With her mucking about, Gus had accidentally turned on the furnace. The marijuana that had been in the kitchen had been moved to the cellar for the ceilidh, and when the furnace kicked in, the sweet smell of pot wafted up through the vents. There were only a few in the Hall who knew what it was; they looked at each other wisely, taking in deep breaths.
The juice and the scent of marijuana combined to get the Hall hopping as it had never hopped before. The band, a group of farmers and fishermen from up West, had knocked back a lot of juice and chased it down with more fuel from the mickeys tucked in their back pockets. They’d taken off, and so had their music, rocking the Hall like never before. Instead of the usual staid, shuffling two-step, the villagers were swinging and twisting and leaping up in the air. Chester Gallant had taught a few other old-timers his version of the Monkey, and Murdo and April were laughing and doing the Hitchhiker.
April’s husband Ron was not laughing. Leaving Moira at one end of the room, he grabbed hold of April and told her to go home. Without him. He wanted to finish up with Moira. For once, April stood up to him and refused to leave. He went back to Moira, whose sour look turned into a smile at his return.
Gladys Fraser continued to sit on a chair below the stage, drunk and weeping for her lost love, Jim. When Hy came out of the kitchen, she was stunned to see the hard old bitch so vulnerable, and immediately crossed over to comfort her.
Jamieson was looking maudlin, too. She wasn’t drinking – not even what everyone thought of as juice. But the emotion in the room had opened the door inside that she had kept firmly shut for years – still ajar from the night of her sister’s wedding, when she had deliberately drowned her sorrows at the sight of Adam Buote, the last person she had expected to see. Muscle-bound – body and head, she’d thought with contempt. He’d come over and asked her to dance. She’d been giddy enough to accept, and she’d whirled around in his arms in a dream of what had once been and might be again. The dance ended. He bowed his head in a curt nod – and then ignored her for the rest of the night.
That had been humiliating. The one man she’d loved. The man who’d rejected her – twice. She should have known better than to open her heart to him. It had slammed shut when he dumped her. Now, she would have to put a lock on it.
Hy tried to comfort Gladys, but it was no use. She might as well not have been there at all, given how much attention Gladys paid to her soft words. Too soft, thought Hy. You’d have to hit Gladys with a truck for her to realize you were sympathizing with her.
Hy took another sip from her cup, went over to nuzzle Ian, and they began to dance again. Suki was doing indecent things with Junior Johnson by the coat rack. They hadn’t made it to the door yet. Hy and Ian floated around in a pleasant physical and mental haze, out of step with the vibrant rhythm rocking the room. Ian was thinking he should take her home soon. His home.
“It’s too late to go now.”
“Mmmmm,” Nathan murmured.
He and Lili had every intention of attending the ceilidh, but they went upstairs for a nap first. Now they couldn’t get out of bed.
She was stroking his chest with her fingers, and planting little kisses on his cheek.
“You’re doing it again,” he said.
“What?”
“Mind over muscle.”
“Heart over muscle.”
“Whatever.” He rolled over and enfolded her in his arms.
There would be no ceilidh for them.
Later, Lili lay awake, unable to sleep, a thought nagging at her.
“How’s that feel?”
Hy was lying, spread out on Ian’s floor, luxuriating in the warmth of the wood stove. He was sitting in the collapsing armchair. They were sipping brandy. They had been for about an hour. Hy had told him about Alyssa, Leone, and the ring – and about Alyssa reporting it missing. Was one – or both of them – the killer?
“It can’t be Big Ed.” Hy told Ian about her visit to the dome. “He’s falling apart. He isn’t lucid.”
“But you said yesterday he strode the cape as usual.”
“Yes.”
“That was after the murder.”
“Yes, I know, but – “
“He could be faking it.”
“I suppose…”
“What about Suki?”
Ian groaned. “Not that again, although…” He stopped himself.
“Although what?”
“Never mind.”
“Iaaaaan.” She drew out the word in a way that always got Jasmine going. Soon they were both chanting his name in that irritating way. Ian was forced to cave in.
“Okay, I give up.” Those were the signal words Hy had taught Jasmine to respond to. They both shut up.
“It’s just that…nothing really…”
“There’s no nothing about Suki.”
“Well she made me a chowder…”
Hy sat up. “No…not…?”
“Yes. With mussels.”
“Did she know?”
“Yes. Once…”
“Once upon a time. There goes the fairytale.”
“Well, she would hardly try to kill me, would she. I’m…” Again he stopped.
“Her alibi?”
“I guess so.”
“Odd coincidence.”
They didn’t get any further pursuing Suki than they had with any of the other potential suspects. Their discussion went around in circles. They tossed around names, mostly Alyssa and Leone, but couldn’t decide on a killer.
“And then there’s why. What motive?”
Ian shrugged. He was interested, but at the moment, wishing he could recreate the moment on the dance floor, that she might stay with him the night, that they might…
He polished off his brandy. Perhaps if he offered her another, sat down on the floor beside her…
He wasn’t hopeful.
He poured them each another drink and slipped onto the floor. He took courage and twisted one of her red curls around his finger.
She smiled, stretched, and sidled closer to him.
