Hy sighed.
“You’re either rural…or…a municipality. You can’t be both. The Shores can’t be a municipality. It’s a village. It probably should be a hamlet.”
Ham. Ian was definitely hungry now. His stomach grumbled. April Dewey smiled from a few seats away. Perhaps she’d invite him to lunch. There was enough for him and Murdo both. Both big eaters. Who wouldn’t love the products of the best cook in a village of culinary goddesses? April took the cake, when one of hers killed a man. He’d died eating it, half a slice clutched in his hand. Having lived a happy life, his only regret may have been not getting to eat the last half. April’s white cake, with the thick butter icing, was made with cream from the cow Murdo kept in the barn and eggs from the six chickens that had free range of their backyard. It was cooked in an old-fashioned wood stove. No one else could be bothered to do that anymore, but April claimed the even penetration of the heat kept all her cakes and pies and roasts moist as a baby’s bum. It was an unfortunate comparison, but nobody could argue with the product.
Ian was thinking about that cake now, his eyes and concentration locked on April. He was becoming hungrier by the second and didn’t know how much more he could stand of this meeting that was going nowhere.
“I say we don’t want them cats, with all their fleas and disease, said Moira. “I think we should take a vote.”
“Should the vote go in your favour, what would you do to get rid of them?”
To everyone’s surprise, Ben Mack had stood up and spoken up, challenging Gladys. A gentle bear of a man, he was more inclined to keep in the background, but the villagers knew he could be roused. They’d seen it years ago, when that storm surge had sliced through the causeway and the province had decided to evacuate the area permanently rather than go to the expense of fixing the link.
That had woken up the gentle bear, and he’d roared into Charlottetown, backed up by the local fishing fleet and Shores descendants from all over the island. The Macks had always lived in The Shores, and Ben determined that wasn’t going to change.
The campaign was a success. The evacuation never happened. Neither was there a good job done on the causeway, so it remained, to this day, an unreliable connection to what the villagers had begun to call “the mainland.” Some of them liked it that way.
Ben was moved to speak on this occasion because of the plight of the poor helpless creatures. Well able to take care of himself, he had a deep pity for those who could not.
Ben’s question had a peculiar effect on Gladys. She had no answer.
“I said, what would you do to get rid of them?” He repeated the question into the stunned silence it had created.
“If there’s going to be a vote, please allow me to speak on our behalf and that of those poor creatures we are sheltering.” Brock Ferguson’s deep, booming voice bounced off the walls of the hall. He had just walked in to hear the last of the argument. Everyone turned to get a good look at him.
He was tall, slim, and handsome with salt-and-pepper hair.
And that voice, now they heard it again as he spoke, not just deep and powerful, but smoothed with cream and spiked with whisky.
As they prepared to vote, two things resonated with the villagers – the first, like an echo, that deep voice, so deep it must be honest, assuring them that “We turn no cat away.” Ferguson would come to regret that, when the next day, one after another, the villagers, felines in hand, lined up at his door to offload them.
“We turn no cat away.” It was a powerful message given great consideration.
The other thing…well…the other thing was the famous author’s cat carrier, the pride of the hall. There it sat, in state, front and centre on the stage, right below the ancient photographs of Queen Elizabeth, slim and serene, and her handsome husband Prince Philip, hand on his ceremonial sword.
The carrier tipped the balance. They imagined the island’s beloved writer would never have picnicked here with her aunt, who was a villager, if she thought The Shores unfriendly to cats. The slips of paper went in, some showing their “yes” or “no.” Gladys frowned when she saw the last vote: “yes.” She was overruled. By one vote.
“That’ll be his.” She glared at Brock Ferguson.
“He’s a member of the community, too.” Hy stared at Ferguson, but found his expression unreadable. Neither pleased nor displeased. Guarded.
“It’ll be his and someone’s else’s,” Ian added. “Otherwise it would have been a tie.”
And so it began.
“If my Lester was here, it would have been two votes more in favour.” Estelle Joudry had a couple of cats in her barn she was hoping Ferguson would take.
“Harold had to go to town today, but I know he would have voted against it.” Olive MacLean looked round the room, daring anyone to contradict her.
On it went, until Jamieson called them to order.
“The vote has been taken,” she said. “Not that I think it has any authority one way or the other, but it seems the Fergusons can keep their cats in The Shores.”
The decision made, Ferguson broached the subject that had brought him into the hall when he saw the crowd there.
“Is Abel Mack here?”
Silence. Didn’t everyone know Abel was missing?
“Abel Mack? Does anyone know where he is?”
One more try. “Is Abel Mack still alive?”
Jamieson frowned. What was going on that she didn’t know about?
“What do you know about Abel Mack?”
“Nothing. I know nothing. I was just looking for him.”
“So are we all.”
“He’s alive then?”
“We don’t know that. Do you know anything about that?”
“Absolutely nothing. I’m just looking for the guy. It’s business.”
“Abel Mack is over ninety. How much over ninety, I’m not exactly sure. But over ninety. What business could he possibly have?”
