Bodies and Sole (22 page)

Chapter Forty-Two

Gus thought the skull should be buried, and the tooth along
with it.

“It's a curse,” she told Dot and Finn anytime they would listen.

“It was Roger's great-great…well, I don't know how many greats…grandfather who built that Sullivan house. Built the evil right in. Brother murdered brother twice over in that house.” The whole village knew that. Now the rest of the world was learning those stories in
Time Was
.

“Never was any good to anyone, that house. And him and his tooth showing up and that house burning to the ground at the same time. It's a sign, I tell ya. A sign.”

“A sign of what?” Hy asked, popping in on Gus's monologue one day.

“A sign it were never meant to be. Evil built right in,” she repeated.

“How was it built in?”

“There was a killin' as it was goin' up. Blood spilled on the foundation stones.”

“A murder?” Hy was intrigued.

“Mebbe. Mebbe not.”

“The young wife. Roger's ancestor made a play for her. Or she may have been foolin' around with him. Mebbe they had a lovers' quarrel. Mebbe that's how she fell down the stone steps into the cellar and bled all over the sandstone, dead before anyone found her. No one to say what happened. That house was built on the blood of a bride.”

“You didn't tell this story in the book.”

“No.” Gus shook her head. “I didn't like the taste of it. It wouldn't be fittin'. Sides, no one knows what really happened.”

Hy grinned. “That didn't stop you from telling a lot of other stories.”

Gus smiled. “Happen it didn't. But the ones I told, if they ain't true, they're at least folklore.”

Hy noticed there was no dish down for Blacky. It occurred to her that there hadn't been the last time she was here.

“What's happened with Blacky?”

“Gorn somewhere else, I guess.”

Did Gus know she'd been sharing the cat with Jamieson?

“Dottie here was helping herself to the cat food, so I put it up on the warshing machine, in there.” Gus pointed to the laundry room. “Blacky didn't fancy that. Wouldn't eat anything up there, not even my good table scraps. Circled and circled around the place I useta put the dish, but I was just as stubborn. Hasn't been back in a few days. I hope she's all right.”

“I'm sure she is. I'll let you know if I see her.”

That gave Hy two reasons to speed up to Jamieson's. She couldn't keep the Sullivan house story she'd heard from Gus to herself, and she was curious, a bit concerned, about Whacky.

Those fears were put to rest as she cycled up to the front door, where Jamieson was putting down a saucer of fish, purring along with the cat.

“Whitey's eating.”

Jamieson looked up and flushed. She was so focused on the cat and purring so loudly, she hadn't heard Hy approach.

“I've finally managed to get her to eat.”

“What's she got there?”

“She's got sole.”

Hy laughed. “I bet she does.”

Jamieson smiled one of her rare smiles.

“That's all she'll eat. Sole. She's here almost all the time now.”

So Jamieson had won the battle of Whacky. Hy approved. Gus had no need of a cat, but Jamieson… Jamieson needed something. A bit of light companionship. Perfect. It might keep her mind off Ian.

Something else was on Jamieson's mind, though. Hy knew she was struggling with the fact that she'd let that fire go out of control. She told her Gus's take on the building of Sullivan house.

It did seem to help.

“Evil built in?” Jamieson repeated Hy's words. Gus's words.

Jamieson had thought it, too. She'd also thought the idea was fanciful, and shoved it aside, but The Shores had seeped into Jamieson's way of thinking, and this idea of evil being set down with the island stone foundation made sense to her. She was thinking in a Red Island way.

Evil built in. And now purged with fire.

And what of the skull?

Should it be buried, as Gus recommended, or could it be turned to good?

The whole village knew that Roger Murray's gold tooth was lodged in his skull. And the whole village had decided something must be done about it. Jamieson had not been able to open a case and therefore the skull was not police evidence anymore. It was anyone's to have.

Jamieson called a meeting in the hall. Everyone came. All agreed, unhappily, that Jared MacPherson had the best claim to the tooth. He was, as far as anyone knew, Roger's nearest, if not only, next of kin.

