Stormy Cove (2 page)

CHAPTER 1

Lori’s hands were still so shaky that she repeatedly had to put down her cup. Her hostess had introduced herself as Bobbie, brought her tea, and now pursed her lips in sympathy.

“The truck must have given you a pretty good scare,” she said.

Lori nodded and rubbed her hands as if that could stop them from trembling.

“It felt like I was in one of those horror movies where giant trucks loom over little cars and chase them until their victims freak out.”

She regretted the words as soon as she said them. She was dramatizing again. As if what happened were a metaphor for her life: Lori with a monster breathing down her neck. But she’d laid those ghosts to rest long ago. What must the elderly woman in the armchair think of her? Was she annoyed at this stranger from Vancouver bad-mouthing N
ewfoundland? And Bobbie had been so friendly when Lori arrived. The B and B was decidedly a family affair: Lori’s hosts lived in the house. Bobbie, whose real name was Roberta Wall—Lori saw that on the Canadian government certification hanging on the wall—must like people a lot. She told Lori she’d been taking care of guests for thirty years.

“Thirty years, and I still think it’s fun.”

Bobbie had expanded her business two years before. Lori’s room was in her in-laws’ former house on the other side of a shared garden. All the other rooms were spoken for. Bobbie was expecting participants from a conference “that had something to do with excavations,” she said. Lori had taken a quick look at her room. A thin gold polyester bedspread; a little wall mirror framed by imitation seashells. Lori didn’t see a bedside lamp, but she always brought a portable reading light when she traveled.

“Oh,” she heard Bobbie say, “there’s Gordon.”

Lori smiled awkwardly, wishing she could just hole up in her room, gold polyester notwithstanding. Why had she chosen a B and B anyway? For this assignment, Mona had given her more than enough to cover a real hotel. But as a freelance photographer, Lori wasn’t used to luxuries.

A portly man limped into the living room and plopped down on the sofa.

“Gordon, this is Lori, from Vancouver. We were just talking about how trucks are making our roads so unsafe.”

Panting with exertion, the old man nodded at Lori.

“A truck almost ran her off the road,” Bobbie continued. “Poor thing feared for her life. People really shouldn’t speed with all this snow on the ground.”

Gordon Wall coughed and gasped loudly for air. “I can tell you exactly why trucks go so fast. They’re paid by the mile and not by the hour, so they drive like hell.”

“I couldn’t pull over anywhere to let him pass,” Lori explained. “There was no place to. I was afraid he couldn’t brake fast enough and would ram me.”

“They probably warned you about moose crossings but not about trucks,” Gordon surmised.

The phone rang and Bobbie took a reservation, giving Lori time to examine the living room. A wall hanging with caribou posed against a background of iridescent neon colors. Assorted plastic flower arrangements. A cuckoo clock and a collection of snow globes. At least a dozen framed family photographs. Lori had already heard how none of Bobbie’s six children lived nearby. Lori nearly said something about her own son, Andrew, but bit her tongue. Let sleeping dogs lie.

Bobbie, on the other hand, had probably shared her private life with hundreds of tourists over the years. Lori couldn’t fathom why. She would never again allow strangers to meddle in her personal affairs, to gain access to her inner life.

She tried once more to lift her cup without spilling.

A still small voice inside her said,
You always manage to get into other people’s houses. Into their kitchens, living rooms, even bedrooms. And what’s more, into their souls. It’s how you make your living.

Bobbie hung up and turned to Lori.

“What brings you to Newfoundland?”

A friendly question she probably asked every guest. Nevertheless, it made Lori uncomfortable.

It was the same discomfort she’d felt in Mona Blackwood’s office. She’d been late for her appointment because a surprise Vancouver snowstorm had delayed her flight to Calgary.

Lori had assumed the assignment was going to be routine. Yet another portrait of a prominent person. Mona Blackwood was well known in C
algary. Owner of an investment firm that made money in the oil sector. Lots of money. She’d grown up poor in Newfoundland, but moved west to Alberta to seek her fortune. Forty-two, five years older than Lori. Blond, with a chiseled, austere face. Slim, athletic. A woman determined to be taken seriously in a man’s world. She wore a black two-piece suit over a white blouse. Lori would have preferred a little color for the photo and considered how to suggest it. She knew the background had to be businesslike and sober, nothing fussy or extravagant. Before staging anything, though, Lori wanted to get to know Mona a bit so she could really capture her in a portrait.

But to her amazement, Mona looked at Lori’s photographer’s bag and said, “We won’t be needing that today.”

Lori was taken aback.

“Aren’t I here for a photo shoot?”

“I’ll explain in a minute. Would you like tea, coffee, some juice, maybe?”

