“I’m sure Jasmine would have something to say about that.”
“You bet,” said Jasmine. “You bet.”
***
The Hat Man, now in the sou’wester, was pointing down, finger stabbing at the window of the helicopter. There, west of Big Bay, in an area boats generally avoided because of the dangerous currents, was circle upon circle carved into the water.
Around, around the circles went, sucking everything in, fish, lobster, seaweed, bloodsuckers, delivering their prey as if on a cafeteria conveyer belt into the depths of the ocean. The ocean should not be that deep there, but Seamus had a feeling it was going to prove to be.
Were the circles being created by giant creatures below? By the fish this old man had almost caught? Or by its children or grandchildren or nieces and nephews? Were the giant cod spawning now, this time of year? This could be even better than Seamus had imagined. Multiple breeding seasons?
Imagine. The average female cod netted for market or aquaculture carried about half a million eggs per kilogram of body weight. So, say, on average, a million and a half. Would a three-hundred-pounder be true to the same rule? The math, and its implications, was staggering. Seventy-five-million eggs, at least. You’d only need one pair, a male and a female, for a whole industry. To breed by natural or artificial means.
That’s why they were here. That’s how Seamus planned to return home a hero. The price for this multi-million ova information was so cheap, what his informant wanted, so little, he had to laugh.
He did. It startled both the pilot and The Hat Man.
Chapter 18
Jasmine was missing. Ian knew it the moment he stepped into the house that afternoon. He always felt her presence wherever she was. There was no presence now. He stumbled over his feet as he raced through the house, upstairs, into all the rooms, opening and closing cupboard doors, looking under beds and dressers, calling for her.
He was hot with panic, the blood rushing to his head. He realized he cared about Jasmine’s disappearance more than Abel’s. She’d been his constant companion for over five years. She was a young bird. He often worried that she might outlive him. Then what would happen to her? All the depressing thoughts he’d ever had about terrible things happening to Jasmine raced through his mind as he searched. He kept looking while he called Hy.
“Jasmine’s missing,” he yelled before she had a chance to say hello.
“What? Impossible.”
“It is possible, because she’s not here, not anywhere.”
“Calm down, Ian.”
“Calm down? Calm down? How can I?”
“I’ll be right over.”
Hy flew out of the house and jumped into her truck. She didn’t usually drive around the village. She walked or cycled, but this was obviously an emergency.
When she reached Ian’s, he was a mess. His hair, what there was of it, was in complete disarray from dragging his fingers through it in despair.
She put a hand on his arm and propelled him from the kitchen while looking around the room to see if the bird was there.
“Let’s go through the house.”
“I’ve been through the house.”
“Let’s go again. You never know.”
“I know. I know. She’s not here.”
“Then where could she be?”
***
“Thirty-two. Thirty-two. That’s amazing.” Ferguson smiled. Taking advantage of the fact that people didn’t lock their doors in The Shores, he’d slipped into Ian’s after he saw his truck speeding down the Island Way toward the causeway. He’d brought a cat cage with a few soda pop cans inside it. Jasmine, bored by Ian’s absence, immediately took the bait. She hopped inside, and he banged the gate closed while she caterwauled, sounding like a dozen cats meowing in anger, pain, and various other emotions.
When he dumped the cage in the back seat of the car, she began to curse.
Ferguson almost drove off the road at one particular outburst of a series of “F” and “C” words, but he steadied himself and got Jasmine safely back to his place. He took her to his den in the barn. There he presented her with three cases of soda pop. Thirty-six. Enough to beat the world record.
She paid no attention at first to the pop cans, because she was transfixed by the fish, floating around in their marine world in the wall. She went beak to nose against several discus that came up to the glass, curious about the bird, thinking her another fish, a species they didn’t know.
Ferguson rattled the cans and drew her attention to them. Jasmine liked the game. That’s why she put up with it. There was never any soda pop at home, never any beer cans, and she did like to pop them open. Even better if they fizzed and spewed liquid everywhere.
But this human was getting too intense, so Jasmine shut down. She tucked her head under her wing, and listened to him beg, ignoring him.
“C’mon, little one. Let’s make it thirty-three. Huh? Huh?”
It might have helped if he’d remembered Jasmine’s name.
***
Ian came bursting through the barn door. Seventy-five cats charged at him, their noses up against the pet screen barrier that kept them inside. The remaining four were unflappable – lying fast asleep in their comfy pillow beds.
“Ferguson.” Ian yelled it out.
The door in the back of the barn creaked open.
“Thirty-two,” said Ferguson, advancing toward Ian. “Thirty-two. Now we just have to get her speed up.” He looked distressed. “It’s taking her far too long.” He looked at his watch. “Four minutes. The record is one.”
Ian marched toward Ferguson down the side of the barn. Behind the screen, the cats followed along with him.
“Where is she?”
“Safe and sound. Trust me.”
The two men stood face-to-face, chests thrust out in combat mode.
“Trust you? Why should I trust you? You’ve made off with my bird.”
“She came willingly.”
Ian knew that was a lie. He loved Jasmine, but he knew her. She didn’t like most people.
