Mind Over Mussels Read online

  Hilary MacLeod

  The Acorn Press

  Charlottetown

  2011

  Mind Over Mussels © 2011 by Hilary MacLeod

  ISBN 978-1-894838-68-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency.

  P.O. Box 22024

  Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island

  C1A 9J2

  acornpresscanada.com

  Editing by Sherie Hodds

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  MacLeod, Hilary

  Mind over mussels : a Shores mystery / Hilary MacLeod.

  ISBN 978-1-894838-68-9

  I. Title.

  PS8625.L4555M56 2011 C813’.6 C2011-904774-8

  The publisher acknowledges the support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund of the Department of Canadian Heritage and the Canada Council for the Arts Block Grant Program.

  With deep affection to Glenn Murphy of Sea View, born Glenn Campbell of Irishtown, 1915 – 2011. Glenn inspired my love of Prince Edward Island, its people, and its stories, which she told so well herself.

  “It’s the human condition that keeps us apart: Everybody’s got a story that could break your heart.”

  – Amanda Marshall

  Prologue

  The cold blade of the axe sliced through the air.

  The skull cracked. Human blood splattered on the fox’s lips. She licked them and the taste flooded her small brain.

  She was witness to a brutal murder, but she would never testify in court. Not just because she was a fox, but because she was confused, blood lust singing through her. She couldn’t say what happened when. The humans. The axe. The brains, spilling on the sand. Had she seen the killer? Could she point to him…her?

  No. She couldn’t smell the difference between humans, except whether they were male or female. There had been both. She sniffed the air. As long as the creature was dead, what harm in tasting? For a long time, she didn’t move while she debated.

  She shrank back when the human came down onto the sand where the blood was. Had the person been there before? Before the blood? She couldn’t remember anything before the blood.

  An unreliable witness, your honour.

  She crouched in the deep shadow, eyes fixed on the axe. She’d seen it kill.

  The human went back up the cape. The fox relaxed, then froze at the scent of another one on the breeze, squatting down over the body. Grooming? Or preparing to eat? Did humans eat each other? The vixen wasn’t sure.

  The human left. The fox pulled herself erect, and then hunched down again.

  Another one.

  She slipped into the night. Too many of them. Too much trouble for blood gone cold and stale. A dead man’s blood.

  But he wasn’t dead, not quite. As his blood spilled out on the sand, so did his spirit. His mind was fluid, his essence flowing out of his body, dissolving. He was torn – trying to get out of the body, trying to get back in – until death gripped him, sudden and hard. With a jolt that tore him out of himself, Lance Lord was no more.

  The fox took one regretful look back, her eyes glinting in the moonlight, fixed on a mist swirling over the lifeless form, trailing up the cape. She closed her eyes, shook her head, and looked again. A living thing? No. It was nothing.

  The lingering scent of blood galvanized her, and she pounced on a mouse stupid enough to dart in front of her. Soon she was carrying the small carcass to her den.

  Behind her, the wind stirred across the surface of the water. The waves stilled with the turning of the tide. Just a few feet away, stripped of its soul, all its blood pulsed into a blackening pool beneath a shattered skull, Lance Lord’s body lay undisturbed all night.

  Until Hy McAllister tripped over it.

  Chapter One

  An unusual mix of gulls and crows was circling low over the shore, cawing, screaming, battling for their trophies with a greater fuss than usual.

  It struck Gus Mack as odd when she lumbered to the back room, the one that used to be a porch. The sky was grey and angry. The storm was moving in. Hurricane Angus, they were calling it. Except here in The Shores it was Hurricane Gus – the neighbours teasing her because she was afraid of storms, she who’d seen so many of them, whose shock of white hair looked as if she’d been hit by lightning, her greatest fear.

  There was a storm coming, no doubt of that. It had been brooding around The Shores for days. After a month of sunshine, the skies hung heavy over Red Island, encouraging carpenter Harold MacLean to pronounce: “Storm coming,” every night for a week. Now people wanted it to come just to shut him up.

  “The longer it takes, the worse it will be,” Gus kept saying. Unlike Harold, she was usually right about the weather. She’d lived so long she’d seen it all.

  Gus gazed on the green fields, the red cliffs, and the shore, washed today by steel-grey water spiked with whitecaps. Her neighbours found her fascination with the coast peculiar. They preferred to scan the road to see who was driving by, when and why.

  Gus looked at the road, too. From her big purple recliner beside the large picture window that looked out on the crossroads, she saw everything that came and went through the village – what was left of it. The Hall. The empty lots where the school and General Store used to be.

  One of the most dramatic moments had been when an explosion sent her husband, Abel, flying out of the old store. A drunken farmer had backed into a fuel pump after the tank had just been filled. A pop machine and several cartons of canned food cleared a path for Abel out the shop window. He landed on his feet, unharmed. That was Abel all over. Good luck stalked him.

  In spite of this and other entertainments provided by the road view, Gus liked to look out the back way to see the ocean in its many moods, and to keep track of the new cottages popping up along the capes. One had literally popped up overnight.

