“You don’t look like guys who are afraid of sharks, am I right?”
Bill gave an embarrassed laugh, but Archie didn’t sound at all amused when he said, “Only an idiot isn’t afraid of anything.”
To Lori’s surprise, he winked at her before leaving.
Bill and Noah went back to work, leaving the two women by themselves on the jetty.
Lori weighed the idea of asking Reanna why in the world she knew so much about her mother. But she desperately didn’t want to get sucked into another conversation, and so she shot some more pictures while the fishermen unloaded the boat and containers of fish disappeared into the buyer’s truck. What she wanted most of all was for Reanna to vanish with the fish and the truck, but the reporter was still hanging out on the wharf when Lori said good-bye to the fishermen.
Lori could see Reanna in the car’s rearview mirror, loitering around the boats. What game was this kid playing?
I should have pushed her into the water, camera and all. The men would have had a tough time saving her since they can’t swim.
The thought amused her for a moment until resentment gained the upper hand once more. She drove up the hill far too fast.
The sky above the hills was so bright that it almost blinded her. It crossed her mind that tomorrow was the longest day of the year, and then the nights would grow imperceptibly longer.
Little Molly came running over as Lori was getting out of the car. A pink blur on the bright green grass.
“You got a big package,” she shouted breathlessly. “Can I watch you open it up?”
“Where is it?”
Molly took her hand.
“Come on, I’ll show you. Mommy put it inside.”
She went in with Lori. And, sure enough, a large carton was sitting on the chest freezer in the basement. Lori looked at the sender’s name: her mother.
“OK, let me take my jacket off first, then we’ll open it.”
Molly scrunched up her nose.
“You stink like fish—eeew!”
“What? Oh, you squeamish little mouse! You’re in a fishing village, Molly! Everything smells like fish here.”
“But you usually smell different—a lot better. I want the perfume you got.”
Molly ran ahead of her as she lugged the heavy package upstairs and pushed it onto the kitchen table.
She cut through the layers of tape with a kitchen knife and had just opened the box when the phone rang.
“You can start unpacking,” she said to Molly and ran into the living room.
“I’m in luck—got you on the first try,” Mona Blackwood said by way of a greeting.
“You can say that again. I’m just back from fishing.”
“What are they going after now?”
“Cod. But we saw whales, too—and a live shark caught in the nets.”
She peeked at Molly, who was setting two small paper bags down on the table—Lori’s favorite coffee.
“Sounds exciting. I’m convinced it’ll be a terrific book. I don’t want to keep you long—I imagine you’re dying for a hot shower. When are you going to the dig?”
“The archaeologist wants to take me this week, but I told him only if you agree.”
“Go right ahead, no problem. Can we use the pictures in our book?”
“Yes, but if I understood him correctly, he’s hoping to offer them to international magazines first.”
The line went silent for several seconds, and Lori thought she might have overtaxed her employer’s good will. But then Mona said, “As long as we have some pictures that are exclusive and not published anywhere else beforehand—I can live with that.”
“I’m sure that’s possible. I’ll pass it on to Lloyd Weston first thing.”
Molly was checking out a package of German baked goods with great curiosity.
“Lloyd Weston’s leading the dig?”
“Yes, do you know him?”
“No, not personally, that is . . . just by name. Is that reporter from the Cape Lone Courier still causing you problems?” Her question came out of the blue.
“Well, today . . . she was on another boat, luckily. But she kept getting in the way while they were unloading it.” Lori laughed to disguise her frustration. “It’s really mind-boggling that, of all the fishing villages up here, she just had to pick Stormy Cove.” She shook her head, though Mona couldn’t see her. “And now lo and behold! She wants to make a book out of it. That’s—bizarre.”
“What’s her name anyway, and where’s she from?”
“Reanna Sholler. I don’t know exactly where she’s from because she tells some people Trifton, Ontario, and others Timmins, like Shania Twain, and some that she’s from Ottawa. Maybe she doesn’t want anybody to find out much about her.”
