Stormy Cove (24 page)

The day before the fire, Lloyd Weston had us take all our finds out of the lodge and store them in a container near the dig. Lloyd must have had a premonition. To us, it was a minor miracle.

Lori looked up the byline. The name sounded familiar. Beth Ontara.

The archaeologist she’d met at the Birch Tree Lodge.

Lori guessed immediately what her mother was getting at. It was a most peculiar coincidence that valuable objects were moved to safety one day before the archaeologists’ lodgings burned down. She doubtless suspected there was more to it than premonition.

The phone rang. It was sure to be her mother.

Wrong.

“Lori?” Noah’s voice. He sounded hoarse.

“Yes?” was all she could get out.

“I . . . I just wanted to say that you . . . that we’d like to take you out with us tomorrow. I talked to Nate and . . . we’re not taking anybody else . . . just you.”

“Oh, that’s very nice, but—”

“Only if you want to. Weather looks good for tomorrow, hardly any wind.”

“I’d love to go out again, Noah, but tomorrow—tomorrow I’m going to have a look at an archaeological dig.”

No sound at the other end. She added hastily, “I was invited to take some pictures, and naturally, I can’t pass up this opportunity. It’s a onetime chance, you see.”

“Yes, yes, no problem. I just didn’t want . . . didn’t want you to think you weren’t welcome on board.”

His halting speech betrayed the amount of courage it had taken for him to make this call. Lori grasped for words too.

“I know, I know, Noah. It’s just something . . . that gets in the way, somebody running around with a camera. It’s not . . . ideal.”

“I get it. But I don’t see . . . I mean, the
Cape Lone Courier
won’t send us somebody every day.”

“There’s more going on here than the book that she apparently wants to write. My publisher doesn’t like that. There are hundreds of fishing villages. Why did she head straight for Stormy Cove?”

There, she’d come out with it. The elephant in the room had a name.

“I . . . I don’t know either.”

These fishermen must certainly be pleased by so much attention from two women,
Lori thought.

“How are you getting to the dig?” he asked.

“By helicopter.”

“Who with?”

“Lloyd Weston.”

“Ah.”

A pause ensued, grew larger and larger.

“Well, then, like I said . . .” Noah seemed anxious to end the awkward conversation.

She’d have loved to talk to him some more, to say something that might have restored some closeness between them. But she was tongue-tied.

Then a lightbulb went on in her head.

“We heard the demons, today. It was terrifying. It was . . . I’ve never heard anything so scary.”

He seemed surprised.

“Archie was at the Isle of Demons?”

“Yes, we stopped for lunch. Then it suddenly started up. What is it exactly? What makes a noise like that?”

“Dunno. Nobody knows. It’s a mystery.”

“Why doesn’t somebody just go there and find out?”

“Nobody’s ever seen anything. Some people from an oil company landed a chopper there once, but they didn’t see anything either. Maybe it’s the wind blowing through holes in the cliffs.”

Lori didn’t buy it.

“It was so frightening,” she repeated.

“Yeah, I know. I hope you sleep OK tonight.”

“You too, and thanks for the phone call.”

“. . . so, have a good day tomorrow,” Noah said.

She sat there for several minutes as if turned to stone. What kind of a mess had she gotten herself into? Her feelings were all jumbled up like wet nets in a wharf shed.

She got into the shower but shivered, even under the hot water.

Vera Quinton, 43, housewife, part-time worker in the fish plant

I think she really went for Noah Whalen. I mean that gal Reanna. Word got around fast. Not Lori. She’s—how can I put it—a little . . . she doesn’t let every Tom, Dick, and Harry get near her. I bet she gets along better with dogs than people. No, just a joke, wasn’t serious. My Newfie sense of humor.

She’s been trotting around with Rusty lately; she softened us up right proper, but I don’t mind, really. If that’s the way she wants it—be my guest. I mean, she can’t talk to the dog, of course. Must be real boring. Would be for me, at least. But she sometimes chats with us people.

