Stormy Cove (21 page)

“Yes.”

She didn’t want to hear another word about Reanna Sholler.

“If you see her again, could you ask . . . could you find out a bit more about her? Her parents, what they do, what school she went to?”

Lori looked at Greta in surprise.

“I don’t actually know the woman. We only met by chance.”

“Oh, I thought you’d taken her under your wing, sort of.”

“Why should I? Will Spence is her boss, not me.”

She opened the car door and dropped the groceries on the passenger seat. Greta hadn’t moved. Lori had the feeling she wanted to ask her something, but she evidently changed her mind.

“OK, then . . . I’m curious to see what’s in the Monday paper.” And with that, she left.

Lori’s head was buzzing. She could hardly focus on anything as she drove through Stormy Cove. Robine with a woman archaeologist. And now Greta with her peculiar request. How could anyone make any sense of all the little intrigues?

Did the police hear about the rumors surrounding Robine? And could they know that Jacinta’s spying was the apparent source? Did Lloyd Weston know about it? How did Robine take the gossip? And the Whalen family?

And why the animosity between the Parsons and the Whalens? She couldn’t understand what Mavis was trying to get at.

When she thought back on her conversations, Greta’s behavior seemed odder and odder. The locals always found things out in no time flat. Why was she asking for Lori’s help? Had Noah . . . maybe roped his sister into finding out more about Reanna? But she rejected that out of hand. It wasn’t Noah’s way of doing things. She doubted that Noah confided anything about his personal affairs to his family at all. She couldn’t imagine him talking to anybody about his feelings.

Something was bugging Greta. Something she didn’t want to disclose.

She sighed.
Oh, why did that reporter have to show up right now!
As if things weren’t already complicated enough.

When she returned home, she saw a flashing light. The answering machine. She pushed the button.

“Hello, this is Lloyd Weston. We’re flying up to the site in a few days. I want you to come. In fact, I’d like to hire you to photograph the site! Please call me back.”

Lori filled the kettle and made a sandwich with wet packaged ham and mushy tomatoes—there wasn’t anything better at the store.

Then she e-mailed Mona Blackwood to tell her about Weston’s offer and get her opinion. Maybe there was a conflict of interest, and it was best to get these things out in the open. She didn’t want to blow it with Mona, but the dig might be valuable for the book. Next, she downloaded the iceberg pictures onto her laptop and went through them slowly. She knew that at least a few shots must have come out well, but what she found exceeded her expectations. What a haul! Of course there were some crappy ones, courtesy of Reanna, but also several that took her breath away. She was good in the studio—that, she knew—but her real love was outdoor photography. And she could explore that passion to its fullest extent in this powerful, wild, inspiring landscape.

She beavered away on cataloging and editing the photos, not stopping until it had gotten dark outside. Then her eagerness flagged, and the events of the day caught up with her. She suddenly felt tired and dejected. She stretched out on the sofa and closed her heavy eyelids. But the images wouldn’t leave her in peace. She was immediately back on the boat, cruising by icebergs. A face bulled its way into view—blond hair streaming in the wind. Lori pushed away the image, brought back the icebergs and their massive, sparkling sides, the peaks and the arches, the seabirds on their crest, like dark sprinkles atop frosting.

But then a face returned, framed in blond hair. It was not Reanna.

Katja.

In the kitchen on the Lindenhold estate.

Lori rolled over onto her side, but the memories couldn’t be kept at bay—they fought their way through with too much force.

The icebergs vanished. She found herself in the kitchen at Lindenhold, a pile of snap beans on the table in front of her for trimming. It was dark in the kitchen, but the autumn sun was shining outside. It had attracted everyone else to the garden; she had to make supper all by herself.

A door opens. Katja, asking, “You know where Volker is?”

She’s wearing a miniskirt over her shiny leggings, a low-cut blouse, and her blond, unkempt hair falls over her shoulders. The dark rings in her pale face are not as pronounced as during the first few weeks after she arrived. A young woman, from one of the finest families, who had drifted into drug addiction and was looking for a cure and stability in Lindenhold.