Jared was whining that it should be his. Witness the guns. Roger's most valuable possessions had been left to him, so the skull should be his as well.

But Roger, like Jared, had debts. He owed the Frasers. He owed the Macks. He owed the Joudrys. In fact, he owed just about everyone in the village. Perhaps not the full amount that gold tooth had climbed to in fifty years, but certainly the original amount and more.

The hall was in an uproar, everyone staking a claim to the tooth.

Jamieson couldn't bear the thought that whoever might get the skull would smash it to pieces in order to get at it. Vera's bodies had given her a greater respect for the remains of the dead.

Then she had her idea. She held up a hand to bring the crowd to order and let them know her decision.

They left, subdued and shaking their heads at her crazy pronouncement.

Hy's Facebook Status: On the Oscars red carpet, the question is “Who are you wearing?” In The Shores this Heritage Week, it's “When are you wearing?” Or, possibly, “OMG! WHAT are you wearing?”
Likes: 7
Comments: No one.
Never.
Nothing.

Heritage Homecoming Week had arrived, and the village was dressing in period costume, the only idea they'd agreed on with Marlene.

Sort of.

“I'm wearing ‘right now,'” said Gus. That is, what she “allus” wore: her housedress and an apron. Sensible lace-up black shoes.

The Shores began to look more like Woodstock than an east coast fishing village. The decision to allow costumes representing any time period of the past two hundred years had made for a mish-mash of eras and a wide range of ability in costuming. Since long skirts abounded, even in the heat of late August, along with flowered and lace blouses, it looked both like the 1960s and 1860s.

A number of the younger villagers were dressed as hippies. Jared MacPherson designated himself as the official heritage dealer.

He'd dug out some of his father's clothing from half a century before – a dashiki, beads and sandals – and paraded around the village in a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke, always managing to keep a few steps ahead of Jamieson.

He gathered a following of young people, dressed like him, deep with admiration for someone they thought had been a genuine hippie, who, in his own words, “might of gone to Woodstock.” He hadn't even been born then.

Jared found the number of his admirers constantly changing, as the Frasers or Joudrys saw their grandkids through the haze of smoke that surrounded him, and hauled them out by the ear or hair or shirtsleeve. They soon bounded back, tagged onto his shirttails and breathed in deeply, not the fragrant air of The Shores, but of Jared's homegrown.

When it wasn't looking like Woodstock, the village rather resembled Frontier Town. Most of the women, unwilling to put a lot of effort into dressing up men who would only resent it, had opted for a fifties look. Not 1850s, but 1950s. They were wearing Levi jeans and checkered shirts rolled up at the sleeves. Those who smoked, like Wally Fraser, had a pack of smokes tucked in their sleeves or front pockets.

Moira, meantime, brought the wild west thundering into The Shores. Rejecting the unlucky fish costuming, she, with the help of the Sears catalogue, had put together an Indian princess outfit to beat them all. Unrelenting embroidery of eagles and birds, beading to beat the band, rows of necklaces, moccasins on her feet, and yes, sad to say, a feathered headdress. She tried to make Frank wear one, too, but caved in and let him wear a cowboy hat and boots.

Ian had opted for that look and Hy had, too. The checkered shirts and Levis, that is. Not the cowboy hat. Finn just kept wearing head-to-toe black and Dot hadn't decided what to do.

“You wouldn't get me in one of them rigs.” Gus pointed to Annabelle and April Dewey who were “gussied up,” as Gus put it, in pretty authentic-looking dresses of the 1800s. Both were whizzes with a needle. They'd become the poster girls of the celebration, with April's six kids clustered around and all in appropriate costume. Murdo was in hiding, in the comfort of April's nineteenth-century kitchen. That was costume enough for him.

He could have hidden behind his police uniform, but he wasn't sure where it was. He hadn't worn it, or done anything official in it, in more than a year. It was no longer expected – by anyone, not even Jamieson.

Jamieson had decided to dress up for the week, too. Why should she be left out? She was hoping, though barely admitting it to herself, to turn Ian's eye her way again. And so, hair down and flowing, she wore the silk blouse that had seemed to have such a positive effect on him that night he kissed her.

