6

 

Carrie was asleep in the room closest to the top of the stairs. I peered in cautiously, not wanting to invade her privacy. But I could hardly keep a watchful eye if I didn’t know where she was.

Stretched almost the length of her king-size bed, with her hair fanned across the pillow, she reminded me of a sleeping princess. It didn’t seem right for Carrie to look so peaceful. Surely it was Geoff’s sedative that relaxed her elegant features and gave her that carefree look.

Ignoring Caber, who was virtually stuck like glue to my heel, I crept into the room, lifted the ivory afghan from a winged chair in the corner—almost knocking over the small, chair-side table in the process—and spread the cover over her. I gave the room a quick survey before I left. Good thing, too, because I spotted Carrie’s necklace on the floor beneath the little table. An emerald surrounded by diamonds that trailed away in cuts of decreasing size, kind of like a comet’s tail—Carrie’s necklace was legendary in these parts.

You see, Carrie Hunter came from a long line of Hunters. The original ones arrived on the HMS Humphrey, the ship that brought the first Scottish settlers to our harbor. That fact means nothing to anyone except the Hunters. But when Carrie met and fell in love with Claude Oui, the oldest of nine kids from a poor Cape Breton family, her parents were less than thrilled. They had standards, after all. And Claude simply didn’t measure up. To prove his worthiness, he bought Carrie a stunning emerald and diamond necklace. I guess it was his way of demonstrating how he would provide for their daughter. It must have worked, because the Hunters gave their blessing to the marriage. Claude and Carrie ended up living in the same house with them for years.

The necklace must have fallen from the table when I bumped it. I set it back on top and slipped out of the room before I caused more damage.

With all the doors along the corridor closed, the hallway was cave dark. I felt my way along the passage, checking each room to make sure there was no one else home besides Carrie, Caber, and me.

The first room, I assumed, had been her parents’ bedroom, with its giant curtained bed, massive dressers, and carved oak mantle. The next two rooms were guest rooms with bookshelves and antique coverlet-draped beds, and finally, I discovered two home offices.

The first office was Carrie’s. No one else could tolerate the gilt-framed frog portrait that dominated the room. It was done in an art-deco style, all golden light and cerulean sky. Might have been nice, except for the frogs in Grecian gowns. The furniture was a hodgepodge of eras; a roll top desk, a fiberboard computer station, and the kind of shelves that rest on metal, wall-mounted brackets. They held an assortment of product catalogues for the various toy lines Carrie sold. There were also monument catalogues, which I curiously flipped through.

The desk phone rang.

I debated whether to answer. What should I say? How would I field the obvious questions from whoever was on the other end? At the third ring the machine kicked in, and I didn’t have to decide.

Claude’s office/workout room opened off an adjoining door. Exercise equipment filled most of the space. A giant fan filled the window—which might have explained why the room didn’t smell like a sweat shop. A heart rate vs. weight chart hung on the wall. There were also framed pictures of Claude in his kilt balancing a caber, chucking a hammer, and several of him accepting trophies. A framed collection of trading cards showed how his body had matured over the years. In the corner sat a leather recliner chair, and a small bookshelf. I recognized some of the dog-eared volumes Geoff’d brought back from Somalia, among the shelf’s newer titles. And there was also a journal. I sank into Claude’s chair, considering whether to read it. Maybe, between his reflections on his wife and his life, I’d discover a few comments about my Geoff—not that I was prying.

The phone rang again. Like a shout from my conscience, it had me stuffing Claude’s journal back onto the shelf between Mary Slessor of Calabar and A Guide to West Africa. The machine took over after the third ring, and Carrie, bless her heart, slept on.

A bulletin board with a map of Africa rested against Claude’s shelf. A big red circle surrounded Ghana.

I’ve never yearned to travel, even though most people who grow up in small towns can’t wait to leave. Like Geoff, who headed for Africa as soon as he graduated medical school, they can’t wait to see new places. I traced the red circle with my fingertip and tried to imagine what Ghana would be like.

It wasn’t much more than a year since Claude Oui had given his heart to the Lord. He’d caused quite a stir in the local churches. I mean, it wasn’t often that an international athlete of Claude’s caliber made an open, life-changing profession of faith. Everyone knew. Everyone talked about it. Everyone scrutinized Claude’s movements, trying to judge for themselves whether his new-found faith was for real.

Claude’s conversion coincided with Geoff’s return after five years on a medical mission in Somalia. Claude was fascinated by Geoff’s experiences, convicted by the stories of infinite need, and challenged to use his own life to make a difference. I suspect that’s why he planned the trip to Ghana.

Claude had been excited when he told Geoff of his decision to trade competitive athletics for the mission field. Carrie, he insisted, would back him one-hundred percent, once she got over the shock. It had been several months since Claude announced his intentions. Presumably, Carrie’d come to terms with his vision.

Not that it mattered now.

Geoff said mission work wasn’t for everyone. He said people in Hum Harbour needed God’s love every bit as much as people in Africa or Asia. I knew he meant well when he told me that. He didn’t want me thinking I was a second-class Christian just because I didn’t want to leave Canada.

Deep inside I wondered, though; was I committed to Canada because I cared about my neighbors, or because I was afraid to try something different? Because the very thought of dipping my toes in change terrified me as much as the idea of dipping my toes into the sea. And believe me, after almost drowning twice, I would not—for any reason—dip my toes in the ocean. Ever again.

Speaking of toes, Caber pawed impatiently at mine. I took him out into the backyard where he investigated the lawn for unidentified odors, and I investigated Carrie’s garden.

I’m not big on gardening, but I do appreciate well-tended flower beds. Like my mom and my cousin, Mimi—both gardening fanatics—it seemed Carrie rearranged and expanded her plantings regularly. I could see where she’d been digging most recently. I thought she was moving daylilies. Or maybe they were oriental lilies.

The phone rang three times and stopped. Caber and I went back inside. I sat at the kitchen table; he sat on my feet. The clock ticked, and Carrie slept on. To fill the time, and to keep my mind from murder, I read the paper.