Black Water

by Rosemary McCracken

  “Too small for my liking, I want you to steer Norris Cassidy away from this mess.”

  “We’re not in any mess. Lyle wasn’t a client.”

  “Pat, get the branch off to a good start. If we don’t have a solid base soon…” He paused. “You know our quotas for assets under management. If we don’t see a substantial revenue base by the end of the year, we may have to pull the plug on Braeloch. Get in there tomorrow morning and kick ass. We’re counting on you.”

  Courtesies like saying goodbye before ending a call weren’t among Keith’s priorities that morning.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Just before noon, Laura burst into the house, followed by Celia.

  “You’ve got to try it, Mom!” Laura cried, peeling off her jacket. “It’s awesome out there.”

  Celia had spent the past three hours taking Tommy and Laura out on the snowmobile. The sparkle in Laura’s eyes told me the morning had been a success.

  “I wanna go out again,” Tommy cried, coming into the kitchen.

  “Pat’s turn after lunch,” Celia said.

  “Aww,” Tommy lamented. “I never get to have any fun.”

  “You’ll go out again, kiddo, just not today,” Celia said.

  “Promise?” he asked.

  “Cross my heart. Now go wash your hands.” She shooed him off to the washroom.

  Laura took plates from the cupboard. “Take a trip after lunch, Mom. I’ll watch a movie with Tommy.”

  I stared at her, wondering for a moment or two whether I had heard correctly.

  “Aren’t you up for a spin, Pat?” Celia asked.

  I arranged cold roast beef on a platter. “When I saw you heading across the lake, I wondered whether the ice would hold.” I didn’t mention the fear that had sliced through me.

  Celia helped herself to a piece of meat. “That ice is solid, even with the thaw last week. The winter was pretty cold. Spring breakup is weeks away.”

  “Go on, Mom,” Laura said.

  Celia slid a laminated map across the counter. “This creek links Black Bear Lake to the next lake in the chain.” She ran a finger over the plastic. “There are five lakes. The fifth is Serenity Lake. We cross Serenity and we’ll be in Braeloch.”

  “How long would that take?” And how long, I wondered, would Laura’s patience with Tommy hold out?

  “Probably less time than driving to Braeloch on the highway.” She held up the map. “We’d have to drive down Highway 36, then east on 187. But the lakes cut through the area on the diagonal.”

  “Okay.” I turned to my daughter. “Laura, you can give me a hand here after lunch.”

  She waved a hand grandly. “I’ll wash up.”

  “We’ll be gone for a few hours,” I warned.

  “No problem.”

  I decided to make the most of her expansive mood.

  Down by the lake, I found Celia astride the snowmobile. She waved me over.

  I approached cautiously. I half expected the beast would spring on me.

  She patted the machine that was purring under her. “A beauty, isn’t she? Pat, say hello to Molly.”

  “Hi, Moll.” I gave it a little wave, feeling silly. “You grew up in the city, Celia. When did you learn to operate a snowmobile?”

  Her dark eyes sparkled. “My mother came from Northern Ontario—a four-hour drive north of here—and we spent Christmas and winter break up there. My cousins all had snowmobiles. I thought it would be fun to get out into the great outdoors while we’re here.”

  I looked at the tiny woman astride the giant machine. “But this creature is so…big.”

  “It doesn’t take muscle to operate a snowmobile.”

  She got off the machine and came around to where I stood. “She’s powered by a four-cylinder, four-stroke—”

  “Stop.” I help up my gloved hands in mock surrender. “I’ll never remember this.”

  She grinned. “That’s okay. You don’t have to know the specs to operate one of these machines. Although you’d impress the men around here if you could rhyme off a few.” She paused. “You can drive a car, so you can drive Molly.”

  She pointed to the lever near the right handlebar. “This is her throttle. Use your right thumb on it to get her engine up to speed.”

  Then she showed me the brake lever and the handlebars. “Turn them the same way you would to steer a bike. See? Nothing to it.”

