Misery Bay: A Mystery (5 page)

“I can probably navigate her back to port,” Garrett said quietly, “if you follow behind in case I have any trouble.” He thought about Tuttle’s comment that he’d be able to spend more time on his boat in his new job.

This wasn’t the sort of recreational boating he’d had in mind for his retirement.

6

B
ALES OF MARIJUANA WERE ONE
thing. The bodies of four young girls were another altogether. The media had a field day. There was no way to keep something like this under wraps.

Deputy Commissioner Tuttle was on the phone to Garrett half a dozen times in twenty-four hours. “I said get a handle on things, Garrett. Not start a bloody damned war! Reporters want to know your role in this, whether you’re representing a police presence on the Eastern shore or just happened to be in the old hometown. What the hell’s going on?”

“You know as much as I do,” said Garrett. “I’ve only been here for two days. Haven’t even seen my house yet, but I sure want to thank you for easing my way into retirement.”

There was silence on the line. Then Tuttle’s tone changed. “Look, I’m not throwing you to the wolves, okay? We’re going to investigate the hell out of this—see if we can find out which of the services might have been expecting some new blood. The public is up in arms. It takes things to a new level when these lowlifes start executing little girls.”

“Yeah, right. They don’t mind that little girls are raped by filthy old men on a regular basis.
That’s
just business.”

“Maybe you
have
been working this sort of thing too long,” said Tuttle. “You’re not going to change human nature, you know that. All we can do is hold the line.” He paused. “You got anything on that fishing boat yet?”

“The registration number on her bow was false, of course. We’re trying to track down the serial numbers on the engine. She must have slipped outside the legal limit and retrieved her human cargo from a freighter offshore. Next step was to offload the girls to a smaller boat that could dock at any of several hundred wharves along the Eastern shore between Halifax and Canso. It’s a needle in a haystack. We’ll have autopsies by day after tomorrow, and the fingerprints have been sent to CPIC, for all the good that will do.”

CPIC was the Canadian Police Information Center, a computerized index of criminal justice information. The US equivalent was NCIC, the FBI’s National Crime Information Center.

Tuttle just grunted. Young girls of thirteen or fourteen, from mainland China or maybe Thailand originally, had almost certainly never been fingerprinted in their brief, tortured lives. Another dead end.

“Just let me know if you find anything I can feed these blood-sucking reporters.”

Tuttle signed off and Garrett headed to his car. He hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours. His head felt like the inside of a trash compactor.

He headed down the coast road and turned into Misery Bay. A few minutes later, he was bumping slowly up the hummocky lane to the old Barkhouse homestead. The house was set in a meadow filled with wildflowers and surrounded by tall spruce.

Despite the traumatic events of the day, a kind of peace settled over his shoulders. There was a lot of family history in this place. It was good to be home.

As Roland had promised, the old house listed even farther into the meadow than he remembered. The building consisted of two steep-sided roofs connected by a low passageway. The passage had been the source of most of the leaks over the years. He could see where Roland had put on new tar paper. Despite his arthritis and limp, which would seem to limit his movement, the fisherman remained a damned good carpenter. The job was well done, and the inside was dry and relatively clean for a place that had been boarded up for years.

He carried his belongings into the downstairs bedroom and spread out his sleeping bag on the aging spring mattress. It would have to do until he could find time to replace the bed and get proper bedding. Despite his near exhaustion, sleep was slow to come. The face of the girl who had died in his arms danced before him when he closed his eyes. A pretty girl, only a child. It took a long time for the
why?
to drift away.

When he woke, he had slept through the evening and into early morning. In contrast to Halifax, where a hundred sounds threatened to wake him, the quiet of the sleepy meadow in the deep spruce was like a narcotic.

He lay in bed, gradually becoming aware of what could only be described as a gnawing sound. Then he caught movement and watched as a gopher poked its head out from an opening in an old wall panel.

“Well, hello. Nice to have company. Even yours.”

His foot ached. He would never get over the strangeness of an ache in a part of his body that no longer existed. Phantom pain. The tiny, almost electrical spasms he felt were a signal that the foot was acting up. He took three Advil to get ahead of the pain, then attached a fully charged lithium-ion battery to his new foot and inserted it into its prosthetic socket. Good to go for another thirty hours.

