by J-F. Dubeau
“Beer?” Stephen offered while riffling through the cooler and pulling out a couple of foil-wrapped sandwiches.
“I dunno. What if the pigs come rolling in?” Dan joked.
Of course there would be police patrolling the lake, but Stephen knew these guys by name, and none of them would bat an eye at seeing Daniel with a drink in hand.
“You and I can take a few cops.” Smiling, Stephen tossed the beer to his son and picked one out for himself.
“By the way, I never got to ask you: How was the service?”
The Crowley boys weren’t known for small talk. They’d briefly discussed the death of Audrey Bergeron but hadn’t brought up that subject, or Sam Finnegan, since the funeral.
“Funerals are funerals,” he answered, casting his line into the water. “People say dumb things they think are touching.”
Dan nodded. He knew his father’s views on the local community. By virtue of his title, the inspector was privileged to know a lot of private information. In an area the size of Saint-Ferdinand, where secrets were hard to hide, that meant he knew everything.
“So . . . when?” Stephen asked with a level of hesitation.
“When what?”
“When do you join?”
Daniel sighed loudly and turned his eyes to the horizon. Without looking at his father, he tried to come up with a dignified answer. “I don’t know, Dad. I’m not much for religion, you know that.”
They were talking about the church, or rather the social club focused around it. Part chamber of commerce, part gentlemen’s club, its members included Stephen and others of the village elite, and it met at least once a week. It was both an offshoot of the Saint-Ferdinand Craftsmen’s Association and an evolution of the community that had existed around the congregation a long time ago. Now it was mostly an excuse for the local bigwigs to drink together.
“It’s not about religion,” Crowley explained between bites of his sandwich. “I mean, there’s a bit of ceremony—”
“And an initiation,” Dan interrupted.
“Yes, there’s that, and a few rules, but it’d be good for you to get to know how the town really works, Dan.”
“Nah.”
“Nah?”
“Nah,” the teenager repeated with a certain degree of flippancy. “I love Saint-Ferdinand, but I don’t see myself spending my life there. Probably going to try to get some kind of business degree from Sherbrooke or McGill. Find work in that field.”
Stephen quit eating for a second, that weird look crawling back to his face. This time he didn’t break eye contact with his son. He studied him instead, peeling back unseen layers in search of something immaterial in Daniel’s features.
“Dad?”
“Sorry.” Crowley shook his head and forced a smile. “I just forget sometimes how much you look like your mom.”
Ah, thought Daniel. So this was what was bothering the old man. It wasn’t the first time this comment had come up, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. As he grew older, his father would keep seeing similarities between him and the woman he’d loved. If Daniel were ever to have kids, he expected Stephen would see hints of his ex-wife in them, too. The wound of abandonment was cut open again and again, always by the most pleasant and familiar of knives.
“I’m not vanishing, Dad.” He leaned in and gave his father a gentle shove on the shoulder with his fist. “But if I get a good degree, I don’t want to waste it in Saint-Ferdinand.”
His argument was met with silence and a stern, doubtful stare from the inspector. Daniel had been too young to feel the full blow of his mother’s inexplicable departure. The way Stephen had described it, Marguerite Crowley had one day just picked up and left. It was first assumed that she might have run afoul of the Saint-Ferdinand Killer, but after a year, divorce papers showed up in the mail with instructions to return them, signed, to a PO box in Sherbrooke.
“Besides,” the teenager continued, “I still have a few years before university, and even if I move out of town, you know I’d be back here every weekend anyway.”
“Right . . . ,” Stephen said sarcastically.
“Sure! Where else can I get access to a sweet fishing boat?”
The inspector shook his head but finally smiled. “Y’know, you turned out all right. Your mom fucked up.”
“She’s no mother of mine.” Daniel felt awkward but tried to hide it by taking a swig of beer. “Did you ever hear from her again?”
“Not a word.”
Melancholy was taking over. The past few days of investigation had been exhausting, and although Inspector Stephen Crowley wasn’t one to let emotions bring him down, he was too tired to do anything about them anymore.
“Dad?”
“What?”
“We’re the Crowley boys,” Daniel stated, raising his beer can toward his old man. “We don’t need nobody.”
“Yeah.” Stephen toasted with his son, a tentative smile beating back the dark cloud. “The Crowley boys.”
VENUS
“HEY! HIPPIE!”
Venus had been calmly walking home from the post office when the familiar voice cut in with an equally familiar insult. The week was circling further down the drain with every passing moment, as if some dark god had cast its hateful gaze upon the young girl.
First there was the rain. It came down in thick, wet sheets, showering the village from dull gray skies. In the beginning, it was a refreshing break from the harsh sun that had been beating down on Saint-Ferdinand for the past two weeks. But it soon became a different kind of ordeal. Once the sky cleared, the sun would turn the rain puddles into clouds of sticky humidity that would hover over the town for days. Saint-Ferdinand would become an unbearable sauna. For now, however, the unexpected deluge was its own annoyance.
