by Louise Clark
“Sea lice harm the wild salmon,” Roy said.
“That’s why we supply the antibiotics,” the man said impatiently.
Another car pulled into the parking lot. Sheila didn’t notice, but Christy did. She shifted so the cat could see the lot as well.
Woodgate’s here. Finally.
That would get the message to everyone but Sheila, Quinn, Greg, and Patterson. And, probably, the fish farm man. She shot Quinn a glance and jerked her head in the direction of the parking lot. He looked over and gave her a subtle nod. Patterson was quick. She caught the interplay and raised her brows. She too gave Christy a faint nod.
“I’m not here to talk about sea lice,” Sheila said, providing no indication she was aware of another arrival. She looked at Quinn. “I thought you wanted to interview me about my family and what this land means to the community.”
“I do,” Quinn said. He nodded at Christy, then smiled at Sheila as he pulled out his recorder. “Let’s go over there, where there’s not as many distractions.”
“Hey!” said the Progressive man. “This is private property. What did I tell you?”
Sheila frowned. “I thought there was going to be a demonstration. How can there be a demonstration on private property?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Trevor said. “I need to get the property lines from you so guys like him,” he pointed upward, “can’t stop us.”
Roy nodded agreement. “Right on, man.”
Sheila’s gaze darted from Trevor to the fish farm worker and back to Roy. “Can’t you get the property information from town records?”
Trevor shook his head. “That mayor—what’s his name? Kelloway?—was no help. He told his people he thought the city should stay neutral.”
Woodgate stomped up to the group. “What’s going on here? Who is this man?”
“A representative of Progressive Fish Farms Worldwide,” Patterson said, giving Woodgate a long look.
“He doesn’t want us to demonstrate,” Roy said, deliberately provocative, Christy thought, and enjoying himself.
“No, I don’t,” the man said. He was sticking to his spot on the walkway, perhaps enjoying the dominance his height above the rest gave. “Who are you?”
“I’m Inspector Woodgate of the Scotsman’s Bay Police Detachment.” He flashed his credentials. “A permit has been issued for a demonstration at this site, this weekend. I’m here to scope out the area and figure out where best to place my men.”
“Inspector Woodgate, I’m Trevor McCullagh of McCullagh, McCullagh and Walker. I’m here on behalf of the committee organizing the demonstration. We want to make sure we have the greatest impact without breaching any laws.” He held out his hand. The inspector shook it. Neither gave any indication that they’d been on opposite sides of the interrogation table the day before.
After shaking hands, Woodgate and Trevor moved away. Christy could see Trevor talking quickly and earnestly to the frowning inspector. From time-to-time Woodgate glanced over at the group by the fish tank. He didn’t look happy.
“Why don’t we go over there to talk?” Quinn said to Sheila. He pointed toward the parking lot, not far from where Trevor had taken Woodgate.
“Still our property,” the fish farm man said. He had his hands on his hips now, a monarch of all he surveyed.
Christy cast a desperate look at Ellen, who shrugged. Christy looked down at the cat, then over at the tank. “You need to distract him, Frank,” she muttered.
The cat stared at her with wide green eyes, then began to wiggle. Christy put him down on the ground, deliberately loosening her hold on the leash. The cat bolted.
As he headed for the stairs, Ellen said, “That cat,” and shook her head.
Christy gave a little shriek and reached for the leash, now tailing on the ground, but somehow managed to miss it. As she hoped, the attention of the Progressive worker switched from Quinn and Sheila to Christy’s antics with the cat.
“Hey, lady! He can’t come up here.”
“I’m trying to stop him!” Christy cried. “But I need help.”
“You there.” Roy pointed upward. “You guard the top of the stairs. He’s a tricky little devil. He’ll do his best to get past you.”
Stormy reached the stairs and charged up. This is like a major football play in the last seconds of the game and I’m the running back who’s trying to catch the ball to score the touchdown. Awesome! Just try to stop me, you big lout!
