Crafting with Slander, page 11
Toby and I went on, farther and farther, away from the development to the land as it was before. When we had driven far enough, I pulled over and parked on the shoulder. I opened the door and let Toby jump out. There was no need for a leash here. I let him run down to the beach, and I followed. A large log had drifted in from the ocean. I sat on it and watched Toby zigzag after the seagulls.
I began to relax. I knew why.
My dad used to take me to this place when I was little. That’s why I was here. Here, where traces of my father, who knew so much, still were.
I wished that I could hear his voice now.
In my childhood, my father and I would walk on this beach and then go behind into the hills. My dad loved those times as much as I did. He was a scientist. He believed that children should know where they lived and what was around them. My dad taught me the difference between the footprints of a deer and a coyote, between the berries and mushrooms I could eat and those I couldn’t. He used the Latin names for most of the plants, and when I couldn’t remember them, he translated. There was one I thought of now, with a funny name. A big, tall plant, a larger version of what grew on the lawn. He took it very seriously. What was it?
Then, I remembered. The Giant Hogweed.
Of course.
When we were back in cell phone range, I stopped and made my call to the biology division of the Nova Scotia Department of Natural Resources, my dad’s old office.
“Does a Rob Baxter still work with you?” I asked the receptionist.
“Yes, he does. Part-time these days,” she answered. “You’re in luck. He’s in the office now. Would you like me to put you through?”
“Yes, please.” Rob had been my dad’s assistant just before he retired. When he came on the line, I caught my breath. Hearing his voice brought back memories.
“Valerie Rankin. I don’t believe it! We were just talking about your dad the other day,” Rob said. “How are you? I hear you’re back in Gasper’s Cove.”
“I am.” I was unsure of how to begin this conversation. “Listen, Rob, I hate to hit you out of the blue like this, but I have a question about a plant my dad talked about a long time ago. I have a friend, someone running for mayor up here, who might have run into it. Not poison ivy, but similar.”
I thought that I could hear Rob smile. He was a man who waited all day for calls like mine.
“If I can help you, I will,” he said. “But what plant are we talking about?”
“Giant Hogweed,” I said. I felt like a character out of Harry Potter.
“You think that your friend had an encounter with a Giant Hogweed?” Rob sounded alarmed. “I hope not. The small garden variety is benign, but the larger version, the six-foot plant we have in parts of the province, is dangerous. Where was this?”
Possibly in a jar of face cream made with seaweed and love, I could have said, but didn’t. “Not sure exactly.”
“Find out if you can.” I could hear the tapping of keys— Rob was taking notes. “We’ve got a public information campaign going on in your neck of the woods. The sap is photosensitive. If it gets in your eyes, it can cause blindness. Nothing to fool around with.”
Wow. If this plant had caused Darlene’s rash, she was lucky. I had another question, an important one.
“What if someone didn’t touch the sap directly? Say it was more of a secondhand contact.” My dad’s old colleague must think that I was nuts. “Would it be as dangerous?” I asked.
There was silence as Rob thought. “You mean like some sap left on a glove or a tool? And it got touched later with a bare hand?” Rob, bless him, wasn’t considering the cosmetic angle, only scenarios that made sense in his sane world.
“Sort of like that.”
“Okay. It would still burn, but not as much,” he said. “Can’t say I’ve seen any research on that scenario. I imagine if the sap hadn’t dried up, it could still do some damage. But, like I said, it’s photosensitive. It would be most active as soon as the person went out in the sun.”
I was glad I had made this call. “That’s interesting,” I said. “Really appreciate this.”
“Any time,” he answered. “Remember, if you get a location on the plant, let us know. We’ll send up a crew to remove it.”
“If I can figure that out, I will.”
“Someone running for mayor, did you say?” Rob asked. “Can I ask who? It wouldn’t be Elliot Carter, though, that’s for sure.”
That caught me by surprise. “Why not Elliot?” I asked.