Mona motioned toward some armchairs.

Lori asked for coffee—she’d gotten up early. She’d barely sat down in the black leather chair when she saw the book of photos on the glass table. Her book. The pictures of the apostate Mormon sect in S
plendid Valley.

Her name would always be associated with it.

Lorelei Finning. Splendid Valley.

Mona opened the book. Lori noticed her silver fingernail extensions. Interesting detail. A deviation from the perfect businesswoman image. Maybe she was open to having an unconventional portrait taken after all.

“I’ve read the introduction,” Mona began, “but can you tell me some more about how you came to take these pictures?”

Normally, Lori wasn’t fazed by the request. It’s what everybody wanted to know. How a sect completely shut off from the outside world in a settlement hidden behind high fences, a sect accused of polygamy and trafficking in girls—how a secretive community like that had allowed the photographer Lorelei Finning behind the curtain. Why had they permitted Lori to photograph women, children, and especially men married to dozens of eleven- and twelve-year-old girls?

No one who saw the pictures could accuse Lori of sympathy toward these men. The sect’s bishop had examined the photos and authorized them himself. He wanted to create a monument; he wanted to demonstrate to the outside world that everything was proper and correct.

But the bishop didn’t understand that images speak their own language, and Lori’s photographs were eloquent. She had captured something he was too blind to see.

That was the beginning of the end for the Splendid Valley community. The sect’s leaders were hauled into court and sentenced to prison.

The book could have been Lori’s big break, but soon after, she’d met Volker and followed him to Germany, a newborn in her arms.

Lori’s gaze swung to the large window, over the rooftops, over the glass facades of Calgary’s skyscrapers reaching like oil derricks into the overcast sky.

She’d honed her answer to Mona’s question long ago. That it took a lot of empathy and patience. That people had to feel safe in order to forget the camera. Lori was almost invisible when she worked, like a fly on the wall. And most important—that you couldn’t force anything.

But then to her own surprise, she heard herself say, “The bishop knew he’d be out of office soon. He wanted his regime . . . he wanted his life documented for posterity. He made it easy for me.”

Mona scrutinized her, but with good will.

“You revealed everything in your photographs.”

“He personally approved the pictures. He and his lousy lawyer.”

Mona nodded slowly. “But it really seems like something special happened there. How were you able to reveal so much truth?”

“Those people only saw what they wanted to see. But what they didn’t see was the truth behind the pictures.”

Lori shook her head. She didn’t know what else to say. For her, the best photography was unplanned, intuitive. How could she explain after the fact how she’d managed to capture a particular image?

“Do you ever think back on your experiences there?”

Again Mona’s searching look.

Lori thought for a moment.

“Certain things come back to me, mostly little details. Like how the boys threw bottles against the houses out of sheer frustration. There wasn’t anything for them to do, no playgrounds or computers or bikes, skateboards. The meadows were covered in broken glass. And nobody bothered to clean it up. They let their horses roam around and step on the broken pieces.”

A young woman brought coffee on a silver tray.

Lori wondered where the conversation was going, but she didn’t want to push her client.

“I like your eye for detail,” Mona said. “I think that you see the camera as an instrument for finding the truth.”

That word
truth
again. What was she getting at?

Mona Blackwood laid her silver spoon gently on the saucer.

“I have an assignment for you.”

CHAPTER 2

Bobbie Wall’s voice interrupted Lori’s thoughts.

“So, my dear, are you here on vacation?”

She asked her question slowly, probably thinking that Lori couldn’t decipher her Newfoundland accent.

Lori set her cup down.

“I’m a landscape photographer.”

“Landscapes? Ah, yes, you’ll get your money’s worth here. Newfoundland is mainly made of rock.” She glanced at her husband. “That’s why we call our island ‘The Rock.’”

“So I’ve heard,” Lori said, feeling warm from the tea. “Well, I’m hoping my work will give Newfoundland a new name: ‘The Rock Star.’”

The elderly couple laughed, and Lori along with them, her anxiety dissipating. She pointed to a photograph of a dark-haired young man in uniform.

“Who’s this?”

“That’s our son, Ben. He’s in the navy. Actually, near where you are; he’s stationed on Vancouver Island. But I hope they transfer him to Gander; it’s only three hours from here.” Bobbie suddenly sounded resigned.

Lori’s chest grew tight. If their son wanted to be near his parents, he’d certainly chosen the wrong profession. The military was famous for constantly moving people around.
Mothers suffer when their children choose to live far away,
she thought to herself. Andrew had flown thousands of miles away from her.

A car pulled up in front of the house. Bobbie jumped up with remarkable agility.

