Then, two months ago, a letter arrived at my office. George wanted to return to the mainland. He wrote something unintelligible about sowing the earth.”
“Sowing the earth?” Jules repeated.
“Yes, starting the world over or some nonsense. I came to pick him up a week later, but as our boat approached the island, George began shooting at us with a rifle. We had to turn back. By the time we returned with police—” Bonacelli stopped and his breath caught. “George had jumped off High Peak to his death.”
Jules looked horrified. Isabelle met his gaze.
“We found him along the rocks, had him buried in the family plot outside of London.”
“What the devil are you going on about?” Ginny shouted. “What’s all that got to do with the diamond?”
Bonacelli sighed. “I’m getting to that. George never mentioned where he kept the diamond, but we found a jewelry case in his laboratory. Inside was a piece of paper torn from a notebook and dated on the morning of his death.” Bonacelli took a slip of paper from the desk and held it out to Ginny. “This appears to be some kind of riddle. It could either be the ramblings of his madness, or a clue to the whereabouts of the Crimson Star.”
Ginny took the paper and read each line aloud.
“A brilliant Star is what you seek
West of the woods
East of High Peak
Open The Book to find a link
The goddess Hanus,
Protector of all who think.”
No one said anything for a long moment.
“The man was daft!” Ginny gasped, breaking the silence.
“I must admit,” Jules said, “the prose seems rather trite. Not like George at all.”
Bonacelli reminded the group that George was not of sound mind when he wrote it. Still, he believed the riddle might be the only clue to finding the diamond.
“My father was very fond of riddles,” Isabelle said. “Perhaps it isn’t about the Crimson Star at all.”
“Well, of course it is,” Ginny spat, holding the paper up to Isabelle. “What other star do we seek?”
“I have to agree,” Bonacelli said. “It was found in a box that could have held the diamond.” He opened the spring lid to show an empty case. It was covered in blue velvet, lined in silk, and obviously made for jewelry.
Isabelle stared at the riddle. “I suppose The Book could be a reference to the Bible.”
Jules snickered. “George certainly believed in God, but he despised religion. He thought that all living things—plants, insects, animals—came from a single consciousness. I’m fairly certain he didn’t own a Bible.”
“You’d be wrong,” Ginny replied. “George spoke about getting married in church. He even picked out a burial site in the woods for the two of us, and engraved a headstone with a cross.”
“Of course, you can’t dismiss the possibility that it’s gibberish,” Bonacelli said. “George was in a terrible state that day, I can attest to that. Regardless, I’ll need your signatures.” He handed the will to Isabelle first and when all three heirs had signed, he made duplicates at a copy machine.
“May I see the riddle?” Luke asked.
Ginny hesitated, but gave it to the boy.
Luke repeated the words, and then pondered them aloud, “For one thing, there’s no proper punctuation and goddess should be capitalized … There’s no Hanus in any mythology I’ve studied—Greek, Roman, Indian, Persian—”
Isabelle asked, “How many goddesses are there?”
“If you go back to the first writings of the Sumerians all the way to the present, historians have recorded about forty-six hundred supernatural beings, of which there are about twenty-nine hundred true deities. From those, about fourteen hundred fall into the category of ‘goddess,’ but that’s not including Hindus, who believe there’s a god for every Hindu, so that’s like half a billion right there.”
“Oh, never mind all that,” Ginny said with a scowl.
“Luke, you’re such a dweeb,” Monica said.
He frowned at her. “I don’t see you helping.”
She snatched the paper from his hand. “You people are so lame. This is obviously a treasure map, and like any treasure map you just have to follow the instructions. It says right here, walk west of the woods and east of High Peak.”
Luke squinted at the map of Sparrow Island on the wall behind Mr. Bonacelli. “West of the woods, huh? That’s Canada. And east of High Peak would be France.”
“He’s right,” Isabelle said. “Those are opposite ends of the island. Either way, you’d fall into the ocean.”