“Oh, we all know Elliot, he kicked around a lot,” Rob explained. “One of the departments he worked in was Land and Forests. He’d know better than to mess with the Giant Hogweed.”
“No, it wasn’t Elliot,” I said, thinking that this unexpected piece of information was exactly what I needed. “Someone else, kind of confidential.”
“Got it. Politicians.” Rob stopped. When he spoke again, he was less official, more wistful. “I’m glad you called. We still miss Ed Rankin—he was the best. Always did the right thing. You sound just like him.”
“Thanks, Rob,” I said. “I needed to hear that. You take care.”
After I hung up, I didn’t go back onto the road right away. Instead, I sat and stared at the horizon on the water. Toby sat patiently beside me, willing to wait for as long as I needed.
I knew what I had to do. After I dropped Toby off at home, I got back in the car and headed across the causeway to the RCMP detachment in Drummond.
It was time I talked to Wade.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As I was coming off the causeway, I passed Gilles’s Citroën going in the other direction, heading over to Gasper’s Cove. Gilles saw me and flashed his lights. I smiled as we passed, aware of the flutter I felt.
I’d pulled myself together by the time I arrived at the detachment. The officer at the front desk was the one I knew.
“Is Officer Corkum in?” I asked her. “I have something to tell him.”
“I’ll buzz him,” she said, watching me through the plexiglass window as she mumbled something into her phone, listened, and then hung up. “He’ll be out shortly. Why don’t you take a seat?”
I didn’t sit down. This seemed like an opportunity to talk. I never let those pass.
“Good news about that award they’re giving Wade. When’s that going to happen?” I asked, kicking the conversational tires. “I passed that public relations guy on the way over.” Gilles had been in the area for a while. I wondered whether he was good at this job or just slow at it.
“Award? You know as much as I do,” she said.
I tried again, hoping that the officer wouldn’t wonder why I was so interested in an RCMP staffer from Québec.
“You’re from Isle Madame, aren’t you?” I asked. “So was his grandfather. I think that’s one reason he came.”
“Excuse me?” the officer asked. “What gave you that idea?”
Because that’s what he told me, I wanted to say. “His grandfather went to Québec to work in the mills?” I ventured.
The face behind the plexiglass looked puzzled. “You got that wrong. I know everyone from the island and their fathers,” she said. “But my mother is a DeWolf. When I heard the name, I asked him about his family. He said that his people originally came from Connecticut.”
Before I could say anything, a door down the corridor opened. Wade came out.
“Well, look who’s here,” he said. “You wanted to talk to me?” He moved me out of earshot from the front desk and to an empty room, not his office.
“Yes. I’ve been doing some work on the case. Mike’s murder, like you asked,” I said. “I want to report on the progress of my investigations.” I sat down and settled in, realizing how much I enjoyed being here in a semiofficial capacity.
Wade pulled up another one of the molded plastic chairs and sat. He moved uncomfortably in his seat and looked at a spot on the wall behind my head. I was surprised by his lack of enthusiasm.
“I didn’t ask you to investigate,” he said. “I just asked you to let me know if you noticed anything. I hope you haven’t been talking.”
Wade couldn’t have it both ways. He couldn’t ask me to help one day and then not listen to me the next. “Hear me out,” I said.
“All right, but understand there is more at stake than you know.” Wade leaned back and locked his hands behind his head, as if to show me that he wasn’t going to take anything I said seriously.
“Mike was murdered”—I paused dramatically, I couldn’t resist—“by the same person who is trying to make Darlene look bad.”
Wade tipped so far back in his chair that I thought that he might fall over. He caught himself and sat up straight.
“This is my fault. I should never have involved you,” he said. “I’m under real pressure on this case.” Wade put a finger under his collar to loosen it. “I don’t have time for this. You’ve figured this out? Give me a break.”
It had taken nerve to come here. I wasn’t leaving until I had said what I came here to say. Wade needed to pay attention to me.
