Plots

by Sky Curtis

  We drove along in silence. I was daydreaming about sitting on the dock. Who knows what Cindy was thinking about. Probably lunch. Or guns. As we got closer to town, Lucky suddenly leapt up and barked. Cindy jumped a mile. Guns, then.

  “What the…?” She pressed her hand to her chest.

  “It’s Lucky. I guess you didn’t know he was in the car.”

  “Geez, Robin, Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’d think you’d notice. Anyway, it serves you right for yesterday.” I said, smiling. I took the next exit off the highway and soon we were cruising down Huntsville’s main drag. “He always barks when we get close to town. He loves it at the cottage.”

  Cindy turned around and scratched Lucky’s ears. “You going to the cottage?” she crooned. Lucky wagged his tail and barked again. “You going swimming?”

  Lucky didn’t bark.

  “He hates the water. Besides, it’s too cold still. He likes barking at deer.”

  Lucky barked.

  Cindy’s head was swivelling from one side of the street to the other. “Wow, look at all the stores that are out of business.”

  Brown paper was taped to windows with masking tape in about thirty percent of the stores. But I brushed it all off with a wave of my hand, “Oh, the merchants always shut down once the snow flies. No one can survive here during the winter.”

  “What, candlesticks in the shape of moose and mosaic house numbers don’t sell well to the local population?”

  “You’re right. It is sort of their own fault, not researching the year-round market.”

  “Maybe that’s the story. There’s no post-secondary education available here, so how on earth can people know how to properly plan a sustainable business? Or maybe the story is about the prohibitive cost of tuition, which contributes to the cycle of poverty in the north.”

  “I guess there’s all kind of newsworthy articles lurking about in Huntsville, but I want the big one. I know you’re the crime reporter and I am the lowly House and Garden hack, but I got a taste of the big time and I want it again.” Sort of.

  “I thought all the attention last fall on the Everwave case was a bit overwhelming for you.”

  “That was in Toronto. This is small-town Huntsville, two and half hours away. It would be different here.” I was defensive.

  “Probably worse, if you ask me. Small towns are hotbeds of rumours and backstabbings. Plus, silly billy, the story is going into a Toronto paper. Believe you me, it will have the same hoo-ha as the murders you solved. Whatever the story is.”

  “I didn’t solve those murders last fall on my own. You helped, remember? Look, there’s the Town Hall, that building with the clock tower.” I turned off the main street at the most easterly set of lights and headed out of town on Highway 60. I showed terrific self-discipline as I drove right by the ice cream takeout joint.

  Cindy was sulking. I knew why.

  “Okay, okay. You can come with me.”

  She pulled out her lipstick. “We getting close now?” Cindy tugged down the window visor and flipped it back up. No mirror. Again. She puckered in the rear-view mirror while dabbing her lips with a tube of Hot Fuchsia Garden. It matched her tank top perfectly. The mosquitoes would love her for sure.

  “Looking good for the coyotes?”

  “You never know who you’re going to meet. Be prepared, that’s my motto.”

  “Not many gays in Huntsville.”

  She turned at me with her green eyes wide open. “Are you kidding? I researched Huntsville before coming. There’s a baseball team called ‘The Lizzies.’ That’s at least ten people, if you count the pinch-hitter. A lot of ho-mo-sex-u-als,” she said, stringing the word out over five slow syllables, “retreat to small towns. People are more accepting, believe it or not. In fact, the smaller the population, the more open the society seems to be, to all types of alternative lifestyles, including gays. People are simply people where people are scarce.”

  I knew she was wrong. “You might be right. But those who hate, hate harder. And this is much truer in the United States,” I said.

  Cindy snorted. “Canada isn’t the United States.”

  She could believe what she wanted. I turned off the highway onto a sideroad and came across a neighbour, trudging along, carrying a heavy shopping bag. I turned to Cindy, “My neighbor, Dick Worthington. From England. Moved here as a child about fifty years ago. Permanent resident. About sixty.”

  “A match for you?”

  I crowed. “No, he hunts. I don’t do hunters.”

  “White trash then?”