But he hardly even glanced at her. Other men did. Frank. Wally Fraser. Jared MacPherson. A couple of seasonal residents who'd never bothered to look at Jamieson before. Now they were stimulated by the thought of tumbling a local girl, and a police officer to boot. Not exactly a cavalcade of Romeos, but Jamieson stirred some male interest in that silk blouse.

Just not Ian's.

Bessie and Jessie, Moira's two maiden aunts from New Brunswick, had missed her wedding, but were excited to visit and take part in the celebration – as long as Moira didn't put them up in a wigwam. They didn't have to worry about dressing up. They'd arrived, dressed for the part. Long skirts, frilly blouses and old lady lace-up boots were what they wore every day.

Marlene had decided to opt out, saying to anyone who might look at her critically: “Someone has to maintain an official presence.” So there she was, in the stinking heat, in a navy suit, white cotton shirt and her service badge, adding to the hodgepodge of centuries and cultures, almost all of which had nothing to do with The Shores.

Marlene took photographs selectively, isolating the compliant April Dewey and her horde, and a few others who appeared to have plucked their heritage from this place in another time. People like Bessie and Jessie. From Tatamagouche. Not The Shores. But much more suitable.

A truer picture would be recorded by Lester Joudry. In his video, The Shores seemed lost in time and place, at the mercy of gangs of aging would-be James Deans and flower children.

Chapter Forty-Three

www.theshores200.com

It's Heritage Day at The Shores, the village's 200th birthday. This whole summer has been leading up to this day. Still time to join us and celebrate.

Likes: 21

Comment: Will there be fireworks…with dead people in them?

“Ssh. Listen to that.”

Hy and Ian were up on the widow's walk on the roof of his house, the best view in The Shores.

“What?” He handed her a coffee. He kept a Keurig on the roof.

“That.”

“That? I don't hear anything.”

“That's exactly it. You hear nothing.”

“Correct.”

“No ride-ons.”

“Of course. Nice.”

“Um-hm.”

They were on the walk to get a bird's eye view of the day's events.

Moira had generously donated one wigwam as a heritage museum designed by local high school students. She had devoted another to Mi'kmaw heritage, most especially her own. She'd retrieved the wedding outfit from the compost bin, and laid it out facing front, the damage to the back concealed.

Also concealed from Moira at the moment was Bessie and Jessie's wedding present to her. They had actually given up in despair of her ever getting married, and a year before had sent her the multiple-place setting of dishes they'd collected over the years with stamps earned for purchases at the Tatamagouche grocery store. They were plastic ware with little flowers on them, a knockoff of Corning Ware.

Not ungrateful, Moira had deemed them “too good to use” and put them away with other such family treasures.

Bessie and Jessie decided this was the appropriate occasion to bring them out. They would be perfect for refreshments being served to dignitaries in the hall. They rooted around Moira's when she was out the day before – she was spending quite a bit of time with Frank in the wigwam – and found them in cha cupboard in the kitchen.

Their eyes twinkled. They smiled. Nodded in harmony.

“Too good to use,” said Bessie.

“Too good to use,” said Jessie.

They were delighted. Their niece had found their gift too good to use. In the Toombs family, that was the highest accolade.

But sometimes sacrifices had to be made.

Box after box, they brought them out.

They covered the kitchen floor. Now what?

They were lucky that Billy showed up to see Madeline, because they never could have transported them over to the hall themselves, even though the dishes were only plastic.

They twittered along beside him, back and forth to the hall, until the dishes were all safely stacked in the W.I. kitchen.

Then they began to wash them.

Marlene had woken from an afternoon nap at Moira's and seen the activity from one back door to the other. She got up and went over to see what was going on.

“Oh, they're lovely.” Marlene stroked the pretty floral pattern on one of the dishes. “Simply lovely.”

Bessie and Jessie smiled.

“Aren't they?” said Bessie.

“Aren't they?” said Jessie.

They were relieved when Moira showed up.

