The Fundy Vault

by Linda Moore

  Praise for the Rosalind Mystery series

  The Fundy Vault

  “The Fundy Vault is a page-turner with gravitas.… Corporate thugs, implicated local authorities, and a theatre cast’s foreboding lines from Samuel Beckett conspire to pull us into an undertow of suspense.”

  –Patricia Reis, author of Motherlines and Women’s Voices

  “An excellent follow-up to Foul Deeds, this is more than just a mystery: it’s a love story to the Bay of Fundy and to the art of making theatre. A very timely crime brings back the characters I loved in the first Rosalind Mystery…. Couldn’t put it down. This is a cracking summer read!”

  –David McClelland, actor, filmmaker, director

  “Linda Moore has rooted her story so deeply in this place you can almost feel the sand under your feet and the water dripping from its caves. Moore’s characters are feisty, her plots intriguing, and she writes with a light, intelligent touch. I’m so happy to see this new Rosalind Mystery. May there be many more.”

  –Wendy Lill, Governor General’s Award–nominated playwright

  “From the breathtaking natural power of the Fundy coast to the uncanny beauty of a Beckett play, Linda Moore’s latest Rosalind Mystery sweeps the reader along on a rising tide of suspense with a plot that is action-packed, timely, and full of dramatic tension.”

  –Janet Munsil, award-winning playwright

  “Moore’s deft plotting and flowing dialogue brings us a compelling story of modern greed in a timeless place. Nova Scotia’s Bay of Fundy is a sweeping backdrop to a suspenseful, well-wrought story. Rosalind’s oddball troupe of actors parses Samuel Beckett’s short plays, and his dystopic view of the human condition has an eerie resonance with the cynical crime she witnesses. Compelling and well paced, Moore’s second Rosalind Mystery transports us with insight, wit and engaging characters.”

  –Mary-Colin Chisholm, award-winning actor, director, artistic co-director of LunaSea Theatre, and playwright

  “Linda Moore, a Canadian original, has been creating dynamic narratives in the theatre for forty years. In The Fundy Vault, Ms. Moore spins the story with such intimacy and Beckettian craft, I felt as though I was sitting in her study being told the tale by candlelight, the Nova Scotian wind rattling the windowpanes.”

  –Dean Gabourie, artistic director

  “The characters, as in Foul Deeds, continue their fascination and the plot keeps us totally on edge…a page turner.”

  –Leon Major, first artistic director, Neptune Theatre

  Foul Deeds

  “Like Shakespeare, Linda Moore understands the human heart and the foul deeds to which our hearts can sometimes drive us. From beginning to end, this novel is riveting.”

  –Gail Bowen, author of the Joanne Kilbourn mysteries

  “A fast-paced tale that gets both the intellect and the heart racing. Bravo.”

  –Louise Penny, author of Still Life and Dead Cold

  “Foul Deeds is a riveting variation on the theme of life imitating art […] an outstanding debut.”

  –Hamilton Spectator

  “Well paced, with clearly defined characters, Foul Deeds is at once brainy and funny—enlightening and entertaining without being overly-intellectual.”

  –Atlantic Books Today

  “An amusing story with lots of asides and funny bits of theatrical lore—and a decent whodunit.”

  –Globe and Mail

  “Moore is adept at incorporating arcane knowledge of Shakespeare’s work into the story with a light touch. The mystery is plausible and the characters are believable.”

  –Chronicle Herald (Halifax)

  “Devoured the book. Loved the characters and the story was really smart and compelling.”

  –Daniel MacIvor, award-winning playwright

  Copyright © 2016, Linda Moore

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Nimbus Publishing Limited

  3731 Mackintosh St, Halifax, NS B3K 5A5

  (902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca

  Printed and bound in Canada

  NB1229

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Excerpts from “Rockaby,” copyright © 1981 by Samuel Beckett. Used by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited.

  Excerpts from “Waiting for Godot,” copyright © 1954 by Grove Press, Inc.; Copyright renewed 1982 by Samuel Beckett. Used by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited.

  Excerpts from “The Collected Shorter Plays” by Samuel Beckett, copyright © 1982 by the Estate of Samuel Beckett. Used by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Moore, Linda, 1950-, author

  The Fundy vault / Linda Moore.