“Really odd, as you said. I understand why you’re not happy about it. I’d feel the same way if I were in your shoes . . .”
“Plus, she’s obviously been sniffing around behind my back. She learned that my mother’s a defense lawyer and has relatives in Germany. And she wanted to find out at all costs where the dig is so she could come with us.”
Molly held something up triumphantly in her little hands. Armani soap! Lori’s mother had dug deep in her wallet.
“That’s very annoying.” Mona’s voice turned steely. “You don’t have to put up with that. I’ll think about it. Maybe I’ll come up with something.”
Lori was surprised that Mona had taken such an interest in her situation. After all, it wasn’t her problem; Lori was old enough to take care of herself. But it helped to talk it over. And she was also pleased with the compliment that followed.
“Keep doing what you’re doing, Lori. I think your photographs are outstanding. I’m eager to see what you’ll come across next.”
What I’ll come across next.
Of course, she was on a mysterious mission. Mona was subtly reminding her.
But Molly distracted her by pressing the Armani soap to her nose.
“Mmm, that smells so good!”
After hanging up with Mona, Lori’s focus was on the treasure trove scattered over the table, which reminded her of the care packages her mother used to send her at summer camp: Italian salami, various sauces in bags, goat cheese, sheep cheese, spices from India, a lemon press, two wooden ladles (Lori had told her she couldn’t find any in Stormy Cove), American magazines, including Newsweek and The New Yorker, the mascara Lori swore by, cookies—and the Armani soap Molly didn’t want to give back. Lori had to think fast.
“You know what? That’s a present from my mom, but I’ll let you have some so we can both wash with it. Isn’t that a great idea?”
Molly looked at her.
“But you only got one.”
“Let’s cut it in half,” Lori replied, picking up the knife she’d used on the package.
She cut off a big slice of soap, making a mess all over the table. Giorgio Armani’s hair would have stood on end, she thought, handing the piece of soap to a beaming Molly.
“I’ll wrap it up so you can show it to your mom,” Lori said. “I have to make a phone call.”
Molly took the hint and stood up. She pulled out a candy from her pants pocket.
“That’s a present from me,” she announced magnanimously. “The lady gave it to me.”
“She was delivering the mail?”
“No, the lady who came here today.”
“Who was that? I wasn’t here all day.”
“Don’t know. She left.”
Somebody coming to visit? She would ask Patience; she’d know for sure.
Molly slammed the door in her rush to get home and show off her prize.
A hot cup of tea—at last! And a salami sandwich with sheep cheese.
She went to the computer after her meal and sent Andrew a long e-mail, regaling him with tales of the whales and the shark and the spooky Isle of Demons. He was very much into ghost stories and would love it.
Then a short note to let her mother know
her marvelous package had arrived and that she’d call soon.
She was browsing through her in-box when an e-mail from her mother came in, sent from her BlackBerry.
“Did you see the article I put in there?”
What article?
Lori checked the shipping box again and discovered a crumpled envelope at the bottom.
She opened it and thought at first it was something from her mother’s library of legal journals. But then she realized it was written by an archaeologist, a woman. Lisa Finning had highlighted a passage with a Magic Marker.
The day before the fire, Lloyd Weston had us take all our finds out of the lodge and store them in a container near the dig. Lloyd must have had a premonition. To us, it was a minor miracle.
Lori looked up the byline. The name sounded familiar. Beth Ontara.
The archaeologist she’d met at the Birch Tree Lodge.
Lori guessed immediately what her mother was getting at. It was a most peculiar coincidence that valuable objects were moved to safety one day before the archaeologists’ lodgings burned down. She doubtless suspected there was more to it than premonition.
The phone rang. It was sure to be her mother.
Wrong.
“Lori?” Noah’s voice. He sounded hoarse.
“Yes?” was all she could get out.
“I . . . I just wanted to say that you . . . that we’d like to take you out with us tomorrow. I talked to Nate and . . . we’re not taking anybody else . . . just you.”
