by Anne Emery
“Preceded him to Cape Breton, according to the video,” Brennan put in.
Maura ignored him and continued her attack. “— fucks up the investigation into the disappearance of my beloved twelve-year-old cousin. Finally, at long last, after a long, excruciating month, a witness comes forward with information about the very car Bonnie was last seen in, the very person, presumably, who abducted her. And what happens? This flake is so hell-bent on being with you that she uses this all-important development as a means to an end. She takes the info herself, but none of the important bits because she doesn’t care about that. She wasn’t smart enough or concerned enough or aware enough of other people in the universe besides herself to think of that. She doesn’t care about a child who is missing and in danger, or worse. All this space cadet cares about is being with Monty.”
“I know, I know.”
“I’m sure the Mounties have tried to probe her brain — and I use the word loosely — to find out who was nearby when the conversation took place. Because whoever killed Randy Gouthro may well have been the same guy who took Bonnie, or was somehow in on it, but that crucial lead, too, lies dead at the feet of the bimbo who loved not wisely, but too well.”
I didn’t take much solace from the fact that Andy Campbell had looked almost as uncomfortable as I had felt, as he denied knowing Sabrina Fay-Waddams. What was she doing in Cape Breton three days before Bonnie disappeared, three weeks before my band — if I wasn’t being too presumptuous in thinking I was the object of her obsession, and the evidence suggested I was — was due to play the blues in Glace Bay? Had she been pursuing genuine research into the music of Nova Scotia? Had she heard or read something about the plan for me to present the cheque to the association? Were there several targets of her obsessions? Was Andy Campbell one of them?
In spite of the excruciating shame and embarrassment that the Randy Gouthro–Sabrina Fay-Waddams connection had for me, I felt honour bound to attend Gouthro’s funeral. Gouthro knew who I was, had tried to make a connection with me, had presumably thought I would pass his information along to the investigators while perhaps protecting Gouthro in the process. He was going to put his faith in me, and he never got the chance to meet me. Because of the machinations of — I sounded like a Hollywood jerk even saying this to myself and nobody else — the machinations of one of my “fans.”
I was glad I made the effort, because the crowd at Saint Margaret of Scotland church was pitifully small. Gouthro’s wife and two skinny, dazed-looking teenage sons were there, his mother, a handful of other relatives or friends, and the Mounties Pierre Maguire and Dougald MacDougald. Just before the funeral Mass was to begin, I was surprised when Kirsty and Robbie MacDonald slipped in beside me. Kirsty was Sharon’s younger sister, but they could have been twins, with the same dark auburn hair and hazel eyes. Robbie was big and darker in colouring, but the family resemblance was clear. They hadn’t been able to attend the potluck at Andy and Sharon’s, but I suspected that news of the fiasco would have reached them by now. They certainly knew of Gouthro’s involvement. “He tried to help,” Kirsty whispered to me, and I nodded in agreement. I was relieved to see no sign of Sabrina in the congregation. She was, at last, being discreet. Father Alphonse “Fonzie” MacLeod gave a very moving homily about Randy Gouthro’s troubled past, his essential goodness, his determination to get back on the right track, his love for his wife and sons, and his love of horses.
There was a little reception afterwards in the church hall, and the church ladies had done their usual yeoman service with tea and coffee, sandwiches — crustless, of course — and sweets. I went over to speak to Dougald and Pierre. I wasn’t crass enough to ask, at a funeral, whether they thought they had spotted the perp who couldn’t stay away — and I did not mean Ginny MacDonald — but I did ask whether there was anything new in the investigation.
Pierre answered, “The news, whatever it was, lies in the coffin with Randy Gouthro.”
As if I needed reminding. I drifted away from them.
Kirsty and Robbie came my way again. “We’ve all heard the story,” Robbie said. “Poor Randy Gouthro here with evidence, and somebody throwing a fuck into things.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“We heard about the girl at the bar,” Kirsty said.
