No Cherubs for Melanie (17 page)

“No, they go shitty brown, clog up the gutters, and cause chaos on the railways.”

The odd brilliant red blotch became a wide brush stroke as whole valleys of scarlet streaked beneath them. Alice dropped the plane down and flew just above the treetops so that he would get a better view. The scarlet leaves contrasted brilliantly against the blue horizon and the surrounding evergreen firs. “Wow!” was all he could manage to say.

“It's early yet,” she explained. “In a few weeks they'll be bright red all the way to Toronto.”

A formation of large birds flew directly toward them. “Canada geese,” she said, pointing at the perfectly executed wedge of fifty or more birds. “They're starting to migrate. Winter's coming.”

“Winter in September?” he queried.

“It'll be snowing in a few weeks,” she replied, peering around the clear sky as if searching for signs of advancing snow clouds. Then she swung the plane in a wide loop and pointed at the turquoise lake below. “Bear Lake,” she mouthed.

The settlement was at the north end of the lake and as they flew low over the water the tiny plane skipped over a string of tree-covered islands. With a shout Alice suddenly
swung the control stick over and excitedly pointed down at a small beach on one of the islands. “Bears,” she shouted. He missed them at the first pass and she swooped around again, positioning the plane to give him a better view. Then he saw them. A mother and two cubs gambolling on the beach. The cubs — “This year's litter,” according to Alice — looked as playful as kittens as they rolled in the sand, while the mother waded in the water swiping lazily at passing fish. The noise of the plane caught the mother's attention and she raised herself up to her full height and opened her huge mouth to bellow a warning at the sky. Bliss was sure he heard her above the engine's drone and looked at Alice. “Aren't they afraid of us?”

“Would you be, if you were that size?”

It had taken him nearly thirty-six hours on three planes to reach the isolated community perched on the edge of Bear Lake, much of the time waiting, and as Alice skimmed low over, what she referred to as “the town,” he wondered if they'd strayed into a foreign land. Beneath them was a shabby collection of log cabins clinging to a narrow strip of lakeshore edging the forest. Even from the air he could see there were no proper roads, just twin tracks of gravel meandering along the shore, with a spiky dry-grass centre strip to brush the underside of passing vehicles. And on the outskirts of town the gravel gave way to nothing more than dirt ruts, which faded quickly into the undergrowth.

The lake was smooth and the small plane cushioned itself onto the water with a soft swishing sound as the floats skied across the surface. Taxiing slowly toward the broad wooden dock, where a small pile of goods waited to be shipped out, Bliss took a closer look at the collection of tin huts, log cabins, and general store with a wide covered verandah overlooking the beach. Almost
every property had an enormous satellite dish that looked as though it was worth more than the home. Scattered around the dock was a rusty assortment of trucks, vans, and cars that could have been driven straight off a scrap yard.

“How did they get here?” he wondered aloud.

Alice didn't hear but guessed what he was thinking. “They drive them across the ice in winter.”

“What about you?” He meant the plane; she understood.

“Simple. Once the ice is thick enough I swap the floats for skids and land on it.”

The place was deserted. The only movement seemed to come from an elderly sinewy man whose individual muscles were clearly defined through his parchment skin. He lazily caught the painter thrown by Alice and tied the plane to the dock.

“How are you, Jock?” she called out of the cockpit window.

“Och, I'm nae so bad lassie,” he replied, his soft Scottish brogue catching Bliss totally unawares.

“I've got a passenger, looking for an adventure.”

“He should've bin here in thirty-seven then, when we found the gold.”

Bliss thought he'd misheard. “You were here in nineteen thirty-seven?”

“Aye. I arrived in thirty-two wi' my folks. Bin here ever since.” His accent, not tainted in the least by sixty years in a foreign country, was pure Glasgow Gorbals.

Alice, whose legs, she claimed, had been crossed for the past thirty minutes or so, rushed off to use the facilities in the general store, leaving Bliss an opportunity to confide in the Scotsman. “I was hoping to meet an old
friend who lives around here somewhere. Margaret Gordonstone, do you know her?”

