Seven Days Dead (17 page)

Then Ora gazes at her, as though confident that Maddy will answer.

She’s almost forgotten the question. “Oh,” Maddy says, “most likely. I’ll see. I will not be living here, that’s for sure.”

“You’ll go back to your professoring work. Do you think anybody is buying businesses like ours? On this island, like they say, who’s got the money, honey?”

“Maybe I’ll sell to the Irving family. They own ninety percent or whatever of New Brunswick already. Maybe they’d like a little more.”

“They’re so rich, they won’t live here though. If they need a housekeeper, they already have one, I bet. Or two. Or ten!”

“I suppose that’s true.” Maddy’s glad that her tea is about done and the muffin consumed. She was happy for a spot of company, now she’s ready for peace and quiet again.

“So you don’t know the
professors
who live up the hill?”

“Not personally, no.”

“What does that mean, not personally?”

“It means I know of them, one or two I’ve met, but I don’t know them.”

“Oh. Well. Maybe if you meet any while you’re here—I mean, they’ll talk to you before they talk to the likes of me. Only natural. Unless by accident maybe, an
excuse me
if they bump into me at the farmers’ market and nearly knock me down. So if that’s the case you could ask them for me, you know, as a favor for looking after your dad, and I think I did a good job with that, to be honest.”

If she’s finished her pitch, it doesn’t matter, as Maddy’s lost the thread. “I’m sorry, Ora, ask them what?”

“Oh! If I can be their housekeeper. Do you mind? I’m looking for jobs, see?”

Maddy confirms that if she bumps into one or two she’ll be happy to ask the question. She knows that neither situation is likely, bumping into anyone in that group or, if she does, addressing the ambitions of a housekeeper. She keeps that to herself and lets Ora think otherwise.

“Okay, then,” Ora says, and Maddy assumes that she’s on her way out the door. She’s miscalculated. “So, did you learn anything? After what I let you in on yesterday, have you figured anything out at all?”

“What did you let me in on?” She really has no clue.

“Don’t you remember? I told you that our job is to find stuff out, about like what the Mounties are up to. So did you? Find stuff out?”

Taken aback by this turn, Maddy recognizes that she’s being included in the local gossip circle, as a possible source for more. “I think what I know about the whole thing, everybody knows.”

“Yeah. I figured. The Mounties talked to me. I didn’t like the old one from the mainland much. Not because he’s from away, although that, too, but because he’s such a dunderhead, don’t you think? Anyway, he’s left. He’s off the island. Like in that TV show.”

“He’ll be back, I’m sure,” Maddy says.

“Do you think? Ugh. Shit me.”

This time she’s genuinely curious, and not being merely polite when she asks, “Why? What’s the problem?”

“I’m more worried about you than me, of course. Did you like the muffins?”

“They’re fabulous. Why worry about me?”

“Oh, you know, I got an alibi. So I’m okay. But you don’t, not really, right?”

“Why would I need an alibi?”

Ora is surprised by the question, as though perhaps she hasn’t thought of something and that’s why it’s not obvious to her. “You know. Reverend Lescavage was here. Then the next thing, he’s dead. In between, you came here.”

Maddy stares back at her. She realizes that she’s learning something that hadn’t occurred to her before. “Of course, you were here, too, Ora, and so was Reverend Lescavage, then the next thing is, he’s dead.”

“It’s that old one, from the mainland, that’s the cop I don’t like.”

“What’s your alibi, then?” Maddy feels her heart rate tick up a notch. Her palms perspire. She doesn’t need more trouble, and understands that she has no precious alibi to prove her whereabouts. She arrived in a storm, in the dark, while the electricity was out. Anybody seeing her out a window at that hour wouldn’t know who she was. Though she figures, and thinks this through at lightning speed, nobody can accuse her of anything, either, a fresh arrival on the island, whereas this somewhat dippy girl, who really knows what she is up to or what’s going on with her? She definitely had contact with the deceased
before they died.

“Oh, a good one, my alibi. I went over to my boyfriend’s house. He’ll vouch for me for sure. I told them I didn’t think you did it.”

Maddy looks off toward the edge of the carpet, then looks back at her. Her voice is quite low now. “Excuse me?” she says.

“I vouched for you. Sure I did. I said, just because you hated your father and never came to see him the whole time he was sick, that doesn’t mean you had anything to do with it. I told him your father knew he was going to die.”

