All is Clam Page 4

  Oliver was an antiquarian book dealer, but he bought more books than he sold. He couldn’t bear to part with the treasures he’d accumulated. They surrounded him in bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound words. Dull browns, faded greens and dusty blues, the occasional soft red. He hadn’t read them all. He considered some acquaintances, others companions, some close friends. Those were frequently pulled from the shelves, held lovingly, the dust smeared by the soft caresses of his fingertips.

  Money couldn’t take them away from him. He parted with a book only if someone proved to have a greater passion for it than his own. Then he would let it go – often for nothing. He didn’t need the money, for he had once found the book that had made his fortune. A book the Catholic Church had bought from him, along with his silence. Money well-invested that left him, as he often said, comfortable. Comfortable as a minor monarch. His silence wasn’t cheap.

  He felt that he’d got the better of the deal. The book, that book, he wouldn’t have kept in his house. Even thinking about it brought despair seeping into his blood, a physical as well as mental despair. He rubbed his hands whenever he thought of it, trying to get rid of its stain on him. And talk about it? Never. He had no desire to talk about it. They needn’t have paid him for that. But they had, and the thought brightened his mood until he was smiling like the Cheshire cat.

  He got up and rolled across the room. He was fat, but fluid in his movements. He pulled out a book. A first edition of Hesse’s Gertrude. A folded paper slipped from it, and fell to the floor. White, the cat, dashed at it, took it in his mouth, and jumped up on the shelf, having retrieved it for him. Oliver took the paper, stroked the cat, and gave him a treat from the depths of his silk-lined pocket. Ginger, the other cat, less nimble, wound himself around Oliver’s feet, and Oliver tossed him a treat, too.

  He opened the paper, as he had done many times before. It was a love letter from the past. He had found it tucked into the book. It had become more valuable to him than the book itself. A love poem that had never been sent? Never responded to? The mystery of it impelled him. He had fallen in love with the woman who had written it.

  my soul is with you

  thank god.

  I thought I had lost it

  still – how to recall it?

  my god

  it’s with you

  where I dare not go

  it is quite easily forgotten

  you know

  once I yearned for it

  when my life was painful

  now it is not –

  time

  give me time

  I must decide

  if I want it

  or not

  But the woman – and it must have been a woman who had written this – was long dead. The poem wasn’t dated, but the paper, yellowed with age, brittle with sadness, told Oliver it was an ancient tale. He liked it that way. It suited him to love a woman who didn’t exist. It was bittersweet. That was the most Oliver expected from love, or life.

  He filled his life with searching for precious things, and the results became his emotional fulfillment.

  A particular book, or print, a map, or small, exquisite piece of ephemera or art – these were the things Oliver wanted to possess. Not another human being. And now it was the mystery of the Sullivan legacy. The mystery, more than the actual legacy. He was determined to solve it.

  A book. The answer might well lie in a book. Would that character he’d hired have the sensibility for such a search? He knew the answer to that question.

  He would have to go himself.

  Hy grabbed the old placemat from the pile of books and sticks of wood stacked by the range. She recognized the satellite photo right away. She hadn’t seen it in years. Ian had probably never seen it. The photo had been shot and reproduced on placemats before he had taken early retirement and moved to The Shores. There had been a big fuss about it that had lasted a year or more. Imagine. The Shores seen from space. That Hallowe’en there had been several miniature astronauts knocking on doors for treats.

  Everybody bought several of the placemats, some sent to friends and relatives off-island, providing proof that The Shores, the forgotten little village, truly did exist. Carpenter Harold MacLean and his wife Olive had been the last to use the mats daily – he, out of a fascination with space, she out of a sense of economy: they’d bought them and had better use them. Now the mats were all tucked away and forgotten like the community itself.

  “Can I have this?”

  “What is it?” Rose was tearing up books and stuffing them in the range. They were damp and the fire was smoldering and giving off more smoke than heat. She looked over. Plastic. That wouldn’t burn. She waved a hand in dismissal.

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  Hy looked at the shining star in the cobalt sea. This would appeal to Ian’s scientific self. Maybe it would jolt him to get onboard with the rest of the community and light up his house.

  Armed with the placemat and the information from Gus, Hy made her excuses to Rose, trying to hide her eagerness to go, and slammed out the door, hopped on her bicycle, and sped up the hill to Ian’s.

  It wasn’t long before he was googling the satellite photo. It had appeared in a few papers across the country, a novelty photograph at Christmas.

  Ian thought it was terrific, but it didn’t change his attitude.

  He picked up the placemat and poked his finger on the urine-stained surface, aiming straight at the “star.”

  “If Canada’s tiniest village in Canada’s tiniest province can do that…” He poked again. “Multiply that by thousands and thousands of larger cities around the world – ”

  “And you think that one string of lights on your house is going to make a difference?” Hy felt argumentative because her tactic had failed.

  “It’s impressive, Hy, but it doesn’t change my mind.”

  “Have a look at this, then.” She shoved the Saran-Wrapped newspaper clipping at him. Creased and torn in its protective wrapping, yellowed with age, brown spots obliterating words, its message was still clear.