Jules shook his head. “All these ideas are too rudimentary. George’s riddles were very clever. The answer wouldn’t lie in a sentence or two, but the entire passage as a whole.”
“Give it back to me.” Ginny swiped the paper from Monica and read silently this time, mouthing each word. “Oh, bloody hell! What if I can’t figure out this riddle?”
“I think it best you try.” Bonacelli put the original will in his briefcase and distributed the copies.
“So what’s the diamond worth?” Monica asked.
Bonacelli told her it was appraised at $350,000. “It’s quite rare. One of the few red diamonds in the world. Nearly one carat.”
“It must have been insured,” Isabelle said.
“No. Nothing George owned is insured. Too costly. Plus, he had trouble getting insurance with his … legal difficulties.”
Ginny eyed the lawyer suspiciously. “How do I know you didn’t take the diamond yourself? After you found George dead in the water?”
Jules gasped.
Monica laughed.
Bonacelli released a sigh while packing up his belongings. “I suppose you don’t. However, if you check my impeccable résumé, you’ll find I’m an extremely well-paid attorney for some very influential clients. The act of searching over a deceased man’s island for his only valuable possession is far below my character and completely illegal to boot. My business is entirely based on my reputation and integrity, which cannot be bought.” He picked up his trench coat from a hook and threw it over his arm. “What’s more, I’ve known George for twenty years and considered him a friend. Not only have I been on retainer free of charge for the last decade, it was I who paid for your passages here.”
“Well, fine, then,” Ginny muttered. “I wasn’t implying that you—”
“Certainly you were.”
She turned away with a huff.
“I might add,” Bonacelli said, “that if anyone is not returning on the charter today, it will be at your own expense, or until the next supply boat arrives in two weeks. Mrs. Maguire, you’re planning to stay with the children, correct?”
“Yes. We’ll wait for the next supply boat.”
“Miss Shufflebottom?”
“I’m certainly not leaving without my diamond.”
“What about you, Professor?”
“I’d like to look over the research George left me. However, two weeks is impossible. I have some business in London, and then a trip…” He glanced at Isabelle, who was looking out the window. “Actually, I’ll wait for the next boat as well.”
“All right. It seems everyone is staying, so I’ll show you around. We should start with the kitchen.”
* * *
It was a large country kitchen with oak cabinets and terra-cotta floors. It had recently been vigorously scrubbed clean and still smelled of bleach. Two stainless-steel freezers, a commercial-grade range, and a refrigerator took up half a wall. The other side held a large fireplace with a wood-burning stove and a rustic dining room table that could easily seat twenty guests.
“Don’t worry about water,” Bonacelli said, turning the faucet. “It’s pumped from an artesian well and quite safe.”
The pantry was stocked with canned vegetables, soups, and jars of spaghetti sauce. There were boxes of pasta and packages of instant everything. Isabelle wasn’t pleased with the selection, and chided herself for
not bringing food to a remote island. However, the freezer turned out to be a pleasant surprise, filled with fine cuts of steak, chops, fish, and organic poultry. She browsed around the bright, fresh-looking vegetables and herbs that had been artfully sealed and frozen. The fridge as well offered an assortment of beverages, marinades, and condiments that hadn’t yet expired. There was even an impressive selection of wines in a climate-controlled cabinet.
“This is most important,” Bonacelli said, as they gathered around a two-way radio.
It was a fixed mount like the one on the boat, fastened beneath a cabinet. Bonacelli explained that it was programmed with twenty-two channels that monitored two Coast Guard stations for distress calls, and a marine channel that would alert them of any serious weather conditions. There was an antenna attached to the roof, in order to boost the range of the frequencies. “This is your only lifeline to civilization, should an emergency arise—and I do mean emergency. A visit from the Canadian Coast Guard to treat a jellyfish sting or investigate a shark sighting will cost you a fortune. But if anyone is seriously injured, or the power goes out, you should call at once.”
