by Jacquie Gee
Mr. Andrews stands next to me wringing the sides of his felt hat. The tension drips off the crowd like sweat.
“Yes, sir.” The man in the work jumper shoots forward toward the bank, and my heart leaps at my throat.
The man moves quickly, dividing the crowd like Moses and the sea; like he’s afraid someone might strike him if he slows down.
Conway Construction the logo says on his back.
That is definitely not local.
“This way.” The man points, leading the crowd down to the dock, where the old barge floats, tied to the footings of the bridge. He scales the side of the bank, cautiously, then drops onto the winding pathway that travels along the river’s edge to the barge. The water is so loud, we can’t hear anything after that.
The crowd slowly disperses, following him. Gentlemen take the hands of the ladies. The elderly lean on the young.
Jebson lags behind, a sultry smirk on his face like he’s just eaten an albatross, feathers and all.
For the first time since this started, I’m worried.
“So, what do you think?” I ask Mr. Bates, catching up with him. He’s hung back from the crowd. We’ll be last to arrive.
Mr. Bates has always been a sensible man, a good friend of my father’s, a help to my mother. He shrugs. “Dunno what to say.” He nervously tamps down the worms in the can of dirt he’s holding.
“Has Jebson ever held a meeting like this before?”
“Yep. This is the second one this month.”
“And Mom didn’t know?”
“I believe she does. The first one was a bust. No one showed. But somehow, this time he’s managed to stir the pudding.”
My eyes fall on the gossiping Vera Williams, still at it as the crowd descends the bank.
“Last time, it was to present a proposal to ask the people to close the bridge.”
“Close it?”
“Um-hum. This time he’s come to tell them it’s closing.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard him out front with his officials talking about it.” Mr. Bates narrows his gaze and stares back at Jebson, who’s declined to take the trek with the rest of us, and waits at the top, by his car, instead. “Just like a Jefferies to change the manifest for his own personal gain.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said.” Bernie Bates stands tall. “Young Jebson stands to gain big if he can get this bridge to fall." I scowl up at him. "There's a government initiative to drive a highway straight through these parts to connect the rest of the world to Fredericton and the international shipping yard, faster. If Jebson can make it happen, he’ll be sitting pretty for a seat in parliament, at the big house up in Ottawa.”
“So that’s what he’s after.”
“Him and his Dad, I’m thinkin’.” Bernie smiles down at me. “It’s our job to make sure it doesn’t happen.” He chews the toothpick in his mouth. “It’s gonna be a tough one though. He’s got all his daddy’s connections behind him and his money.”
“So, how did he end up Mayor?”
“How do you think? The magic of politics.” Bernie winks, as we drop down onto the path.
“Why? Why, are they doing this? The government, I mean. Why do they need this land? This highway extension so badly. What do you suspect?”
“So, they have an excuse to rip up that forest.” Mr. Bates’ points up to the bluff. “That’s my guess. “Gives them an excuse to do away with the deforestation initiative and rape all the lumber outta there. Pure profit for the government, when you think of it, of a badly needed resource. They’ve been wanting to clear-cut the whole dang area for a number of years now. Young Jefferies’ll be a regular hero if he can make that lobbyist’s dream come true.”
I stagger through my next step. Mr. Bates makes good points. This area is a political hotbed just waiting to be harvested.
“That, man right there,” Bernie nods toward the man in the work jumper heading up the crowd.
“Yes.”
“He ain’t no Conway Construction worker. Ain't no Conway Construction ’round here. And that,” he points to the man in the suit, “that ain’t no Ministry official, either.”
“Who are they, then?”
“That’s a forester; I bet my life on it.” He points to the construction worker. “Either that, or he’s their dirty lobbyist. And the other is one of Jebson’s henchmen. I’m sure of it. I’ve seen him around here before.”
“You have to speak up then.”
“Oh, no...” he shakes his head. “Evidently, you ain't heard about old Mr. Drury.”
“What about him?”
“One week he’s in my store, happy as a lark, gonna get himself one point five million for his land out there by the highway. He’s gonna pack farmin’ in, and retire to Florida. The next week, he's found face down in his irrigation pond, dead. And not long after, a picture of the Jefferies, both young and old, appears in our paper, of them with some high faulting executive type from one of those big box outfits. There they were breaking ground for one of them new outdoor shoppin’ malls.” He looks to me. “You tell me that's a coincidence."
I’m breathless. “Are you suggesting?”
“I ain’t suggesting nothing.” He tilts his head. “I just smell a land grab when I see one. And I smell another about to go down right here.” He looks to the bridge.
“You think Mom’s in danger, then?”
“I think to build the highway they wanna build, they have to go through here, which means they gotta go through her. And that ain’t been as easy as they thought it was gonna be, so now things are escalating.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Over a year, I suspect. That’s how long I’ve been catching strangers snooping around.”
“You’re standing behind my mother then, I take it?”
“Most of us, are.” Bernie puffs up his chest. “Ain’t no good if the bridge goes down. Ain’t no good for any of us. Heartland Cove won’t even be on the map anymore.”
