Stormy Cove

by Bernadette Calonego

  She didn’t get seasick; however, she was frozen stiff after several hours and longed for solid ground underfoot. She’d taken enough pictures of roe and nets and the ocean and fishermen in green rubber clothes. But the brothers worked tirelessly. She didn’t dare ask if they could maybe put her ashore in the early afternoon.

  Finally, when Noah was eating his apple, she asked with feigned indifference, “So, when is quitting time?”

  “We’re not paid by the hour,” he replied. “We try to get in as much as possible.”

  When at last they neared Stormy Cove harbor, surrounded by fluttering, screaming gulls, Lori heaved a sigh of relief that didn’t escape the men’s notice. They laughed.

  “Next time we won’t drag you out for such a long day,” Nate said. “But you’ve got to experience for once what it really means to fish.”

  “And that wasn’t a tough one,” Noah chimed in. “In summer we sometimes don’t get back until eleven.”

  “Can you still see in the dark?”

  “Oh, sure. We’ve got searchlights.”

  Her questions obviously amused the fishermen, whose spirits were already high due to a good haul. They estimated the day’s catch at around eight hundred pounds.

  When they moored, the buyer’s truck was ready to go and the driver was impatiently waiting for his load.

  “You want to sell her too?” he shouted, an eye on Lori as she climbed out of the boat onto the wooden planks.

  “You don’t have enough to buy me,” Lori shot back. “Where do you send the caviar anyway?”

  “To Europe. Mostly Germany.”

  “That far? Don’t Canadians like their native caviar?”

  The driver laughed.

  “Germans pay more, I guess. There’s a reason why lumpfish roe is called German caviar.” He grabbed a bucket and pushed it onto the back of the truck. “The guy who has the import company, he comes to Newfoundland now and then. Supposed to be a baron, or so I’ve heard. Posh people probably eat the stuff for breakfast.” He laughed again.

  A baron. Lori hesitated.

  “Does he stay at Birch Tree Lodge?”

  “No idea. Possible. It’s the only hotel for miles around.”

  Noah and Nate began to clean up the boat.

  Lori couldn’t get warm fast enough.

  She shouted them a good-bye and got into her car.

  Her most urgent need had a name: hot chocolate.

  When she got home, she didn’t even bother to check her messages on the computer or the telephone before going straight to bed. A wise decision.

  In her exhausted state, she wouldn’t have known how to deal with the surprise that awaited her.

  CHAPTER 24

  The next day, Lori cursed the fact that there were six time zones in Canada and that Vancouver was four and a half hours behind Newfoundland. She absolutely had to talk to her mother, but had to wait until noon before she could call, even though her mother wasn’t one to sleep in on the weekend.

  “I thought you’d call yesterday,” her mother said without standing on ceremony. “I didn’t even go to the movies.”

  Lisa Finning was a film buff, and Friday night was her sacrosanct film date that she only canceled in extreme emergencies. She usually went to the last show, around ten. But it wasn’t like her to lay a guilt trip on her daughter, even for missing this ritual pleasure; she hadn’t even complained that she wouldn’t be seeing Lori for almost a year. Her mother was of the opinion that every woman was responsible for her own happiness. She must have had some other reason for giving up her movie date—Lori knew that right away.

  “What? Are you feeling okay?”

  “No, no, there are riots in the inner city, and I am quite upset about it.”

  “Riots? Why? Not another hockey game?”

  “No, not this time. The provincial government cut the minimum wage down to eight dollars. It’s a real scandal; nobody can live on that. And at a time when the big corporations are paying less and less taxes.”

  “Since when do you have social justice in your soul, Mom? I hardly recognize you.”

  “Social justice—you don’t have to be dramatic, dear heart. It’s simply not right for so few to have a lot of money and so many to have so little. It’s not good for the economy because who’s going to buy the goods we produce? It isn’t good for society because the middle class is declining. And it isn’t good for democracy because it undermines stability.”