Bonacelli demonstrated how the radio worked, and just to make sure, he had Jules attempt a practice call to Captain Flannigan, waiting at the dock. He located the correct channel, called to the boat, and after a few seconds of static, the captain answered.
“Eh-yah, Acadia. Over.”
“This is just a demonstration,” Bonacelli spoke into the mic.
“Yer ready to shove off?”
“I’ll be at the dock in twenty minutes.” Bonacelli checked his watch impatiently. “One more stop and we’re through.”
He led them outside to the back of the house, toward an old wooden shed. They were close to the northern edge of the island and they could see the flat rocks of a seawall, where the wind blew fierce and the ocean waves roiled against a golden sky. On a clear day, a thin outline of Nova Scotia could be seen on the horizon, but presently there was too much haze.
The battered shed looked to be quite large, roomy enough to house a small family. As they approached the building, the muffled sound of an engine hummed and there was a whiff of diesel in the air. Bonacelli explained that the generator was housed in a separate, ventilated room behind the shed.
The old wooden door slid sideways, rumbling under its weight and squealing from rust. The sun was low and filled the dark interior with a golden glow. The light hit a wall and sparkled on metal objects hanging from hooks. There were farming tools: scythe, hatchet, shovel, and ax, all looking quite rusty. There were a couple of large knives, fishing poles, and a spear, as well as a crossbow and leather case filled with arrows.
Sean picked up an arrow.
“That’s strange. My father never hunted,” Isabelle said. “There’s no game on the island.”
“Target practice, I suppose,” Bonacelli replied.
Luke reached into a barrel full of cobwebs and pulled out a wet suit that looked as though it hadn’t been used in ages. “Two suits with snorkels,” he said, excited at the find.
“I wouldn’t advise swimming in these frigid waters,” Bonacelli said. “The riptides can be deadly.”
“I think it’s all right in the shallows of the cove,” Isabelle said. “I swam at the beach every summer.”
Bonacelli led them to an adjoining room, twenty paces in length that contained the monstrous generator. It was an old military model with rusted metal and flaking paint, but it was a solid workhorse and the rickety exhaust fan removed most of the diesel fumes from the room.
It clanged loudly, so the lawyer had to shout. “There used to be a battery system but it went down years ago, so George kept the generator running all the time. To save petrol, he used very little electric and the thermostat is set to about fourteen degrees Celsius at night. Not to worry; there’s a fireplace in every room to keep warm. But if anything happens, if the generator goes down, use the radio to call for help. You don’t want to be here with no heat or power.”
They were glad to leave the noisy shed and head back to the house.
Bonacelli stopped at the patio. “I have business on the other side of the Atlantic tomorrow. I’ll be in touch with you, Isabelle; more papers to sign.” He bid them farewell and headed for the woods and the boat back to Halifax.
The rest of the guests returned to the kitchen. The children explored the house as Isabelle prepared a light supper of pasta and broccoli in white wine sauce.
Ginny insisted they look for the diamond right away.
“It’s nearly dark and we’re all exhausted,” Isabelle said. “We’ll look in the morning.”
“We should at least try to figure out the riddle,” Ginny said curtly.
Isabelle sighed. “I think the best strategy is to forget the riddle and have a thorough search tomorrow.”
The house was large enough for everyone to have their own bedroom, so after supper they dragged their luggage upstairs, washed up for bed, and retired for the night.
They didn’t know it was to be their last uneventful evening.
CHAPTER 7
THE MORNING SKY WAS GRAY and an ocean breeze shook the windowpanes. Isabelle awoke in a frigid room, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by memories. She had chosen her old bedroom for the sake of nostalgia. The white-painted furniture, stuffed animals, dollhouse, and flowery bookshelf seemed to have been waiting for her return. It was the cleanest room in the house and she was touched that George had kept it dusted.
