Grave Deeds (11 page)

“You'll be careful, won't you?”

I put one hand on my heart and held the other up. “I promise on my honour not to go in the woods alone. Or out in a tippy canoe with a maniac. Or eat anything she's not eating.”

Will grinned. “And if the wolf comes to the door?”

“He can huff and puff, but I won't let him in.”

Will ran his fingers back through his hair. He was graying at the temples and I sometimes teased him by counting the white strands that peppered his beard. He had grown it when his business began to take off a couple of years ago. The beard looked distinguished then, but now I thought it made him look too old, much older than his forty-two years. He was stubborn about it, preferring the luxury of not shaving to my vanity.

A break had finally come in the traffic. With a spray of gravel, we crossed the highway and bounced over a cattle grid. Although the McDonnels were no longer farming the land, the papers from my aunt included a lease arrangement with the neighbouring farmer that allowed him to graze cattle on the property.

The road was little more than a laneway, pitted with muddy holes and tufted with grass. Tree branches met overhead so that we seemed to be in a long green tunnel that twisted and slid down through the hills. In the tangled branches of one such group I recognized the remains of an apple orchard. A snake fence disappeared into the bush and a pile of rocks in a field choked with alder and sumac indicated where a pasture had once been cleared. In another open space, a small herd of cows grazed around the stone foundations of a boarded-up house.

“That must have been quite some place at one time,” Will said. He idled to a stop. One by one, the cows raised their heads to turn towards us, staring. A calf tottered towards the road, then turned to scamper, tail high, behind the building.

It was a big house, two full stories and an attic under the peaked roof. The windows on the first floor and the front door had been boarded shut; the glass in most of the others was missing, shot out by boys with BB guns or victims of the weather. A verandah that ran around two sides of the house had collapsed in a pile of gray wood and shingles, half buried in a tangle of rose bushes that sent sprays of new green up the faded red brick walls. A rotting chimney leaned over a hole in the roof.

“The proverbial haunted house,” I said.

“Do you suppose it was the Cook family home?”

“Must be. Old Henry said they lived in the big house. When do you think it was built?”

“Late Victorian era. Look at the masonry, the use of that yellow brick as decoration on the corners and around the doors and windows. And you can still see the pattern of coloured shingles on the roof. Someone spent a lot of money to build this place.”

“I wonder when it was abandoned.”

“Years ago. It's too bad. They must have just packed up and left it to rot.”

“Revenge on the Cooks for taking the land back,” I said.

I popped open the can of root beer and took a long swallow. When I was a kid, the only two fast food outlets in our suburb were the A & W and Red Barn, both hamburger joints. After football games, we headed for the A & W where girls only slightly older than us, girls who had finished grade twelve or who had dropped out as soon as they turned sixteen, brought trays of burgers and root beer in thick glass mugs out to the cars parked in tidy rows. I still had one of those mugs. We didn't call it shoplifting or stealing in those days, but “liberating.”

“Can I have some?” Will held out his hand and I passed him the can. He grimaced. “How can you drink this stuff?”

“It used to taste a lot better. And there wasn't much choice.”

He handed it back. “I guess we'd better get a move on. I hope this road doesn't get any worse. Should have brought the truck.”

We crested a rise. The sun broke in a thick red band through the gray blanket of clouds and drew silver streaks across the surface of a wide inlet, enclosed on both sides by forested hills and protected from the rougher waters of the open lake by a chain of low islands. The lake was so long that we couldn't see the cottages at its other end.

“That must be the marsh.” I pointed to a wide strip of green which from this distance looked like a lush meadow bordering the white beach.

Will started driving slowly down the incline. “Look.” He pointed to a wooden stake painted orange and planted at the roadside. “Survey posts.”

I squinted into the field and made out another, farther down towards the water. “They must have had the whole farm divided up for tier development.”

“Wouldn't there be environmental restrictions on such a large amount of building so close to the lake?”

