Prisoners of Hope

by Barbara Fradkin

  His hands shook so much that Amanda suspected he was only a few sips away from total emotional collapse. She moved to avert it. “What was there between him and Janine Saint Clair?”

  “Well, those were the people that used him, eh? The summer people? They’d hire him to play at their dances and teach their kids kayaking. They even all played together at the club as kids. But he was never one of them. Not when it came to fancy parties or sleepovers or invites to the city. Especially when he got to be a good-looking lad with a charm the daddies didn’t like.” He slammed his glass down and struggled to his feet. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean that. Duncan Saint Clair was a decent man, always supported the community. He was just blind where his girls were concerned.”

  Chris blocked his wavering path toward the door. “George, you’re in no shape to drive home.”

  “Gotta go home in case the police have news.”

  “They have your cellphone number. I’m going to fix you up in the spare bedroom.”

  George lurched forward. “I should go home.”

  Amanda threw subtlety out the window. “Did the police tell you Ronny phoned Janine the day he died?”

  George clutched the doorframe. Blinked. “He hasn’t spoken to her in years.”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t need to know that. Chris, where’s that bed? I need to lie down.”

  He collapsed across the spare bed before Chris could even lay a sheet over it. Chris pulled off his boots, drew a blanket up, and cracked open the window for some fresh air.

  It was the next morning before he emerged, red-eyed and slack-jawed, and headed for the bathroom. Five minutes later, purged and shaky, he sank into a rickety chair at the kitchen table and accepted the cup of coffee Amanda poured him.

  “He got her pregnant. At least he thought it was his. She said it wasn’t. But the dates fit. It all fit. And when I look at Kaitlyn, more and more as she grows up, I see Ronny’s mother in her. But …” He shrugged, wincing as pain shot through his head. “The Saint Clairs banded together, said it wasn’t his, lawyered up, and refused to even let him near the kid. That’s what I can’t forgive that bitch for. He wasn’t trying to shake them down, he didn’t want their money, and he sure as hell didn’t want Janine! But he was excited to have a daughter. Every summer he watched her grow up, worried if she seemed too moody, too alone, too wild. He would have loved to teach her things. Kids love Ronny, and it would have done no harm.”

  The sound of sizzling butter filled the silence as Chris tossed eggs into a frying pan. Both he and Amanda said nothing as George gripped his coffee in two hands and took a shaky sip.

  “So there. That’s the story you didn’t need to know. Except maybe it explains why he fell for Danielle’s sob story. He knew what the Saint Clairs were capable of. And the chance for a little payback would be nice too.”

  “Does Kaitlyn know?”

  George shrugged and looked with dismay at the scrambled eggs Chris put before him. “Who knows what story they fed her? But she’s a smart young lady. And rumours around here never die. But I’ll tell you something. The time for the Saint Clairs to run the show is over. I’ve lost my son. Now, by God, I’m going to claim my granddaughter.”

  By the time they had restored George sufficiently to steer him into his truck, the morning sky had turned bruised and angry. A cold wind blew off the lake, and a few raindrops lashed the ground. Chris stood in the cabin doorway and scowled at the curtain of rain advancing across the channel.

  “Our last day. What a bummer. What should we do with it?”

  “I need to round up another outfitter,” Amanda said. “George is in no shape to do it next month.”

  “I think you should give him the option. He might welcome the distraction.”

  “To take care of a bunch of mothers and their kids?” She grimaced. “That would be the worst kind of reminder.”

  “But let him be the one to say no. Give him a few days.”

  She leaned into his arms, relishing his practical calm. He was right, of course. Rushing headlong into fix-it mode wasn’t always the best. “I wonder what he’s going to do, how he’ll handle the Saint Clairs. He seemed ready to roar over to the island and demand his rights.”

  “He wouldn’t have much luck with that,” Chris said. “They’ve all gone back to the city to plan for the funeral.”

