“Agreed.” A half-completed sock dangled from Aunt Bay’s set of double-pointed needles, which kept a rapid pace with only occasional glances from their owner. Aunt Bay churned out sturdy socks year-round for a homeless shelter in the city, grey to camouflage any dirt, but always with cheery bright stripes on the cuffs. This one sported emerald green.
Michael’s great-aunt had never married. She claimed a husband would only slow her down. Until retirement, she’d taught high school and spent the summers abroad, often on a mission tour.
“Aunt Bay, why don’t you travel anymore?”
“Hmm? I suppose it’s been a while.”
A particularly piercing bird call came from the television. Amy flinched and nearly dropped a stitch. “Is it me? You’re staying to be a chaperone for Michael and me?”
Aunt Bay’s knitting slowed. “I moved back into the house because you needed care, and yes, for appearance’s sake, but I don’t feel shackled or denied the chance to go.”
“Have your travelling friends given it up?”
“Mercy, no. I was just looking at the photos one of them posted on Facebook from her trip to Iceland.”
Did Amy detect a hint of wistfulness? “I told Michael I should move out. Let you have your life back.”
Aunt Bay snorted. “I’m sure that went over well.”
“But I’m cramping your style.”
“Child, if I wanted to go, I’d go. I might, in the spring. A few of my friends are planning a cruise. It wouldn’t be hard to find someone else to stay here in my absence — as long as it wasn’t Emilie. I wouldn’t put either of you through that.”
Amy finished the last few stitches in her row of knitting and turned the needle. “Michael didn’t know she has a crush on him.”
“Why did he think she acts like she does? He can be so dense about women.”
Amy’s sigh earned her a probing look. She pretended to study her knitting pattern.
Aunt Bay didn’t question her. “Emilie’s wasting her time. She’s too much like her mother, and Michael saw the manipulations Gilles had to dodge.”
With a final squawk, the nature program rolled into its closing theme. Amy’s phone buzzed in her pocket, and she jumped. She’d started carrying it around in case the mystery-texter tried to reach her. She pulled it out. “Hello?”
“Amy? It’s Ross, just checking in. No bad dreams or ill effects from our visit to the crash site on Sunday?”
“No. Thanks for asking. And for driving.”
“Michael wasn’t upset about you going out with me?”
Amy pushed down the remembered guilt. “I do get time off.”
Ross’ chuckle was rich, deep. “I’m sure of that. No, I’ve been talking with Gilles’ sister and she has some… concerns that your freedom might be somewhat restricted. I’m glad that’s not so.”
“It’s not so at all. Emilie makes things up.”
Aunt Bay’s needles stilled and she turned to Amy.
Amy mouthed Ross Zarin and kept talking. “It’s her creative streak.”
“She’s also afraid you’re becoming fixated on Gilles’ death and looking for sinister intent in your accident. I was able to reassure her that Sunday helped with closure — and that you seemed perfectly sane to me.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” The anonymous texts had warned Amy to ask no questions. How many other people had Emilie spouted off to? The room suddenly felt chilly.
Chapter 15
Amy spent Wednesday morning in the basement workshop preparing frames. She’d declined Michael’s invitation to go with him to deliver consignment prints to the Mahone Bay store. It wasn’t a long drive, but they’d taken a half-day yesterday for the flight, and before that, the road trip to the Ontario exhibit.
The gallery open house was this Saturday. After that, they had maybe a month before the Christmas craft fairs took off. Even though they worked year-round to prepare enough inventory, Amy would like to have more framed prints on hand. Especially with the increased consignment sales this year.
Michael’s art had received some excellent press and his reputation was growing. Despite his concern that she not overwork herself, the more Amy did on this end, the more time he could put into his originals.
If anyone came to the showroom door, the chime would sound through the baby monitor they kept on one of the workshop shelves. Drop-ins were increasingly rare this late in the season. Another few weeks, once the leaves changed, the tourists would all be heading to Cape Breton instead of past the gallery door to Peggy’s Cove. Rocks and stunted evergreens couldn’t compete with the vibrant colours along the Cabot Trail.
