LITMIR.BIZ

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and slipped in a disk of Sheryl Crow’s duet with Kid Rock. Holly’s mother had been no faithless spouse diving into a bottle, but lines from “The Picture” made her throat hurt. “I called you last night at the hotel/ Everyone knows but they won’t tell.” Did someone on this tight little island have information about Bonnie Martin? “I want you to come back home.” As if she could. From the beginning, Holly had known in her heart that her mother was dead.

      She headed east a few miles on winding West Coast Road toward Otter Point, where her father lived. It had been too easy to accept his generous offer to share the large home. With her fledgling career and modest salary, buying a property was impossible with average prices shooting past four hundred thousand dollars. Legal (or illegal) suites were available only through close connections, and apartments were scarce. Park trailers were an alternative, but she wouldn’t be stationed here for more than a few years and didn’t want the hassle of selling.

      Reluctant though she’d been to return to a place with bad school memories, she wanted to be sure her father was as well and happy as possible. The quintessential professor, he nursed his absentmindedness like a fond character trait. It allowed him a certain aloofness, especially from women. She wondered if he was lonely, because he’d never admit it. Neither did he mention female companions. Perhaps, with her dismal dating history, she was closer to him in personality than she thought. The social whirl never had meant much to her, busy and content in her own company.

      She passed Kirby Creek, Muir Creek, Tugwell Creek, pioneer names from settlement. A metal sign on each bridge flagged the salmon habitat and urged people to protect “our” resource. Many feared the fishery might collapse, due to overfishing, sea-lice transfer from fish farms, or hungry seals staking out claims near spawning areas.

      At Gordon’s Beach, a curious string of miniature homes perched on the narrow shoreline, elbowing each other like in a Disney film. Some were flimsy shacks, others brand new whimsical hobbit houses with gables, turrets, nooks and crannies valued at over half a million. With fifty feet frontage or less, they clung like limpets to the strip of land. Turning on Otter Point Road, passing a llama farm and saluting the dark brown shaggy male who gazed into another pasture at his harem, she took a left at Otter Point Place, a sunny hillside dead-ending in a turnaround. With the opposite side of the street still pasture returning to bush, it had an unsurpassed view of the ocean.

      She stopped at the new mailbox pavilion. Nothing from Kevin in Nunavut. Why did she expect him to write? Even though they’d dated in Port McNeill, he’d made a deliberate attempt to keep their relationship casual. At first she’d been seduced by his gourmet Italian cooking and black belt in karate. Then, near the end, enter that new file clerk with the low-cut blouses and high-cut hemlines. He’d had such an odd look when she’d met them leaving the evidence lockers. After that, he’d been slow to return her calls, pleading the need to attend sessions of a court case.

      As she opened the box, Telus, Shaw and B.C. Hydro bills spilled from the metal cubicle. Obviously, her father had neglected to collect the mail for at least a week.

      Unlike the cottagey New England style of its demure neighbour, his was a white Greek villa, huge windows in the solarium, two decks, a hot tub, a rampant kiwi and a stand of banana trees. The lawn was dry and brown, even with the flushings from the septic bed. The monsoons couldn’t arrive soon enough. As she passed the peach tree at the side of the house, she smiled at the flourishing holly bush her mother had planted and her father had nourished. Tempting red berries protected by prickly leaves, a wry allegory for any independent woman.

      Norman Martin taught popular culture at the University of Victoria and steeped himself in a different period each semester. The concept anchored his life and removed him conveniently from the realities of the present. A savoury stew infused the hall as she entered, a mysterious ingredient teasing her nose. Her father loved to cook for his research, and she loved to eat. She blessed him for waiting for dinner. Reunited only a few weeks ago, already they had an understanding that if she wasn’t back by seven, unable to call due to her remote location, he’d chow down.

      “Get in here. Your old dad’s nearly faint,” he said, waving a wooden spoon from the kitchen. He wore a gingham apron over his chinos. Definitely not her mother’s. Bonnie Martin had never made a meal in her life. Food was a fuel to reach her goals, the simpler and faster the better, often no more than fruit, bread and cheese eaten on the go in her Bronco and washed down with cold green tea.

      “Let me climb out of this gear. The vest is smothering,” she said, taking the winding staircase to the upper floor. Oblivious to its view, his nose in books, he had given her the master suite, taking the two back rooms for his bedroom and study. It gave her an odd feeling to have her parents’ room, but its double occupancy had been short. Perhaps her father wanted a fresh start, too. For all she knew, he’d abandoned that room to far-off memories. But he hadn’t sold the house, though he knocked around in its sprawl. Did he hope Bonnie would come home?

      After a quick shower, she tossed on shorts and a T-shirt. At the pine table in a sunny, adjoining alcove overlooking the strait, she sat down to a Fifties meal. Shelves in the oak kitchen were lined with cookbooks, from Mrs. Beaton to Betty Crocker to Joy of Cooking to the Barefoot Contessa. He served a rich beef stew made with beer, boiled potatoes and a can of green peas. Starving, she dug into the meal, pausing only for appreciative nods and sips of the rough red wine he made at a local do-it-yourself vintner for three dollars a bottle. No need to make conversation. His commentary would be forthcoming.

      Norman blotted his mouth with a pure white cloth serviette. “If they couldn’t get to a market or raise their own, even in summer canned vegetables would be welcome. Birdseye had just brought in the frozen variety.” He scrutinized the soft, mushy pale-green balls. “A different animal, but I crave them from time to time. Takes me back to my boyhood in Sudbury. Had a friend in Little Britain there whose mother served them mashed with fish and chips.”

      Holly was transported to her childhood. “Mushy peas, I remember.”

      Norman, never Norm, Martin was closing in on sixty, but she knew he’d retire only when they wrenched the cold chalk from his dead hands. Whip-slim at six feet, recently his shoulders had assumed the beginnings of a stoop, and his sleek blond hair was shading to grey. She doubted that he got regular exercise, though Otter Point had many excellent walking areas, from residential streets to clear-cuts, and the shortcut to the beach. Except for his professorial mien, an off-putter for some, he was an attractive man. She could imagine him fending off advances from middle-aged female staff. Sometimes she wondered about the unmarried departmental secretary, Frances, who baked him blackberry pies and used to call in a worried voice when he was running late.

      Like companionable stablemates, they quickly slipped back into old familiar routines. “How did everything go, little freckle-pelt?” he asked. That curious lichen had been her pet name, a step up from the ubiquitous frog-pelt which Bonnie had showed her in the Plants of British Columbia guidebook, a gift for her twelfth birthday.

      On the stereo in the tiled solarium down the stairs, a CD of Kate Smith played “When the Moon Comes Over the Mountain”, then “Be My Love”, and “Danny Boy” as she gave him an update. His tastes in music were as eclectic as his many rotating historical periods. One semester he was enjoying Scott Joplin, the next the Beatles. “That woman could belt them out,” he said, pumping his fist in an unusually assertive gesture. “Whenever I hear ‘God Bless America’, I could almost march off to war myself.” An incongruous comment from a peace-living NDPer who drove a Smart Car, she thought as she managed another swallow of ghastly wine. If it had been in the bottle three weeks, she’d be surprised.

      “Sorry, what did you say about the poor girl? That must have been a rough introduction on your first day. This is supposed to be a quiet place. I was relieved when you got the post. Never liked it when you were so far from civilization in that darn bush.”

      “Sometimes the bush is safer. Give me bears over brawls. We’ll know more when the medical examiner takes a look,” she said.

      He seemed pensive, shook his head and pushed the last pea to the side. “Terrible place for young girls. The morgue. So wrong. Any woman...” He

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