I was relieved that there was no edge to her voice when she said it. She sounded almost sympathetic. But even so, I wanted to dig a hole and drop myself into it. Too bad there weren’t any bootleg pits close by. But I had no choice but to man up. “Yeah, it was someone who comes to hear my band. I barely know her, but she’s, well, a fan, and she’s the one who intercepted Gouthro the night he came to deliver his message to me.”
“Yeah, we heard it was some kind of groupie who fucked things up.”
“I had no idea the man had come to this Sabrina with information, Rob. If I’d known, I’d have moved heaven and earth to get to him and take down all the details.”
“I know you would, Monty. Nobody’s blaming you, God knows.” Except my wife. I didn’t say it.
Kirsty said, “Everybody understands that you didn’t know a thing about it till it was too late, Monty. But I have to ask you about this girl. Her name was Sabrina, right?”
“Sabrina Fay-Waddams.”
“Quite a mouthful.”
“True enough. And I can’t help myself; I have to say it again. I hardly know her.”
Kirsty looked puzzled. “What does she look like?”
I described her with the straight dark hair, the severely cut bangs.
Kirsty turned to Robbie. “That sounds like the one we saw at the Maritime Gaelic festival just before Bonnie disappeared.”
“Yeah, it does.”
“We saw a video of the festival, at the potluck,” I told them.
“Right. You were supposed to arrive with the big donation from your law firm.”
“Yes, I was supposed to present the cheque and give a little spiel at the opening ceremonies. But I had an emergency court application that day.”
“So you sent de wife in your place.”
“No complaints from her. She was coming anyway. She got a trip home to Cape Breton, got to attend the festival, and even made it into the spotlight to deliver a little speech and hand over the cheque.”
“Quare shit she was, though, when we asked her to sing!” Robbie told us. “Maura said, ‘I don’t want to bring the festival into disrepute,’ and she bolted from the stage.”
“She knows her limitations.”
“I’ll bet she can sing if she gives herself half a chance,” said Kirsty. “Her dad’s in the Men of the Deeps, after all.”
“I keep telling her that. Give it a try. But you know how shy and retiring she is. A little wallflower, really.”
That brought a laugh from the cousins of the strong personality to whom I was bound for life.
“But about Sabrina,” Kirsty said then, “what was she doing here at the festival?”
“Look no farther than the handsome devil in front of you, Kirsty,” said Rob. “She would have heard that the blue-eyed, blond-haired, silver-tongued rogue known to us as Monty was going to be making a presentation.”
“Thank you, Mr. MacDonald.”
“Any time you want your praises sung, Mr. Collins, I am at your service. But didn’t this one say she was writing a book? A musical history or something.”
“Musical gossip, more like,” said Kirsty, “if it’s the same girl I’m picturing. Kind of a Cleopatra look . . . the name was Sabrina, I remember that.”
I nodded. There was no doubt it was the same person.
“Yeah, well, the impression I got at the time was that she was more interested in digging up dirt than writing music theory.”
I didn’t really want to know, but I had to. “What do you mean, Kirsty?”
“Well . . .” She looked uncomfortable, embarrassed even. “She
didn’t try to interview us, even though we were all available to chat with, after our set. I mean, I’m not trying to sound like a glory hog, but if someone came to a music festival in Cape Breton and wanted to talk to the local musicians, you’d think Clan Donnie might be on her list. And we weren’t exactly being aloof from the crowd; we were hanging around having a tot of rum and even a little bit of shine with everybody else. But this one, Sabrina, was more interested in talking to . . .”
“To?” I prompted her.
“I don’t know whether you know Larry O’Donnell. He used to go out with Maura. Years ago, I mean, before she started going with you.”
“Sure, I know who you mean. He was an old boyfriend of hers.”