Then there was the clerk at the post office, Anaïs Bérubé, who wouldn’t release Venus’s package until the teenager brought her some form of identification. Anaïs had known Venus for years and had released hundreds of packages to her, but she was so hung up on protocol that she couldn’t make one tiny exception. As a result, Venus either had to walk home, get her medical insurance card, and walk back, under the marginal protection of her umbrella while diluvial torrents fell all around her, or she’d have to wait one more day for her new video card. Ironically, a day like this would have been perfect to install her computer hardware—if it wasn’t being held hostage at the post office.
Now, in the middle of this monsoon, she had to run into André Wilson. A smarter boy would have picked a better time and more pleasant weather to practice his half-witted bullying, but not André. He was as dedicated to his craft as an artist, but his medium was childish insults, and his canvas was Venus’s ego.
“Really, André?” Venus turned around to face the boy. Her exasperation was cut short when she realized he wasn’t alone. He had his two cronies, Nick and Brad, with him. Judging by their sodden uniforms and muddied shin guards, they had just come from soccer practice.
“Heading back to the commune?” André laughed.
When she’d initially moved to town, André had been Venus’s first friend. They built snow forts, went swimming in the lake, and camped in André’s backyard. Then, nearly two years ago, Venus had skipped to tenth grade. She had lost a lot of friends that year, but she had been closest to André. She tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that it was going to be worth it in the long run, but losing his friendship still stung. If it hadn’t been for Penny and Abraham, she might have just given up on making friends at all. Especially since André had become her worst enemy.
“I’m not a hippie,” she said. “You don’t even know what that means!”
“Your parents are hippies, so what does that make you? Huh? Venus?”
André and his dumb friends laughed again. Her parents were indeed “free-spirited.” They owned a tea shop, where they sold artisanal kettles, imported teas, and herbal drinks. Her mother also cooked homemade, organic baby food that she sold to
the mothers around town, while her father padded the family income by doing some carpentry. Both were staunch vegetarians and vocal pacifists. But as far as Venus was concerned, their philosophy of “free-range parenting” was synonymous with “child neglect.” Her parents deserved to be called names for their weird New Agey behavior. What Venus resented was that she was associated with their dumb lifestyle choices. Especially since she worked so hard to not be like her parents.
“Look, André, it’s raining cats and dogs. Can’t you reschedule being an idiot till tomorrow?” The words escaped her mouth before she realized no good could come of them.
“I don’t know if it’s the rain, but you’re awfully clean for a hippie,” said the bully, nodding to his friends. “Grab her.”
Venus turned to run, but her short sandaled feet couldn’t outpace three young men in running shoes. Within three strides, they had caught up to her and kicked her umbrella aside. Lifting her by the arms, they unceremoniously tossed her into the muddy ditch by the side of the road.
“There you go!” said André. “Ain’t that more comfortable for a dirty hippie?”
When Venus finally got home, she was livid. Dirty, wet, cold, and humiliated, her only saving grace was that no one could see her tears as she barged into the house. Her mother Virginie immediately dropped her book and ran to get a towel. As she helped dry her daughter off, it was easy to see the link between Venus and her mom. Both shared a similar delicate bone structure. However, the teenager had inherited much of her father’s Scottish heritage, with freckles and fiery red hair, while Virginie had thick dark brown locks. She still looked young, despite the long years she’d spent under the harsh sun of equatorial countries, working as a volunteer for the Red Cross and Doctors Without Borders. It had made her skin tan and given her eyes crow’s-feet that conveyed a mischievous squint.
“Oh, sweetheart! What happened? Did you fall?”
Venus snatched the towel away and answered in gasping breaths, “No! I was thrown! Into a ditch.”
“Who did this? Why?” her mother asked.
“Because! Because you and Paul can’t just be like the other parents in town! Because you can’t just vacation in Florida instead of Burning Man! Because you can’t just give a curfew and chores and an allowance, and you can’t call me Mary or Suzy or something normal!”
Slowly and gently, Virginie took a corner of the towel and wiped the mud away from her daughter’s face.
“Venus,” she began as soothingly as she could, “we raised you like this because we believe it will make you a better person. We don’t treat you like a normal girl because we believe you are more than ordinary. We think you’re special.”
“No, I’m not! Parents always say that to their kids, but I’m not falling for it. What’s wrong with normal? Just because you want to stand out like circus freaks, that doesn’t mean I should pay the price!”
Before she allowed herself to regret her words, Venus shoved past her mother and stormed upstairs to her room.
VENUS
“I’LL BEAT THE snot out of him.”
Abraham Peterson spoke as if it were a matter of fact. Then again, as far as sixteen-year-old boys went, Abe wasn’t prone to empty threats or hyperboles. Not that he was pathologically phlegmatic, but he rarely bothered with hesitation or burdened himself with such things as plans.
“No, you won’t,” Penelope said, setting a large chocolate sundae in front of the boy.
“Why not? I’m twice André’s size. I’d obliterate him.” Abe was a large boy who had no physical reason to be afraid of anyone. A voracious appetite conspired with constant farmwork to grant him a powerful, if rather graceless, physique. His piercing eyes were too small for his face, which made him look dumber than he actually was. This combined with his economy of words made him as much a target of ridicule as Venus was for her eccentric parents. Though other kids tended to keep a safe distance from Abraham.
