Sunset at [20 47]

by Peter Kingsmill

  Sunset at 20:47

  Peter Kingsmill

  Published by Peter Kingsmill, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SUNSET AT 20:47

  First edition. April 17, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Peter Kingsmill.

  ISBN: 978-1386019091

  Written by Peter Kingsmill.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  08:35 JULY 12

  16:30 JULY 12

  05:00 JULY 13

  06:25 JULY 12

  10:20 JULY 13

  15:25 JULY 13

  07:10 JULY 14

  07:45 JULY 15

  14:30 JULY 16

  09:00 JULY 17

  16:00 JULY 17

  07:30 JULY 18

  14:00 JULY 18

  08:00 JULY 19

  17:00 JULY 19

  07:00 JULY 20

  06:45 JULY 21

  14:45 JULY 21

  08:00 JULY 22

  07:00 JULY 23

  06:30 JULY 24

  19:15 JULY 24

  05:30 JULY 26

  16:15 JULY 26

  08:35 JULY 12

  Crap.

  Anderson pulled the shift into neutral and stumbled up the step onto the gunwale and across the widening gap to the wharf, grabbing the stern line from the well deck behind the wheelhouse as he went.

  The small pontoon barge he had been towing had not wound up where he had wanted it to be. A gust of wind at the last moment had caught the barge and taken it away from the wharf, so instead of coasting gently around the end of the wharf where he could grab the towrope and tie it up properly, the barge was now drifting slowly away and offering to take the 37-foot launch with it.

  Murphy's Law never fails, he thought, hurriedly putting a hitch on the dock post before stepping back onto the launch and retrieving the loose end of the towrope from the small afterdeck. Every effing time ya come into dock, the effing wind blows – wrong!

  Anderson spent the next ten minutes putting all the floating things back where he wanted them, securing the launch, and pulling and shoving the barge around the end of the wharf by hand and along to the shore where he could put down the ramp and eventually unload the baby trackhoe, leftover cement sacks and miscellaneous tools.

  Back onboard the launch, he checked the engine gauges and shut down the diesel before he went forward into the small cabin and poured the dregs of lukewarm coffee from his thermos into his travel mug. He wedged his six-foot frame onto the bench at the little table and filled out the bill for his services: (1) dig trench for footings for cottage porch, and (2) make forms and pour concrete for footings. He had thought the cottager would also want him to at least ferry the lumber for the new porch down the lake, but Mr. Jorgenson had decided to save a buck and take his two-by-sixes across in the little fishing boat he used to access his cottage. Whatever.

  After slipping the bill into an envelope, grabbing his thermos and locking the launch cabin, Anderson limped down the dock to his old Ford Ranger. As he got in, he quietly cursed his left foot which was sore as hell where the trackhoe had partially run over it a couple of days ago when he was loading it onto the barge. That was on him, he realized; it's usually thought of as stupid to pull the control lever on a powered machine when you are standing beside it. Doc had said there wasn't much he could do to help the foot - he was just to stay off it for a couple of weeks.

  "Stay off it. Yeah, right!" he muttered as he turned the truck's ignition key and started off up the road. His house, shop and rather untidy yard were only a couple of hundred yards up from the dock, but he had things to do in the village and didn't feel like walking the two blocks from home to Main Street. Besides, he wanted another cup of coffee and felt too lazy to make it at home.

  In Spirit River, it was, in fact, morning coffee time. Typically, it was coffee time from after breakfast clear through to lunch when everyone went home until afternoon coffee, but things did speed up at the Zoo around 10:30 every morning. And this morning, it seemed even busier than normal.

  There was still a place at his usual table near the back (he tried to avoid sitting by the window because the glare from the sun made it hard to see the faces of the table rats). "Hey guys. And gals," he said, in deference to Marion who had joined her husband at the table this morning. She and Arnold were always together, but usually not at the coffee shop, since they ran the gas station together and were loath to shut it down for a break on a weekday morning. Maybe that's got something to do with so many people here this morning, he wondered.