He puttered around, cleaning the little kitchen, as the phantom ache slowly dissipated. He started a fire in the wood cookstove and primed the pump. The water that issued forth was clear and tasted like nectar. It came from the nearby tarn out on the bog and always had a slight bogweed flavor. It was a flavor he’d grown up with, like the wonderful, tangy bakeapple berries that grew on the bog.

With coffee and a bagel brought from Halifax—two days old now but still better than anything he could buy locally—he sat on the little deck off the kitchen and stared at the wildflowers dotting the meadow. The birds chattered noisily as the sun grew higher. A whiskey jack landed in the lilac bush a few feet away and begged some crumbs. The bird squawked suddenly and flew away.

“Sorry.” Sarah walked into the opening in front of the house. “Your friend didn’t like my arrival.”

She held a walking stick in one hand and had on a green flannel shirt tucked into loose-fitting jeans. Her straw hat was perched at an angle, and she carried a plastic bag in her free hand.

“Scones,” she said, gesturing with the bag. “I’ll trade you for some coffee.”

“You’re on.” He stood, suddenly aware that he was only wearing shorts. Sarah looked at his foot, real interest in her eyes.

“Wow, that’s pretty elaborate, isn’t it?”

“The original bionic man.” He flexed his titanium heel and headed inside, returning in a moment with a steaming mug.

They sat side by side on the porch, sipping and nibbling at the scones.

“I heard about what happened,” she said quietly. “It must have been horrible to find those poor girls. It’s so remote and peaceful here … hard to believe such awful things go on behind the scenes.”

“I didn’t sleep too well. Kept seeing them, you know, especially the one who was alive for a few moments.” He stared out at the woods. “My boss says I’ve been doing this too long.”

She touched his knee lightly. “Maybe he’s right, Garrett. If it interferes with your sleep, it might be time to think about doing something else.”

“I want to sometimes. It’s why I decided to retire. But then I think there aren’t many who have as much experience at this as I do. I’ve dealt with prostitution most of my career. I can stop some of it; maybe help a few of these poor girls. And if I don’t, who will?”

“What’s going to happen?”

“It’ll be a pretty big investigation. I’ll have to go to Halifax for some of it. I’m not sure how much yet.” The whiskey jack returned to its perch. Garrett broke off a piece of scone and threw it on the ground, where the bird eyed it suspiciously. “In the meantime, I have other things to do. Thought I’d make a visit to Ecum Secum this morning.”

“Multi-tasking Mountie, huh?”

He smiled. “Guess I’m it for law enforcement around here, or will be once the hubbub surrounding the killing of those girls dies down.” He thought fleetingly of Roland and the Ar-teests. One more thing to deal with.

“Like some company?”

“I’m … uh … not supposed to take civilians along on an investigation.”

She tilted her head at him. “I used to do this stuff with my husband, Garrett. I know when to get out of the way. I could be helpful. I know my way around here better than you do. You’re half a decade out of date. Besides, I know some of the troublemakers at Ecum Secum.”

“Fact is, I knew the scene up there pretty well in my former life,” he said.

She cocked an eyebrow.

“It was essentially a commune,” he began, but then was saved by the sound of an ATV growling its way up the lane. The smelly beast roared into the opening in front of the house. Its rider stared at them and then killed the engine. Before he dismounted, Garrett was on his feet.

“Keith! Good to see you!”

His neighbor had red hair, a bit of a pot belly, and was pushing seventy. He grinned at them. “Heard you were back,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you too, Sarah. More troubles with our new artist’s commune?”

She grimaced, but couldn’t help smiling at Keith. “It’s hardly a commune. Just three people who want to be left alone. It appears all troubles lead to our trusty Mountie’s door.”

Keith shook Garrett’s hand and sat on the edge of the porch. “You really going to live here?” he asked, shaking his head. “Your outhouse is probably more waterproof—or at least it was till Old Man Publicover went to war on it.”

Garrett looked puzzled and Sarah laughed.

