LITMIR.BIZ

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      My child is dead. My husband is dead. I can live no more.

      And as I read this last entry, my heart broke as Aunt Aggie’s must have broken. So this was the true story at last. At least Johann hadn’t deserted her. Instead, he’d stuck by her, even in her madness. It was death that took him away, and not only him, but also their small daughter. And they must have been horrific deaths for Aunt Aggie to lock them away. I had little doubt that this was the tragedy that had sent her reeling into madness.

      Mother was wrong. Agatha’s terrible tragedy had nothing to do with the betrayal of a lover. And it looked as if Mother was also wrong about the name. None of Aunt Aggie’s diaries mentioned a Watson or any other English name starting with a W, nor did I find any reference to such a person in the remaining papers.

      I did, however, find one faint glimmer of hope. It was a childhood letter to Grandpa from a Billy. Although it was unlikely that this person became the owner of Whispers Island, it still offered a faint possibility that Mother might have better success with Grandpa’s papers.

      I smiled at the references to Marie’s grandmother, Summer Wind, in several of the diaries’ entries. It seemed she was as important to Aunt Aggie as her daughter Whispering Pine later became.

      During my search of the last cookie tin, I discovered one more interesting item, actually two; they were small pieces of quartz with a minute thread of gold. They looked exactly like the rock that had lit up our eyes on the granite ridge of Whispers Island. It would appear that Aunt Aggie had also known about the gold.

      THIRTY-TWO

      Damn you!” blasted the phone receiver. The clock said 6:05. Outside it was still pitch black and sounded like rain. “How dare you serve us with an injunction.”

      “Who in hell is this?” I fired back as I struggled to get my mind into gear. “Gareth? And how dare you speak to me like this? Of all—”

      “Shut up, Meg. Listen and listen hard, I’m only going to say this once. If you don’t have the stop work on CanacGold removed within the hour, we’ll sue the pants off you and take you for all you’re worth, including Three Deer Point.”

      “Gareth, you shut up,” I shot back. “I’m not sure who should be suing who. I can just as easily charge you with misrepresenting the facts, even theft. You knew damn well Whispers Island wasn’t crown land. And you stole the official registration to prevent us from finding out. Do you honestly think I’m that stupid I’d never twig to your little scheme?”

      I heard him suck in his breath on the other end of the line. Then he switched to that patronizing tone that made my teeth grind. “Now calm down, Meg,” he said. “No need to get upset. I understand how confusing this is for you. I’ll talk to your notary, and we’ll straighten this little matter out.”

      “Cut the song and dance.”

      “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “Damn right I do!”

      “Stop interrupting and let me explain the facts of life. Number one, CanacGold has clear title to those mineral rights. Number two, who said anything about crown land? I said the Indians had no rights to the island, as Tom . . . I mean Eric kept insisting.”

      “Liar! Who does it belong to then?” I retorted, trying to trick him into revealing what he knew. It was only later that I realized the significance of the name he’d let slip.

      “You don’t—” he said and stopped. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he continued, “I’m not at liberty to say. Client/lawyer privilege. But I can tell you this. I’m about to close the sale to CanacGold. So Meg, you don’t have a case. Remove the injunction immediately, or else you lose Three Deer Point.”

      “Not before you show me and my notary legal evidence of your title. And Gareth, don’t you ever call me like this again.” I slammed down the phone.

      Damn. He’d found William Watson or his heir and convinced him to sell the island to CanacGold.

      In a panic, I called François’s office and left a message. Two hours later, he called back.

      “Calm down, Mme Harris,” he said. “The threat of a lawsuit is a scare tactic. According to the law, there is sufficient confusion over the ownership of this land to justify the stop work order. Until CanacGold is able to prove full legal title to the mineral rights, the injunction stands. So please do not concern yourself, madame. It is not possible they find this William Watson this fast. It will take much searching to find a man with no address, whose last known contact was over sixty-five years ago.”

      While François did manage to lower my temperature a degree or two, I was still smarting from Gareth’s attack. He’d dared to threaten me. The bastard. I’d show him. I’d call his bluff. I’d hunt down William Watson or his heir, make damn sure he knew what Gareth and CanacGold were all about and stop the sale.

      But it was a lot easier said than done. Although I’d finally learned the truth about Aunt Aggie’s tragic past, I was still no further ahead in finding William J. Watson.

      I quickly dressed and returned to the attic to see if there were any more containers to search, but there was nothing left other than a stack of old newspapers. I was about to dismiss these as useless when a quick glance at the top one changed my mind. Somerset Weekly shouted from the top of the yellowed page. Underneath, I read December 31, 1919.

      I picked up the heavy bundle and went back downstairs, figuring that if William J. Watson had lived in this area in the 1920s, then maybe, just maybe I’d find a reference to him somewhere in these ancient pages. They were filthy with the grime of eighty years. By the time I’d finished poring over every word on every page of every edition, I was covered with a thin film of black dirt. But it was worth it. I was almost to the end, when I spied the name in a small discreet notice in the Local Briefs column of the November 28, 1920 edition.

      We have been informed that Echo Lake resident, Mr. Wm. J. Watson, has passed away suddenly from gun shot wounds inflicted in a hunting accident. It is requested that any outstanding matters be directed to Mr. John Harris at 359 Old Forest Road in Toronto.

      Finally, evidence that William J. Watson had actually lived around here. But there was a catch. He was long dead. In fact, a good fifteen years before he was supposed to have contacted those lawyers. So who set up the tax trust? Watson’s heir or someone else? Either way, it was obvious that whoever had become the new owner didn’t want it known that the title to the land had changed hands. Why?

      I had one possible source for answers, a source Gareth didn’t have, William J. Watson’s contact, Mr. John Harris, my grandfather. It looked as if I’d been searching in the wrong place. Watson had been a friend of my grandfather, not my great-aunt. Maybe he really was Grandpa’s childhood friend Billy.

      I quickly phoned Mother, not caring if the call woke her up, and cursed when I got her answering machine. Assuming she was still sound asleep, I tried again, but again without success, which meant she’d probably gone to an early morning golf game. The nerve of her, when she had more important things to do, like searching Grandpa’s papers. So I left her a message to get on with it and call me the minute she found anything related to William or Billy Watson. I also decided to drive to Toronto and go through the papers myself if I didn’t hear from her by that night.

      In the meantime, there was another matter just as pressing, finding out the truth behind Marie’s death. For her sake, I felt I should give Tommy a chance to explain his actions before I took my suspicions to Eric. I hoped I would be proved wrong, but with Gareth’s accidental mention of Tommy’s name, they were only deepened. The two men had talked. The reason why could only have something to do with CanacGold.

      A quick glance outside revealed that the early morning darkness had lightened to a soggy grey as water poured from the sky. With no thought for breakfast, I grabbed my rain slicker, ran to my truck and drove to what was no longer Marie’s but now Tommy’s home.

      Through

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