Drifted. Volker’s word. As if somebody had forced cocaine on Katja. So where does an addict’s responsibility kick in, Lori had argued. The word “responsibility” hadn’t sat well with him. He’d lectured her that Katja was to be treated as somebody who is recuperating, like from a long illness. Lori tears off the thin threads from the bean pods with her knife. She doesn’t look up as she says in her halting German, “He doesn’t have any time right now. What’s the matter?”

“I’ve got to talk to him. Where is he?”

Now Lori looks up.

“He’s with Andrew.”

“Can he come down for a moment? I’ve got to talk to him.”

Lori shakes her head.

“He’s playing with Andrew. He has a family. He has a child. Do you understand? Andrew wants to be with his daddy too.”

“He can still do that,” Katja shouts impatiently, flinging back her unruly hair. “I just have to have a quick word with him.”

She moves toward the door to the attic steps, to where she thinks Volker and Andrew are. But Lori is quicker. She stands in front of the door, knife in hand.

Now only English comes out of her mouth. She knows Katja learned English in school.

“Leave Volker alone! You’ve monopolized him enough. He’s not your therapist. He has a little child who needs him. Andrew needs his dad, and you’re not going up there. You have no business being in our room. I’ve had enough of you taking advantage of his good nature. He can’t just be there for you whenever you want. Enough is enough. You only think about yourself. How about you trim these beans and contribute something to the community. Make yourself useful for once.”

She stands her ground, clutching the paring knife.

Katja stares at her, flabbergasted. Then she looks wildly around the kitchen. Until her eyes settle on something. She moves toward it in slow motion. She opens the drawer and takes out a knife.

Lori thinks,
She’s going to attack me!

She breaks out in a cold sweat.

But Katja runs out of the kitchen, the knife still in her hand.

Lori’s first thought is of Andrew. She races up the attic stairs and almost breaks down the door. Nothing. Volker and Andrew are nowhere to be seen. She yells their names and charges downstairs, through the empty kitchen and the corridor and outside.

“Volker! Andrew!” she screams in desperation. She sees Rosemarie standing by the rabbit shed.

“Where’s Volker?”

Rosemarie comes over.

“What’s the matter, Lori? What’s happened?”

Lori’s almost out of her mind.

“Where’s Volker?”

“Down at the pond. Lori, what’s up?” Rosemarie’s face is tense with worry.

“She’s got a knife! She’s got a knife!”

Lori runs down to the pond. She sees Volker and Andrew feeding ducks and screams their names again.

Volker turns around and stays rooted to the spot. Then he takes Andrew’s hand. The boy looks at her in confusion.

When she reaches them, she can hardly speak.

“She’s got a knife,” is all she can manage.

Volker grabs her by the shoulder.

“Who’s got a knife?”

“Katja. She . . . she took a knife out of the kitchen drawer and . . . and ran out of the kitchen!”

Volker frowns.

“You’ve got a knife, too, Lori. What happened?”

She is panting.

“I . . . I thought she wanted to help me with the beans, but . . . she got a knife out of the drawer and just . . . took off.”

“But that’s no reason to scare us like this, we—”

“Volker, we must find Katja immediately,” a voice behind them says. Rosemarie’s determined tone brooks no contradiction. “I’ll go get Franz. You stay with Lori.”

Lori had never heard Rosemarie speak so decisively.

Katja couldn’t be found that night. The police arrived the following morning. They discovered Katja at a friend’s place in town. She’d overdosed. The kitchen knife was discovered later in the shed at Lindenhold, where Katja had stolen a motorbike to go into town. But the investigators never found out about it.

Volker, Franz, and Rosemarie kept Lori out of the police investigation as much as they could. It was in their own interest as well. They wanted the community for recovering addicts to keep operating. Lori was surprised that the “incident,” as she called it, didn’t make bigger waves. Katja’s parents seemed to adjust quickly. It was also possible that Lori wasn’t being told everything. Just the way she never told Volker the whole truth. He never really pursued it. She had the impression that this was the first time he’d questioned whether it was good to raise Andrew in this unusual community. It occurred to her later that this was the reason he didn’t object to Andrew’s going to Canada with her. For years afterward, Lori used her child’s safety to justify her stubborn refusal to admit her share of the blame for Katja’s death. But it cost her a lot of energy to relegate this ghost to the cellar of her unconscious.