Frames of different sizes spread across the newspaper-lined worktable, propped on little cubes of scrap wood so Amy could finish to the very edges without them drying to the paper. This batch had a clear finish to emphasize the wood grain. Michael used these the most, but she’d do others in various light stains and paint finishes as well. Her favourites were the frames built from weathered wood and painted to accent the distressed look.
Amy set down her brush and stretched the kink from between her shoulder blades. Brush in hand once more, she stroked a thin layer of finish onto the wood. From upstairs, she heard voices and footsteps. Michael must be back.
Her phone buzzed a text alert. She pulled it from her pocket. Yesterday’s flight was a bad idea. Don’t do anything else to attract attention.
A quick swipe finished that edge of the frame. Amy set the brush down and keyed a reply. I met someone else who thinks it wasn’t an accident.
Buzz. Stay out of this. Please. I’m trying to keep you alive.
The workshop door opened and Michael started down the stairs.
I’m not IN anything. Your warnings are the only proof I have of sabotage. Amy slid the phone back into her pocket and picked up the brush. “How’d it go?”
“Mission accomplished.” He surveyed the frames. “Those look good. Are you about ready for a break?”
“Just these last two and I’ll go upstairs while everything dries.”
“Who’s the pain today? Emilie or Luc?”
“Hmm?”
“That was a pretty fierce scowl you tried to send with your text.”
Amy kept painting. “It’s nothing.”
“Only if you’ve turned cranky in your old age.” Michael stepped nearer. “Want me to talk to one or both of them?”
“I can stand up for myself.”
“I know. But I don’t like them harassing my best framing staff.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Your concern is commendable.”
“Boss of the year, that’s me. Seriously, Amy, which one is it this time?”
“Neither.” Amy dipped her brush and tapped off the excess against the lip of the can. “It’s okay. Really.”
Michael frowned. “If it’s your father, he has no business pressuring you to see him.”
Amy stopped. She tipped her head and looked at him. “He’s right to make contact. I need to at least hear what he has to say. But this wasn’t him, and I don’t want to talk about it. Please?”
He raised his hands. “I’m sorry to pry. I’ve tried to create a safe place for you to thrive, but lately there’s more irritation than peace.”
“I’m not a plant in a garden, Michael. Don’t overprotect me.” Amy stuffed the frustration down. Fighting would hurt his feelings. “Look, I admit I didn’t handle Luc very well the other day when he called, but even that was good for me. Letting out more of the hurt, confronting him about how they treated me — it needed to happen. I’m stronger now.”
A little smile played at the corner of Michael’s lips. He nodded. “You’ve definitely come a long way since the crash. I’m glad.” He turned to the stairs. “See you in a few minutes. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Amy finished her work and took time cleaning her brush. She pulled her hair free of its ponytail and slipped the elastic onto her wrist. Michael had looked almost proud of her progre
ss. Did that mean he might release her from his mental rehab and see her as whole? Attractive? Open to be loved?
Yeah, right. Amy blew out a sigh. She buried those thoughts and went upstairs.
In the kitchen, Michael and Aunt Bay had set out mugs. A basket of thick-sliced brown bread rested on the table beside a small jar of homemade blueberry jam. Amy’s stomach growled. She’d been smelling that bread all morning. “Aunt Bay, you spoil us.”
Aunt Bay nodded. “Help yourself. Do you want tea or coffee?”
Amy thought for a minute. “I feel like Darjeeling.”
Sun streamed in the window. Michael poured himself a cup of coffee. “Let’s have our break on the deck. We won’t be able to do this in another month.”
Packet of tea leaves in hand, Amy said, “You may earn that boss of the year award yet.”
Aunt Bay pulled a tray from the cupboard and loaded it with the bread and jam and her own coffee.
Amy’s cell phone rang. Her free hand pulled it from her pocket. “Hello?”
A scratchy hiss grated her ear. “Amy Sssilver.” The voice was unrecognizable. Inhuman. “Go back where you came from. You are not sssafe here. Leave. Now.” Click.