  Normally, her mother only got this exercised about mistreated dogs and cats. Usually, Lori got the impression she preferred not to talk about social ills at home because she had to deal with plenty of them at the office.

  Under normal circumstances, Lori would have sounded her mother out and tried to figure out what was going on with her, but today she let it be. She had something more urgent to discuss, having heard this message on the answering machine that morning: “My dear, I’ve found out something about the case we talked about, something to do with a person you know. Call me at home, sweetheart.”

  A person you know. Lori’s stomach shrank at once, like a wool sweater in hot water.

  “Mom, forgive me for changing the subject, but please tell me what you found out.”

  “Ah, yes. I might have known you’d be more interested in that than riots in Vancouver. I was able to have a brief conversation with the investigator in charge of Jacinta Parsons’s file. He rather covered his ass, I must say.”

  “Why did you say you were interested in the case?”

  “I told him my daughter was in the area where the murder occurred and I wanted to know if I should be concerned for her safety.”

  “What? You said that?”

  “No, my dear, I’m joking. I told him that I was writing a book about extraordinary murder cases, which is true, and asked whether he could give me any information on the Parsons case.”

  “But Mom, you’re writing a book about murders in British Columbia.”

  “He doesn’t have to know that! Do you want the info or don’t you?”

  “Of course. So?”

  “As I said, the guy wasn’t very cooperative. But he told me that the file was still open, that is, the case is still being investigated, though I had the impression not very actively.”

  “What about the person I know? Who is it?”

  “I’ll get to that, my dear. Let me finish. I told him the things found in the grave made the case especially interesting because they were supposed to have been copies of those found in an ancient Indian grave. Up to now, I’d only heard of one case like that, in France, since I researched the topic.”

  “You did?”

  “I needed to do some spadework, Lori; the little bit you told me wasn’t enough. In any case, he thawed out a touch when I gave him some details concerning the French case—I won’t bother you with them now—and we started to chat. But listen to this: The killer in France was arrested because of an item in the grave. She made a fatal mistake: she threw in a ring that could be identified.”

  “Was she copying a prehistoric grave as well?”

  “No, a medieval grave, and the ring looked exactly like a piece of medieval jewelry. You know young people’s tastes, and rings haven’t changed much in the course of modern history.”

  “I still don’t understand how the murderer was caught.”

  “The murderer was actually a woman, remember. She killed her romantic rival and then put her own ring into the grave. She thought investigators would conclude that somebody wanted to frame her and that it was impossible for her to be the perp because it wasn’t logical that she’d give herself away like that. It worked for three years. But she was wrong.”

  “Mom, this is too confusing. I haven’t the slightest idea where this is going.”

  “My point is, it’s the same thing with Jacinta. The investigator told me there was an object in Jacinta’s grave belonging to the lead archaeologist. But they assumed it had been stolen and planted in order to shift suspicion onto h
im.”

  “A personal object? A prehistoric item?”

  “No, his hunting license.”

  “What kind of license?”

  “A government gun permit, for hunting.”

  Lori was silent for a moment so she could process her mother’s report. Then she said, “And what about the person I know?”

  “I was talking about the archaeologist, naturally.”

  “Lloyd Weston . . . How do you know I know him?”

  “You told me you met him at the lodge, my dear.”

  Lori now recalled she’d e-mailed her mother about meeting him. She thought she’d be pleased that her daughter was meeting people who weren’t fishermen.

  Lori’s body relaxed. She felt hugely relieved. Her mother hadn’t turned up anything about Noah. Of course, the investigator might have held back information about him. And there was still that matter of the arrowhead under the snowmobile seat. On the other hand, wouldn’t somebody guilty of murder make such an important piece of evidence disappear? Burn it in a stove or toss it into the ocean?

  It seemed strange to her now that Weston hadn’t quizzed her more about the artifact. He’d been so quickly satisfied with the idea that she must have been mistaken. And now it had vanished from her house.

