Bamfield is picturesque from the air, a village Venice, cleaved in half by an inlet sheltered behind a thickly wooded peninsula. On the seaward side lies Brady Beach, guarded by high promontories. North of that, at the tip of the peninsula, is the Breakers Inn, advertised by large red letters on the roof.
There is one venerable building in East Bamfield, the former Pacific cable station, now the Marine Sciences Centre; elsewhere, a scattering of dwellings, a motel, the pub. But his aircraft is coasting to a dock on the more interesting western shore, with its rustic cedar buildings by a raised boardwalk, artisans’ shops, shingled homes, gardens with daffodils and Red-flowering Currants.
Greeting him at the dock is a plump woman with a dimpled smile: Claudette St. John. “Nick says you’re the best thing that happened to him since God made sin. Come along, love, I’ve made us a lunch.” She wrestles for his bag, and he is no match for her. “I don’t know if you heard-Nick and I are getting married.”
Arthur feels the burden of her cheerfulness, her faith in his skills, and has a fretful moment-they’re becoming more frequent-when he prays he hasn’t come out of retirement to end his career in failure.
The Nitinat Lodge is a two-storey log building with a trim lawn and early tulips, augmented by a few cabins tucked into a cedar forest. Several young hikers are on the grass, throwing a Frisbee.
Faloon had problems running his inn, Claudette confides-maybe because of his limited experience in honest business. Or because his heart wasn’t in it. She shows him her new brochure-“Bed and breakfast in the forest, off-season rates, eco-friendly.”
“I hired a Native girl to hand them out to hikers on the trail. Nick will go nuts when he sees we got a going concern here.”
“I suppose you come across a lot of wildlife.” Arthur has in mind cougars, bears, and wolves, he has a slight phobia in that regard. Gentle Garibaldi offers no such dangers.
“We had animals poking around the garbage a while ago, raccoons maybe, probably a bear-they get pretty hungry in the spring. Had a couple of cougar sightings.”
Arthur shivers. “And what would those folks over there be up to?” Several men in the adjoining field, labouring with spades, throwing up hillocks of dirt and grass.
“Treasure hunters. Jasper Flynn let drop the stolen money is buried somewhere, and he’s got all the town idlers working up a sweat. I got them to turn over Nick’s garden for free. Careful of these stairs, love, Nick tripped there in the middle of the night. Mind you, he was sleepwalking.”
She serves up a steaming beef stew. Arthur can see why Faloon is endeared of this woman-she is frank and guileless. But he is bothered about the sleepwalking, and asks about it.
“Maybe it’s the phases of the moon, whatever, sometimes he just finds himself barefoot in the yard. Usually I wake him up, and he laughs it off and comes right back to bed, but once he walked off my deck into the blackberries, and lucky he was only scratched.”
Faloon has never mentioned this tendency. Not once. That’s troubling in itself.
Claudette still hasn’t been able to pin down Holly Hoover-she has a trailer nearby, but has rarely shown her face since the murder. She’s in town, though, was seen in the Bam Pub today, buying a six-pack of cider.
“If she’s not in her trailer, check on her cabin cruiser, the Holly Golly. You’ll recognize her by the explosion hairdo, black curls.”
Arthur can’t bring himself to ask if she suspects Faloon slept with Hoover. His bowl of stew is empty, and it would be impolite to refuse the second helping Claudette urges on him.
“I want you to meet Meredith Broadfeather, it’s about a mystery boat. Say no more, you’ll hear it from her. Whisper a secret over lunch, and it’s all through town by dinner.”
“I’m familiar with the process.” He produces a photo of Angella. Might Claudette have seen this woman in Bamfield? In the bar?
“A lot of strange people wander through…Is she a drinker, then?”
“It would seem so.”
“To be honest, I can’t say. I see too many faces, dear, they start to blur.”
Arthur tells her who it is, and Claudette looks more closely. “So this is the shameless hussy.” Though she must be curious, she asks no questions. A long-time bartender, she understands discretion.
Arthur rises from the table, thanking her profusely. He must repair to his lodgings.
“I’d love you to stay, but I’m full up right now. I just hope you’ll be comfortable in Cotters’ Cottage, given what happened there.”
“But I’ve reserved for the Breakers.”
Claudette seems as confused as he. “Mrs. Cotter told me they were expecting you, I saw her just this morning.”
“This is a bit of a rigmarole.” The Cotter couple, two decades retired, let out the hideaway at Brady Beach where Eve Winters drew her last breath. He’d phoned them, asking to see it. Mr. Cotter, who seemed hard of hearing, said, “Yesiree, when can we expect you?”
“Tomorrow,” Arthur said, but he shouldn’t have ended the conversation there. It will be awkward straightening matters out.
Claudette joins him on the hilly fifteen-minute hike to Brady Beach, a stretch of brown sand protected by outcroppings that drip foam from surging waves. Shore pines, shaped and bowed by ocean winds, struggle for purchase on the rocks. The Cotters’ rental cabin can be got at from the road or from the beach, and it is the latter route they take, by tidal pools in which orange and purple starfish nestle.
A stunning setting. This is what Margaret is missing. Had she been available, he would have brought her along. Her loss.
The Cotters’ lot is surrounded by a picket fence, and is well cared for, with fruit trees in blossom, pink and white, rhododendrons in heavy bud. Three main windows face the sea, a smaller one above serves the loft. Inez Cotter, a spindly but agile woman of seventy-nine, interrupts her dusting to show them in.
The interior offers worn but comfortable furniture. Full kitchen, bedroom, a loft, a staircase built into the wall. An airtight stove provides heat, though there’s also a fireplace, and, outside, stacked wood. Stained glass in the door and windows. The word cozy would come to mind had not a murder happened here.
Mrs. Cotter looks weary, as if she has been cleaning all day. It cannot be an easy property to manage, she lives across the inlet. “Police had it closed down for two weeks, they were tromping through here like goats. We weren’t sure we were going to rent it out after that, but it isn’t easy getting by on pensions alone.”
Arthur pays in advance for the night. He will try to cancel the Breakers, though he’ll keep his dinner reservation.
Mrs. Cotter has no guest register, just a book in which tenants are asked to comment on their stay. Only two notations for March: “Much enjoyed by all, saw a bear.” “Totally groovy.” None from Eve Winters or her companions.
Mrs. Cotter recalls her as easy to talk to-she had tea with her twice, saw no indication she felt in danger. “Not a concern in the world. She just wanted to escape for a while.”
“Tell him what you overheard,” says Claudette.
“Well, her girlfriends stayed over the first night, dog-tired from the trail, but not so tired they didn’t have a loud argument in the morning. I was standing at the door with extra linen. One of them was ranting. ‘It’s over, Ruth,’ and then, ‘Repeat, it’s over. Do you receive?’ And then, Ruth, I guess, pardon my language, she says, ‘Ef you, your effing highness.’”
“Did you tell this to the police?”
“Sergeant Flynn thought it was funny, he laughed.”
Arthur is left alone to unpack. He is gratified to see an oilskin hanging by the door-rain is promised this evening, a storm. From the wall, a mountain lion stares coldly at the camera, red reflections in its eyes.
In the bedroom, a double bed, rustic wooden table-as in the police photographs, but lacking Eve Winters’s sprawled corpse. It’s a good thing after all that Margaret couldn’t come-spending a night here might not fit her concept of romance.