by S. Robertson
Antonino calculated the police would assume O’Gratteney’s death was an accident, unless someone raised too many questions. Still, he had time, for in his opinion, “Cops take ages to deal with a case.” He also reasoned a few adjustments to his Vatican passport would facilitate his exit from Ireland. The plan was to pass off Rudolfo as another priest, a convenient cover, but Antonino wasn’t sure it would work. A dress rehearsal before their international flight revealed the problems.
“Those ugly tattoos on your forearms will have to be hidden. They’re a dead giveaway,” said Antonino, irritated at the discovery. “You will have to wear a heavy, long-sleeved shirt and never expose your forearm for the whole trip.”
Annoyed at the criticism, Rudolfo sarcastically replied, “Fine, I’ll sweat like a pig. Is there anything else? I want you to know that being a priest was never one of my ambitions.”
“Next, you’ll only speak Italian until we land in Halifax, your vocabulary is too rough for a priest.” Antonino stepped back to inspect his travelling companion, all the while tapping nervously on his black notebook. “How far can I trust this imbecile,” he thought, “he’s stupid, sly and unscrupulous, a toxic mix. I’ll get a better candidate in America to do my skut work. For now, I’ll have to keep this one on a tight chain.”
“Great,” said Rudolfo, mumbling to himself. “Just like prison. The damn guards criticized me for everything. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now. I need to rid myself of this pompous ass as soon as I reach the USA.”
Days before their flight Antonino insisted on a rehearsal. Telling Rudolfo as little as possible, he laid out a number of maps and Internet sheets on his bed.
“Our flight from Dublin to Halifax is just over five hours. We arrive in the early morning. Our cover will be that we are two priests attending a conference in Halifax and doing some sight-seeing. Let me do the talking. I’ll rent a car at the Halifax International airport.” Pointing to the maps, he continued, “We then drive north about 83 kilometers to Truro, then on to Amherst to a Best Western Motel. The rooms will be booked in my name. In Amherst, you will rent a second car in your passport name. Then, while I remain at the motel, you will go across the Confederation Bridge into Charlottetown, the capital city of this small island.”
Rudolfo, pointing to one of the Internet documents, and asked “It says here there is a bridge toll, will we have any Canadian cash?”
“Yes, you will be carrying about three hundred Canadian dollars. We’ll use cash only, credit cards can be traced.”
“Heh, note this, it says here this is the longest bridge in the world to span ice covered waters.”
“Concentrate! This is not a holiday,” Antonino snapped. “It’s 56 kilometers from the Bridge to Charlottetown, straight roads, estimate an hour. You will likely get there after lunch, so park near this government building which seems to be within walking distance of the Gordon B&B. Look at this Google street map printout of the house, memorize it. Your job is to get in, grab the crystal, and get out. I want you to call me on your cell phone on your return, just at or near the Island entrance to the Confederation Bridge. I’ll plan on meeting you near the car rental agency in Amherst. Once we get rid of your rental, we will head straight back to the Halifax airport and fly on to Boston. Do you have any questions?”
“Fine, except I hate small communities. Everyone knows each other and outsiders stand out.”
“True,” replied Antonino, “but we’re in luck. The Internet says that in July and August the place is swarming with tourists.”
“What’s the back up plan should anything go wrong?” asked Rudolfo, uncomfortable venturing into a North American small community for the first time.
“Such as……?”
“I can think of a few. What if the old woman refuses to tell me, or has forgotten where she hid the thing? Old people forget, you know. How hard do you want me to press this?”
“No rough stuff. If you run into too much resistance, get out of there. We’ll try another angle in Boston. At this stage, I want time on my side.”
“What’s the timing again?”
“Assuming everything goes as planned; you should get into Charlottetown just after lunch, retrieve the gemstone by late afternoon and be back across the Confederation Bridge by 5. This gets us back into Halifax and onto Boston before midnight. How does that sound?”
“There’re a lot of ifs and unknowns. We are on unfamiliar roads in the middle of summer; anything could mess up the plan. But assuming everything goes as planned, I should be calling you no later than 5:15.”
