Stormy Cove

by Bernadette Calonego

  “Program?”

  “The government make-work program. He never tried to get in. But they could have given him a job nevertheless. Why should some people profit from it when others don’t, eh? It’s just not fair.”

  “Was Cletus unemployed? Didn’t he fish?”

  “But he didn’t have a license. He’d work on other boats sometimes, but there wasn’t always work to be had. But, you know, he always brought me fish. He was always watching out in case anybody saw him. He also brought me meat. You just have to keep a sharp eye out.”

  A poacher, Lori thought to herself, with a preference for hard-core pornography.

  “So if he didn’t work that summer,” Lori said, “what did he do all day?”

  “I don’t really know now. Probably hung around with his girlfriend.”

  “And who was that?”

  “You don’t know? Greta Whalen. But that fell apart the same summer.”

  She didn’t seem comfortable talking about it, because she came back to Reanna.

  “They’ll never find that reporter, I know it. Or they’d have found Una too.”

  Selina Gould was wrong.

  They found Reanna Sholler that same day.

  A speck of color caught Gideon Moore’s eye as he was flying over the edge of the Barrens where the ocean peters out into a sheltered bay.

  He brought the helicopter down and reported to the police that he’d found a neon-pink jacket. Just a jacket.

  About thirty volunteers—almost all of them coming by boat—and four policemen arriving by helicopter scoured the area. Noah joined them. Barely an hour later, John Glaskey’s party stumbled across Reanna’s body. She was naked from the waist down.

  The police found an object on the corpse that they immediately sealed in a plastic bag.

  It didn’t take long for it to circulate all over Stormy Cove that the reporter had been strangled with her own panties.

  Noah Whalen and John Glaskey were taken to the police station in Saleau Cove for questioning. Lori heard from Patience that the police were starting to pay close attention to the villagers. She figured it was only a matter of time before they’d show up at her place, so she took Rusty out early. But the police didn’t come that day. She found out from Nate’s wife, Emma, that Noah and John were still being detained in Saleau Cove.

  She drove to the store and parked on the shoulder because all the spaces in front of the supermarket were taken. When she opened the door, the conversation died, and all eyes were riveted on her.

  She recognized Rusty’s owner, Vera Quinton, and her husband, Tom; right behind them was Ginette Hearne, her face radiating schadenfreude; beside her was Selina Gould; even old Elsie Smith was there with her sons and some people whose names she couldn’t recall. She wished Aurelia or one of her nice friends were there for support, but she had to handle the situation all by herself.

  She said hello in the direction of the counter and went to get a chicken out of the freezer. Armed with the bird, she walked to the cash register, and the group soundlessly made way for her. The chicken slipped out of her hand and banged on the counter.

  Mavis typed in the amount without saying a word, the frills on her raspberry-colored blouse rustling. She cast significant glances at those standing around.

  But Ginette couldn’t contain herself.

  “Is Noah back from Saleau Cove yet?” she asked.

  Lori knew all ears had pricked up expectantly.

  “I don’t know,” she muttered, digging a twenty-dollar bill out of her pocket. Then she threw politeness to the wind and whirled around.

  “You can think what you want, but Noah is innocent. If I were in your shoes I’d be prepared, because one thing’s for sure—the murderer is among us. But you can bet your life it’s not Noah.”

  She picked up the ice-cold chicken and ignored the plastic bag Mavis held out for her. Before closing the door, and just as Ginette opened her mouth to speak, she shouted, “If everybody spoke the truth around here, then not one innocent person would be under suspicion.”

  At that moment, she recognized a cousin of Noah’s in the group, staring at Lori as if she were a zombie.

  Not even his relatives will go to bat for him, she thought as she ran down the wooden stairs to her car.

  When the police came to her home, she was ready for them.

  There were two of them: an older man and the young policeman who’d warned her at the Birch Tree Lodge about polar bears. As if that was all people had to look out for here.

  It was one of those days when the sunshine made everything sparkle, even weathered house facades and the colorful bellies of rotting wooden boats. A steady wind would often stream across the bay on those days. Lori and Rusty had gone to explore new paths along the coast, and gusts threatened to blow them over the cliffs. Grass from the previous year was withered and exhausted, forming a soft blanket over the bright green blades that protruded upward, hard and straight, like spear tips.

  When she got back home, Lori lay down, tired from the brisk walk and from a night of worried thoughts that kept her awake. She heard the house groaning and shuddering with the blasts of wind. Noah couldn’t have gone out to fish in such strong winds anyway; that must have provided some small consolation, given the nightmare he was living.

  A loud knocking made her jump.

  She went to the kitchen window on tiptoe and peeked out. The media had already reported briefly on the dead reporter on the Barrens, and soon Lori would have to hide from reporters coming to Stormy Cove.

  The police car said it all. She let the two men in and took them up to the kitchen. They all sat down at the table, where nobody from outside the house could see them. The older officer had a longish face topped by a thin wreath of wavy gray hair, with two vertical creases in his forehead that gave him a slightly troubled look. He identified himself as Detective Carl Pelley and offered her his card. He’d evidently been briefed by his younger partner.

