Holly shrugged and ticked off points. “We have an expensive flight she didn’t take. Talk of more money in small, transferable bills, like a getaway stash. I don’t know if I told you that Mom closed out a joint account with my father before she disappeared. He didn’t even tell me at the time. It wasn’t important to him.”
Her auntie stared at her then snapped off a sentence like the crack of a whip. “She did not
steal
it.”
Holly spoke with caution as she saw the hurt on Stella’s face. “Of course not. I wasn’t saying that.” Despite the cider, her mouth felt dry. “It’s possible she was helping someone leave the island. A woman, of course. But who?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“So you agree with me.” She had never been privy to the inner workings of her mother’s trade. It was as if Bonnie were Superwoman and that to intrude upon the prosaic details of her business would have spoiled the magic. More than that, Holly had been a typical teenager, not a biographer. By little more than osmosis, she knew her parents’ parents, where they had been born, where Bonnie and Norman had studied and lived as adults. Self-absorbed as she was, nothing more concerned her.
“She helped many women get away from abusive relationships. Sometimes when mediation or intervention failed, that was the only choice.” Stella’s crossed arms indicated that she’d brook no criticism about Bonnie for taking that risk.
So her job had been more than arranging for support. Halfway houses, access to training and education. “What does ‘get away’ mean exactly?” Had Holly’s father known the risks Bonnie was taking? Or wouldn’t he dare to ask? The answer for someone in that ivory tower was obvious. It was a miracle that their marriage had lasted as long as it had.
“Get away and stay away. Start new lives with different identities. It was harder with young children.”
“Different identities? Easier ten years ago, but it costs money, no matter how often it occurs in the movies.”
These details were sketching a new and fearful picture of her mother. Money changing hands. Secret plane trips. Angry men looking for her. “Sounds like she should have carried a gun,” Holly said, regretting as a law-abiding Canadian the very idea.
Stella’s even white teeth showed in an amused smile. “What makes you think she didn’t?”
“Did she mention any names?”
“Never. Bonnie was very disciplined. It was better that I not know. She would tell me that she’d had a call from this one and that, that they thanked her. Nothing written, either. That’s why she had so few files. She liked keeping things in her head. Bonnie had a photographic memory.” Stella tapped her temple with one stubby finger.
Holly remembered how her mother could read a page and recall it days later. She envied that gift. Norman used to joke about Bonnie never needing to pull an all-nighter. “But it’s a burden, too,” Bonnie would say. “Just try to forget what torments you. That’s impossible.”
Holly’s head was whirling. She needed to get organized, to take one small step at a time. Start with the cold facts. “Is this Otter Aviation place still on Poirier Road like the receipt says?”
Stella’s brow furrowed. “I’m not familiar with the new owners. They fly a lot of rich people around the island and to the mainland. Fishing, hunting, even honeymoons. Your second cousin Terry Hart used to work there as a mechanic.”
“Used to? What happened to Terry?”
“Now he’s in Sidney at Eagle Air. He does well for his wife and children. The training he got paid off.”
Stella sent Holly off with a half dozen muffins, a bag of dried Winston apple rings, and a jar of blackberry preserves. “Don’t be a stranger. You are home now. Come to the games this summer.”
“I’ll try. In another few years I could be transferred.” It could be anywhere across the country. She was here now, and she had to make the best use of her time.
Stella placed her hand over her heart. “A job is important, but without family we are rolling stones. Do not waste a minute. Something sent you back.”
“Are you talking about fate? Karma?” Holly searched her auntie’s face for the pride she had seen there as a child. But pride was earned.
“The exact words do not signify. In all beliefs, the meaning is the same. Justice.”
A bark sounded from outside. Stella waved her off. “You’re on a trail now. You won’t disappoint me.”
The old woman showed such trust and confidence. Holly gulped back a lump in her throat and thought about her next move. The later afternoon was heating up, warmer than she was used to with the strait winds. She brushed a bead of sweat from her lip.
