The kettle was already boiling, and Lori took the opportunity to stand up.
“Whoever told you that?”
“It makes no difference.”
“It makes a difference to me because there’s a murder investigation, and too many people are spreading stuff around.”
Beth took the tea and piled sugar into it. She didn’t take the condensed milk.
“OK, I heard it from Lloyd. Where he got it from, I don’t know.”
Lori took a moment to think.
“Probably from me. I told him about the arrowhead last time I was up at the Birch Tree Lodge. He did say it might be a projectile tip, like an arrowhead. But I told him maybe I’d been wrong about what I found and he never mentioned it again.”
Now it was Beth’s turn to be astonished.
“What? Lloyd’s known about it for that long? That’s awesome!” She quickly composed herself. “I guess I need to tell you the backstory here. The dig at the first burial mound should have been led by Carl Wizhop, but he got very sick. Lloyd was his assistant and fairly young at the time, but he was considered capable of leading the dig. Wizhop wanted to give him remote support, so to speak, as best he could. Lloyd . . . don’t get me wrong, he’s a brilliant archaeologist . . . but practical organization is not his thing. I was forever reminding him that the crew must always be supervised, but he didn’t buy it. Particularly the volunteers.”
Beth looked to Lori, who nodded to show she followed.
“It’s not like I think all workers are thieves, but on the other hand, they don’t understand how valuable the things that we dig up are.”
“Are volunteers even allowed to dig? Isn’t that what archaeologists are there for?”
“Yes, you’d think so. However, conditions back then were sometimes chaotic. I did my best, but ultimately—well, I couldn’t be everywhere at once. Early on I suspected that artifacts were disappearing. I went to Lloyd about it but he refused to believe me. No wonder: It would have damaged his reputation. And he was at the beginning of his career.”
“Is that why he didn’t seem bothered when I mentioned what I found?”
“I assume so. Especially not now, when expectations are so high about the second dig. He’s a guy who thinks that problems go away if you ignore them long enough.”
“But his professional curiosity must be bigger than—”
“Than his fear of a possible scandal?”
Beth shook her head and put her tea cup to her mouth, and a loud slurp followed.
“Nobody wants a scandal, including me. That hurts everybody: us, the locals, the university—it would be a huge catastrophe. It would drive Aurelia up the wall.”
“Aurelia? What’s she got to do with anything?”
“She’s Gideon Moore’s sister. Didn’t you know?”
Lori shook her head. Everybody really was related to everybody else here. Aurelia must have assumed that Lori knew. But the next question was on the tip of her tongue.
“Were those thefts the reason why you had the artifacts from Gideon’s lodge moved to a guarded container?”
“Yes, exactly, somebody had to step in.”
“But some personal effects were stolen as well, right?”
“Who says so?”
“Gideon. He told me Una stole a valuable bracelet of yours.”
She gawked at Lori for a moment.
“He said that? There’s no way he could have known.”
“He said it was a bracelet with green gems.”
“How could he know? I never reported the theft.”
“You didn’t tell anybody? Forgive me, but I find that hard to understand.”
“No, not the cops or anybody. Just imagine the feeling that would have been created at the dig if everybody thought I suspected them of robbery. I’d warned them again and again to lock up all their valuables.”
“Beth, what brings you here?” Lori asked.
Beth leaned forward.
“I’m dying to know: Did you find any more artifacts in this house?”
Lori waited a beat before telling the truth.
“No.” Not in the house.
Beth lowered her head and looked at her with knitted eyebrows.
“If you find or hear anything, please let me know immediately.”
Lori nodded.
“I assume Cletus Gould must have stolen the arrowhead. Why hadn’t you given him a job at the dig?”
“Oh, he worked a few days for us. But he came and went when it suited him. And he messed with Gideon. They couldn’t stand each other. Gideon was more important to us, as you can imagine.”
Lori said nothing in the hope that Beth would leave. And she did, but not without making one last remark.
“It’s better if this little talk stays between us. It could affect you too, y’know.”
“Me? Why?”
“If Lloyd loses his job, then you can kiss your exclusive photographs good-bye.”
Lori watched Beth putting on her gym shoes. She wanted to burst out laughing but controlled herself.
“I’m not interested in the least if Lloyd or anybody else loses their job,” Beth said with deliberate slowness. “But maybe other people are sawing off the limb he’s sitting on.”
Lori waved good-bye and turned around. She heard the door slam when she was in her office. Her heart was beating wildly. What a strange visit! Lori couldn’t read it one way or another. Beth Ontara was playing an inscrutable game.
Beth mustn’t find out anything about the arrowhead under the seat of Noah’s snowmobile. Not before Jacinta’s killer was found.
Richard Smallwood, 56, Anglican minister
I don’t have much time; it’ll have to be a quick interview. I have four parishes that are far apart; maybe you cannot conceive of what that means, seeing where you come from. I’m almost continually on the move. Yes, Stormy Cove needs my encouragement—and God’s help, of course—after all that’s occurred. It’s a tragedy, or several rolled into one. These are wounds that take a long time to heal. People are insecure and upset—that’s only natural—but they must not lose their trust in God’s loving-kindness; I remind them of this time and again.