“Good, we’re set. You have a speed dial to my cell phone. Any problems, ditch that cell phone. Now, let’s get some rest, we leave in three hours.” What Rudolfo didn’t know was that Antonino had his own back up plan which he wasn’t sharing.
No alarms sounded as two Roman Catholic priests eased their way through the Dublin airport security system. In fact, security and air flight attendants were extra courteous when it was discovered one carried Vatican credentials. One security officer mentally questioned the shady appearance of the second priest, but in the crush of passengers he dismissed his gut instinct.
After an uneventful flight, the two priests landed at the Halifax Stanfield International Airport. They breezed through Canadian customs. The customs official quickly checked the passports and faces and waved them along.
In Nova Scotia, Rudolfo drove while Antonino sat thinking. “I can only hope the old woman will be compliant. We don’t have the time, nor is it possible to tear the place apart. I detest old women; they can be so damned stubborn. She’s likely hid it in some ungodly place or, as Rudolfo says, has forgotten where it is all together. My chance of success may be infinitesimal. But by God I’m going to try. It’s my only chance at a fortune.”
* * *
Canada, Charlottetown: The Gordon B&B
Something was about to happen. Nellie sensed it in every fiber of her being but could not identify the recipient. “Whatever it is,” she reckoned, “it draws near.” She rarely spoke of her psychic ability as scientists had negated its existence and religious organizations labeled it pagan. Restless, she forced herself to stay focused, expecting the next phone call or knock on the door to herald the event. Today, she had baking to do for her B&B guests and a church funeral.
She placed the final baking, a pan of brownies, next to the muffins and cookies, on the kitchen counter in front of the window to cool, the warm blend of chocolate, cinnamon and nutmeg capturing the attention of each passerby. Wiping her brow, she eased into her favorite kitchen chair, remarking to herself, “There was a time when I could do this baking and clean the entire house in a day, but no more. Maybe it’s time to retire. But what would I do? I’ve worked all my life.” The thought of change brought a flood of memories.
Except for one trip to New York and a few sojourns to local provinces, Nellie had spent her entire life on the Island, the ‘land cradled on the waves’ according to the Mi’kmaq Indians. She loved the idea of a wee cradle bobbing on the waves. The red soil and white sandy beaches had attracted wayfarers for centuries, the current throng of summer tourists being the latest. Nellie’s Island roots went back to the early 1800s, but with sadness, she wondered if she might be the last. Reminiscing she thought, “I came to Charlottetown for a year and stayed a lifetime, a life I couldn’t have envisioned.”
An economic downturn in the 1950s had forced her and her oldest brother to seek temporary employment in Charlottetown, the capital of Canada’s smallest province. Elizabeth Cameron, called Nellie, was the eldest of two children, the only girl, of a well-known farming family near Montague. When her brother returned home, she found herself living with strangers in a rough boarding house with poor food and unpleasant company. For months her life revolved around her job at the Gordon Hardware Store on Queen Street and little social life, as most of her earnings were sent home. Life improved when John, the only child of the store owner, returned from his studies i
n Halifax. John took an immediate interest in Nellie and before long they were ‘an item’. After a year’s courtship, she and John were married at St. James Presbyterian Church, called ‘The Kirk’. Bending to social mores, Nellie quit her job as, at that time, it was unacceptable for a married woman to be working. She resigned herself to being a dutiful wife, and trying, however unsuccessfully, to endear herself to her mother-in-law.
The arrival of Catherine two years later, their first child, healed the family, the Gordons relishing their role as grandparents. When Catherine was four, John’s mid-winter flu complicated into meningitis and within days he was dead. A small allowance was created for Nellie and Catherine, which over time needed to be supplemented. Fortunately, by the 1960s, Nellie was able to negotiate a deal with a nearby motel to take overflow guests. She established a B&B, minimal signage being a stipulation of the Gordons, who were sensitive to public opinion.
