I drove down Ford Street to see if the house where Chuck Crouse lived still had that fancy slate roof. It did. All through high school I daydreamed about Chuck Crouse. What it was going to be like being married to him. What the s.e.x. would be like. What the four children we’d have would look like. Would the two girls favor me and the two boys favor him? Or, heaven forbid, would it be visa versa? Don’t get me wrong. Chuck and I never dated. Chuck was too shy to ask any girl out. And I was too below average-looking for him to overcome that shyness. As I drove by, I wondered what had happened to Chuck. I’d Googled his name before leaving Hannawa. There were several Chuck Crouses but none of them were my Chuck Crouse.
I pulled into at Waggoner’s Grocery, the only real business in town. There was a single Sunoco pump in front. There was a big blinking New York State Lottery sign in the window. It was getting hot already. I left the windows down a crack so James could get whatever breeze there was. I went inside. The store hadn’t changed much since I was a girl. Pop and candy. Milk and bread. Cigarettes and beer. Lunchmeat and cheese. Tubs of ice cream for making cones. “You a Waggoner?” I asked the girl behind the counter.
“I think them’s all dead,” she said. “I’m a Gertz.”
The name didn’t ring a bell. I asked her to make me a double chocolate cone. I bought a Slim Jim for James. We ate our treats in the car and then drove north past Colby’s Dairy. When I was a girl just about everybody who wasn’t a farmer worked at Colby’s. I suspect it’s still that way.
Before leaving Hannawa I envisioned spending a day or two in LaFargeville, visiting all of our family’s old friends. The Siewertsons. The Griffens. The Wildenheims. I envisioned visiting the old Central School and the Methodist Church where I spent so much of my first eighteen years. I envisioned driving out to my parent’s farm on East Line Road. Getting a tour from the alpaca breeder who owns it now. Getting a peek inside my old bedroom maybe. Seeing if that big crack in the ceiling was still there. If the closet door still stuck. But now that I was in LaFargeville, well, I felt silly and lonely and a total stranger.
So I kept on driving, all the way to Philadelphia. Not the one in Pennsylvania. The one ten miles down the road. The one that’s about the same size as LaFargeville. The one that’s the home of Martin’s Pretzel Bakery. Their hand-twisted German-style pretzels are sold in fancy-schmancy stores all over the country. I bought a three-pound bag for Ike. For $14.50. I made James promise that he wouldn’t tell the old penny-pinching fool how much I paid.
I drove back to Watertown and checked out of my room at the Best Western. Then I drove up to Cape Vincent and pulled into line for the noon ferry to Wolfe Island. I was a day early for the cabin I’d reserved over there, but I was prepared to take my chances. James and I could spend a night in the car if we had to.
The attendant motioned me forward onto the little ferry. I stayed with James in the car. James is an American water spaniel. I was afraid if I took him up to the deck, he’d cannon-ball into the river and paddle back to shore. I didn’t need a scene like that.
Wolfe Island is the biggest of the famous Thousand Islands that choke the St. Lawrence River. While its southern shoreline tickles the American border, every inch of the island sits in Canada. It is 24 miles long with lots of pretty bays and points. Our family made two, one-day trips to Wolfe Island every summer. In June we’d go to one of those pick-it-yourself farms for strawberries. In August we’d pick wild blackberries. A couple of times in high school I went there with girlfriends to bicycle and picnic. It’s a lot more touristy now.
The ferry pulled out. I rolled down my window and stretched my neck to see. The water was flat and blue. In just fifteen minutes we were in Port Alexandria, pulling up to the Canadian customs booth.
I was ready for the girl with the Dudley Dooright hat. I handed her my birth certificate and driver’s license. As she looked them over it occurred to me how many times during her life Violeta Bell must have held her breath while her phony-baloney papers were given a perfunctory once-over.
The girl handed my papers back to me. “You aren’t bringing in any perishable vegetables, meats, or dairy products, are you?”
“Nope. No live minnows, firewood, or automatic weapons either.”
“Any dog food?”
“Only what’s already in him.”
She smiled. “You’ve done your homework.”
I handed her James’ records from the veterinarian, proving he’d had a rabies shot. “You wouldn’t know Prince Anton, would you?”
She didn’t. But she did know where I could buy food for James. At the grocery in Marysville. What the Canadians have against American dog food, I do not know.
Using the directions Eric printed out for me from Mapquest, I found my way around Button Bay to Clemens Road. At the end of that bumpy gravel path I found McWiggens’ Cottages. Four tiny white bungalows lined up along the rocky beach like bars of ivory soap.
On the porch of one cottage I found Alana McWiggens. She was a tall, bony woman with a face full of wrinkles. She had a thick thatch of gray, permanently windblown hair. She had a big ball of sheets and pillowcases in her arms. “I’m afraid I’m a day early,” I said after introducing myself. “My plans down in LaFargeville fell through unfortunately.”
“No problem,” she said. “I just now finished putting on clean bedding for you.”
She helped me with my suitcases. She made a fuss over James. She confided in me that she made enough money over the summer renting her cottages to spend her winters in Sarasota. “I’m one of those Canadian snowbirds you hear aboot, ” she said. “Six months here, six months in the U.S.” She asked me if I’d come for the mystery writers’ festival.
I told her I hadn’t. That I didn’t even know there was a mystery writers’ festival. That I wasn’t a writer.
“You do look the type,” she said, quickly explaining by that she meant I was clearly well educated, sharp as a tack, and maybe a little on the eccentric side, in the most admirable way of course.
I was not about to tell her why I was really there-to solve a real murder rather than write about a made-up one. “I’m afraid I’m just a harried old librarian looking for a little peace and quiet.”
“You should go anyway,” she said. “They’ve been holding it for several years now. A real big deal. Scene of the Crime they call it. It lasts all day Saturday and afterward there’s a jim-dandy supper at the United Church. Barbecued pork and all kinds of pie.”
I remembered the pies my mother used to make with Wolfe Island berries. “It does sound fun. And speaking of mysteries-what do you know about that man who claims to be the king of Romania?”
She sat on the bed and let James put his chin on her knee. She scratched his ears. “Alex, you mean?”
“Alexandur Clopotar, yes.”
“He stays on the island all year from what I hear. A very nice man. Why do you ask about him?”
I sat on the other side of James and scratched his back while Alana continued to work on his ears. “I just happened to see something about him on my computer. You think he’s really royalty?”
“Oh, sure. Like I say, a very nice man. His wife’s gone though. So that’s sad.”
“He’s lived here a long time, has he?”
“I guess he retired here aboot twenty years ago. He was in the government up in Ottawa. Not a bigwig or anything.”
I had a lot more questions. But I also had a lot more days to ask them. “I am going to need some groceries,” I said.
She gave me directions to Marysville, the only real town on the island. I bought enough food to last James and me the five days we’d be there.