Christy glanced back at Ellen, who raised her brows, then she ran after the cat. On the walkway, the Progressive Fish Farms man had his back to the rest of the property, completely focused on the cat. Stormy reached the top of the stairs and the man made a grab, but the cat slipped between his legs. He caught the leash, though, raising the end up triumphantly. As Christy reached the top of the stairs Stormy wove through the man’s legs, trailing the leash behind him. It tangled around the fellow’s ankles and when he bent down to seize the cat, he overbalanced and started to totter.
“Watch out!” Christy shouted.
Stormy kept moving. The leash tightened and the man windmilled his arms, trying to regain his balance, but it was a futile effort.
Moments later, he toppled into the water, taking the cat with him.
Chapter 27
As Quinn ushered Sheila past Woodgate and Trevor, he heard Woodgate say in an irritable tone, “Who’s the idiot talking about football?” and he saw Trevor’s eyes widen and his mouth open as if in surprise. The cat, he thought, was at it again.
“Football?” Sheila Bunch said. “Why would anyone be talking about football?”
“Maybe someone loves the Lions,” he said, indicating that he and Sheila should stop a little way from Woodgate and Trevor.
“The Lions?”
Clearly, Sheila Bunch wasn’t a fan of Canadian football. As he set up the recorder, Quinn smiled in a friendly way and helped her out. “The BC Lions, Vancouver’s football team.”
“Oh,” she said. “I see.”
He played their exchange back, fiddled with the sound nobs, then nodded. “Okay, we’re ready.” He introduced himself and Sheila, gave a brief description of Loyal Scotsman’s Bay and why they were there, then he said, “Why don’t you tell me about your family, Mrs. Bunch? I believe this bay we are on was named after one of your ancestors?”
She nodded, realized her audience wouldn’t be able to hear a nod, then said “Yes, it was. His name was Angus MacRonan and he was one of the first settlers in the area, an immigrant from Scotland. His property stretched from one side of the bay to the other, then back toward the only road.” She went on to explain he’d been a community-minded man who had participated in local government as well as being smart and capable in managing his land. He’d prospered and become socially prominent as well. “He didn’t call the bay Loyal Scotsman, but others did. It was a tribute to him and all he had done for the area,” she concluded.
Quinn had positioned them so her back was toward Woodgate and Trevor, while his viewpoint took in both men and the action at the fish pen as well.
At the fish tank, Christy had dropped flat on the walkway as the Progressive worker went in the water, pulling Stormy in with him. She’d managed to grab the cat’s harness and unclip the leash before the man’s weight pulled Stormy under. Woodgate and Trevor had paused to watch the action, which meant Quinn was able to let Sheila ramble on about her ancestor and hopefully relax her guard.
“Your family stayed prominent in the area?” he asked, as the fish farm man tried to haul himself out of the water with Christy’s help. Somehow, he couldn’t quite scramble up onto the walkway.
“Yes,” Sheila said. “My father was mayor of the city before it was amalgamated into the regional district. My mother was head of the local school board. Our camping and outdoor stores were the place where tourists and local people came for supplies and equipment.”
His father had joined Christy on top of the walkway to help. Or at least that was what
he seemed to be doing. The fish farm worker was still in the water. Woodgate was now shaking his head. Trevor was grinning. Ellen was watching the action, while Patterson and Greg only pretended to watch it. Instead, they glanced from the fish tank to the parking lot. Patterson was probably wondering if Sheila was spilling her guts yet, and worrying she was missing something.
Quinn smiled encouragingly at Sheila and asked the next question on his list. “Was your father still mayor at the time of your son’s accident?”
As she talked, Sheila had started to relax, her answers becoming more expansive. They were closing in on intent and motive now and he wanted to keep her inside her head, remembering, feeling, willing to tell him all he wanted to know.
At mention of the accident, Sheila sighed and her mouth turned down. Sadness filled her voice. “He and Mom were retired by then. I was an only child. The day Corey was born, my dad sold the family’s outfitting stores to a company that ran a chain of hardware stores from Nanaimo.” Her mouth contorted into a sour twist. “He didn’t think a woman could or should run an organization like his and try to raise a family too. Although he no longer owned them, he continued to manage the stores until he retired.” She shrugged. “It was very lucrative for him.”