Ferguson bristled. “I don’t think that’s your business.”
“It is, if you know anything about where he may be.”
“I don’t. That’s why I came asking here.”
“If you do know anything, you’d better not be keeping it from me, because I will find out.”
“Just asking.” The booming voice grew quiet.
Everyone looked at the man, curious. Most curious of all were Jamieson, Ian, Hy, and Gus.
What did this man have to do with Abel Mack? Why did he want to know about him? Jamieson did not plan to question him in full view of the entire community, but she would be catching up with him. Soon.
The continuing silence throughout this exchange exploded into chatter once it was clear that the Mountie and her prey had ended their exchange and moved out of range.
The meeting had turned out far better than any of them expected, what with the vote, the appearance of their newest neighbour, Ferguson, his looking for Abel, and the invitation to dump their cats on him.
At least that was how they’d heard it.
Jamieson, meantime, had collared Ferguson as he left the hall.
“I’m asking you again, privately, what business is it you have with Abel Mack?”
“As you said yourself, it’s not really business.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be looking for him.”
“He’s an old man. He’s been gone for days. He could be dead.”
“I’d be sorry about that.”
“Sorry? Did you know the man? What did you want from him?” For surely he had wanted something. He hadn’t just picked the name out of a hat. A mental smile. Certainly not a Tilley hat.
“It’s personal.”
“Personal? I ask again – did you know him?”
A long pause.
“No, I did no
t.”
It occurred to Jamieson that they were talking as if Abel were dead. She thought he was, but that wasn’t the official position yet.
“How was it personal then?”
“He had something I wanted.”
In Jamieson’s experience, that was never a good thing. It often led to everything that was wrong: theft, assault, murder, kidnapping.
Kidnapping.
Now there was an angle she hadn’t thought of. Who would want Abel? For what purpose?
Ferguson smiled, trying to lighten things up.
“It’s a fish story,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to hear it.”
“Wouldn’t I now? Try me.”
“Another time, maybe,” he turned away and climbed into his Mercedes G-Class SUV, leaving her speechless, lips sealed by fury, fuming at his lack of regard for her uniform.
That she wasn’t wearing at the moment.
Chapter 17
Ferguson was at the cat-barn door, eyeing, with an expression of displeasure, the line of villagers, carrying cats and cat carriers, all hoping he’d accept their unwanted felines.
It was obvious that a majority of the cats were of the same lineage – and that their birthplace was Gladys Fraser’s barn. That was the home base of the giant ginger Ralphie, a huge, amiable thirty-pounder, with a perpetual smile on his face. No wonder, he’d had every female feline in The Shores. Including all of his descendants. The only plus for population control was that there were fewer female cats in the village, as they gave birth to more and more gingers like Ralphie.
Gingers – with few exceptions – are male.
There were lots of gingers in that line-up – big, with that smile, amiable nature, and unneutered state.
Ferguson was thinking fast. He held up his hands.
“I’m sorry, but we can’t accommodate all these cats now…”
There was mumbling, some grumbling, a handful of “but he saids,” until Ferguson held up his hands again and commanded silence with a deep booming voice that sounded like thunder rolling up the coast.
“Please.” He made it sound like a command, not a plea.
“Please,” he repeated, this time a growling threat, a sound that made the cats perk up their ears. Danger?
“I know I said we turn no cat away, but it’s my belief that most, if not all, of these cats have homes.”
Hy arrived and couldn’t help butting in. “Not good homes,” she yelled. “Or they wouldn’t be trying to get rid of them.”
A few of the villagers looked shamefaced.
“I will listen to anyone who thinks they have a truly legitimate case, but otherwise, give it time. Please, unless you absolutely cannot care for your cat, leave us to get on with caring for the many rescues we do have.”
Reluctantly, grumbling, darting looks at one another to see who would stay and who would go, one by one they all turned, taking their cats with them.
All but one. Eighty-nine-year-old Sadie Robinson was clinging to a scruffy longhaired tabby. The two, woman and pet, were equally thin, bones sticking out of their backs, faces a skeletal mask with skin or fur stretched over it. The cat had lost its whiskers. The woman had sprouted some.
She could hardly move as she shuffled forward. Hy leaped forward to help her, taking her arm by the elbow.
“I can’t care for him anymore. My Geordie.” The old woman stroked the cat, and tears spilled down her face. Geordie licked them. “I can’t bend over to feed him. I can’t scoop out his litter.”
Brock Ferguson appeared ready to cave in to the sad case, but Hy jumped in. It tore at her heart to see this woman having to part from her cat.
“I’ll come and do it for you. When I can’t, I’ll make sure someone else does.”
The offer set off a fresh flow of tears, as Hy guided the woman away.
It would not be a burden for Hy. She could do it a couple of times a week and pay the Dewey children to take care of the other days. The youth, the activity, the people coming into her life would rouse the old woman. Both she and Geordie would begin to eat. They would be seen walking together in the village. Sadie, bent over; Geordie limping. Both smiling.
But Hy’s action did not stem the flow of tears.
Every time she saw Hy, Sadie cried.
