Stormy Cove (31 page)

Lori put the e-mails off until later; she couldn’t bring herself to answer them. When the phone rang in the afternoon, she had to hold back from answering it on the first ring.

It took several seconds before she recognized Aurelia, the librarian. She sounded like a messenger from another world.

“I found another book about Marguerite,” Aurelia announced. “Marguerite de Roberval.”

Several seconds later, Lori caught up.

“The French princess who was marooned?”

“
Princess
is a bit much. She was nobility. You said you were interested in her. I had the book sent from St. John’s. Shall I hold it for you?”

It was an invitation to come to the library. Lori’s heart felt tight.

“I’ll be there right away.”

“We’re closed today, but how’s tomorrow after one?”

“Yes, that should work. Unless I’m off with the archaeologists.”

“Oh, they’ve stopped digging for the time being . . . because of the murder, you know.”

“Oh, really? I didn’t hear that. Thanks for telling me.”

“It’s about the safety of the female students, eh? They’ve got to catch the killer first.”

The students—strangers, just like Reanna. And herself. Surely they weren’t thinking the way they did last time, that the killer was an outsider? That it had nothing to do with themselves?

“But the women in the village, maybe they aren’t safe either,” she said. “Do you feel safe, Aurelia?”

A brief pause.

“It
is
scary, for sure, but what can you do? My husband says it might have been a wild animal.”

“But you can’t believe that! Reanna was strangled.”

“I don’t know what to think. But last night I locked the doors. My husband gave me hell, naturally.”

“I’ve locked my doors too, ever since—”

She intended to say, “since the arrowhead disappeared,” but she bit her tongue.

“Hopefully the murder will be solved soon,” she heard Aurelia say. “Or else there’ll be bad blood again.”

Lori wanted to ask what she meant by that, but across the way, she saw Noah getting out of his pickup.

She quickly said good-bye and ran to her Toyota.

Now she didn’t care how many people saw her going to Noah’s house.

She didn’t find him in the kitchen. Just as she shouted his name, she heard water running. The shower.

What the hell. She could wait. Right there, in the kitchen. That was certainly against Stormy Cove rules, but she was upset enough to break the rules.

The noise stopped. She called his name again. A door opened.

“Hello?”

“It’s me, Lori.”

A few seconds of silence, then his voice.

“Be right there.”

He appeared a few minutes later, which seemed like an eternity to her. Her heart was in her throat when she saw him, his clean T-shirt stuck into his tight jeans, his damp black hair shiny. He fixed his dark inquiring eyes on her as they sat down across from each other at the table.

“You look tired,” he said.

She nodded.

“You too. Hard to sleep recently.”

He slowly curved his hand over his freshly shaved chin.

“Yeah.”

Nothing more than that.

“I was concerned because I didn’t hear from you.”

He looked at his hands.

“I’m sorry, but I was pretty much up to my ears in it, as you can imagine.”

Lori said slowly, “Yes, I can imagine, but—”

“Did you tell the police about that life jacket?”

“Yes. Why?”

“What exactly did you say?”

“That she didn’t give it back to you. Why?”

He frowned.

“They searched for it.”

“Well, sure, I’d do the same thing if I were the police.”

“They found it.”

“Where?”

“In Jack’s father’s garage. They searched the whole house.”

“I don’t get it . . . how did it—what does Jack’s father have to do with it?”

“Nothing, of course. But they took Jack in.”

The words hung in the room like a black cloud.

Jack. The seventeen-year-old hunter.

Noah raised his head.

“It’s a disaster.”

“Maybe he’s an important witness.”

“His father says Jack hasn’t got an alibi.”

“His father’s stupid. He shouldn’t go around talking crap like that. It really won’t help his son.”

Then something crossed her mind.

The photo. Reanna sitting on the ATV’s rear seat. Someone up front. Jack.

“Lori, Jack’s father is my cousin.”

She really wanted to take his hand but didn’t know how. Noah seemed so distant.

“Don’t worry, Noah, they must have found traces of DNA on the body—that’ll clear it up fast.”

Now she saw the horror in his face. She wanted for all the world to slap herself in the mouth.

He shoved his chair back and got up. She sat there, frozen.

Silence in the kitchen.

He leaned over the dish rack, head down, hands clutching the edge.

“Noah, oh my God, is it possible that . . .”