“Wait. Wait a minute. What do you mean, ‘do with it’? Do with what?”

“Your father. That policeman, the old one, he said it. He said it was a curious thing that a man dies in one house and the only person reported to be with him then gets murdered himself. So he asked about me.”

“About you.”

“Yeah, because I was there, too. Here, I mean, in this house. Like you said. So I gave him my alibi. I was with Petey. Do you know Petey? Petey Briscoe. He remembers you, he says, but maybe he was too young back then for you to remember him. Anyway, he has his own boat now, Petey does. He fishes. So Petey vouches for me and then the dunderhead starts asking what he really wants to ask. I could tell. That bit about me needing an alibi, that was all for show, I think. He really wanted to ask about you.”

“Me,” Maddy says. She feels her blood pooling in her heels.

“Yeah. But don’t sweat it, I vouched for you. I told him it had to be a coincidence. He’s a stubborn old mule, though. He keeps asking his old mule questions. I told him what your father knew and that seemed to satisfy him somehow, get him out of my face anyway.”

“Ora, what do you mean?” Maddy asks. She makes the effort to remain perfectly calm. “What did my father know?”

“Only two things. That’s all. At the end, your old man was sure of only two things in this world. One was, you were on your way home to see him, and the other was, you know, that he was going to die. So that’s what I told the copper. Was that wrong? It helps with your alibi, don’t you think? That you were on your way to see him, and your old man knew it, and he knew that he was going to die.”

Maddy falls still awhile.

Ora bounces up. “Okay! No jobs here! Feel free to let the house go all messy! Don’t do the dishes! Don’t vacuum! Then you’ll have to hire me again! Remember. I don’t come cheap, but I’m worth it!”

Out she goes, and Maddy remains alone and tired on the sofa, contemplating life on this island that she so loves. Why did it always grate against her here, why did life’s capricious and renegade nature always find a way to seek her out for special attention while she was here when all that she really ever wanted—
all
that she ever wanted—was to be left alone?

FIFTEEN

Initially, to Émile’s chagrin, but very much to Sandra’s delight, they discover that once a week the village of North Head is animated by a lively, open-air market. Folks who might otherwise never say boo to one another arrive from every island nook to barter, converse, and frolic. As reluctant as Émile has always been to devote a minute, let alone precious holiday time, to shopping, the atmosphere of the market is enchanting and gathers him into its eclectic fold. Soon he’s indulging a secret pleasure to his heart’s content, as the people watching is terrific. All the better that the milling throngs embody a motley mix of haberdashery, of varied cultures and interests.

Old-timers, now done with their lives at sea, and older women devoted to grandchildren the rest of the week but released to their own joys for a morning, come by. Kids high on the jukebox of colors and talk and indeterminate noise run loose and shove and holler. Scatterings of young women push baby carriages. Other folk—not all, but some in distinctively peculiar dress—who hail from an island hamlet known as Dark Harbour, broker trinkets and knitted clothing and show a propensity for jocularity and sly, ribald chatter amid dour men sharing flasks. And girls flaunt their tresses as various jumbles of both talkative and taciturn adolescent boys check them out while pretending a greater interest in passing cars. They all converge and meld as though swept along by a tidal bore.

Émile discovers a coterie of vagabond seniors, who live modestly, the majority in trailers and vans, who park themselves on the island for the summer and drift to Florida come fall. Snowbirds who are not well-heeled, but they’ve adjusted to their circumstances, having figured out the means to make their wandering pay and enhance their latter years with adventure. They also sell items to the tourists, such as polished walking sticks for the Grand Manan trails, shawls for the cool sea air, bric-a-brac souvenirs, jewelry made from beads, stones, and beach glass for the ladies, and spiffy hats for the men. A former schoolteacher sells potions and a former plumber barters the world’s best glue. Émile buys a walking stick for twenty bucks that he knows costs no more than two bits’ worth of varnish to produce and is happy to do so. He’s charmed by the instrument and also by the spry old guy in his eighties who sells it to him.

All around, voices are merry and the time happily festive.