***
In the close quarters of a coast-guard helicopter, it was almost as if he weren’t there, his hat obscuring his face as he looked down on the waters below.
Looking down at the immense stretch of Big Bay and its dots of islands, Seamus realized that the best way to find what they were looking for was by helicopter. The coastline stretched in both directions, closing in on itself in a crescent. In places, red clay bled into the shoreline, the land quietly, but surely, melting into the vast waters around it. Someday, global warming would split the island into five. If predictions bore out, this cold windy province might become a string of low-lying islands. Finally, they would all slide into the sea.
In peril on the sea. The expression took on new meaning when applied to today’s environment. The words had popped into Seamus’s mind as he stared down. He could see everything that was going on in the water. They were flying over the great stretch of sandbar that protected Big Bay harbour, allowing boats in and out only at high tide, sheltering them when the tide was low, the sandbar raised up against the angry sea.
Of course. It had to be this part of the north shore. These were the old man’s waters. It must be somewhere around Big Bay, home of the world-famous oysters. Soon to be famous for its giant cod?
They are there. That’s what he’d said. That’s what he kept repeating, as if the repetition would make it so.
This must be there. They must be here. Somewhere in this vast expanse of sheltered water, tucked in close to the shore of one of its islands, hidden in one of the small bays of the bay.
I know they’re there.
Seamus looked over at The Hat Man, the nickname sticking. He was hoping for a nod, a grunt, a definitive gesture.
An arm raised. A finger pointed ahead. Past Big Bay. Not Big Bay? Where then?
Circles, he had seen circles, then and now. This was the place, he knew. Those circles meant the fish was here again, after all these years he’d been waiting for it. The cod would be there, where the sand dunes rose high, and the currents ran cold and deep. He stared, fascinated by the circles, the circles he had seen back then. The big cod must be there. He could remember it clearly now. Now that he was here. They were here.
Seamus wondered, had the old man lost it? He wasn’t moving and appeared to be staring with glazed eyes, not seeing. But he stabbed the air again, and Seamus saw the circles. Huge circles. Circles of cod?
He knew that cod circled when they mated, but he didn’t think they had any impact on the water flow. Unless they were giants.
There must be giants there below.
***
“I hear you have a parrot.”
Ian looked with surprise at Ferguson, at his front door, holding a box of canned soda pop.
He edged the door open and let the man in. Ferguson dumped the box on the kitchen table.
“I should say, I see you have a parrot.” Jasmine, a young African grey Ian had rescued years before, was perched on Ian’s shoulder. She was preening herself as she often did when male visitors came.
“Can she open soda pop cans?”
“As a matter-of-fact, yes. I don’t encourage it.”
“How many?”
“How many?” Ian looked puzzled.
“Twenty, thirty, more…?” Ferguson lifted his eyebrows, cocked his head, and smiled at Jasmine, as if a smile meant anything to the bird, other than a threatening baring of the teeth.
She was staring at the pop cans with interest. She hopped off Ian’s shoulder, landed on the box of cans, inserted her beak in a ta
b and popped it off. She went for a second. And a third. She liked doing it, partly because she knew that humans found the opening of one can amusing, but more than one, annoying. Jasmine liked to be annoying.
“Enough, Jasmine.” Ian reached over to pluck her off the box. Ferguson stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“No, let her go. Let’s see how many she can do.”
Realizing the man wanted her to keep going, Jasmine stopped. She also liked to be contrary.
She flew up and perched on Ian’s shoulder again and resumed preening.
“What’s this all about?” Ian stroked Jasmine’s beak. She groomed him, pecking behind his ear.
“I was wondering if you had a world record setter.”
“World record setter? Jasmine?”
“For most soda cans opened by a parrot. The number is thirty-five. In one minute. Speed is of the essence. Surely not hard to achieve, with a little training.”
Ian snorted. “Jasmine can’t be trained.”
“Does she talk?”
Before Ian could answer, Jasmine repeated “does she talk?” in Ferguson’s tone and cadence. His eyes lit up.
“Marvelous. Simply marvelous.”
“Marvelous. Simply marvelous.” Jasmine repeated, excelling this time at capturing Ferguson’s deep baritone.
“You see, she can be trained.”
“Jasmine says what she wants, when she wants. As for popping pop cans, I’m sure it’s not good for her beak.”
“Her beak is built for it. Imagine – setting a world record…”
“I’m not interested. Neither is she.”
Ferguson smirked. “Surely she can speak for herself.”
Jasmine swooped down and tugged another tab. The top came flying off and soda spewed all over Ferguson’s face. Ian grabbed a tea towel and shoved it at him.
“I think she’s spoken. Eloquently.”
Ferguson wiped his face, frowned, and left. He slammed the door behind him.
“Not even a goodbye,” said Ian.
“Goodbye,” said Jasmine, sounding just like Ferguson.
“The guy’s a nutcase,” Ian said later, when he told Hy about Ferguson’s visit. “He was obsessed with the Guinness Book of World Records and getting Jasmine in it.”
Cod Only Knows Page 11