‘What about Angel’s?’
She put her cup down and leaned back in her chair. From the corner of her eye, she could see a bit of the garden plot. The corner where they’d had to dig down and bury a wire fence because the raccoons had tunnelled superhighways under the trellis to sneak in and munch on their precious heads of lettuce.
‘I doubt it. Angel was fifteen years old when she set her heart on this career. The men said she could never do it. Even her own father. He never wanted to take her on board. Leeroy can be quite the chauvinist. Like any other fisherman, I suppose. It wasn’t cod or shrimp she was interested in anyway, but lobster. She dreamed of cruising up and down the coast.’
She smiled softly as she spoke about her friend, as if remembering her would suspend time and delay the moment she would have to admit that Angel was gone.
‘She went to study in Rimouski, at the Maritime Institute. I don’t remember the details, because I was doing my degree in Quebec City then. What I do know is that Angel got her boat just after her mother died.’
Lefebvre had said that Angel’s boat was paid off. Probably thanks to an inheritance, Moralès thought.
‘When Jean Morrissette retired, she bought his boat. She was twenty-two years old. He wrote into the sales contract that he would lend a hand if need be, but that never happened. To be fair, his wife was sick; they ended up moving to Quebec City to be closer to good healthcare. In the dead of winter. So Angel was on her own when spring came around.’
Moralès sipped his tea. He wasn’t a fan of the woody taste, but he didn’t let it show.
‘Most fishers learn the ropes working on other people’s boats, but no one wanted to take her on. And no one wanted to work for her either. Angel was “just a woman”, you see?’
‘Did the fishermen try to sabotage her operation?’
‘It did happen, yes.’
‘How?’
‘The lobster traps are connected to a cable. There’s a dozen on each line. That line is weighted with lead so it won’t catch the engines of any small boats that pass by on the surface. The whole setup sits on the seabed, and at each end of the line is a buoy that floats on the surface. To pull up the traps, the fishers come along and pull on the buoy, and haul the line in with a winch. Are you with me?’
He nodded.
‘The first year someone went around cutting Angel’s lines. She’d get to her zone and find her buoys had gone. The first few times it happened, she had to bring in divers to retrieve her lines and traps. After that she kitted herself out so she could dive herself. She never talked about it. Not to anyone. She coped.’
Moralès turned towards the garden while Annie Arsenault caught her breath. He admired this courageous Angel, who toiled the land and the sea.
‘Then it just stopped. We never found out why, but I’ve always suspected her uncle Jacques went and had a word with another fisherman.’
‘Jacques Forest?’
‘Yes. He used to do ocean search and rescue in the States. He came back when Angel’s mother passed. Maybe she called and asked him to watch over her daughter. I don’t know. Anyway, he went on board with her. He’s always been her most reliable worker, but he’d never fished before either, can you imagine?’
‘Who else worked with her?’
Annie sipped her tea and clenched her jaw as if she’d nibbled a bitter endive. ‘She’s had plenty of deckhands over the years. Unreliable young lads who gave up when the going got rough, Indigenous guys from the reserve who only stayed a year, and other youngsters who didn’t have a place on their fathers’ boats. When her brother sold his scallop trawler, she took on one of his deckhands, Jean-Paul Babin.’
‘Her brother doesn’t fish with her?’
‘No.’ She said it coldly.
‘Do she and her brothers get on well?’
Annie poured a fresh stream of tea into her cup and didn’t mention the fact that Moralès had barely touched his. It wasn’t the detective’s favourite thing to drink, but she didn’t seem to notice.
‘For a long time Bruce worked up north on the big tankers. It wasn’t long ago that he bought his father’s licence. Five years, maybe. He didn’t make a big song and dance about it though.’
‘And Jimmy? Did they have a falling-out?’
She hesitated a moment. ‘I don’t think the Robertses have ever been an easy family to like. It’s like they inherited a flaw from the grandfather. They get hung up on money and fight among themselves – and with others too. I don’t know the full story. I lost track of all their spats when I was away at uni in Quebec City. I do know the Robertses weren’t a happy family at Angel’s wedding, though.’
‘Why not?’
‘Leeroy’s never got on with Clément’s dad. The Robertses were irked because they thought, if Angel died, Clément would get to take over her fishing operation. You get the picture? Anyway, they looked into it and found out that if Angel didn’t have children, her dad and brothers would be the ones to inherit. I mean, who even thinks to find out about that sort of thing? No one!’
‘And what did she think about all that?’
‘Every year on their anniversary, she put her wedding dress on and invited herself and Clément over to her dad’s for dinner.’
‘She was rubbing their noses in it.’
‘No. I think she just wanted to show them she was happy and in love, and remind them that that was more important than money.’
He had always preferred shadowed eyelids, perky eyelashes, shiny lips and hairstyles created with an expert feminine touch that you could undo with the stroke of the hand, to naked faces. For him, until now, the pinnacle of femininity had risen half from a woman’s natural beauty and half from the art of making herself beautiful, the meticulous skill of nuancing jewellery, mascara and hair clips.
Sébastien put one foot in front of the other in a continuous and conscious effort to conquer the mountain. Kimo wore nothing but tiny gold studs in her ears. Her face was free of makeup, tanned by the sun and flushed with emotion. There was an air of sadness and honesty about her that gave her a certain je ne sais quoi. She had taken it upon herself to race up the trail, sweating out a pent-up energy that was soon dripping down her skin. Sébastien wasn’t about to criticise her decompressing technique.
Kimo had only said a brief hello before the three of them set off walking towards Cap-Bon-Ami. ‘What are you doing out here in the Gaspé?’ she asked Sébastien now.
‘I’m working on some culinary experiments, with local products.’
She shrugged her shoulders like she didn’t believe him.
Corine intervened. ‘Ooh, I’ll have to take you beer tasting!’
Kimo shook her head. ‘Corine has a thing for craft brewers.’
‘It’s better than having a thing for fishermen!’
Corine regretted the taunt immediately and apologised. ‘It came out all by itself, Kimo…’
Her friend quickened her step and swallowed her pain.
‘Sometimes, I should just keep my mouth shut,’ Corine whispered in Sébastien’s ear, mortified.
She moved aside to let him pass. At first Sébastien felt uncomfortable as he followed Kimo up the first part of the steep climb. Then after a while he found himself appreciating the view of the young woman ahead of him. Her muscles, her calves, her thighs, especially her buttocks, and her lower back. When they got to the first lookout platform, he sneaked a glimpse at her bare neck and the beads of sweat pearling on her skin.
An awkward silence hung in the air between the two friends. Out of the blue, Kimo turned to Sébastien and took him to task. ‘So, as far as men go, would you say you’re the loyal type?’
He was taken aback. The question was abrupt, but rhetorical. Yes, he was the faithful type, but she was beautiful and standing right in front of him. He needed to take a deep breath. This was a question best left unanswered.