Lori didn’t have to do much; people came right up to her because they all want to be in the book. She took a picture of me too. Quilting. My quilts are in demand, but honestly, I’m sick of it, because I’m always supposed to give them away for free—to the church fund, the fire department, the school bazaar, the old people’s home. You know what? I put in a hundred and twenty hours of work on a quilt like that.

And Gideon’s wife tried to give me just fifty bucks. A good piece of needlework isn’t worth a damn around here, not a tinker’s damn. So I said, that’s it for quilting.

Reanna really buttered everybody up. That’s how young people are these days, not only the CFAs, as we call mainlanders because they Come from Away. Same with the kids here. They want everything, and right this minute. No, don’t have kids myself. Not sure why, whether me or Tom’s the problem. We’ve never been looked at. Tom doesn’t want that. There’s a lot he doesn’t want.

I’ll probably be dead before I get to Las Vegas. Or Puerto Vallarta or Maui. Tom won’t shell out one red cent for that type of thing. Only for trucks and boats. I only got a dishwasher secondhand because Gideon got a new one. This one wasn’t good enough for his wife. Tom always tells me: “Life here isn’t good enough for you.” Always the same damn thing. Oh, sure, sometimes I’d like to just take off. What’s here anyway? Nothing. No Walmart, no Costco, not even a Tim Hortons. No movie theater, no spa, no jewelry store. Gotta go to Corner Brook for all that, six hours one way by car. Tom says it’s three hundred bucks for gas. He only drives down there when he wants a new chain saw. And when a bit of a storm’s up, then the TV conks out. And then it’s just dead here.

Nothing’s really working well anyway. I can’t live off garage sales or fire department raffles. And I haven’t played darts at the Hardy Sailor for years. Besides, it’s the friends of the house that always win the prizes, if you take my meaning. We play poker at Rosie’s sometimes, but the ante’s a measly two dollars. It’s a joke. All I ever do is yawn.

Lori’s been places, that’s for sure. You can tell by looking at her. She gets to travel. I’d like Las Vegas best of all. They’ve got real terrific hotels, and restaurants and amusement parks, and the C
éline Dion show. And casinos of course. I used to play the slots in the Hardy Sailor. Nearly every day. Until Tom noticed how much cash I was putting into it. He made me stop.

I sneak off now and then, when he’s away. But with the peanuts I make at the fish plant in the summer, you can’t get anywhere. Or I’d have hit the jackpot long ago.

On the Internet? Who told you that? Sure, I know some people who gamble on the Internet. Tom would put a stop to that right away, believe you me. Does he know anything? Aw, c’mon, men don’t have to know everything. Tom should be happy I don’t drink. I sometimes think, if I did, at least I’d have a little bit of fun in my life. But I go to church and don’t drink.

If you ask me, Lori—she knows more than all of us put together. She takes her camera into all the homes and chitchats with people. Mavis? Yes, Mavis knows a lot too, because people come to her store to gossip. But a lot of us don’t tell Mavis anything. But when Lori said in the store that if everybody told the truth, then no innocent person in the village would be a suspect—that says to me that she knows a lot. So she should damn well say what she knows. If innocent people are under suspicion, eh?

CHAPTER 30

The weather the next day was exactly as Noah had predicted: a breeze as soft as cat fur tickled her cheeks as she left the house. She’d pulled her hair back, a few wisps held with rainbow-colored kids’ clips she’d found in the store, but she hadn’t gone so far as to call it a ponytail yet. She thought the hairdo looked perky, complementing the thrill of adventure flowing through her veins. Noah’s phone call had kept her awake for a long while. She still shuddered a little just thinking about it.

By contrast, the water in the bay radiated a lazy calm. Young coniferous trees and carpets of moss on the hills sparkled green in the morning dew. Two moose grazed in a clearing, a female and a bull with massive antlers.

