but possible that physical causes were responsible.”
“What physical causes? She was a goddamn world-class athlete. She should have lived...” His voice trailed off, and his fists squeezed into themselves.
Holly took from him only what she needed for the time being, the evidence of a life. “We’ll give you a call tomorrow. And Mr. Didrickson, I’m so very sorry.”
As they walked to their vehicles, a boy about eight with a vocal VRRRROOOOM tore down the street on a mountain bike, bumped up a curb, and turned into the driveway. Gable gave a wave. “That’s the son. Robin.” He wiped at a tear in his eye. “I’m going to stay with Nate for awhile. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“It’s kind of you. I was going to suggest it if there isn’t local family. This is no time for him to be by himself.”
“He has a sister in Metchosin. Very nice lady. I’ll get her over here.”
Back at the detachment, Holly passed Chipper heading for his elderly Sunfire. He’d been taking the bus, but had recently got a loan from his parents to buy the thousand-dollar beater.
Under his arm, he carried a manila folder. “Taking my report home for another read,” he said. “One class assignment I wrote: ‘She said that she had been gone for fifteen minuets and that her ex-husband had stolen the cat for breading purposes.’” He spelled the offending words.
Despite the grim day, Holly produced a genuine laugh. “Spellcheck was invented to lull a writer into a false sense of security.”
“You’ve got that right.” He held up a battered Strunk and Whyte style manual. “Ann gave me this. Said she nearly wore out the pages. I never can keep affect and effect straight.”
At least her staff got along with each other, she thought. Inside, she organized her notes and rerouted the answering machine to her house as officer on call. Then she set the security cameras and locked up. As quiet as Fossil Bay was, keeping the detachment open for more than one shift wasn’t feasible.
“Hello, baby,” she said to the 1985 Honda Prelude. When her Civic had coughed its last breath at 250,000 klicks, she’d traded it in at Sooke Motors, adding a new sound system for CDs. The Prelude was cherry in colour and condition, having been owned by an eighty-year-old retired jeweller who drove it only on weekends. The sound system was top of the line. She rolled back the sunroof and slipped in a disk of Sheryl Crow’s duet with Kid Rock. Holly’s mother had been no faithless spouse diving into a bottle, but lines from “The Picture” made her throat hurt. “I called you last night at the hotel/ Everyone knows but they won’t tell.” Did someone on this tight little island have information about Bonnie Martin? “I want you to come back home.” As if she could. From the beginning, Holly had known in her heart that her mother was dead.
She headed east a few miles on winding West Coast Road toward Otter Point, where her father lived. It had been too easy to accept his generous offer to share the large home. With her fledgling career and modest salary, buying a property was impossible with average prices shooting past four hundred thousand dollars. Legal (or illegal) suites were available only through close connections, and apartments were scarce. Park trailers were an alternative, but she wouldn’t be stationed here for more than a few years and didn’t want the hassle of selling.
Reluctant though she’d been to return to a place with bad school memories, she wanted to be sure her father was as well and happy as possible. The quintessential professor, he nursed his absentmindedness like a fond character trait. It allowed him a certain aloofness, especially from women. She wondered if he was lonely, because he’d never admit it. Neither did he mention female companions. Perhaps, with her dismal dating history, she was closer to him in personality than she thought. The social whirl never had meant much to her, busy and content in her own company.
She passed Kirby Creek, Muir Creek, Tugwell Creek, pioneer names from settlement. A metal sign on each bridge flagged the salmon habitat and urged people to protect “our” resource. Many feared the fishery might collapse, due to overfishing, sea-lice transfer from fish farms, or hungry seals staking out claims near spawning areas.
At Gordon’s Beach, a curious string of miniature homes perched on the narrow shoreline, elbowing each other like in a Disney film. Some were flimsy shacks, others brand new whimsical hobbit houses with gables, turrets, nooks and crannies valued at over half a million. With fifty feet frontage or less, they clung like limpets to the strip of land. Turning on Otter Point Road, passing a llama farm and saluting the dark brown shaggy male who gazed into another pasture at his harem, she took a left at Otter Point Place, a sunny hillside dead-ending in a turnaround. With the opposite side of the street still pasture returning to bush, it had an unsurpassed view of the ocean.
She stopped at the new mailbox pavilion. Nothing from Kevin in Nunavut. Why did she expect him to write? Even though they’d dated in Port McNeill, he’d made a deliberate attempt to keep their relationship casual. At first she’d been seduced by his gourmet Italian cooking and black belt in karate. Then, near the end, enter that new file clerk with the low-cut blouses and high-cut hemlines. He’d had such an odd look when she’d met them leaving the evidence lockers. After that, he’d been slow to return her calls, pleading the need to attend sessions of a court case.
As she opened the box, Telus, Shaw and B.C. Hydro bills spilled from the metal cubicle. Obviously, her father had neglected to collect the mail for at least a week.
Unlike the cottagey New England style of its demure neighbour, his was a white Greek villa, huge windows in the solarium, two decks, a hot tub, a rampant kiwi and a stand of banana trees. The lawn was dry and brown, even with the flushings from the septic bed. The monsoons couldn’t arrive soon enough. As she passed the peach tree at the side of the house, she smiled at the flourishing holly bush her mother had planted and her father had nourished. Tempting red berries protected by prickly leaves, a wry allegory for any independent woman.
Norman Martin taught popular culture at the University of Victoria and steeped himself in a different period each semester. The concept anchored his life and removed him conveniently from the realities of the present. A savoury stew infused the hall as she entered, a mysterious ingredient teasing her nose. Her father loved to cook for his research, and she loved to eat. She blessed him for waiting for dinner. Reunited only a few weeks ago, already they had an understanding that if she wasn’t back by seven, unable to call due to her remote location, he’d chow down.
“Get in here. Your old dad’s nearly faint,” he said, waving a wooden spoon from the kitchen. He wore a gingham apron over his chinos. Definitely not her mother’s. Bonnie Martin had never made a meal in her life. Food was a fuel to reach her goals, the simpler and faster the better, often no more than fruit, bread and cheese eaten on the go in her Bronco and washed down with cold green tea.
“Let me climb out of this gear. The vest is smothering,” she said, taking the winding staircase to the upper floor. Oblivious to its view, his nose in books, he had given her the master suite, taking the two back rooms for his bedroom and study. It gave her an odd feeling to have her parents’ room, but its double occupancy had been short. Perhaps her father wanted a fresh start, too. For all she knew, he’d abandoned that room to far-off memories. But he hadn’t sold the house, though he knocked around in its sprawl. Did he hope Bonnie would come home?
After a quick shower, she tossed on shorts and a T-shirt. At the pine table in a sunny, adjoining alcove overlooking the strait, she sat down to a Fifties meal. Shelves in the oak kitchen were lined with cookbooks, from Mrs. Beaton to Betty Crocker to Joy of Cooking to the Barefoot Contessa. He served a rich beef stew made with beer, boiled potatoes and a can of green peas. Starving, she dug into
