“Jacinta had a summer job at the dig, didn’t she?”
“Yes, and she wasn’t the only one. We hired some fishermen, for example, because they’re strong and never get tired and aren’t afraid of hard work.”
“Didn’t they fish in summer?”
“Some days, if the wind was up, they couldn’t even leave shore. So they came and shoveled dirt for us.”
“Do you suspect it might have been one of them?”
“I’m not ruling anything out . . . because the cops never did. I remember they really grilled this one young fisherman because he used to drive Jacinta home a lot. But they couldn’t pin the murder on him. To say nothing of our guys.”
Lori felt her stomach cramping.
“Do you remember his name?”
“No, I’m afraid not. But he was one of those silent types—and boy, could he shovel.”
“You mean to say, he could have dug the grave?”
“No, no, for heaven’s sake. I just mean he was a good worker.” Weston paused. “You sound like a detective. Intending to crack this case after twenty years, Ms. Finning?”
Now it was her turn to protest.
“Oh, no! I’m just curious, that’s all. A photographer has to be interested in people. Comes with the job.”
“Yeah, I get it. I do that too—root around in the mud and maybe uncover something now and then.”
The remark was supposed to be funny, but Lori picked up on a bitter undertone in Weston’s voice. Before she could reply, he said, “I only hope our dig doesn’t run into any complications this time. Those villages will become a tourist attraction in a few years, and the locals can only profit from it.”
Lori instinctively understood what he was saying: Eyes on the future and don’t look back. Don’t dig up old tales or open old wounds. Don’t get the locals riled up; archaeologists depend on their good will.
She thought it ironic coming from a man whose job was bringing the past up to the surface.
An image came to mind: a sketch on the abstract that Weston had left her in Deer Lake.
“One more question,” she said. “The skeleton in the Indian grave was buried face down, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” he affirmed, “and it’s very uncommon. Bodies are normally put in a grave facing up. Or in the fetal position. Then the head’s turned to the side, as a rule.”
“And the Indians placed a heavy stone slab on top of the corpse. And the mound contained three hundred heavy rocks, as you said.”
“Yes. Why?”
“I’m asking you.”
“You mean what was the motive for these actions? Again, it’s dangerous to speculate. It might be they didn’t want the dead child’s furious spirit to escape.”
“And haunt them.” The words escaped her mouth.
Weston’s laugh was barely audible.
“I can see it’ll be fascinating to work with you. I’ll let you know when I’m coming up north. I have your number now.”
Lori said good-bye and hung up. She paced aimlessly between the kitchen and the study, back and forth. The conversation had triggered mixed feelings in her. Was Noah the fisherman who had driven Jacinta home? If so, then it should put her mind at ease, since the police had apparently raked him over the coals and come up with nothing. Anyway, it was only natural for him to take his girlfriend’s sister home. That way he had an excuse—if he needed one—to see Glowena.
Stormy Cove must have known about Noah’s interrogation. How did the villagers react? It couldn’t have been easy for Noah and his family.
She stopped in the kitchen and shook her head. It’s all speculation, Lloyd Weston would say, pure speculation. Maybe they’d never know the truth. She went to her study to pick out some pictures for Mona Blackwood.
Her joy over the phone line was short-lived. Lori was packing her suitcase just before noon, when the storm broke with alarming fury. Raging gusts of wind whirled the snow into the air, and gigantic drifts formed in no time. Within a couple hours, they buried her car, and she couldn’t make out any distant shapes outside. Just a white, milky, scary wall.
The wind howled and whined at a volume that drowned out all other sounds. She couldn’t believe how fast it happened. She didn’t dare risk a trip to Birch Tree Lodge now. And when she picked up the receiver, she was met with an icy silence. The line was dead.
The lights went out shortly thereafter.
She collected the candles she’d left in the living room and bathroom. Of the five, three were just little scented votives. There were emergency candles in the car, but they were now beyond reach. She started to shiver. Of course—the oil heating system ran on electricity! Why the hell hadn’t Cletus and Una installed a wood stove? Every home in Stormy Cove had one. Una probably thought wood was too old-fashioned.
Just as Lori realized how unpleasant her situation was, the door creaked open and then slammed shut.
“Lori! Are you there?”
She ran through the kitchen and found Noah standing on the landing in full snowmobile gear.
“Noah!” was all she could get out.
“You can’t stay here with no power. Pack what you need most and come stay at my place until it blows over.”
Caution outweighed her relief for a few seconds.
“Oh, I’m sure I can just go to Patience’s. Don’t trouble yourself on my account.”
“Patience isn’t home. Family’s all in Crockett Harbour at her mom’s. She couldn’t get back, road’s blocked. Kids have to stay the night in the school. Come on.”
She realized she had no choice. Her bag was already packed, so she quickly added some food.
“What’s that?” Noah asked.
“Food, just in case.”
“Leave it here, I’ve got enough. No room on the snowmobile.”
He handed her a helmet.
“Put this on in here.”
It dawned on her that she didn’t have a clue how long a Newfoundland storm might last or how dangerous it might be.
“Did I miss a storm warning?” she said, slipping her ski pants over her jeans.
