Something Fishy (20 page)

“Will you sew that back on for me, Hyacinth?”

Hy slammed it down on the dresser.

“No, I will not. I don't want to be responsible for such a precious thing.”

Moira returned to admiring herself in the mirror.

“I understand. The quality. You wouldn't want to ruin it.”

“That's not what I meant. Anyway, I think the dress is all wrong. Too tight. Too short.”

Moira looked down. Her stick legs, unshaven, with black hairs around the ankles, stuck out from the bottom of the dress. It cut across her legs at mid-calf. Not flattering on anyone.

“Perhaps we can add a frill…a flounce.” She liked the world flounce. It had vibrancy.

“We could.” Hy's response was slow and unsure. “With what?”

“One of my mother's lace tablecloths. I have quite a few tucked away.”

They went to the linen closet in the hall, Hy bristling with the role Moira had placed her in. She was feeling spiteful in response to Moira's high-handedness.

“You know I can't stop thinking about Elmer,” she said.

Moira's back and shoulders tensed.

“What about Elmer?”

“Well, if he had any beans.”

Moira stopped and turned, eyes wary.

“What beans?”

“The ones you gave him.”

“How do you know – ” She stopped, mid-sentence, realizing she'd been caught.

“Oh, those beans.” Her tone was dismissive, and she turned away again, but Hy caught the truth in her eyes.

“There was nothing wrong with those beans.” Moira pulled the cupboard door open.

“No?” Hy came alongside her. Moira avoided her glance. She pulled open another drawer.

“It's as the doctor said. Heart attack from overstraining. Like the Mayor of Winterside.” The last said as if it were a trump card.

Hy let it go.

“I'm not going to say anything to anyone. I just want you to know that I know.” Moira's hands trembled as she sorted through the layers of material in the drawer. It was real lace, but had yellowed and become brittle, rotting away in the drawer all these years.

“Perhaps make a veil out of the best bits of it…” Hy ventured. Moira looked at her with eyes of stone. That suggestion was going nowhere.

Instead, they went plowing through Moira's linen drawers. From doilies, to antimacassars, to linen napkins, tablecloths, all never used, all wrapped in plastic, all various shades of yellow.

“Here, this will do,” a triumphant Moira carefully slipped a lace tablecloth from its wrapping.

It was yellowed and brittle.

Like the dress.

Yes, thought Hy. It would probably do.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Eeeeeech.”

That may not have been exactly what Hy said, but it sounded like it to Ian. It sounded that way to Jasmine, perched on the top of the tallest bookshelf in the room.

Hy slammed the kitchen door behind her and came into the living room.

“Eeeeeech.” Jasmine tried it out, and liked it.

“Eeeeeech. Eeeeeech. Eeeeeeeech.” She swooped down from her perch and landed on Hy's shoulder. Hy was the only woman that the parrot could stand. She was jealous of any others.

“Eeeeeeech,” Hy and Jasmine said it again in chorus.

“What? What's up?”

“Oh, Moira and this whole wedding thing. She's made me her bridesmaid out of spite.”

Hy fell onto the couch. Ian continued to be absorbed by whatever he had called up on his computer. Hy reached into her bag and pulled out the Book of Bitching. She leaned back and turned on the area light above the couch. She was reading passages over and over, hoping to catch a clue.

“
It is him. This ill-conceived embryo, this discarded child.
”

Hy was sitting upright. This was something. Something. It didn't tell her who he was, but it did tell her that he was here. That meant she was talking about Anton or Newton, as Hy had suspected.

Which one?

“We are gathered here together…”

It was a sunny morning when Moira got married, or tried to. There was a brisk breeze that kept lifting and snapping the bride and bridesmaids' dresses. It gusted so strongly as the minister began to speak that the buttocks of all three women were revealed. It was agreed later, among the men gathered for a beer at Ben's barn because the wedding was dry, that Hy had the best bum. It was the kind of man-talk Ian never engaged in, and he didn't now, except to privately agree.