* * *
Otter Aviation occupied several acres out of town down Route 1, outside the tourist mecca of Chemainus with its famous murals and summer theatre. A windsock flapped in the breeze. A small floatplane was taking off as Holly arrived, its tiny wheels spinning under the grey metal pontoons. Two hangars and a cinder-block building anchored the small complex. After parking amid the vortices of dust in the lot, she opened the door. A desk and file cabinets and two folding chairs filled the room, along with a wall calendar, bulletin board and coffee service.
“Hello, there. May I help you?” said a pleasant, gap-toothed lady in her forties with sleek dark-brown hair.
Holly showed the woman the receipt. “I need some information, but I understand that the Hamilton family no longer owns this business.”
The woman shook her head. “It was a tragedy for the family. Bernie went down in a swamp in an accident. His brother Phillip couldn’t make himself carry on. I can’t tell you where he is now. Went back east somewhere.” Odd how people spoke. It was never back west. The frontier went in one direction.
“Records must have been kept. I’m interested in files from ten years ago. Flight plans. It involves my mother. She went missing about that time. This business and a trip to Williams Lake were mentioned in a note. But it wasn’t...specific.”
The woman put her palms up in a gesture of futility. “We retained the files back thirty years, but they were lost in a fire shortly after we took over. Some electrical problem. You’ll notice this building is new. Everything was burned to the ground, not that there was much of it. One of our planes was damaged, but the rest were safe.”
“That was fortunate. Thanks for your time.” Holly accepted the woman’s card as a courtesy. “Do you have a phone book I can use?”
Unless a miracle happened and she located Phillip Hamilton, Terry Hart was the only one left with possible information. The last time she’d seen him, they’d been around fourteen. He’d taken her halibut fishing in his small boat off Chemainus. The more moderate Strait of Georgia was benign, nothing like the wild waves on the Juan de Fuca. Thanks to his advice and strong arms, she’d caught a twenty-five-pound chinook beauty. Auntie Stella had cooked it on a cedar plank, nudging Bonnie, who was serving. “Only one I know who can bugger up fish and a flame,” she had said. Bonnie had stuck out her tongue.
Holly dredged up an old plastic jug from the trunk and gave Boomer a drink from the tap at Otter Aviation. “You’re going home, pal. But I have one more stop. Cross your fingers.”
She used her cell to get the number for Eagle Air. “Terry?” the manager said. “You’re out of luck for now. He and his family went up to Yukon for a month-long trip. Fishing for him, hiking and camping for the wife and kid.”
Holly thanked her and hung up with a mild curse. Stopped in her tracks. Would Stella understand this frustration? In her slow and methodical mind-set, where five centuries nestled in oral traditions, she would have the patience.
As Holly headed down the perilous Malahat, through death-defying high-wire scenery looking across the Georgia Strait to Vancouver and majestic Mount Baker, alarming news came on Northwest Public Radio, a powerful American station which always gave the Canadian weather. Summer was erupting with a vengeance. In Washington State east of the Pelouse, blazes were raging. The area had experienced an uncharacteristically light winter, and like the island, was parched for rain. The preponderance of thunderstorms with lightning was making the situation worse. Arson was suspected in a number of central Vancouver Island burns, and over 200,000 hectares in the province had been affected. At one point, with nearly eight hundred fires raging, the province had more aircraft aloft than the entire Canadian Air Force. Holly thought of the local fire protection, one lone station at Otter Point Road for all points west. Flames would be fanned into hell on earth from those ocean gusts. Burning ordinances at parks would be easier to enforce with a $345 fine for illegal campfires, but an errant cigarette from a car might torch the bush.
An hour later, as she sheared off Highway 1 heading towards Sooke, Holly snapped back to reality. It might be the weekend, but she still had to find Marilyn and tell her that her brother was dead.
T
he next day, having seen the Audi in the drive, Holly stopped at Marilyn’s. Behind the Audi was a flashy Mini Cooper. A flat of purple petunias sat ready to plant in a border bed. Trust Marilyn to take time for flowers to feed her soul. Under a shady plane tree, an unusual sight on the island, was a small mound planted with marigolds. Brittany had a super view of the strait.
The rounded-top cottage door opened, and a very thin lady in an Indian print dress and sandals strolled out, waving behind her. Glancing with surprise at the police presence, she got into the car and slowly backed out of the driveway as if she were taking a learner’s lesson. Marilyn stood at the door, a quizzical look on her face. “Oh dear, I hope this visit isn’t bad news about Norman.” She craned her head as if to see if he were along.
