Stormy Cove (34 page)

Lori lifted her head up. Above her, islands of clouds drifted through the sky like hot-air balloons; delicate blue gaps peeked out and closed up. Greta went into the cabin. She had on knee-length shorts and a white tracksuit top with a kangaroo pocket. Lori had to remind herself that twenty years had gone by since Cletus and Greta’s rendezvous in the woods.

Lori suddenly felt Noah’s fingers interlocking with hers. She looked into his eyes for a moment, then turned away when Greta came out of the cabin.

“Why did you tell us this?” Lori asked. She was surprised at how steady her voice sounded.

Greta leaned against the patio railing, her thin pants flopping around her knees.

“Because—you said at my place, no, you said it in the store, that the truth would turn out to be very different from what a lot of people think. And that people would be surprised when the truth came out, because innocent people finally wouldn’t be under suspicion. Now, there it is; that’s the truth. Is it what you imagined? Are
you
surprised now?”

Lori opened her mouth to protest that she’d been talking about Reanna, but then she grasped the deeper meaning behind Greta’s questions, even if Greta wasn’t fully aware of it herself.

What did the truth look like anyway? Was it Greta’s truth? Or was it a truth that sank in the bog with Jacinta twenty years ago?

Not even her mother was concerned with some objective idea of truth when she defended people in court. For her, the point was to do her best for her clients under the given circumstances.

Do your best under the given circumstances.

She untangled her fingers from Noah’s so she could concentrate on her reply.

“I can only answer that question if I’m sure I really do know the truth. For the moment, I only know what you’re telling me, Greta. You think you saw a head, recognized a voice, but you were far away. You only know what Cletus told you. From what I’ve heard, Cletus wasn’t a person that could be trusted in every respect. He was a poacher and very likely stole things.”

“What? What did he do?” Greta wanted to know, but Lori brushed the question aside.

“Look, you have no idea what really happened to Jacinta. Whether she was actually in the bog, whether it was Cletus who buried her body in that grave or somebody else. You two never talked about it again, and there’s nobody who can corroborate your account or refute it. The way I see it, it’s all speculation, and if this story gets onto the grapevine, it would bring people even more grief without offering them definitive closure. Greta, I know how people can take guilt upon themselves without wanting to.”

Greta glared at her.

“You don’t believe me?”

Lori pushed some wisps of hair out of her face.

“I’m a lawyer’s daughter. I see no evidence, no witnesses, nothing; only what someone thinks she saw but can’t verify.”

Greta pounded the beer can on the wooden railing, more out of helplessness than aggression. She looked around like a wild animal seeking a way to escape.

“So what am I supposed to do?”

Lori said nothing. She’d gone as far as she could.

For a while, the quiet scene was punctuated by Greta’s beer can banging hollowly on the wood.

Then Noah leaned forward, his brow furrowed, his heavy hands pressed together.

“What should you do? I’ll tell you what to do. Stop telling tales that could send innocent people to their graves from the heartache.”

CHAPTER 38

Lloyd Weston fought to find out anything about Beth Ontara’s arrest, and failed. But the
Cape Lone Courier
could. It reported that the archaeologist had been selling prehistoric artifacts on the black market. A tip from the world of art dealers and an undercover operation were reported to have led to her arrest. The paper did not specify what sort of artifacts she’d sold, but did publish a full-page obituary of their murdered colleague, Reanna Sholler. Lori still couldn’t believe the young woman was really dead. A life in bloom—simply stamped out.

The next bit of information came from a source Lori would never have expected.

The day after her conversation with Greta, Lori went to the library to pick up the book Aurelia had ordered for her.

She leafed through the slim volume in search of hard facts about the historic Marguerite de Roberval. It wasn’t just a legend; it turned out she actually existed and—as Lori read in the introduction—was supposed to have been the first European woman to survive the Newfoundland winter.

Lori snapped the book shut.

“This is exactly what I need! I’m going to the Isle of Demons tomorrow.”

“Oh, really? Who’s taking you?”

Aurelia knew it couldn’t be Noah. His demolished ship was the talk of the town.

“Archie. He wants to be sure the demons don’t kidnap me.”

“Noah going too?”

“Yes, he and Archie want to see if fishermen from long ago left any useful tools around.”