  She pressed the throttle and Molly sprang to attention. “Hop on!” she called out over the roar.

  I glanced down at my ski jacket and jeans, and wondered whether I was dressed for the occasion. Celia was wearing a snowmobile suit.

  “You’ll be fine,” she shouted. “It’s pretty mild today.” She handed me a helmet with a face shield.

  I fastened it on my head, then carefully seated myself behind her. Molly vibrated under me. Celia turned her head. “Hold on to the hand grips.”

  I grabbed the metal grips on either side of my seat and hoped for the best.

  “Ready to roll?”

  “Guess so,” I yelled.

  “Hold on tight.”

  Molly lurched forward, and we zoomed onto the lake. I tightened my hold on the grips, my heart in my mouth. I really was too old for adventures of this kind.

  But by the time we’d reached the other side of the lake, my fear had melted away. Laura was right, it was fun. Celia pointed the snowmobile down a wide trail through the trees. A few yards down the trail, she pulled up beside a birch and cut the motor. She flipped up her face shield. “Okay?”

  I nodded. “Do we have enough gas?”

  “Enough to get us to Braeloch. We’ll fill up there.”

  “Let’s go for it.” I pulled down my face shield.

  “One more thing, Pat.”

  I flipped up the shield.

  “When I raise an arm, it means we’re about to make a sharp turn in that direction,” she said. “Lean to the opposite side to keep the machine on both skis.”

  “Got it.”

  The trip down the frozen creek was like driving into a Christmas card. Snow-covered spruce and cedars hugged both shores. At one point, the trees gave way to a granite outcropping that rose high into the air.

  We emerged from the creek onto an expanse of white that was crisscrossed by snowmobile tracks. A bay dotted with ice fishing huts was on our left. Ahead of us, two machines inched across the white canvas.

  Celia raised her right arm. I leaned left and we flew across the ice. The sun beat down on us and the snow-covered lake sparkled. Exhilarated, I lifted my face to the sky. I pictured the scene at the beginning of Easy Rider when Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper are on the road with Steppenwolf’s “Born To Be Wild” on the soundtrack.

  Rock ’n’ roll gave way to classical and “Ride of the Valkyries” ran through my head. Man, machine, speed, power. There was no more fitting accompaniment than Wagner’s magnificent music.

  The music faded and Jamie Collins’ face flashed into my mind. What had Lyle told her? But I shelved that thought for later and focused on the moment. Moments like those on the frozen lakes are too few and far between.

  The lakes and the creeks that joined them flew by. We waved at the people on the snowmobiles we passed and they waved back at us.

  On the fourth lake, a crowd had gathered on the far west side, and Celia pointed Molly in that direction. As we got closer, I saw that a strip of black water about six feet wide bridged the frozen bay we were on to the bay beyond it. Celia cut the engine. “It’s a snowmobile skip over the narrows,” she said. “Let’s check it out.”

  We left Molly on the ice and walked over to the group of people on the beach. Their eyes were riveted on a black-and-yellow snowmobile zooming across the ice, headed for the strip of open water.

  I stared at it in horror. “The driver’s going to drown.”

  Celia put a hand on my arm. “Watch this.”

  The snowmobile hit the water at top speed and kept on going, spray flying out in all directions
. “He’s going across the top of the water just like a stone does when you skip it,” Celia said.

  A cheer went up from the crowd when the machine landed on the ice in our bay.

  “Mark Nicholson,” a man said over a loudspeaker. “His seventh run of the day at 26.04 seconds.”

  We watched two more snowmobiles skip over the water.

  “The heavier the rider and the machine, the faster they need to go. And they can only go in a straight line, no turning,” Celia said as we walked back to Molly. “If they don’t make it across the water, they sink like stones. It takes only seconds for a snowmobile to drop to the bottom of the lake.”

  “And the drivers?”

  “They’re wearing wet suits. They’ll come back for their machines in the spring.”

  “Why would anyone—”

  “Want to do it? Challenge. Personal best.” She held up her hands. “Hey, I know. It’s dangerous and it’s unregulated. But some people are hooked on it.”