“It was the highlight of last hunting season,” she said. “Harold Publicover took to coming up here and sitting in the outhouse with the door open. He said it was a good place to look for deer up the meadow, and he couldn’t walk very far. Well, one evening he didn’t come home for dinner and his … current … wife, Etty, phoned around and then got several of us to go looking for him. We ended up here and found him. He’d fallen through the outhouse floor and gotten stuck. Couldn’t move a muscle from the waist down. Took all six of us to pull him free.”

“Good Lord!” Garrett said, barely stifling a laugh. “Was he hurt?”

“Only his pride,” said Keith. “And he said the best buck he’d seen in ten years came right up and stared at him through the open door and all he could do was stare back.”

“Don’t think I know Harold’s current wife,” said Garrett. “What’s that? Number three?”

“You’re way out of date,” said Keith. “Etty is number five. Old Harold’s pretty well fixed, and he’s looked like he’s had one foot in the grave for twenty years. All the old ladies on the Eastern shore have been playing musical chairs, vying to be the one he’s married to when he finally kicks the bucket, so’s they can inherit. But he keeps outliving them.”

Keith segued seamlessly into one of his patented soliloquies. He was the self-appointed cove historian. An amateur genealogist, he knew the lives and histories of everyone for twenty miles in either direction on the cove road, as well as most of the nautical history, coastal tramps, fishing lore, and shipwrecks. Keith knew it all.

“Roland’s brother said he was going to come up and fill in the hole so no one else got hurt. But Jennifer, his wife, told him to stay clear, it wasn’t his business. She’s from over Smith’s Cove way, you know. Her dad and I went to school together. He married a Heemer down to Marie Joseph and they’re a tough lot.”

“A Heemer?” Sarah asked.

It was Garrett’s turn to smile. “That’s not the real family name, but it describes everyone who comes from Smith’s Cove. Had to do with a brawl that occurred there years ago. Two guys from Halifax went into the wrong bar and insulted one of the locals. The local punched one of the outsiders a couple of times and then when he fell down, one of the other locals yelled to his friend, ‘Don’t hit heem, keek heem,’ and damned if he didn’t. They’ve been called Heemers ever since.”

“Like I was saying,” Keith went on as though no one had interrupted him. “Roland’s brother’s wife’s father worked in the crab factory ’til he accidentally sliced off his thumb. Got a good settlement from the company and opened a gr’aage. Never was worth a damn to change a tire with only four fingers though. He hired Riley Vogler to do most of the work. Riley’s family owned five hundred acres behind Roland’s house, stretching back to Barcomb’s Head. Roland had set his eye on the land—mostly bog. Said he was going to turn it into an international golf course like St. Andrews in Scotland and make a fortune. He had an idea how the tourists would flock in to stay at the fancy inn he was going to build, so’s they could hit golf balls across the headlands and over the tarns. Darnedest thing you could imagine, golfers chasing tiny white balls through the fog in gum boots and rain slickers.”

Garrett stared at him in amazement. “I never heard about it. So that’s why Roland spent so much time on borderlines and tax maps. I never could understand why he was always arguing about who actually owned what on the bogs. Never made a lick of sense to me.”

Keith nodded. “He wanted to nail down the property, thought it was his ticket to fame and fortune. When Riley’s father sold out to a developer without telling anyone, I thought Roland would have a stroke, he was so upset. His dreams of presidents and prime ministers playing golf in his backyard went down the drain.”

“That’s pretty unbelievable,” said Sarah. “But it just might explain his attitude toward his neighbors. Before Riley sold the land, Ingrid bought up several lots in order to protect them from further development. Roland was probably afraid that would undermine his scheme.”

Garrett glanced at his watch and then at Sarah. “Look, I’m going up to Ecum Secum. Keith, will you keep Sarah company for a while till I get back?” He raised a hand as Sarah started to say something. “Maybe you can help me, okay? Just let me make this first contact on my own. Then we’ll see.”

She stared at him for a moment, trying to determine if she was getting the brushoff. Then she shrugged. “All right.”

7

E
CUM SECUM CONSISTED OF HALF
a dozen home-built cabins spread over ten hilly acres where the group grew organic vegetables for sale at farmers’ markets around the province. At least that was the way it was twenty years ago, the last time the place came on Garrett’s radar screen.