AllFreeNovel
Share Us
In the bakery’s new incarnation, it’ll be more of a coffeehouse, and from what I’ve seen here, that’ll be even more popular. We might even want to consider longer breaks for residents, maybe the option to work later or start earlier and get a morning or afternoon break long enough to hang out at the coffee shop with others. Whether it’s here—planning for the new Rockton—or in the town itself, people work their asses off, and breaks make a difference.
Over this particular one, Casey tells the others about the message in a bottle.
“You think it’s thirty years old based on what?” April says.
Casey tries not to tense. It’s the way April words things. She means it as an honest question, but her blunt delivery makes it sound like a challenge, as if Casey has made an unforgivable mistake.
“I looked up the bottle style,” Casey says. “It was used in the late eighties and early nineties.”
“Good thinking,” April says, and Casey relaxes.
“So you think this woman stayed here?” Nicole says. “There’s another lodge a few miles east—we bumped into people from it—but I don’t think it’s that old.”
It’s the same sort of question that April asked. Not challenging an assumption but opening possibilities we might have missed. The difference is in how Nicole words it. That’s not April’s fault. It’s not even entirely her autism. April’s style can be as blunt as mine, and that’s not a bad thing. At least I don’t think so.
“There were rental cabins on a bluff back then,” Casey says. “They were lost to erosion ten years ago. At the time, this was the only lodge in the area.”
“You have a mystery,” April says. “One that doesn’t involve dead bodies.”
“Let’s hope not,” Casey murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear.
Will looks over, and Casey catches his eye and nods. Yep, some of us know this might lead to dead bodies. Not actual ones, but an old tragedy.
“You guys heading out to see the Georges later?” Will asks.
“We are,” Casey says. “If anyone has questions for them, speak now.”
“There’s a list in the kitchen,” Phil says. “Also, I would like to know where I might find a plunger. Someone has been using our bathtub enough that the drain seems blocked with hair.”
“No idea who that’d be,” Isabel says. “But yes, a plunger would help. Otherwise, expect me knocking on doors to borrowyourtubs.”
5
The Georges livetwo miles away. That was one of the reasons Casey wanted to rent their lodge—we weren’t kicking them out of their home for eight months. While there’s gotta be a convenience and cost advantage to living in when you run a lodge, I wouldn’t last long myself anyplace where guests come banging on your door at two a.m. because they lost their key. In Rockton, people knew better than to pull that shit. With the new place, there’s going to be a strip of forest between us and the rest of the town. You want me or Casey bad enough at two a.m.? Hope you don’t mind walking through fifty feet of pitch-black wilderness.
While the Georges live nearby—and they do have cell phones—we’ve been trying not to bug them for minor stuff, like the plunger. They’ve been good to us, and they come by weekly to check in and answer questions.
Before we head out, Casey texts to be sure it’s okay to come by. It is, so we take two loaves of bread and a pan of brownies with us. We also take Storm. Casey would never presume anyone was okay with us bringing a hundred-and-forty-pound walking fur mop, but Mrs. George invited Casey to bring her along.
I like the Georges. I also really like their house. They built it themselves, having bought the property twenty years ago, slowly constructing it in the off-season. It isn’t big, but it’s damn perfect construction, with a wraparound deck that doubles their living space. The deck has shutters that can be put up for cooler weather, and that’s what they’re doing today. I pitch in while Casey settles onto the back deck with Mrs. George, who’s given Storm a leg bone from a butchered deer.
Casey starts with small talk. It’s not really her thing, but compared to me, she’s a pro, and I’m glad she’s here to do it. The Georges deserve all our respect and politeness, and I wouldn’t want to repay their hospitality by launching into an interrogation.
The Georges are in their sixties, with no plans to retire, though they do intend to head down to New Mexico for a few months this winter, closing the lodge for the slowest season. They’re both Indigenous, and the lodge was built on land that has been in Mrs. George’s family for generations. They’re athletic and outdoorsy and obviously very happy together, with three children who circle by regularly. That’s what Mrs. George is talking about when I settle in—Casey asked about a daughter-in-law who works for the RCMP on the lower mainland.
Mrs. George pours tea for her husband and me, and we help ourselves to a plate of cookies.
“And now I get to the real reason for our visit,” Casey says. “Or at least a good excuse for it. We found a message in a bottle, placed in a log.”
That has the Georges both raising their eyebrows.
Casey takes the letter from her pocket. “It seems to be from a guest at your lodge, maybe thirty years ago, judging by the bottle we found it in. I wouldn’t expect you to remember someone from that long ago, but these may have been memorable circumstances.”
She hands the note to Mrs. George, who puts on her reading glasses.
Casey continues, “The letter writer seems to have planned to run off with another guest—or maybe a local—to escape an abusive husband. If she really did, you might remember.”
Mrs. George lowers the letter and inhales. Then she wordlessly passes it to her husband and waits for him to read. Their eyes meet, and Mrs. George nods.