“Oh, that’s very nice, but—”
“Only if you want to. Weather looks good for tomorrow, hardly any wind.”
“I’d love to go out again, Noah, but tomorrow—tomorrow I’m going to have a look at an archaeological dig.”
No sound at the other end. She added hastily, “I was invited to take some pictures, and naturally, I can’t pass up this opportunity. It’s a onetime chance, you see.”
“Yes, yes, no problem. I just didn’t want . . . didn’t want you to think you weren’t welcome on board.”
His halting speech betrayed the amount of courage it had taken for him to make this call. Lori grasped for words too.
“I know, I know, Noah. It’s just something . . . that gets in the way, somebody running around with a camera. It’s not . . . ideal.”
“I get it. But I don’t see . . . I mean, the Cape Lone Courier won’t send us somebody every day.”
“There’s more going on here than the book that she apparently wants to write. My publisher doesn’t like that. There are hundreds of fishing villages. Why did she head straight for Stormy Cove?”
There, she’d come out with it. The elephant in the room had a name.
“I . . . I don’t know either.”
These fishermen must certainly be pleased by so much attention from two women, Lori thought.
“How are you getting to the dig?” he asked.
“By helicopter.”
“Who with?”
“Lloyd Weston.”
“Ah.”
A pause ensued, grew larger and larger.
“Well, then, like I said . . .” Noah seemed anxious to end the awkward conversation.
She’d have loved to talk to him some more, to say something that might have restored some closeness between them. But she was tongue-tied.
Then a lightbulb went on in her head.
“We heard the demons, today. It was terrifying. It was . . . I’ve never heard anything so scary.”
He seemed surprised.
“Archie was at the Isle of Demons?”
“Yes, we stopped for lunch. Then it suddenly started up. What is it exactly? What makes a noise like that?”
“Dunno. Nobody knows. It’s a mystery.”
“Why doesn’t somebody just go there and find out?”
“Nobody’s ever seen anything. Some people from an oil company landed a chopper there once, but they didn’t see anything either. Maybe it’s the wind blowing through holes in the cliffs.”
Lori didn’t buy it.
“It was so frightening,” she repeated.
“Yeah, I know. I hope you sleep OK tonight.”
“You too, and thanks for the phone call.”
“. . . so, have a good day tomorrow,” Noah said.
She sat there for several minutes as if turned to stone. What kind of a mess had she gotten herself into? Her feelings were all jumbled up like wet nets in a wharf shed.
She got into the shower but shivered, even under the hot water.
Vera Quinton, 43, housewife, part-time worker in the fish plant
I think she really went for Noah Whalen. I mean that gal Reanna. Word got around fast. Not Lori. She’s—how can I put it—a little . . . she doesn’t let every Tom, Dick, and Harry get near her. I bet she gets along better with dogs than people. No, just a joke, wasn’t serious. My Newfie sense of humor.
She’s been trotting around with Rusty lately; she softened us up right proper, but I don’t mind, really. If that’s the way she wants it—be my guest. I mean, she can’t talk to the dog, of course. Must be real boring. Would be for me, at least. But she sometimes chats with us people.
Lori didn’t have to do much; people came right up to her because they all want to be in the book. She took a picture of me too. Quilting. My quilts are in demand, but honestly, I’m sick of it, because I’m always supposed to give them away for free—to the church fund, the fire department, the school bazaar, the old people’s home. You know what? I put in a hundred and twenty hours of work on a quilt like that.
And Gideon’s wife tried to give me just fifty bucks. A good piece of needlework isn’t worth a damn around here, not a tinker’s damn. So I said, that’s it for quilting.
Reanna really buttered everybody up. That’s how young people are these days, not only the CFAs, as we call mainlanders because they Come from Away. Same with the kids here. They want everything, and right this minute. No, don’t have kids myself. Not sure why, whether me or Tom’s the problem. We’ve never been looked at. Tom doesn’t want that. There’s a lot he doesn’t want.