Bitterness was there in Sheila’s tone and in the careless lift and fall of her shoulders. Quinn wanted to let it simmer and build. “You had a warm relationship your son, though, correct?”
Her eyes lit up and she smiled. “Corey was everything to me. He was a happy child, full of energy and life and so, so smart. He always did well in school. His grades were at the top of the class.” The smile sagged. “That was fine when he was little. None of the other children cared. But later, in high school, it was harder for him to fit in. The teachers always praised him and all the other kids knew he was a top student. And of course, he was a Bunch—the Bunches were also prominent in the area—but he was the last of the MacRonans. That gave him prominence too.” She pursed her mouth, suppressing anger. “Teenagers can be so judgmental.”
“He wanted to fit in,” Quinn said gently. He noticed the fish farm man had finally scrambled out of the water with the help of Christy and his dad, and that Christy had the very wet cat safely in her arms. He could see that Woodgate was now showing more interest in Sheila Bunch’s story.
Sheila nodded. The expression in her eyes was bleak. “That was why he went to the Falls that day. Shane Higginson invited him. Shane was on the football team, the quarterback, no less. If you were a friend of Shane Higginson’s, you were an important person in the school. Corey desperately wanted to be part of Shane’s crowd. I knew Shane and his friends went there to jump off the cliff into the pool below the Falls and I didn’t like the idea of Corey going. He promised me he was going just to be there with the rest. That he wouldn’t jump.” Her eyes clouded with unshed tears. “He was afraid of heights. I didn’t want him to go, and I tried to convince him not to, but in the end it was no use.”
When she stopped speaking, Quinn pushed gently. “He broke his back.”
She sighed. “Yes. It changed his whole life.”
“And yours.”
She shrugged. “He needed me, now more than ever. You have to understand, Mr. Armstrong. Before his accident, Corey had a bright future. His teachers believed he would receive scholarships to all the best universities. He’d have his pick of career options. He would have been as successful as Adam Farnsworth or Norman Laing if he’d chosen to go into academia. As for Shane Higginson? Well, Corey would have surpassed him easily if he’d become a businessman.”
The interview was going well. Sheila was opening up, delving deep into emotions that had festered until they’d poisoned her viewpoint irrevocably. He pushed a little harder. “Corey was bitter about what he’d lost.”
“No! Yes. Sort of. He knew what could never be, of course, but that wasn’t the worst of it. His injuries made living a struggle. I did everything I could to provide him with the best treatment he could have, even if it wasn’t covered under healthcare, and I know he appreciated it, but he lived in the moment. The only time he regretted not having a future, or a career, was when his friends came to visit.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Quinn stole a look at Woodgate to ensure he was paying attention. He was. “Friends? Like Shane Higginson and Adam Farnsworth?”
Sheila nodded, then realized she needed to answer fully when Quinn pointed to the recorder. She said, “Yes, and once in a while, Norman Laing. Shane visited often. He liked to brag about how successful he’d become. Stupid man, always talking about how lucky his company was to have him.” Her mouth hardened. “He made Corey laugh, every time. For days afterwards, all my son could talk about was Shane this and Shane that. It was the same with Adam Farnsworth, and Norm Laing when he showed up. It was as if they were more important to him than I was.”
She clenched her jaw and pursed her lips, temper and not a little maternal jealousy, in her expression.
Time to prod her in the right direction, Quinn thought. “Isn’t that natural? Kids grow up, leave their parents behind.”
Sheila’s eyes blazed. “Shane Higginson and Norman Laing were the ones who crippled Corey and destroyed his future!”
“But…”
“They goaded him that day. Called him a coward when he didn’t want to jump. Made him feel small and inferior, so he dove in, instead of jumping. If he’d jumped—” Her voice caught. “He’d probably have broken his leg, not his neck. But he had to prove himself. Show them he was better, more daring than any of them. He dove in and he broke his neck! And it was all their fault!”
“Shane Higginson and Norman Laing.”
