by Freya Barker
We’ve been discussing the visit from the guy from the Northern Lights Group since Matt noticed Kyle Thompson sneak out of the restaurant, shortly after we sat down. Charlotte mentioned that she was approached by him several times over the years, hoping to purchase her property from her. She explained that he eventually managed to get his hands on her neighbour’s, when he discovered she wouldn’t budge. It’s clear he’s been after the lodge as well, and Roar suspects him of sabotage, listing several incidents.
Matt mentioned that he could see why someone would be interested in getting their hands on any of these properties when Charlotte drops that bombshell on him.
“To me?” he says, incredulously.
“Sure,” she says, shrugging her shoulders when even Roar looks taken aback. “I’m never there. I’m too old for the upkeep, which means Roar has to do it, and he doesn’t need the added responsibility.”
“But I thought you didn’t want to sell?” Roar says carefully.
“Not to that idiot,” she spits out, and I can’t help giggle at her obvious disgust at the local real estate agent. “But to someone who will appreciate the land and wants to build a life on it? Someone I like? In a heartbeat,” she says, with a wide smile for my son, who in turn is beaming.
“I would totally be interested,” he says, sounding more like the teenager I remember, instead of the level-headed man he’s growing into.
“We’ll discuss it some more, but not over this wonderful dinner,” she says, patting his hand.
I snicker at his look of near worship at the innocent-looking, grey-haired lady with the ridiculous hat. She may look innocent, but I’m starting to discover that Charlotte, for all her ‘little-ole-me’ airs, is in truth a shrewd, conniving, manipulative operator. I laugh out loud when she blinks her eyes a few times at Roar’s low, warning growl. He doesn’t stand a chance in hell.
-
Matt chatters all the way home, after we drop Charlotte off at her place. Full of ideas and plans for Charlotte’s cottage, his mind is running a mile a minute, and I’m a little concerned he’s getting ahead of himself. After all, he doesn’t even know whether he can afford it.
He’s only twenty, how much can he have saved up?
I’d love to help him out, but I’m currently living on a prayer as well. Anything I had saved up has gone into the motel, and there have been times over the last twenty-four hours, where I’ve wondered whether I’m not biting off more than I can chew and would be better off just selling. Only momentary lapses of my usual optimism, but still.
“Son of a fucking bitch!”
I twist my head to see what Roar, who is sitting beside Matt in the front seat, is looking at when we turn onto our driveway. It takes me a minute, but then I notice the awkward slant of Roar’s truck and the busted windows of the cab.
“Jesus, mine too!” Matt pipes up, staring straight ahead where his truck is parked.
Sure enough, Matt’s truck looks like it’s received the same treatment.
“Stay here,” Roar orders me when my Jeep rolls to a stop, and both he and Matt jump out.
Part of me wants to argue, but I have to admit that I’m a little shaken. My determination to build a life here had already been wavering a little after fate, in the form of the storm, decided to dump another disaster on me. You can only take so much before you start to wonder if a higher force is trying to tell you something.
In this case it’s screaming; go home.
Except, home is here now. It’s surprising how little I miss the conveniences of city living. Instead, I’ve really come to love my life in the relatively short time I’ve lived here. I have never really been someone who needed a gaggle of friends, and the few I’ve made here accept me just the way I am. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who didn’t have expectations for me, a role for me to fill.
I watch as Matt inspects his truck, while Roar walks up to the bar and tries the door. I’m shocked when he pushes it open. I’d locked it just a couple of hours ago. Just a second later, he steps back out, closes the door, and pulls his phone from his pocket.
I’m out of the Jeep in a flash and try walking past him, but one of his long arms shoots out, blocking my path.
“Don’t,” he mumbles at me, his eyes solemn. “Yes, get down to the motel. We’ve got a break-in and extensive damage,” he barks into the phone. At his words, I pull from his hold and shove the door open.