  “You’re a photographer, then,” he began. “What’s your book about?”

  “About life in a Newfoundland fishing village.”

  The young policeman, whose name she’d forgotten, wrote in his notebook. She couldn’t read anything because he was too far away.

  “And why Stormy Cove?”

  “I saw a picture of it once. It’s beautifully situated, with the bay and the harbor . . . and there aren’t many fishing villages left in Newfoundland with people who actually still fish.”

  “And you think that’ll be of interest to folks in Vancouver?”

  “Yes, it’s an unknown world, and maybe it won’t be around for very long.”

  The words had become like a mantra.

  “Did you know Reanna Sholler?”

  “I met her a few times: on the beach, on the wharf. We went out to see the icebergs with Noah Whalen. She took pictures too. But otherwise, I really don’t know her.”

  “And why did you go with him?”

  She looked the detective straight in the eye.

  “Because he offered to take me. I depend on fishermen to help me in my work.”

  “What’s your relationship with Noah Whalen?”

  The young policeman squirmed on his chair.

  “I’m a friend of his; he’s helped me several times. For instance, he invited me to a family gathering where I could take photos. He’s a nice, obliging person.”

  “How close is your friendship?”

  She was astonished at how she kept her cool.

  “We do not have an intimate relationship, if that’s what you mean. Even if people here might say something different.”

  The detective appeared to accept this.

  “And how is . . . how was the relationship between Reanna Sholler and Noah Whalen?”

  She thought for a second before replying.

  “I think she’d noticed how helpful he was and used him for her work.”

  “And for Noah Whalen? What was Reanna to him?”

  “You’ll
have to ask him yourself.”

  Pelley scratched his—poorly shaven—throat.

  “I’d like to know what you think about it.”

  “I think the locals are curious about every outsider who comes to town. There’s not much going on around here. Reanna Sholler was sure to attract attention because she’s . . . from another province and—and she was interested in what was happening in the village. That was probably flattering for Noah, and for everybody else.”

  “And for you?”

  Why does he keep coming back to me?

  “It sounds . . . horribly petty now that something so awful has happened to her. But since you asked . . . it was a bit of a bother at times when she got in the way of my work.”

  “How’s that?”

  “If she walked in front of my camera or . . . wanted to photograph the same things.”

  “For instance?”

  “She wanted to photograph the excavations—you probably know about the burial mound on the Barrens. She desperately wanted to go up there, but Lloyd Weston hired me exclusively. He’s the lead archaeologist.”

  “Yes, I know him.”

  The two men exchanged glances. A sudden realization struck Lori, a logical, terrifying thought that she didn’t dare articulate.

  Pelley reached into his coat pocket and laid something on the table.

  A small object in a plastic bag.

  The arrowhead.

  The detective leaned so far over that his bald spot was easy to see.

  “Does this object say anything to you?”

  “May I?”

  She brought the plastic bag closer.

  “I found something like this . . . an arrowhead . . . I found one in this house, between the washing machine and the dryer. I told Lloyd Weston about it because I thought it might have something to do with his first dig, but he never did anything about it.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “I left it on this table, and the other day, when I got home, it was gone. I thought . . .” She stopped in midsentence, and for the first time, she did not feel in control of the situation. She’d said too much.

  “Yes? What did you think?”

  The detective was no greenhorn or hick cop—that was clear. He wouldn’t be fooled easily. Better stick to the truth.

  “I thought Selina Gould might have taken it because she was apparently in this house when I was out. She still thinks of it as her house—or her son’s, which I can understand in a certain way.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  The man wasn’t letting go. Like a bulldog.

  “Yes, but she said she didn’t know anything.”

  The detective cleared his throat.

  “We found the object lying on Reanna Sholler’s body.”

  Lori was so shocked that she gawked at Pelley, dumbstruck.

  He observed her closely.

  “That surprises you?”

  Lori nodded.

  “Why?”

  The younger policeman fidgeted on his chair again.

  “Because . . . because of the simple way you put it. Normally the police withhold information that only the perpetrator would know.”

  Pelley smiled, allowing his young partner to smile as well.

  “Do you watch a lot of mysteries on TV?”

  Lori leaned back. She understood his smile. Surely the search party that’d found Reanna must have seen the arrowhead on her body. It wasn’t a secret now, but she was the only one who hadn’t known. She got out of it with the lamest of excuses.

  “My mother’s a defense lawyer.”

  No follow-up from Pelley. The cop smiled.

  “So we have the possibility that somebody took the item from your house. Who might it have been, apart from Selina Gould?”

  Lori felt a chill. Don’t trust that smile.

  “Reanna. She was waiting in front of my house last week when I got home.”

  “You think she’d gone inside and stolen the arrowhead?”

  “Maybe she thought it was pretty.”

  It was a weak argument—she could tell by the investigator’s eyes. But his voice remained invariably patient.

  “Who else could have made off with the arrowhead?”

  “I leave the door unlocked, like everybody here. It could have been anyone.”