  “Oh God, not all. Not Kaitlyn, remember?” She thought back over her encounters with the girl. Sneaking up to the island, seeking solace in the arms of her Aunt Venetia. And most strikingly, that first time when she pretended not to care about Benson’s death, while tears dripped down her cheeks onto Kaylee’s fur. All children seek a connection with their parents, none more than those who don’t have them. Adopted children, no matter how much they love their adoptive families, harbour dreams, hurts, and hopes about their birth parents. Fatherless children filled the void with fantasies.

  If Kaitlyn had any suspicion that Ronny was her father, she might have watched him secretly for years, just as he had her. She might have built up a relationship in her mind and fantasized about the moment of their union. It was bad enough that she had lost her stepfather, who by all accounts had been a supportive, loving man, but if she had heard about Ronny’s death, she knew her fantasy father was gone too.

  And into this maelstrom of teenage anguish, George would charge with his own desperate need.

  “We should probably stop him,” she said, pulling away from Chris and turning to the cabin. “In case he’s heading straight out to look for Kaitlyn. In the mood he’s in, now is not the time for either of them.”

  “Don’t meddle, Amanda.”

  She was already pulling on her raincoat. “I won’t meddle. I’d just like to …” She stopped. What would she do? “I don’t know. Get to her before he does.” She grabbed Kaylee’s leash, called the dog to her, and headed out the door. “Coming?”

  He muttered a curse but yanked his jacket off the peg. Once they were in the truck, he glared at her. “Where are we going?”

  “Let’s start with Venetia, the woman we met at the Chippewa Club. Even if Kaitlyn is not at her place anymore, hopefully she will know where she’s gone.”

  “And where’s Venetia?”

  She ignored the sarcasm in his tone. “We’ll ask in Pointe au Baril. It’s a small place, so someone will know where Venetia Lawless lives. Not too many with that name.”

  In fact, the first person they asked, a contractor loading lumber onto his steel barge down at the dock, knew exactly where Venetia lived. “Venetia? Yeah, follow this road around the shore, keep right, and right again, hug the shore, and it’s the little green house up the hill on the left. Can’t miss it.”

  They did miss it, twice, as they followed the twisting shore road around the points and bays, peering at the various possible turn-offs. Dark, brooding clouds sulked overhead, but the rain had eased up to a drizzle. Some of the waterfront homes were extravagant, hidden behind screens of cedar or lushly blooming lilac, while others were older and more decrepit, with assorted vehicles, sheds, and woodpiles cluttering the yards. The little green house was perched on a rocky outcrop across the road from the lakefront, its roof sagging and its paint peeling.

  “If Venetia is a blood relation, she sure drew the short straw in the family inheritance lottery,” Chris observed dryly as he navigated the truck up the steep, rocky drive. “Have you figured out what you’re going to say to her?”

  “The truth,” Amanda said. “Venetia seems like a straight-up woman, and we don’t have time to butter her up anyway.”

  Chris parked his truck behind an aging Subaru on the patch of gravel that passed for a drive, and before they could even climb out, the screen door banged open and a large black Lab puppy tumbled down the steps. Venetia was on its heels, shouting. Her commands fell on deaf puppy ears.

  Kaylee leaped out of the truck, and the two dogs began racing around the vehicle. Venetia watched for a moment before shrugging in defeat and
turned to Chris and Amanda with a quizzical frown. “Hello again.”

  “You’ve got the puppy!” Amanda blurted out.

  Venetia looked startled. “Yes. I’ve only had him a couple of days, so …” Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, the puppy?”

  Amanda spoke quickly to head off the woman’s outrage. She explained about being with Ronny when they picked up Danielle and about going to the Saint Clair cottage with Candace. She apologized for their earlier deception at the Chippewa Club and admitted that although they were indeed taken with the little island cottage for sale, it was not their main reason for being in Georgian Bay. But none of that was as important as the news they brought today.

  “Ronny Gifford has been found murdered,” she said bluntly. “In fact, Chris and I found the body yesterday on Franklin Island.”

  Venetia had crossed her arms across her chest as Amanda explained their deception, and the expression on her plain, lumpy face remained stony. Not a flicker of shock or sorrow at the news of Ronny’s death. Did she already know? Amanda wondered as she rushed on. “But the reason we’re here now is that George Gifford is on a mission.” She glanced through the screen door into the darkened cabin. “Is Kaitlyn here?”