Whoosh, thwarp. Whoosh, thwarp.

The wind turbine was a huge metronome, marking time to the marriage ceremony. It was a quick Anglican nuptial, ten minutes, start to finish. That's the way the minister liked it. Moira had made two fat gold-trimmed white velvet cushions that Frank and she could kneel on for the prayers.

“
The union of husband and wife in heart, body, and mind is intended by God for their mutual joy.
”

It was a dream come true for Moira, even in her unsuitable dress. She was the first woman to be married on this beach, for once an object of envy, not ridicule, to the young village girls. Who needed Mexico? All you could want was right here.

White surf chased by pale blue water churned onto the shore, its rich golden sand tinged with the red signature colour of the island. The beach was beautiful, more beautiful than the bride. So were her bridesmaids, in spite of Moira's best efforts. No self-respecting bride wants her maids to look better than she. That's why they tend to dress them in purple.

Hy had worked magic with her little-used sewing needle and trimmed their dresses with a cream colour next to their skin. She'd also given the dresses shape. They both looked great. Moira didn't know what had gone wrong.

Newton ran to the tower, as if being chased by the devil himself. He grabbed the first rung, and, with a huge effort hauled himself up. After that it was easier, except that he was shaking and that made his grip less sure. Rung by rung he climbed up, his stomach churning, fear slicing through his brain and heart.

Paradis had begun the climb behind him. Newton looked down. A mistake. Dizzy, he felt dizzy. He looked up. Another mistake. Dizzier. He pushed on, to the very top, Paradis gaining behind him.

To rescue Newton – or to kill him?

It was hard to say.

“Into this holy union Frank Connor and Moira Toombs now come to be joined. If any of you can show just cause why they may not lawfully be married, speak now; or else forever hold your peace.”

“I do. I do. I do.” Jasmine had been to a number of weddings. She didn't usually interrupt. But she sometimes couldn't resist the “I dos.”

The minister scanned the crowd to see who was disturbing the ceremony. Ian had lifted Jasmine off his shoulder and was trying to feed her a carrot to shut her up.

“
Will you have this man to be your husband; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honour and keep him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?
”

Moira looked at Frank, straight in his eyes. She was every inch his height and everyone there knew she wouldn't honour him for long. That she loved him they were willing to accept. They agreed, later, that she looked almost pretty as she said, “I will.”

The minister turned to Frank, who was calculating how long they'd have to stay at the hall before he could finally get this woman into bed. He had to admit that the old way of saving yourself until marriage did whet the appetite. He'd seen the thirty-six buttons on the back of Moira's dress, and he knew Moira well enough that he'd be undoing them, not ripping the dress off. Too bad, he thought. Ripping the dress off would be a much better start to the marriage.

“
Will you have this woman to be your wife; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?
”

Whoosh, thwarp. Whoosh, thwarp. Whoosh. Kraaawk.
Kwaaark. Tic tic tic. Tic tic tic.

Everyone looked up. There was Newton Fanshaw clinging to a blade of the turbine.

Tic tic tic.

The blades stuttered to a halt, then tried to move forward. Stop. Start. Stop. Start.

The minister didn't know what to do except clear his throat and repeat the call for the vow.

“
Will you have this woman to be your wife; to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?
”

Newton let go. His hand rose to plug his nose, as if he'd just jumped off a diving board.

He propelled through the air. His light body seemed to be carried on the wind. The swallows in their nests at the top of the capes flew into the sky, calling out their distress in a nervous twittering. As Newton sailed downward, he began to swim. The breaststroke. Gulls flew around him, barking their confusion at the large flying creature. Jasmine took up their call and they swooped down on her, too, eyeing her with suspicion.

No one thought to run for cover. They were paralyzed in their places. Buffeted by the winds and the birds, it wasn't clear where Newton would land. Except, at the last, when he headed straight for the bridal couple.