“Right, well, Sabrina somehow found out about him. I think somebody made a joke, something like, ‘Hey, Larry! Your old flame is up there handing out big bucks. You should have hung on to her.’ Sabrina may have overheard that or something like it. Whatever the case, she knew who he was and cornered him at the festival and started asking him about the family, about Maura. She started off about music, but then it got personal. Nosy questions. He made an excuse and got away from her. He saw me the next day and told me about it. When he described her, I remembered seeing her. And she sounds exactly like your fan.”
I nodded glumly. “That would be her.” I was repelled by the idea of this one creeping around looking for dirt on my wife. I felt like taking a shower.
“Bonnie was so sweet that day on the stage. She got up and played a tune on her fiddle and did a step dance at the same time. You know how she does. It was just some little reel, but she announced that the piece was called ‘Welcome Home, Maura with the Money,’ and she got Maura up on the stage again and gave her a big hug, and Maura said, ‘I love this wee lass!’ And everybody clapped and roared. It was great.” Kirsty turned towards Robbie and put her head against his shoulder. She said, “That was the last time Maura would have seen Bonnie.” Robbie put his arms around her and looked over her head at me. The look in his eyes was bleak. Bonnie disappeared three days later.
Normie
We were going to be leaving Cape Breton soon, early the next week. Before then, Mum wanted to visit an old friend of hers who lives in Sydney River. She and Daddy and Dominic were going to spend the night at the friend’s place. She has a big house, so she invited Father Burke, too. But I wanted to stay in Kinlochiel one more night to spend some more time with my great-grandmother. The thing about old people is you never know how long they’ll be around, so you want to see them as much as you can.
Anyway, Mum and them wanted to see Morag, too, so they all took a trip to Kinlochiel on Sunday before going back in the direction of Sydney River. I took Dominic outdoors to play. He loves planes, so that’s why I got him a toy plane with propellers for his birthday two weeks ago. It’s made of metal and is really sturdy so when he flies it by throwing it in the air, it doesn’t break apart when it lands. So we went outside to fly the plane and run around after it, and Dominic was having a great old time.
Father Burke came outdoors, and I knew he was coming out to have a smoke. But when he saw us, he ran up behind Dominic and grabbed him and lifted him way high in the air and ran with him. Father Burke is really tall, so Dominic must have felt he was flying up in the clouds. He was screeching with joy, then he began to make the sound of an airplane engine.
“Dominic,” he said, when they came back to earth, “did you know I have a brother who flies planes? He’s a pilot. You know when you look up at the sky and see a plane flying over?” Dominic nodded his head. “Well, you never know. That may be my brother Terry flying it.”
Dominic’s eyes were huge as he stared at Father Burke. “Is he up there now?”
“He could very well be. Someday we’ll all go visit Terry in New York and he’ll take you up in a jet. Doesn’t that sound like great craic for a young lad like yourself?”
“Great craic! Go now!”
“Ah, we can’t go yet. But we will.”
“Yeah!”
Then Dominic looked at the barn and started to run in there, so Father Burke and I followed him in. Dominic immediately dropped his plane and started to climb on one of the bikes. It was the one I always used, and it made me lonesome already for Cape Breton and this place on the Skye Road where I had spent so much of my holiday. Lonesome and sad because I had been useless and failed to find my cousin Bonnie. And that’s what I said to Father Burke. “We didn’t find her!”
“I know, darlin’. I wish we had her with us now. The Mounties will find out . . . will find her.”
Then I wanted to ask him what he really thought had happened to her. “Where do you think she is, Father?”
He tried not to look as if things were really bad. He looked as if he was trying to decide what to say. And that got me worried because grownups usually say something to cheer you up, something that won’t make you just give up and lie down and cry and cry forever. Anyway, he finally said, “I don’t think her dad or Andy did anything to her, sweetheart. I’m quite sure of that.”
“Do you think it could be someone else in the family? There are bad families, you know, Father. Like Jeff McCurdy’s. But I don’t think Jeff is evil.” I really didn’t. What was the word you were supposed to use for people like him? Unfortunate? Dis-something. “He is just disadvantaged.”