Lori’s gaze scanned the sharp outlines of the coastal rocks that rounded off the cove like defiant palisades, with an occasional gap where the open sea poked through. She couldn’t spy any boats on the horizon, not even through her telephoto lens. The Isle of Demons appeared to be very far away—a thin dark streak melting into a grayish-white blur.

Perfect weather for Rusty’s daily walk along the beach and to the other side of the hill to look for icebergs. But just then, a beige SUV rolled into her driveway with Lloyd Weston at the wheel. He pulled up and waved at her through the window.

She climbed into the SUV and laid her tripod and backpack on the back seat. Weston was beaming.

“Everything’s perfect. It’s real chopper weather.”

Lori couldn’t deny that he looked good. With his hair cut very short and his beard gone, he looked younger than his fifty-some years. The less hair, the more attractive he was. And you can’t say that about most men. But she kept it to herself.

“Good photography weather too,” she responded. “I hope it stays this clear.”

Weston put the car in gear.

“We’re in luck: there’s no rain forecast for the next several days. So we’re in no rush to set up camp.”

“Where will it be?”

“About a mile and a half away from the dig itself. An easy walk. We don’t want to disturb the immediate surroundings.”

“Yes, and it’s better for pictures too—nothing messing up the shot.”

“We’re just now taking equipment and supplies up there by chopper. We’ll bring the rest by ATV.”

The SUV passed the last houses in the village, and Lori wondered how many eyes were watching them.

“That must cost a heck of a lot, the helicopter and all,” she remarked.

“NORPUNT’s shelling out for the chopper. It’s good PR. An oil company that also cares about the country’s history.”

“Will you put up a sign with the company’s logo at the dig?”

Weston grinned.

“Not to worry. It’s all untouched up there at the moment. Your first pictures should record everything the way we first found it.”

“Who actually discovered the burial mound?”

“There are lots of old, old stories about hunters who first noticed it. They used it as an orientation point. They called it the Rabbit’s Back. It really does stand out on the plain, you’ll see.”

“And when did you see the grave for the first time?”

“From the chopper.”

“The oil company’s?”

“No, with Gideon Moore. He’s flying us there today.”

“So NORPUNT hired Moore?”

“Right. We don’t want too many people to know. Gideon can keep his mouth shut; I’ve known him for years.”

Lori could see in the rearview mirror that they weren’t being followed. So Reanna had been foiled. She looked back at Weston.

“What about me—can I keep my mouth shut too?”

Weston looked her in the eye before turning onto a gravel road that Lori hadn’t noticed before.

“Of course. It’s in your own interest, after all. If people get wind of this, you can kiss your exclusive photos good-bye. I know how the media can be.”

A little presumptuous, but Lori understood why: Weston was standing before the second great discovery of his life. He was man in victory mode. Her mother’s article crossed her mind.

“If it’s a camp with tents, where are you going to store the finds this time?”

He looked at her in surprise. “Why do you ask?”

“I read an article by one of your colleagues—”

“Beth Ontara,” he shot back.

“Yes. She said it was a miracle that the artifacts had been transferred to a trailer one day before the lodge fire.”

“Well, now . . . so that article is making the rounds in Vancouver, is it?”

When Lori didn’t respond, Weston continued.

“Beth is very modest. She was the one who kept urging me to find a better place to store them. She said too many people were going in and out of the lodge, and we couldn’t keep tabs on everybody. It’s her I have to thank for the miracle.”

Lori thought she heard a slightly sarcastic undertone in his words. Seen in a critical light, Beth had drawn attention to her superior’s inexcusable carelessness. Had she shouted in triumph when she’d been proven right? Everyone would have seen how smart she was. And how the chief archaeologist had put everything in jeopardy. And then Beth went and published an article about the oversight. That couldn’t have been unproblematic for the ambitious Weston.

“What a coincidence—that the fire broke out just one day later.” Lori was talking mostly to herself, but Weston observed drily, “You’re not the only one who’s wondered about that.”