  Fire Burns Sullivan Cottage

  Valiant villagers battle raging blaze to save magnificent Victorian country home…

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “You google. I ‘Gus.’”

  “Gus gave you this?”

  “Yup.” She tried to keep the smirk out of her tone. “Gus thinks it was murder.”

  “Gus always thinks it’s murder.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Well, she thinks Jared MacPherson’s a murderer.”

  “I know…I know.” Years before, Jared had hit and killed an old woman crossing the highway for her mail. He got off with two weeks for careless driving. It was ruled an accident.

  “She’s worse now.” Ian’s posture was stiff, his mouth set. He didn’t like Hy to uncover something before he’d had a crack at it, always a technological one.

  Hy had to concede that Gus was seeing crime and murder around every corner since the killings on the Labour Day weekend a year ago, on top of what had happened the year before at Jared’s cookhouse on the shore.

  Ian turned back to the clipping. He scanned the article. “So what’s the story?”

  “Well, it’s all there.”

  “I mean Gus’s story.”

  “She thinks the brother who started the fire set it deliberately.”

  Ian waved the clipping. “It was ruled accidental.”

  “As in, he was accidentally carrying a can of gasoline, unclosed, past the back of the house…it slipped from his grasp, and the cigarette dangling from his lips fell into it and ignited the gasoline.”

  “He had no idea his brother was taking a nap in the back room,” Ian’s eyes grazed over the paper.

  “As he did every day at that time.�
�

  Ian scanned for that detail. He looked up.

  “Not here.”

  “Gus. That’s why Gus says he killed his brother. He knew his brother would be napping.”

  “They said there wasn’t enough evidence to make a charge. The facts bore out what he said, more or less.” He gave the clipping back. “The neighbours must have known.”

  “If they did, they didn’t say. The house came to him, which is what he wanted all along.”

  Ian went to the computer, and started clicking on links.

  “Wow.”

  “What’ve you got?” Hy slipped across the room and looked over his shoulder. Her eyes widened at what she saw on the screen. “But…”

  Ian looked at her with glee.

  “You’re right…but…that wasn’t the only murder at Wild Rose Cottage. I was just googling the article, and this one came up. Also two brothers.”

  Hy looked at the screen, as Ian read bits from an historical article and commented.

  “Sam and Henry Sullivan. Sam, a bachelor, had money, from where it isn’t clear. The other, Henry, had a family, no cash, but had farmed the family land. When the parents died, Sam bought out their joint inheritance, promising Henry he could stay and work the farm. But Sam sold the harvest and kept the money himself. Henry put up with it for a few years, until, his family starving and in rags, he killed Sam. Shot him in the outhouse.”

  “Through the head, in the head,” Gus would say when she told the story, cackling, slapping her hands on her knees and rocking back and forth.

  “Henry was hanged.” Hy reached the end of the post just before Ian.

  “Right – and his widow was left with the land and a log house. She married again. An architect – ”

  “Who built the Rose cottage.”

  “Yup. Called that because of all the roses, naturally.”

  “Nope. Because her name was Rose. The first of the Roses to inhabit the house. The one who planted all the rose bushes.” She had that from Gus, too, who only had a sniff of the actual scandal, so long ago it had been. But the roses were community memory, the kind of information you couldn’t google, thought Hy.

  “The architect only lived long enough to finish the house.” Ian had clicked on a related post. “Technically, it never was finished. He had plans for an even more magnificent home, complete with a ballroom with an arched ceiling painted like the night sky. It never happened. He died of typhoid.”

  “Then, seventy years ago, it happens again. Brother kills brother.”

  They’d come full circle.

  Hy had slumped down in a chair. Danish Modern. Rickety. She yanked at the arm that was always falling off and laid it on the floor.

  “Twins,” she said. “Tom showed up in the world a couple of minutes before Allen. That made him the heir. When the house was left to Tom, Allen went nuts and threatened to burn it down, with Tom in it.”

  “He very nearly succeeded.” Ian grabbed a couple of logs, and stuffed them in the woodstove. The fire had burned down to red coals. The logs rapidly ignited, shooting the brilliance of their flames across the room, highlighting Hy’s copper curls.

  He passed a hand over his thinning crop.

  “Tom died of smoke inhalation, but the men and women of the village organized a bucket brigade and contained the fire to that the back.”

  “And here’s the really weird bit.” Hy stretched out her legs, so that the fire warmed her toes, still chilly from Wild Rose cottage. “There was a Rose living in the house at that time, too. Tom’s wife. She was out for the day. Maybe Allen was in love with her. Maybe they plotted together – ”

  “If you want to start sleuthing, think about who’s there now. Another Rose.”

  “Do you think?”

  “C’mon Hy, I was just kidding. It’s coincidence. Family name. Family home.”

  “You’re right. How likely is it that there would be another murder there?”

  “Or here. The law of averages would tell you it’s not likely.”

  “Knock on wood.”

  She did – and the other arm of the chair fell off. Ian didn’t notice. His eyes were fixed on the flames playing in her hair.