“You said a mouthful there, Normie. God be good to him.”
“Maybe it’s some crazy person who hangs around the Clan Donnie band, someone who wanted to steal one of the band members to keep or to make someone pay.”
“It could be something like that.”
I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it, and I think it was because I’m only small and he didn’t want me to hear how bad things can be in the world.
I heard somebody calling from the house. It was Mum. They were getting ready to leave for Sydney River. Then I saw Morag staring out an upstairs window. I couldn’t tell if she was staring at me in the doorway of the barn or at something else. And it reminded me of the night she was standing in her window talking to someone — or something! — out there in the dark. And there was a question I wanted to ask Father Burke. But I waited because Mum came out and grabbed Dominic off the bike and kissed me goodbye and gave me the phone number where she was going. She told Father Burke to have his smoke before he got into the car with the rest of them.
When Mum and Dominic went back into the house, Father Burke lighted up his cigarette and breathed in the smoke, and I blurted out my question. “Do you believe in ghosts, Father?” I felt stupid as soon as the words came out of my mouth.
But he surprised me with what he said. “I do.” That’s what he said! Then he went on, “Most ‘ghost stories’ aren’t true, of course. Most are the product of an overactive imagination, or somebody making things up. But we know as Catholics that there is a spirit as well as a body, don’t we?”
“Yes, Father.”
I must have sounded like a kid in school giving the right answers, because he kind of laughed but not in a mean way. And I laughed, too. “If that’s a lesson next year at Saint Bernadette’s, I’ll know the answer.”
“You will, ceart go leor.” I now know that means right enough.
But then he asked why I was asking, and I told him about Morag that night. “It was scary watching her at the window. She had two lumps of coal in her hand.”
“Coal?”
“From that basement, the bootlegger’s place . . .” Then I remembered that John Rory and I had snuck down there and not told anybody. But it was too late now to change my story. I had to confess. “Um, my cousin and I went down there.”
“Jaysus! You could have been hurt, or . . .”
“I know. We shouldn’t have gone in, but we couldn’t help it after hearing about the teddy bears’ picnic. We hoped to find a clue.” He didn’t say anything to that, so I continued, “And J— my
cousin picked up two lumps of coal. The bootlegger used coal in a little furnace-type-thing to heat the booze. And the bad guy would have touched the pieces because he had to move them out of place to set up the table. So anyway, my cousin took two pieces of coal out of there, and then we were at Morag’s and she obviously found them, because she had them in her hands when she was talking to the ghost.”
“She was talking to a ghost?”
“Well, that’s what it sounded like. She was telling it, the ghost, to go back where it came from, that it had no right to come through the veil between this world and, well, wherever the ghosts live now.” Remembering it now, I got shivers of cold all over again. “And when she caught me gawking at her, she said it is not natural for the dead to return to this world.”
Father Burke’s voice was really quiet when he answered. “Their substance does not belong in this world. They reside somewhere else, on the other side. But there are times, not often but sometimes, when they appear to us here.” He was looking past me; it seemed as if he was seeing a ghost himself. You’ve got to understand this about Father Burke: he drinks and smokes and likes music and sports, normal stuff like that. You would never think of him as the type to talk about weird or spooky things. Except if he was giving a sermon in church about holy or evil spirits. He listens to all kinds of foolish talk and just raises one of his eyebrows at it. He is the kind of guy that, if you snuck up behind him with a paper bag full of air, and slammed it between your hands and busted it and made a big noise like a bomb, he wouldn’t jump or even change the expression on his face. Now he was talking about ghosts. I wanted to know what was on his mind.
“Father, did you ever hear of anyone seeing a ghost and you believed the story?”
“I came to North America when I was ten years old. I was put on a ship in the middle of the night with my brothers and sister. I only had one sister then. My father had to leave the country in a hurry.”
“How come?”
Just as if I was a grownup, he said, “He got into trouble with the Irish Republican Army.”