Amy stared at the phone.
Aunt Bay’s tray clattered to the counter beside Amy. The older woman touched her arm. “What’s wrong?”
Michael let the back door slam. He reached Amy in an instant and slid the phone from her unresisting hand. “Hello? Hello? They’ve gone.” He thumbed buttons. “Unknown name and number. Typical.”
Amy blinked at the mess of tea leaves strewn across the counter. She didn’t remember dropping the package. “I — that was weird.”
On the stove, the kettle reached a boil. Aunt Bay scooped some of the tea leaves into the drawstring bag Amy had laid out, and popped it into the smaller teapot. While she poured the water, Michael led Amy outside to a wooden deck chair in the sun.
“Close your eyes for a minute and breathe. When Aunt Bay comes out, you can tell us what happened.”
Amy nodded, clutching the arms of the chair. Warmth caressed her palms, and the sun painted the inside of her eyelids red. She breathed the fresh air of fall, rich and tree-scented, with a hint of the cold winds to come.
The door banged. Aunt Bay’s quick footsteps rapped across the boards of the deck. “Do you want a glass of water while your tea’s steeping?”
Amy opened her eyes. “No, thank you.” She shivered. Looking from one concerned face to the other, she said, “Someone threatened me. I think.”
Michael’s brows pulled down. “You think?”
“Well, it could have been a warning. Like the texts. I—” Didn’t mean to mention the texts. Amy braced for her listeners to pounce.
Aunt Bay set the tray on the round wooden table, and she and Michael drew chairs closer to Amy. “Take pity on an old woman and start at the beginning.” Her blue eyes shone clear and alert.
Amy’s gaze bounced between her two interrogators. She drew a deep breath. “The caller told me to leave. By name. Said I wasn’t safe here.” Memories of the voice raised the hairs on her scalp. “The voice was the worst. Hissy, slithery.”
A giggle burst from her mouth, but she felt closer to tears than laughter. “The crazier plane crash theories blamed ‘the reptilian elite’ — some kind of aliens that are apparently running the earth in secret.” Amy’s fingers tightened on the chair arms. “That’s what it sounded like, a reptile. I couldn’t tell if it was male or female.”
Michael scraped his chair across the wood until he could take Amy’s hand. His eyes held hers. “Voice distortion. Something mechanical, or an app, or computer program. Whoever this is, he — or she — is human.”
“I know that!” Amy’s lips quivered. “I’m sorry, Michael.”
He waited, never dropping the eye contact. Concern furrowed his brow, but his eyes weren’t tight with any offence.
Amy concentrated on slow, deliberate breaths to settle herself. “I didn’t mean I thought it really was a reptile. That’s just the sound. It creeped me out. And the words. I’ve never had a call like that before.”
Aunt Bay huffed. “I should hope not.”
Michael squeezed her hand. “Did the caller say why you’re not safe?”
Amy shook her head. “Just to leave now. It has to be about the plane crash. You were right, I shouldn’t have asked questions, but doesn’t this prove there’s something behind it?”
His lips quirked, as if he were trying to form the right words. A wariness in his eyes suggested he feared the wrong ones would trigger a backlash. “What about the texts?”
Heat crept up Amy’s neck. “I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Please, tell us now. I don’t want to invoke boss privilege and demand to see all texts exchanged on company time.” His eyebrows mashed together and his lips pushed out in an exaggerated mock-stern expression.
Amy flashed a smile she almost felt. “That’s only half the story, anyway.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and brought up the message history. “Troy and I both got warnings from the same number, with a Winnipeg area code. They’ve never tried to frighten me, just keep saying not to get involved because it’s dangerous. The sender claims to be a friend of Gilles who wants to help. I don’t know what to think.” She handed the phone to Michael.
He read rapidly, then seemed to start over and process with more care. Then he stood and took the phone to Aunt Bay. Once she returned it, he dropped back into his seat and dug out his own phone. “I’m going to call the police.”