“Aye.”

“You do?”

“Aye,” he replied again, then unaccountably lost interest and began furiously unloading cargo from the plane.

Bliss tapped him on the shoulder. “Can you tell me where I can find her?”

“Depends,” he intoned warily, then stopped work and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together under Bliss' nose. “Depends.”

Bliss caught on. “Ten dollars.”

“Ten does'na go very far these days.”

“Twenty,” he offered, selecting one of the few remaining bills in his wallet.

Jock whisked the money out of his hand and stared wistfully off into the distance.

“She lives on an island about half a day away.”

There were a number of canoes and boats drawn up on the beach. “Could you take me there?” Bliss asked.

“Och, I could.” But he seemed less than confident.

Bliss didn't bother checking his dwindling stock of cash. “How much?” he asked, knowing that, whatever, he would be unable to afford it.

The old man was clearly thinking furiously, deliberating how to make the most out of the Sassenach stranger. Then his face fell. “Och. Save your money mon. The wee lassie's in yon store.”

Retrieving his suitcase from the plane, Bliss took four steps toward the store, stepped down off the dock, and found his feet frozen to the shale beach.

What would she look like?

Would he recognize her?

Why should he? He'd never seen her before.

Then the big question: Would he see Melanie's angelic face in hers?

He shuffled his feet, the store was only ten yards away. Just ten positive steps. Hesitating with indecision he felt the blood coursing through his temples.

“You've waited twenty years for this,” he told himself, forcing one foot forward. Each step brought new thoughts. He had done it before, dozens of times. ‘“Notification of death,'” it was called. Standing on some mother's, father's, sister's, or son's doorstep, pulling a straight face, practicing a sombre voice. And he had seen all their reactions: the blank stares of disbelief, the deep gasps for breath, the traumatized brain painfully evident in contorted facial expressions. And he'd heard the denials: it's a mistake; impossible; it can't be true. And he'd heard the screams and mopped the tears. But this was different, he reminded himself. She knew. She had known for more than twenty years, about Melanie anyway; she had known about her mother for ten. She had grown up with the pain… and the fear. She knew they had died — but did she know at whose hands?

A single wooden step led onto the store's verandah; he opened the mesh insect screen and put his hand on the door. Then it hit him: it wasn't Margaret he was expecting to see, it was Melanie.

Melanie was not in the store and Bliss chastised himself for even considering the possibility. If anyone knew that Melanie was dead it was he. But Margaret wasn't there either. His heart missed a beat and he was unsure whether to be elated or relieved. There was only one person in the store-cum-café. An older woman, shaded under a rattan hat, was seated at a rustic bench with her head in a paper. With a dirt-ingrained hand she raised
the brim of her coolie hat just a fraction and warily studied him. Her gnarled fingers and chipped nails were no strangers to hard work, Bliss thought, then craned around trying to see if Margaret were in the back room. She was not.

Turning back to the woman, he saw that she had returned to the paper. “Excuse me…” he started nervously, but her vibes were clear enough — Do not disturb. Then, for just a moment, he wondered if this might be Margaret: sitting alone, confident, self-possessed. Damn, he thought, that can't be her, she looks at least fifty. Then she took off her wide-rimmed hat and suddenly became thirty. It
was
Margaret, he realized with a start. She hadn't aged, she had weathered. Her young features were masked with a mahogany veneer of suntan and wind exposure. With the hat's shadow removed the sunlight lifted her features and what appeared at first to be a slightly receding chin turned out to be delicately carved and finely pointed.

He stared hard, seeking a likeness between her and the dead little girl he'd pulled from the lake. There was something, he thought, or was he imagining it. Then he put his finger on it — it was her hair. She had Melanie's hair. Long, dark, auburn hair. Margaret's untidily scrunched into a sloppy bun and held in place by an eclectic assortment of pins and elastic bands. Melanie's flowed out into the water like a halo. But it was the same hair. It even had a bright glossy sheen that gave it the appearance of being wet.