“Darn it! The last two weeks, we had hardly anybody, and today every room is filled.”

Lori looked out the window and saw a tall wiry man maneuvering a heavy sports bag out of his trunk. Despite the cold, he was wearing a light fleece jacket. A minute later, he joined them in the living room. Clearly, tea was a required first stop for all guests.

“This is Lloyd Weston, a professor of archaeology at the university in St. John’s,” Bobbie told her. “He always spends the night with us when he’s working in the area.”

“Hello, I’m Lloyd,” the professor said, coming over to Lori. He had an open, tanned face and a square jaw under his trimmed beard.

“Lori’s a photographer from Vancouver. A landscape photographer.”

The new arrival sat down without taking his eyes off Lori.

“What’s your name?”

“Lorelei Finning,” Bobbie interjected before disappearing into the kitchen.

“Where have I heard that name before?”

Weston sized her up with some curiosity, but she didn’t give him any help.

“You photograph landscapes. Like for calendars?”

Lori thought fast.

“I’m here on commission for a coffee table book,” she explained. “A publisher in Calgary is going to bring it out.”

That wasn’t even a lie, really.

The archaeologist leaned forward. “A coffee table book on Newfoundland?”

“No, on the Northern Peninsula.”

“For tourists, that sort of thing?”

Lori folded her arms.

“More of a documentary.”

“So what are you documenting?”

“Like I said, landscapes, villages, people who live and work there.”

Lori reeled off her answer quickly. Everything was fine, she assured herself. It all sounded completely plausible.

Although she found it quite astonishing that Mona Blackwood was paying her to stay in a fishing village for an entire year. Just to document life and people in an isolated Newfoundland outport.

“Lloyd knows the Great Northern Peninsula like the back of his hand,” Gordon Wall added.

“Yes, I guess you could say that.” Weston smiled. “So you’re heading north?”

Lori nodded, determined not to reveal another thing.

The archaeologist took off his jacket. He was wearing a tight orange T-shirt.

“How long are you going to be there?”

“Oh, several months. I want to capture the different seasons.”

“Your publisher must be generous. Your name really does sound familiar.”

Lori chewed on the inside of her cheek, something she always did when she was nervous. She had to steer the conversation in another direction.

“So, archaeology. Those digs take a long time, right?”

“Sometimes years.”

When Weston took the teacup Bobbie offered, Lori noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

“I’m flying back to St. John’s tomorrow, but I’ll be here this summer. Maybe I can show you the burial mound we’ll be excavating. We think it’s even older than the grave at L
’Anse Amour in Labrador, more than seventy-five hundred years old. L’Anse Amour was the oldest known burial mound in North America until now. Our dig is closed to the public, but I’ll see if I can make an exception for you.”

He took a business card out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. She glanced at it: “Lloyd Weston, Memorial University, St. John’s.”

She stood up.

“Thanks. That sounds exciting. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to rest for a bit after my trip.”

She said good-bye and took her cup into the kitchen. Bobbie followed her.

“There’ll be some guests staying at the other house, two ladies and their nephew. They’re sharing a bathroom, but you’ve got your own.”

Lori nodded and quickly closed the door to the house behind her. As she crossed the lawn, she saw three people getting out of a blue Ford Focus. The women were in their late thirties or early forties, the nephew sixteen at most. A cute kid wearing a leather jacket and a baseball cap.

She collapsed on the gold polyester bedspread in her room and was just nodding off when somebody shoved a large envelope under the door. But she didn’t get up until a few minutes later when shouts, rapid footsteps, and slamming doors made it clear that sleep would be impossible.

Despite her exhaustion, Lori retrieved the envelope and scanned the first page, apparently an abstract from a scholarly article about the seventy-five-hundred-year-old tomb of a young teen. She read that the grave was unusually lavish and had probably taken twenty men many weeks to construct. They’d filled it with burial items and layered hundreds of heavy stones over the body. Experts were puzzled by this extraordinary extravagance on behalf of a dead child.

Lori’s curiosity was piqued. Maybe Weston would let her photograph the site, despite it being closed to the public. She opened her laptop to look up pictures of other prehistoric burial mounds.

She was a little ashamed of her ignorance about Newfoundland and Labrador. When her mom had heard about Lori’s plans, she came down on her like a ton of bricks. Lisa Finning put little stock in discretion and reticence—at least when it came to her personal life.

She used to say, “My parents made everything a secret, so I’m an open book with my kids.”

Nobody was safe with her. It was bad enough that she’d named her daughter
Lorelei
. Lori really didn’t envision herself as the mythical mermaid up on a rock, enticing sailors into a deadly whirlpool in the Rhine. But Lisa Finning chose it because Lori had come into the world with so much hair.

