© 2023 Jeremy Akerman

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Cover image: The Glory of Fall by the author

Cover design: Rebekah Wetmore

Interior images by the author

Editor: Andrew Wetmore

ISBN: 978-1-990187-75-9

First edition April, 2023

2475 Perotte Road

Annapolis County, NS

B0S 1A0

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We live and work in Mi’kma’ki, the ancestral and unceded territory of the Mi’kmaw People. This territory is covered by the Treaties of Peace and Friendship which Mi’kmaw and Wolastoqiyik (Maliseet) People first signed with the British Crown in 1725. The treaties did not deal with surrender of lands and resources but in fact recognized Mi’kmaq and Wolastoqiyik (Maliseet) title and established the rules for what was to be an ongoing relationship between nations. We are all Treaty people.

Also by Jeremy Akerman

and available from Moose House Publications

Memoir

Outsider

Politics

What Have You Done for Me Lately? - revised edition

Fiction

Black Around the Eyes – revised edition

The Premier’s Daughter

Finding Doctor Dee (coming in 2023)

Dedicated to my beloved Caroll Anne

and in memory of

Gareth Edward Akerman 1974-2008

Michael John Akerman 1938-2021

This is a work of fiction. The author has created the characters, conversations, interactions, and events, and any resemblance of any character to any real person is coincidental.

The Affair at Lime Hill

Arm of Gold

A call from Home

Along the Saint Lawrence

Home

Something in the shadows

Speed bonny boat

Norman’s store

The MacDonalds

Lutzi

Fire

Take the flashlight

She is not a whore

Guilty conscience

Along a new road

I was only passing

Making a mistake?

You saved my life!

A completely disinterested party

There was that word again

The whole thing is made up!

To bed

No secret

Thinking of him

Moving Mrs. Gillis

A death on Main Street

From stem to stern

Accusation

Separate rooms

Gossip

Brown leaves underfoot

Suspicion

The perfect crime

May God forgive me

Moral dilemmas

One last goodbye

Nothing ever happens in the country

Gone

Acknowledgements

About the author

West Bay from Marble Mountain

Arm of Gold

It was a perfect fall day. Most of the leaves were becoming a delicate lemon yellow, positively gleaming in the sunlight, and gently swaying in the soft breeze. Here and there the occasional leaf shone out in orange amid the rich, deep green of the spruce which climbed the steep sides on either side of the water. Lower down, near the shore, some patches of grass were a pale gold while others had already become ochre.

Dotted about the shore, sheep lazily grazed, apparently oblivious of their idyllic surroundings; but the cows were sensibly lying under the shade of the large maples, their slightly swishing tails the only apparent signs of life. High above, gulls, terns and crows competed in spectacular feats of aerobatics, sometimes appearing to bounce off the light fluffy clouds.

Cape Breton Island’s Bras D’Or Lakes stretched as far as the eye could see until they disappeared, merging into the pale azure horizon. The first white men to see this expanse of water are said to have been French explorers who came here in the 1580s. Supposedly, they saw the lakes reflecting the sun and called them Bras d'or, or Arm of gold.

The sun, now starting to sink in the sky, cast a ribbon of gold across the surface of the sparkling blue water, picking out on the north shore dozens of miniature wharves, fields, farms, and houses.

Far in the distance, one house was barely distinguishable from a dozen others scattered along the shore of Lime Hill by a faint, flashing blue light. This emanated from the roof of an ambulance which was parked in the yard of an old farm, about a kilometre from the water’s edge. A short dirt driveway connected the farm and its weathered outbuildings with a small secondary road. This was the Old Gillis Place, where some seven generations of that clan had lived and worked.

The sound of slamming doors and loud sobbing came from within the darkened recesses of the residence.

A call from home

Toronto was unbearable. The heat was stifling, and the sun beat down on baked, dusty streets, its blinding light reflecting from cars, windows, buses and trucks. The heavy, noisy traffic belched stinky exhaust fumes into an atmosphere which was barely moving. The shimmering sidewalks were thick with sweating pedestrians, their clothing in disarray as they struggled to their destinations.

The city desperately needed a good, cleansing downpour, but weather forecasts were not obliging and were condemning the citizens to several more weeks of suffering.

Detective Sergeant Roberta Gillis and her sidekick, Gordon Wadden, were stuck in a traffic jam. In the last ten minutes they had moved no more than half a kilometre and, since the congestion was equally bad in both directions, there was nothing they could accomplish by switching on their flasher. Although the air conditioner was on full blast, the heat in the police cruiser was overwhelming, sweat was trickling down Roberta’s neck, and both she and Gordon were starting to smell.

Roberta was a slim, attractive, dark-haired woman about forty, wearing a light cotton dress, while Gordon was an overweight, balding man in his fifties whose heavy, noisy breathing was getting on her nerves. She and Gordon had been partners for almost three years, during which time she had been exasperated by his habits and grateful for his courage and loyalty in equal measure. He could be a real pain in the rear end, but was magnificent in emergencies. He might look like a boozer who had gone to seed, she thought, but he's like a Tasmanian devil when the chips are down.

To add to their present discomfort, in the back of the cruiser they had in handcuffs Harvey, a repeat offender whose habits and personal hygiene left much to be desired. He was dirty, unkempt and unshaven, with breath redolent of some unspeakable variety of alcohol.

If youse had asked me, he slurred, I could have showed youse a short cut to the police station.

