The interview burbled along until Spence snapped his notebook shut. He ran his eyes around the room.
“I was in this house two years ago, before the accident.”
“What accident?”
“Cletus’s accident.”
“Oh, his suicide.”
“Suicide? Is that the line they fed you?” A smile played around his lips. “Believe me, Cletus did not want to die. He choked to death on a pen.”
She wrinkled her forehead. Was he messing with her?
Spence was visibly amused by her bewilderment.
“Bet you’d never thought of that, eh? But hundreds of people suffocate because they suck on a pen and accidentally swallow a piece of it. It’s mainly former smokers who need something in their mouths. That was the story with poor Cletus.”
Now she recalled something she’d read on the Internet about how, statistically, pens are more dangerous than shark attacks.
Spence’s gaze drifted over to Cletus’s bedroom door.
“Of course nobody told you what really happened. Makes sense. You know why? Because it happened while he was watching hard-core porn on his computer.”
Lori gasped.
Spence wallowed in the effect of his revelation.
“His wife probably didn’t share his . . . preferences. Maybe that’s why she took off.”
Lori broke a piece off one of the hard cookies. “Any sign of her?”
“Nah. Many folks just want to vanish and begin a new life. I can empathize with them. Away from the crazy scrutiny of a tiny outport. Who can blame them?”
He pushed back his chair.
“By the way, she was Jacinta Parsons’s friend. You heard about that case?”
Lori played dumb, and Spence relished staging another scene.
“Jacinta was fourteen years old and disappeared while berry picking near her home. She went missing for half a year . . . maybe eight months. Then they found her body in a grave with all kinds of burial objects, like in ancient graves. So then they suspected people working around the local excavations—archaeologists and the volunteer helpers. The police interrogated them all several times. But her killer hasn’t been found to this very day.”
He got to his feet.
“Can I take your picture outside? My camera’s in the car.”
Lori nodded. She put on her jacket and beret and followed him out. The role reversal felt funny to her, but she smiled at the camera, glad his visit was over. Now she just wanted to get in bed and close her eyes.
Then the reporter turned around one more time.
“Was that Noah Whalen on the snowmobile? Best not to tell him we talked about Jacinta Parsons. They were close back then—it was an awful time for him.”
CHAPTER 10
Aurelia Peyton, 45, librarian
I knew who she was right away. Besides, no strangers ever come to the school library. Vera told me about her—Vera filled in for me for a month when I went to visit my daughter in Alberta, in Fort McMurray. Her husband’s a truck mechanic in the tar sands. Anyway, I found out from Vera she was a photographer. She’s renting Selina Gould’s house, where they found Cletus. ’Course, none of us would want to live there after all that’s happened in the place. But maybe it doesn’t bother her. I mean, not everyone’s so sensitive to things like that.
No strangers come here in winter. But even if Vera hadn’t told me anything—I mean, she doesn’t look like one of us. She wore this flat cap pulled down at an angle over her forehead. Yellow, not like the tuques we wear here. And there were rhinestones sewn on the front. And she wore a scarf around her neck that looked like fur, but when I saw it up close, it was wool that shone like fur. And she had silver rings hanging from her ears—hard to describe.
I know this might not interest you: she came here the first two times because of our computer. She told me who she was and why she was here. She noticed I was working on a rug—we call it rug hooking—something I always do in the library. There’s never much going on. She was amazed I didn’t knot the wool but simply pulled it through. She took pictures of me too. That’s really a hoot: me, a photographer’s model! I had to laugh when I told my husband about it. I should have put on something more stylish. But she really is very nice.
The third time she came, she made a beeline for me without taking her shoes off at the door—a sign says to do it but strangers never seem to see it. So I didn’t say anything. She asked about the Isle of Demons, so I went to find her a book on it. I said something like, “Crazy story, eh? Just abandoning people on an island. How are they supposed to survive?”
“You mean it’s really true?” she asked me.
Now, somebody wrote that the Isle of Demons was near Port Wilkie, but that can’t be, because the island there is much too near the coast—you can get to Port Wilkie by raft. The Isle of Demons has got to be farther out to sea or the story doesn’t make sense. It’s gotta be Great Sacred Island, and I told her that straightaway.
Then we did find a book, wait . . . where’d I leave it? Ah, here’s the one. It’s the history of Marguerite de la Rocque de Roberval. I know I’m not saying it right. French is not my strong suit. Whatever. Actually, she wasn’t a real princess, just from the nobility. An orphan. Her uncle and guardian was Jean-François de la Rocque de Roberval.
It says in the back that the Robervals were probably Huguenots. Now, I know a thing or two about French Huguenots because I’m descended from them, believe it or not. The king of France back then wanted to make Newfoundland and Canada his colonies, you see.
Did you know that the French settled this part of the coast in the sixteenth century? Not many folks do. We still have a lot of French names around here, Saint Lunaire, for instance. And Quirpon. L’Anse aux Meadows—you’re right.