He shook his head vigorously.

“Jack’s family will never survive this. I know that. Never survive.”

Lori’s thoughts were racing. Was it possible that this seventeen-year-old . . . a kid who slept with women like Ginette. Who probably hoped to have sex with Reanna . . . He probably promised to take her to the burial mound so he could lure her to Frenchman’s Hill. He went in his own boat and entered the bay from the other side so he wouldn’t be seen with Reanna. Jack, the hunter, who was always mucking around on the tundra. A kid who was already killing animals at his age. And when he met any resistance, he resorted to force . . . Reanna didn’t stand a chance. And the arrowhead? Did Jack steal it from Lori’s house? Maybe he was looking for something else, money or valuables. Good that she’d locked her office.

She walked over to Noah. Her voice was a whisper.

“Only one person hasn’t survived this tragedy. Reanna is dead. She was killed, whoever did it.
She
didn’t survive.”

He straightened up, his face ashen.

“I know, I know. But Jack’s just a dumb kid, a hotshot. He’s not a killer.”

“Nobody said he was. We don’t know the facts; it’s all just speculation.”

He fell silent. He was breathing far too rapidly.

Her stomach was in knots.

“Noah, are you angry with me? Do you blame me for telling the police about the life jacket?”

He didn’t look back at her as he said, “Let the police do their own work. No need to interfere. Better that way.”

Not interfere. Say nothing. Sweep everything under the rug.

“Oh, sure, so the murder still won’t be solved even after twenty years? So that the murderer gets off scot-free? All because it might be one of your people?”

The tension, her pent-up rage, her exhaustion—all of it fueled her emotional outburst.

“What if it had been
your
daughter, Noah? What if Reanna had actually been your daughter? Should people keep their mouths shut then? She’s not your daughter, but she is somebody’s daughter, Noah!”

He stood there, a stone statue. She knew her words tormented him, but she couldn’t do it any other way.

“I’ve heard stories about Jack’s father. That he forced his daughter to sleep with him. I’m sure the whole village knows it—including you. It’s not a cozy, safe little world here, and Jack’s a product of it.”

He said nothing, which just egged her on.

“I wanted to help you, Noah, because I know you’re innocent. They were wrong to suspect you of being involved in what happened with Jacinta for the past twenty years. Enough! It’s an offense that smells rank to heaven. I know what my priorities are. I know where my loyalties lie. But I realize now that your loyalty will always be to something else. To people like you, no matter what they may have done or may do. At least some good’s come out of this conversation.”

He didn’t move a muscle. Not even when she said, “I’d better leave.”

She slipped on her shoes without tying them and shut the door behind her.

CHAPTER 35

“Sweetie, didn’t you shoot off your mouth just a tad?”

Danielle’s cell phone headset slightly distorted her voice. She was driving her babies all around Vancouver because the sound of the car’s motor transmuted an hours-long crying jag into peaceful slumber.

“Worth inventing the automobile just for this,” she joked.

It didn’t take long for Danielle to figure out that the humming motor wouldn’t lull her desperate friend in Stormy Cove to sleep. She tried objective analysis.

“I mean, what
are
your priorities anyway? What’s your loyalty to?” she asked, after Lori’s detailed replay of her quarrel with Noah.

“That’s easy: I don’t want Noah to be under suspicion,” Lori explained, intuiting where Danielle was taking this.

“Is that everything?”

“Yes . . . wait . . . what do you mean by
everything
?”

“Put yourself in Noah’s shoes. All he’s got is family. It’s his be-all and end-all. Everything he has is that village. If they turn against him, his world goes to pieces.”

“But that’s how they’re acting now, Danielle, they’re turning against him! Nobody’s coming to his defense!”

“Not even his family?”

“Not the way we would, not in so many words, and . . . and . . .”

“With libel suits and lawyers, you mean?”

Lori hunted for the words.

“They simply don’t talk about it; they behave as if nothing’s happened. But it will never go away because the suspicion is always there, like a ghost.”

“And you’re the white knight who’s going to slay this dragon for him?”

Lori sighed. She could hear the skepticism in Danielle’s voice.

“What are you trying to tell me, dearest friend of mine?”

“That Noah doesn’t have to be loyal or anything else to you because—excuse me for being blunt—he gets nothing from you.”

“And what else?” Lori waited before answering. She knew her friend was holding something back.