  “What else did you discover?”

  “Not much, because I would have had to officially request access to the files to get it. And then things get complicated.”

  “I’m amazed the investigator revealed the business about the hunting license in the grave. That’s really something only the killer could have known. Why disclose something like that?”

  “Oh, my dear, now you’re thinking like a detective! I imagine they hoped that after twenty futile years of searching that they’d make more progress by leaking information than by keeping it secret. And I assume they have more arrows in their quiver that only the perp can know.”

  That made sense to Lori. After all, the police had told Weston about the carving in Jacinta’s grave.

  Her head was swimming in a dense cloud.

  “So what was your take-away from this whole thing?”

  Her mother didn’t answer, but Lori stayed with it.

  “Mom, did it seem like the investigator maybe isn’t so sure anymore that the archaeologist is guilty now that you told him about the French case?”

  “No, I rather think . . . that they fear for his safety. A hunting license sends a different signal than a ring does.”

  “But Jacinta wasn’t shot. So what’s the signal?”

  “That the killer thinks Weston knows something and he’ll be shot if he squeals.”

  Lori thought about that. She recalled her conversations with Weston. He’d never given the slightest impression of being in danger. On the contrary, he’d come back to the same place for a dig on a second grave.

  Lisa Finning’s thoughts turned in a different direction.

  “How are things with that fisherman? Have you got something going with him?”

  “Mo-ther! Do you always have to be so direct?”

  “Yes, I do, can’t help myself, you know that. Why beat around the bush?”

  “I went out fishing with him yesterday, on the ocean . . . and—no, we’re not in a relationship.”

  “But you like him a lot, don’t you?”

  “Let’s say . . . I don’t fully understand what I feel. It’s a tight little world here, and I’m kind of lonely.”

  “But that’s something we’re familiar with, no?”

  She knew exactly what her mother was referring to.

  “No, it’s not like in Germany. My photo assignment is interesting and, believe it or not, the people here speak English just like we do.”

  Her words came out more sarcastic than she intended. But her mother didn’t take the bait.

  “Just be careful, my dear. A year is a very long time.”

  “I know, Mom. And thanks for the info on the case,” Lori said, striking a more conciliatory tone of voice. “I really appreciate it. Talk to you soon.”

  “And if you feel lonely, then go take some poor dog for a walk. It’ll do both of you some good,” her mother said.

  Lori stared out the window onto the bay. The sun’s rays pushed tentatively through patches of gray fog. The hills looked like shaggy animals, gradually molting their white coats and showing some dark spots. Springtime in Vancouver had something soft, optimistic about it. But out here, in the north of Newfoundland, nature seemed to be saying to people: we’re only giving you a short breather, don’t get too happy. There was a pride, an untouchability in it that appealed to her. The rocky landscape was uncompromising, untamable. It remained what it was, unwavering.

  Her gaze wandered over to the boats. Noah’s wasn’t there. He and Nate must have gone out early that morning.

  She pictured him in her mind’s eye, freeing the fish from the net, one after the other, radiating the calm of a person who was doing what he believed he was fated to do.

  She often felt he was watching her when she was busy with her camera, scanning her surroundings for the best subject, the best angle, the most compelling composition.

  Maybe they weren’t so different after all; maybe they had more in common than she supposed.

  A warm, hopeful feeling flooded over her.

  But that exposed a weakness that she had to cover up swiftly.

  Be careful, a year is a very long time.

  CHAPTER 25

  Beth Ontara, 45, archaeologist

  You’re asking me questions you already know the answers to, aren’t you? I mean, you know damn well I first met Lori Finning at the Birch Tree Lodge. My impression of her? You know what first struck me? When Lloyd introduced her to our group, she remembered everybody’s name, that’s a dozen names—even though they were all talking. I didn’t even remember Lori’s name at the beginning. Is that what they call a photographic memory?