  Now Venetia’s expression changed. Hardened. “No,” she snapped.

  “George thinks Kaitlyn is his granddaughter. Ronny’s child.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” Amanda waited, letting the question sit in the silent space between them. Venetia could have filled it with protests, but she did not. Instead, she watched the dogs, who had stopped for breath, tongues lolling. “Does Kaitlyn know?”

  Venetia pressed her lips together. Emotions warred across her face. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “She may suspect. She used to ask who her father was until Janine flat-out told her it wasn’t important. He wasn’t important.”

  “Which is like telling a child half their life story is blank. What a terrible thing to do to a child.”

  Venetia hesitated, her gaze wavering. She snatched a ratty sweater from a peg on the wall and gestured to three old wicker chairs grouped on the porch. “You might as well sit down.”

  The chairs were wet, but Venetia seemed oblivious as she sank back with a sigh. “I did tell Janine it was a bad way to handle it, but Janine only thinks what she wants to think. And to her, Ronny was erased from her life.”

  “Why?”

  “Because …” Venetia shrugged. “Because he didn’t fit her image of the Prince Consort. Because her father wouldn’t have it, because he accused her of slumming. Apparently, only the male members of the family are allowed to do that. I should know.” She shook her head sharply. “Not that any of this matters now. What is George Gifford planning to do?”

  “He wants a relationship with his only remaining flesh and blood.”

  “Now? Today? Is that why you’ve come racing over here?”

  Amanda felt a twinge of annoyance. “I don’t know what he’s planning, and you can do what you please with the information. But in his mood, I thought you should be prepared. Does Kaitlyn know Ronny is dead?”

  Venetia dropped her gaze and fiddled with her large, knobby fingers. “Maybe,” she muttered. “She’s always on that damn phone, so if there was anything on the news.…”

  “Or on someone’s Instagram or Facebook.” Amanda turned on her phone and scrolled through the latest local news alerts. On Twitter she found a tweet about his death with a link that opened into a memorial Facebook page already filled with photos and reminiscences. Ronny, gap-toothed and goofing around on a skateboard, strutting on stage, paddling white­water. The last photo, posted a mere half hour ago, showed Ronny posing on a dock that Amanda recognized as Saint Clair Island. He was tipping his baseball cap playfully at the photographer. There was no caption, but the poster was Kaitlyn Saint Clair.

  “Damn,” Venetia muttered when Amanda showed it to her. “She rushed out of the house about an hour ago.”

  “Where to?”

  She pointed up the hill behind the house. The dogs had resumed their chase and now looped wide circles around the yard. “She probably took her kayak. It’s in the back creek on the other side. Not many other places to go around here.”

  Amanda wondered whether Kaitlyn was headed out to the island to finish what she’d been trying to do when they’d spotted her two days earlier. “It looks as if she and Ronny had a friendship of sorts,” she said. “His way of getting close to her. Did you know he also kept track of Benson’s photos online? Maybe also as a way of keeping tabs.”

  “Janine would never tolerate a friendship. He wasn’t even allowed on the island. So this …” Venetia tapped the photo. “This was behind Janine’s back.”

  Amanda took the phone back and accessed Benson’s photos, scrolling through them until she came to the one of Danielle and the construction worker. “Do you know who this guy is?”

  Venetia squinted at the poorly defined face. “That looks like Julio.”

  “Who’s Julio?”

  “A handyman who’s been working on the cottage, just seasonal repair stuff. With an old cottage, there’s always something. He’s not local. Benson brought him up from Toronto.”

  “Was he staying over on the island?”

  “No, he’s staying at one of the Saint Clair cottages across the channel on the mainland. I sometimes saw him paddling over to the island in the morning.”

  Amanda tried to keep her voice casual. “From the looks of the photo, he and Danielle know each other. Did you ever see them together?”

  “I don’t get out to the island often.” She grimaced. “Actually, not ever. It’s not big enough for Janine and me.”

