Stormy Cove (5 page)

CHAPTER 6

“It’s all there, dishes, cutlery, pots and pans, stove in working order, and the microwave’s over here.”

Selina Gould sped through the house inventory like an auctioneer. Lori practically forgot about the well-equipped kitchen once she saw the living room window. It was big, much larger than the windows in other houses. And no sash windows or smaller panes, which seemed to be the prevailing style in Stormy Cove. Someone—Cletus’s wife?—must have ignored tradition in favor of a better view. “Having a view” seemed like a foreign concept to the villagers, whose living rooms faced away from the ocean.

“The fridge is practically new, and we’ve got well water,” Selina said.

Her thick white hair looked like Joan of Arc’s helmet in an old movie Lori had seen once. Selina’d told Lori she had nine children, which was pretty common here until recent years. All those babies had obviously taken a toll on the older woman’s body. Lori’s friend Danielle, who had an esoteric explanation for everything, would surely have concluded that Selina Gould must have swallowed more than her share of bitter pills. But her greatest tragedy had been the loss of her son. Lori couldn’t imagine losing Andrew.

“Like to see the bedroom?” Selina asked, but Lori was still admiring the view, where the ocean lay tamed under a frozen blanket and a line of hills embraced the sunny cove like protective arms. It was a picture of absolute peace, a peace Lori sensed was linked to frugality and scarcity.

“Yes, she spent a lot of time at this window,” Selina commented, pointing to one of the green-patterned armchairs that Lori knew would take some getting used to. All the furnishings made her flesh creep in protest: the wine-colored polyester lace curtains, the folksy kitchen chairs, the fussy built-in cabinets, the little yellow roses on the kitchen clock, the mother-of-pearl bric-a-brac, and the awful paintings of fruit bowls and water jugs.

But Lori found a silver lining: the more exotic, the better for her photographs.

“He had that window put in specially for her, but it didn’t make any difference in the end.”

That sounded a bit ominous, but Lori didn’t pursue it—it wasn’t the right moment. She guessed that “he” was the son who had lived in the house, his wife presumably the “her.”

Something was moving in front of a house a little higher than the others on the semicircular slope. Someone was getting on a snowmobile: the man from yesterday. “Noah,” the clerk had called him. Lori was surprised his house was so visible from her place. The snowmobile swerved and bounced. Noah’s face was turned toward her, his visor open. She quickly retreated from the window.

Selina was already in the back. Both bedrooms were on the north side of the house, a bathroom between them. She pulled back the flowered bedcover in the larger room.

“The mattress is brand-new, the sheets as well. The carpet, too, and the walls have been freshly painted.”

Lori nodded and was about to turn away when the woman spoke again.

“He did
not
kill her,” she stated and sat down on the bed. “Whatever they tell you, he did
not
kill her.”

Lori held on to the doorjamb. She feverishly ransacked her memory for the name—Janis, Jennifer . . . no, Jacinta—the name of the girl murdered twenty years ago. But Selina couldn’t have meant her. “Who’s supposed to have killed who?”

“My boy Cletus did
not
kill her, I’m saying; she just up and disappeared. She always wanted to leave. Couldn’t stand it here. But he didn’t do anything to her. She used him and just took off.”

Selina wrung her scored hands.

“You mean his wife?”

“He never got over it. She made things hard for him. And I couldn’t help any.”

“Where’s your son now?” Lori asked.

But Selina didn’t seem to hear. She smoothed out the bedspread and left the room, Lori following her into the kitchen.

“Do you want to rent the house?” Selina asked abruptly.

Lori tried to play for time. “How much are you asking?”

“Three hundred a month.”

Three hundred! You couldn’t get a cubbyhole for that in Vancouver.

“I’ll let you know by tomorrow.”

On the way back to Birch Tree Lodge, Lori mentally replayed the images of her day, like a laptop slide show. One recollection set her a little on edge: the looks exchanged between the clerk and the young customer when they mentioned Selina Gould’s house.

Back at the hotel, she went to find Hope, who was at her office computer. She briefly described her house hunting and then asked, “What happened to Selina Gould’s son?”

“Suicide,” Hope replied drily.

“Ah, so that was it,” Lori said. “I mean . . . his mother said something about rumors, that he’s supposed to have killed his wife.”

“Oh, Selina.” Hope shook her head. “Better she shouldn’t have told you that. She hasn’t been the same since Cletus—since he died.” She sighed. “It’s true. Nobody knows to this day where Una is. The police searched for her and all, but she probably just up and left Cletus and didn’t want anybody to find her. I think she was bored like many of the young women. Not much to do in these villages. No future for them here.”

“Where could she have gone?”

“Nobody knows, and that’s why the rumors. It bugs people, the fact they don’t know. Folks around here are used to knowing everything about everybody.”

“Shouldn’t her parents know?”