The smile was gone from his face. “The writer will be flying with us today.”

“Who?” Lori turned toward him.
Not Reanna!

“Beth. She’s on the dig too.”

Lori had assumed as much; after all, Beth had been at the Birch Tree Lodge. Lori remembered her as a tomboyish woman inclined to ribald humor.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

“I can’t wait. Please help me keep people from walking into my shots.”

“No problem.” Weston was now rather aloof.

They arrived at a paved area next to an old barrack. An orange helicopter sparkled like a giant fat bakeapple on the gray landing area, next to some crates that had been unloaded off a pickup.

“This is an old airstrip from when the zinc mine was still working,” Weston explained.

She noticed a paved road on the opposite side of the pavement; Weston had apparently taken a less-traveled shortcut. He parked the SUV beside the pickup.

One of the men in overalls came over and greeted her like an old friend, although they’d only met when ice fishing, and Lori hadn’t even known at the time who Gideon Moore was.

“We’re gonna have to make two trips, with all this here matériel,” Moore said to Weston, flicking his head in the direction of the crates.

Weston looked at the men unloading more boxes. “Is that a problem?”

“No, I talked to the people at NORPUNT and it’s OK.”

He was looking at Lori but directing his words to Weston.

“We’ll take the lady first, eh?”

“Yes, then she can get right to work.”

“And who else? Beth or you.”

“Me,” Weston replied. “Where is Beth anyway?”

“Over there, checking the lists. She crosses off whatever’s coming with us.”

Weston thought for a moment then turned to Lori. “We’ll take out your stuff so I can park the car.”

Lori took her backpack off the back seat. Moore was Johnny-on-the-spot and snatched up her tripod.

“Is that all you have?”

She nodded. “Did Lloyd tell you I’ll be needing a safety net?”

“Yes, I’ve taken photographers up in the chopper before. One of them wanted pictures of icebergs from above.”

“And where do
I
sit?” someone behind them asked.

Lori turned and found herself face-to-face with Beth Ontara.

“Hello,” Lori said. “Nice to see you a—”

“I
must
be on the first flight. I know where everything has to go. Otherwise it will be chaos, and I’ll waste time getting everything back in order.”

Lori noticed Weston’s body tensing up. “It’s better if you fly with the second shipment, Beth. Somebody has to oversee everything here and make sure nothing’s left behind.”

Beth furrowed her brow. “Can’t you do that?”

She was dressed for a serious hike, in black and khaki and with her short hair hidden by an orange baseball cap with the words “Gideon Air” on it. She looked tan and fit, like a high-performance athlete. She reminded Lori that archaeology meant more than office work—it involved rooting around in the dirt. And probably pushing around huge heavy rocks, like those at the first grave.

Weston was the boss.

“I’m flying with Lori so she can get to work while the light’s still good.”

Beth grimaced. “Worst-case scenario, we can always use my pictures,” she said tartly.

Gideon put an arm around her hips.

“You already had an extra ride in my eggbeater. You’ve got nothing to complain about.”

Beth raised her eyebrows but left his arm on her hip until he took it away.

Lori was amazed at the familiarity between the two. What had Vera Quinton told her when she’d come to walk the husky? Rusty had been Gideon’s dog, and Gideon had replaced his first wife with a younger one and built her a new house in Saleau Cove. Beth was perhaps in her midforties, Gideon in his midfifties.

Weston started the SUV.

Gideon handed her a yellow object. “You’ve got to put this on.”

“A life jacket?”

Beth beat him to it. “Yes, we’re flying over water. You’ve obviously never been in a copter.”

Lori didn’t like the sneer on her face. She had pleasant memories of their evening playing poker, but she was probably caught in the middle of something between them.

“Never with a life jacket,” she replied, laughing to break the tension.

Gideon grinned, but Beth took a rather critical view of Lori’s attempts to put the life jacket on properly. She finally helped her out.

“Pull this tab if you land in the water.”