The devastation takes my breath away. The only windows intact are the ones facing the street, but every other window has been smashed. The large mirror behind the buffet-bar is in pieces on the ground. My dining room tables and chairs were a motley collection at best, but it still makes me sick to see it reduced to kindle littering the floor. Not a single intact piece of furniture is left.
And the trail of destruction doesn’t stop there; it runs back to the kitchen and I’m fearing for my house beyond. A pained groan escapes from deep in my chest when I think of what I might find there. I don’t have a chance to move further inside, because a pair of strong arms wrap around me from behind, and pull me back outside.
“Come on, Mom,” my son’s gentle voice sounds in my ear, as he moves me around so I’m looking at the parking lot instead of my ransacked building.
Roar is a few steps away, still talking on the phone but his concerned eyes are on me. It’s then I notice I’m crying.
Roar
“Doesn’t look forced,” Bill says, checking the door I found open. “Do you know who all has a key?”
He’d been in his car when I caught him earlier, so we didn’t have to wait long. I’d barely managed to convince Leelo to get back in her Jeep, with Matt standing guard, when his OPP cruiser pulled onto the property. He’d wasted no time.
Of all the previous incidents, the deer carcass had been pretty gruesome, but still it had nothing on the utter wreckage left behind this time. It’s gone from some serious pranks to outright maliciousness. I can’t help think that had someone been here, the person who did this would not have stopped at busting up windows and furniture.
Sadly, on the brief walk-through I just did with Bill, we found both the restaurant kitchen and the main level of the house in much the same state; windows broken, furniture destroyed. Very little was left intact.
The upstairs was left alone, which led Bill to surmise that we may have interrupted whomever was here. The next logical conclusion was that they must’ve left either on foot or by water. I did recall hearing a boat’s engine, shortly after we got here, but at the time I’d only seen the state of the trucks. I hadn’t been inside yet.
Bill’s theory was supported by the wide open side door to the house.
It didn’t take long for two more cruisers to drive onto the parking lot. The team Bill called in. He immediately sent them to the back to see what, if anything, they could find.
“I’m guessing Leelo and Matt, but I don’t know who else. You should ask her,” I answer his question.
“I will.” He straightens up and directs his attention to the side of the building where his two men appear. “But let’s wait to see if they found anything out back,” he says.
One of his constables holds up a coiled rope.
“Is this your rope?” he asks, looking at me. “I found it tied to a cleat on the dock, the rest floating in the water, which seemed a little strange.”
“No it’s not. I had my boat tied off there earlier and keep my ropes on the boat. There weren’t any others.”
He hands over the blue and white striped rope to his boss. “Could be in their hurry to take off, they quickly released rope from the cleat on the boat instead of the dock,” Bill muses as he examines it. “It looks pretty new.”
“My boats all have plain white rope,” I offer as my thoughts immediately go to the one person I know on the lake who has a relatively new toy. “Maybe check—”
“On it,” Bill says, interrupting me. “Roberts, you stay here and tape off the building. Don’t let anyone in or
out until I get back. McGillicutty, come with me. We’re going to pay Mr. Thompson a visit.”
It’s clear Bill’s thoughts run in the same direction mine do.
“Do you need Leelo and her son here? It’s getting dark and I’d like to bring them back to the lodge.”
“I’ll find you,” he says, lifting two fingers at me as he walks off with his constable.
Once again, Leelo needs a little convincing, but she quickly concedes when I point out the fact they won’t be able to enter the house until it’s been properly searched.
“Where is Bill off to?” she wants to know, when I climb behind the wheel of her Jeep.
I explain the rope they found, and what it might imply, which seems to lift her mood a little.
“So that would be cause enough to have him arrested?”
“If he has only one matching rope on his boat, it might. It’s pretty distinct. By itself it might not hold, but there are other ways to know whether his boat has been on the water recently.”
“The engine would still be warm?” she suggests astutely.
“Possibly, or perhaps it’s been seen. Either way, the sooner Bill gets out there the better.”