He didn’t know what to do next.
Neither did she.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next day was dead calm. A warm air mass shrouded Red Island, and the combination of the cold water and the warm air brought on a fog – blue grey and rolling in off the Gulf, over the tips of the waves, sea and sky like liquid smoke.
It settled in.
“RCMP are advising motorists to stay off the roads. Visibility is near zero. This unprecedented fog following on the September Gale has been wreaking havoc on island businesses and may severely affect the potato crop…”
Gus was nodding her head at the radio, and rocking her chair by the stove in harmony.
“You can’t see as far ahead as your nose,” she said, trying to warn Abel from going out. The back door slammed shut.
The fog made it hard to breathe – heavy, dense, intruding its way into the lungs. Hy had to fight not to panic. She felt as if she were suffocating.
Ian was suffocating, too, coming out of sleep, his face covered, covered with what? Hair. It was in his mouth, his eyes. She was on top of him, waking him. It should have been a dream come true, but it wasn’t anymore.
She had come in last night just as he was about to put his arm around Hy. Suki. Sulky and dissatisfied. Junior Johnson had been a bust. He’d driven her to his house, one hand on the steering wheel and one on her knee. When she’d put her head in his lap, he had begun to weave all over the road. She’d come up laughing, gasping for air. He’d alternated between trying to get his hand up her skirt and taking hauls on his mickey. That was the problem. The mickey. He’d been pouring it into the juice at the Hall and was twice as pissed as he would have been otherwise. They had tumbled into his house – shack, he called it, and it was. Suki h
ad sobered up instantly when she saw the inside. She should have known from the outside. A small bungalow, fully fifty years old and showing its age, paint peeling and siding falling off, no gutters. Car and motorcycle parts littered the driveway in front of a garage with a roof that sank in the middle.
The inside was littered with rum and beer bottles – covering every surface, including the floor. Junior had led her to a brown couch, its fabric worn and riddled with cigarette burns. It had smelled of nicotine and beer. Junior had burped, a big, smelly alcoholic burp, right in her face – as he wrapped his arms around her. Then another burp, and his face screwed up and Suki had thought he was going to vomit on her. She’d pushed away from him and jumped up, just as fluid projectile came out of his mouth, all over the couch. He’d groaned and slumped into it and begun to snore. She’d left the house, and though she had seen him leave the keys in his truck – all islanders did – she hadn’t used it to drive back to Ian’s. She didn’t want to see Junior again. She’d walked.
Suki had struggled down the road, shivering in her flimsy dress and stumbling in her heels. She’d taken them off and plodded through the wet, cold grass up to her ankles, her dress clinging to her, wet through. There had been no chance of a lift. The few cars had been going the other way. As she’d approached the Hall, she had seen some stragglers still dancing inside. One of them was Moira, with Ron Dewey, holding each other up and hardly moving, just shifting their weight from one foot to another.
Suki had smiled.
She’d frowned when she had seen Hy and Ian lolling on the floor of his living room.
“Cosy, aren’t we?” she’d said. It was well after midnight.
“Squawk. It’s her!” Suki had pulled Jasmine’s cover over her cage to silence her, then plopped herself down on the couch. She’d dropped her shoes, brought her legs up onto the couch, and stretched out with a big yawn.
“You youngsters been having fun while Suki was out?” She’d smiled, but her eyes did not. Hy, who’d been reclining against the couch, sat up.
“Just chatting.” She’d reached for her sweater and pulled it on. “I better get going.”
Ian had seen her to the door. He’d nearly planted a kiss on her forehead. She’d almost felt it.
“Ian, honey, bring me a towel.” Suki, shaking her hair, rubbing it dry with her hands.
Ian pulled back. Hy turned and left.
Now morning had come and Suki was clinging to him and he couldn’t shake her off. He struggled to sit up.
“What’s wrong, lover?” Her tone was mocking. “Can’t get it up?”
“Can’t get up.” He pushed her to the side. He could understand why Lance Lord might not have been able to satisfy her, her incessant demands.
“Come to Suki, sugar.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. He shook her off. Actually shook her off. His dream woman. The love of his life. All he wanted now was to be rid of her, but he seemed to be stuck with her.
She pouted, and got out of bed. She flounced ahead of him to the bathroom. He went downstairs, and uncovered Jasmine.
“Silly bugger,” the bird shrieked, piercing his ears. She did that whenever there were wine bottles or brandy glasses on the coffee table.
But Ian wasn’t nursing a hangover. He was nursing regret. About Suki. About Hy. Would he ever get it straight? He made coffee. Cup in hand, he looked outside. He couldn’t look outside. There was nothing to see. Nothing but fog. He, with the best view in The Shores, could see the best of – nothing.
A shroud of fog. Red Island in funeral garb.
Looking at the thick, grey mist, he felt alone. Not just alone – lonely. He had to make contact. Not with Suki upstairs.
He hit number one on his speed dial. Hy.
The entire village had a hangover.
Moira Toombs had never been drunk in her life until last night, and had woken up with Ron Dewey beside her. It was a dream. A nightmare. So real she could smell the alcohol on his breath, then realized, with shock, that it was her own breath.