Catherine grew into a fine young woman, and at twenty shortened her name to ‘Cathy’, the same year she graduated as a Registered Nurse from the PEI School of Nursing. With a scarcity of nursing jobs on the Island, Cathy one day arrived home to announce that she and three other nurses had been offered jobs at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York with excellent pay and benefits. Beaming with enthusiasm Cathy referred to it as ‘a great adventure’, just one year and she would return. Nellie tried to dissuade her but finally consented with “one year and you’ll be home again,” to which Cathy, hugging her, whispered, “Yes, Mom, I promise!” But it was not to be.
Within the year, Cathy fell in love with a young doctor, David Talismann, and in 1983 they were married at ‘The Kirk’, returning to their jobs in New York. A year later, Nellie travelled to New York, her first trip out of Canada, to hold her granddaughter, Angela, a beautiful baby with wispy white hair and emerald eyes. She resigned herself to being alone and grateful Cathy and her family visited each summer. But life held more surprises.
By 1988, David and Cathy were divorced, Cathy returning to the Island with Angela. When Angela was seven, Cathy died from a medication reaction leaving Nellie, to bring up another child, one very different from her own.
Like her mother, at sixteen, Angela announced that her new name was ‘Angi’, and it stuck. When she graduated from high school, her American grandparents offered to pay for her university education and proposed she might board with friends of theirs, the Perlmans, when Angi chose a nursing degree program at Dalhousie University in Halifax. And so, once again Nellie watched another child leave the Island.
Nellie knew each sad episode in her life had been preceded by a similar haunting premonition. This was no different. Out loud she pleaded, “Dear God let it be me this time, not my darling Angi. I’m an old woman. I’ve had a full life.” With that her eyes fell on the kitchen clock. “Oh my, it’s almost three and Margo said she would pick up the brownies on her way home.” The thought had barely registered when the doorbell rang. Nellie walked through the living room to the locked front door.
Opening the door, she greeted her old friend, “Thanks Margo, with B&B guests, it will be impossible for me to get to the church tomorrow morning. I expect it will be a big funeral, George Fraser was well known.” Closing the door she failed to notice a thin, male figure skulking near the corner. Running late, Rudolfo was about to pounce when Margo arrived. He retreated and waited.
The twenty year friendship of Nellie and Margo Foster rested on their mutual involvement in church activities, but it had other benefits. Margo, in her mid-60s, seven years younger than Nellie, was a short, plump, well dressed woman. She had been a high school teacher, later dabbled in real estate and was now into civic politics. Money was plentiful. Her cell phone, never disconnected, kept her abreast of city life; news and gossip. Nellie enjoyed Margo’s effervescent personality, and was grateful for her business sense and contacts. In return, Nellie helped Margo with a number of family issues, particularly dealing with a difficult daughter.
They were an odd pair. Nellie was a tall, slender woman with a reserved personality who had little interest in gossip and less in politics. With meager funds she barely kept up with the fashions. Over the years, as an Elder and chair of several committees, she had become a formidable presence in the church and in the community. She was also known for her knowledge of herbs and healing methods which she dispensed freely.
Relocking the door the two women headed towards their favorite chat room, the kitchen. “I do hope you have time for a wee cup of tea?” asked Nellie.
“How could I resist, with a house impregnated with such aromas.” As she pulled out her usual chair, Margo asked, “By the way, Nellie, will you be taking in guests when Angi comes home?”
“No, this time I’ve told the motel I’ll be unavailable for three weeks. They understood, but I know it’s difficult, it’s the peak of the tourist season.”
“About time,” replied Margo, “that heart of yours is not indestructible, you know. Have you given any thought to selling this place? You and I know that Angi, like her mother, will likely find a husband in Halifax and settle there.”
Nellie hesitated. “Margo, I know you’re right. I guess I’m fated never to have children nearby, the heartache of so many Island parents. It will be difficult to leave this old house with its fifty years of memories.”
“I understand, but Nellie its best you do it when you’re able. By the way, I never asked before, do you know the history of this place?”
Replenishing their tea, Nellie replied, “This place is over a hundred years old. It was built around 1892 for a sailing ship owner, a long forgotten era for many Islanders. In its day, this must have been a costly undertaking. Just look at the stonework and stained glass windows.”
