“Not exactly.”
She was wearing a white billed cap over her silver hair, a T-shirt that said HARD ROCK CAFE LAS VEGAS, dungarees, and boat shoes. She stood in the doorway considering things.
“I think I know a boat with a captain who’d take you-if she had a better idea of what’s going on,” she said.
I glanced at Schanno and Meloux. I figured Henry didn’t care one way or the other, but I wanted to be sure about Wally.
He shrugged. “If I’m going to be out on that lake, I’d just as soon be on a boat with someone who knows what she’s doing.”
I turned back to Pollard. “If you’ve got the boat, Captain, I’ve got the crew.”
We sat on the deck of her sailboat drinking cold Labatts from a cooler. I told her what had happened on my last visit to the island and what had happened since. Then I gave her the salient details of Meloux’s connection to the recluse across the bay.
“And your part in this?” she asked Schanno.
“I’m here as a consultant.”
She laughed, an agreeable sound. “Now there’s a word that tells people absolutely nothing.”
“Wally was a cop, too,” I explained. “County sheriff for a while before he retired.”
“Really? You look too young to be retired,” she said, which clearly pleased Schanno. “You’re here to watch Cork’s back, I’ll bet.”
“That I am.”
She glanced at me and tilted her head slightly to let me know she approved of my choice in backup.
“Your wives, they’re okay with this?”
“Jo understands.”
Schanno said, “I’m a widower. My wife passed six months ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
While we sat, the wind had risen, and the bay had filled with whitecaps. Thunderheads tumbled out of the west like a stampede of black bulls.
“And you think that despite what the Canadian police have said, Wellington’s on his island and at the bottom of all this?”
“That’s about the size of it.”
Trinky Pollard appraised the sky. “If we’re going to make it today, we need to cast off soon.”
I put my beer down. “I wasn’t thinking we’d sail over in daylight.”
She nodded at the clouds pouring in from the west. “Unless you want to wait until tomorrow night, we need to beat this storm. We’ll anchor on the lee side of the island. It’s not unusual for a sailboat to use Manitou as a windbreak. Come dark, we’ll be very close to our objective.”
“Our?”
“Take it or leave it,” she said.
“I don’t know how much help we’ll be in a storm. We’re not exactly old salts.”
“A good captain can sail with a crew of kangaroos.” She stood up. “Look lively, mates. We’ve got work to do.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
As soon as we were clear of the breakwater, Pollard turned off the boat’s engine, and we hoisted sails. With Pollard at the wheel and the wind hard at our backs, we shot toward Manitou Island just ahead of the storm. Meloux sat on deck looking so calmly at the rough water that you’d have thought he was on a pleasure cruise in the Caribbean. I didn’t know a jib from a spinnaker, but Trinky Pollard was clear when she issued her orders, and the bow of the sailboat cut through the whitecaps with exhilarating grace.
“Ever lost a boat?” I called above the wind and the slosh of the waves breaking against the hull.
She kept her eyes on the island ahead. “No. But then I’ve never sailed in water this rough before.”
I figured it had to be a joke. The look on Schanno’s face said he wasn’t so sure.
“Don’t worry,” she called out. “Do exactly as I say and we have a better than even chance of making it.”
Behind us, the storm hit the city. I watched a curtain of rain close over the buildings of the central district of old Port Arthur, then it overtook the huge, abandoned industrial works along the shoreline. A tongue of lightning shot from the black clouds and licked the water half a mile back. Seconds later came the boom of thunder, and I couldn’t tell if the quiver that ran through the deck was the shock wave or just another jolt from the hull as the bow split the whitecaps.
“I ought to warn you,” Schanno yelled to Pollard, “I don’t swim well.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she hollered back. “You go down out here, even if you can swim, the water’s so cold it’ll kill you anyway.”
Schanno looked green-from the roll and pitch of the sailboat or from what Pollard had said, I couldn’t tell.
The yellow life vest Meloux wore nearly dwarfed him. He gazed without apparent emotion at the turbulent lake, at water that had turned black around us, as if it had been poisoned. Some of that was the Indian in him, but I thought it was also how Meloux had faced all the storms of his long life.
Trinky Pollard was clearly having fun at our expense. Even so, her face drew taut as she concentrated on studying the snap of sail and the surge of water. I knew only too well that even if you were good at what you did, sometimes things turned on you in unexpected and tragic ways.
We swung around Manitou Island from the south. Pollard ordered us to pull in the sails, and she kicked in the engine. She maneuvered us to a place fifty yards offshore, in the lee of the island, headed us into the wind, and dropped anchor just as the heavy rain engulfed Manitou and then us.
“Nothing to do now but wait,” she said, tying off the wheel. “Might as well go below.”
The cabin was small, with padded benches. We shed our life vests in order to fit inside. We sat down, except for Pollard, who threw open the ice chest and hauled out several Labatts. She tossed one to Schanno, one to me, and held out one to Meloux, who declined with a wave of his hand.
“I’ve got Pepsi,” she offered.
The old man shook his head.
Schanno wasn’t looking any too good.
“You okay with that beer, Wally?” I said.
“I’m fine,” Schanno replied.
“You feel like getting sick, use the head over there.” She pointed toward a narrow door.
“I told you, I’m fine.” Schanno popped the top on his beer and took a conspicuously long draw.
“Any idea how long this storm will last?” I asked.
“The worst’ll blow over pretty quick,” Pollard said. “Once the leading edge is past, the wind should die down, and then it’ll be just rain for a while. Last radio report I heard said it’s supposed to go on till near midnight. Seems to me rain would provide decent cover for someone wanting to get onto Manitou without an invitation.”
“They have security on the landing,” I pointed out.
She took another long draw of beer. “The official landing, the one where invited guests arrive. I’ve anchored us near an inlet on the other side of the island. You can’t really tell much about it because it’s blocked by a wooded peninsula. But on occasion I’ve observed motor launches coming and going, so I assume there’s another landing back there somewhere.”
“You seem to have more than a passing interest in this place,” Schanno said.
“Retired RCMP investigator,” she replied. “These days, I take my mysteries where I can find them. And there’s a lot about Manitou that’s never added up.”
“You’re a retired Mountie?”
She scowled at Schanno. “I was never fond of that term. For a woman in a profession dominated by men, it was too easy to make a demeaning joke of it.”
“Sure,” Schanno said.
“You sail around Manitou a lot?” I asked.
“I sail a lot, period, but I do have an investigator’s fascination with this place.”
The boat bucked like a restless pony. I was anxious for the storm to move on and for things to settle down.
“What do you know about Wellington?” I asked.
“A creative and charismatic guy before…” She glanced at Henry. “Before he became so odd. He was a very public figure in Thunder Bay and in Canada in general. He took the money from his father’s mining interests and created an industrial manufacturing empire with interests all over the world. Very popular, very public spirited and environmentally minded. Created the Wellington Foundation, a huge charitable organization. Then half a dozen years ago his wife died, and he withdrew from public view. Tabloids have always been after him. If you believe what you read in them, he’s become a bizarre eccentric who’s barricaded himself in his mansion.”