“Maybe you should step away from the whole business for a while. Come to Vancouver for two, three weeks. The story about that reporter is all over the national news. You don’t want to see your face on the screen after the TV gangs show up.”

Lori heard the side door open. She was seized by a frantic hope that it was Noah.

“I’ll think about it,” she said without much conviction. “My nerves are shot.”

“It’s nothing compared to two tiny babies who don’t stop screaming, believe me. Hopefully we’ll see you soon.”

“You’re worth your weight in gold, Danielle. I’ll call soon. Bye.”

She still had the phone in her hand when she arrived at the kitchen stairway.

Where she stopped, rooted to the spot.

The woman on the landing held her shoes in her hands.

“Can we talk for a minute, if I’m not disturbing you?”

“No, no, I’m just a bit surprised, I—”

“I tried calling,” Beth Ontara said, “but the line was always busy. And since I was in the area . . .”

“Tea?” Lori asked, offering the archaeologist a seat.

Beth ran her fingers nervously through her short hair. Lori had never seen Beth so restless.

“I’d love it.”

Beth looked around, less out of curiosity, it seemed to Lori, than to choose her words before speaking.

“I’m taking a bit of a risk by coming here, and for that reason—can you treat our conversation with discretion?”

Lori sat down slowly.

“Basically, yes, but I have no idea what it’s about.”

“Nothing you have to worry about. It concerns stolen artifacts.”

Lori braced herself.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve learned that a so-called arrowhead was found around Reanna Sholler’s body. And somebody told me it was in this house before then. Is that true?”

The kettle was already boiling, and Lori took the opportunity to stand up.

“Whoever told you that?”

“It makes no difference.”

“It makes a difference to me because there’s a murder investigation, and too many people are spreading stuff around.”

Beth took the tea and piled sugar into it. She didn’t take the condensed milk.

“OK, I heard it from Lloyd. Where he got it from, I don’t know.”

Lori took a moment to think.

“Probably from me. I told him about the arrowhead last time I was up at the Birch Tree Lodge. He did say it might be a projectile tip, like an arrowhead. But I told him maybe I’d been wrong about what I found and he never mentioned it again.”

Now it was Beth’s turn to be astonished.

“What? Lloyd’s known about it for that long? That’s awesome!” She quickly composed herself. “I guess I need to tell you the backstory here. The dig at the first burial mound should have been led by Carl Wizhop, but he got very sick. Lloyd was his assistant and fairly young at the time, but he was considered capable of leading the dig. Wizhop wanted to give him remote support, so to speak, as best he could. Lloyd . . . don’t get me wrong, he’s a brilliant archaeologist . . . but practical organization is not his thing. I was forever reminding him that the crew must always be supervised, but he didn’t buy it. Particularly the volunteers.”

Beth looked to Lori, who nodded to show she followed.

“It’s not like I think all workers are thieves, but on the other hand, they don’t understand how valuable the things that we dig up are.”

“Are volunteers even allowed to dig? Isn’t that what archaeologists are there for?”

“Yes, you’d think so. However, conditions back then were sometimes chaotic. I did my best, but ultimately—well, I couldn’t be everywhere at once. Early on I suspected that artifacts were disappearing. I went to Lloyd about it but he refused to believe me. No wonder: It would have damaged his reputation. And he was at the beginning of his career.”

“Is that why he didn’t seem bothered when I mentioned what I found?”

“I assume so. Especially not now, when expectations are so high about the second dig. He’s a guy who thinks that problems go away if you ignore them long enough.”

“But his professional curiosity must be bigger than—”

“Than his fear of a possible scandal?”

Beth shook her head and put her tea cup to her mouth, and a loud slurp followed.

“Nobody wants a scandal, including me. That hurts everybody: us, the locals, the university—it would be a huge catastrophe. It would drive Aurelia up the wall.”

“Aurelia? What’s she got to do with anything?”

“She’s Gideon Moore’s sister. Didn’t you know?”

Lori shook her head. Everybody really was related to everybody else here. Aurelia must have assumed that Lori knew. But the next question was on the tip of her tongue.

“Were those thefts the reason why you had the artifacts from Gideon’s lodge moved to a guarded container?”

“Yes, exactly, somebody had to step in.”

“But some personal effects were stolen as well, right?”

“Who says so?”