“Una never got along with them. Actually, they weren’t her real parents, just her uncle and aunt. She never knew her biological parents.”

Hope spun around in her office chair.

“You’re going to hear more stories like this one. I mean, about people who disappeared without a trace. Doesn’t take much imagination. You can dump a body in the ocean and it’ll never be found. No clues. And no witnesses.”

She ran her hand through her boyish hair.

“A woman from Port Wilkie disappeared while berry picking and nobody found her. Not for twenty years or more. Until a guy confessed on his deathbed that he’d accidentally shot the woman while hunting. She had a pale kerchief on her head, and he mistook it for a rabbit. And then he panicked and threw the body down an old mineshaft. And in fact, they did find her skeleton down there.”

She shook her head from side to side as if she still couldn’t comprehend it even today.

Lori seized the opportunity. “Didn’t another girl disappear while berry picking? Also about twenty years ago?”

Hope stiffened in her chair.

“Best you don’t bring up that old tale in Stormy Cove. It made for a lot of bitter feelings back then. You want to let sleeping dogs lie, believe me. Say, are you afraid of ghosts?”

Lori looked at her, startled. Hope didn’t bat an eyelash.

“Cletus killed himself in his bedroom, if that doesn’t bother you.”

Lori thought for a moment, then smiled.

“Ghosts? But that’s . . .” She meant to say “superstition” but avoided the word. “No, doesn’t bother me in the slightest,” she answered.

Hope turned back to her computer.

“You’ll always have a room here if you need it,” she said without looking up. “We’ll certainly meet again, sooner or later. You’ve got to get out of that place every now and then, or you’ll go bananas.”

Lori went to her room. Afraid of ghosts? How silly. A fantasy straight out of the Dark Ages. There was only one thing she was afraid of at the moment: That people in Stormy Cove would want to know everything about Lori Finning. And how fast rumors traveled.

CHAPTER 7

“So you’re up at Cletus’s place now?”

Mavis’s hips swayed as she watched Lori piling the groceries from her cart onto the counter.

“Yes, thanks so much for the tip. I like the house; it has everything I need,” Lori said in an emphatically cheerful manner, suspecting the saleslady believed in ghosts too.

“Yeah, Cletus did a nice job on the house, but it didn’t bring his wife any luck.” That Newfoundland accent again that Lori couldn’t decipher.

“Well, it doesn’t have to bring me luck, just be convenient. Too bad I can’t get any cell phone reception. Is it like that everywhere around here?”

“Pretty much. But I’ve heard that you can get a signal up there on Stormy Cove Hill.”

“How do I get up there? I don’t have a snowmobile.”

Mavis rang up her groceries. Lori was buying more canned goods and frozen dinners than she did in Vancouver in an entire year. She had to deviate from her principles because of the slim pickings in the fruit and vegetable department. She couldn’t bring herself to buy moldy grapes and mushy tomatoes for more than really good ones cost at the pricey Capers Market on Robson Street. The produce had definitely been on a truck for days, seeing as nothing could grow up here except cabbage and potatoes.

“Maybe Noah’s got an old S
ki-Doo,” Mavis offered. “Noah Whalen. You can try talking him into selling you one.”

Lori returned her smile, though it seemed a bit malicious.

“Good idea,” she said. “I’ll do that right away.”

She had to crack this nut called Mavis. The clerk in the sole shop in the village was its most important news hub. She remarked as she gave Mavis her credit card, “I like your earrings—they match your eyes.”

“Tell that to Noah. They’re from him.”

“Oh, you’re his girlfriend?”

Mavis grinned.

“No, no. Believe me, no woman here wants a fisherman—those guys are married to the ocean. Most of the time they’ve got no money, and when they do, they plow it into a new boat.”

She picked up the white plastic bags on the counter.

“Here, let me help you take your groceries out.”

A few minutes later, Lori was driving up the road to the white house with green trim. She didn’t see Noah, but she recognized his snowmobile. A black pickup was parked in the freshly shoveled driveway. She knocked on the front door, its paint peeling off.

Nothing stirred. She knocked again, more vigorously.

A car stopped, but nobody got out. Lori dithered, until a voice suddenly interrupted her.

“Just go on in. Nobody knocks around here.”

She turned to find a man wearing a baseball cap leaning out the car window. He must have been watching her.

“Walk right in. Best use the door over there.”

The man pointed to the left of the house, where some wooden stairs led up to a second entrance. At that moment, the door in front of her opened and Noah Whalen appeared. He looked at her, then stepped outside.

“Stop making such a racket, Brendan, you’ll attract the polar bears!”

“You must have something good on your stove,” the man shouted back, “if women are lining up on your doorstep!”

Noah made a gesture like shooing away a stray dog.

“Next time I’ll sell you guys tickets to the show.”

The man laughed and drove on.