“Because I told you so, but if that’s not enough, because André’ll take it out on Venus if you do.”
Abraham growled an acknowledgment before stuffing an enormous spoonful of ice cream and syrup into his mouth. Penny grimaced at the display of gluttony before continuing.
“I don’t need anyone beating André for me,” Venus said, looking up from her own bowl of ice cream.
“Say the word and I’ll—”
“No!” Penny interrupted.
“I’m thinking of moving out,” Venus announced between bites.
“You can’t move out. You’re not old enough to get a job.” Penny picked up a rag and some stray dishes to dry. “Besides, where would you move? No one rents apartments here.”
“You could move to the farm,” Abraham offered, carefully swallowing before he spoke again. “There’s plenty of room, and Pa would probably find a use for you.”
“The shed,” Venus said. “I’ll move into the shed in my backyard. I’ve got it all figured out.”
This only made sense in a Venus kind of way. The young teen had always been fiercely independent, having essentially raised herself since she could walk. She knew she was smart, too, but impulsive, often lacking common sense. The shed would be a comfortable place to sleep and work on her computer, assuming the Wi-Fi could reach it. She’d have to go back to the house to shower and use the bathroom, making the place little more than a grounded tree house. It was another harebrained idea that Penelope would have to talk her out of. It wasn’t the first, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“You’re just upset and need some time to cool off,” Penny said. “Maybe you can spend a few days at my place?”
“But if you do move into the shed,” piped in Abraham, his mouth once more filled with fudge and ice cream, “I can help you move your stuff.”
Out of patience, Penny slapped her hand over his mouth, but before she could get to lecturing him about the basics of table manners, the door chimes rang, announcing a new customer.
Wearing the kind of suit-and-tie attire seen only at weddings and funerals in Saint-Ferdinand, the man looked around the shop expectantly. With his gaze settling on Penelope, he smiled and walked in, letting the door slam behind him. Young and relatively short with unkempt brown hair and a face that seemed like it wouldn’t grow a beard for several more years, he strode to the counter and took a seat right next to Abe, nodding to the boy as he did so.
“Can I help you?” Penny asked with a sincere smile, wiping her hand on her apron.
“Do you serve any of those float things with soda and ice cream?” the man answered with a perfect smile.
“Sure. Any particular flavors?”
“Root beer.”
As Penelope turned away to make the float, Abraham swiveled to his side and leaned dramatically on his elbow. Taking on airs of self-confidence that fit him as well as a cocktail dress, he smiled and made sure his mouth was free of food.
“So, are you a cop or a reporter?” Abraham asked with his best attempt at conviviality.
“Abe!” Penny scolded him. “Don’t bother the customers!”
“It’s quite all right,” said the newcomer. “I stick out like a sore thumb, don’t I?”
“Yeah,” continued Abraham after shooting Penny a victorious look. “Actually, I’m surprised the place ain’t crawling with city folk, considering the news and all.”
“You have your chief of police to thank for that. Kept the lid on things pretty tight.”
“We don’t have a chief here,” interjected Venus while Penny handed the man his float. “Inspector Crowley’s good enough for our little corner of the world.”
“Whatever the man’s title, he’s a genius at understating important news. If it weren’t for a friend at the hospital in Magog who told me an odd story about a dead little girl—”
“So a reporter, then?” Abraham asked a second time.
“Guilty.” The man smiled and took a deep sip of his float. His eyes rolled up in his skull, expressing blissful joy. “What is it abo
ut small-town floats that are so delicious?”
“So, if you’re a reporter, what are you doing drinking sodas with high school kids instead of getting the big story?” Venus asked, apprehensive.
“One scoop at a time, I figure.” The man grinned and looked to Abraham, who seemed to appreciate the pun. “Besides, I’m probably not that much older than you.”
“What newspaper do you work for, mister . . . ?” Venus squinted as if trying to recognize the man.
“Chris Hagen. Freelancer.”
“I’m Abraham. They’re Penny and Venus.”
There was a moment of silence as the older girl glared at him, annoyed at being introduced by her nickname.
“It’s Penelope, actually. So, Mr. Hagen—” Penny began.
“Chris,” the reporter said, and smiled.
“Whatever,” Penny said. “You still haven’t explained why you’re here and not interviewing important people.”
“Beside the delicious float? It’s mostly because all the ‘important people,’ as you put it, have already told me, with little room for misunderstanding, that they are too busy for the media.”
“So you’re taking a break before giving it another shot,” Abraham said with confidence.
“Nope,” replied Hagen. “I’m befriending locals in a not-too-subtle attempt at finding someone who’ll put in a good word for me.”
Penny sneered at the reporter’s attempt at charm. Her natural cynicism kept her from accepting anyone at face value, especially if they were too open about their intentions. Venus had once called it “interpersonal paranoia.” Her friend was hard-pressed to disagree with the expression, though she’d never admit that.
“Well, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Penny said while picking up and rinsing out Hagen’s glass, which had been swiftly emptied during the conversation. “You should look for Daniel Crowley, the inspector’s son. He’s probably going to be harder to charm, though.”