“Weather here is fickle. Always has been. Don’t often see snowstorms like this in May anymore, but sometimes the weather just goes crazy.” He picked up her bag. “Gold bars in here?”
“No, just my laptop and photo bag.”
She didn’t want to leave them in an unlocked house.
“Just kidding,” he said as he opened the door. A gust of wind almost ripped it from his hand.
The snowmobile was already buried. Noah swept it off with his hands. On the ride over, Lori had to literally trust him blindly, because she couldn’t see a thing. It was like being in a centrifuge. She’d never before felt so at the mercy of raging nature. But she didn’t doubt for a minute that Noah would get through.
A few minutes later, as Lori stood on the first floor of his house, shaking too hard to push her helmet off her head, she felt a wave of gratitude wash over her.
It had only been a short ride, just a little taste of what could happen to anybody caught out in a storm here. Did she ever lead a sheltered life in Vancouver!
She fumbled clumsily at her helmet until Noah carefully lifted it off. She heard a loud drone and looked around to locate the source.
“The generator,” Noah explained. “I’ve always got power.”
Lori knew she’d have to get used to the noise, but for the moment, all she felt was relief that she lived in a village where nobody was denied help in an emergency.
Noah took her through the kitchen, where there was an indefinable spicy smell, and opened the door to an adjacent room.
“Here’s where you can sleep.”
Two massive old-fashioned dressing tables with mirrors occupied either side of the small space, their corners splintered. Green-and-red-flowered Turkish towels were stacked on the shelves. A tiny window didn’t let in much light. The metal frame bed reminded Lori of a hospital, as did the walls that were painted the same green a
s the ruffled comforter. Faded pictures of boats, icebergs, and lighthouses hung on the walls, just like in the living room, and a metal stovepipe in the corner punched through the ceiling.
She was grateful for the room’s cozy warmth; everything else was secondary.
Noah disconnected a laptop lying on a rough-hewn desk and took it into the kitchen. Lori dropped her bag beside the narrow bed and followed him, closing the bedroom door behind her to keep the kitchen smell out.
“Hungry? Like some moose meat? Got a roast in the oven.”
Lori wasn’t exactly keen on eating moose, but she was famished.
“I’ll give it a whirl,” she said hesitantly, not wanting to get his hopes up. She’d eaten blubber and muskrat on a photography trip in the Arctic. Moose couldn’t be any worse.
Noah put a big piece of meat and a roast potato on her plate and passed the margarine.
“For the potato.”
“Oh, right, everybody here uses margarine,” Lori said. “I couldn’t find butter in the store. How can you live without butter?”
“We grew up with margarine, never saw butter. Tea?”
She nodded. She watched, amazed, as he dumped four teaspoons of sugar into his tea. But she couldn’t detect an ounce of fat anywhere on his body.
“Just one for me, please,” she hastened to say.
He stopped in midair.
“You sure?”
She smiled.
“Yes, I’m for moderation in all things.”
“Then you’ve come to the wrong place,” he said as he sat down. “Nothing moderate here.”
He spread margarine and molasses on some white bread before dipping it into his tea.
“Why aren’t you eating? Need something?”
She looked down at her plate.
“Just vegetables. And a knife.”
Noah shook his head—his mouth was full—and took a knife out of a drawer. She cut into the chunk of meat and started to eat. The meat had a tangy flavor, as her mother would say, but it wasn’t unpalatable. Very lean, she thought.
Noah watched her, looking pleased. He cut the tender meat with his fork.
“Pardon me, but I don’t eat vegetables. Turnips, carrots . . . and onions, if anything.”
“No broccoli? Cauliflower? Zucchini? Beans?”
“Just canned white beans. And cabbage, of course. Hate cucumber, and tomatoes and watermelon make me puke.”
Lori couldn’t help shuddering a little. “No salad?”
“Rabbit food.”
“Where’s the variety in your meals, then?”
“Variety? Who needs it? In summer, I eat fish, fish, and fish. Cod, mackerel, salmon. Mainly cod. Could have it every day of the week. And shellfish: crabs, lobster, snails, squid, mussels. Isn’t that varied enough?”
She nodded.
“It’s definitely healthy.”
“Omega-3 oil.”
She laughed. The storm raged outside, its whistling and rattling blending with the generator’s drone. She felt she was in good hands.
Dessert was a bowl of cloudberry jam and condensed milk. The berries smelled like baked apples, and Newfoundlanders indeed called them bakeapples.
“Picked them myself last summer. About eight quarts.”
The lines in his tanned face were relaxed, and he occasionally hummed a bit as he ate. Lori wondered how long Noah had lived alone. Then she remembered the woman she saw coming out of his house a week ago.
She offered to do the dishes because she couldn’t resist the temptation to watch him surreptitiously as he dried them. He was just as meticulous as the first time. He, in turn, regarded her with amusement as she briefly rinsed every cup and every fork under the tap.
“Is there a sewage treatment plant here?”
He shook his head.
“Then where does the sewage go? Surely not . . . ?” She pointed to the bay.