Somebody ought to warn Reanna,
she thought, as she made a nightcap in the kitchen.

Somebody ought to warn her about me.

CHAPTER 28

The wind blew so hard the next day the fishermen didn’t even think about going out on the turbulent sea.

Lori decided to take a walk around the bay with Rusty and her camera. She had an exposed spot in her sights, a spot where the wind was so powerful that all the few gnarled firs there could do was to bend with it and grow almost horizontally to the ground. The symbolic value of the image was obvious. A life pulled between submission, resistance, and adaptation—a fine balance between mistakes and triumphs. Except that mistakes here could rapidly be fatal.

That was a nice way to put it. She made a mental note to add it to her travel diary later.

She kept to the lee side at first, but after reaching the high plateau, she had to brace herself against gusts of wind with all her strength. She was amazed at how the little frame houses were able to brave constant onslaughts year after year. Rusty kept pulling his rope vigorously; he was clearly irritated by her leisurely pace and frequent stops and would have gone a hundred times farther by now without her. But when she squatted down near the cliffs in order not to be whisked off by the wind, he sat patiently beside her, picking up scents from every direction. While she was taking pictures, she had to tie the leash around her waist, which the dog liked even less. She’d read somewhere that huskies can run for eight hours nonstop. But here in the Canadian North, most of them spent their lives on a short leash. Lori found the mere thought unbearable and untied the rope around her waist. She could show him places that he’d never see otherwise—and vice versa. She ventured farther afield with Rusty than if she’d been walking alone.

They returned to the village at noon, and with a heavy heart, she chained Rusty in front of his doghouse. She decided to have lunch and then go read up on cod fishing in the library. She’d had it with Internet research and longed to run her fingertips over printed paper.

Aurelia was busy shelving books when Lori came in. Her face lit up.

“So nice to see you, Lori! I often think of you when I see a book you might be interested in. Have you discovered anything more about poor Marguerite?”

Lori shook her head.

“She’ll probably remain a mystery, but I haven’t given up hope of getting back to the Isle of Demons someday.”

“You certainly will! Somebody will take you there, I’m sure. And then you absolutely must tell me what it’s like.”

“You can count on it. But today I want to read up on cod.”

“Cod, sure, that’s easy. Take a look at this big book here; came out recently.”

Aurelia pulled a tome off the shelf and laid it on a table in front of a window.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

Lori didn’t know whether to be happy or intimidated by the book’s size.

“This whole thing is about cod?”

“Why, yes, there’s a lot to say. Cod dominated Newfoundland history for a long time. And European history.”

“You’re using the past tense,” Lori remarked.

Aurelia blushed, as if caught out.

“I’m afraid the good times are past—but don’t tell the fishermen that. They’re still hoping the cod will come back.”

Did Noah hope that as well? There was so much she wanted to ask him. All of a sudden, she was dying to be on the boat, watching him fish. The legendary cod. She imagined taking photos that might almost seem biblical. She felt Aurelia’s eyes on her.

“I’ve heard that the official catch quotas set by the Ministry of Fisheries in Ottawa are very low. How low, actually? I wonder how much cod they’re still permitted to catch at all.”

“Will you be going out cod fishing?”

“Yes, tomorrow, I hope, if the wind dies down.”

“Who with?”

“Noah, or anybody who’ll take me along.”

“It must make Noah proud that you show so much interest in his work.”

Lori avoided Aurelia’s curious gaze and opened the book.

“Do you think so?” she asked offhandedly.

“Well . . . a lot of women think those guys always stink of fish and don’t make much . . .”

Lori was at a loss as to how to take that. People always wanted to know the exact nature of others’ relationships. And if they couldn’t, they speculated. Even when the parties in question weren’t sure about it themselves. Lori repeatedly asked herself if she was being fair to Noah. Was she really any different from the women for whom a fisherman wasn’t good enough? She’d never really thought it through. Maybe Noah was only an exotic eyeful for her. A diversion for as long as she was there on her book project. Did she respect him enough for his hard work, his humaneness, his tenacity, his . . . ?