“Think about it.” This was a mistake. Wade the jock had always been sensitive about his intellect. “The murderer is out to get Darlene. That shows you who it is,” I explained.
“Not following,” Wade said, then caught himself. “I mean, I can follow. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Darlene,” I said. “There’s a target on her back. A sign with her name is put next to a dead body. Personal stuff about her finances is leaked to the media. Her campaign manager—that would be me—is dragged through the dirt. Her headquarters down in my basement is ransacked. And now her skin is all broken out due to sabotage. Who would go to all that trouble?”
“You tell me,” Wade said.
“Someone who wants to be mayor of an enlarged municipality. Something no candidate but Darlene opposes. One of the other candidates, the same one who killed Mike.” If I was going to do all of Wade’s work for him, he owed me a commission. “Elliot Carter.”
“Elliot?” Wade rolled his eyes. “And what’s your evidence?”
“Money and ego,” I explained. “Elliot is addicted to job titles. Being mayor gives him everything he needs. Mike stood in his way.”
Wade looked out the window, but I could tell that he was listening. I could almost hear the rusty wheels turning in his head. Maybe something I said had connected to something he already knew.
“Go on.”
“Elliot used to work at Lands and Forests. And he is in the store all the time,” I said. “It could have been him.”
“Now you’ve lost me again,” said Wade.
I might as well go all the way. “At first, I thought it was Charlie,” I explained. “He can’t stand the tourists who come here. They walk on protected lichen; they knock over bird’s nests. I thought he gave himself away, serving us moss tea, telling us he was a forager. Then, I remembered the chicken sweaters. Character counts.”
Wade picked up a pen and started clicking it. “I don’t believe this,” he said. “Today of all days. What are you talking about?”
“Giant Hogweed sap,” I said. “I think Elliot put some of it in the tester for Sylvie’s antiaging cream.” I found the clicking distracting. “I’m sure he thought no one would figure it out. But I did. It was plain as anything.”
Wade was now doodling. Tight little circles, like spirals. I wasn’t sure whether he understood what I was saying.
“That sap,” I explained. “It’s photosensitive. It can burn you, make you blind.”
Wade put down his pen. He looked tired. “Did anyone go blind?”
“No, but Darlene has a rash.”
Wade sighed. “Do you have this cream?”
“It got thrown out.”
Wade glared at me. “Of course. You’ve lost your mind,” he said. Rude, I thought. “What does face cream have to do with murder?”
“Read the news,” I said. “Brian Nickerson wants Darlene to join forces with him and become deputy mayor. It’s not going to happen. But if it did, she’d bring the Gasper’s Cove votes with her. That would knock Elliot out of the race.” Wade clicked his pen again. It was getting on my nerves. “Elliot wants to be mayor so bad he killed Mike and tried to sabotage Darlene. It’s simple.”
Wade was silent. He looked at the ceiling tiles, at the floor, toward the door, and through the window again. Finally, he looked at me.
“I’ve got a crime to solve,” he sighed. “Maybe two. You have no idea what I’m up against. I don’t have time for crazy talk. You don’t either.”
I was confused. “What are you saying to me?”
Wade was brisk. “For your information, we know where Elliot was when Mike was killed. We have witnesses. He’s in the clear.”
“Witnesses?” I snickered. “I can imagine. Who were they? A couple of the guys who work for the municipality?”
“No,” Wade said. “You should pay attention to the news. There are hundreds of witnesses. Half of Gasper’s Cove. Elliot was the marshal at a race at the yacht club all that day.”
I had to admit that this information was a setback. But it didn’t explain everything.
“What about Darlene’s rash?” I asked. “What do you have to say about that?”
Wade rolled his eyes. “Look. Why don’t you concentrate on the store and your arts and crafts or whatever you do,” he said. “For your own good. Forget about finding Mike’s killer, if you can. Forget all these silly theories, particularly the ones about giant plants. Forget anything I ever said to you about keeping your eyes open.”