“This is a working farm up here. Would pesticide run-off be any worse than septic systems?”

“They wouldn't have had to worry about any environmental issues if they'd sold it years ago. They could have carved it up however the fancy took them.”

“My grandfather always insisted that the land was to go to the province if the family didn't want it. He wanted to save the marshes for a bird sanctuary. He hated hunters and speedboats.”

“But he gave title to Beatrice. She could have sold it.”

“She didn't seem to care much for money. You know, the last time I talked to him, Mr. Ross implied she might have left the land to me out of spite.”

“What do you mean?”

“Apparently, she was fed up with Marilyn. Probably because of the power-of-attorney business. And maybe she suspected that Markham had designs on the land, and since he and Marilyn seemed to be rather close…”

“Do you think she knew about the law suit and Marilyn's need for money?”

“Hard to say. She must have been plenty upset to disinherit her own granddaughter in favour of a stranger, though. It's a wonder Marilyn wants to have anything to do with me at all. She probably will try to get me to sell, thinking I don't know that she's already had the place surveyed.”

“Even a modest division of this land along the water would be worth a lot of money.”

“Half a million is what they offered.”

“Peanuts.” Will slowed to another stop before a wooden bridge that spanned a swiftly running creek. “You think it's safe?” he asked.

“I'll check it.”

When I got out, I could smell the marsh, a rich ooze that permeated the air. A stiff breeze rattled the little leaves. Water tumbled white over rocks in the riverbed which was only a few
yards wide; its banks were steep grass-covered inclines. A robin repeated its rain song over and over. A red-winged blackbird trilled.

The bridge consisted of wide planks laid over a simple trestle. They seemed firm underfoot. It was narrow and without guard rails: only one car could pass over at a time. I waved to Will from the far side. He gingerly crossed, the boards rattling beneath the wheels.

The river veered away from the road. After a few hundred yards, I had to get out of the car again, this time to open a gate that protected the cottage lot from the cows. It was hooked shut by a chain looped over the fence post, a padlock lying on the ground beneath it. I picked it up. It had been broken, the hoop completely torn from the body of the lock.

“Look at this.” I handed it through the window to Will.

“Probably rusted shut.” He turned it over in his hands. “You can see where someone's tried to use a key, it's all scratched up. Probably just took a crowbar to it in frustration.”

I swung the gate shut and fastened the chain again. “The cottage can't be far now.”

The driveway took us through a wood lot before widening in a circle that had once been gravelled. We parked under a huge basswood tree beside another car covered with a pale green tarpaulin.

Into the silence left by the ticking of the engine as it cooled poured birdsong, the rush of wind through new leaves. The bush had been barely cleared to make room for the driveway and the cottage. Giant white pines that had grown here since long before settlement and lumbering tamed the land circled the clearing which was dotted with maples, birch and poplar. Undergrowth had been cut back enough to let the spring woodland flowers bloom; beds of trilliums and dogtooth violets splashed colour against the floor of matted leaves and pine needles. There was no lawn, only a few patches of wild grass struggling to gain a foothold between granite outcroppings and muddy hollows.

A path of beaten earth, marked here and there by coloured quartz rocks, led up to the cottage which was perched on the top of a knoll. It was a long, low, log structure with a tin roof dominated by a wide fieldstone chimney, capped by a chicken
wire net. Two of the huge pines bracketed a screened porch that extended out over a rock ledge at one end; a third pine pressed against the far wall, a black silent sentinel. The windows were dark. High overhead, branches rubbed against each other, a sawing, sighing whine.

I opened the screen and knocked on the wood door. “Marilyn?” I called. “Dr. Finch? It's Rosie Cairns here. Marilyn?”

Two blue jays swooped through the clearing, quarrelling as they disappeared into the bush.

“No one home?” Will asked, as he lowered the sack of groceries he'd carried up from the car on to the top step.

I tried the door but it was bolted shut. “I guess she got tired of waiting.” The two windows on either side of the door were heavily curtained. I stood on tiptoe, but couldn't see in.