“It must be entertaining for the men when you’re on board,” Aurelia continued.

“Yes, I’d like to think so, even if I mostly just get in their way,” Lori replied airily, to change the subject. “Is your husband a fisherman?”

“He used to be, but he gave it up and sold his license. He drives the second school bus now. And I work in Gideon Moore’s office off and on when he needs secretarial help.”

“Are you glad he doesn’t fish anymore?”

Aurelia toyed with her pencil.

“Yes, I am. It made me anxious when he was out on the ocean. We have three kids. I didn’t want to be a widow.” She paused and raised a hand as if fending something off. “Joseph Johnston’s funeral is this Friday. Did you hear about his terrible accident? No? He slipped on the deck of his boat and fell into the fish hole. Head first. They couldn’t do anything for him. Like I said, Friday’s the funeral. Another new widow in the village.”

“Like Noah’s mother.” The words escaped Lori before she could stop them.

“Yes, Winnie never recovered from that tragedy. Sure, Archie looks after the family, but . . . when Noah’s dad was alive, he and Archie . . . oh, what am I saying? I mustn’t gossip.”

“It’s not gossip,” Lori assured her, eager to learn more about Noah’s family. “Nothing secret about it. I’m sure the whole village knows.”

“Everybody knows, that’s for sure. But . . . anybody else will probably tell you the same thing: the two of them didn’t always fish in the same waters.”

Lori looked at her without saying anything. That encouraged the librarian to continue.

“Archie will never be another Abram Whalen, no matter how hard he tries. He simply isn’t made of the right stuff. He’d really like to, but . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t want to keep you from your book. You can borrow it. You’d be the first, though it’s been here a while.”

“The first? Isn’t anybody here interested in a big book about cod?”

Aurelia put on the cardigan she’d thrown over her chair and watched the children coming in from the corridor linking the library to the school.

“Somehow the interest in fisheries has dwindled. I think most folks secretly think that fishermen are losers.”

She said it with a tinge of regret, as if she felt guilty of treason—she, the wife of a man who’d given up his fishing boat for a school bus.

Lori started to leaf through the book, and in a few minutes, she was buried deep in the descriptions, the numerous illustrations, tables, statistics, and particularly the old engravings and photos from a lost age.

It was quickly clear that this book wasn’t only about a fish that once fed half the world but about a part of history she didn’t know anywhere near enough about.

She felt a sudden cold draft from the door and halfheartedly turned her head. The woman who’d come in paid as little attention to her as was possible under the circumstances.

Lori was startled to see Ginette in the library, but she found out why when the woman made a beeline for the computer.

“Your computer still isn’t working?” she heard Aurelia say.

“Dunno what’s wrong with the damn thing. I’ve already lugged it to Corner Brook for repairs, but it’s going crazy again. Piece of shit!”

Ginette sat down noisily, and Lori was glad she had her back to her. But the atmosphere in the room had changed. Though she kept on reading, Lori’s concentration waned.

Fifteen minutes later, she went to Aurelia to check out the book. Then she put her running shoes on and shut the door behind her. A moment later, she saw Ginette coming out of the library behind her.

On an impulse, Lori began to run, catching up to Ginette before she could get in her car.

“Can I ask you something?” Lori began.

Ginette didn’t answer, just stared with outright suspicion all over her face. The wind blew her cropped curly hair in all directions. Lori had on a beret, as always. She decided not to pussyfoot around.

“Do you remember Bobbie Wall’s B and B in Deer Lake? You were there last March with a young man and a woman. Was that woman Una Gould?”

Ginette was dumbfounded.

“Who . . . what . . . you stalking me or something?”

“I happened to be staying in the next room. I couldn’t help hearing, even if I didn’t want to.”

Ginette tried to keep her composure. She put her hands in her jacket pocket.

“Then you know if Una was there or not.”

“Well, I wasn’t being nosy. I didn’t even stick my head out the door.”

“Then it’s none of your damn business.” Ginette pulled out her keys.

Lori braced herself against the wind.

“Maybe not mine, but other people might be interested.”

Ginette gave her head a shake as if irritated by a child’s petulant behavior.