  "A couple cops are hanging around this morning," said Arnold, as if in answer to Anderson's unspoken thoughts. “Anita's missing, or at least she hasn't been home for two nights."

  The young guy who drives logging truck for the sawmill passed his cup to the waitress for a refill. "Well, not like it's the first time she's done that." He added, "Maple Falls is only half an hour away, and we all know she hangs out there a lot, dancing up a storm usually; maybe she found herself a temporary squeeze."

  "Well, yeah, maybe," Marion commented. "But the cops say they've talked to all her friends and they say they haven't seen her. No texts, nothing; Fred and Georgina are beside themselves this time."

  Fred Antoine worked at part-time and casual jobs around town. He was sought-after as a loader and forklift operator and sometimes filled in at the mill. He was also a skilled welder, but he was mostly interested in trapping and fishing. His wife Georgina worked most nights at the Spirit Inn Lounge on the shore of the lake, where the tourists and some of the young cottagers play on summer evenings. Their 23-year-old daughter Anita was pretty and well-liked by everyone in town, but she had a reputation as a party-girl.

  "Can't be at all easy for Georgina." Anderson had a soft spot for Anita's mom, although he kept that a secret from her and everyone else.

  Marion glanced sideways at him, before continuing the conversation: “Not sure if it’s a good thing or not that Fred’s home from the bush; he’s not much use to Georgina when there are problems that can’t be solved with whiskey. And with Anita, he’s always yelling at her when he gets a skin full; makes you wonder if he’s not part of Anita’s problems. It’s like she doesn’t want to grow up.”

  Arnold took the last mouthful of his coffee and stood up. “Come on Mum,” he said to Marion, “time to go earn a buck; I have that cottage lady’s old Accord to fix and I’m pretty sure I don’t have the parts.” He held the door for his wife, then turned back: “Anderson – wanna drive to Maple Falls with me on a parts run?”

  “Why not... I need to pick up some fuses for the trackhoe anyway. Maybe I’ll get a real haircut too – haven’t had a decent one since I shaved off my winter beard, and that was months ago.”

  “Okay. I’ll go check for the parts, and if I’m going to town I’ll come back here and pick you up. Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.”

  ***

  The half-hour drive to Maple Falls was uneventful. Anderson mused to himself about the Anita situation a little, but he knew enough about her to figure she was likely off on a little love adventure (or maybe the world’s biggest hangover) and would eventually turn up at home.

  His thoughts turned to the lake and the Protected Shorelines committee that he sat on, along with his chauffeur beside him. “Hey, Arnold,” Anderson spoke up over the screech of the wind from the old crew cab’s badly-sealed windows. “How did last week’s meeting go? I was finishing off some concrete at the Jorgenson place and didn’t get back in time.”

  “It was okay, I guess.” Arnold shifted in his seat, got out his pack of Number Sevens and selected a cigarette. “It’s nice that those
university guys have offered to help, but sometimes I think they forget that we, too, actually live here along with the birds and fish. The conversation gets a little off-track, in my mind anyway.”

  Anderson handed him his lighter. “Yeah, they certainly mean well, and some – especially that gal from New Brunswick – know a lot of stuff. Of course, the cottagers, who don’t really live here either, take in every word they say as some kind of new-found gospel and forget that people have hunted and fished Awan Lake for over a couple hundred years before they showed up. When’s the next meeting?”

  “Third Wednesday of next month, as usual. They want to do a public meeting with some guest speaker from the west coast that the university folks admire, but our local gang isn’t all that happy about it. Jeremy, for one, thinks we’re not ready for that yet, and I agree with him. Time ain’t right yet.”