  Naturally, we were curious to find out how Lloyd knew this pretty photographer from Vancouver. We wormed it out of him right away—he can’t keep anything to himself. But when we asked Lori why she was here, I thought she seemed a little . . . let’s say . . . uptight. My gut feeling was that she wasn’t telling us the whole story. Annie and me talked about it afterward before going to sleep. Annie thought it was funny that a photographer like Lori would be living in a desolate village, an outport—just to make a book of photographs. I mean, who’s going to buy a book like that? Maybe a few homesick Newfies living somewhere else in Canada. And why’s a woman like Lori interested, anyway? She didn’t look like a person who knows how to be away from a city like Vancouver for very long. Archaeologists like us are used to living in the field. We can eat cold beans out of a can if we have to and wear the same underwear for three days.

  Not that she was all dolled up or anything—I don’t mean that. Her nails weren’t even polished. I look at my nails a lot, and they’re almost always dirty. Comes with the job.

  Certainly doesn’t come with hers. Although . . . she liked bright colors, I remember that, but maybe that’s typical for Vancouver. They’re all semihippies in that city—either that or they imitate the movie stars who make films there. No, never been there. Not interested either. There are enough Newfies in Western Canada already who really don’t want to be there.

  What did I want to say? Oh, right, she had something . . . sophisticated about her. You know, like somebody who can tell you right away who a quote came from and . . . or what material an expensive evening dress is made of. And she read the book reviews in the Saturday Globe and Mail. And somebody like her winds up in a godforsaken hick town on The Rock? You’ve got to wonder.

  Yes, we went for a snowmobile ride, and she came with us. And she played poker afterward. With Annie, me, and Lloyd. No, we didn’t talk about Stormy Cove. Don’t recall it ever came up. We talked more about our crazy experiences on our digs. She was very interested, and it made her laugh.

  Lori hardly ever said anything about herself. I got the imp
ression—assuming you want to hear my impressions—I got the impression she’s a good listener, and that gets people to talk. And maybe we yakked so much because Lloyd sprung for a good red wine.

  Jacinta Parsons? Name never came up, and Lori didn’t ask about her either.

  But we weren’t surprised Lloyd wanted to hire her to take pictures. Lloyd’s ambitious. Don’t get me wrong—I’m OK with that. We archaeologists need more recognition. More recognition brings more money—I have a good head for business there. Lloyd convinced himself that her photographs would get him into the international media. That was a smart move. Of course, he couldn’t predict what would happen next. But it probably wouldn’t have stopped him.

  The business with Jacinta Parsons didn’t stop him either. It was a terrible situation for all of us. Worst-case scenario. Sure, we look for bodies, but hey, they’re at least a thousand years old. You know what I can’t figure? Why the locals spread those rumors about Lloyd. A seven-thousand-year-old grave—I mean, what more do those folks want? It’s such a win for the area. It brings the tourists and . . . it rescued the place from being nothing. And how do they thank us? By making us look bad.

  We’ve got nothing to do with the nut that killed Jacinta.

  Did I know her? It’s on file. Did you read the files? I didn’t have anything to do directly with the village folks who worked for us. But when Annie got sick, I took over her job drawing up the work schedule. Jacinta came to see me because she only wanted to work on days when somebody could drive her home, either her older sister or her sister’s boyfriend, a fisherman from Stormy Cove. Jacinta said it’s what her mother wanted. Until then, she’d only come to work on days when her friend Una did.

  The second time I talked to her was on Lloyd’s birthday. We celebrated in the Hardy Sailor. Yes, exactly, the night Gideon’s lodge burned down. She was standing around after work so I asked if she was being picked up. She said yes, and she had a birthday present for Lloyd. I told her he was already at the Hardy Sailor. She should get there fast to join us for supper. She wanted to know if our whole team was at the bar, and I said it was. I was in a hurry because I’d organized the meal and everybody was waiting for me. That’s the last time I saw Jacinta.