  “In a nutshell. You’ll see.” I slowed the car down and came to a stop beside him. “Mr. Worthington. Nice to see you. How was your winter?”

  His voice was deep and gravelly from years of smoking and drinking. His hands were leathered mitts sticking out from the frayed cuffs of his red-and-black plaid bush jacket. Buttons strained over his beer gut. A greasy strand of grey hair had escaped from his ponytail and was limply hanging at the side of his face, caught in his bushy eyebrow. “Had a pretty easy time of it.” He laughed, exposing yellowed teeth. “Five cords of wood only. I’ve really been to town.” He laughed at his joke and held up the bag in his hand. “Big sale on in the sporting goods store. Bought me some stuff for next season. A new orange cap. Camouflage gloves. Bear bait. Gutting knife. And this.” He pulled out a long strip of leather. “A belt for my new knife.”

  “Didn’t you do well.” I pretended to admire his purchase. Some people. “We’re here for about a week, opening the place up.” I was trying to make normal conversation. Dick Worthington gave me the creeps. He was a little off. Not the sharpest tool in the shed. And maybe there was no shed.

  His black beady eyes shifted under his pink eyelids. “Your brother was here a couple of weeks ago. Had a big shindig with the locals and some famous people. Actors and investment types. Fun. Lots of food and drink. I guess you heard about the property next to youse.” Angry spittle was forming in the corner of his mouth.

  “Yeah, I heard about it.” I kept my voice neutral.

  “Well, I’m mighty pissed off. That’s my hunting ground. I’ve lived here for fifty years, hunting there, and I’m going to continue to hunt there.” His rasping voice rose a whole octave. “No one is going to stop me. Anyone who tries…” He let the sentence drift off and nodded a few times, looking me straight in the eye with his pinprick pupils, seeing if I caught his meaning. In case I didn’t get it, he shook his bag of hunting goodies.

  Geezus. Rural justice. What a nutbar. He’d kill so he could kill?

  “Well, must be going. See you around.” I tooted the horn twice as I pulled away from the dirt shoulder.

  “You didn’t offer him a lift?” Cindy was being sarcastic.

  “He’d say no. He likes to walk.”

  Soon the road got thinner and thinner. Bits of grass tufted in the middle hump of the pavement and the asphalt edges crumbled into the foot-wide gravel shoulders. Pieces of black tar were scattered throughout the pebbles, probably pushed there by last winter’s snowplowing. I buzzed down my window.

  We drove past a small pond and listened to the red-winged black birds trilling. A blackfly flew in through one window and was blown out the other. A crow cawed in the distance. The fragrance of growing grass filled the car as we passed an open field, slowly turning green. At the top of a hill, we could see blue water sparkling prettily against the fresh new purplish-pink buds in acres and acres of forest.

  I flung my arm out the window, “And what you see over there is about seven hundred acres of soon to be developed land. My family’s cottage is over the brow of the next hill.”

  “How many acres do you guys have?”

  “I’m not sure, really. A few hundred. Andrew would know. Exactly.”

  My scruffy Sentra ground up the next hill and once past the top we tur
ned right onto the small private road leading to the family cottage. I never did like the entrance to the place. It reminded me of the scary scene with the flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz. Dark forest blocked out the sun and tree branches seemed to reach out to us. Shadows jumped in and out of patterns of sunlight on the forest floor and an animal darted across the road in front of the car. Probably a fox or a coyote. No, only a squirrel. I could see its bushy tail disappearing behind a tree. The tires crunched over the gravel, throwing up loose stones that periodically pinged against the muffler. A tingle crept up my spine into my scalp, and I could feel my ears pinning back. Something seemed ominous to me, something a little off-kilter. Maybe it was running into Dick Worthington. I was glad to get into the sunny clearing around our old frame building.

  “We’re here,” I announced with more gaiety than I felt. I doubt I fooled Cindy for a second.

  “That’s a pretty long driveway in from the main road.” She was admiring the view. “What lake is this?”

  “Peninsula Lake. Thanks for coming Cindy. I mean that. I’d forgotten how isolated it was here.”