“What a good idea,” she said. This was a new Moira, softened by Frank's caresses, able to give credit where it was due. She'd thought about offering up the set for the official ceremonies in the hall, but had hesitated, so engrained was it in her nature to save, put aside, treasure.

But the Premier would be eating brownies here. And several MLAs, many of them ministers in the provincial government. Eating off her plates. She swelled with pride at the thought.

But the occasion did not cure Moira of her ways.

When they were finished with the plates at the hall, she would wrap them all up again – with Bessie and Jessie's help and approval – and store them in the cupboard in the kitchen. Who knows when they would see the light of day again.

In the meantime, she made sure that Frank took lots of photographs with his cell phone of all the dignitaries eating off her dishes. She later hung several of them in her front hall.

For lesser mortals not partaking of the goodies served up on Moira's plates, Nathan, Billy and Finn had constructed a model size “hall” outside as a refreshment stand. All the official business would take place inside the hall, while, outside, the whole common area was a flea market.

At one table sat the skull of Roger Murphy. It was the centre of Jamieson's “sword in the stone” event. For a toonie, anyone could have one try at removing the gold tooth from the skull. The tooth would go to the winner and proceeds would go to the county hospital.

Jamieson's stipulation was that no damage could be done to the skull in any way.

But no one could do it. No one could get a hand or fingers into any aperture in the skull to get a chance at the gold.

Jared didn't have a hope. His great big mitts came nowhere near being able to penetrate the skull. He skulked around while others tried, hoping to put them off and win by default. He was seriously considering knocking the skull off the table and smashing it “accidentally.”

Gladys Fraser had the smallest hands of any woman in The Shores, and proud of it, but even she could only get the ends of four fingers, up to the knuckles, into Roger's gap-toothed grin. She tried so hard, she threatened to dislodge some of the other teeth.

Finally, Dottie waddled up to the booth, took the skull in her arms, and stuck a baby fist in through the bullet hole. The tooth came out in her hand. She immediately began to chew on it, until Dot, seeing her, rescued the toddler and her prize.

“First visit from the tooth fairy,” said Dot, holding the gold tooth high so it glinted in the sun.

“She didn't pay her toonie,” Jared mumbled after the fact. He had thrown a slug into the jar.

“For her education,” decreed Gus. “Fittin'.”

Roger remained on display beside a large replica skull and, for a loonie a toss, people could win a prize. Proceeds also went to the county hospital. Finn was giving a forensic talk about the skull and pointing out to a group of bloodthirsty youngsters – most of them Deweys – what the marks on it might mean.

Sticking his finger in the hole – always a fun party trick – he'd outline the possibilities.

“This is almost certainly a bullet hole, though it's changed somewhat in size and shape since the incident occurred more than fifty years ago. Smoothed for one thing. It's the approximate size of a bullet discharged by a gun in Constable Jamieson's possession, but we don't know any more than that. The hole's too worn by time to give us any specific information. Not the brand, and we can't say that a particular person with a specific gun shot Roger. Though it's a safe bet that the guy in the boat with him did.”

Ben was offering tourists a taste of “heritage farming.” He had a barn full of old equipment – the Macks never gave anything away. He'd oiled it up and got it going and he and Nathan and a couple of the local lads were giving educational rides through his fields.

Gladys Fraser had command of Wally's shed. The Women's Institute had stuck up a sign:

Heritage Shed Circa 1962.

“Genuine metal do-it-yourselfer,” Wally would slap the siding. “First of its kind.”

The women had opened up the insides – all the boxes of people's lives over a hundred and fifty years. They'd combed through them for artifacts now on display: hair combs, suspenders, love letters, irons, corsets, all neatly laid out and identified as the W.I. heritage project. The Cranes – Gladys's family – were on one side; the Frasers on the other. Interesting mementos and photos decorated the boxes and trunks, and so fertile were the two families, it amounted to a history of the village.

They thought it might make another book. Hy agreed.

