Except that one unfortunate incident, quickly hushed up, when a family was slaughtered in cold blood.
*
At the Moosewood Inn, Erin parked out back and dragged her suitcase along a gravel path to the front door. A pale-eyed woman in a lilac dress and grey cardigan greeted her at the front desk.
‘First time in Belle River?’
‘My first time in Maine,’ she said. Liar. She took her wallet from her bag. ‘Is it all right if I pay for the room in cash? I only need it for one night.’
The woman gave her an odd look. ‘Sure, okay, if that’s what you want.’ She accepted Erin’s money and handed her the room key. ‘We serve coffee and tea in the lounge every afternoon at three. Breakfast starts at seven.’ She looked at Erin, uncertainly, as if expecting another odd request.
Up on the second floor, the room boasted a canopy bed and two large windows, one with a view of the bay, the other facing the forest. Erin stood at the window for several minutes, studying the dark sweep of hemlock and pine. Nothing moved amongst the trees.
*
Before heading back into town, she made herself a cup of tea in the lounge and settled into a chair by the window. After changing into a pair of navy trousers, Erin had tied her hair into a ponytail and planned to wear a baseball cap while she wandered the streets, though the chance that someone might recognise her was small. The only likely giveaway might be her eyes, but they were easy enough to hide behind dark glasses.
The tea and hushed atmosphere of the inn had soothed her jitters, and she felt ready now to drive by the house on Gardiner Road. Even if Vivien had taken ownership of the property, it was unlikely she would be up here at this time of year. To be on the safe side, she took the long way round through the forest, skirting past blueberry farms and potato fields, as a way of sneaking up on the house through the back roads.
Lulled by the drive on the empty road through the woods, she rounded a sharp curve and there it was. A modest frame house set back amongst dense stands of hickory and birch trees. The white clapboards were dingy, and it was much smaller than she remembered. Squinting at the letter box at the end of the drive, it was a relief to see the name stencilled in chipped paint: Thompson. So Vivien hadn’t got the house after all. She smiled. Good for Aunt Olivia. Olivia the good. Olivia the godsend, who’d offered Erin sanctuary after the horrors of Danfield. A roof over her head and a private tutor to make up for lost schooling. It was Olivia who’d obtained a copy of her father’s birth certificate so Erin could apply for a British passport, her escape route to another life. Ian Marston. Born September 8, 1932, Birmingham, United Kingdom. RIP.
Midday, and the town centre was showing signs of life. In front of the Rite Aid drugstore, a woman in a pink puffy jacket with bright blonde hair was herding two children in front of her. Was that Becca? Erin glanced back as she passed. Though she hadn’t seen her old friend in two decades, there was something familiar about the woman’s face. The desire to stop and call out was like an ache in her throat. How wonderful it would be to chat over coffee, and to find out how life had treated her over the years. A good friend during a difficult time, Becca would surely be glad to see her, wouldn’t she? Even though Erin had disappeared without a trace.
But it was a door she couldn’t risk opening. When Erin caught sight of the woman’s face in the rear-view mirror, she was relieved to see it wasn’t Becca, and tried to focus on the task ahead. This trip wasn’t about her own history, it was Tim’s life she’d come to excavate, mining the town for whatever nuggets of truth remained.
*
In the library, all was quiet. As she closed her eyes and breathed in, the familiar scent of old books, worn leather, and wax polish pulled her back in time. The woman at the front desk with frizzy dark hair was too young to be Ruth Davis, the librarian who’d been kind to Erin as a child. How many times had she sought refuge here amongst the stacks of books, while everyone else was at the beach or on the water? The library had been a sanctuary and Ruth Davis a lifeline.
When the woman glanced up for the second time, Erin thought fast. Who was she supposed to be? A tourist, a history buff, a writer? She couldn’t be herself, or reveal she’d spent summers in Belle River as a child. Any mention of a past connection would unleash a flood of questions – what was her name, who were her parents, where had she stayed? But it was too late to mumble an excuse and back out the door. A writer would be a good enough cover. A freelance writer researching coastal towns of northern New England.
‘Can I help you?’ The accent was pure Maine.
Erin cleared her throat and approached the desk. ‘I was… I’m looking for information on the history of local fishing villages. Do you have any books I could start with, or perhaps the local paper on microfiche?’
The woman’s face brightened. ‘You’re a long way from home.’
‘Pardon?’
‘England, right?’ She pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
‘Um, originally, yes. But I live in New York City now. I’m researching an article on the fishing industry.’
‘Well, okay.’ She stood and eased her plump figure from behind the desk. ‘Are folks in New York City interested in that kind of thing?’ She beckoned Erin to follow. ‘The Belle River Gazette is digitised back till 1987. If you