  “I’m so glad you asked me. I don’t often get to go to a cottage in la-di-dah Muskoka. Let’s unload and get settled. Maybe some lunch before our hike in the woods.”

  “Our hike in the woods?”

  Cindy was opening her car door. It lurched on it hinges and then stuck.

  “Bang it with your shoulder.”

  She heaved her body against the grimy metal. “Yes, our hike. We have to check out the land that’s going to be developed, especially the waterfront. That way when we go into the Town Hall we will be orientated to any maps and plans.”

  “We cut a few paths over the years in what we thought was the neighbouring Crown land. But I don’t know Cindy. At this time of year? All the animals are waking up from their hibernation. They’ll be hungry. There’ll be bears.”

  “Naw, they’re not interested in us.” She sounded tentative. “Bears hardly ever attack people. Maybe once a decade, a crazy bear will attack. You know, one that’s been eating flashlight batteries. But don’t worry, we’re safe from them. I read up on that when I was thinking of being a forester.” She was trying to convince herself.

  I opened the car door for Lucky and he bounded out before I could grab him. He loped away and then raced in tight circles around the lawn in front of the cottage, his leash flapping behind him, a silly grin on his face. We both watched him and laughed. He came when called, amazingly, but probably to get away from the swarm of blackflies flying around his head. We grabbed our luggage and hurried up the bumpy path to the steps to the kitchen door. I took a deep breath of the sweet northern air.

  We were here.

  4.

  I OPENED THE SCREEN DOOR on its creaky hinges and then inserted the old brass cottage key into the lock of the back door, sweeping my arm in front of me to usher Cindy in. She marched past me directly into the kitchen, her head whipping this way and that as she checked out her surroundings. Making herself at home, she unzipped her insulated food bag and pitched items into the fridge.

  “Not too shabby,” she said while slinging some lettuce into the vegetable cooler.

  “Thanks.” I loved the place and was grateful that she appreciated it.

  My family’s cottage was circa 1895, and had the wide plank floors, large rooms, a fieldstone fireplace and the casement windows of the period. I flung open a window over the kitchen sink and the red-checkered gingham curtains flapped in the light spring breeze. The view was simply beautiful, a peaceful combination of hills and rocks, water and sunshine. I took a deep breath and filled my lungs with the perfumed air of the forest. When I turned around, I could see that the kitchen gleamed. The scent of pine polish lingered on the wooden cupboards. Underlying this was the smell of disinfectant. Andrew might be an asshole, but he cleaned like a demon. He must have spent hours cleaning after his fancy shindig two or three weekends ago. The countertop was spick and span, not a single mouse turd in sight.

  “This fridge is spotless,” said Cindy, her head buried deep in its interior.

  “That’s Andrew. OCD.”

  “Well, I didn’t think it was you.”

  Should I be offended?

  I dragged my green garbage bag past her, through the living/dining room combo, called a “Muskoka great room” by pretentious real estate agents, and up the stairs. “We’re up here,” I called as my bag thumped on the steps. Lucky followed me with his long tail slowly sweeping back and forth.

  “Coming.” The fridge door slammed shut and Cindy clomped up the stairs after me, her rolling suitcase carried in her hand. At the top of the stairs she exclaimed, “Oh this is so lovely. No wonder you love your cottage.”

  The wooden floors were luminous from the light shining through a mullioned window at the end of the hallway. There were six bedrooms on this floor, three on each side of the hallway, and two bathrooms, all with wooden plank doors facing onto the long corridor.

  “Here, you take this room,” I said while opening up one of the doors. “And I’ll take the one next door to you. These are the better rooms because they are lakeside with a pretty view. Let’s use the same bathroom. That way we’ll only have to clean one when we leave.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” said Cindy as she walked into the bathroom across the hall from her bedroom. “I can clean my own bathroom. This one is nice.”

  She was such a princess.

  I left her testing the taps and said, “Up to you.” I hoofed my green garbage bag onto my bed, ripped it open because I couldn’t get the knot undone, and stuffed my clothes into the dresser.

