by K. E. Warner
The third reason for attending the bandshell tonight, was the Beachfest Sandcastle Competition Sculpture Award Ceremony, the highlight and kickoff event for the summer festival. The friends remained in a semi-circle facing the magnolia, seemingly entranced by a melancholic lethargy. Charles showed his discomfort by fidgeting and began one of his many anecdotes to ease the tension.
“Quite a feat of engineering and architecture, this sandcastle business. They are large, but stable – although not as large and stable as the one built a few years ago in India. Forty-eight feet tall with doves and human-sized turrets and a portrait of Gandhi, six feet in diameter. Astounding. Guinness World Records declared it the tallest sand sculpture ever – it beat the previous record by almost twelve feet.”
Unenthusiastic grunts of, ‘interesting’, ‘wow’, and ‘hmm,’ greeted his story, and he clammed up.
Magda interjected to bring the conversation back to this side of the globe. “How do they make them stable though? It’s sand. Shouldn’t it just collapse when it’s dry, or crumble with the wind and rain?”
Dave, a longtime volunteer with the competition, contributed his knowledge. “That sand is almost free of pebbles and shells – it’s imported from up north on the Island. Fewer flaws in the sand mean the structure will be stronger.”
“So do they all just go to a pile and pick as much sand as they want? And then mix it with cement or something to make it hold up?”
“Not at all. Each solo team gets ten yards of sand placed on a twelve by fifteen-foot plot, and each doubles team gets fifteen yards of sand on a twenty by twenty-foot plot. The only other thing they can use to create the sculpture is water.”
Alice piped up, “I learned their trick when I volunteered at the Children’s Sandcastle building event. The artists seem to enjoy coaching the children for a day each year. They set up wood forms, empty at top and bottom, and show the little ones how to take their time filling the forms with some sand, then water, then sand, then water, until they can’t add any more of either. The water drips through to compress the sand until it’s good and solid. Once the forms are removed, what’s left is a block of sand that can be carved with precision.”
Elaine’s mouth twisted, signaling her skepticism. “They must use something to keep them together – the sculptures stand there for four weeks.”
Dave spoke up again. “Yes. Elements could deteriorate the art. Wind, rain, and the worst is birds. But a spritz of wood glue and water protect the sculptures from wind and rain, and the wires you can see sprouting from the top of the sculptures deter the birds from perching.”
Magda beamed at Charles. “You’re right, quite the feat of engineering. I recall that the theme this year is In the Key of Life. I’m looking forward to enjoying the creativity.”
Donna smiled at the group before her. “Well then, let’s head off and watch the awards.”
The group trailed after Donna; Charles and Dave followed closely behind her in case she teetered over. Her signature high heels stuck and unstuck in the earth as she walked, always cause for consternation among her friends. No one chastised her. They were used to it by now, but the potential for an embarrassing incident was ever-present. Magda, Alice, and Elaine trotted after the others, laughing at the pace Donna kept. Her energy was infectious; it was no surprise they enjoyed the outing.
The friends joined the enthusiast rounds of applause and whoops of approval from the crowd at the awards. First place finishers attended the world championships, and this year Japan would host. No one doubted the competitive nature of the event when the stakes were so inviting.
The winners of the doubles were a young couple from Quebec who created a ten-foot-high sculpture of Mozart sitting at a piano. The solo event winner was a first-time competitor from nearby Errington, who created an eight-foot-high selkie wrapped around a treble clef with hundreds of notes decorating his tail. There were twenty-seven entries, and judging by the crowds and the comments, the event would be an overwhelming success.
Donna sidled up to Charles, taking his arm in feigned neediness. “Charles, I’m heading home. Are you walking back to your car along the boardwalk? Such a lovely night for a stroll, would you join me?”
Donna ignored Charles’ gasp as she pulled him in toward the wood-plank boardwalk. A crowd filled the park and navigating through the people eager to see the sculptures made the pair look like salmon swimming against a current.
As the sun dimmed, the occasional flash of the old-style cameras appeared. Most came from a few seniors who disdained the laziness they associated with phone technologies. The old cameras, and the people using them, became more of a curiosity every year as a younger audience flitted from sculpture to sculpture, capturing them all with relative ease. Charles often wondered if they found the space to live 'in the moment’.
Donna’s gait was an elegant ballet as she avoided slight gaps between the boardwalk’s planks for fear of catching a heel. Saori followed the couple, scenting Charles as he guided them along with the crowd until a man coming toward them smiled and chortled, “Alexander!” The man’s face held the joy of a four-year-old on Christmas morning.
As he approached, he grabbed Charles’ free hand and pumped it with both of his while exclaiming, “This is wonderful. What are you doing here? Oh, Donna. So lovely to see you. And you know my friend Alex? Alex Ivanov, I haven’t seen you in what, twenty years? It might be longer than that, do you recall?”
Charles stopped in his tracks, frightened by the man’s forthrightness. His face seemed to be about Charles’ age, or younger, but his disheveled clothing and ruffled, scraggly hair made him appear older. Perhaps Donna could explain the man’s comments since he seemed to be friends with Donna. Charles straightened and looked at her as she scrutinized the man’s face.
