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“Oh my,” Mrs. George says. “Ohmy.”
“We aren’t saying that’s the answer—”
“But it is,” Mrs. George says. “It’s the very obvious answer, and I feel like a fool for not seeing it. I said that Joni didn’t socialize much at the lodge, because of her husband’s jealousy, but she did dosomethingsocial. My cousin ran a program just for women. Hiking, boating, fishing, even shooting. Mostly, it was to help those intimidated by the outdoors so they could ask questions without fear of looking silly in front of men, but for Joni, it was something she could do without her husband being jealous.”
“Because it was only women. Do you remember whether Joni was particularly close to any of the women in it?”
“If she was, she kept that quiet. Her husband didn’t like her socializing withanyonewhen he was around. He demanded all her attention. But if she did run away with one of the women, I think I know who it is, and this is why I’m feeling very foolish.”
“Your cousin?” Casey says.
“First, let me say Robyn is a distant cousin—the daughter of my third cousin. That still means she’s family, and so it’s no excuse. After Joni left, Robyn stayed around for a few months, coming and going from her cabin, which is why I didn’t think of her.”
“She kept up her routines before moving away.”
“Yes,” Mrs. George says. “To Alberta, where she worked as a guide for years.”
“And now?” Casey’s face goes tight, fearing the answer. “Is there any chance you know where she is?”
“Oh, I know exactly where she is. Less than five miles away. On Twin Maple Lake... where she lives with a woman who is almost certainly Joni Mayfair.”
* * *
I can understandwhy Mrs. George felt foolish. She’s spent thirty years wondering what happened to Joni Mayfair... only to realize she might have been living nearby with Mrs. George’s cousin for the past three years. Yeah, it seems hard to believe, but only if you don’t think about it too hard.
Joni had gone on hikes and boating excursions organized by Mrs. George’s cousin. That’s the only connection, and it’s a weak one when—at the time—both women were believed to be straight. It was months before Mrs. George’s cousin left, and then she’d been gone for decades, returning alone for family events until she came back with a wife.
Sure, the Georges have met Robyn’s wife—a woman they know as Belinda—but they only knew Joni Mayfair as a girl who stayed at their lodge briefly half a lifetime ago. It’s only now that they can say they see enough of a resemblance that it could be Joni.Couldbe.
Robyn and Belinda live in a cabin accessible only by water. That’s not uncommon in BC or the Yukon. Oh, they aren’t on an island or anything like that, but the nearest road passes by the other side of the lake, and no one’s constructing an extension through thick forest to reach a couple of cabins.
Robyn and Belinda are in their own personal version of Rockton, living off-grid without cell service. Casey suggests that we shouldn’t bother them—maybe someone can just let them know we’d like to speak to them. But I think Mrs. George wants this answer as much as we do, so she assures us that they’d be fine with a visit.
I’m not sure anyone would be “fine” with potentially being exposed after thirty years in hiding. Casey isn’t convinced, either. We consider what risks this might bring if BelindaisJoni Mayfair, and we conclude there are none. Her husband died of a heart attack three years ago. If she wanted to make contact with any old friends or relatives, presumably, she’s done that. Now that we’ve raised the possibility Belinda is Joni Mayfair, the Georges are going to want that answer. Maybe it’s best if we get it and—if it is Joni—give her time to figure out what she wants to do.
We load the canoe onto the truck and leave Storm behind. It’s late in the season to be boating, and if we encounter ice, we don’t want to be navigating through it with a nervous Newfoundland throwing her weight around.
It’s a pleasant ride out. The lake is small and empty, with only a skin of ice that sparkles in the sunshine, and we cut through it easily. The cabin soon appears at the far side, a tiny place, newer construction, with a deck that extends out to the water where it turns into a dock. It’s the kind of place Jacob would love. Off the grid and cozy, with everything you need at your doorstep.
Is it the kind of place I’d love? I’d have thought so, once. Hell, I thought so every time I got frustrated enough in Rockton, and I’m sure I’ll have those moments with the new town. But in reality? No. I might not spend every evening in the Roc, socializing, but I appreciate having a community to hang out in and people to hang out with. This would be the perfect spot for a week’s vacation with Casey, but long term, we’d both want more.
As we draw near, the sound of chopping reaches us before we see the chopper. It’s a woman in jeans and a plaid shirt, her gray hair pulled back in a tiny ponytail. She’s chopping wood beside the dock, and when she lifts her face to wipe off sweat, Casey murmurs, “We could turn back now.”
I grunt. That is unmistakably Joni Mayfair. We’ve both stared at her photo often enough in the past few days to recognize her.
“Should we turn back?” Casey murmurs. Then she answers her own question with a shake of her head. “No, that’d be ruder than interrupting. She should know that the Georges realize who she is, and they shouldn’t have to deal with the awkwardness of admitting it. I started this—I take the blame for any invasion of privacy.”
“There you go, getting that word wrong again.”
She glances back from the bow. “Privacy?”
“I. The word you want iswe. We started this. We’ll take the blame.”
I propel the canoe toward the dock. When we’re a few meters away, Joni—Belinda—looks up, shading her eyes.
“Hello,” Casey calls as I stop the canoe. “I’m really sorry to bother you. We’re renting the lodge down the way, and the Georges said we’d find you here. I know it’s rude to show up without calling but...”
Belinda laughs softly. “Can’t call without cell service. It’s fine.” She sets down the ax and walks along the dock. “I’ve heard all about you folks renting the lodge. You must be the detective.”