  (A Rosalind mystery) Sequel to: Foul deeds.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77108-421-5 (paperback). —ISBN 978-1-77108-422-2 (html)

  I. Title. II. Series: Moore, Linda, 1950- . Rosalind mystery.

  PS8626.O5945F86 2016 C813’.6 C2016-903746-0

  C2016-903747-9

  Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Province of Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

  To the Bay of Fundy

  Acknowledgements

  Whitney Moran, senior editor of Nimbus, for thoughtful encouragement and oversight in bringing this project to completion

  Kate Kennedy, editor, for tireless attention to detail and guidance

  Sandra McIntryre, founder of Vagrant Press, who provided excellent editorial advice during the early days of this project

  E. Alex Pierce for passionate, profound insight throughout

  Jim Harrod for geological ruminations

  Lulu Keating for generous feedback on every visit home, and the wise listeners:Sandy Moore, Patricia Reis, Carolyn Hethrington, Paula Danckert, Mary-Ellen MacLean, Wendy Katherine, and Christina Wheelwright

  The long-ago porch party on Longspell Road, where I read the first two chapters and this undertaking began in earnest

  The late great Jest in Time Theatre Company, and our unforgettable expedition into the Beckett oeuvre

  Chapter 1

  If I had just kept my nose in my book—if only I hadn’t looked up when I heard the crows…

  I was renting a cottage on the Minas Basin, along the coast that runs from Kingsport, Nova Scotia, up to Cape Blomidon. It would be a much-needed break from my job in Halifax, and a chance to recharge my batteries. It was 6 o’clock and the spring morning was surprisingly warm. I couldn’t wait to get out there.

  I shoved an orange and a couple of books into my old rucksack, stepped out, and crossed the grass to the edge of the bluff. To the east the
sun was climbing over the basin. Below me, the tide was on its way out, revealing vast stretches of sand and clay.

  I climbed down to the beach via several rickety apple ladders strung together from the clifftop to the rocky base. The gulls were scrapping over the tiny crabs, mussels, and other tasty bits being served up as the water’s edge receded. A little further into the wash, the herons stood, silent and tall, perusing their spoils.

  I picked my way through the rocks to the smooth red sand. To my right I could see the village pier about half a mile from where I stood. Just before the pier was a public beach where a couple of dogs were jouking about in the water. Otherwise, all was deserted.

  Glorious solitude!

  We were only a couple of days into June, yet the sun on my arms felt as warm as midsummer. I spread out a towel, sat, and leaned my back against a large rock, breathed deep, and felt the stress of a hectic winter drop away.

  For once in my life I had a real job, and it included a real vacation. I was a trained criminologist. My proving ground had been the several years I’d spent freelancing with my irascible old pal, Private Investigator McBride. While often a choice of last resort, McBride had shown himself best in the business. Wily and intuitive, he could untangle the knots of a crime like no one else—and often managed to solve cases that had been long abandoned by the law.

  But almost a year ago, I had begun working as a full-time researcher with the Public Prosecution Service. While I was eager to have the job, the rampant greed and corruption that characterized most crimes we prosecuted was overwhelming, and I was ready for a breather.

  Despite my full-time job, I was determined to eke out a place for my other occupation—or obsession, perhaps—as a dramaturg, assisting theatre artists on plays they were producing. I had just begun an intriguing project with a small but mighty physical theatre company, putting together a presentation of short dramatic works by the Irish playwright Samuel Beckett. We were selecting the pieces we wanted to explore, and I had brought along several Beckett scripts and a variety of books about his life and writing. This luxurious vacation would give me time to zero in on the material without distractions.

  I was digging through my rucksack for the script of his play Catastrophe, a brief but startling political metaphor, when a gang of nearby crows erupted in a rowdy fracas.

  I looked up and over to my left. There they were! At least two dozen of them, their black wings shiny in the sun. They were gathered in the dense treetops over Longspell Point, which juts into the Minas Basin where the shoreline turns to the north.

  No wonder they call them a murder of crows, I thought. That racket would do anybody in!

  A sudden sharp breeze blew in from the northeast, strong enough to push along an enormous floating tree trunk with a craggy mass of black gnarled roots. Many of the branches were broken and dragging through the water, but some still reached up, leafing in vain. Several of the crows launched together, flew out over the water, and circled the broken tree as it rounded the point. It was moving rapidly from my far left into the middle of the basin in front of me. The details were too far away to discern, but there appeared to be some brightly coloured blue and red cloth snarled into the roots—a towel perhaps. I took off my sunglasses, leaned forward, and squinted, trying to see.

  Then I stood, alarmed. I started running along the shore towards the village pier, hoping to find someone who might corroborate what I was seeing. Coming towards me was a woman walking the two dogs I had seen playing earlier, a little yappy dog and a very large dog.

  “Hi,” I said, stopping in front of her and catching my breath. “I’m Rosalind…I’m renting—”

  “Lovely morning.” She extended her hand. “Grace.”

  I shook it. “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “What is it?”

  “Do you see that fallen tree way out there being blown towards the opposite shore?”

  “Oh, yes, that’s not an uncommon sight,” she responded. “It’s the erosion, especially in the spring—the trees crash down off the bluff onto the beach. Then they’re tossed about by the wind and the tides, and pulled into open water.”

  “But is it just me, or can you make out something very strange there—wound into the roots. See the coloured cloth—the sheet or whatever….”

  “How do you mean strange?” she asked.

  “Like…a person?”

