There were lights on Ian Simmons’ house.
A simple, single strand. But lights.
It was an evening of firsts, thought Hy, as Ian came up and slipped a friendly arm around her waist. He grinned.
“Forgiven?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, leaning into him.
“Hot chocolate? My place?” He took her hand.
“Maybe something stronger?”
“Sure,” he said, pulling her into his arms and hugging her. Tight. In front of everyone. Annabelle nudged Gus. Gus nudged April. April nudged Madeline. Madeline didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t nudge Moira, who was beside her. Moira didn’t need nudging. Her eyes were slits. She did not appear to be looking in the direction of Ian and Hy, but she was. It ruined Christmas for her. She couldn’t erase the image from her mind the whole holiday season, and spent a lot of time staring out her upstairs window to see Hy’s and Ian’s comings and goings over the next several days. What she saw did not relieve her torment.
Everyone was looking at Hy and Ian now. The hug could no longer be mistaken for just a friendly one. Hy didn’t care what people thought, didn’t worry for once about how intimacy might change her relationship with Ian. She was filled with the Christmas spirit, a spirit more heathen than Christian, but she was feeling immense good will toward Ian. She let him kiss her.
When the kiss ended, she saw Jamie grinning at her, Rose smiling, the two hand in hand, with Oliver behind them, his hand on Rose’s shoulder.
Which of them? Any of them?
It didn’t matter.
She caught Jamieson’s eye.
They were both feeling good will, not just to mankind in general, but to the men and women in this circle around them, a circle that Jamieson, unthinking, had become part of. She had never been a part of anything, had stood aside from her classmates even at the police academy.
Now she was surrounded by April and Murdo, Gladys Fraser, Olive and Harold MacLean, Ben and Annabelle, Nathan and Lilli, and – was that Abel – flitting like a shadow at the edge of the group? They and the other villagers had encircled Jamieson and Oliver, Rose and Jamie. Jamieson and Hy looked at those three now, about to make their way out of the village – a man, a woman, and a child, any one of whom might be guilty of murder. And they didn’t care. Hy didn’t care. Jamieson didn’t care. They ceased to even suspect Buddy. God only knew what had happened in that gully.
They were feeling good will.
They were feeling, in a heathen sort of way, good will toward men – and murder.
Epilogue
The glow in the sky on Christmas Eve was replaced by another glow on Christmas Day. It was coming from Wild Rose Cottage.
The blaze had begun in the back of the house, where the wood range was. The pipe had holes in it. A spark escaped and jumped out onto the floor, where it had smouldered for hours until, suddenly, it ignited the tent. The synthetic fabric billowed with flame in eerie unnatural colours.
Volunteer firefighters from all three districts came – even though it was Christmas Day. Al Dooley from “over the road” – that being the causeway. Spencer Meghan from “in the holler,” Carlton and Boyce Gagnon from “up West.” The Shores wasn’t even their jurisdiction, and it was hard to get to. That didn’t stop them from buzzing in on their snowmobiles.
And this time, Jamieson was in the thick of it, as the flames leapt up onto Wild Rose Cottage. There was a bucket brigade of villagers all the way up, over, and down Shipwreck Hill, some of the women still with their aprons on, the men with napkins tucked into their shirts to stay clean while carving the turkey.
They’d been preparing for Christmas dinner when the call came.
“Fire!” burned down the phone lines and party lines.
“Fire!” a call the village had always responded to as one.
There had never been an official municipal or provincial response team here. The villagers had always taken care of it themselves.
It wasn’t easy as Wild Rose Cottage had no running water. The village men had to pump it out of the well. “Thank God it’s handy the house,” they kept repeating as they filled up buckets with water.
They also knew there was no one inside. Rose, Jamie, and Oliver had left that morning. Early, quietly, having said their goodbyes and thanks the night before. They’d taken Fitz’s old truck, with Rose at the wheel. Oliver couldn’t drive. He sat with White wrapped around his neck, Ginger on his belly, and Oscar peeking out from his sleeve. Jamie sat between the two of them, grinning a big grin, hugging Freddy. They’d given the donkey to Abel. How or when the exchange took place, no one knew.
Jamieson was in full control of the fire brigade, and though the community was used to acting as one in these matters, they accepted that she was in charge.
She felt – no fear. No fear. She was miraculously free, free of the grip of panic that had been poised to ruin her career. Free of the crippling guilt of the child shadowing her adulthood. What more might she be free of here, with these people? She looked down the line at Wally Fraser, Billy Pride, Harold MacLean, Lester Joudry, and, one by one, she named them off, all the way down the line.
Community policing. This was it.
Together, they managed to contain the fire. Nathan showed up with his plow – Lili had forbidden him to do any more than drive – and plowed snow over the debris.
“We’ll have to watch it, to see it doesn’t start up again,” said Jamieson.
Why? was the question several people didn’t ask. The house had been good for nothing for years, and was in worse shape now. The affected part was only a cheap addition that wouldn’t be missed, but the fire had opened the rest of the house to the weather and a sure, slow death.
Property. It was property. Jamieson had been trained, brought up, to respect it.
The villagers straggled away from their posts, back to their warm houses and Christmas dinner.
Ian was eating at Hy’s. Hy was thinking dinner would be ruined. He was thinking it wouldn’t have been that good anyway, but Ian was grateful when anyone provided him with a meal, and he wanted her company. Oddly, especially now, at Christmas, which he didn’t believe in.
Jamieson watched wistfully as the pair walked up Shipwreck Hill. Up and over. As they crested the hill, Ian took Hy’s hand. To help her walk on the slippery surface? Or out of affection?
Jamieson turned back to look at Wild Rose Cottage. An accident? Arson?
Don’t start, she told herself. Why had they fought the fire?
We should have let it go, she thought.
She was correct, but she couldn’t have known that the magnificent house would rise again to its full glory, like a phoenix from the ashes.
Giving her another murder to solve.
She couldn’t have known that. But she sensed it.
She shuddered – from the cold or fear?
Jamieson gunned the snowmobile, trying to drown out the thoughts in her head with the noise of the machine. Thoughts of what had happened and how she might have prevented it – through better community policing. Thoughts of Christmas, as she headed back alone to the police house and a can of noodle soup.
Not knowing what waited for her there.
Murdo. April Dewey and all six kids. The kitchen table laid with a paper Christmas tablecloth and a big fat turkey in the middle. An empty chair waiting for Jamieson. There was a tiny crooked Christmas tree in the corner of the room. No lights. Decorated sparsely with ornaments April’s children had made out of discarded paper mined from the wastebasket.
Police reports and bills turned into angels and stars.
Christmas.
All is Clam Page 28