The Whalens? They rarely go to church, just for weddings and funerals. And many of the younger generation never come at all. You’re right, neither does Noah Whalen. It’s not a secret. Not since his father passed away.
Yes, I did meet the photographer from Vancouver. She came to see me because she wanted to take photographs of an interment. I wasn’t sure at first, but death is a part of life, and the Johnstons had no objection—it was Joseph Johnston’s burial. He fell from the deck into the fish hole. He was only forty-six. The Johnstons didn’t mind her coming; they thought it was an honor for Joseph not to be forgotten so quickly. The Johnstons knew the photographer; she’d been in Stormy Cove about three months and got along well with people. She had such a . . . friendly manner, but was reserved too, you know.
Not until she sided with Noah did she . . . rub some people the wrong way, if I may put it thusly. But not everybody.
To be brief: I gave my approval. But under the condition that I could view the pictures beforehand, before they were published. I have a certain responsibility there. Lori was very discreet at the burial. Nobody actually took notice that a photographer was present.
Yes, she did indeed show me the photographs. I understand nothing about photography, of course, but the pictures—you should have seen them. So much dignity there. A sublimity, I might venture to say. How she captured the family’s mourning. And how people could sometimes . . . be lost. So vulnerable in this rigorous life. But she gave them dignity. And the graveyard and the surroundings—she caught it well. It had an almost biblical effect. I hope one of the pictures will appear in the book. She had a heart for the people here. In spite of everything. Of that I am certain.
Just one thing before I really must go—I have a christening in Isle View. There was a figure in one photo—I can’t say
which; as a minister I cannot—a figure standing somewhat apart. Everyone’s eyes were on the coffin. Just this one person was looking at the camera. Properly distrustful, that gaze. Everyone else there had forgotten the camera. But not that person. Even at the time I found it unusual.
When I think back on it, I get the shivers.
A prophetic picture, as I often think today. Prophetic.
CHAPTER 36
In the middle of the night, Lori was woken up by a racket outside. She stumbled out to the kitchen to see what was going on.
A car door slammed next door, and she heard Ches’s truck roaring and his tires squealing. She peeked out the window to catch his rear lights as they vanished into the dark. Then she saw the glow from a fire in the direction of the harbor. She stared in apprehension at the flames flickering before a black background.
She threw on a jacket and ran next door, where the lights were all on.
Patience was at the window.
“A boat’s on fire!” she shouted to Lori.
“Whose?” Lori sounded hoarse.
“I don’t know. Ches just drove down.”
Lori gave voice to a terrible suspicion.
“Isn’t Noah’s boat on that side of the harbor?”
“I’m not sure,” Patience replied, but a glance at her face said it all.
“I’ve got to get over there,” she said, running like a hunted deer back to her house, where she hurriedly threw on some clothes.
She was at the moorings a few minutes later, where about two dozen people were assembled.
Her camera was set to go in her car, but she couldn’t bring herself to take it out. She joined the crowd that was so transfixed by the fire that they didn’t notice her arrival.
Suddenly, somebody grabbed her arm.
“Don’t,” Greta Whalen urged. “You’ll have that sight before your eyes for the rest of your life.”
“It’s Noah’s boat, isn’t it?”
“Come and give me a ride home. Then we can talk.”
Lori was too shaken to argue.
Arriving at Greta’s modest home, Lori realized she should have gone over there long ago.
Rubber boots in the entranceway, blue overalls on a hook on the wall.
“Is your husband back?” Lori inquired.
“No, he’s still in Alberta. He works for six weeks and then gets three weeks off. He’ll be back next week.”
“How can you stand it here by herself?”
Greta shrugged.
“We need something to live on, and there’s big bucks working on the tar sands.”
That explained her new kitchen: dark imitation wood and a green-speckled countertop with every imaginable appliance on it, like a display of trophies.
Lori dropped into a chair.
“It’s arson, isn’t it?”
“Yes, some bastard set fire to the boat, sure as shooting.”
“Where’s Noah? Was he at the wharf?”
“He and Archie and a couple of men tried to put the fire out. But with all the oil and grease on the boat it’s hopeless.”
“Did you talk to him? How is he?”
“Didn’t say much, but it’s a disaster. The boat’s not insured.”
“What? He’s got no insurance?” It was worse than she’d thought.
“No, way too expensive. What fisherman can afford it nowadays?”
Lori buried her face in her hands.
“It’s all my fault,” she said, on the verge of tears.
“Why the hell is it your fault? You didn’t set the boat on fire.”
Greta put a bottle of rum and two glasses on the table.
“Here, drink this. Want some Coke in it?”
Lori shook her head. She didn’t need rum or Coke—she just wanted to wake up from her nightmare.
“I told the police Reanna was wearing a yellow life jacket, and they found it in Jack’s parents’ garage. And they arrested Jack.”
“So what?”