“Yes! The two of them, Shane and Norm, they took his life away from him and then they came back and pretended to be his friends. They made him laugh when I couldn’t! They made him happy in a way I could not. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.”
There was anguish in every one of her words, but with a shiver of revulsion, Quinn realized there was venom too, generated, he supposed, by all she’d given up, that went unacknowledged throughout the long years of sacrifice.
She was on the edge now, venting to a sympathetic audience, admitting more than she should. Time to push a little harder. “You sold this land here at Loyal Scotsman’s Bay to Shane Higginson and Progressive Fish Farms Worldwide. Why?”
“I told you! Corey needed special care, more than was covered by healthcare. Looking after him required almost all my time. I had a part-time job, but it was just a few hours a week. While my husband was alive we had enough to live comfortably. But he passed eight years ago. Brain cancer that was only diagnosed weeks before he died.” She spat out the words as if the late Mr. Bunch had somehow failed her by succumbing to the disease. She shrugged. “We had his pension, of course, but it was nowhere near his salary. It put food on the table, but that was it. Gradually, over the years, I spent all the money my parents left me when they died. All that was left was this land.” Her hand clenched. “Corey was failing. Life was even harder than before for him. I needed the money to provide him with experimental treatments that weren’t covered by insurance. The land was all I had.”
“You knew Higginson and Progressive Fish Farms wanted to put an open net fish farm out in the bay, using this land for the facilities.”
“Yes!” She stopped, drew a deep breath. Raising her hands in a plea for understanding, she said, “What could I do? I needed the money. For Corey.”
She had loved her son and in her mind his needs excused anything.
“Would Corey have approved of a fish farm out in the bay that was named for his ancestor?” The question wasn’t on the list he’d given her yesterday and it threw her off balance.
She sucked in her breath, then erupted. “No! But that bastard, Shane, he told Corey what a great project the fish farm was. How it would bring jobs into the community. How he and Norm Laing had solved all the problems the environmentalists had with fish farms. It didn’t matter that I want
ed to put a resort on the property. The fish farm was more important. Corey bought it. All of it. He was a horrible person.”
Quinn could see that Woodgate was now listening intently. “Who, Mrs. Bunch? Who was a horrible person?”
“Shane Higginson, of course. He was mean, nasty, manipulative. I hated him. Do you hear? Hated him! But Corey loved him!” Her voice broke. “And then Corey died. My beautiful, brave, brilliant son. He was gone and I was alone.”
Her grief reached out to Quinn, sucking him in. There was sympathy in his voice when he said, “But you had your memories.”
“Memories!” Her eyes kindled. “Memories of his life destroyed. Memories of his so-called friends taunting me with their power over him.”
Her emotions were flowing hot. Anger, despair, outrage, and jealousy all merged together into a toxic brew that poured out of her and into Quinn. He felt as if he was somehow responsible for the anguish that had been her life. He fought to keep his journalistic impartiality and succeeded, at least on the surface. “After Corey was gone and you were alone, you had nothing left, isn’t that right, Mrs. Bunch?”
The maelstrom of emotion loosened her tongue and had her saying exactly what she shouldn’t. “You’re wrong. There was something left. There was revenge.” She spat out the words, almost quivering as she spoke. “I didn’t have to worry about how Corey would fret if Shane missed one of his regular monthly visits. How he’d wonder if Shane was hurt or worse, if he was getting tired of being his friend. It didn’t matter if Shane never came back. I could do what I wanted. I finally could avenge Corey.”
“What did you do, Mrs. Bunch,” Quinn asked. He knew what she would say, but still, he waited tensely for her answer.
“I killed him.” Her voice was ragged. “I killed Shane Higginson.” She raised her chin and looked Quinn square in the eyes. “And I don’t regret it for a moment.”
He’d seen that look before, in extremists whose passion for their cause made every choice a necessity, every decision legitimate. She’d gone from a loving mother tending her child, to an instrument of revenge. She’d kept her plans secret so no one could stop her, and when the time came she hadn’t hesitated. She’d killed, not just one man, but two.