impossible. Aunt Aggie’s husband was William Watson, who died in 1920. When he died, she would have inherited, and since I was Aunt Aggie’s heir, I was now the owner of Whispers Island. Eric had been right all along.
I let out a war whoop. Gareth, I’ve got you now! And then I went cold. Someone had discovered I was the real owner of Whispers Island, and it couldn’t be Gareth. If he knew, he wouldn’t be issuing warnings. He’d be sitting back waiting for the inevitable to happen. Unless. Unless, somewhere under his calcified hide, he still held a vestige of the love he’d once felt for me. And if this were true, then I should heed his warning and not stay in this isolated house any longer.
The second letter rustled in my hand. I debated leaving it for later but decided it must be equally important for Mother to have included it. This one was from my Great-grandpa Joe. And as I read it, the floor seemed to open beneath me.
Toronto
November 12, 1920
Dear Son
Have you seen your sister yet? How is she taking it? I never did like that damn Hun she brought into the family. I never trusted him, too damn smarmy with his fancy manners, if you ask me. Why, that bastard didn’t even have the guts to fight for his country. He had to hide behind Aggie’s skirts.
And now that damn bastard has gone and left her. Enough that Aggie had to deal with the death of wee Edi, now she has to contend with this. Probably some skirt involved. Didn’t he have some wandering dick trouble in Germany? Good riddance is what I say, but Aggie won’t see it that way. She only had eyes for him.
I’m too busy right now, so I can’t go, but you go to Three Deer Point and see what you can do to help your sister.
For Aggie’s sake, I think we should keep this to ourselves. Lucky we kept the marriage quiet, what with the war and all. No reason why we can’t keep this a secret too. And for the few people that do know about the marriage, just put a notice in the local paper announcing the death of William Watson. It’ll save Aggie having to do any explaining and force him to use his German name.
Write after you’ve seen Aggie, and if you see the bastard, shoot him.
Your father Joe
The last of my euphoria had drained away by the end of the letter. My inheritance of the island was no longer secure. Now it was clogged with ifs. If my great-aunt had divorced the bastard, if he had remarried, if he had children, then I could not be the owner of Whispers Island.
I received some satisfaction from the realization that this was the kind of inheritance squabble that would take years to resolve in the courts. It would spell the end of any quick money for CanacGold, which in turn could kill their interest in developing the mine.
But it was also the kind of squabble that would disappear with the destruction of key documents.
I glanced down at the fragile letters and knew I was looking at the reason for the break-in. Charlie Cardinal had known about Aunt Aggie’s connection to Whispers Island. Maybe he’d also known about William Watson. Suspecting that documents like these existed, he’d searched my house with the intention of removing them before I found them. And he’d taken the wedding picture, the one readily available piece of evidence that could show Aunt Aggie’s link to William Watson. What would Charlie and Gareth do if they knew I now had the proof of Watson’s identity?
FORTY-ONE
I buttoned the two key letters securely into the back pocket of my jeans. Wherever I went, they would go too. I glanced nervously at the clock and realized it would be dark in another hour. I knew I didn’t want to spend the night alone at Three Deer Point, miles from police help. I placed a call to Eric, the one person I could trust. He proposed that Sergei and I spend the night at his place, a safe block away from the Migiskan detachment. With a promise to meet at the Fishing Camp within the half-hour, I hung up feeling considerably more secure.
After putting the dog out, I went to my bedroom to pack a few clothes. I automatically grabbed my flannel nightgown, then noticed wedged into the corner of the drawer the soft silky one Mother had given me after Gareth had left. It was still wrapped in the original tissue. I picked it up, shook the wrinkles out of it and thought, why not tempt the gods. I carefully laid it on top of the other packed items.
I checked the house to ensure all windows were securely bolted and doors locked. Then, with suitcase in hand, I headed outside to my truck. Although the rain had finally stopped, the heavy cloud cover suggested it wasn’t completely over. Patches of mist hovered in the recesses of the forest, making it difficult to see much beyond its edge. The wet, dripping silence was only broken by the raucous noise of squabbling birds, probably ravens, coming from the direction of the sugar bush.
I threw my bag into the truck, then set out to look for the dog. I found him cavorting near the woodshed with a strange looking object clenched between his teeth. He barked in greeting, dropped it to do so, then snatched it back up. But not before I recognized with disgust the bottom portion of a deer leg, complete with fur and hoof. He’d found a deer kill, which explained the quarrelling ravens.
Very pleased with himself, Sergei bounded down the trail to the sugar bush with his prize, looking backwards to see if I was playing his game of catch-me-if-you-can. In frustration, I yelled after him, but other than a quick backward glance, he ignored me and disappeared into the mist.
I’d never get him now. The last time he’d run off with a bone, it had taken an hour to finally coax him to drop the bone and come. Today I didn’t have an hour.
Sergei was hungry. His dinner might be the lure. So I placed his bowl brimming with dog food beside the truck, called him and waited. The raven’s cackling continued. But no sign of Sergei. Damn him. He’d done it to me again. I was angry enough to abandon him but knew I couldn’t leave him alone and unprotected. As much as I feared delaying my departure, I had no choice but to go after him.
I figured he’d most likely returned to the dead deer, which shouldn’t be difficult to locate. I’d follow the sound of the ravens quarrelling over the carcass. The problem was the noise seemed to be coming from further into the sugar bush than I cared to go, possibly as far as Aunt Aggie’s abandoned sugar shacks a quarter mile away. So before my nerves had a chance to dissuade me, I took a deep breath and headed towards the racket.
I walked along the trail thick with wet leaves and called the Sergei’s name in the futile hope that he would come. The reverberating cackles grew louder, as I neared the shacks. When I finally rounded the last bend, the ravens scattered in an uproar of flapping black and angry shrieks. Several flew to the top branches of nearby maples, while one landed on the metal roof of the main shack, where he emitted a loud croak, as if in warning.
What remained of the deer lay only a few yards from the trail, not far, I nervously realized, from my encounter last night. Just as well it had been Hélène. I didn’t want to think what would’ve happened if I’d met up with the wolves instead.
Although Sergei was nowhere in sight, I wasn’t completely disheartened. I counted four hoofs with femur attached amongst the blood-splattered bones and chunks of fur. Three lay tangled in the rib cage. The fourth, the one Sergei must’ve had, was propped against the starkly staring head of the deer. It was enough to tell me Sergei had returned.
Praying he hadn’t wandered far, I called out. The raven sitting on the shack’s roof answered with a hoarse chortle. And, miraculously, from inside the timber shack came a muffled bark and the sound of scratching.
I