  We were facing south and the sun was still climbing just to the east of where we were looking. She put her hand up to shade her eyes and moved towards the water’s edge. The crows were still making a ruckus, circling the trunk, landing, flying. “I do see something tangled there, but a person? No, I’d say that’s a little far-fetched. I’d say it’s floating plastic and garbage that’s gotten caught in the roots. There’s more and more debris out there these days, unfortunately.”

  “But the crows….”

  “Well, crows are scavengers—they love garbage, don’t they? Nice to meet you, Rosalind. Enjoy your stay. On we go!”

  “And carrion. They love carrion,” I muttered, as she continued on towards the point, her two dogs frolicking ahead of her.

  Was she right? Was I just imagining an actual person caught there? I looked out across the water once again. I tried not to see them, but I could still discern human arms tangled into the dark roots.

  Pursuing this “far-fetched” notion was the last thing I wanted to do. I was here to escape, if only for a couple of weeks, from the grim realities of crime. That was my plan: nature’s beauty, Beckett, and lots of sleep.

  I threw my things into my rucksack and clambered back up the apple ladders. I stood in the glassed-in porch holding the shiny new BlackBerry I had purchased just before leaving Halifax. I wasn’t sure where to start but I decided to call the nearest fire department.

  The fellow who answered—Stan—asked if I was from the city, called me dear, and spoke at length about the tides. “Six hours and thirteen minutes out, six hours and thirteen minutes in,” he said. As to what I thought I had seen, he shared Grace’s skepticism. He suggested I alert the RCMP if I was really concerned.

  Within half an hour two young officers rolled up to my rented cottage. I watched them as they stood on the cliff’s edge with their high-powered binoculars trying to determine whether this was a wild goose chase. A stronger wind was now blowing from the east and had pushed the floating mass of branches around so its roots faced the opposite shore. This made it almost impossible to see the lower section of the trunk from where we stood. Constable Brad Cudmore lowered his binoculars and looked around. “Pretty nice out here eh?”

  I nodded.

  He glanced over at his partner and then strolled off towards the cruiser. Clearly, he was done. His partner, Corporal Riley Monaghan, a sparky young woman no taller than five feet, was showing more determination. She moved a few steps along the cliff’s edge and looked again, and then repeated the action.

  “Come on!” she said, encouraging the tree. “Come on, turn a little bit more, just a little bit more…oh my sweet Jesus!” she suddenly blurted. “You’re right—I think it is a person—a woman? Yup, you’re right! I see her now—you can almost see her face. Take a look.” She thrust her binoculars at me, as the startled Constable Cudmore lurched up from the rear fender and hustled back towards us. I lifted the binoculars.

  Yes, there she was! The crystal clear image caught my breath. She had red hair and her skin was so pale as to be almost blue, her arms reaching into the dark roots. She looked like Ophelia in the pre-Raphaelite drowning paintings except her body was wound in what I now realized was neither a towel nor a sheet.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I wondered aloud.

  Corporal Riley Monaghan nodded. “Yes, Ma’am—you’re not just whistling Dixie. That’s an American flag.”

  Chapter 2

  I had no choice. I had to call McBride.

&nb
sp; “So, she’s dead?” he asked.

  “She looks dead,” I replied. “The RCMP think so—they’re arranging a Zodiac, or some kind of boat for high tide. When I told them I was a criminologist, they agreed to let me ride along. Why don’t you drive out here, McBride? Come and take a look! Bring Molly—she’d love a run on the beach.” Molly was McBride’s black lab—and a bona fide member of the team, having saved us both from harm on more than one occasion.

  “I don’t know, Roz. Molly’s depressed,” McBride said. “Doesn’t want to go out…she just lies on the hall carpet all day and sighs. She misses Sophie.”

  “Oh, I see, it’s Molly’s fault you haven’t left your house in over a week. You’re sure that’s not you lying on the hall carpet moping about Sophie? Get off your duff, McBride. Come and do a little investigating.”

  Sophie was an old and dear theatre friend of mine, an actress, who had met McBride during a murder case he and I were working on. She had been abducted while getting information for us from an informer, and McBride had heroically rescued her. This precipitated a passionate romance between them, and on an impulse they decided to get married. Now time had passed, and Sophie was taking a little hiatus from the marriage. A few weeks prior, she had made an abrupt decision to go to Toronto to follow up on some audition possibilities and hadn’t let McBride know when she’d be coming home. I’d been doing my best to keep my advice and opinions out of it—but I had seen the rocky road ahead, even before the wedding.

  “Hang on,” I said. I could hear the distinct rhythm of a helicopter. I looked out through the large porch windows. Flying low, it advanced across the Minas Basin and hovered over the broken tree trunk, which by now had been blown further towards the opposite shore and was partly bobbing in the surf and caught on an emerging sandbar.

  “It looks like the Mounties aren’t going to wait for the tide,” I said. “They’ve called in a chopper.”