The radiator had just come on, hissing madly. Right away she got out of bed and her feet hit the cold wooden floor. She rummaged through her suitcase, put on jeans and a thick red wool sweater that made her feel cozy, and then added wool socks and hiking boots. She had purposely left every dress behind along with her hats, heels, and husband. A navy blue peacoat lay across a chair, and she considered adding another layer, but threw on a scarf instead and headed downstairs.
Everyone was gathered in the kitchen getting warm. Ginny had started a fire in the wood stove and coffee was brewing, giving the kitchen a rich aroma. Jules and Luke were snacking on biscuits.
“Good morning,” Jules said.
Isabelle felt her cheeks blush under his gaze. His long black hair was combed back and wet from the shower and he looked especially handsome in a black cotton shirt that stretched across his shoulders and fit snugly around his arms and chest. For the first time she noticed he had a rather muscular physique, although his posture could have been improved.
Luke handed a biscuit to his mother. “These are good, and I found about a hundred in the freezer.”
Ginny and Monica found them tasteless and said so. Isabelle agreed.
“Well, I like them,” Luke said, “and Sean does too.”
Sean stuffed his mouth, putting three more on his plate.
“George always liked to experiment with food,” Ginny said. “He probably baked them himself.”
Isabelle poured a mug of coffee and wrapped her cold hands around its heat. “Anyone want to go for a stroll?
Sean raised his hand quickly.
“All right. Get the holly bush and find a big spoon.”
Sean put a biscuit in his coat pocket and rummaged through the utensil drawer, clanging forks and knives.
“Do you mind if I tag along?” Jules asked.
Isabelle flushed. “Not a bit. We’d like your company.”
Outside the rain had stopped, but the wind was relentless. Ryegrass blew in waves, flashing shades of green and yellow. The forest stood clear in the distance, tall dark pines and bare branches, their tops bending from the gale.
Jules and Isabelle walked side by side down the path, enjoying the salty breeze on their faces. She had forgotten how unusually tall he was. The top of her head reached just below his shoulders.
Sean trailed several paces behind them, kicking up pebbles and stopping to examine blades of grass. Isabelle was reminded of all the times she followed Jules around like a puppy as he gathered p
lant specimens along the cliffs or in the woods. How he would travel to London for a visit and she’d pine for his return, usually with a gift for her like a magnifying glass or a wooden puzzle. Sometimes he’d indulge her in checkers or chess, but Isabelle was content to stare at his handsome face while he read books in the library or wrote out notes in the lab.
“Hard to believe it’s been so many years,” she said. “I remember you were quite serious about your work.”
Jules nodded. “I recall you were a precocious little thing who knew every plant and tree by its proper name. Always running about exploring, bringing home your latest find. Not silly and bothersome like some children. No, you showed great maturity and intelligence.”
Isabelle smirked. “That’s quite a compliment coming from you.”
He put a finger to his head, squinting. “I remember one drizzly morning I was digging up toadstools in the woods. You gave me a haughty look from under your rain cap and said, ‘Mushrooms only grow where it’s damp, and that’s why they look like umbrellas.’”
She gave a reluctant smile.
He chuckled. “Another time you told me that a flower’s pistil must be its best protection against insects.”
“I’m glad you found me amusing.”
“Oh, you were clever. I figured you’d become a scientist like your father, travel the world looking for new discoveries.”
“Not even close.”
“Too bad. You showed such promise.”
The comment was unexpectedly hurtful. Jules had no idea how badly she had wanted to make something of her life. He was unaware of the burden she had carried through childhood. What had been worse—caring for her mother, moving her from chair to bath to bed, spoon-feeding her, massaging her limbs that couldn’t bend without cries of pain, or finding out there was never anything wrong with the woman? It was all a brilliant act. A never-ending theatrical performance that sprang from an obsessive need for attention. There was never any mention of a life for Isabelle, never any talk of college or travel. Running away to marry Colin had been her first chance to escape.
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