  I wondered what she would do if a stretch of water got in our way. One look at the grin on her face and I had my answer.

  As we crossed the lake, I noticed that the needle on the gas gauge was nearing the empty mark. Fear flickered in my heart. If we ran out of gas it would be a long trek over the ice to Braeloch, then back to Molly. We’d be out on the lakes in the dark.

  Celia gunned Molly down a small creek and the fifth lake opened before us. On its far shore, a village sat under a hill topped by two outcroppings.

  “Braeloch!” Celia cried.

  We filled Molly’s gas tank at the municipal dock. We left her there and walked along the road that ran up to Main Street. At the town’s west end, Main inclined upwards toward Jesus of the Highlands Church. Then it turned into Highway 123 that cut through the farm country east of town.

  The church stood on a lower flank of the hill behind the town. A steep staircase led to the double front doors, and a network of ramps across the sloping lawn provided easier access to the entrance.

  “Our stairway to heaven,” Celia said as we stood at the foot of the staircase. “The church was built in 1910. People were either more mobile in those days or they didn’t live as long. Now at least half of our parishioners are over seventy and they use the ramps.”

  She studied the stairs with a frown on her face. “Bruce didn’t put salt down today.” She turned toward the bottom ramp, and I followed her up it.

  She pointed to the two-story brick house beside the church. “My place of business.”

  “What’s your title here?”

  “The official moniker is pastoral coordinator. There’s quite a few of us around these days with the shortage of Catholic priests.”

  She unlocked a side door to the church and led me into a small room behind the church proper. She flicked on a light switch. “The sacristy.”

  Pine cupboards and drawers had been built along one wall. A wooden clothing rack on the wall across from it held priest’s vestments.

  She flicked off the light and motioned me to follow her through the doorway.

  The small church was unremarkable except for a round stained-glass window behind the altar. “A rose window,” I whispered. In a few hours, the setting sun would illuminate the church with reds and blues and purples refracted from the window.

  “Lovely, isn’t it? A gift from the Greeley family, its plaque says. I haven’t met any of them yet.”

  She entered a pew and knelt in prayer. I sat beside her.

  A parish community, with its committees and clubs filled with wannabe leaders, could be a breeding ground for petty rivalries. Lyle had spent a lot of time in that church and its rectory. Had the crabby old man pushed someone past all endurance?

  Celia turned to me. “On to the rectory.”

  “When is Lyle’s funeral?” I asked as she locked the church door.

  “Friday morning. They’re sending a priest up from Lindsay.”

  “You said Lyle’s wife had died. Did he have any other family?”

  “He and Edna had no children,” she said as we made our way along the path between the two buildings. “And there don’t seem to be any relatives.”

  She unlocked the rectory door and pushed it open. “Welcome to the men’s club.”

  The interior was gloomy. When she flicked on the hall lights, I saw that several doors opened off both sides of a long central hall.

  “This could be a handsome building if some of these walls were taken down.” She stopped in front of the first door on the left and pushed it open. “My office.”

  She reached inside to turn on the light. “Oh!” she cried.

  I looked over her shoulder into the room. A figure on a sofa against the far wall roused itself. A shaggy, salt-and-pepper head emerged from under a blanket.

  “Bruce Stohl,” Celia said.

  A rumpled man swung his feet to the floor. Tufts of hair stood up on his head.

  Celia went over to him. “Fast asleep at two in the afternoon. That icy staircase out front is an accident waiting to happen.”

  The man staggered to his feet and blinked his red-rimmed eyes. “Sorry, Sister, I…I…”

  “You reek of booze.”

  He hung his head.

  “Bruce, where are you living?” she asked in a kinder tone.

  “Got kicked out,” he said in a slurry voice.

  “Of where?”

  “Mrs. Collins’ basement. She told me to leave yesterday. Didn’t want me smoking in the house.”

  “Here in town?”

  He nodded. “No wheels, Sister. I can’t go far without them.”

  “Veronica Collins?” I asked.