  “Have you looked out your back window?” came the call last May from her neighbour, Estelle Joudry.

  To her chagrin, Gus had not.

  “Go have a look. I’ll hang on.”

  Gus went to the back porch.

  “Good Godfrey!” She stared at the dome. A white dome. It had appeared overnight. It looked like a scientific research station in the Arctic, or a snack bar – definitely not a cottage.

  Gus was so shocked she never did go back to the phone, leaving the old-fashioned receiver hanging on its cord for most of the day, frustrating neighbours who wanted to share their outrage at the oddity.

  But when they learned there were only a few like it in the world, and one of them was “right here in The Shores,” they watched with pride as the outer coating was applied over the white bladder. Before the owner moved in, most of them had been up the cape to peek in the porthole windows.

  Gus stepped out onto the stoop. She’d gazed at the water, land, and sky every morning since she’d come here as a bride sixty years ago – and she didn’t tire of it. She knew the shore and its wildlife as well as she knew any of her eight children. So you’d think, the way those birds were acting, she’d have known something was wrong. But, rich as her life had been, Gus Mack had very little experience of murder.

  Hy McAllister almost missed him.

  She was running at the water’s edge, the damp air turning her red curls into a frizzy mass, a stopwatch bobbing around her neck, beach treasures swi
nging in a makeshift fishnet bag from a washed-up lobster trap. Her camera, slung across her chest, was thumping up and down.

  There was a great photo now – a thin sun peeking through a bank of clouds, its glow reflected in pools of water. The sun – over and over and over again in the sand and water. Click. She got it. And it was gone. There had been something else. Footprints? She couldn’t see them now. Odd. Who’d have been here before her?

  She shivered at a gust of wind from the water, pasting her jacket to her thin body, her feet sinking into wet sand as she ran. Toby, the beach dog, a black Lab with a bleached red stripe down his back, dashed along beside her, darting back and forth, spraying up wet sand from his big feet.

  When she stopped to pick up a rock, Toby tore off toward the cape. Hy went sprinting after him.

  And tripped.

  Thump! She came down on all fours, shells scattering in the sand. She hauled herself up, cursing. She was always falling.

  Then she saw him.

  He lay sprawled out, a crow pecking at the back of his head, a half-dozen gulls hovering above. He wore a lime-green bandana, an orange dashiki, and bellbottoms. An Afro wig was askew on his head. In one hand, he held a sign that read: No Trespassing.

  He looked like Jimi Hendrix, but it was Lance Lord, clinging to his property even in death. Hy shuddered. She was looking at a corpse. She’d fallen on a dead man. She began to heave, and threw up all over Lord’s leg.

  Toby licked the vomit.

  “Tobeeeeeee!” She shooed him off.

  She was disoriented, the day becoming dark under black clouds, the wind whining in her ears. She grabbed her bag, and began gathering up the shells and rocks that had spilled out. She didn’t know why she did it. Trying to feel normal? She clung to the bag as tightly as Lance Lord was clutching death and that pathetic sign. She looked at him again. Was that a lobster on his head?

  She closed her eyes.

  Opened them.

  Not a lobster. A crow sat on Lord’s head. A carrion eater. She almost retched again. The crow flew off, and she saw the wound, black and green.

  It had to be murder. And where there was murder, there was a murderer. Her mind raced. Was he still out here on the shore? Thank God for Toby. Except he was showing as much interest as the birds in the contents of Lance Lord’s head. She dragged him away with a beach rope tied to his collar, and stumbled up to Lord’s cottage. She kept looking around. When had it happened? Was the murderer watching her right now?

  Hy’s friend Ian Simmons was not an early riser, or he would have been alerted by the strange behaviour of the gulls and crows. In the past year, he’d adopted an orphan parrot and learned everything about birds. Jasmine, a cheeky African Grey, was his constant companion, often perched on his shoulder.

  She was not there now. Instead, a lock of honey-blonde hair trailed across it, as he woke from a dream. A dream come true. She’d appeared at his door last night. Suki Smythe. The only woman he’d ever loved. Suki Smythe. He kept looking at her and repeating her name silently.

  Why had she come?

  Hy’s fear made her clumsy, her long legs ungainly as a colt’s. She tripped and fell twice on the sandy slope up to the cottage. The rapier-sharp marram grass sliced at her ankles. Toby bounded beside her, running circles around her, thinking it a great game. Hy’s heart was pounding so hard it felt as if it would burst through her chest. She was cold but she was sweating, wet beads on the back of her neck, trickling down her spine, her armpits soaking her shirt.

  The cottage door was unlocked – and partly open.

  She froze. Her throat went dry. She let Toby edge ahead, sniffing, licking at the floor. She took one slow step at a time, following the big black dog into the small dark cottage, the blinds down in every window.

  “You.”

  It was all Ian could say when he’d opened the door last night and saw Suki. They’d met again last winter at a university reunion. More than thirty years since they’d been lab partners, when he’d lusted after her, never daring to make a move. Taking on all the work of the research reports had been his only means of seduction. It hadn’t worked.