The drive to the lodge is mostly silent, but when we pull up in front of the building, Leelo speaks up. “You think he spotted us all at the restaurant and saw his opportunity?”
“Something like that,” I confirm, unbuckling her seatbelt before doing my own.
When I get out, I notice she’s still in her seat, staring straight ahead through the window. Walking around the car, I encounter a much more subdued Matt, who is distractedly kicking the gravel at his feet. Without saying anything, I just clap his shoulder and give him a nod when he looks up.
Leelo hasn’t moved when I pull the passenger side door open, and she doesn’t turn to look at me when she says; “I don’t even have a bag this time. All I have is this dress.”
“Come on,” I urge her, taking her hand in mine as I help her from the Jeep. “We’ll find you something to wear.”
I’m a little concerned at her defeated tone. It’s not something I’d associate with her; she’s a fighter—tenacious—and has been able to roll with the punches. Lord knows she’s had a few since getting here, not to mention in her previous life.
She meekly lets me guide her inside and resumes her motionless staring when I sit her down at the kitchen table. Her hand automatically reaches down, to where she knows Ace is, at her feet, as he always seems to be when Leelo is around.
“Have a seat,” I invite Matt, walking straight to the liquor cabinet and pulling down a three-quarters full bottle of Canadian Club whiskey and three tumblers. I pour each of us a stiff shot and set them on the table.
“I usually have scotch after a particularly shitty day,” Leelo says after taking a good swig.
“Surprised you can even taste the difference,” Matt says after doing the same, a look of distaste on his face that makes me grin. Took me until my late twenties before I could appreciate anything but beer and tequila shots.
“I’ll make sure to have scotch on hand for the next shitty day,” I tell Leelo, tossing back my own drink. Despite the fact it’s not her drink of preference, the alcohol puts some colour on her face and some life back in her eyes.
Forty-five minutes later, with Leelo dressed in one of my flannel pajama pants and an old shirt, her face washed clean of any makeup traces, Bill shows up.
“Bingo,” he says, the moment I open the door for him.
“Yeah? Fucking moron,” I spit out as he walks past, and I follow him into the kitchen.
Bill snickers. “You have no idea. Not only was he missing one of his tie-down lines, the idiot left the hunting knife and the baseball bat in the bottom of his boat. He tried to talk his way out, saying he just got there and didn’t use his boat all night, but the keys were still in his pocket when we searched him,” he says, leaning on the back of the chair beside Leelo.
“Did he say anything?” I want to know, holding up the bottle of whiskey, but Bill shakes his head.
“He asked for his lawyer before we even got him in the cruiser. I explained he was being premature, since I haven’t even charged him with anything—yet. McGillicutty is taking him to the detachment, letting him stew for the night. I just wanted to come by to keep you in the loop, but I have to get back to the motel to help process the scene. We likely won’t question him until tomorrow morning, but I’m pretty sure he’ll insist having Ian McTavish there.”
I notice Leelo’s head shoot up at that name.
“Of Kline, Kline & McTavish?” she asks.
“One and the same,” Bill responds, a questioning look on his face. “Why? You know them?”
“Henry Kline is my lawyer. I just wonder if that will be a conflict of interest or something.”
“Not sure. Kline is civil law and McTavish is the firm’s criminal lawyer. I’ll check it out.”
Bill leaves shortly after that and when I come back to the kitchen, I catch Matt barely stifling a yawn.
“Just grab the same room,” I tell him. “You can get Netflix on the TV in the armoire up there.”
He walks over to his mom, leans down to give her a kiss, and with a chin lift to me, heads upstairs.
“What about you?” I ask her. “You want to go upstairs now, or wait until I get back from doing the rounds of the property?”
It’s something I don’t do every night, but on Saturdays when we have a load of new guests, I like to make myself seen. Just in case some of the general rules of conduct need enforcing.