I’ll probably be dead before I get to Las Vegas. Or Puerto Vallarta or Maui. Tom won’t shell out one red cent for that type of thing. Only for trucks and boats. I only got a dishwasher secondhand because Gideon got a new one. This one wasn’t good enough for his wife. Tom always tells me: “Life here isn’t good enough for you.” Always the same damn thing. Oh, sure, sometimes I’d like to just take off. What’s here anyway? Nothing. No Walmart, no Costco, not even a Tim Hortons. No movie theater, no spa, no jewelry store. Gotta go to Corner Brook for all that, six hours one way by car. Tom says it’s three hundred bucks for gas. He only drives down there when he wants a new chain saw. And when a bit of a storm’s up, then the TV conks out. And then it’s just dead here.
Nothing’s really working well anyway. I can’t live off garage sales or fire department raffles. And I haven’t played darts at the Hardy Sailor for years. Besides, it’s the friends of the house that always win the prizes, if you take my meaning. We play poker at Rosie’s sometimes, but the ante’s a measly two dollars. It’s a joke. All I ever do is yawn.
Lori’s been places, that’s for sure. You can tell by looking at her. She gets to travel. I’d like Las Vegas best of all. They’ve got real terrific hotels, and restaurants and amusement parks, and the Céline Dion show. And casinos of course. I used to play the slots in the Hardy Sailor. Nearly every day. Until Tom noticed how much cash I was putting into it. He made me stop.
I sneak off now and then, when he’s away. But with the peanuts I make at the fish plant in the summer, you can’t get anywhere. Or I’d have hit the jackpot long ago.
On the Internet? Who told you that? Sure, I know some people who gamble on the Internet. Tom would put a stop to that right away, believe you me. Does he know anything? Aw, c’mon, men don’t have to know everything. Tom should be happy I don’t drink. I sometimes think, if I did, at least I’d have a little bit of fun in my li
fe. But I go to church and don’t drink.
If you ask me, Lori—she knows more than all of us put together. She takes her camera into all the homes and chitchats with people. Mavis? Yes, Mavis knows a lot too, because people come to her store to gossip. But a lot of us don’t tell Mavis anything. But when Lori said in the store that if everybody told the truth, then no innocent person in the village would be a suspect—that says to me that she knows a lot. So she should damn well say what she knows. If innocent people are under suspicion, eh?
CHAPTER 30
The weather the next day was exactly as Noah had predicted: a breeze as soft as cat fur tickled her cheeks as she left the house. She’d pulled her hair back, a few wisps held with rainbow-colored kids’ clips she’d found in the store, but she hadn’t gone so far as to call it a ponytail yet. She thought the hairdo looked perky, complementing the thrill of adventure flowing through her veins. Noah’s phone call had kept her awake for a long while. She still shuddered a little just thinking about it.
By contrast, the water in the bay radiated a lazy calm. Young coniferous trees and carpets of moss on the hills sparkled green in the morning dew. Two moose grazed in a clearing, a female and a bull with massive antlers.
Lori’s gaze scanned the sharp outlines of the coastal rocks that rounded off the cove like defiant palisades, with an occasional gap where the open sea poked through. She couldn’t spy any boats on the horizon, not even through her telephoto lens. The Isle of Demons appeared to be very far away—a thin dark streak melting into a grayish-white blur.
Perfect weather for Rusty’s daily walk along the beach and to the other side of the hill to look for icebergs. But just then, a beige SUV rolled into her driveway with Lloyd Weston at the wheel. He pulled up and waved at her through the window.
She climbed into the SUV and laid her tripod and backpack on the back seat. Weston was beaming.
“Everything’s perfect. It’s real chopper weather.”
Lori couldn’t deny that he looked good. With his hair cut very short and his beard gone, he looked younger than his fifty-some years. The less hair, the more attractive he was. And you can’t say that about most men. But she kept it to herself.
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