“That’s it?” I asked, disappointed. “I’m off the case? You don’t want my help at all?”
“No. Except … ” Wade sagged in his chair. He knew that he was about to say something he would later regret. But he asked the question anyway.
“There’s one thing, but just one,” he looked around, as if someone else who might hear was in the room. “Valerie, what can you tell me about Maud Lewis?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Maud Lewis?”
Every Nova Scotian knew about our most famous artist. Little Maud Lewis, crippled by arthritis, isolated, covering her world with paint. Her tiny house was preserved in the Art Gallery of Nova Scotia. It was a national treasure. Every inch of it—the walls, the stair treads, the stove, and the kettle—was painted with what Maud saw in the world around her. Birds, flowers, dogs, and the famous black cats. The visitors who passed on the road in front of her house had noticed it. The paintings they bought had made her famous.
“I know she loved what she did,” I said. “She had no choice but to create.” I knew what that felt like.
I heard a door open and a voice behind me.
“Much like yourself, wouldn’t you say?”
I turned around. It was Gilles. Gilles, the fancy car–driving, romantic dinner–cooking, almost-object-of-my-desires, out-of-towner with the made-up grandfather.
I gave him an honest answer. “In a way, like me.”
Wade stood up and pushed a chair forward. Gilles sat down and placed some papers on the table between us.
“What I have here, Valerie Rankin, is a warrant to search your residence and place of business.” His tone was formal. “We have reason to believe you are involved in, if not the leader of, a group of artisans running an art forgery ring. Specifically, one that produces fraudulent Maud Lewis art.”
I looked at Wade. So that’s where his question had come from.
I turned back to face Gilles and started to laugh. It began as a giggle and then got louder and more out of control. Gilles watched me, impassive. Wade was more uncomfortable and moved toward the door.
“I’ll get her some water,” he said to Gilles, who, I
suspected, outranked him. “Excuse me.”
Gilles nodded, but his eyes didn’t leave my face. He sat and waited. I took a breath and wiped the tears from my eyes.
“I don’t paint,” I said. “I sew. I knit. I couldn’t forge anything if my life depended on it.” Then, the reality of the papers on the table started to sink in. A search warrant. “Hey, Toby’s in the house. If your people go in, make sure that they don’t let him out. Once this week is enough.” I tried to pull myself together. “I don’t understand. How does this have anything to do with me?”
Gilles sat back, watching my reaction as he spoke. “There are fifteen thousand fake Maud Lewis paintings in circulation,” he said. “They are everywhere. Most are in private collections, but embarrassingly, some have found their way into the premier’s office. Someone is making a fortune. We’ve watched the airports and other ports of entry for years, trying to figure out how they were getting in. Until I had an idea.”
I finished for him. “They weren’t coming into the country from outside, because they were being made here, weren’t they?” I asked. How typically Canadian to assume that everything bad happened elsewhere.
“Exactly. Which led me to you,” he said. “A local organizer of craftspeople, working in the middle of nowhere … ”
The middle of nowhere? I stopped laughing.
“Your visit to the Co-op. The dinner.” I said. “You weren’t one bit interested in anything except checking me out as a criminal mastermind, were you?” This was so humiliating. Why had I thought that he was interested in me? Why had I told him my whole life story and not noticed that he had shared nothing about his? All I knew was the reason he gave for being here. “What about Wade’s commendation?” I asked. “The one you were supposed to be organizing? Is that made up too?”
Gilles was offended. It seemed to be okay to question the motives of everyone except the RCMP.
“Excuse me? Officer Corkum will receive an award,” he said. “He’s done good work, apparently.” Gilles looked as though his own assessment of Wade’s skills was less flattering. “The crime statistics about this community put it on our radar. It gave me a reason to come down here. What better place to hide anything than somewhere no one goes to, where no one knows about art?”