  But here she was. He had dreamed about this. Daydreamed. Night dreamed… other kinds, too. But they were just dreams. Not like this.

  “You.” That’s all he’d been able to say…

  She’d tossed her thick honey hair, and thrust her suitcase at him.

  “Are you just going to stand there gaping, or are you going to invite me in?”

  He’d flushed pleasure and embarrassment. She always made him feel awkward.

  “Invite me in. Wha’? Invite me in?” An odd voice from inside. Suki’s brow had furrowed.

  “Is that the missus?” She’d peeked into the room. Anyone would have known from the computer station and the 1950s Danish modern furniture inherited from his parents.

  “There is no missus.” Ian had looked perplexed. She should know that.

  She’d smiled. Touched his cheek with one long slender, perfectly manicured finger.

  “Invite me in. Wha’? Invite me in?” This second time, the voice was closer to her own.

  Suki had looked around and seen the parrot, Jasmine, perched on the iMac monitor, flicking her head from side to side.

  “No missus?” Suki had pouted, pretending sympathy.

  She had known that from the reunion. They had traded bios – three marriages for her, none for him. When he’d told her where he lived, in this backwater paradise, she had said she’d come visit. He had never believed she would.

  Then suddenly, she was here.

  “How’d you find me?”

  “Well, you said The Shores. You said The Island. There’s only one island, isn’t there?” Her eyes were teasing.

  “I mean here. The house.” He hadn’t known what else to say.

  “You also mentioned Shipwreck Hill. How could I forget that? I just tried the first door and voilà.”

  She’d looked him up and down.

  He still hadn’t believed she was here.

  “But you’re no shipwreck.” She’d placed a hand on his belly, newly flat, in spite of Moira Toombs’ muffins.

  Jasmine had bitten at her feathers, a sign of distress.

  Suki had pecked Ian on both cheeks, and ruffled his head where the hair should have been. She’d put both arms around him.

  He hadn’t stood a chance. He’d melted into her softness, her warmth. He’d longed to touch every part of her.

  That night he had.

  Hy had expected Lord’s cottage to look like they all did, with hooked rugs, quilts, antique pine furniture, but it was nothing like that. It was a bachelor pad with stark white walls, black leather furniture, and bursts of colour from psychedelic sixties posters. She scanned the kitchen for the phone. Bar stools, Guinness artifacts, and black appliances. She spotted the phone’s base station on the wall by the fridge, but no phone.

  Her teeth were chattering, she was chilled from the sweat of fear, the hair on her arms bristling, her movement erratic. She tripped down the stairs into the sunken living room. When her feet hit something thick and furry, she screamed. Toby growled.

  A bearskin rug in a cottage by the sea. The absurdity cut through her fear. Just wait until she told Gus.

  The room was littered with electric guitars – two Stratocasters, a Gibson Les Paul, several Rickenbackers. The walls were covered with posters of Jimi Hendrix at Monterey and Woodstock. A huge wall unit held stacks of Hendrix discography, in all its forms. Albums. Eight-track tapes. Cassettes. CDs, including the Teletubbies’ Purple Haze.

  Still no phone. Maybe the bedroom.

  That was another surprise. Playboy pad gave way to Harlequin romance – a French provincial four-poster, with ivory linens and matching vanity and dressers.

  A tube of KY jelly was by the bedside, its seal un
broken.

  Hy went to the bathroom. The phone was on the marble sink. She grabbed it and dialed 911, hands shaking. She got it wrong and had to start again. Twice.

  “I…I’m calling to report a death… Yes, I’m quite sure… No, I’m not a doctor. It’s…a…murder… No, I’m not a police officer, but… At The Shores…the cottage at Mack’s Shore… No, I’m not a neighbour… Just down from the dome.”

  Every islander knew where that was. Everyone had done a drive-by of the dome, the only one in the province. Many had been surprised that The Shores actually existed, and that it was so beautiful. Some had begun to check the real estate ads for available shorefront property.

  Hy rang off and called Ian.

  Suki stirred, and placed a long, smooth leg across Ian’s. He was stimulated, but still wondering…why? Why was she here, with him? Hadn’t she just been married when he had run into her at the reunion? To some entertainer? Yes, an actor. Ian hadn’t been listening to her – he’d been staring at her, still beautiful past fifty. Had she said something about Quebec?

  She rolled on top of him and her thick hair spilled onto his face.

  “What about the French guy?” he asked.

  “What French guy?”

  “Your husband.”

  “Not French.”

  “No?” Damn.

  “A Quebecer?”

  “Nope.”

  “But not a husband anymore?”

  “Oh, yes. We’re still married.”

  Ian pushed her off and sat up. “Good Lord.”

  “That’s right. Lord.”

  “What?”

  “Lance Lord. My husband. Didn’t I tell you that?”

  He was sure she hadn’t.

  “Lance Lord?”

  “Don’t look so shocked.”

  “But…you’re here with him?”

  “I went to see him last night.” She pouted. “He was no good.” She nuzzled into his neck. “So I came here.”

  “But…” Ian threw off the sheets to get out of bed.