Greta poured two fingers of rum and mixed it with Coke. Lori pushed some strands of hair away from her face.
“Now everybody thinks Noah ratted on Jack.”
Greta uttered a note of disapproval.
“They don’t arrest a person because of one life jacket—anybody could have worn it. I guarantee they already had a suspect in mind.”
Lori thought it best to keep quiet about her picture with Jack’s ATV and Reanna.
“But why would anybody burn down Noah’s boat?” she asked.
“Because somebody or other wanted to settle a score with him, or maybe not with him, maybe with Archie or Nate or another one of my brothers.”
“Why is it always Noah? It started way back with Jacinta. And there were plenty of suspects then. Cletus Gould, for instance.”
She looked into Greta’s eyes, pleading with her.
“You were Cletus’s girlfriend back then. You must have gotten wind of something.”
Greta stared at her, shocked at the turn the conversation was taking.
“Cletus would never kill anybody.”
“I found an arrowhead in his house. The same kind of arrowhead that was found in Jacinta’s grave. How do you explain that?”
“What? Who’d you hear that from?”
“I can’t tell you. But the police will put two and two together.”
“They were already here. I told them everything I knew. Cletus never killed anybody.”
“But he stole an arrowhead.”
“What for? What would he do with a thing like that?”
“Maybe out of revenge, because the archaeologists fired him?”
Greta stopped talking and averted her gaze. She seemed to be in another place, far away.
“Greta, why did you leave Cletus that summer?”
“It was in the fall.”
“Whenever. Why?”
“Our relationship had been more or less on the rocks for a while. It didn’t come out of the blue.”
Greta looked at Lori’s glass.
“Sure you don’t want any rum?”
“No, I don’t feel like drinking.”
Lori suddenly felt dead tired.
“I’m going home.”
She got to her feet.
“You don’t have to blame yourself for anything,” Greta said as she saw Lori out. “Jack will be home soon.”
Lori had those words on her mind until her eyelids finally shut sometime in the early hours of the morning.
She didn’t wake up until eleven o’clock. She went straight to work on her laptop to keep from going to the window to look down at the harbor. It was high time to get in touch with Mona Blackwood.
But she didn’t get very far. The first thing she saw was a headline: “Suspect in Sholler Murder Confesses.” It took Lori’s breath away. She had no idea the Royal Canadian Mounted Police would get Jack to talk so fast. She feverishly scanned the article.
Jack Day, 17, of Stormy Cove, confessed to the murder of the 23-year-old journalist Reanna Sholler, according to Corner Brook police. The police will make a statement on the sequence of events at a Friday press conference. Sources close to the police say that Day strangled the young woman. They say Sholler arranged to meet Day on the north shore of the bay near Frenchman’s Hill to follow him to the burial mound on the Barrens where excavations are currently underway. The mound’s location has not been made public until now. Day has reportedly been charged with rape. Unofficial sources say he confessed after assurances that he would be tried in juvenile court and not as an adult, which would significantly reduce a possible sentence. Jack Day’s family has no comment at this time. Day has no criminal record and recently completed high school.
Lori sent Mona a link to the article and suggested a phone call.
She made breakfast in a mental fog, surprised she had any appetite at all. But she gobbled down two pieces of toast, a fried egg, and a banana. Her survival instinct had kicked in.
Lisa Finning was the first to call.
“Come home for a while, my dearest,” was her gambit.
“I can’t.”
“Is it the book?”
“Yes, that too.”
“So it’s the man?”
Lori didn’t answer.
“Are the police leaving you alone?”
“They were here. Questioned me about Reanna Sholler.”
Lori didn’t mention some other disquieting news that she had heard: A woman reporter who said she was Reanna’s aunt was making the rounds in Stormy Cove. Reportedly, she had already talked to half a dozen people. She said she worked for Smart Woman, a reputable magazine.
This made Lori nervous. It was worrisome enough that Lisa Finning knew about the police.
“I thought they would. No cause for alarm, or is there? There’s been a confession.”
“Yes. But Jacinta’s death is still unaccounted for.”
“You won’t want to hear this, my darling, but a lot of cases never do get solved. I grapple with them every day—that’s the reality of it.”
“But innocent people are suspects.”
“Don’t let it eat you up. Save your energy for the job.”
“Somebody set fire to Noah’s boat.”
“What? Who’s Noah?”
“The man.”
“Ah.” Silence. And then, “Arson cases involving boats rarely make it very far because the evidence burns so fast.”
“His boat wasn’t insured.”
“Oh! That’s awful. That . . . in that case, somebody’s really being vicious. Let me know right away if there’s anything I can do.”
“You don’t have to bail me out this time, Mom.”
“I know, Lori, that’s all behind us. But it doesn’t hurt to ask people for help. I do it too, you know.”
Lori regretted her remark.
“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that so many terrible things are happening.”
“You know, sometimes it’s necessary to physically get away from a stressful situation.”
“I simply can’t leave here now.”
“I mean the man.”
“Noah? He’d never leave this village. He just can’t. He’s never been anywhere else.”
Stormy Cove Page 33