Something Fishy (26 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The one shadow remaining over The Shores was what was going to happen to Jamieson.

The Superintendent had expressed his outrage at Jamieson's behaviour to fan his own self-importance at a detachment meeting. It took less than a day for that confidential information to travel from the meeting in Charlottetown to the front parlours and kitchens of The Shores.

The villagers had become not fond of, but accustomed to, Jamieson. There were a few who, like the Superintendent, were outraged at her sending blank pages instead of reports.

Gus found it endearing.

“Just right,” she said to Hy. “They can mind their business and we'll mind ours.”

Mostly they admired Jamieson's pluck in bucking authority and closing a circle of justice around The Shores. Her justice. Their justice.

Her actions in saving the children from the tower had sealed the villagers' loyalty to her. She wasn't exactly one of their own, but she was one of their own “come from aways.”

Jamieson confided in Hy that the Superintendent was coming back and that she expected to be stripped of her posting. Hy went door to door to remind people how much they had to thank Jamieson for.

The Superintendent had called a meeting at the hall, and invited the whole village. They didn't need to be asked twice.

April had arrived with a small gift she slipped into Jamieson's hands. She had meant to give it at Christmas, but now seemed the right time.

It was the jar of wild strawberry jam. The label read “Jamieson's Jam.”

“The only one of its kind,” April whispered, and was rewarded with a wide smile. Jamieson loved strawberry jam, but would never eat it. It would remain sealed in her pantry, a reminder of the day they very nearly lost the children. If that had happened – the soul would have gone out of The Shores. Its heart would have been broken.

That mattered very, very much to Jamieson, in a way it never had before about any other place. But it was too late. Unless she was very wrong, she was about to be removed from the village.

Murdo, bless him, stood solidly by Jamieson's side, apparently willing to share whatever fate Jamieson met. Little Alice Dewey had slipped up on Jamieson's other side, trying to catch hold of her hand. Jamieson resisted, but then clutched the child's hand like a lifeline. Alice, smothering a Snow White figurine in her other sticky fist, beamed up in admiration at her real-life heroine with the secret identity.

Hy stood on the sidelines, anxiety etched on her face, and Ian stood beside her, a hand of suppo
rt lightly on her shoulder. They liked Jamieson. Whatever the nature of their own topsy-turvy relationship, what happened to her mattered to them.

Gus wasn't there. She was waiting for a Skype call from Antarctica. Anxious moments. Internet connectivity was poor at The Shores. Gus was convinced the network performed better when she had a fresh cup of tea. She'd had quite a few.

The Superintendent stood on the stage, preparing to speak, but he couldn't get a word in, as the villagers rushed to the defence of their Mountie.

“My Wayne would of lost his way without her,” said Mimi Taylor, a new addition to the village from Winterside. “I brought him here to get him away from that bad crowd he was running with. But he got caught up with Jared MacPherson. She – Constable Jamieson – put a stop to that, took him under her wing. He'd been terrorizing the older folks , now he's gentle as a lamb. Wants to be a police officer hisself one day. She beamed at the taciturn Wayne, who, though not a model of good behaviour, had improved considerably under Jamieson's vigilance.

“She saved my Buffy's life,” said Olive MacLean of her six-year-old granddaughter. “She was nearly drownded last summer, but the officer here pulled her out. Musta wrecked her uniform – went in boots and all.”

The Superintendent held up his hand.

“All very fine,” he said. “But that's not what I'm here to talk about.”

Here it comes.
They all thought the same thing.

“I'm here to talk about yesterday.”

The floodgates opened.

A cacophony of cries went up – the villagers all talking at once – about what might have happened to all the children if Jamieson hadn't responded so quickly and bravely when the wind turbine came down.

Parents hugging their children were reliving their fear, expressing their relief, tears in their eyes.

The Superintendent held up his hand, but they didn't respond. A group of teenage boys at the back of the hall began chanting, “We want Jamieson.”

Finally, Jamieson put up her hand, and gradually the crowd calmed down.

The Superintendent cleared his throat a few times to silence them.

“I appreciate what you're trying to do here, but it's unnecessary.”

That's it, they all thought. She's really going to go.

“Constable Jamieson has operated in some…uh…unorthodox ways. But what she did on the cape the other day was nothing short of heroic. I am recommending her for a medal.”

“I am not the one who should receive it,” she protested. “There were many heroes on the cape. Madeline and Billy. Hy, Ian, the children who helped other children…”

Superintendent Constable held up his hand.

“All in good time. Perhaps you'll write a report…a full report, detailing it for me.”

“I will.”

“No blank pages.”

“No blank pages.”

It would be nice to get a medal instead of a pink slip, but the village's acceptance and defence of her was more important. It warmed Jamieson's cold heart and broke the ice around it. It was painful at first, and so, too, was the feeling that surged in and replaced the ice,– such a feeling, warm, full of… joy. Yes, joy. The last time Jamieson had felt real joy was as a child, before the tragedy that had killed her parents.

Maybe saving the children here would go some way towards expiating that guilt. But it would never fully leave her, as April Dewey's sense of guilt about what she had done, though not fatal, would never leave her.

Thump. Thud. Thump.

Something was hitting the metal roof. Hailstones. Not sharp enough to be hailstones.

Everyone crowded to the front door – Jamieson and Constable and Hy and Ian pushing their way through to emerge first.

Snakes.

Live snakes.

Snakes falling from the sky.

To Ian, it looked like the real deal this time.

They looked up. Listened to see if there were an airplane. Nothing but the sound of the snakes, thumping to the ground and slithering away, those that weren't smashed and killed.

There were only two types of snake on the island. None of these were of either species.

There was a stampede of villagers, heading in every direction, mostly into their cars.

Ian pulled out his iPhone and began taking photographs.

“Get control of this, Jamieson. It's your turf.” Superintendent Constable dove for his vehicle. He was sweating in beads. He was terrified of snakes.

“Yes, sir,” she said, as he peeled out, cutting off a couple of other cars, and bringing them to a screeching halt.

Jamieson looked at Hy. She smiled. And winked.

Smiled. And winked. Jamieson.

Hy beamed back.

Jamieson frowned and turned around.

Lester Joudry got his reward for being a good son, visiting his parents. He was there to get the video that would make, and stall, his career. He'd forever be known for the snakes that fell from the sky. Nothing else he would ever do would top it.

Ian kept taking photos until the snakes stopped coming down. Some alive. Some dead. None of them cooked.

It
was
the real deal. Not a publicity stunt.

Not something fishy.

Something else. Truly something else.

Acknowledgements

To Terrilee Bulger, The Acorn Press publisher, with continuing gratitude for her support and encouragement.

To editor Sherie Hodds, who adds many fine polishes to the book, including eliminating repetition. She stops me from saying things twice, whenever I repeat myself.

To copy editor Laurie Brinklow for her precise and

painstaking reading of the manuscript. She finds errors even when there aren't any.

To Matt Reid, maestro of cover art and book design for another great job. I think this is my favourite so far.

To the catlady Margo MacNaughton for her careful and helpful reading in first draft, and to Mary Jollimore, for her fine and delicate suggestions under the influence of an overdose of seafood.