“No, he’s fine. Never better in fact. I think your massage has made a new man of him. It’s...something else.”
“Come in, please, I was just about to relax for an hour between appointments. Sometimes the masseuse needs a massage. Rather like the shoemaker’s children going barefoot.” Her voice was musical.
“It must keep you in shape,” Holly said. Marilyn’s upper body looked strong and toned. In long shorts, her legs were well-muscled, if untanned like most of the islanders’. She wore comfy pink clogs.
“We’ll have some tea. And I have some wonderful flax coffee cake from a client. They’re generous with their baking and jams. I simply don’t have the time.”
“Thanks.” Holly entered the house and was taken through the front work area to a rear sitting room, where a wood fireplace with an ornately carved mantel provided a cozy atmosphere. On the walls were collages and still-life paintings of pears and other fruits. A Grandma Moses-style picture had a small farm with cows, a bull, sheep, goats, ducks and pigs.
Marilyn saw Holly admiring it. “Lovely, isn’t it? In the nineteenth century, wealthy farmers would commission an artist to commemorate their property. There’s something so simple and gratifying about the rural life. That’s why I like it out here. I’d prefer to have lived in those golden days, but I doubt my massage business would have thrived. Frontier women were not so self-indulgent.”
She poured fragrant mint tea into Holly’s cup. A bright floral service of Royal Winton had two cups and saucers, a creamer and sugar holder, and a small pot made for two. “Debbie has wonderful things if you know how to look. Antiques from an age in which people cared, instead of the Styrofoam generation. This pattern is called Summertime. They’re reproduced now, but these are originals from my Aunt Dee.”
Holly found a surge of hope. “Do you have relatives nearby?” This felt as phony as the “are you sitting down?” routine.
“Aunt Dee’s here. She raised me. My mother died in an... accident, and my father had left her a widow when she was thirty.” Marilyn mentioned the bare facts with no self-pity, as if it had proofed her in a cauldron of challenges.
Holly thought of Joel. No father figure for him. And yet some young men grew up to live productive lives. Why make excuses for a felon? No wonder the aptitude tests placed Holly low on the scale for social work. “How old is your aunt?”
Marilyn answered with pride. “Eighty this year. She was in a small downstairs suite in town. When Eyre Manor opened, she moved right in. Shannon and I offered her the spare bedroom, but she was firm about living where she could socialize. Sharp as hell. I hope I take after her.” The new facility had recently opened with great fanfare in Sooke. Its proximity to the legion was helpful for those residents who liked a social beer, card games and bingo.
“There’s a picture I took of her with my old Polaroid. It’s a shame how the colours fade.” Marilyn pointed to a framed photo of a small woman with a strong face, her hair in curlers. She wore a flowery house dress complete with full apron and was brandishing a rolling pin in a comical candid shot, a mischievous expression common to those who would never grow old. “God, could she bake. She must miss that the most. Sometimes I have her over for a meal and let her go wild in the kitchen.”
With a warm, enveloping smile that made friends of a stranger, Marilyn looked relaxed and revitalized. Perhaps she was finally seeing her life come back to normal, and now... Holly girded herself. Although Joel seemed to be a good-for-nothing, who knew how his sister had felt about him? Without siblings of her own, Holly couldn’t imagine. Her parents had probably stopped at one by choice, or perhaps Bonnie, an idealist, wanted no more “complications” in the disappointing marriage.
She put down her tea and lowered her gaze, searching for words. Her hands she placed in her lap, lacing the fingers and squeezing them so that the knuckles hurt, though the tension was invisible. Delivering this information was far more painful when you knew the person. “I have some bad news for you. Forgive me for the delay. It’s the worst part of my job.”
Marilyn cocked her head. The corners of her mouth drooped. “I thought you said your father was...you don’t mean Aunt Dee. I was just talking to... And how could you have known that she—”
Holly shifted and barely managed the last swallow of tea. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for more than traffic complexities. “I’m afraid it’s about your... brother. I’m sorry that...I—”