  “Has Kaitlyn mentioned him?”

  Venetia shook her head. “But he’d only been there for a week or so. And Kaitlyn hasn’t been talking about much of anything since she came to stay here.”

  While Amanda’s mind raced ahead along this track in search of more questions, Chris leaned in. “Where is this place he’s renting? Far from here?”

  “In Skerryvore. It’s not far by canoe out the back route behind here.” She gestured over the cottage in the same direction Kaitlyn had gone. “But it’s very roundabout by road.”

  “Amanda, let’s head over and see if he’s there. I have a couple of questions for him.” He had put on his cop voice, and even his shoulders seemed to straighten as he unfolded himself from the chair. “I think it’s better if Venetia handles Kaitlyn — and George, if he shows up — her own way.”

  Amanda was startled but followed him without protest, calling Kaylee to get into the truck. Chris had something on his mind. She waited until he had turned the truck around before asking. “Okay, what gives?”

  They lurched down the rocky lane with Kaylee sprawled on the console between them, panting. “This guy Julio is a loose end,” Chris said. “We’ve got nothing but fragments of the puzzle. He’s up from Toronto, Benson hired him, and Benson obviously saw Danielle talking to him, because he took a picture of them. Could be innocent. But I want to see if he’s still there or if he’s taken off like Danielle.”

  She liked the thrill of the chase, but she sensed an unusual urgency as he accelerated around the twisty curves. She hung on to the dog with one hand and the shoulder strap with the other. “But that’s not all, is it?”

  He shrugged and made an effort to slow down. “Call it a cop hunch.”

  “What hunch?”

  “The guy could be back in Toronto by now, especially since he couldn’t have continued to work at the cottage.”

  She studied his intense profile. “But Kaitlyn headed off somewhere in a kayak an hour ago. And you’re thinking … him?”

  “Like I said, nothing but a bad feeling.”

  “But why would she go to him?”

  “She’s hiding something. Why would she try to sneak back on the island? And why would she leave Venetia’s place right after learning about Ronny’s death? What if she knows some
thing? Saw something? And what if she thinks this guy is involved in Ronny’s death? Her dad’s death?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The drive to Skerryvore stretched on forever through dense forests and rocky clearings. They passed only two other vehicles, both pickups of indeterminate age and colour. Once again, they were guided only by vague directions, although Venetia had given them a street address, which they punched into Chris’s GPS.

  “But it’s not much of a road by then,” she’d said. “More a track. Look for the smallest cottage at the end of it. It’s an original log home. The Saint Clairs own it and sometimes use it if they’re stuck on the mainland by bad weather.”

  The small community of Skerryvore occupied a peninsula surrounded by water, so there was little chance of getting lost. The modest cottages were tucked into the trees and scattered along the waterfront, creating a relaxed, natural feel. There were almost no vehicles in sight. They looped along the gravel road until it petered out, and at the end they found tire tracks continuing on through the mud.

  Chris stopped and leaned out to eye the track dubiously before announcing they would walk from there. As they climbed out of the truck, he put a restraining hand on Kaylee. “I want her to stay in the truck.”

  “She’ll have a fit.”

  “We don’t know what we’re facing. I don’t want her to bark and warn them.”

  “Okay,” Amanda said, reluctantly shutting the truck door and pulling her hood up against the chill. “But I can’t promise she won’t howl.”

  Chris grinned. “Just like her mom. Has to be in the thick of things.”

  True to the prediction, Kaylee began to howl the minute they left but fortunately stopped once they rounded a bend out of sight. Ahead of them was a rustic log cabin with a dock overlooking the sullen grey water of the bay. Islands were sprinkled about, obscuring the view across the main channel, but Amanda suspected Saint Clair Island was directly opposite.

  The cabin stood cute and proud on its rock, commanding the bay. It was in good repair; the winter’s debris had been swept off the deck, the windows sparkled, and a pair of freshly painted Muskoka chairs sat on the deck. Two kayaks were overturned side by side on the shore, and a small runabout was still under a tarp beside the house. Despite the tire tracks, however, there were no vehicles parked in the lane.