  Chapter Six

  Oliver had seen the book, the diary, when he was a child. He had found it in the library of Wild Rose Cottage, a warm, inviting room back then, with wood paneling, built-in benches and window seats, and shelves full of books. He’d been exploring them. He’d pulled down a sheaf of papers, and his four-year-old eyes had opened wide at the beauty of the architectural plans for the house. He had stared, entranced, at the plans for the ballroom – with its arc of a night sky as a ceiling. The image had stayed with him, until one day he’d had enough money to create his own. He had built it, but no one came. No one was invited. It was never used, except on the occasional night when Oliver, heavy with drink and some posthumous affection for a woman who had lived and died before he was born, would burst through the great doors, and, accompanied by only his own substantial voice, would dance. Dance, as if he held someone in his arms, singing words of love to a woman who wasn’t there. Never would be. This he knew. It was why he ached, and the ache was, to him, love itself, most pure.

  More than the ballroom, the diary had burned into his child brain. It had lain on the desk. It was nearly out of reach, but the tips of his tiny fingers had managed to pull it into his plump grasp.

  It was old, very old. He caressed it. It fell open too easily, the book broken along its spine with use. The pages, some ready to peel out from the binding, were alternating writing and blotting paper. It had been written by more than one hand. Even Oliver could tell that, though he could only just read, and not grown-up handwriting. He passed a chubby hand over the open pages, reverently. He had never seen anything so beautiful. He wanted it. His need for it was physical. He felt it in his stomach, like a hunger, of a different kind. This would not be assuaged by a donut or cookie.

  Smack! A heavy hand hit the back of his head, and another yanked the diary from him. He reached up for it, now in the hands of the adult towering above him. An uncle of some kind, he wasn’t quite sure.

  “Don’t touch! You mustn’t touch the book!”

  Oliver looked up at the fierce face of the man, covered in black hair. His own big blue eyes, cushioned in his pudgy face, were washed with confusion and unspilled tears.

  In that moment was born a desire to possess books – and one in particular. He’d longed to see the book again, and had lurked around the library, until one day he’d managed to get in again. Once more he saw it. He had forgotten that day, and the book had been lost. Not just to him, but to everyone. After that day, it was simply gone.

  But that ancient family treasure had set his path in life.

  Books. It was all about books from then on for Oliver. A book in one hand, a cookie or piece of pie in the other, his eyes glued to the latest manuscript. Of course, the food would be absent when the book he was holding was an old treasure. So many were.

  There were a few additions to this scene over time. Two cats. One white and elegant, the other ginger, friendly and a bit paunchy. The two, White and Ginger, when they weren’t poking around for mice or basking in the sun, were likely to be found slithering somewhere on Oliver’s body, large enough to accommodate both of them at the same time.

  And then there was the rat.

  When she left Ian’s, Hy went back to see Gus to tell her about the murderous history of Wild Rose Cottage and the family living in a tent. It was hard to know which to start with.

  “In a tent?”

  “It’s all the house is good for.”

  “Reckon you’re right. So help me – if Eleanor Sullivan could have seen this day.” Gus shook her head slowly, back and forth, back and forth. “That would be Rose Sullivan’s mother. Did you ask?”

  Hy bit he
r lip. “Actually, no. I forgot.”

  “Forgot?” Gus looked shocked. These connections had to be established. You needed to know who was who, where they came from, and who their people were.

  To distract Gus, Hy told her about the state the house was in. Hy’s eyes shone with glee as she described the rats and mice scurrying around. Hy grinned at Gus, with her eyes opened wide, her jaw dropped. Gus shuddered.

  Hy shifted in her chair. The seat was hard. All the seats, including the big purple recliner, were uncomfortable. It was surprising visitors stayed as long as they did. They stayed for Gus, to see Gus’s wide-eyed look of wonder when told a choice piece of gossip, as Hy did now, handing Gus the printouts of the posts she and Ian had googled.

  Gus read, silently for some time, then waved the papers at Hy.

  “How’d you get all this?”

  “Googled it.”

  “Googled?”

  “A computer search engine.”

  “Engine? Does it use gas?”

  “Nope. Just electricity.”

  “Could I find out all about my family on one of them things?”

  “Yup. You could even speak to them.”

  “What, them as is dead?” Gus rolled her eyes.

  “No, just the live ones, Gus. You could speak to them.”

  “Speak to them? Why would I do that?”

  “You could see them when you speak to them.”

  Gus shook her head.

  “And me just gettin’ used to the phone.” She shook her head again, dismissing the idea. But Hy had seen a spark of interest, and wondered what she and Ian might arrange to connect Gus with her kids. Christmas was coming. Family time.

  Mountie Jane Jamieson was frowning. Murdo didn’t have to look at her to know it. He could feel it.

  Stuck in a backwater, that’s what she’d be thinking. But what a magnificent backwater. He scanned the approaching shore. The frosty caps on slate-grey waves were muted through his poor eyesight, and, if possible, more beautiful for it. He darted a look at Jamieson, her eyes fixed on the road, her hands curled into fists, where all her anger appeared to have gathered. If she’d been driving, she’d have sunk her emotions and her foot into the accelerator. That’s why she’d handed him the keys.