Look, it’s in here: In 1541 King François of France appointed Roberval as his representative in Canada so he could colonize New France. I’ll read it to you:
Roberval’s three ships were late in leaving La Rochelle in France, on April 16, 1542. Marguerite was on a ship with Roberval and two hundred convicts the French king had specially pardoned so they could work on this expedition. The ships arrived in St. John’s on June 8, 1542, and stayed for several weeks.
Things somehow went wrong after that. At any rate, Roberval headed north through the Strait of Belle Isle into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. It says here that, somewhere en route, Roberval marooned his ward Marguerite, her lover, and her maidservant on an island.
The photographer seemed desperate to know why. But nobody knows, exactly. All it says here is:
Roberval was known to be a spendthrift and a cruel man, but there is no known explanation for his marooning Marguerite and two other persons on an inhospitable island in an unforgiving climate.
Marguerite lived on the island for at least twenty-seven months—more than two years—before being rescued by a Breton fishing ship in the fall of 1544. After returning to France, she tutored young girls. Roberval came back to France and was appointed minister of mines by the king. He was allegedly murdered in Paris in 1560.
Excuse me, but sometimes I go on and on about these things. It’s not every day that somebody’s interested in this sort of local history. In any case, there’s one more detail I should mention. Marguerite’s lover is supposed to have been a soldier from the ship. It’s said she was carrying his child and that the soldier, the maid, and the baby died on the island. But nothing is for certain; there are no historical documents.
Lori—the photographer, that is—seemed amazed that at least part of the story was true. And she said, “I must have a look at this island someday.” Her very words.
I didn’t tell her the Isle of Demons is haunted. She’d probably have laughed me out of court if I did. I expect she wouldn’t have rented Cletus’s place if she believed in things like that!
Did I loan her the book? Yes, I did. And I gave her a good piece of advice along with it.
“Never go out to sea with just one other pers
on,” I said. “Always have three or four in the boat. That’s safer.”
I don’t have any idea why I told her that. It was just a spur-of-the-moment thing. Surprised her, I could tell.
But you see today how right I was, eh?
CHAPTER 11
The Corolla’s headlights sliced through the pitch-black night. Lori could only make out blurry shapes in the dark. No street lamps, no lights in the houses, no posts with reflectors. Just a dreadful blackness; the snow banks on the shoulder were all that the headlights picked up. It was never this dark in Vancouver. Lori thought back on one night in the wilderness when she’d gone out to photograph a canoe by moonlight for an ad—a friend had talked her into it—and how she’d been astounded at how bright the moon could be.
She’d have given her right arm for that moonlight now, when she couldn’t even see the sky through the windshield. The road had been plowed, and a high wall of snow lined both sides, making Lori feel she was in a tunnel. She should have gone to the pub with someone else instead of just getting directions. She’d asked Patience twice, just to be sure, but the place was obviously harder to find than her neighbor imagined.
In Vancouver, she often drove alone at night. But this inhospitable winter darkness grew scarier and scarier. According to Patience, she ought to have reached the pub long ago. She’d only come across one oncoming car on her way out of Stormy Cove. Tonight was the big darts tournament between Stormy Cove and Crockett Harbour, a major winter event, Patience had said, so there should have been plenty of vehicles on the road.
She braked carefully to a stop and turned on the interior light. Patience’s sketch showed two forks on the way out of town. Had she somehow taken the wrong road?
She decided to turn around and go back the way she’d come. The lane was narrow, but she didn’t have much choice. The maneuver went well at first, but then the rear tires didn’t catch. She tried again. Nothing. She was stuck. The wheels spun, sunk into the snow, and she couldn’t go backward or forward. An icy fear seized her. She needed help.
She automatically reached for her cell phone. No reception.
Feverishly, she weighed her options. Walking back was out of the question. All she could do was wait in the car until another car appeared, hopefully before the gas ran out—and the heater stopped. She didn’t even have an emergency kit—no candles, toilet paper, matches, no warm blanket or food. And her car was dangerously blocking the road as well.
She felt more ashamed than panicky. Panic might have come later, but after a few minutes, headlights appeared in the distance. Lori almost burst into tears. A truck. It stopped and two people emerged. She first saw Patience’s worried face, then Ches coming up close behind her.
Lori rolled down the window.
“My wheels—” she started to say, but Patience interrupted her.
“You’re stuck in the snow!”
Ches surveyed the situation without a word. Lori got out.
“I was trying to turn around because . . .”
“You see,” Ches said to Patience, “that’s what happens when you let somebody who doesn’t know the place simply take off alone.”
Patience gave Lori an apologetic smile.
“He bawled me out for not going with you. Wasn’t until afterward I realized how easy it’d be to take the wrong road.” She wore a look of deep contrition.
“I’ll get you out,” Ches assured her, running to his truck for some pieces of carpet. He shoved them under the wheels and got into Lori’s car. The wheels found traction, moving the car a few inches. Ches adjusted the pieces and repeated the procedure. Five minutes later, Lori’s car was free and pointed in the right direction. She started to thank him profusely, but Ches waved her off.
“My fool wife should have put her mind to it.”
Patience shook her head. “He’s right. I should have known better. We’ll show you the way to the Hardy Sailor.”