Moira and Frank leapt apart. Moira, not quite far enough. Newton snatched at her in a last-minute attempt to stop his fall. He grabbed her shoulder, and the lace ripped right down the front of her mother's dress, some of the fabric coming apart as dust.

Newton landed on the velvet cushions. They flattened and did almost nothing to break his fall.

A cloud of sand rose up and fell on top of him.

“Will. Will,” he said, and lost consciousness.

Those gathered, including the minister, thought he'd said, “I will.” That Newton, not Frank, had married Moira. Shocked looks circled the villagers and planted themselves on Moira, Frank, the minister, and Newton, unconscious and quite likely a newly married man.

There would be no kissing the bride. No party at the hall. No marital night. Nor rights. Frank sneaked a sly hopeful look at Moira, tightened up as tight as she had ever been, arms wrapped around her exposed body, tears filling her eyes, black streaks of mascara, which she never wore, running down her cheeks and making her look quite ghoulish. A bit like
Miss Havisham.

No. No marital rights.

Frank thought Moira looked quite fetching with her dress split in two, wearing a lovely camisole Hy had convinced her to buy. But he did what he had to – putting his jacket around her shoulders, as she wept over the destruction of her mother's dress, the family heirloom.

“Nathan? Where is Nathan?” Jamieson wasn't a guest at the wedding, but, as part of her program of community policing, was checking in on the event. She'd arrived in time to see Newton sprawled on the ground, saying, “I will.” She screwed up her face, puzzled. Wasn't Frank the groom? Had there been a fight over Moira at the last minute? A fight over Moira? She shook her head. She'd have to get to the bottom of this. She jostled through the crowd, fighting down her panic at touching so many strangers.

“Disperse,” she ordered, and knelt down beside Newton.

Nobody moved. They didn't know what she meant.

“Go. Go.” The second time she said it with more force than the first, impatience shooting out of her and sending the villagers scurrying off – all but Hy and Ian, the minister, Frank and Moira.

Moira was crying. Big heaving sobs. Moira crying. It came to each one separately, but it was only Frank who wasn't surprised.

“What happened here? Where's Nathan?”

Which question to answer first? They all looked up.

On the platform at the top of the turbine stood Anton Paradis, scowling down.

Newton hadn't broken every bone in his body, but nearly, and, most importantly, his neck. He was on intravenous, a respirator, and in a full body cast when Jamieson went to question him in hospital.

There wasn't much point. Newton's jaw was wired shut and he couldn't talk – at least not to be understood.

Jamieson worked out a system of shutting his eyes once for “yes,” twice for “no.” His random twitching made the blinking confusing.

“Why did you climb the turbine?”

Newton responded by opening his eyes wide.

Stupid question. No, not really. She'd been trained to ask questions that couldn't be answered by a simple yes or no. Except for crucial ones, like “
Did you kill her?
”

That wasn't the situation now, but there was one yes-no question she could ask.

“Were you trying to kill yourself?” Stupid question, too, because of course he had been.

Newton had shut his eyes once. That meant yes.

Then he shut them again.

That meant no.

If he weren't trying to kill himself, maybe someone had been trying to kill him. Anton – who'd scaled the tower behind him?

Anton Paradis was quite certain that Newton had been trying to kill himself. That's what he told Jamieson, the reason he'd been climbing the tower after Newton.

“He was crazy to go up there in that wind. I was certain he was going to jump.”

“Certain?” Jamieson's tone was woven with doubt.

“Well, he did, didn't he?”

“Maybe that was your fault.”

“My fault? My fault?”

“Perhaps he thought you were pursuing him. Were you?”

“Of course not.”

“I don't see where the ‘of course' comes in. You were climbing the tower behind him.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I thought he might be going to do something foolish.”

“Like killing himself?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

There was the slightest hesitation, the tiniest of pauses, the sort of thing that Jamieson was good at observing.

“Sure,” he said.

She made a note. Hesitation didn't mean guilt, but it meant something. That something could turn out to be guilt.