  Cindy poked her head into my room. She eyed the mangled garbage bag on the bed. “Trying out a new brand of soft-sided luggage?”

  I laughed. I should have been embarrassed, but I wasn’t.

  “Where are the sheets?” she queried. “I always feel settled after I make up my bed.”

  Uh-oh. The sheets at this time of year were guaranteed to have mouse poo in them. “Ah, hang on.” I dashed to the linen closet and flung open the door before Cindy had a chance to get there, grabbed the top sheet and shook it out. Nothing. I grabbed the next sheet and shook it out as well. Nothing. Phew. Two pillowcases were next. I shook them too. Nothing. We were safe. It looked like the mice hadn’t got into the cupboard. Or maybe meticulous Andrew had already washed the winter out of everything. I dumped an armful of clean linen on Cindy’s bed.

  “Here, I’ll give you a hand.”

  The two of us made up her bed and then, while she finished unpacking, I rummaged in the linen closet for some other sheets and made mine. When I was done, I looked out my window and admired the view. Every hill, every tree, and every rock had been permanently etched into my retina from a lifetime of looking at this landscape. I turned my head until all the silhouettes lined up with my memory. The grass leading down to the little sandy beach where I played as a child was still somewhat flattened by the weight of the winter snow, but here and there fresh green sprouts made their way through the undergrowth. Three large crows, or at least I thought they were crows but maybe they were turkey vultures, circled on the breeze, high above the lake, lazily riding on the soft wind. The copse of weeping willows to the right of the beach was still leaning precariously as a unified group over the water’s edge. I marvelled at the tenacity of their roots. These four trees had been threatening to fall into the lake for as long as I could remember.

  Cindy tapped on my door and I reluctantly turned away from the window to face her. “Oh hello, Mrs. John Wayne.” She was wearing hiking boots, blue jeans rolled up at the cuff, and a navy-blue hoodie. The hoodie was so old, the zipper curled in a wave down her front and there were little white pills of fluff on the sleeves. In her hand she held two bug hats, probably from Dollarama. She was ready for her walk.

  I looked down at my thin-strapped summer sandals and li
ghtweight linen skirt. “I’ll be a minute.”

  “Put on anything blue. Bugs don’t like blue.” She held out her arms to illustrate her point.

  “Did you wash your hoodie with the towels? Wash your towels separately. That way you won’t get pills. I work for the Home and Garden section and I’m an expert on laundry. Unfortunately. But don’t worry, mosquitoes and blackflies don’t really like me. I take vitamin B.”

  Cindy laughed. “It was my son’s, and God knows he doesn’t separate his laundry. If he does it at all. The jury’s out on vitamin b repelling bugs, so good luck with that. I brought you a bug hat.” She tossed it on the bed, turned on her heel, and thundered downstairs, where I could hear her banging away in the kitchen. She was opening and shutting cupboard doors, probably checking out the cooking utensils. Cindy liked to cook, which suited me just fine. I loved to eat. A perfect symbiotic relationship.

  I dug out some jeans and a sweatshirt, threw them on, and slid my feet into my Timberlands. Frankly, I was starving. Maybe Cindy had manufactured something delicious from the slim pickings. As I went downstairs I saw a tattered filament of a spider’s web lazily wafting from the corner of the stairwell. It was with a flash of malicious glee that I registered that Andrew wasn’t perfect after all. My daily practice of finding the Buddhahood in everyone was a tad rusty today.

  Cindy was hovering over a pot on the stove, stirring one of my frozen soups slowly while it melted. It smelled heavenly. She had chosen the eastern one with coconut and cumin. Perfect! There was a bowl of tuna salad and washed lettuce leaves draining on a plate. Some slices of bread from a fresh loaf were on the bread board, waiting for assembly.

  “I left the sandwiches for you to do,” Cindy said.

  “I think I can manage that.” I grabbed a knife and spread the tuna on bread, shook out the remaining water from the lettuce, placed it haphazardly on the tuna, and slapped the bread together. “I didn’t know you ate fish.” Cindy was a vegetarian.