Émile catches sight of Sandra tucking purchases away in her bag, including foodstuffs and books, knickknacks and clothing accessories. He’s happy that she seems so delighted. If he’s not mistaken, she’s bought fudge, and he’s especially glad about that. The warm sunny day contributes to the mood, but the potpourri of wares, the wild mix of people, a seasoning of sixty-year-old transplanted hippies from another time and weathered local fishermen, perhaps also from another era, market gardeners and craftsmen and tourists from every which place, kids and old folk combined, everyone under the influence of good cheer, puts an exclamation point on the fun of the hour. Sandra sees him noticing her and smiles back.

She hopes that he didn’t see the fudge, a surprise.

“Hello there,” a voice addresses Émile Cinq-Mars. He expects another hawker in his ear when he turns, but the man is not standing behind a stall, and anyway seems too well dressed. An ascot, for starters, with a monocle tucked into the chest pocket of a pinstriped vest. Like him, he’s a buyer, not a seller, or at least someone who’s wandering through, and he’s vaguely familiar. The man issues a reminder. “Yesterday. Car crash. For want of a better word.”

“Right,” Émile recalls. “You drove that poor lady into a ditch.”

The fellow, who’s thin and nearly as tall as Émile, knows instantly that he’s kidding and laughs him off. “My mission in life,” he adds. “Drive anyone not behind the wheel of a Mercedes right off the road. Claim my proprietary rights to all asphalt surfaces.”

“How’d she get on at the hospital?”

“None the worse for wear. Apart from her nasty abrasions. I, meanwhile, was nearly talked into an early grave. Once she gets going, hold on. I hit the martinis pretty hard after I got home. I’m surprised to make it out this morning.” As he speaks, his white eyebrows are animate. Thin to nonexistent on top, his hair gathers in a longish wave at the base of his neck. His narrow visage is rimmed with liver spots. He exhibits an air of good humor, intelligence, and, Cinq-Mars concludes, money. “Sir, I must say that I want to thank you. Yesterday you came along at an opportune moment, as our dispute was at risk of becoming acrimonious. You took charge and found a solution. I was about to lose my cool. I was only trying to help but making a royal botch of it, and the truth is, you did both the lady and me a good turn. As I told my wife, whoever that masked man was, he’s done this sort of thing before.”

“Guilty,” Cinq-Mars admits. “Cop. Retired.”

“Ah! I thank you, for the loan of your expertise, Officer. Professor Jason DeWitt, sir. Pleased to make your acquaintance once again.”

“Émile Cinq-Mars.” At that moment, Sandra comes over, and he adds, “My wife, Sandra, whom you met yesterday.”

The dandy tips his cap and repeats his own name for her. “I have a summer home on the road up to Seven Days Work. You’re visiting?”

Sandra shares where they are staying and he points out that they’re “practically neighbors,” inviting them up for an afternoon cocktail on a day of their own choosing. “It’s the only constant in my life. Late-afternoon drinks overlooking the sea the moment the sun dips below the yardarm. You’ve no doubt heard about our murder. Wretched business. Having a policeman come visit will be reassuring, and informative, I might imagine.”

In other words, Émile interprets, in a manner of speaking he’s being asked to sing for his supper. Or for a drink. He accepts the man’s card and promises to call, although Sandra wants to know, as they move off, “Are we going?”

“House on a cliff, up high. We might. For the view.”

“I’m game if you promise to talk about more than murder.”

“Solemn vow. I am not interested in this island’s body count.”

“You can be induced.”

“My will is nothing if not strong,” he quips.

Returning to their Jeep, Émile takes the bag from Sandra as it has some weight. He tramps along with it over a shoulder while his newly acquired walking stick in his opposite hand stabs the pavement. He’s feeling like an alien in a new land, and enjoying the sensation. At the car, a closer inspection of her merchandise confirms the fudge.

“Émile!” she admonishes. “Get your nose out of there this instant!”

Another purchase though, a secondhand book, instigates his curiosity. “Seriously? You? Numerology?”

“It caught my eye.”

“Hunh.”

“Oh, don’t make a federal case out of it. Something for me to dillydally with over the summer.”

“What federal case?”

She wants him off the subject. “What’s next for our day, Émile? What are you up for?”

He brandishes the polished, curvy walking stick, thick yet light and gnarled with knots. An object of exquisite beauty. “Look at me. Put my boots on and I’m set for a hike.” That’s what lured them to this island, the magnificent walking trails across the cliffs overlooking the sea. “What say you?”