“How’d you get her here?”
“In a cat cage.”
Ian groaned. “I hope she gave you a hard time.”
“Oh, no, she was an angel.”
Another lie.
“Come. You’ll see she’s perfectly fine.” Ferguson turned, and Ian followed, wanting to shove him, push him, smack him on the head, do something to relieve his anger. He knew better than to do anything until Jasmine was safely back with him.
Ferguson opened the door. Jasmine flapped her wings and flew straight for Ian, landing on his shoulder and nuzzling his neck. He stared at the massive aquarium. Fish and cats. Weird.
“Thirty-six! She’s done thirty-six.” Ferguson was staring in amazement at the three boxes of soda pop.
“Not in one minute.” Ian nudged Jasmine with his chin, ruffled her neck feathers with a finger. Relieved she was back with him.
“Sadly, no. Time and practice will change that.”
“No, they won’t.” Ian laid a possessive hand on Jasmine. “We have no interest in your world records. Your money-making schemes.”
Ferguson looked genuinely shocked. He loved money, yes. But he was obsessed with breaking records for their own sake.
“This is not about making money. Bird tricks don’t make money.”
“Then why?”
“The honour. The fame. The game. Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”
“You’re lucky that I don’t ask Jamieson to charge you.”
“Charge me with what?” Ferguson smirked. “Birdnapping?”
“Exactly that.” Ian knew that Jamieson would not be happy to take on such a case. Before she came to The Shores, she’d had to solve a robbery of seaweed and another of stolen duck decoys. She woul
dn’t want to add birdnapping to that list.
“Birdnapping – and breaking and entering.”
“Entering, perhaps, but surely not breaking. Your door was unlocked.”
“You’ve been warned.” Ian turned and marched out, the seventy-five cats that weren’t sleeping accompanying him behind the screen to the front of the barn. He continued to clasp Jasmine on his shoulder. She was mimicking the different meows of all the cats beside them. Sounding sarcastic, as she always did when she meowed.
***
She was still doing her cat act when Ian stopped at Hy’s house.
“You were right,” he said. It was Hy who had suggested that Ferguson might have made off with Jasmine. He told her what Ferguson had been up to with the parrot.
“So his diabolical plan has been thwarted.” She poured water into the kettle and turned it on.
“Yes, for now. But I’m worried. He seems so intense about it.”
“You’ll have to start locking your door. Or going everywhere with Jasmine.”
“I guess. I should probably tell Jamieson about it.”
“Maybe you should.”
When they’d finished their tea, Ian drove home, but instead of stopping there, drove to the police house.
He remembered to knock on the door.
“Come in,” Jamieson called.
She was staring at the ducky mugs. One, two, three on her kitchen counter. She had been looking for inspiration. A clue. Something. But the Ducky mugs weren’t giving her anything. Ducky Hear No Evil. Ducky See No Evil. Ducky Speak No Evil. But had evil been done?
Ian told her about Ferguson making off with Jasmine.
Seaweed. Duck decoys. Ducky mugs. And birdnapping. It wasn’t getting better for Jamieson. Sometimes she hoped for a nice clean murder. But murders were never clean.
“I’ll charge him,” she said.
“No, please, I don’t want this to escalate. I’m afraid it will if you do that.”
“But he’s committed a crime. He should face charges. Otherwise, what am I here for?”
“Clearly, to keep the community stable. You’ve been doing a great job.” His words rang hollow. They both knew it wasn’t true. Her full-time presence in the village had not had an impact on the murder rate. It continued, steady as ever. And the number of deaths had increased. The only upside was that few were locals; most were from away.
“At the very least, I’ll issue him a stern warning.”
“Okay. That would be good. I’d appreciate that.”
Jamieson left the police house right after Ian and drove to Ferguson’s. She marched into the barn, disconcerted by sixty-eight cats following her and meowing. The other eleven were napping in their comfy pillow beds.
She rapped on the door of Ferguson’s den.
He opened it and appeared surprised to see her. She was surprised to see the aquarium. Huge. Record-setting?
“Ian Simmons says you stole his bird.”
Ferguson opened his arms, palms upward.
“There are no birds here.” He smiled, indulgent. “Do you think there would be, with so many cats?”
She pointed at the tank. “And the fish? Are they safe?”
He shrugged. “As can be.”
“I have no reason to disbelieve Ian.”
“I’m afraid you both have the wrong end of the stick. I borrowed the bird.” Ferguson still couldn’t remember Jasmine’s name.
“How can you borrow a bird?”
“For a test. A test that could make that bird and Ian Simmons famous.”
“Guinness Book of World Records famous?”
Ian had told Jamieson all about Ferguson’s plan for the parrot.
“Precisely. Who wouldn’t want that?”
“Ian Simmons does not want that. So please leave him and his bird alone. Consider yourself lucky that I don’t charge you. Simmons has asked me to hold off. But if anything like it happens again –”
“Nothing will, I assure you.” His smile was phony. So was the depth of his voice, as he dropped it down a note to add a dash of what he thought was sincerity. “Nothing will.”
Jamieson wasn’t taken in. “It better not.”