  He turned to look at me. “Yeah, that’s her.”

  “This is Pat Tierney, Bruce. Pat, Bruce Stohl is our maintenance man.”

  “Veronica is Jamie’s mother,” I said to Celia.

  “Did Mrs. Collins give you notice?” she asked Bruce.

  He hung his head. “She warned me about smoking a couple of times.”

  Celia let out a big gust of breath. “You can stay on the sofa here tonight. Just for tonight.”

  His eyes brightened.

  “But no smoking. I don’t want the rectory going up in flames.” She glared at him. “You have cigarettes on you?”

  He reached into his quilted vest and pulled out a pack.

  She took it from him and stashed it in her pocket.

  He winced as though he’d been hit.

  “And no booze.” She unzipped the nylon pouch that was fastened around her waist and handed him a ten-dollar bill. “For supper at Joe’s Diner. Joe’s, Bruce. Not the Dominion Hotel bar.”

  He gave her a sad-dog smile.

  “I mean it, Bruce. No smoking and no drinking in here. Don’t let me down.”

  “I won’t, Sister.”

  She moved toward the door, then stopped and looked back at him. “Did the police speak to you yesterday?”

  Bruce nodded. “Guy with a gray moustache came back to the church after you left.”

  “Inspector Foster.”

  He nodded again. “He wanted to know where I was Thursday evening. Told him I was at home and he could check with Mrs. Collins. That’s the night she smelled my cigarette smoke through the heating vents.”

  “Did he speak to anyone else at the church?”

  “No one else was around then. I’d just finished mopping the floor.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Bruce,” Celia said. “Throw some salt on those stairs right now. And if it snows overnight, you’ll need to shovel first thing.”

  A police cruiser pulled up in front of the church as we walked down the ramp. Foster and a uniformed officer got out.

  “The guy in plainclothes is the big gun from Orillia,” Celia said in a low voice. “He’s here to investigate Lyle’s murder. The one in uniform is Roger Bouchard who runs the local cop shop.”

  “What brings you to Braeloch, Ms. Tierney?” Foster asked.

  Celia looked surprised.


  “Inspector Foster and I have met,” I said to her.

  “Quite the coincidence to find you here. But I don’t believe in coincidences.” He gestured to the younger man beside him. “This is Sergeant Bouchard. He’s in charge of the Braeloch detachment. Pat Tierney.”

  “I’m here for the startup of Norris Cassidy’s new branch,” I said. “I arrived yesterday.”

  “I see.” But Foster looked as though he didn’t. “Where is your daughter’s friend?”

  “Nobody knows. Tracy hasn’t heard from her.”

  “You’ll be in Braeloch a while?” Bouchard asked.

  “A few weeks.”

  “Then perhaps—”

  “Sergeant Bouchard.” Foster said. “I remind you that I’m in charge of this investigation.”

  “But—” Bouchard began.

  Foster fixed his gray eyes on me. “We need to speak to Ms. Collins. There were bad feelings between her and Lyle Critchley.”

  “That was years ago.”

  “Then she turns up here on the day he’s killed. As I said, I don’t believe in coincidences. We need to speak to her.” He handed me his card. “Soon.”

  “The letter Lyle sent her…”

  “The mystery letter your daughter said she knows nothing about.”

  “Yes,” I said, “Lyle told her something in that letter. And whoever killed him might want Jennifer Collins out of the way too.”

  A frown creased his face. “If he—or she—knew that Critchley told her something in a letter.”

  I nodded. “That may be why she’s lying low.”

  “Have her give us a call.”

  Then he bowed in a courtly fashion. “And have yourselves a good day.”

  Celia and I watched as they got into the cruiser. “Do you need to visit your branch?” she asked when the vehicle pulled onto the road.

  “I’ll be there in the morning. But I’d like to check out the Dominion Hotel and the car rental place. Do we have time?”

  She glanced at her watch. “You go to the hotel and I’ll try the rental shop. Then we should head back. We don’t want to be on the lakes in the dark.”