“Archie’s grandfather used to have a summer fishing cottage there.”

“He did? Archie never mentioned that.”

“No surprise. His wife doesn’t want him to go there. I’m amazed she’s letting him take you.” She laughed, but then her face grew serious. “Did you hear about the archaeologist who was arrested?”

Lori nodded. “I can’t imagine her trying to sell
archaeological
objects. It doesn’t seem at all like her. She did everything to protect the artifacts. It doesn’t add up.”

“No, it doesn’t, but I really must tell you what I heard from Elsie Smith. You know her, eh? Weren’t you at her place for Sunday dinner once? Elsie told me the archaeologist paid her a visit during the first dig all those years ago.”

“Yeah, twenty years,” Lori said, helping her out.

“Gosh, twenty years! How time flies. So this Beth came to visit Elsie and asked to see the old Eskimo things that Joseph—Elsie’s great-uncle—had brought back from Witless Island. Beth said that they weren’t Eskimo but Indian and thousands of years old. Beth bought them off Elsie. Isn’t that illegal? I mean, maybe it wasn’t even Jack at all.”

Lori had no desire to argue about Jack’s innocence, especially since the police had DNA evidence. Nor did she want to get into how an arrowhead had found its way from Beth Ontara to the reporter’s dead body. Lori was convinced Cletus Gould had stolen it—along with the bracelet he then gave Una—from Beth’s room in Gideon Moore’s lodge because he was angry about being fired. But Beth had never reported the theft in order to prevent bad press from hurting the dig. And now she herself was at the center of a scandal.

Lori apologized for having to leave so soon.

“I absolutely must go read this book before going to the island. And I’ve still got to take Rusty for his walk.”

“When you get back, do come see me. I want to know how it went.”

Lori promised.

On the way home from the library, the white Chevy Tahoe came toward her. Lori waved, but Greta didn’t stop.

They had all driven back after that conversation yesterday, Greta in front and Noah’s pickup following. He wanted to keep an eye on Greta, not only because of the beer. He knew his sister was deeply upset and losing her grip on things. He dropped Lori at her house and then went to Greta’s. She didn’t ask him what he and his sister had talked about. She and Noah were already bound by a secret that she wanted to keep forever.

After returning from the cabin, Lori had gotten caught up in matters of her own. Andrew had been trying frantically to reach her via text, e-mail, phone . . . He’d heard about a murdered journalist on the Northern Peninsula of Newfoundland and feared the worst. He was audibly relieved to hear her voice, but tried to hide his emotions under a flood of words about sports and events at school. He even told her about a girl in his class who wanted to see Vancouver. When their long conversation ended, Lori’s heart was light and heavy at the same time.

And Bobbie Wall from Deer Lake had left an astounding message. Before she could even digest it, a call came in from Mona Blackwood.

Instead of saying hello, Mona pronounced, “Everything’s happening so fast there.”

Lori found her client’s directness soothing.

“You can say that again. I don’t exactly know what it all means for our book.”

“Why?”

“People here aren’t as trusting as they were before.”

“Just do what you can. I’ve looked at the material you sent and I’m impressed. Different from what I’d imagined, but it fits together very nicely: strong images that don’t prettify.”

Lori chose her words carefully. “Of course, you’re interested in more than the pictures.”

“I see what I want to. Things will happen as they must; I’m sure about that. Keep your ears and eyes open.”

“I’m going to the Isle of Demons tomorrow. That’s where the fishermen hear spooky noises.”

“What’s it called again?”

“Isle of Demons. It’s where a French noblewoman was marooned and survived two winters.”

“Well, then watch out they don’t maroon you there. Break a leg!”

Lori wanted to say that she, unlike so many in Stormy Cove, had no fear of demons.

Noah couldn’t come in the end because he needed to check out a secondhand boat in Saleau Cove. Her first reaction was disappointment, but it was her project, after all, not his. She was grateful to him for persuading Archie to take her out at all.

It was a warm summer day when they put out to sea.

“Good we’re not fishing for cod today,” Archie roared. “We’ve hit our quota for the week!”

“What’s your quota?” Lori shouted back.

“Three thousand pounds per boat per week.”

