A Dark Chill by Bernadette Calonego

Author:Bernadette Calonego [Calonego, Bernadette]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-01-20T16:00:00+00:00

29

I find Dustin Wilson in the Viking Nest B&B in Hay Cove, a good-sized building standing out from the dozen others lining the short street that ends at the boat landing. Another of those small bays where fishermen settled centuries ago and people still live today. So far from everything. But people are probably content with it. A homeland doesn’t have to be opulent in order to be loved. More than anything, it must be familiar. I arrive at this insight before setting foot in the Viking Nest, where Constable Wilson is sitting in the kitchen before a dish of yellow pea soup.

“Would you like to eat, too?” the owner asks, a bustling, slim lady who radiates heartfelt warmth. Not waiting for an answer, she ladles soup into a bowl. Carrots and small pieces of meat are swimming in it. It smells delicious.

“If you’re going on foot, you’ve got to have something in your stomach,” she says, putting the dish on the table.

I wasn’t able to discuss with Dustin where we were actually going to look for Gavin. I had to take a call from RCMP headquarters: they informed me that Fred van Heisen was being transferred to St. Anthony and David Pelletier was being posted to Labrador. Yes, they asked what I thought about it, but that was just pro forma—it was already a done deal.

Right after that, Pelletier called: the judge approved a search of Henrietta’s car. Although my fingers were itching, I assigned the car to Pelletier and Heidy Wilson. I don’t want to be one of those bosses who can’t delegate. Nevertheless, I couldn’t resist advising them not to contaminate any relevant forensic clues. In case Henrietta’s father or mother still want to press charges against someone.

“The carrots are from our garden,” the B&B owner explains, “and the turnips, too.”

I understand her pride; it’s not easy to cultivate something in the north of Newfoundland. The season’s long enough for potatoes and other root vegetables. And rhubarb. Rex brought in two little jars of jam this morning, which I didn’t devote sufficient attention to because things were so hectic. I’ll thank him again later more profusely. So many presents today: Elaine Kane’s book, the jam, and now the soup.

Our hostess diverts us further with garden stories. She puts something down on the table.

“This morning I received these gardening gloves, and I ordered them six weeks ago. That’s how long it takes when I order something on the internet. I don’t want heavy gloves, they’re useless; I want them elastic and thin and with rubber on the palm . . .”

Suddenly I hear her voice as if through a wall of cotton wool. Everything turns foggy around me. The striped gloves on the table go blurry. Another image surfaces from the dark depths of my unconscious. A crowbar raised up over me. The hands holding it. They’ve got gloves on. Gardening gloves. I can see them clearly. Down to the colors. Three colors. They’re not heavy but have long stripes.

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