“You’re crazy. Una? Una, of all people?” More vigorous headshaking. But her resistance was losing steam. “If you ask me, something happened to Una. Something bad. I can’t prove it, but she didn’t just cut and run. You didn’t know her, but I did. If she took off, then it certainly wasn’t by herself.”

“Then with who? With you?”

“With me? Why the hell with me? No way was Una interested in women! She’d have gone off with a man! Is that so hard to figure out? But he obviously gave her the runaround.”

Lori noticed the white-and-black stripes on Ginette’s press-on nails.

“Who was the man?”

Ginette swayed her body back and forth like an elephant would his trunk and didn’t move her feet one inch. Her whole demeanor radiated anger and impatience.

“If you can’t find
that
out, then I can’t help you. I’ll tell you, though, she certainly wouldn’t have run off with a guy who can’t pay his bills. She already had one of those at home.”

With that, she opened the car door and got in.

“And stop sticking your damn nose in my business!” She slammed the door.

“What’s that mean, gave her the runaround?” Lori shouted, but Ginette revved her motor in response.

Lori was frustrated as she watched the orange Pontiac Sunfire disappear. Then she remembered she’d left her scarf behind. Aurelia was waiting with it in hand.

“Lucky again,” Lori acknowledged.

The librarian looked concerned.

“You shouldn’t listen to Ginette. She’s always spreading rumors about people. Women like her are a disgrace to our community. They come on to our guys, but they’re only after their money. Never lift a finger except to try and worm some dough out of a man. We don’t need women like that in Stormy Cove. They should stay the hell out.”

Lori hadn’t expected such rough language from Aurelia. The residents of Stormy Cove hardly ever criticized anybody in public, and she found Aurelia’s emotional outburst so intriguing that she dared to ask a delicate question.

“Ginette mentioned a man Una tried to run away with, but he left her in the lurch. Do you have any idea who it was?”

A mistake. Aurelia’s face immediately shut down.

“Now you see the harm women like Ginette can do. I don’t want to hear another word of it.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to air dirty linen in public. Thanks for my scarf.”

She turned to leave, but Aurelia stopped her.

“You should get to know a better class of women. Would you like to come to a potluck supper tonight? We have it once a month, me and some women who are fun to be with.”

Lori waited a few seconds. What could she bring this time that wouldn’t be rejected like her potato salad? Aurelia misinterpreted her hesitation.

“None of Noah’s close relatives; you probably see the Whalens often enough,” she said quickly. “In case that’s what you were thinking.”

“Thanks, I’d really like to come. I just can’t stay too long because of getting up to fish tomorrow morning.”

“Sure, I understand perfectly. Six, then?”

Lori nodded and Aurelia described the way to her house.

On the drive back, the crosswind was so strong that she had to steer hard against it. The ocean was like a roiling gray metallic broth. The whitecaps were thick on the waves. Anybody in a boat out there was a dead man. Raging spray splashed against the bare cliffs and the houses near the shore. Lori drove up the hill and noticed the light was on in her living room. Hadn’t she turned it off this morning? Then she saw the yellow Mustang. And Reanna in it.

What’s she doing here?
And how did she find out where Lori lived? Of course, from Will Spence, who’d ambushed her at home many weeks ago.

Reanna had on a baseball cap, her blond hair in a ponytail. She looked like an American college girl. A very pretty college girl in a bright green windbreaker. She flashed her even teeth in a broad smile as she got out. She squeezed her arms against the sides of her slender body, her hands in her jeans pockets to keep the wind off her as much as she could.

“Hi, Lori! I’ve been waiting for you.”

Lori didn’t feel like inviting her in in spite of the weather. She was friendly, but businesslike.

“Unfortunately, I only have a minute. What can I do for you?”

“I heard there are some archaeological finds around here and that you were going to some dig. Can you give me a tip, colleague to colleague, where it is and how to get there?”

“Who told you that?”

“Will found out about it from somebody, don’t know who. So it’s true?”

Lori calculated before answering. No point in denying it, so just give a tiny fingernail of information.

“I’ve heard about it too, but I have no idea where it is. I’m not really interested in archaeology for the moment, got other plans. Sorry I can’t help you.”