Lori saw Noah’s tall figure on the jetty shrinking and shrinking. He’d said good-bye with his hands safely in his jeans pockets—the inquisitive eyes around them prevented a kiss. He’d just whispered furtively in her ear, “Come back soon.”

To Lori, his behavior seemed normal; no indication he suspected any of the bystanders might be the arsonist. Maybe he’d convinced himself that a faulty cable or an overheated stove had set the fire. Maybe lies like that were how folks could keep on living in the village without going insane.

Archie had a little motorboat in tow. Lori was on the lookout for more whale spouts, but only whitecaps flashed on the waves.

She looked over at Archie at the helm. The boat’s engine was banging so loud they could only exchange a few words. So Lori let her mind wander.

She’d gone to visit Patience the day before. Her neighbor already knew that Lori and Noah had been together at the cabin. And she’d found out that Beth Ontara had come to see Lori before her arrest. After sending Ches and Molly out for ice cream, Patience led off by asking about Beth.

“What did she tell you?”

Lori summarized their conversation and included what she’d learned from Aurelia. “But I’m convinced that Cletus swiped the arrowhead.”

Patience sighed. “Now I don’t have to feel so bad.”

“What? Why?”

“Oh, I wanted to tell you before but . . . I’m really ashamed of myself.”

Lori played the waiting game. Patience lowered her eyes. The kitchen smelled of freshly baked cake.

“Una stole from Beth. From Gideon’s lodge. Jewelry and money and a Walkman—they were new at the time. We had to stand guard, Jacinta and me. Una gave us a little money to do it. We secretly bought ice cream with the money.”

“Did Beth know?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Patience still wouldn’t look at her.

“Nobody ever caught us. Or nobody said anything, at least. Not even Beth. But I couldn’t sleep at night.”

“Still, you never ratted on Una. And neither did Jacinta?”

“No, never. I feel terrible about it. I hope Molly will never lie like that.”

Watching him work on the boat, Lori doubted that Archie, the man Patience had gone to with her marital worries, knew about this sin of her youth.

She was roused from her thoughts by Archie conferring on the radio with some ships. The Isle of Demons was very close now.

“We’re mooring on the other side,” he shouted.

On this side, high cliffs rose up before them. Archie had told her some names of the coves on the island, things like Wreck Cove or Misery Point.

Not very heartening. Farther to the north, rocky shores sloped down to the water and mooring was possible. Lori could make out some dilapidated cabins on a hilltop.

Archie dropped anchor in a little bay and checked the chain. They climbed into the motorboat and landed between some rocks, where Archie tied up.

Lori shouldered her camera bag and tripod. Archie wasn’t as gallant as Lloyd Weston and didn’t help with her things. They had to climb a steep, stony hill to get to the shacks. If there’d been a path once, it was nowhere to be seen now.

From close up, the shacks were in even worse shape than Lori had thought: primitive, rotten rooms made of wood. But she couldn’t resist the romance of decay. She lifted her camera.

“Did fisherman really live in these things?”

Archie nodded.

“It was good enough for the summer. You just needed a roof over your head and a wood stove.”

Around the back of the hill, Lori discovered a larger structure.

“What’s that?”

“That belonged to Philo Pilgrim, a fish merchant who came here to buy. Thought he was too good to sleep in a tarred house.”

“When did he stop coming?”

Archie scratched his head.

“Hmm, maybe forty years ago.”

The fish merchant’s house was still standing: gray board walls, rooms like a square box with gaping holes for windows, bits of white door frames still visible—but no doors. Lori peeked inside.

The floors had collapsed in several places, but the hallway between the rooms looked passable. She looked at Archie. He shook his head.

“Place is ready to fall in, but don’t let me stop you.”

She eased her way inside. A demolished stairway led to an upper story. The room on the right side looked like it’d been hit by a storm. Broken china was strewn on the floor, rusty tin lay under some scratched-up enamel, and there were broken chairs, wet rags, and scraps of leather.

And one more thing. A rather new-looking beer bottle.

On the other side of the hall, a mass of rotten something or other had gushed out of a lump that once might have been a sofa or a mattress.

Lori got to work. Archie kept an eye on her through the holes in the walls.

Very soon, beads of sweat dripped from her forehead. Why did today of all days have to be this hot in a place that was always cold?

She went outside to get a bottle of water from her backpack.