“That’s the point, Nellie; the maintenance costs for this historic relic will continue to mount. Just the other day you mentioned the roof needed to be replaced. That could cost thousands. Why not give such headaches to someone else. I’m sure it would be snapped up by someone interested in heritage property and its location. You are sitting on prime land here at the corner of West and Kent Street within walking distance of the city center and Victoria Park. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll put you in touch with someone that will do justice to the sale. In the meantime, I’ll keep my ears open for a nice one or two bedroom condo. I expect you’d like to live in this area?”
“A two bedroom condo overlooking the harbor would be nice,” replied Nellie, growing more receptive to the idea. “I’ll talk to Angi; after all it’s her heritage.”
“Nellie, you seem worried? We’ve known each other for years, and I know when something is bothering you. I hope it’s nothing I’ve said. Is there anything I can do?”
“Oh Margo, you know me too well. As a matter of fact, I’ve been having one of my premonitions. It’s been years since this has occurred. It’s upsetting this time because I cannot identify the recipient.”
“Has Angi mentioned anything in her phone calls that would give you an inkling something was wrong?”
“No, we chatted Sunday. She gave me her travel schedule and stated she was looking forward to some rest. Everyone else on the Island is fine. I know outside events can play their part. You haven’t heard anything?”
“As you know, Nellie, July and August are vacation months around here, a poor time for news or gossip. But if I hear anything, I’ll phone. I must be off. I’ve got company for supper.” She picked up the covered brownie pan on the counter and got up to leave.
Margo, Nellie and the two B&B guests all reached the front door in unison. Dave MacLean, a robust, slightly overweight, ruddy faced farmer, had spent his youth as a Peacekeeper in the Canadian military, greeted both women with a cherry, “Well, hello, Margo. Nellie, the aroma is intoxicating. Smells like home.” Looking at Margo, “It’s one of the reasons we always pick Nellie’s place when we’re here on government work. We eat like kings. Nellie, James and I will be off to the Old Dublin Pub for supper. We should be back in a couple of hours.” Nelli
e nodded.
James Ross, his smaller, quieter partner, then stepped forward. He usually let Dave do most of the talking. James, also a farmer, was a volunteer ambulance attendant in Montague, a role he thoroughly enjoyed. Smiling the two men entered the house and proceeded up the stairs to their rooms.
Nellie bid her friend good bye, returned to the house, locked the door, and went into the kitchen.
Later, she heard the front door lock click as Dave and James left. Not expecting their return until later, she warmed her supper and turned on the small kitchen TV. After the evening news she proceeded to clean up and prepare for the next morning. In the midst of drying dishes she heard a sound in the living room. “Too soon for the boys,” she thought, and went to investigate.
Standing in the living room shadows was the silhouette of a stranger. Rudolfo stepped towards Nellie. He knew she was alone; he overheard the heavy set guy say they wouldn’t be back until later. He calculated this old woman would be easy; all he had to do was frighten her enough to tell him where the gemstone was hidden.
Thinking Rudolfo a common thief, Nellie reacted in a commanding voice, “Leave this house at once or I’ll call the police.”
In a foreign accent, he replied, “Never mind, old woman. Just tell me where you’ve stashed the gemstone, the one your family has been guarding for centuries? Get it and I’ll leave.”
“My God,” she thought, “the premonition is true. After all these centuries the ‘coming times’ has arrived.” Thinking quickly she noted that he said a gemstone ……….not medallion……. “I’ll play for time……... Maybe Dave and James will return early.”
Still in a commanding voice, Nellie replied, “What gemstone? I have no idea what you are talking about. You must have the wrong house.” She eased towards the portable telephone on the side table, grabbed the receiver and pressed the key for 911.
“You bitch!” cried Rudolfo. He lunged at her, throwing the receiver onto the floor. Infuriated, he grabbed her left arm and pinned it behind her. Nellie winced with the pain. “No more tricks. I want the gemstone. I know it’s in this house.”