Wally and his beloved John Deere had been banished from the shed, but he didn't care. He had a “building,” bigger than a shed, and this one contained not just Wally's new tractor, but every ride-on he'd ever owned, going back fifty years. It was a museum in itself. Wally had spent the last weeks polishing and servicing every one of the vehicles, all of which were in working order. They were just waiting for the “turfew” to be over to exit the building on parade, each driven by a Fraser man or boy.

Wally had spent many happy hours in the building, playing with his toys.

And smoking.

There was a “heritage moment of silence” at noon so people could hear what The Shores sounded like before there were ride-ons. And there was the much-anticipated draw for the winner of the John Deere machine.

The entries were stuffed into a brand-new gas can, shaken, and Dottie stuck a tiny hand in to pull out the winner, with as much dispatch as she had taken hold of the gold tooth.

“Billy Pride,” Marlene called out.

Billy flushed bright red, and ran up to accept the keys, held them up high and yelled:

“Wheels.”

Because, for Billy, it was more than just a ride-on. It was his way of making a living, and his way of getting around the village. He didn't have a car.

He grabbed one of the five filled gas cans that were part of the prize, filled up the tractor, hoisted tiny girlfriend Madeline on the back, and drove off, if not into the sunset, into the noonday sun.

That was Wally's cue to fire up his heritage ride-ons, with the help of his extended family of grandchildren. The Frasers rode their vehicles from Wally's, past Gus Mack's, up The Shore Lane and around the hall. They did it once. They did it twice. They did it three times. And kept on going.

Marlene could do nothing but open and shut her mouth, and guide the dignitaries into the hall where refreshments awaited them – as well as a concert and stepdancing by the local children.

If asked, the dignitaries would have said they preferred to listen to the ride-ons.

Wally was fully aware that the villagers had promised to keep their mowers silent for the whole day.

“But, in my opinion,” he said later, explaining himself, “them ride-ons is heritage, too, and meant to be part of the day. And, anyway, wasn't Billy riding his?”

Wally was envious of Billy's win – and him with shameful little around his house to mow. Though his own John Deere was just a year old, Wally was already having unfaithful thoughts about replacing it. How to get it past Gladys was the problem.

For now, The Shores was filled with the sound of tractors mowing.

“Just as it should be,” said Wally.

“Wouldn't know it was summer otherwise,” said Harold MacLean.

“Hyuup,” he punctuated the statement after a brief pause.

Abel Mack was nowhere to be found to venture his opinion, but Gus was at a table giving a workshop called “Ancient and Crazy Quilts.” She was also signing and selling copies of her bestseller.

Cat moved up from Big Bay for the day with his clothing line, including a number of fine items made of sole.

“It's my new line,” he told Hy later in the day. “It ain't easy. Very delicate. Very hard to do.

“I've named it specially for The Shores.” He flipped over a cardboard sign and propped it up behind the dainties:

It read:

Don't Tell a Sole.

Hy sifted through the merchandise. All made of sole. A bit racy for the Shores. Camisoles. Lacy panties, short short slips. Well maybe some of the tourists would go for them. They did. By the end of the day, Cat put up another sign:

Soled out.

As night fell on a long day of celebration, the villagers walked down The Shore Lane, candles in glass containers lighting their way to the water.

Behind them the six golden cones of light lit up the village centre outside Moira's house.

Frank and the village boys had organized a fireworks display on the beach. Soon rockets and roman candles were banging and whizzing and throwing balls of light into the night sky.

Jamieson was back in uniform, in case of trouble. There was drinking going on, to which she turned a blind eye. One of the drinkers was her police partner Murdo.

Three star shells went off in sequence, showering dazzling light on the shore.

“That could be one of Vera's boys.” Hy grinned and nuzzled into Ian's chest.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you can have your ashes mixed with firecracker
powder…”

“And go out with a bang?”

“Exactly. People do it.”

“They do this, too,” he tilted her chin.

He kissed her.

And then he did it again.

Jamieson turned her head away. Whitey abandoned a fish carcass she'd been batting around and came to wind herself around Jamieson's ankles. Jamieson nudged her away. The cat kept coming back, until finally Jamieson picked her up, and held her warm body close, against the chill.