“We’re not going into the drink,” Gideon shouted. “Not if I’m the pilot.”

“I should hope not. This thing’s brand-new, after all.”

Beth talked as if she owned the helicopter. Lori’s eyes followed her as she walked back to the pickup with a brisk stride. The life jacket felt like a straitjacket. Would she be able to move well enough to take pictures?

Gideon seemed to read her thoughts.

“Everybody’s got to wear a life jacket—even German barons,” he said, stowing her tripod and backpack in the helicopter’s belly. “He didn’t grumble, and his wife didn’t either. You know them, by the way.”

Lori was silent.

“The German baron and his wife.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, you met them at the Birch Tree Lodge, right?”

“Hmm.” Lori feigned preoccupation with her camera.

“He knows everything about German submarines in Newfoundland.”

The turn in the conversation made Lori uncomfortable. But Gideon seemed to take that as encouragement.

“My mother was in one of those subs when she was a kid—1939. She was ten. Told me about it some years back.”

Oh, not this again,
Lori thought. Why were German submarines dogging her? She wanted to see a seven-thousand-year-old burial mound, not listen to tales about the war.

“The sub surfaced at Saleau Cove, by Port Saunders, at dusk. Mom’s from there. Only about two hundred residents. No streets and no electricity and just outhouses.”

Lori looked around. Weston had wandered over to a group of workers beside an old shed on the edge of the runway. He couldn’t save her.

“Water’s very deep at Saleau Cove,” Gideon continued, having found a way to kill time until the crates were ready. “Subs could be protected from attack down there. If people there saw Allied ships on the ocean, they knew German subs might be in the vicinity.”

He fished a handkerchief out of his overalls and blew his nose.

“So they’d put blackout curtains over the windows so there were no lights. I don’t mean electric lights; they only had kerosene lamps. Same here, even in 1939.”

Lori nodded and was immediately sorry she had. But Gideon would have gone on talking anyway.

“Kids weren’t allowed on the beach, but you know how kids are. Wouldn’t have thought, though, that mother was such a little rascal. She went down to the harbor with a gang of kids. They saw a sub, and all of a sudden, the tower hatch opened. Some men climbed out, and mother said they were very friendly and invited them to look inside the sub.”

Now Lori couldn’t control herself anymore.

“This sounds like one of those yarns about extraterrestrials who abduct children in their spaceships.”

Gideon gave a good-natured laugh.

“Exactly. I cracked jokes about it at first, just like you. But mother got mad. She thought we didn’t believe her. But she remembers the swastikas on the walls. At least, that’s what she told me. The crew took the kids into the galley and gave them oranges and chocolate. Mother had never seen an orange in her life!”

Lori saw Weston walking over the runway. What would he say to this bizarre story?

“Mother was really impressed by the engine room. A man put her on his lap and stroked her hair. Mother was a blond, you see. And the German was, too, and she said he kissed her on her forehead and said, ‘What a sweet little girl!’”

“Did your mother understand German?” was Lori’s malicious question.

The pilot didn’t bat an eyelash.

“No, the crew apparently spoke a little English. They brought the kids back to shore after and waved them good-bye.”

“Who waved good-bye to whom after what?” Weston wanted to know when he got back to the helicopter.

“The Nazis in the submarine waved to the kids in Saleau Cove after showing them around the sub,” Lori summarized.

“Oh, that old story.” Weston put his hand on the helicopter’s shiny orange metal, over the
G
in “Gideon Air.” “So—can we get a move on?”

“What do you think about that?” Lori persisted after Gideon had gone to the other side of the helicopter.

Weston fiddled with his life jacket.

“It’s possible, of course, but a story like that is virtually impossible to prove.”

“So you actually think it’s possible?”

“Clearly. Why not? I don’t think those kids made it all up. Not all Germans were monsters, and I assume lots of soldiers missed their kids.” He looked Lori in the eye. “The past isn’t always black-and-white, trust me. An archaeologist learns that very quickly. Here—get in.”