“Oh, Henri. I’m so glad to see you. You are mistaken though, this is my neighbour, Charles Brotter. He’s escorting me to my car. Charles, this is Henri Ducharme, an old friend. He lives in the Ocean Castles – in one of the condo units. How are you, Henri? I’m so sad about Sonja. It must distress you. Have the police been to visit you? What did you tell them? Did you hear anything? It still seems like a nightmare.” Her eyes darted toward the condo.
Henri laughed before responding. “Oh Donna, always the sleuth. Yes. The police camped out just outside of my door, in Sonja’s apartment, for two days. They questioned me several times, but…” His pause came with tears welling in his eyes. “Sometimes it’s difficult. And Chris is home now. Had you heard he was home? He’s staying with me for a while to get things sorted out. His boat is in the marina for now. Beautiful boat. Not sure where he got the money for it.” His eyes drifted off toward the ocean.
“No, no, I hadn’t heard he was back. It's been a while – what ten, twelve years. How does he seem? Or is this prying. Henri, I hate to pry.”
Charles turned to see her face glued to Henri’s, his neck muscles taut as he pulled his head back from her words. Did Donna hate to pry? He had never seen Henri before, but an unprying Donna didn’t seem familiar to him either.
Henri screwed up his face, his eyes rolling up as if to search his brain. “Yes, it's been at least ten years since I’ve seen him. A long time for a son to be away from a father. He arrived home late the night that Sonja…” His voice drifted again as his face froze for a moment. “Anyway, that’s what I’m doing here. Just trying to sort some things in my head. I would like to make sense of it all. This world is so senseless sometimes.”
Donna took his shoulders in her hands and hugged him, then kissed him with the tenderness of a mother on both cheeks. “Yes, it is Henri. Senseless. Don’t worry. We should let you go. Will you mind if I stop by in the next few days? Say hello to Chris, perhaps?”
“Not at all, Donna. I’d welcome your company as always. Very nice meeting you, Charles. I’m sorry I mistook you. I could’ve sworn you were a friend of mine from the navy. You’re the spitting image of Alexander. I’ll see you soon, I hope.” He kissed Donna on the c
heek before striding off in the opposite direction.
Charles, who hadn’t had to contribute even one word during the conversation, felt something odd and discomforting in his stomach. A small bubble rose in his throat. Hunger? He looked at Donna, who glowed a flattering shade of pink, and wondered if she found that odd man attractive.
“So. That’s Henri Ducharme.” Her glance at Charles caught the confusion in his face. “He is…” She swallowed hard, the words stuck in her throat. “He was Sonja’s neighbour. They were close friends. I’ve known him for years. He’s a lovely person but suffers from signs of dementia, which might be why he recognized you as someone else. And that could be the reason why he couldn’t be more helpful to the police. I imagine that’s why Chris came home, to care for his father. Although I find it hard to imagine after what he put his father through when he was younger. Everyone assumed Chris left for good.”
Charles grappled with a response for a moment before a relevant memory came to him. “Oh. Are you aware of the Nun’s Study? It began in Minnesota, in1986, by David Snowdon. He worked with the Sisters of Notre Dame in Mankato, who agreed to be the subjects of strength, cognitive, and memory tests, and donate their brains to science after their passing. There were six-hundred and seventy-eight nuns, all over the age of seventy-five, who contributed to the study, which helped to identify over thirty risk factors for Alzheimer’s. The study also supported the need for larger studies. Today the larger Religious Orders study has over thirteen hundred participants from over forty religious orders. And the Rush Memory and Aging Project, which includes over eighteen hundred laypeople, may point the way to future treatment. Or a way to prevent the disease.” He took a deep breath to recover from the torrent of words, and sighed, hoping this was a comfort to his friend.
Donna released his arm and took his hand as she walked once again. She understood he used anecdotes as a buffer when he was unsure of what else to say. Charles struggled to express empathy for as long as she’d known him, and it endeared him to her even more.
“That’s a wonderful thing to hear, Charles. I’m not sure it’ll help Henri, but future generations may benefit.” The sound of her lungs deflating segued her thoughts. “I hope Chris is home to help his father. He was a troubled boy and caused Henri a great deal of grief after his mother died. It would be excellent news to hear he grew into a caring, law-abiding man, but leopards don’t change their stripes.”
“Spots.”
Donna looked at him and giggled. “Yes. Spots. Just checking to see if you were listening.”
“I am always listening, Donna.”
They reached her car, and as she climbed in and drove away, he looked down at Saori and whispered, “I just prefer the sound of silence.”
Chapter Seven
Magda shuffled along the boardwalk and swung her satchel over her shoulder as it slid down her arm. It was a carefree gesture she did not feel. The events of the past week required time and quiet to process, and she hoped to find both by walking away from the bustle and energy of the crush of people leaving the sandcastles. There were no leads on the death of Sonja Bearns. At least Raheem hadn’t been forthcoming with information, if it was available. It wasn’t his fault, but it was frustrating.