I’ve always loved Bernie Bates. He’s such a good soul. His daughter Jules, I’m not sure about, but Bernie’s heart is gold.
“Thank you,” I say, as we close in on the barge.
“There! Right there!” someone ahead of us yelps.
My eyes toggle up. The man in the jumper stands on the furthest edge of the barge, pointing up, as the crowd shuffles up to the railing and stretches their necks to see. Through the blazing sunlight of the day, hand shielding my eyes, I see it. The cut in the underside of the bridge’s the central support beam.
That wasn't there before. There's no way that was there before now.
“I see it, too!” Dora James shouts leaning out from the barge. “There! Right there!”
Someone or something has hacked a notch in it the thickness of my arm.
It’s true. Oh, great gobs, it’s true.
Chapter 27
“I can’t believe that man!” I burst through the door of Aunt Penny’s back apartment. The screen door slaps hard against its frame behind me.
“Who?” Aunt Penny whirls around, dust rag in her hand.
“Jebson Jefferies is a no good, rotten, piece of —”
“What has he done now?”
“He’s destroyed our bridge, that’s what!” I tear off my jacket and hurl it across the room.
“He’s done what?”
“Hired someone to take an ax to the underside of the bridge! While we were all asleep, I’m assuming.”
“How do you know that? Did he admit as much?” Aunt Penny lurches toward me.
“Of course, not. But I know it was him. Who else wants to see this bridge come down? Did you know he’s also claiming Mom knew the bridge was in need of repair and ignored it?”
“Repair? What repair?”
“Exactly!” I slam my fists down on the countertop. “He had a Ministry man there to back him up.”
“Where?”
�
��At the meeting on the other side of the bridge, just now. And why weren’t you there?”
Aunt Penny scowls, shaking her head.
“You didn’t know anything about it, did you?”
“No.”
I stare past her out the window across the street. “Neither did Mom. Or Trent.” I look back to the bridge. “They did this on purpose. They didn’t tell any of us on purpose! That’s why Vera Williams was outside Mom’s apartment this morning. She was looking for a story.” I turn my gaze back to my Aunt. “Mom needs to charge them all with destruction of property!”
“Simmer down now.” Aunt Penny flaps her hands. “No one’s charging anyone around here with anything.”
“Why not?”
She looks genuinely afraid.
“Jebson Jefferies has just had the bridge shut down!”
“Shut down?” Penny death-grips the back of the sofa. “He’s shut down our bridge?”
“As of ten minutes ago, yes.”
“For how long?”
“Until further notice.” I fling the order I was presented with onto the desk.
“He can’t do that, can’t he?”
“Well, he has.”
“But he has to notify your mother first.”
“You would think so.” I fold my arms.
“Well, there must be a way out of this. It can't be legal." She stares at the papers, shaking. "I don't understand this. How is this possible?"
“I don’t know either, but he’s done it. He inflicted a wound to the underside of the bridge, then used that to shut it down.” I pace. “Or had his cronies do it. He also claims the bridge is suffering from wood rot.”
“Wood rot?” Aunt Penny scowls.
“He has several other beams marked for destruction.”
“But there can’t be wood rot.” Aunt Penny’s brows bounce. “Your great-grandfather hand-oiled every truss and plank. There’s never been a sturdier, safer thing constructed. They doused every inch of every beam in creosote before it was put up, just like they do on the railroads.”
“I know, but it doesn’t matter because now it has a hole in it. A huge one notched right in the middle of the center beam.”
“How could that happen without any of us seeing them?” Aunt Penny falls back into a chair.
“I dunno.” I chew a nail.
“Wait,” Aunt Penny says.
“What?’
"A man milling around here the other day.” She looks up. “A stranger in a pair of coveralls. I didn’t have time to investigate, I was busy with a bus, but your mother said she’d look after it and went out to see what was going on.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember. I forgot to ask.”
“Oh, no. And it’s not likely she’ll remember.”
Aunt Penny’s gaze becomes alarmed. “You don’t suppose…”
“What?”
“She gave them permission to trespass, do you?”
“Who knows what she might have done.” I hug myself. “She’s not the most reliable source these days.
Aunt Penny’s jaw slackens. She fans herself. “What are we going to do now?”
“I don’t know.” I pace the floors. Knowing now that Mom may have given someone permission to inspect the bridge—a.k.a. damage it—how can we object? Especially when we don’t know what she said. I guess I’ll have to try and talk to her.
“The bridge is all we have,” Aunt Penny rambles. “Our only source of income. The tour buses. What if they cancel them?” She swings around. “They won’t come with the bridge shut down.”
“Yes, they will. The buses will just have to go around it.”
"No, they won't. They’ll go down the road to the Coochaquitamee instead.”
“Okay. Hold on. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” I grab her by the hands. “The buses can still come. They just won’t be able to drive through the bridge. I’m sure the tourists can still go on it. The order didn’t say anything about being closed to foot traffic. I don’t think.” I run to check the order.
“But what will be the point? The Coochaquitamee has so much more to offer. And they’re just off the highway.” Aunt Penny dissolves back into her chair. She looks about to faint.
