LITMIR.BIZ

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for their own purpose.”

      I told him about the survey map Eric had found and finished by asking “Can’t we use this map to challenge CanacGold’s legal title to the mining rights?”

      “Sadly, the pencil notations will not be considered official,” François replied. “It would require a long legal fight, and I do not believe you have such time.”

      “Then what do we do?”

      “It would be best if we could prove this land is privately owned.”

      “Do you think there is a possibility, no matter how remote, that Aunt Aggie did own the island in 1935? I know it’s not part of the Three Deer Point property, but maybe she owned it separately and sixty-five years ago gave it to the Migiskans. Can’t you search the records for that time period?”

      “A very good suggestion, madame, and we are indeed searching the files, but unfortunately, we have encountered a most curious problem.”

      “I guess this is the bad news, eh?”

      “Sadly, madame. We have discovered that many of the files for the properties on Echo Lake are missing, including your own.”

      “But how can that happen?”

      “It is possible they have been incorrectly filed. However, the registry clerk believes someone has taken them.”

      “Seems unlikely. Are you sure he’s not just trying to cover up his own incompetence?”

      “I think not. It seems that we are not the only people interested in the Echo Lake properties. Someone else conducted a title search a few months ago. The clerk believed all files were returned. Now he is not so certain.”

      “Does he know who it was?”

      “Unhappily, he remembers only that it was a woman who spoke very bad French. She did not leave her name or that of the notaire she is working for.”

      “With no municipal record, how can we determine the real owner of Whispers Island?”

      “The deed will tell us the owner. But, unfortunately, we must find the owner to find the deed.”

      “Perhaps, if we are lucky, I will find it buried in Aunt Aggie’s belongings.”

      “Bon. My clerk will also conduct a thorough search of the registry to ensure the record was not misplaced and to look at other municipal records, such as tax rolls for mention of this tract of land.”

      “Kind of fishy, isn’t it”

      “Excusez, madame, fishy?”

      “Sorry, I meant it’s very suspicious that these files are missing at the same time as this gold discovery. I’m willing to bet CanacGold has a hand in this.”

      “A good word, this fishy.”

      “Please let me know, François, the minute you discover something, okay?”

      “Of course, madame. Probably by the end of next week.”

      “Not sooner?”

      “Unfortunately, the registry office is closed for the weekend.”

      “What happens if we don’t find anything?” I asked.

      “As you English say, we will cross this bridge when we come to it.”

      SEVENTEEN

      I slowly hung up the phone, as an icy tingle of apprehension crept under my skin. François had reminded me that today was Friday. In two days it would be Sunday, the day Gareth was coming.

      What a fool I’d been to give into Gareth. And for what? A stupid painting. Sure, I wanted it. But it was hardly a good enough reason to let him invade my new life at Three Deer Point. Nothing could be. Not even his supposedly renewed interest. And I believed that as much as I believed we could return to our good times.

      So why had I said yes? Stupid idiot, that was me. You’d think I’d have learned by now. But the sound of his voice on the phone had taken me back to the early years of our marriage, when we’d been like any young couple in love. It had made me want to see him one last time, if only for the few minutes it took to retrieve the painting from his car. After all, for fifteen years he’d been a major force in my life. For that matter, still was, if my confused feelings were anything to go by.

      Hell, what confusion. I really did want to see him, to touch him, even laugh with him again. But I was afraid, too afraid of where it would lead. They say history repeats itself. Renewal of our relationship would only lead to the disastrous ending it had already once reached. I found it impossible to believe that the Gareth of today could return to the man I’d fallen in love with and married. Too much time had passed. Too much had happened. And as if in confirmation, my arm began to throb.

      If only I could shove these conflicting emotions back to where I’d managed to hide them over the course of three years. But it was too late. Gareth’s phone call had re-opened the door. Still, there was one remedy I knew that would help dull the pain, so I clamped a lid on Eric’s warning and poured myself a good measure of vodka.

      Then, fortified with the glass, I resumed what I’d set out to do before the interruption of François’ phone call, the continuing search through Aunt Aggie’s belongings for any connection with Whispers Island. This too would help to take my mind off Sunday, and maybe, if the gods were on my side, I might even discover the deed.

      The only remaining items in the attic offering promise were a couple of wooden boxes shoved under one of the eaves. Unfortunately, they were both nailed shut. So rather than trekking back down two flights of stairs to get a hammer, then up again, I struggled down to the main floor with the lightest of the heavy boxes and hoped I wasn’t wrenching my back for nothing.

      I placed it on the carpet in what was once Aunt Aggie’s favourite room, the octagonal turret room, where the late afternoon sun was flooding through the five windowed sides. It lit up the words stamped on the box, Highland Malt Whiskey, the only brand Aunt Aggie would drink. Although I wasn’t following exactly in her footsteps, I at least was keeping up the Harris drinking tradition started by Great-grandpa Joe.

      A hammer and large screwdriver soon revealed a box crammed with loose papers and envelopes, all with the brittle yellow texture that comes with age. On the first envelope I picked-up, the address, Miss Agatha Harris, Three Deer Point, Echo Lake, Quebec, confirmed the box did belong to Aunt Aggie. And the cancellation date of July 13, 1910 on the George V stamp told me I was far enough back in time.

      I slid the thin sheets of paper from the envelope and eagerly unfolded them. But a quick read told me I wasn’t going to be lucky enough to find mention of Whispers Island in the first letter. Filled with girlish chatter about friends and annoying siblings, it was a letter from a friend called Edith.

      I discovered more letters to Agatha from Edith who, judging from their gushing tone and almost daily frequency, must have been her best bosom buddy. While the soul-baring contents reminded me of my own childhood friendships, it was obvious that islands and land holdings didn’t even enter the periphery of her girlish concerns.

      I scooped out several more layers of papers and discovered a few ancient photographs. From one grinned Great-grandpa Joe, who stood with one arm embracing his rifle and the other resting on the shoulder of a much shorter Indian man, probably his guide. Next to them hung three large deer carcasses, which were strung up by their feet from a beam of the easily recognizable Three Deer Point verandah. Their trophy-size antlers made me wonder if this wasn’t the memorable hunt that gave my property its name.

      When I reached into the box to extract more papers, my fingers encountered a strange object wedged into a corner. It felt smooth and hard and oddly warm, with a smokiness that made my nostrils tingle. When extracted, I realized the smell came from the soot-coated metal interior of the bowl of a well-used Indian peace pipe. The end of the reed-like wooden stem was also charred, suggesting the pipe might have been partially consumed by a fire.

      I

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