“You didn't forget the key?”

“Of course not, but there's no lock here. It must fit a door around on the other side.”

“Maybe she's outside and didn't hear us drive up.”

We circled the screened porch, watching for roots that arched out of the moss and dead leaves. The cottage was built on pilings a foot or so off the ground; rotting latticework had once kept out animals but we could see definite signs where something — raccoon or porcupine — had tunnelled in.

“Sadie would love this,” Will murmured.

“I couldn't bring her, not the first time. What if Marilyn is allergic or hates dogs? It would have been too difficult. Sadie is just too big to be ignored.”

The front of the cottage faced an opening in the trees that looked down a long hill to a wide brown pool through which the river current was hurrying a raft of branches and leaves. A red canoe was turned upside down on a narrow dock which hugged the steep bank of the near shore while the other side was smothered in bullrushes. From this height, we could see over the waving reeds to a line of open water. Red-winged blackbirds trilled over and over as swallows flocked in whirling masses over the marsh. The air sang with mosquitoes.

“Black flies,” Will batted the cloud of insects that swarmed around his ears. “I hope we can get in before we get eaten alive.”

Two big picture windows filled the front wall and looked
out towards the distant bay. I pulled open the screen door and tried the latch of the wooden door behind it. It didn't budge. The lock above it was shiny and new; my key didn't fit there either.

Will tried banging on the door and shouting. The birds fell silent for a moment but took up their chatter once he subsided. “Are you sure she was expecting us today?”

“Yes. We're a bit late, but still it's kind of odd. I wonder when the locks were changed.”

I leaned over the railing of the stoop and peered inside. A big open room had a kitchen with woodstove and long harvest table at one end and a brown tweed sofa with matching easy chairs facing the wide fireplace at the other. A glass door, shut tight, opened onto the verandah. The cottage had been divided in half down its length. Directly in front of me across the space dividing the living and eating areas a hall led to the back door; the rooms on either side must be bedrooms.

Will slapped at the back of his neck. “I can't stand this any longer. Let's get out of here.”

We continued around the cottage. Will hurried back down to the car. I looked at the small windows again. Behind the screen of one, the casement had been propped open. Beside a small woodpile next to the path was a stump used for a chopping block. I rolled it over to the house; by standing on it, my head was almost level to the bottom of the window. I managed to poke a thin-edged twig between the screen's frame and the window moulding, working it up and down until I hit a hook. Leaving the twig lodged there, I searched around for something a bit sturdier. A small lean-to shed had been left unlocked; inside, on a shelf laden with rolls of screen, buckets, a rusted hibachi, and jars crammed with screws and nails was a basket of old tools, including a screwdriver. I used it to force the hook out of its socket. The screen swung free.

“Let me help.” Will took my place on the stump and pushed upwards at the window. Nothing happened. He took the screwdriver and pounded its handle all around the frame and pushed again. The wood screamed; the window slid slowly upward.

“Who's going in?” I stood on tiptoe, pushed aside the heavy curtain material, and peered into the gloom of the bedroom.

In front of me was an antique bed with a high, elaborately carved headboard. It was unmade: sheets, blankets and a white candlewick bedspread had been dumped in an untidy pile in its middle. On top was an open suitcase, its contents tumbled about as if its owner couldn't decide what to wear and had pulled everything out and stuffed them back in without paying attention. Wedged in the corner beside the closed door was an enormous wardrobe whose full-length mirror sent me a picture of my face pitted and wavery with age. A tall narrow dresser served as a bedside table; on it perched a lamp in the shape of a leaping trout, the bare bulb emerging from its gaping mouth. A row of hooks on the back of the door was empty. I called for Marilyn again, and was greeted with the faint skittering of some small creature across the roof.

“I don't think I'd fit,” Will strained to push the window up further, but the frame had swollen through too many unpainted winters and would budge no farther. “As soon as you get in, come and open the door.”