Noah looked less sinister without his black tuque. His haircut was old-fashioned, like in pictures of nineteenth-century explorers. He obviously hadn’t shaved that morning and looked sleepy. He must have thrown his brown checked flannel shirt on fast because one side of his collar was tucked under.

Instead of saying hello, he asked, “Did you find the store?”

His powerful teeth were uneven, which somehow suited him.

Lori nodded. “They told me you sell snowmobiles.”

He glanced at her and then looked away. “Why would anybody tell you that?”

“Because I inquired. I need a snowmobile, a secondhand one. I don’t want to spend a lot.”

He hesitated. “You ever ridden one?”

“No, but I can ride a motorcycle.”

He scratched his head. “Might have something for you but . . . not today, not this minute.”

She tightened the scarf around her neck.

“So how long do I have to wait?”

“Depends . . .” He looked at the door and seemed to arrive at a decision.

“Would you like to come in? I just made tea.”

Lori blinked away the snowflakes that had started to fall.

“I can drop by later if it’s not a good time,” she answered.

“Got to go for wood afterward,” he said. “Now’s good for me.”

He opened the door wider.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you—there’s folks in at least three houses watching.”

Lori looked around her. Five houses were visible. What Noah said made sense. There was nothing to do around here but snoop on people.

“As you may’ve heard, I’m from Vancouver,” she explained as she walked into the poorly lit house.

Noah led her up a narrow staircase leading to the kitchen. A cup, sugar bowl, and a can of condensed milk were on a little table. The walls were paneled in honey-colored wood. The furniture looked secondhand, as if it came from a
Salvation Army store. Faded pictures of ships were mounted in ornate frames.

Lori marveled at how clean and tidy his place was. No dishes in the sink. Noah offered her a chair covered in a material patterned with birdhouses and watering cans.

“From Vancouver,” he said, picking up where she’d left off as he started the water boiling. “Do you live alone?”

He gets right to the point,
she thought, folding her scarf and unzipping her down jacket.

“No, I live with at least six hundred thousand other Vancouverites in a rather tight space. And you, do you live alone?”

He smiled, and his serious eyes instantly grew warmer.

“I just thought you might have family there.”

Of course. Belonging to any family at all was obviously very important to the people in Stormy Cove. You had to have a clan. She played the ball back into his court.

“What about you? Do you have family?”

He got a second cup out of the cupboard and hung a tea bag on it.

“I’ve got six brothers and four sisters. But only one sister lives here.”

She quickly did the numbers. “
Eleven
children?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Didn’t they tell you that at the store?”

“No, but I did hear that you give away pretty earrings.”

He straightened up with a jerk. “Who told you that?”

“Mavis.”

Lori shifted around on her seat. The conversation had taken an unintended turn. Noah filled her cup with boiling water and placed it in front of her.

“Some people talk too much.” He pushed the milk toward her.

“Do you have any regular milk?” she inquired.

He shook his head. “Sorry. We grow up here with canned milk.”

“And Tetley tea.”

She scanned the cans, pitchers, and cups neatly organized by color on the corner shelf—“T
etley” was on all of them. It looked like a promotion.

“Mm-hm, we all have Tetley tea. You’re living in Cletus Gould’s place?”

“You know already?”

“Word gets around fast here.”

“What else do you know about me?”

He drank his tea with his arms propped up on the table. She noticed his huge hands.

“Name’s Laura. You’re a photographer. You want to take pictures of our outport. And us fishermen. You couldn’t find butter in the store because nobody here uses it, and you didn’t want margarine. You asked if the school library had Internet and were astounded we have broadband at home.”

Lori shook her head in amusement.

“And now all the denizens of Stormy Cove will say I think they’ve been living under a rock?”

“No, they say you wear a funny hat.”

Lori instinctively raised a hand to her head. “It’s a beret, that’s all.”

“Women here don’t wear that sort of thing,” he announced, as if proclaiming a law of nature. “And certainly not in that color red.”

“It’s not red, it’s orange, but I admit I have a red beret as well, and just about every color—and the name’s Lori, not Laura.”

He stood up and went to the fridge.

“Would you like some bread and molasses?”

She accepted, though it turned out that the molasses was just caramelized sugar, and Noah had put margarine and not butter on the toast because it had been like that for generations.

“So what about the snowmobile?” she asked between bites.

He reflected, then said, “I’ll probably have one for you next week. But first you’ve got to learn how to drive one.”

He sized up the jacket she’d hung on the chair.

“Got anything warmer?”

“I do. Why?”

“We’re going to the Barrens.”

Two hours later, after making a stop back in town, Lori was sitting behind Noah Whalen’s broad back on his snowmobile. This had surely been registered by several pairs of eyes at the windows.