“Stop,” I say. “Aunt Penny, look at me.” I slap her cheeks. “This is no good. We need to focus on solving the problem we have, not the ones that haven’t happened yet. We have to find a way to prove who did this. And expose them.”
“Do you think he acted alone?”
“I’m not sure.”
A terrible chill comes over me. I think of Trent for a brief moment, in the most wicked way.
Could he be? Is he involved in all this? Could he be in cahoots with Jebson? Did they just swindle my Mother out of her house and are now moving on to the bridge? Is this an elaborate land grab scheme, just like Mr. Bates thinks? I banish the thoughts just as quickly as they come, feeling instantly ashamed for thinking them.
“We should call the police!” Aunt Penny shouts.
“And tell them what?” I scowl her way. “We suspect a conspiracy? That’ll sound sane.”
The two of us share a strained look.
“No. There’s only one way to deal with this. We have to come up with a way to prove the bridge has been vandalized.”
“When I was down there clearing away garbage after the buses yesterday, I never thought to look up.” Aunt Penny’s bottom lip wobbles. “But I could lie. I could say it wasn’t there yesterday,” she offers, her eyes big.
“I would never let you do that.” I shake her by the shoulders and press her to my chest. “Besides, we’ll need evidence. Concrete evidence. They’ll never believe our word. Jebson would just have to argue that we couldn’t possibly have seen it from our side of the bridge, and he’d be right. It took a lot to see it just now. No, we need testimony from a stranger. Someone who saw the bridge intact before today." I chew a nail. "If only we had surveillance cameras.”
“We’ve never had the money for them,” Aunt Penny grunts.
“But maybe somebody else saw it.” I have an idea. “Maybe someone with a photo that would verify its condition.” I whirl around. “Maybe someone like a tourist!” I shout.
Aunt Penny’s eyes beam. “They were all over that bridge yesterday, snapping photographs, you’re right. Surely to goodness, one of them took a picture of the bridge from below looking up, they always do.” Aunt Penny’s face shines, then suddenly darkens again. “Assuming the damage only happened last night.”
“Believe me, it looked like a fresh wound. That notch in the beam was blonde, not oiled. Like someone gouged it out with the blade of an ax.” I bolt across the room retrieving my jacket from the chair and stuffing my arms through the sleeves. “If I can track down the tourists, and get my hands on a photo—”
“We can prove Jebson’s a rat!”
“Well maybe not that, but certainly one step closer.” I fly toward the door. “Where do the tour buses go once they leave here?” I shout back over my shoulder.
“To Fredericton overnight, then off to St. John.”
“Where in Fredericton?”
“Crowne Plaza Fredericton-Lord Beaverbrook.”
I race out the door.
“Becca!” I turn. “Please be careful.”
Chapter 28
I stomp the gas pedal to the floor, pulling out into the passing lane, overtaking a camper and two cars, then drop back into the driver’s lane. I should slow down, but I’ve gotta catch that bus.
One good thing about New Brunswick’s highways is they’re never that busy. Even in high tourist season. It’s just endless kilometers of barren road and a whole lot of trees…and the one-hundred-ten-kilometer-speed limit doesn’t hurt either. It means you can go 120 km and still be within the legal limit—sort of. Pretty much, as long as you don’t ride the passing lane the whole way, the cops’ll leave you alone.
They’re too busy scraping moose guts off the highway to worry ab
out speeders.
Which reminds me, if one were to meander out of the woods right now, I’d be as dead as a stone.
The lights on the moose sign at the side of the road activate, flashing yellow warning of animals possibly crossing up ahead, and I’m struck by momentary panic. I’ve never been so glad to see the turnoff for downtown Fredericton. I take the exit ramp, a little faster than I probably should, and am smack into the heart of the quaint, quiet city. I slam on the breaks and slow down to official city crawl, taking the back streets all the way down to the waterfront. Crowne Plaza Fredericton-Lord Beaverbrook. There it is, looking out over the ocean to the right of the old parliament. What a beautiful location.
I pull into its circle driveway, throw up the emergency break, and burst from the car. Four tour buses are idling outside. That’s gotta be a good sign, right? I take note, and I race through the doors, quickly scanning the sides of the buses behind me for any sign of Ginran Lin Tours. Nope. Let’s not give up hope. I dash through the turnstile glass doors and into the hotel’s main, marble floor lobby.
The marble floors crackle under the slap of my sandals as I dash across the floor to the check-in counter. The lobby is full, and they all have luggage. Shockingly long lines await customer service. Are they checking in or out?
Impatient hotel guests stare over their shoulders at me as I sneak up the line and to the front.
“Excuse me,” I say, addressing the young girl behind the check-in desk. The girl doesn’t raise her head, just keeps on serving the customer in front of her. “This won’t take a minute. I only have a question,” I try again, but she doesn’t care. She glances, quickly flashing her eyes at me, trying to give me the hint to get lost, but I don’t take it. “Are those tour buses arriving or departing?” I point behind my head.
“Departing,” she mumbles, looking down again.
“Are they by any chance the tour buses that came in from Heartland Cove yesterday?” The guest glares in my direction. “Sorry,” I say. "I know I said one…but I actually have two.” I show him the question count with my fingers.