  Anderson chuckled. “Definition of an expert is someone with an airline ticket and a briefcase in one hand and an invoice in the other.” He sighed. “To keep everyone happy, we’ll probably have to let that happen, though maybe we can put it off until next spring. Maybe I can get Barker to find a corporate sponsor to pay for it – he seemed happy with the job I did out at his island a couple of months ago and apparently he has lots of bigwig connections.”

  Arnold took a quick drag on his smoke, and broke the conversation: “Say, Frank, have you any thoughts on this Anita thing? Knowing her, it seems a little early to worry much, but I keep seeing stuff on the news that makes me realize the world isn’t always a friendly place for young girls even in the bush land of little old Canada. Especially for girls with a little colour.”

  “Mmm. Frankly I’ve been sitting here pissed off about the grief and hassle that little chick causes her Mum all the time,” Anderson admitted. “And it’s hard to know where to start when it comes to looking for her. Have the cops talked about a search yet?”

  “Not that I heard this morning. I guess she’s now officially a ‘missing person’ but I think most of the searching has been on Facebook and texting with friends.” Stubbing out his cigarette and closing the side window against the light sprinkle of rain that had just begun, Arnold continued: “Perhaps you and I should stop in at the cop shop in Maple Falls and let them know we want to help. Maybe they’ll tell us something.” He pulled into the Napa parking lot and shut off the engine.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Anderson responded. “Let’s get our stuff and go do that – just before we stop for a quick beer at that pub Anita hangs out at when she leaves Spirit River and hits the big lights. Maybe we’ll learn something.”

  The search for parts was more or less successful. Anderson had to buy a different fuse holder to accommodate the only fuses they had in the store. “The joys of owning old machinery,” he had muttered to himself. Their visit to the police detachment was even less fruitful. The officers had no new information (that they would talk about anyway) but they did take down the two men’s names and contact information in case they wanted help in the Spirit River area where Anita lived.

  The visit to the pub was no more productive. Although Arnold and Anderson had been there before, it had been seldom and nobody recognized them. Even the most general question or comment was met with silent shrugs. Anderson felt acutely aware of his away-back-when Métis roots, but nobody knew – or would have cared – in that place, so he didn’t play that card. “I must be getting old,” he grumbled to Arnold. “Places like this were a lot more fun when I was twenty... now that I’m pushing a half-century they just make me feel tired.”

  The men left after one beer. stopped at Timmy’s to grab a “I’m so hot you can’t drink me for at least 20 minutes” coffee and a portable chicken burger and headed home. The conversation drifted to speculation on whether the Ottawa Red Blacks would be able to repeat their Grey Cup win a couple of years ago, and when the city fathers of Toronto would try – again – to destroy the Canadian Football League by replacing the Argonauts with an American team and an NFL franchise.

  By the time they arrived back in Spirit River, the drizzle that had begun earlier had settled in and the surface of Awan Lake was living up to its indigenous name – foggy. Arnold dropped his passenger off by the Zoo where he had left his little truck and went down the street to rejoin Marion at the garage. Anderson dropped the invoice he had prepared earlier into the post office and drove the two blocks back to his house and workshop near the docks.

  Anderson’s house was more than a little strange, many folks thought. It had been built somewhat over a hundred years ago, as a small boat-builder’s workshop. It was perhaps thirty feet wide and seventy feet long, with a big set of hinged doors facing the street where the old builder had brought in his lumber and rolled out his beautifully-crafted wooden boats, gleaming with varnish and brass and boasting the shiny black classic gasoline marine engines of that time. Boats from Awan Lake used to be found on the canals and lakes of cottage country all over the province. These days, there were still a very few left, lovingly restored by craftsmen with endless time and deep pockets, who showed them off at boat shows in Toronto and even down into the states.

  Anderson had bought the building for a song some twenty years ago. It was perfect for him, and while he was a good hand at fixing stuff, and he deeply admired the work of the old craftsmen who had gone before, he was inclined to favour more modern materials: he liked his boats made of aluminum or fibreglass or even steel, because he was not particularly fond of endless sanding and painting and re-jointing planks and caulking seams.