“Yup. Where else? Same in all the places around here. Can’t have a treatment plant for eighty people.”
She scrubbed the plates until they shone. Maybe it was unfair to judge. After all, she swam at the beaches in Vancouver, within sight of huge oil tankers anchored out in the Pacific waiting to be unloaded in the port. God knows what all they dumped in the ocean. People the world over used the ocean as a garbage dump, but here she could envisage more graphically how dirty dishwater went directly into Stormy Cove Bay.
She was warming up. Noah wore a loose shirt that was better suited for the heat level in the house than her sweater. On the spur of the moment, she took it off and smoothed out her T-shirt. She felt his eyes run over her body before he lowered his gaze.
“It’s warmer than a summer’s day in Vancouver,” she quipped.
Noah nodded. “You can’t regulate a wood stove like electric heating. But I’d never ditch my wood stove. Lots of folks did, like Cletus, when we didn’t have all these power outages. And look what’s happened.”
Lori felt a growing but pleasant fatigue and couldn’t suppress a yawn.
“I think I’ll take a nap if you don’t mind. I love my beauty sleep.”
He checked to see if she was serious before saying, “Go ahead, I just hope it won’t make you even more beautiful.”
As she was lying down, she heard the front door open and close and a man’s voice shout for Noah. She couldn’t catch every word, but she heard the visitor say, “I just wanted to make sure she found a good place to stay. People from Vancouver haven’t the foggiest about blizzards.”
Now the voices came from the kitchen.
“Where is she? You got her hidden away?”
“Lying down, she’s tired.”
“Oho! Already got her into the bedroom. Well, there’s another reason a snowstorm can be a good thing.”
“Riiight. Maybe you should be home with your woman. She can’t run away tonight if you want her to give you something.”
During the ensuing laughter, Lori got out her earplugs from her bag to block out the din of the generator and the storm.
She managed to doze off for a while and felt refreshed when she sat up in bed. She heard the noisy generator—power must still be out—and the rampaging storm. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she mused that it must be possible somehow to record this force of nature. She unpacked her camera and opened the door. Noah was sitting at the table reading a fisheries magazine, a young woman pulling crabs out of a crate on the cover.
He looked at the camera in her hand.
“Never take a holiday from your job, eh?”
“You don’t either,” she retorted, pointing to the magazine. “I’d like to see if I can get some good shots through the window. Maybe from this angle over here.”
Storm outside, safety inside—she was trying to get them both in one shot. She settled into her work and, once she was confident she’d got something, transferred the pictures to her computer right away.
Noah stood in the doorway.
“May I see the results?”
She waved him in and took him through it picture by picture. He stood so close behind her chair that she could smell his aftershave and feel his body heat. She tried to concentrate and not notice the hand he was leaning on the desk beside her laptop.
Her heart skipped a beat when she saw what she’d been aiming for. The window with the old-fashioned curtains, the picture of a shipwreck on the wall, family photos below it, with happy faces and a painted duck decoy; outside were plumes of snow whirling up from snowdrifts, like white ghosts in an infernal dance. A blast of wind was just blowing a pile of snow off the neighbor’s buried car, revealing a headlight and a part of the windshield. An almost unreal moment—captured for all time. She quickly copied the image into a folder and turned to Noah, to see if he was impressed. His brow was furrowed.
“May I see them again?”
“Yeah, sure. Something wrong?”
He didn’t say a word, looked at picture after picture.
“I have to ask you to delete them all,” he
announced.
She looked up at him in surprise.
“Why?”
“Because the photographs on the table are personal. I don’t want them published.”
“But you can barely make out the faces, they’re—”
“Can you delete them?”
“Yes, of course, but tell me—”
“Then please do it right now.”
Reluctantly, she deleted one image after another, and he stood behind her until she finished. Then he went out and she heard him fussing around in the living room.
She sat there, perplexed. He’s within his rights, she thought. He has a right to his privacy, just like I do. As a photographer, I’ve always respected that.
But she couldn’t bring herself to delete the picture in that folder. Later, she told herself, later.
Noah reappeared.
“You can try it again now.”
She collected herself and nodded.
It was worth the effort. Her second set of shots was almost identical to the first. There were still photos on the little table. Men fishing, women berry picking. But two were missing.
CHAPTER 15
Winnie Whalen, 72, Noah’s mother
Am I what? Surprised? No, not one whit. But I’ll tell you what: he doesn’t have a damn thing to do with that girl.
People can say whatever they want.
As for that photographer—don’t trust her far as I can throw her.
People just talk because Noah’s different. Always was.
Different from the rest, who the hell knows why. Gave me trouble even when he was born. Came out feetfirst, and I was a week in bed. Hard for a woman to even imagine, a week in bed. With eight brats. Noah’s third youngest.
Another kid came almost every year. More and more people in a house with no power. We got water from the well, did it ’til the youngest was ten. Hated doing laundry. Crap from thirteen people. No washer, just a washboard. Lord, how my hands hurt. And keeping an eye on the stove so’s it didn’t go out. Things never stopped in our house. And then away to the wharf to salt and dry fish.
Stormy Cove Page 12