Shut your mouth, snapped Gordon, You’re in enough trouble already!

Juss tryin’ to be helpful, said Harvey.

Roberta mopped the back of her neck with a handkerchief. When she looked at it, it was soaking wet.

Glancing out of the car window she noticed a large billboard advertising an airline. It depicted two smiling—and obviously cool—people on a pink beach with palm trees leaning toward a turquoise sea. HAVE AN ADVENTURE—GET AWAY FROM IT ALL was the caption.

What a great idea, she said, I sure wish I was there now. I could use some R and R. Any sign of movement up ahead, Gordon?

Not yet. Probably some damn truck overturned, I shouldn’t wonder.

It’s not toxic waste, is it? piped up Harvey from the back.

What the hell you talking about? Gordon said, irritated. I thought I told you to keep quiet.

Youse said a truck overturned. Maybe it spilled toxic waste.

Shut your mouth. Or I’ll ram toxic waste down your throat.

They sat there breathing heavily, the sweat now pouring down their faces, the odour from Harvey becoming sickening. Gordon stuck his arm out of the window and starting pounding his fist against the door.

Say, have you seen that show? Harvey asked, pointing to another billboard advertising a performance of Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde. That show. You seen it?

Jesus Christ! If you don’t shut up….

Roberta put a hand on Gordon's arm to restrain him.

Which was the bad guy? Jekyll or Hyde? Harvey persisted.

Hyde, said Roberta.

Gordon buried his face in his hands.

Sounds like it should be the other way round, said Harvey.

Yes, I always thought that too. said Roberta with a heavy sigh.

Jekyll is a meaner soundin’ name than Hyde, ain't it?

If you don’t shut your goddamned mouth, Gordon exploded, there’s going to be some police brutality around here!

Harvey cowered back into the seat. Roberta put her head back and closed her eyes. All she could hear now was the cacophony of car horns blowing.

~

It was over an hour later when they got to the station. They dragged a kicking and shouting Harvey to the duty sergeant, booked him, saw him delivered to the cells, then clambered upstairs to the squad room.

It was a clamorous, hot, sweltering bedlam of crowded desks, computers and cabinets with ineffectual fans whose only accomplishment seemed to be blowing papers into disorganized heaps. Officers and clerks were scurrying around, a choir of phones were ringing in unison and people were shouting at each other, angrily demanding attention. A small terrier tied to the leg of a desk was yapping incessantly. In one corner a little old lady sat alone, sobbing uncontrollably.

As Roberta entered she saw a colleague, Jenny, waving to her from the other end of the room, so, exchanging small talk as she went, she threaded her way through the throng to her.

What’s up, Jenny?

Your brother wants you to call him right away.

My brother, Rod? He called here?

Yeah.

That’s weird. What did he want?

Don’t know. He didn’t say. Just said it was urgent. That was a couple of hours ago.

Okay, thanks, Jenny.

Roberta withdrew into her office, which was basically a three-sided cubicle formed by movable partitions and furniture. Standing at her desk, she rummaged through her bag for her address book. It had, she was ashamed to admit, been so long since she had called Rod and Shirley, his wife, that she had forgotten the number.

She hung her bag on the back of a large swivel chair, sat down and pulled the phone towards her. There was no answer for several seconds, then Rod came on the line.

Hello.

Hey Rod. It’s me. I only just got your message. What’s going on?

It’s Shirley, Bobby. She’s dead.

Dead?

She died about four hours ago.

What? Oh my God. Oh Rod I’m so very sorry. What happened?

They don’t know for sure yet. Rod’s voice sounded weak. The doctor thinks she must have had some kind of freak aneurysm. He tried to explain it, I but I couldn’t really understand. He says they’ll know for sure later.

Oh Roddy, you poor thing. How are the kids taking it?

Not too well, Angie is in a terrible state.

Poor little mite. Give her my love. What about Ma?

She’s out of it. With that Alzheimer's she has no idea what's going on.

Is there anything I can do?

Yes, by Jesus, there is. Rod raised his voice. You can get back here right away and look after the kids and the old woman. I’ve got to work to pay the bills. I’m working down at the strait now and they won’t hold my job for me if I take time off.

I don’t see how I could, Rod. My case load is sky high. I just can’t

Bobby, just fucking do it, Bobby. For Christ’s sake!

The line went dead. Rod had other things to attend to, and he was in no mood to argue.

~

Inspector Cyril Caduggan had a proper office with walls, a door, and even a window which backed on a quadrangle of weeds surrounded by pipes and wires. Today, the sun streamed through, making bright patterns on the old ragged carpet.

Caduggan was a very large, burly man in his late forties, a terse, to-the-point, man who did not suffer fools gladly, but who possessed reserves of kindness for his favourite employees. Roberta preened herself because she was sure that she was one of the chosen.

After he heard about the circumstances of Shirley’s death, Caduggan did not beat about the bush. I know what you want me to say.

Oh? What do I want you to say?

You want me to say that I can’t spare you, that we can’t get by without you. That it’s administratively impossible.

Do I? Roberta asked, hoping that he would say exactly that.

Yes, you know you do. Admit it.

Well, my caseload is enormous, so it is administratively impossible.

I won’t bullshit you, Roberta, that’s not my style. You’re good and you’ll be missed. But you’re not indispensable. It can be fixed.

Roberta’s heart sank. She felt wounded by his comments. Cyril knew how to hurt.

"Look, you’ve got vacation time owed