  He had taken over the back thirty feet of the building as his house. From the outside, the house part was only identifiable by a single door on the side and a few not-very-big windows on the sides and back. The workshop part was comfortably messy, as might be expected of a single male as its inhabitant: “I know where everything is,” he would tell visitors, “but it’s a good thing I work alone.” Although there was room in the shop for his work launch, he had never put her in for the winter; he left her down by dock where she was lifted out for winter, and worked on her there. His shop was always full of small boats, or machinery like the trackhoe, and perhaps the occasional engine or two. Wooden workbenches lined the walls; they were pretty much all covered with “stuff”.

  The house part, though, was a different story. When the door from the workshop (or the “front” door) closed behind them, visitors found themselves almost in a different world, and not one they might have expected from the big craggy-faced man who lived there. Pine walls and open-rafter ceilings, broad clear-coated hardwood plank floors, warm scatter rugs, a couple of paintings on the walls, a cozy small kitchen, and off to the side what was obviously a bedroom, except it was really just another space, not a closed room. There was a long built-in desk and bookcases along one wall, with a computer at one end. There was a substantial wood-burning space heater on the other side of the room and a couple of easy chairs; the main piece of furniture was a gigantic old plank table with a variety of twice-as-old wooden chairs. The table was full of newspapers, magazines and engine parts (except at the kitchen end where there was typically a coffee cup and the plate left over from Anderson’s breakfast).

  It was not a woman’s house. But Anderson didn’t really care, because he had everything he wanted there and a live-in woman was not one of the things he wanted.

  16:30 JULY 12

  When he got back from his trip to Maple Falls with Arnold, the late afternoon was too soggy, foggy and depressing to go and off-load the trackhoe from the barge, walk it back up the street to the shop, and service it, so Anderson opted to open his second beer of the day and potter around in the shop. He called it cleaning up; most would have called it re-organizing the chaos. He worked distractedly; his thoughts turned to the missing Anita, her rather useless (and maybe worse) father Fred, and of course, to the long-suffering mother, Georgina. Anderson, like everyone else, had more questions than answers.

  At about 1800, he shut off the lights in the shop and went into
the house where he made a fresh pot of coffee and a couple of fried eggs on toast. He pawed through the morning’s Ottawa Citizen while he ate, then took his coffee to the computer and checked emails and his Facebook account. His computer time clock said 1910 when his doorbell rang.

  Anderson went to the front door and opened it without hesitation. Even though he had email and a smartphone, most of his neighbours and clients still just came to the door if his boat was at the dock and his truck was nearby. “Hi,” he said cheerfully, and “come in out of the rain, please!” as he stepped back from the door.

  His visitor was forty-ish, well put-up, athletic with blond hair tucked up under a green ball cap. And she was really very pretty. But he didn’t have a clue who she was. “Can I pour you a coffee?”

  “Well, no thanks, not at this time of day.” She seemed nervous and a bit out of breath. “But a glass of hot water would be nice... I paddled across from our island and it’s a pretty cool, dank evening. I’m a bit chilly.”

  “I’m surprised you could even see where you were going with that fog.”

  “The fog sort of comes and goes,” she replied. “And besides, I do have a little handheld GPS – two actually ‘cause there’s one on my phone. I won’t be hanging around long because it’s a forty-five minute paddle home and I want to get back long before the sun sets. Not that it’s shedding much light anyway.”

  Anderson put some water in the kettle and set it on the gas stove before clearing off some table space and pulling over a chair for his new guests. “Name’s Frank, but mostly people just call me Anderson. How can I help?

  “I know, Mr. Anderson; your name precedes you, which is why I am here. Actually, I had tried to call the police first, but they seem pretty tied up this evening. All I got was their voicemail and my cell connection wasn’t very good. So I came here – they tell me everyone comes to you when they have a lake problem.”