hey Bob, how goes it?” he said cheerily, mock smiling to Anna.
“No, you're not. I can talk. What's so urgent at this time of night?”
“And?”
“Dead?”
“Who?”
“Wainright!”
Chapter Twenty-One
Jack closed his eyes. “Shit, Bob, don't tell me.”
Anna’s head turned sharply at the name and she squinted askance toward Jack.
“Goddammit Bob, what the hell's going on? What's Rummell got to say?”
“No Bob, bad idea, not here, how many times do I have to tell you?”
“Parker? Who cares about Parker?
“Okay... All right!... Relax. I understand. They can meet here. What time? No, I'm fine. I'm okay with it.”
“Right. Take care. Talk to you tomorrow.”
Looking at the receiver, Jack filled his lungs and exhaled loudly through pursed lips. Anna, sensing dismay, passed a snifter and both returned silently to the fire. Jack chucked on another log and gazed vacantly into the blaze.
“You best stay here tonight.”
“Jack, I can't. Got a meeting with the Claim Commission. It's difficult to get those folks all together for anything.”
He slowly redirected his eyes from the fire toward her and said gravely, “I'm afraid it's not optional.”
“What's this about? What was that about Wainright? He's still President of the Property Association isn't he?”
“Was.”
“Was! What do you mean, was?”
“Eugene went out to investigate an accident up the lake today. It was Henry Wainright. His boat crashed full tilt into the shore and he was thrown into the bush.”
“Is he... dead?”
He looked directly at her, his demeanour grim.
“Very. It wasn't the crash that killed him. He'd been shot in the head.”
With a swift intake of breath, she dropped into the wingback, hands covering her mouth.
“God Jack, those two in the cage and now this.”
She looked up, realising that it was the first time she had mentioned the couple.
“I know you and Bob found them.” She exhaled. “
Look, I'll be alright going back.”
“Yeah, guess that's what Henry thought and it was broad daylight. You're staying here. No arguments. We don't know who's out on the lake tonight.”
Knowing what she was thinking he added, “I don't care what gossip gets around the village or on Bear. Do you?”
“Not really I suppose. Well, to be frank yes. But I agree with you.”
“I'll go down and check your ropes. Boat have a top?”
“Yes.”
“I'll go button it up.”
Shaken, Jack negotiated the path to the boathouse. He secured the lines on the Stanley and snapped the top into place. There would be no rain tonight but the dew would be heavy. Retrieving tobacco from the Lund, he rolled a cigarette, lit it and stood uneasily, contemplating the quarter moon. The dense mist on the water heightened his sense of apprehension and he shivered involuntarily. Anyone could paddle through that fog, silent and unseen. The cigarette tasted bitter and he dropped it into an empty beer can on the ledge.
Duff was squatting on the porch awaiting his return. Hearing the door, Anna called out from the bathroom. “I'm in the tub. I felt a chill.”
She wasn't the only one. Jack normally slept in a t-shirt but rummaging through the dresser he located a pair of respectable flannel pyjamas with a repeating pattern of northern loons. Knocking on the door, he discretely opened it a crack and slid his arm through to toss the PJs.
“Thanks Jack. Wear jammies often?”
“Never”
He returned to the fire, the B&B, and was soon nodding off with Anna beside him, cuffs rolled up at the elbows and pants to the ankles.
“Nice look.”
Anna felt anxious, disturbed and self conscious.
“What do you think’s happening here?”
Incomprehensible was the word that came to mind. He was sick in the pit of his stomach. His mind was racing through a multitude of possibilities.
“It's no coincidence. Murder just doesn't happen here. I can't remember there ever being a killing on the lake or in town. Other than some teenage vandalism or petty theft, there’s no crime. Doors aren't locked. The odds of having two different killers are remote. The couple from the houseboat and Henry are connected somehow. I've told everyone who cares to listen that I'm not going to be drawn into this, but a group of townsfolk are meeting and Bob volunteered this place.”
“Why here of all places?”
“Don’t want to have it in town. They figure everyone's freaked enough as it is. Plus, the Nugget reporter is still here and you can bet it's gonna blow wide open. Her name is Parker and she can make her bones with this story. She's probably writing up the first instalment as we speak.”
“It's still going to get out that a meeting was held here, you know that.”
“Of course, but at least it’ll prevent folks from crashing in looking for answers that Eugene hasn't got.” Exhaustion reigned and his body felt heavy. “I've had enough. How ‘bout you? Re
ady for bed?”
He tucked her into the bottom tier of the double bunk bed. She reached up to gently brush the back of her hand along his cheek and smiled thinly.
“Sorry end to a wonderful evening. I'll leave a nightlight on.”
He brushed his teeth, tossed cold water over his face and looked into the mirror, seeing lines he didn't think were there this morning. He raised the window a few inches, crawled wearily into the old brass bed and drifted away. Sleeping fitfully, he heard Anna stir. The door opened quietly and he felt her ease under the covers. He was relieved she still wore the pyjamas. Facing the window, he remained motionless as she came close, her breasts pressed against his back, stomach nestled against his buttocks and legs bent up inside his. Her right arm encircled his torso. Her warmth was comforting.
“Night Jack.”
“Good night Anna,” he murmured and faded into slumber.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ami Norval sat stoically on his dock, back to the water, staring at the cabin in the southeast quadrant of the lake’s hub at Whitefish Bay. Thinking of his father, Jean, he still wondered why he had never spoken a word about his childhood, his upbringing or Ami's grandparents. As far as Ami was concerned his father's life had begun during the war when he slogged through France, only to be captured, and spend the last two years of the conflict in a German POW Camp, starved, stifled and claustrophobic. Repatriated, he had worked several years in southern factories to build a grubstake and then set out north seeking the peace of a simpler life.
He toiled in the mines and mills but the apex of his life was becoming a Forest Ranger. He loved the solitude of the tower. Rangering only in the fire season allowed him to guide and trap through the fall, winter and spring. At a Legion dance where the men outnumbered the women two to one, he met Francine, a girl almost half his age who had come off a farm in Temiskaming to work the summer camps. She was slight, had jet-black hair and an engaging smile. Not beautiful, but a handsome woman. He offered her a ride back down the lake to the Temagami Inn and the resulting pregnancy led swiftly to a Catholic wedding.
The cabin went up the year of Ami's birth and the building process took exactly the nine months Francine was pregnant. It was cedar log, with mortar-based chinking and a cedar roof that had been replaced once and patched many times since. The corners were saddled-notched, a curve cut into the bottom of each round log so they didn’t abut, but overlapped. Despite a swaybacked roof it had survived remarkably well, yet looked tired all the same. The roof was half covered in thick moss and some of the logs had begun to rot. Propane ran the appliances but he still relied on the woodstove for winter heat and a diesel generator in the workshop could provide reserve power.