“Proper thing.” Aunt Bay poured Amy’s tea and carried it to her along with a lavishly-spread slice of bread on a napkin. “Eat. Get your strength back.”
“Thank you.” Amy concentrated on the wind in the pine trees and tried to ignore Michael’s low conversation.
When he ended the call, he said, “They’ll send someone later for a statement. It could be a while, where there’s no immediate sign of danger.”
Amy swallowed her last bite of bread. “Time to get back to work.”
Aunt Bay frowned. “Surely you can take time to recover.”
“I need to get that voice out of my head.”
Chapter 16
It was late afternoon when the sound of a vehicle in the gallery’s horseshoe drive reached Amy in the office. She saved her work on the computer and pushed back from the desk. Time to stretch anyway, whether this was a customer or the police. Through the showroom window she saw a police cruiser. Would the officer come to the gallery entrance or the home door?
A stocky woman in uniform stepped out of the car and strode up the walkway to the gallery.
Amy met her at the door, which Michael had insisted she keep locked today. “Come in. I’m the one who received the call — Amy Silver.”
“Constable Marsh.” She gave Amy’s hand a brisk shake. “Is Mr. Stratton available, too?”
“This way, please. Thank you for coming, Constable.” Amy led her through the hallway to the main house. “Michael?”
“Be right there.” The music from his studio cut out, and his footsteps crossed the upper hallway. He hurried down the stairs.
Amy still couldn’t believe Michael had allowed her to be alone in the gallery after the call.
His aunt joined them from the living room, and Amy understood. Aunt Bay had been keeping an ear out for trouble from here. Amy pressed her lips together. It was hard to be cross with people who wanted to protect her. Especially when some unknown person had other plans.
Michael led them into the kitchen to sit around the table.
After brief introductions, Constable Marsh met each one’s eyes and then settled on Amy. Once she’d heard Amy’s account and read the texts, she asked, “Do you have any enemies, Ms. Silver? Any dissatisfied customers here at the gallery? Angry ex-boyfriends?”
“Not personally, not that we know of, and no. Except someone doesn’t want me stirring up interest in the plane cra
sh that killed my fiancé.”
Constable Marsh looked at her notes. “I gathered that from your text conversation. Yet the crash investigators ruled it to be an accident.” Her eyes flicked to meet Amy’s. “I did my homework at the station.”
“Then you know it’s possible to sabotage a small plane without being detected.”
“I know that’s what they claim on the Internet.”
“My reporter friend has confirmed it with people in the industry. Pilots and mechanics.” Amy sat taller in her chair. “If our crash was an accident, why am I getting warnings — and threats?”
A patient, closed look spread across the officer’s face. “It could be any number of things. Friends or family of the deceased who dislike the implication that he had enemies.”
“The deceased had a name — Gilles Renaud. And a life, until someone took it.”
Marsh didn’t even blink. “Someone at the flight club who thinks it’s bad for business. Or someone with something against you personally, who sees this as an opportunity.”
Amy pressed her palms against the tabletop. “I’ve told my story, you’ve seen the texts. Do I need to sign anything?”
Constable Marsh shook her head. “I have all I need. Ms. Silver, this doesn’t give us much to go on, but we’ll be in touch. Be extra vigilant, and if you receive any further threatening communications, let us know at once.” She picked up her hat from the table and stood. “Thank you for your time. I’ll see myself out.”
Michael followed, but Amy stayed in her seat until their voices faded. “Excuse me, Aunt Bay. I need some air.”
She shoved her feet into a pair of muddy shoes she’d left by the back door, and clomped across the deck and down onto the grass. She didn’t stop until she reached the rocky stretch by the water.
Here under the trees the air was chilly, but anger could keep her warm for a while. A few of the rocks were big enough for seats. Amy perched on one, elbows on her knees, and stared at the ripples on the bay.
Wind. Tidal forces. Invisible to the eye, but their effects proved their presence. Why wouldn’t the authorities accept that the backlash to the idea of sabotage proved the possibility? Amy burned to phone Troy and insist he write an exposé about their wilful blindness.
Without Proof Page 11