She’d realized, too, what a close call she’d had and knew now why they called it the demon rum. Her father had been what Gus called “death to drink,” a rock solid teetotaler. They’d never had a drop in the house. She shouldn’t blame herself. There had been something, something different in that juice. It had awakened feelings in her she’d never experienced before – not for Ian, but for that disgusting creature.
Had he been here in her bed? She couldn’t shake the feeling that he had. Had she had what they call a blackout? Had he been and gone and done with her what he’d been doing to that blonde tart in Winterside?
And what about Madeline? What had she seen or heard? Moira got up and went to her sister’s room. She opened the door, but Madeline wasn’t there. The bed had not been slept in.
She tore down the stairs, pasty complexion flushed with anger and fear. Moira might think her sister Madeline was a useless mouse, but in those few moments she realized how tightly she was woven into the fabric of her life. The only one in the world who belonged to her.
Madeline had been drinking the juice, too, and had never got further than the living room couch, where Moira found her sleeping with her thumb in her mouth. Moira was so relieved, her first instinct was to shake her awake. Then she softened, and let her lie there. It was the only tenderness she’d shown her young sister in years – and Madeline would never know.
Moira went to the bathroom to tighten up her hair, the same way she’d been wearing it for twenty years. She lacquered it with several coats of hairspray, as if that would erase last night.
Jamieson hadn’t slept all night. She’d fallen asleep briefly, just before dawn, then woke, her head throbbing with the migraine that had been forming for two days. She groaned and rolled over in the cot, pulling the blankets above her head. It took minutes only for Murdo’s loud snoring to transform from an annoyance to a rhythmical route to sleep.
Hy was up and feeling fine. She’d had only a bit of juice, and a couple of brandies at Ian’s. Ian. It had been nice last night at the Hall – and after – but just as well nothing more had happened. It would have been awkward.
She pulled on her clothes, stuffed a muffin in her mouth, and daring the fog in her truck, headed to the dome. She wanted to meet Big Ed properly and decide what he was – or was not – capable of. She also wanted to know why that ring was so important to Leone. She was vibrating with excitement and fear, wishing Ian were with her.
Behind her, the phone rang in an empty house.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ed was not in good shape this morning as Leone massaged his stumps of legs. He didn’t know how long it could go on. What would happen if the world knew that Ed had suffered a relapse? It could mean the collapse of his empire. Would anyone believe in Mind Over Muscle anymore if they found out that Ed had lost it, his grip on reality? It was all up to Leone now, and he had begun to think of Ed’s business as his own. And Alyssa. Alyssa, too. How long could he prop Ed up? Did he want to anymore?
Leone wasn’t sure Ed could go walking on the cape today. Especially not in this fog. He might go over the edge.
The idea flashed through his mind. He might go over. If he did go over –
he shook the thought from his head. Ed was Leone’s saviour as much as Leone was Ed’s. But into that selfless loyalty, selfishness had begun to intrude. Ed was his means to his end. Alyssa. He would never convince her himself. But with Ed…
There was a knock at the door. Leone covered Big Ed with a blanket, peeked out a porthole, not meaning to answer, and saw through the fog that it was her.
A glint in his eyes, he went to the door.
“Alyssa?” Ed called out, pitiful, plaintively, and it was like a knife through Leone’s heart. Ed. Lord. Lord, too, had loved and wanted her. And so did he. He was devoted to Ed, but in love, helplessly, with Alyssa.
“Alyssa?” Ed’s tone was hopeful.
“No, no. Nobody.”
Nobody. Hy frowned as Leone opened the door. She’d show him nobody.
He didn’t want to let her in, held the door open only so far.
“Have you brought my ring?”
“Yes,” she lied, “but please let me in out of the fog.” She was as damp as if it had been raining. Scotch mist, she’d heard it called. Only this was thicker. Porridge.
He opened the door so that she could edge in. He held out his hand for the ring. Hy could see Big Ed lying on the table in the back of the big round room.
“Actually, I don’t have it. Jamieson has it. She’ll be wanting to question you about it, I’m sure.”
He turned to look at Ed. Ed was preoccupied with a fly that was crawling across the table.
“She will think I killed Lord,” Leone whispered between tightly clenched teeth.
“Did you?” She spoke up loudly.
He put his forefinger to his mouth.
“No, of course not,” he hissed. Did it sound like the truth or a lie? Could he say one thing to her, and another to police? How long could he hold out before the inevitable? Not long, he knew, but it was no business of this one. He still didn’t regret his promise to Alyssa. He would fulfill it. In time. There must be certain guarantees. For Ed.
“Why do you say of course not?” Hy was whispering now, too. She would get more with co-operation than antagonizing him, although he didn’t seem antagonized so much as distressed. Genuinely distressed?
“Never mind. You wouldn’t believe me.”
“You don’t have to make me believe you. You have to convince Jamieson. She’ll want to know why the ring was on the shore – beside his body.”
“Yes.” He frowned. “Yes.”
“Why was it?”
“That I can’t tell you.”
“How did you get it? When did you…?”
Mind Over Mussels Page 22
