“It’s always closed Sunday and Monday, but since they fell on holidays, the employees get two extra days off. That’s the way it is with The Company.”
“Oh.”
The look on my face must have earned her pity.
“Here.” She handed me a slip of paper. “It’s a voucher for the mess hall. That’s where the plant workers eat. Probably better than what you’d get here anyway.”
I took the paper like it was manna. “Which way do I go?”
She pointed at the front door. “Out there, then take a right on Naskaupi. It’s about a half kilometer down.”
“Thanks.” I walked back to my room to bundle against the frigid wind, glad for the attack of good sense that overcame me during my layover in Boston. I slipped into my new hip-length cream parka with fur trim, feeling chic enough to put Lara Croft to shame. A pair of snuggly wool-lined boots, hat, and mittens, and I was ready to take on the frozen tundra.
Not another soul braved the weather. I hiked alone down the street, grateful everything I’d need during my stay was contained in a one-mile radius. Snow had begun to fall and a steady breeze kicked up swirls that stung my cheeks. I pulled my hood tight around my face and stood under the glow of a streetlight looking at the building marked Staff Dormitory & Mess Hall. My stomach plunged, suddenly no longer hungry, as I wondered what I’d really do to Candice LeJeune if I actually found her. I resisted taking another step, the voice in my head screaming, “Go back! Go back!”
But the thought of Brad, wasting away at River’s Edge, never again to be mine, kept me moving toward the door. I pulled it open. Light streamed onto the snow. I stepped inside and brushed off the flakes. A scattering of plant employees sat around several cafeteria-style tables. An array of steaming food was set up off to one side, the smell of turkey and stuffing curing my temporary nausea. After briefly making eye contact with a few curious onlookers, I bellied up to the buffet, handed over my voucher, and piled my plate high.
The recluse in me saw a solitary spot at a far-off table. But the bloodhound in me led me toward a table of four.
“Mind if I join you?” I gave a big, friendly smile to the three men and one woman.
“Go ahead.” The woman gestured for me to take a seat.
I set my tray down and scooted into a chair.
“What brings you to town this time of year? Family?” she asked.
I mulled over my answer. Candice could be considered family. She’d always said I was like a granddaughter to her. “Yes. Family.”
“What’s the name? We probably know them.” The man spoke with a French accent.
The group gave a laugh.
“I suppose you know everybody in town.” I smiled along with them.
“If they’ve been here any length of time, we know them,” said the French-speaking man.
“Ah,” I said. “What about one who arrived recently?” I dug in my purse for the picture of Candice I’d packed for a moment just like this.
“Sometimes. If they’ve been over to the bar,” he chortled.
“I’m looking for my grandmother. Her name’s Candice LeJeune, but she may be here under another name.”
“Ah, she is running from an ex-husband, no doubt.” I shrugged. “Something like that.” I set the photo on the table. “Have you seen her?”
The dark-haired Frenchman picked up the photo. “She is very young and beautiful. It is easy to see why she is being hunted.”
“The photo was taken more than twenty years ago. She’s in her midsixties by now. But she looks about the same as she did back then.”
“It would not be wise to hide in Churchill Falls if you are an older person. Here, they must leave town at retirement age. The Company only rents to active employees. All others must go.”
I watched as the group passed the photo, looking at Candice’s picture and shaking their heads. Disappointment swelled in my throat.
“Thanks. I’m staying at the inn, if you happen to see her. I’m Tasha Stewart, by the way.” At the last moment, I decided that my pseudonym would be a safer route, though my travel arrangements had been made under the name Patricia Amble. I could imagine the innkeeper’s confusion if someone did try to contact me.
I dug into my meal, savoring the juicy breast meat and gravy. In my mind, I thanked God for the Christmas feast, even though I didn’t deserve it. I dabbed at my mouth with a napkin, catching the Frenchman looking at me. I blushed, uncomfortable under his gaze.
“I am sorry to stare at you. You remind me so much of a girl that is a friend to my daughter.”
I nodded and waved a hand. “Oh, I get that all the time.” Back in Rawlings, I turned out to be the virtual twin of a total stranger.
“Do you see it, Therese?” he asked the woman. “Doesn’t she remind you of Monique?”
“Very much. Even her mannerisms.” She turned to me. “Perhaps you are related?”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“What makes you think your grandmother came to Churchill Falls? This isn’t a place you come by accident,” the Frenchman asked.
What could it hurt to just tell them the truth-or at least most of it?
“She made travel arrangements to this area last May. But the tickets were never used. I thought it was worth checking out. Just in case she arrived later, by car or something.”
He nodded. “We have tourists along the Trans-Labrador Highway all summer. Perhaps she visited then.”
“Maybe.” Discouragement crept into my voice.
“How long are you staying with us? You must take a tour of the power plant while you are here.”
“I’m here a week.”
“Wonderful,” Therese said. “Tomorrow you must come to dinner at my house. It is my daughter’s birthday and we are having a party.”
I almost declined, but the thought of spending a week alone in my hotel room made me nod in agreement. “Thank you. That’s very kind. I’ll enjoy that.”
Therese gave me directions to her home. Then the group took their leave.
I nibbled at a glob of cranberry sauce and watched as workers entered and exited the mess hall. Finished with my meal, I cleared my tray and poured a cup of coffee, helping myself to a slice of chocolate layer cake for dessert. My fork played with the smooth frosting. I sipped my steaming beverage, hoping I wasn’t dooming myself to a sleepless night.
Across the room, several workers walked in. One of them was a slim older woman. The group got in line and I watched as they laughed and loaded their dishes with food. I studied the woman’s movements and facial features, thinking that beneath the long blond hairdo might be short gray hair and the face from the photo. As the five workers sat down, I nixed the idea that one could be Candice. Or maybe I just hoped it wasn’t her. My bravery quotient had dropped from ten to zero since my arrival in Churchill Falls.
I headed back to my hotel room, glum. Would I be able to carry out my plans against Candice even if I had the opportunity? Just what would I do if I found her?
The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I gave a savage kick to a mound of snow in my path. Maybe I wouldn’t wait for the cops. Maybe I’d be the one to give her what she deserved, then and there. As scenarios of vengeance scuttered through my mind, I played each of them out to their violent end.
Back at the inn, I stomped my boots on the entry rug and took the stairs to my room. Who was I kidding? Maybe I’d had it in me to sprinkle some pills in my suffering grandmother’s arthritic hands, but when it came time, would I really have the gumption to deliberately kill someone? Especially where blood was involved?
I tamped down my anger, reverting to plan A. Turning her in to the cops, extraditing her to Michigan, testifying