***
But Ferguson didn’t have control of the situation. Jasmine had got a taste of the cattery and of the fun of popping tabs on soda cans, and she took off again that evening when Ian left the door open for a moment.
Ian knew exactly where to find her and drove to Ferguson’s in a fury of righteous indignation.
Ferguson shrugged.
“If you can’t control your bird, what am I to do? By the way, she’s at two minutes now.”
Jasmine came home. Ian inspected her beak to be sure there was no damage, and, when he’d finished, she paraded a new assortment of meows for his entertainment. She mimicked each of seventy-two cats to perfection, hearing subtle differences humans didn’t hear coming from the cats themselves, but did hear coming from Jasmine. The other seven were soundless cats, although Jasmine had managed to coax a hiss out of one of them.
Ian could hardly blame Ferguson for Jasmine’s behaviour, only for having encouraged it in the first place. He certainly couldn’t bother Jamieson with it. She had more important matters to deal with – the missing Abel.
***
“Does Abel even exist?” Ian asked Hy, when he stopped by on the way home with Jasmine.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A legitimate one, I think. I’ve never seen him.”
“How do you know?”
“What do you mean? I’ve either seen him or I haven’t. I’m telling you I haven’t.”
“If you haven’t seen him, how would you know? You wouldn’t know what he looked like.”
“That’s convoluted.”
“Still –”
“Okay, let’s say I haven’t…met…him. Have you?”
“I don’t know.”
“How’s that?” Exasperated.
“I met a lot of people when I first came here. A lot of small, bowlegged guys with white hair…and balding. Was Abel one of them? Probably. I think he was more out and about back in those days. I’ve spent a lot of time with Gus, but I’ve never seen him in the house. Closest I’ve come is the ducky cup.”
“Do you think Gus is imagining him?”
The thought had crossed Hy’s mind. Had Abel died – long ago? Was he only missing in Gus’s mind? Was she losing a grip on that razor-sharp mind? Was the sleepwalking episode a sign of it? Could it be Alzheimer’s? She was in her mid-eighties, after all. She couldn’t live – and thrive – forever. Although Hy wished she could – and would.
“That should be easy enough to find out.” Ian stood up. “Check the records.”
Chapter 19
It turned out not to be easy. The village church had burned down fifty years before, and the fire took a hundred and fifty years of records with it. Gus said she’d once had a copy of Abel’s birth certificate that had been required for their marriage. It was a poor piece of evidence, created after the fact, in which the minister attested that Abel had been born in the village thirty-eight or forty years before, on a Sunday in midsummer. Gus couldn’t find that paper now. So there was no record of Abel Mack’s birth. There was no record of an Abel Mack having died in the last ten years in The Shores. Or the last twenty years. Those facts were certainly accurate. Had he died somewhere else? Abel had never been farther than Halifax, Gus said, adding: “…and he allus came back.”
Even April couldn’t call to mind when she’d last had a proper look at him. She just knew her baked goods kept disappearing through her back door as fast as Murdo was consuming them next to the front door. Most of the time she never saw anything clearly, partly because of poor sight, but mainly because of the blur of kids constantly circling ar
ound her. And because Abel was that way. There one minute, gone the next.
The rest of the villagers sang in harmony:
“Last time I saw Abel? Can’t say really. The centenary year…mebbe.”
“Don’t know as I seen Abel in the last twenty years, mebbe longer. Not since he retired from fishin’.”
Decade after decade Abel receded from sight.
Not seeing Abel didn’t mean he wasn’t there. It was status quo.
How it had become so, Hy couldn’t figure out. Was no one curious?
***
Jamieson was. Very curious. There were only a few possibilities. One. Most likely. He was dead. If so, where? It had to be nearby, and they really had looked everywhere. Two. He’d been kidnapped. Highly unlikely. As she thought whenever that possibility came to mind, who’d want him? Three. He was hiding himself for some reason, some reason that Jamieson didn’t know yet but was determined to find out. Some reason that maybe Gus could provide if she prodded.
***
“Did he act unusual in any way before he disappeared, was he thinking about something, was there something he maybe wanted to do?”
Gus looked smug. She’d recovered from the terrifying dream of a few nights before, putting it down to the little “lunch” she’d had before bed. Too much cheese. It helped that Jamieson was now taking Abel’s disappearance seriously. Not dead. Abel was not dead. Just missing.
She knit the last few stitches on the needle, took the yarn in her mouth, and bit it off.
“He was talkin’ about the fish.”
“The fish?”
“The famous fish.”
Jamieson turned at the sound. Hy had slipped into the room, and sat in the rocking chair by the window. With her, the scent of smoke had come into the room. It was on everybody. Noticeable in Gus’s kitchen because she kept it so clean.
“The big cod.” Gus reached over and picked up her copy of Time Was. She flipped past the copyright and acknowledgement pages to the first photograph in the book. She passed it over to Jamieson.
It was that dramatic shot, taken by Elmer Cole, who’d missed his calling. He caught more with his camera than his fishing net. There was Abel, in a twenty-eight-foot dory powered by a one-cylinder engine, struggling to reel in a huge cod.
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