“Gideon. He told me Una stole a valuable bracelet of yours.”

She gawked at Lori for a moment.

“He said that? There’s no way he could have known.”

“He said it was a bracelet with green gems.”

“How could he know? I never reported the theft.”

“You didn’t tell anybody? Forgive me, but I find that hard to understand.”

“No, not the cops or anybody. Just imagine the feeling that would have been created at the dig if everybody thought I suspected them of robbery. I’d warned them again and again to lock up all their valuables.”

“Beth, what brings you here?” Lori asked.

Beth leaned forward.

“I’m dying to know: Did you find any more artifacts in this house?”

Lori waited a beat before telling the truth.

“No.”
Not in the house.

Beth lowered her head and looked at her with knitted eyebrows.

“If you find or hear anything, please let me know immediately.”

Lori nodded.

“I assume Cletus Gould must have stolen the arrowhead. Why hadn’t you given him a job at the dig?”

“Oh, he worked a few days for us. But he came and went when it suited him. And he messed with Gideon. They couldn’t stand each other. Gideon was more important to us, as you can imagine.”

Lori said nothing in the hope that Beth would leave. And she did, but not without making one last remark.

“It’s better if this little talk stays between us. It could affect you too, y’know.”

“Me? Why?”

“If Lloyd loses his job, then you can kiss your exclusive photographs good-bye.”

Lori watched Beth putting on her gym shoes. She wanted to burst out laughing but controlled herself.

“I’m not interested in the least if Lloyd or anybody else loses their job,” Beth said with deliberate slowness. “But maybe other people are sawing off the limb he’s sitting on.”

Lori waved good-bye and turned around. She heard the door slam when she was in her office. Her heart was beating wildly. What a strange visit! Lori couldn’t read it one way or another. Beth Ontara was playing an inscrutable game.

Beth mustn’t find out anything about the arrowhead under the seat of Noah’s snowmobile. Not before Jacinta’s killer was found.

Richard Smallwood, 56, Anglican minister

I don’t have much time; it’ll have to be a quick interview. I have four parishes that are far apart; maybe you cannot conceive of what that means, seeing where you come from. I’m almost continually on the move. Yes, Stormy Cove needs my encouragement—and God’s help, of course—after all that’s occurred. It’s a tragedy, or several rolled into one. These are wounds that take a long time to heal. People are insecure and upset—that’s only natural—but they must not lose their trust in God’s loving-kindness; I remind them of this time and again.

The Whalens? They rarely go to church, just for weddings and funerals. And many of the younger generation never come at all. You’re right, neither does Noah Whalen. It’s not a secret. Not since his father passed away.

Yes, I did meet the photographer from Vancouver. She came to see me because she wanted to take photographs of an interment. I wasn’t sure at first, but death is a part of life, and the Johnstons had no objection—it was Joseph Johnston’s burial. He fell from the deck into the fish hole. He was only forty-six. The Johnstons didn’t mind her coming; they thought it was an honor for Joseph not to be forgotten so quickly. The Johnstons knew the photographer; she’d been in Stormy Cove about three months and got along well with people. She had such a . . . friendly manner, but was reserved too, you know.

Not until she sided with Noah did she . . . rub some people the wrong way, if I may put it thusly. But not everybody.

To be brief: I gave my approval. But under the condition that I could view the pictures beforehand, before they were published. I have a certain responsibility there. Lori was very discreet at the burial. Nobody actually took notice that a photographer was present.

Yes, she did indeed show me the photographs. I understand nothing about photography, of course, but the pictures—you should have seen them. So much dignity there. A sublimity, I might venture to say. How she captured the family’s mourning. And how people could sometimes . . . be lost. So vulnerable in this rigorous life. But she gave them dignity. And the graveyard and the surroundings—she caught it well. It had an almost biblical effect. I hope one of the pictures will appear in the book. She had a heart for the people here. In spite of everything. Of that I am certain.

Just one thing before I really must go—I have a christening in Isle View. There was a figure in one photo—I can’t say which; as a minister I cannot—a figure standing somewhat apart. Everyone’s eyes were on the coffin. Just this one person was looking at the camera. Properly distrustful, that gaze. Everyone else there had forgotten the camera. But not that person. Even at the time I found it unusual.

When I think back on it, I get the shivers.

A prophetic picture, as I often think today. Prophetic.