  Silence. The detective kept his eyes lowered. His companion was writing assiduously.

  “Did Noah Whalen know about the arrowhead?”

  She leapt up.

  “Mr. Pelley, it was not Noah. Noah’s not the murderer. Whoever killed Reanna would not have let himself be seen in a boat with her that evening, which is what Noah did. He wasn’t the only one she had dealings with.”

  The officer sat up and took notice.

  “No? Who else did you see Reanna with?”

  “May I get my laptop from the office?”

  She went and got it without waiting for an answer and set it down in front of the men.

  Then she called up a specific picture.

  “Here, I’ll zoom in. I happened to snap this when I was taking Rusty for a walk. Rusty is Tom and Vera Quinton’s husky. I recognize Reanna on the ATV, but who’s the driver?”

  The younger officer spoke up.

  “I think I know whose ATV that is.”

  Lori waited for a name, but the policemen said nothing. The detective clearly knew as well.

  At last, Pelley said, “May I have that picture?”

  Lori nodded.

  “I’ll print it out.”

  From her office, she could hear the two of them conferring in low tones, but the noisy printer drowned out their words.

  The detective pocketed the picture, and when he reached the landing, he turned to her.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to tell us?”

  Good tactic, I must admit.

  She hesitated for a moment and then told him, “I asked Noah if Reanna wore a life jacket on board.”

  “Did she?”

  “Yes, it was yellow. And she didn’t give it back.”

  The detective was lost in thought as he ran his hand along the grain of the wainscoting. Then he turned around to go downstairs.

  “A photographer really has an eagle eye,” he said.

  Lori said spontaneously, “Sometimes I think in colors.”

  It sounded awkward, but some things just can’t be said any better.

  She would recall those words later and how she was able to put it all in a nutshell.

  The red streaks said something to her. They were from the frozen partridgeberries Aurelia had picked the previous September and given to her as a gift. Lori wanted to try to make a partridgeberry pie to get her mind off it all. The berry juice turned her fingers red.

  No blood around Reanna’s body. The killer had strangled her. No knife. No bashed-in skull. Just marks from strangulation, that’s what she’d heard. The murderer hadn’t taken out his rage on her, it seemed, but he’d wanted to keep her from talking. Or he wanted to make his own statement, over and above the murder. With the arrowhead.

  She thought now that Reanna hadn’t stolen it. Maybe one of the searchers left it on her body.

  Poor Reanna, Lori thought. She’s dead and can’t talk, and here we are, speculating about her. A murder victim and now a victim again—of rumors. A hundredfold insult to a person killed so violently. And she, Lori, had constantly done wrong by the kid. Reanna was an inexperienced young reporter who was attempting to recover from a setback. So what if she was gauche? So she exploited her charms. So what?

  She’d probably been pleased with her good luck at finding a professional colleague in what must have seemed a desolate dump to a young city gal. And Lori had rejected her advances. Did she die quickly? Did she know what was happening to her? How long did she shake with fear in the face of death? Or did she feel angry at her tormenter, angry at being helpless and at his mercy?

  Reanna had been murdered, and life in the village just seemed to go on. It’s prob
ably how people in Stormy Cove had coped with injustice and misfortune forever. But this was no accident; it was murder. The second one in twenty years. At least.

  And here she was, baking her partridgeberry pie as if nothing had happened.

  She got the sugar bowl out of the cupboard and found she’d forgotten to buy more. She had no choice: she had to run the gantlet at the store again.

  As she drove past the church, she looked at the sign out front. The old quotation had been replaced with “God Holds His Protecting Hand over You Wherever You Are.”

  “Not in Stormy Cove,” she said aloud. “Not here.”

  She slowed down at the fork leading to the harbor. Somebody was walking along the street ahead of her. It was Patience; she’d never seen her neighbor in the village without a car.

  Lori rolled down the window, and Patience leaned in, her hair fluttering in the wind.

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Ches has it. His truck’s in the garage.”

  “Where are you going? Can I give you a lift?”

  “I was just going to the store. I’m out of aspirin.”

  “Get in, I’ll take you there.”

  Lori waited in the car in front of the store. Patience had kindly offered to buy sugar for her, and she’d accepted. She had no desire to meet any staring eyes.

  “Are you in pain?” Lori inquired on the way back.

  “Headache. Comes and goes.”

  Lori looked at her sideways. Patience seemed pale and shrunken.

  “I have a bottle of water in my handbag.”

  “Thanks.” Even her voice sounded different somehow.

  Lori wanted to play for time in order to talk to her some more.

  “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to pop over to the other side of the cove. I want to get a shot from there; everything’s so twinkly and nice. Or should I take you home right now?”

  “No, no, a bit of fresh air will do me good.”

  “Where’s Molly?”

  “At Granny’s.”

  When they reached the end of the bay, they stayed in the car.

  “Is Noah back yet?” Patience asked.

  Lori shook her head. “I don’t know why they’re holding him this long.”

  “He’s sure to come back today. I’m sure Noah’s done nothing, but he’s a key witness.”