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"I think folklore is absolutely fascinating as a window into the human psyche. Cross-cultural similarities prove that. We all fear the same things, and we invent remarkably similar stories to deal with those fears."
"Yes," Jeanne said drily. "Apparently explaining similar experiences by speculating on another evolutionary branch of humans is ridiculous. Somehow it makes far more sense to say that our brains are predisposed to come up with the same explanation despite being oceans apart and from vastly different cultures."
"I never said believing in the little people is ridiculous, Gran."
"The implication is there. As is the one that suggests you are the educated new generation, forced to deal with the superstitions and stories of us ignorant old folk. You aren't the only one who went off and got her degree."
"I'm sorry, Gran. And now we've made our guests terribly uncomfortable."
"Nah," Ricky said. "I have the same issue with my grandmother. Except I'm the one who believes in ghosts, and she's the one who says that's poppycock. Direct quote, by the way. Poppycock. But she does believe in fairies. Fairies are real; ghosts can't be. Go figure. But yeah, getting back on topic, could the swimming hole be haunted? You mentioned something about drownings? Did the stories start with them?"
"In a way," Laurel said as she reached for her tea. When she knocked a spoon from the table, I thought, Company's coming.
She reached to pick it up. I tensed, and she smiled and said, "I should leave it there to avoid a disappointment, right?"
"Sorry. My brain is overstuffed with omens, courtesy of my mother. Go ahead and pick it up."
She took another instead, saying, "I might not believe, but I still hedge my bets. So, the stories about the swimming hole . . . They date back to the first immigrants, which is interesting, as timelines go. Often what you see is immigrants assimilating and restructuring the stories of the original inhabitants."
"Assimilating and restructuring?" Jeanne said. "Ah, yes, that's what Mikey Wallace should have been charged with when he stole those cars, repainted them and filed off the serial numbers. Assimilating and restructuring."
"I know Laurel's trying to put it politely," Ricky said. "But it is usually people taking local legends, completely reworking them and then passing them off as their own."
"True," Laurel said. "But hasn't that always been the way with folklore and myth? It's like urban legends. You're passing on stories that have been related to you as truth. If you two tell someone else about the fairy cave at Kellys Mountain--having never heard the Mi'kmaq's Glooscap version--are you appropriating our story? Are you even being irresponsible for passing along a charming folktale without investigating the roots first?" She shook her head. "I think we've got bigger issues of appropriation to worry about."
"Bigger issues, yes," Jeanne said. "Which doesn't mean we shouldn't worry about this one. But the question was about the drownings. Laurel's right. The legends only started after the first immigrants arrived. Scottish, mainly. They hadn't even broken sod before they started circulating stories about the swimming hole, which our people had swum in for generations. That made the whites look like proper fools, saying it was haunted . . . until some of our people also reported strange goings on there. Whispers and voices. Glimpses of a figure under the water. Swimmers having their feet grabbed. The sound of bells."
My chin jerked up.
"Liv heard bells," Ricky said. "Tinkling ones."
"That's what they said, too. Some people stayed away. Others, mostly the young ones, were drawn to it. Kids can't resist a spooky place. Then came the drownings."
"There was one confirmed drowning," Laurel said. "Two disappearances--people who dove and never came up. Together with the rest, that was enough for people to start steering clear."
"Even tourists who've never heard the stories," Jeanne said, "they sense wrong about the place."
"A psychic No Trespassing sign," I said. "We definitely got that vibe. But all this started after the first immigrants--"
A distant knock sounded.
"Well," Jeanne said, "either the little people don't like us talking about them or there's someone at the door." She called, "We're out back."
A young woman appeared--about Laurel's age and thin, with light brown hair braided back. Dark circles underscored reddened eyes. I didn't need an omen to tell me who this was, and Laurel's murmured curse confirmed my suspicion.
Laurel rose. "Hey, Krista. We were just having tea and dessert. Let me go get you a cup. Take my seat."
Laurel headed for the house. The young woman--Krista--stayed standing.
"This is Krista," Jeanne said. "She works at the inn where you're staying. You won't see her there, though. She's taking some time off." Which was a discreet way of confirming this was the mother of the missing baby.
Krista looked at Ricky. "You're a private investigator."
"Uh, no. Sorry." His gaze cut to me, too briefly for her to notice.
"Mr. Bates overheard you in the tavern," Krista said. "He said it was the blond couple with the motorcycle. You were talking about investigating."
"That'd be me," I said. "I wouldn't say I'm a PI, though. I don't have my license yet. I work for a lawyer and just started a month ago. My first job out of college. Sorry, second job. First was waitressing."