She looked up and their eyes locked for a nanosecond. Bliss illogically expected some signal of recognition, some sort of reciprocation, some acknowledgement of the twenty years that she had been part of his consciousness. He was disappointed. Her blank face and disinterested glance held no promise of an accord.

There were no formalities; she offered no pleasantries. “You want coffee?” she asked, almost as if she'd been expecting him. It took him completely by surprise.
Had
she been expecting him? Had Superintendent Edwards or DCI Bryan contacted her? Had someone warned her of his impending visit? He quickly dismissed the idea, telling himself that neither of them knew where he was headed, unless… Samantha! She wouldn't have. She couldn't have.

The woman had risen and reached the counter. “Has the cat got your tongue?” she enquired frostily. “Or do you always stand and stare like a lunatic?”

The ballooning lumberjack's shirt masked her breasts and gave her a manly appearance. The calf-length denim skirt obscured her legs, but it was immediately apparent she had lost the lumpiness the chef at
L'Haute Cuisinier
had scathingly mentioned. But there was something about her which took him by surprise, although, he admitted to himself, there was no reason why he should have been surprised. She had the faintest remnant of a harelip. Good reconstructive surgery — just a fine vertical scar — but the slight lisp in her voice gave it away.

He unfroze. “Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. Do you know who I am?”

“I've no idea, but Alice says you are English and looking for an adventure.”

Alice… of course. He relaxed. “Coffee would be good.”

“You haven't tried it yet.”

Pouring the coffee with one hand she grabbed the ringing phone. “Stacy's bar… No, he's out fishing… OK, have a nice day.”

Her strong Canadian accent disappeared instantly as she turned back to Bliss. “Milk or cream?”

He shrugged. “Either,” and was grateful that these were his only choices. Then, as she reached into the fridge, he stepped forward. “Are you Margaret Gordonstone?”

Her head shot around; she gave him a piercing look. “Who wants to know?

“You don't remember me, do you?” he said, stupidly overlooking the fact they had never met.

She squinted at him, her deep brown eyes probing into his. “Are we going to keep asking each other questions or is one of us going to start giving answers?”

“That's another question,” he replied, desperately stalling.

Since leaving Toronto he'd turned over a dozen scenarios in his mind to explain his visit and discarded each as being thoroughly implausible. Finally, giving up, he had decided that when the time came he would have plenty of opportunity to trump up a suitable explanation and devise a plan of attack. Now, suddenly confronted by his objective, he was stuck for words. “Just passing,” was hardly likely to be believed, especially by this woman, who was clearly a straight talker. He held her gaze and blurted out the truth: “I investigated Melanie's death.”

What must she be thinking, he wondered as her face contorted through a range of emotions. Her confidence seemed to drain away. “You're a policeman?”

“Yes. We never met but…”

Quickly regaining her composure, she challenged him. “What are you doing here?”

Thinking that he could hardly say he just happened to be in the neighbourhood; he sidestepped the question and injected some lightness in his voice. “It's my turn to ask a question.” Then enquired in a friendly tone, “Do you work here?”

“Good God, no!”

Alice breezed in carting a mailbag. “Oh. You two limeys have met then. I've got some mail for you, Maggie.”

He searched Margaret's face. Would she blow his cover? Stone-faced she turned to Alice, nodded in the direction of the heavy bag, and joked, “What? All that.”

“No, idiot.” Alice pulled a couple of envelopes from the top of the bag and handed them to the other woman. “These are yours.”

“Thanks,” Margaret said, but barely glanced at the two letters before stuffing them, unopened, into her handbag.

A touch of excitement swept Alice's face. “And I've got a special package for you, too.”

Margaret's face lit up. “What is it?”

Like a conjurer, Alice delved into the Santa-sized bag and brought out a cat's carrying cage. “Look.”

There was a shift in the air as three pairs of eyes fought to peer through the ventilation holes. Bliss couldn't distinguish anything and was still trying to focus through the slits when Margaret shouted in delight, “Bald eagle? What's wrong with him?”

“Shot,” replied Alice. “Some Native kids, probably trying to prove something. Anyway, Dr. Chaters thinks he got all the pellets out. Here's a note.”