The crowd thinned as she headed further down the walk. At the farthest point, the planks ended and an asphalt walk circled a parkette with two wooden benches, each bearing a bronze plaque commemorating a beloved community member. Small beds of bee balm, and catmint, and lavendar framed the benches during vacation season, and it was often difficult to find a vacant bench seat. This evening the wind blew a chill from the east, so people didn’t linger.
Her eyes narrowed, as she strolled. Slowing her pace, she focused on a solitary man seated on the last bench of the boardwalk. He appeared to be elderly, his coat open, bare hands gripping the front edge of the bench. His image reminded Magda of a small bird, perched on a bench, staring toward the ocean and mountains on the mainland. She approached him with caution, clearing her throat to warn him of her presence. If there was a picture in the dictionary beside the word forlorn, it was a photo of this man sitting alone at this moment.
“Excuse me, hello?” Her words emerged in robotic quips. “Are you all right?”
Despite her efforts not to startle him, he jumped at the sound of her voice. “Oh. Oh, yes. I’m fine. Just looking at the ocean. And thinking.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Magda Shepard. I was at the sandcastle competition and the walk to the end of the beach, into the setting sun, looked so appealing I couldn’t resist.”
“Did you say Magda? The reporter? Such a beautiful name. I try to remember beautiful things, so your name sticks.”
“Yes, the reporter.” She laughed at the reference to the word reporter. The Sentinel was more of a community newsletter than a newspaper, and she more copy editor than reporter, but she appreciated the upgrade. Since she covered the hit and run with its connected mysteries, many people were familiar with her name. “Sitting here alone on a chilly night like this, you had me worried. It’s getting dark, and cooler; I wondered if you needed help.”
“All right. Yes, all right.”
Magda watched as his right hand appeared to distract him for a moment before he continued speaking.
“I was tired when I got here, so I sat to think about things.” The air echoed with the sound of waves hitting the rocky break-wall the town built at the end of the beach. “I’m sorry. My name is Henri Ducharme. I think I know you, Magda. Or know of you, I mean. You’re a friend of Donna Beaumont – she speaks of you like a daughter. Once I asked if you were her relative.” He chuckled at the impudence of his observation.
Giggling, she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Not related, but I think of her as family. I’m charmed to hear she speaks of me that way. She’s wonderful. How do you know her?”
“Oh, I live across the hall from - I mean, I lived across the hall from Sonja Bearns. The lady who died…” He dragged his sleeve across his eyes. “The lady who was killed.” His teeth clenched. “Sonja and Donna were close.”
Magda’s eyes widened. Perhaps she could learn something without Raheem’s help. “Do you mind if I sit here with you?”
Shifting his body down the bench, he made room for Magda to sit. The two appeared as bookends on the bench. They stared across the water in front of them, lulled by the false sense of comfort provided by the ocean’s rhythm. Magda had many questions but didn’t want to upset the man. He seemed troubled enough as he fiddled with a set of keys he pulled from his pocket.
“It must have been awful for you, this last week. I mean, with losing a neighbour like that and having the police around investigating.”
“Awful. Yes, awful. I think so anyway.” A grimace pinched his face.
Magda turned toward him at the unusual comment, trying to discern some meaning from it. Before she could ask what he meant, he continued.
“I might be confused now, but I’m worried I may have contributed to her death.”
Magda’s face contorted, her brow wrinkled, etching concern into her forehead. This small, meek man may have helped kill her? By the looks of him, it would be impossible for him to shove someone to the ground, let alone toss them off a balcony.
“I have a son. He’s a good son. I mean, he doesn’t call, and he doesn’t write, but I know in my heart, he’s a good son and a good man. His mother loved him very much. We just weren’t close after his mother died. He wanted to turn his life around. I know he tried.”
Magda pulled a tissue from her satchel and handed it to Henri. He seemed unaware that tears slid down his cheeks.
“Maybe he told me he would be home soon, but I don’t recall. At least I hadn’t expected him that night. I just heard all the noise outside the apartment. When I opened the door all I could see was police officers crowding the hallway. That and yellow tape across Sonja’s door. I turned back to my foyer, and that’s when I noticed Chris’s boots.
I didn’t realize whose boots they were at first. Not till I saw his old leather jacket bunched on the table beside his spare key.” The corners of his mouth turned up. “I gave him that jacket for his birthday, just weeks before he left town. He always wanted a good leather jacket.”
Cautiously, she patted his hand as it gripped the bench. This was a father who loved his son.
“I was relieved to think he’d come home, but confused by what was going on in the hallway. I went to the spare room, and there he was. Sleeping the sleep of the dead on the pullout. The RCMP banged on my door minutes later, and that must have woken him because after I answered some questions for them, he was sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee when I returned.”
Magda took in every word, looking for a clue or line of questioning that would give her more information. After a pause, she took her chance. “But I’m not sure why you think you contributed to her death.”
Solemnly, he looked at her, eyes wide with surprise. “Because, Chris.” He bit his lower lip, but must have realized the words had already escaped. “I’m sorry.” He pulled his coat around himself, stood and hugged his arms to his chest, “It's much colder than I realized out here. I should head back now. Magda, I’ve said too much. Please ignore the babbling of a silly old man. It was nice meeting you.”