about her past you never can tell.”
“Just get a move on it, Meg. I don’t need to tell you we’re running out of time.”
I watched another tree topple. Within a week, they’d be approaching the giant pines.
“You know Eric, I’m confused about the motive for last night’s break-in when the only item taken was Aunt Aggie’s wedding picture.”
Eric turned his grey gaze back towards me. Frowning, he said, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. He was searching for something too, something I might keep in my personal files or tucked away in my bedroom. He even checked under the mattress.”
“Any idea what it could be?”
“Not really. But I guess I’m beginning to realize that you aren’t the only person who thinks Aunt Aggie owned Whispers Island.”
Eric nodded. “Possibly. I’m sure I’m not the only one of my people to remember your aunt’s link to the island. Leave it with me. I’ll check it out.”
A sudden thought came to mind. “Charlie Cardinal wouldn’t happen to be one of those people, would he?”
Eric chuckled. “First person on my list.”
“There’s another interesting aspect to last night. Gareth was at the Fishing Camp about the time of the break-in. I wouldn’t be the least surprised to discover he had something to do with it. Especially if the guy last night turns out to be Charlie Cardinal.”
“Take care, Meg.”
“Strange. I don’t fear Gareth any more. You said it. He’s a bully. He lost his power to terrorize me the moment I finally I stood up to him.” And it was true. The feeling of tightness had gone.
We finished dismantling the tree by mid-afternoon. The trunk, far too heavy to move, I left for the local mill owner to cut up and take away. After helping me remove the broken glass and board up the kitchen window, Eric left, promising to return later to cook me a sumptuous dinner with one of the lake trout he was keeping for just such an occasion. I wasn’t sure what he meant by this latter statement but decided I’d leave tonight in the hands of the gods.
Despite my sore back, I couldn’t leave my vandalized cottage in its current state of confusion. I started with my bedroom. Not having Marie to goad me into folding my clothes neatly, I just jammed them back into the drawers. I’d worry about tidiness later. After replacing the mattress, I arranged the bedding as neatly as I could, even going so far as to fluff up the duvet and the pillows. I didn’t want to give a bad impression.
I then moved into the living room, which had suffered the worst damage. I wasn’t sure what to do about the sofa cushions. The size of the slashes suggested total replacement. I stacked them in the corner along with the damaged chair. I gathered up the scattered documents and shoved them back in the desk drawers.
As I cleaned, swept and put things back in their place, the outrage I’d felt last night returned. Outrage that someone had dared to break into my home, invade my privacy and scare me away. I cursed even louder when I saw the damage that he’d done to one of Aunt Aggie’s treasured antique end tables. The splintered mahogany fretwork and the cracked top suggested the intruder had just kicked it aside in his haste to leave.
While I was sweeping under one of the wing-backed chairs by the fireplace, I discovered a square of folded paper wedged underneath one of the curved wooden legs. Bending down to pick it up, I realized it might be the object I’d seen fall from behind Aunt Aggie’s wedding picture, the night it had shattered on the hearth.
I carefully unfolded the thin sheet of brittle paper and spread it out on the coffee table. It contained a letter written in thick ink now faded to a soft sepia. The sharpness of the creases suggested she’d re-read it many times.
At the top right-hand corner was the word Berlin and underneath 4 May, 1914. The rest of the letter filled the page.
My Dearest Agatha
Or as I prefer to call you, Liebchen, in the language of my birth. I cannot bear to have you leave me. Please, I desire you to be my wife. I was very wrong to insist you accept what is common practice in my country. I beg again for your forgiveness and ask only that you forget what is a distant past. We could have such a wonderful future together. Please, I will go wherever you wish, even to your wonderful wild country.
Please forgive me. I want only to be with you.
dein Johann
Embossed at the bottom of the page was a family crest with the name, Baron von Wichtenstein, written in a fancy German script.
I almost yelled out “Eureka”. I could only assume that Aunt Aggie had ended up marrying the wayward baron, for there could be no other reason for her to have kept his proposal letter tucked securely behind her wedding photo. So even if she had been left in the lurch, as Mother had said, by the man with the short English name beginning with “w”, she’d obviously not suffered for long. It also supported Eric’s suggestion that the angry scar on the groom’s face might have been the result of a sabre duel.
Still, I was no further ahead in discovering what had happened to Baron von Wichtenstein or why Aunt Aggie had kept her marriage to him a secret to the end.
At which point my musing was interrupted by Eric’s arrival, to the accompaniment of Sergei’s ecstatic yelps. Soon the kitchen was a swirl of enticing aromas, sizzling sounds and our laughing faces. And before I knew it, the evening was over and Eric gone, but not without a lot of misgivings on my part. True to his word, Eric hadn’t attempted to move faster than I was prepared to go. And I knew I wasn’t ready yet.
TWENTY-FIVE
The next day, with some trepidation, I ventured onto the lake in Aunt Aggie’s old wooden motor boat with an ancient fishing rod lying along the length of the boat’s bottom and a Styrofoam container of worms tucked under the stern seat. By the time the sun rose above the Lookout, Eric, John-Joe and three others from the Fishing Camp had joined me. We’d been patrolling for a couple of hours when the planes arrived, glimmering silver with the words CanacGold emblazoned in gold. The six of us were crisscrossing the only area of the lake large enough to handle their landing. Each of us had a section to patrol. Mine was the far one, which was supposed to be the least dangerous.
So far the planes had made five attempts to land, each time more daring than the last. The pilots were losing patience, becoming angrier and more willing to call our bluff.
Our constant circling was working. The water was well-stirred, the wind adding to the height of the chop. “Planes prefer to land in calm, flat water,” I was told. “Make it good and soupy!” We tried to time it so that there was no clear landing path.
“Ready! Here they come again!” Eric shouted from his boat, his voice a hoarse croak above the noise of the wind and racing engines.
I looked up to see the silver flash of a plane swoop over the distant hill towards us. The boats closest to the plane leapt into action, churning up the water in its path. But the pilot continued his descent and zoomed over their heads towards Eric and me. I revved up the engine and swerved my boat across the path of the landing plane.