Ches backed up until he found a spot to turn his truck around safely. Lori followed in the Corolla, but her relief gave way to a new worry: Would Patience still want to be her friend after her husband had raked her over the coals in front of a strange woman? They were neighbors, and Lori had hoped Patience would introduce her to other women in Stormy Cove. She had to find a way to smooth things over.
Ches made an unexpected right turn and another one five minutes later. It really was a very different direction from the one in Patience’s map. She’d best not mention that to Ches, or he’d chew his wife out some more.
Lori saw a brightly lit building in the distance. A few minutes later, Ches parked the truck in front of a blue, white, and yellow sign: “The Hardy Sailor Lounge.” Even before she opened the car door, Lori heard loud, hammering music. She grabbed her photo bag and stuffed the map inside. Patience and Ches were waiting for her at the entrance. She followed them into a large hall, and a tsunami of laughter, shouts, screams, amplified music, stamping, and clapping surged toward her. As she froze for a moment, blinded, the path that Ches and Patience had cleared for her through the melee closed up, and she lost them. She could scarcely believe her eyes. Where had all these people come from? The coastal villages were so tiny. Patience reappeared and pulled her through the crowd to the bar. Ches already had some bills out.
“What’re you drinking?” he shouted.
Lori reacted fast.
“This round’s on me,” she said to the woman behind the bar. “I’ll have a light beer.”
The barmaid stopped in her tracks.
“Huh?”
“The lightest beer you have.”
“What does she want?” the barmaid asked Ches.
“Give her a Moosehead Light,” a voice behind her piped up.
Lori turned around with surprise. Mavis, the saleslady from the store, raised her own bottle up high, looking like the Statue of Liberty.
The barmaid took Ches’s money and plunked down a skinny bottle with a moose head on it. Apparently, Lori’s words were ineffective here. She toasted Patience and Ches and discovered that she liked the brew. Mavis had been swallowed up by the scrum.
“Where do you think I can find the owner?” she asked Patience. “I have to get his permission.” She pointed to her photography equipment.
“Vince, can she take pictures in here?” Ches shouted to a squat, jug-eared man standing at an old-fashioned cash register. The man came closer and gave her a friendly look.
“So, you’re the photographer from Vancouver. We thought you’d changed your mind. The girls have all made themselves extra pretty for your pictures. Girls young and old!” He laughed and others joined in.
“Now we’ll all be famous!” somebody yelled.
“Only the pretty ones, not an ugly sack of potatoes like you,” another man hollered.
Everybody screamed with glee.
Somebody tugged at Lori’s sleeve. She recognized the two girls from ice fishing. She was scarcely able to wave at Patience and Ches before the young ladies corralled her toward a roped-off area, where the dart game was starting. The teams were ready, and the music got turned down for the announcer to explain the rules. Lori had played darts a couple of times in her life and hadn’t done too badly. Tonight, however, she wanted to capture the tension and concentration on the players’ faces, and the wild cheering at a bull’s-eye.
She couldn’t see Noah anywhere, even though Patience had said he was one of the best players around. Why wouldn’t he come on a night like this? Did he not want his picture taken? Or did he have more important things to do?
She focused her camera on a woman who looked at least seventy. She leaned slightly forward, arm bent, her dart hand pointed like a bird’s beak, completely absorbed in the task at hand. Lori pressed the shutter release repeatedly. She soared with euphoria whenever she knew she’d caught the right moment.
“What’s that lady’s name?” she asked the girls.
“That’s Elsie Smith. She’s seventy-six and a great-grandmother, isn’t that incredible?”
The girl’s voice rang with pride.
Lori watched Elsie and her teammates exchange high fives. The interaction between the generations was touching.
As the evening wore on, both alcohol consumption and the noise level increased. Lori had finished her beer long ago but didn’t want another. As always, when she was out with people in the evening, she quickly reached a point where she couldn’t imagine anything nicer than climbing into bed with a good book. And as always, she felt a little bit guilty about not being a night owl. She couldn’t shake the idea that nighttime was more exciting than the rest of the day and that she was missing out.
She made a deal with herself to step outside for no more than five minutes for a breath of fresh air. Smokers lolled around in small groups in front of the entrance. She zipped up her jacket and put some space between herself and the clouds of nicotine. Back when she had resettled in Canada after leaving Germany, she’d surprised herself by taking up smoking, and again a year later by quitting cold turkey.
A shape emerged from the parked cars. She didn’t recognize Mavis until the illuminated signs shone on her face.
“Where’s our guardian angel?” the saleslady shouted at her. Mavis must have drunk more in the past few hours than one bottle of Moosehead Light. Her tongue had trouble getting around the words.
It suddenly crossed Lori’s mind that she hadn’t seen Patience or Ches for a while. But she figured Mavis wasn’t referring to them.
Against her better judgment, she said, “I hope I’ve got more than one guardian angel!”
“He comes and plays every time,” Mavis went on. “He must have gotten held up.”
Her jacket was open despite the cold, and her plunging neckline was eye-catching. Lori resisted the temptation to cover the woman’s bare skin with any warm material she could find.
“So Mr. Cape Lone Courier came to harass you?”
Stormy Cove Page 8