“I always wanted long, thick hair, but you got it instead, and I like to watch you combing your locks in front of the mirror. Isn’t it a pretty name? I can’t imagine how you could complain.”

Her parents had emigrated from Germany some years earlier, and, one Easter Sunday, her mother announced that they were separating. It was Lori’s seventeenth birthday, and her mom’s words turned her whole world upside down.

“Your dad’s going back to Germany, but I’m staying here. You can decide for yourselves who you want to stay with.”

Lori’s brother, Clifford, who was just twelve, left the dinner table in tears. Lori simply sat there, stunned. She had known her father was unhappy; he hadn’t been able to find a good job as a cardiologist. When an offer came from a German university, he didn’t think twice before accepting it—without telling his wife, as her mother told Lori much later. The irony was that her father had actually been born in Canada and only moved to Germany as a child.
Völkerwanderung
at the end of the second millennium.

Her father tried to make Lori’s decision easier for her.

“My darling girl, it’s better for you to stay here. I can’t be a surrogate mother.”

He promised she could spend her vacations with him in Germany and that he’d visit them as often as he could.

Which was why it was Clifford who got on the plane to Frankfurt with him. She’d taken her camera—a birthday present from her father—to the airport but couldn’t bring herself to take any good-bye pictures.

Lori never saw her father and brother again. An avalanche buried them in their car four months later on a visit to relatives in the Bavarian Alps.

For Lori, the avalanche had been set in motion that Easter Sunday, thanks to her mother’s announcement. She swore that from then on she’d always have her camera with her. Just in case.

Her mother had a penchant for delivering dreadful news.

“You’re going to Newfoundland?” she’d exclaimed when she heard. “Don’t tell them you’ve got German ancestors.”

Aha, here we go again,
Lori thought.

“Your grandfather’s submarine sank a ship off the Newfoundland coast. A ferry, I think it was. A whole lot of women and children died. He got a medal for it from Hitler himself.”

Lori was bowled over. Her mom had never even told her Grandpa was a submarine commander. Why the hell would she share this story now, just before Lori’s departure? Whenever Lori remembered it, she got angry all over again.

“What’s Grandpa got to do with me?” she’d retorted. “That’s all in the past. Let bygones be bygones, farewell and amen. Besides, I was born here, and I’m Canadian. Did you forget? Ca-na-di-an!”

One thing she had to grant her mom: she could take as good as she gave. As a defense attorney, she had to. It was easy to argue with her. A hit, a hit back, like ping-pong, and eventually it was over. Her mom never held it against her.

“It wouldn’t hurt to read up on Newfoundland,” Lisa Finning had added blithely. “Doesn’t that come with the job somehow?”

Of course she was right. But Lori had been slammed with so many rushed, badly paid jobs that, by the end of the day, she was too tired to do anything but take a long bath and watch
T
he Big Bang Theory
.

She felt hunger pangs but not enough to drive her out in search of a restaurant. She settled for German crispbread and soft cheese and drank what was left of the coffee in her thermos. Good thing Mona Blackwood couldn’t see her now! Every dollar saved went into Lori’s pocket, and a freelance photographer’s pockets were often empty. Sipping her coffee, she entered “girl mysterious death Northern Peninsula grave pictures” in the search engine. Several entries popped up. She clicked on a page and found herself reading not about Weston’s seventy-five-hundred-year-old archaeological site, but about a far more recent grave:

No Developments in Parsons Case

Police still do not have a clear suspect in the killing of fourteen-year-old Jacinta Parsons. The girl’s bizarre grave was discovered during the construction of a new road between Stormy Cove and Cod Cove, some months after her violent death. Parsons disappeared twenty years ago after leaving her parents’ house to pick berries. An autopsy revealed she had been suffocated. Although an intense investigation led to the interviews of a large number of people, police have made no progress in the Parsons case over the years. Even the numerous objects found in the grave have provided no concrete clues so far. Investigators have been puzzled about possible motives. “We still hope that somebody in the local population will provide a crucial lead,” said Detective Carl Pelley.

Stormy Cove. Wouldn’t you know it. Just where Mona Blackwood was sending her.

Was Mona still living in Newfoundland twenty years ago when Jacinta disappeared?

There was more to this photo assignment than Mona had let on. Lori was well aware of that. The scope of it all was a sure sign. All that money for an entire year. The secrecy around it. But what drove Mona to do this?

Lori had to admit she still knew too little about her client.

And almost nothing about Stormy Cove, other than that it was a remote fishing village with a dry dock. And some fishermen who still went out on the ocean in their little boats.