“I think I need another one of these,” she says, waving her tumbler. “If I want any chance of sleep tonight.”
Leelo
I quickly get restless once Roar is gone.
With my tumbler in one hand and the bottle of Canadian Club in the other, I wander out into the foyer. There are four more doors, besides the one I just came through, and I feel a little like Alice in Wonderland, unsure which one to explore first. The kitchen is the first door to your left when you come in the front, so I start with the one right beside it. It’s a powder room, pretty nondescript, with a simple white porcelain sink and toilet, in stark contrast with the dark wood of the walls and floor.
Across the foyer, beside the stairway going up, is only one door, directly across from the kitchen. I try that one next, only to find a short hallway to the small two-room office beyond. That doesn’t yield much of interest either, other than a bunch of filing cabinets, a few utilitarian chairs, a couple of desks piled high with paperwork, two computers and a phone.
Two more doors are left, immediately opposite the front door. The first one opens up to a large spacious living room. I flick on the switch and soft, diffused light bathes the room in a warm glow. A large, worn, light-brown leather couch sits at an angle, facing a massive lake stone fireplace in the corner, with two oversized club chairs upholstered in a pale kelim pattern on either side. The smell of the fireplace permeates the room.
I drop down in one of the club chairs and have a sip of my whiskey, letting my eyes wander around, taking in the oversized windows. Beautiful Inuit prints hang on the walls, and on the thick slab of wood that serves as a mantel for the fireplace, rests a massive painting of a wolf. A pile of do-it-yourself and hunting magazines is stacked on the rustic coffee table, yet as fabulous as this room is, and clearly suited to Roar, it holds little to no personal items. No books, no photographs, no knick-knacks—nothing to identify Roar as its owner.
I could see myself here, though, curled up with a book on a cold night, watching the flames in the fireplace. Except at this point in time, I don’t even know if I’ll still be here this winter.
I furiously wipe at the single tear rolling down my cheek and before I drown in self-pity, I determinedly get up, flick off the lights and head for the final door.
Jackpot.
The walls in here are lined with shelves, jam-packed with books as far as the eye can see. Shelves even run under and a
round the large windows and the door I came through. I can smell the paper and ink alongside another scent, something slightly smoky but sweet and very familiar.
Another fireplace, this one smaller than the one next door, is in the adjoining corner of the room. Its mantel is covered in picture frames. A love seat, matching the couch in the other room, is facing it with a large ottoman in front. On the side table is an open book, facing down, with a pair of reading glasses perched on top. On the same table sits an ashtray with two pipes and a pouch of Amphora tobacco. My father’s favourite brand.
This time it’s nostalgia that has my eyes tear up as I set down my glass and the bottle, pick up a pipe, and hold it to my nose. With the scent of my father soothing me, I walk up to the mantel and check out the pictures.
Charlotte as a young woman, beside a larger than life, robust-looking man, with a beard much the same colour as Roar’s and a pipe clenched between his teeth. His father, no doubt.
Several photographs of Roar as a young boy, with freckles and white blond hair that slowly turns a deep red as he ages. In one picture, he has no front teeth, and is proudly holding up what looks to be a huge trout. I can’t help but grin, having an almost identical shot of Matt with his first catch.
The last photo to catch my eye is a group of young soldiers; arms slung around each other’s shoulders and smiling wide for the camera. Except the two in the center, they are smiling at each other.
One is clearly a younger Roar, and if I would venture a guess, the second man is Tom Jackson. The man this place was named for.
“Taking up smoking?”
His voice startles me, and I swing around to find him leaning his shoulder against the doorway, his arms folded over his chest, and a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“This brings about some sweet memories,” I tell him, as I sniff the bowl one last time before laying the pipe back in the ashtray. “And I wasn’t aware you smoked.”
I watch as he slowly stalks into the room, his eyes kind.
“Very occasionally,” he replies. “And purely for sentimental reasons.”
“The Amphora?”