For a man who couldn’t know what he was getting into with a female photographer on the rear seat, Noah showed astonishing patience. Time and again, Lori tapped him on the shoulder because she wanted to capture something with her Nikon. He stopped at once, and she managed to swing her right leg over the snowmobile, which seemed as big as a pony to her. Each time, she took off the helmet Noah had loaned her; it protected her face from the cold airflow that would have otherwise numbed it immediately. She shed her thick mitts and worked the camera out of the bag.

She took pictures of five dead coyotes dangling from a wooden frame like lynched outlaws in a Western, their hind legs lashed together. Noah explained that the provincial government had set a bounty on coyotes—“just a few measly dollars”—because they endangered other animals on the island, especially the caribou herds.

“What happened to their eyes?” she asked.

“Crows or gulls must’ve pecked them out.”

Lori turned away with a shudder.

The snowmobile had a sled for firewood in tow, with a chain saw and a rifle. Lori was relieved to discover that the barrel pointed to the rear. Polar bears crossed her mind, but she didn’t want to show any fear.

Probably a lot of people in Stormy Cove had hunting rifles.

Back in the high school library, she had quickly skimmed through her e-mails and casually remarked to the friendly librarian that Noah would be taking her to the Barrens. Just to be safe.

She hastily slipped her numb fingers into her mittens, mounted the machine, and Noah sped away. She held on tightly to the side grips so she wouldn’t be thrown off. The machine bounced over bumps and hollows; her back absorbed the thuds. She’d be stiff and sore and exhausted in bed that night.

“Everything OK?” Noah shouted back from time to time. Only the camera bag separated them.

They mounted the crest of a hill, and the houses of Stormy Cove fell out of sight. Noah followed a gently curving, well-traveled trail. The sun disappeared behind some clouds and a pale light fell on the plain before them, casting a unique enchantment over the barren landscape.

So those were the Barrens. Tundra. A swampy, high plateau with sparse vegetation—just as her guidebook had promised. So completely different from the lush rainforest on the West Coast.

Lori raised her visor to get a better look. But her eyes were used to mountains and forests; she couldn’t get her bearings on this flat terrain where the endless whiteness was only broken by the dark lines of stone ridges laid bare by the biting wind. Treetops poked out of the snow in several places, as if pleading for release from the snowdrifts threatening to bury them.

A merciless landscape. But Lori felt oddly moved—fascinated by that forbidding terrain she couldn’t define. She felt herself struggling to comprehend something important, but it kept eluding her.

The trails in the snow frequently crisscrossed, and Lori was mystified by how Noah knew the way. Twice, a snowmobile rose up out of nowhere with its own sled in tow. The drivers stopped for a moment, raised their helmets, had a brief, friendly chat that Lori couldn’t always follow because of the heavy Newfoundland accent. When eyes turned to Lori, names came up in the conversation that she found exotic: Wavey, Flossie, Vonnie, Effie, Nimrod, Alpheus, Eldon, Eliol, Wit.

Lori couldn’t resist the temptation to photograph an elderly couple on a snowmobile together, happily united by the chore of laying in wood for the winter. She got enthusiastic permission from both, along with a blend of pride and curiosity.

Before the couple left, the wife shouted to Lori, “Keep the bed nice and warm for him tonight!”

Lori looked at Noah. “Did she really say that?”

He pretended to be working on his helmet. “Probably. People say things like that. Doesn’t mean anything.”

Lori shook her head. “She looked like such a conservative old lady.”

Noah impatiently slapped the rear seat.

“It’s the way in these parts. Meant as a joke. We’ll certainly hear lots more of it. Come on, up there ahead, you can drive the thing yourself on the pond.”

For Newfoundlanders, Lori discovered, a
pond
meant not a small pool, but a lake. Lori crossed the smooth, frozen surface with relative ease, but cautiously, after Noah had explained the machine’s levers and switches. Because it was going so well, she made another circle around the pond, going faster and faster.

“Thank God for brakes,” she shouted, exhilarated, after coming to a stop.

“No brakes on a boat,” Noah said. “All you can do is throw it into reverse.”

“Some people do that to other people. Instead of braking, they go into reverse.”

She said it without thinking. There was a pause.

Then Noah exclaimed, “What are you waiting for? I’ve got work to do. Take the right-hand track up there.”

The trail circled around rough terrain, and Lori had trouble keeping the snowmobile upright. The sled started to fishtail, and the vehicle threatened to tip over as they came around a curve. Noah took over from her, and half an hour later, they arrived at a slope covered with birch and low, skinny coniferous trees.

Noah grabbed the chain saw and got right to work cutting down and chopping up some trees. Loud screeching broke the silence again and again. When he saw Lori taking pictures, he smiled and kept on working, unperturbed. Now and then, he’d give her a warning shout before a tree groaned and crashed to the ground. She watched him gathering up the heavy pieces of wood. Sweat poured from his brow.