The House on Creek Road Read online

  “If you need help with the heavy things, give me a call,” Jack said. The silvery eyes turned back to Liz. “Was it a rough trip?”

  “Just long.” His steady gaze made her self-conscious. She tucked some frizzy strands of hair behind her ear, but they jumped right back. “With an aggressive breeze coming through the window half the time. And I nearly hit a deer, avoiding the car that came out of your driveway.”

  Eleanor’s cup clattered onto its saucer. “I’ll shoot those useless creatures myself one of these days, I really will!”

  “The alfalfa field across from my house attracts them,” Jack said. “I counted more than thirty out there last night.”

  “And each one doing its best to get hit by a car. You have to keep your eyes open out here, Elizabeth. Deer, porcupine, skunks…your brother nearly went off the road avoiding a chipmunk the other day. A chipmunk.” Eleanor’s worried irritation faded. “No sense getting our blood pressure up. You must be hungry, after all you’ve had to contend with. Will you have some pie? It’s your favorite.”

  Eleanor removed the cover from the serving dish, revealing a ten-inch pie, an appealing shade of burnt orange with visible specks of spice. She lifted a wedge onto a dessert plate, balanced a fork on the side and handed it to her granddaughter. “Jack baked it himself, from his own pumpkins. He has a lighter hand with pastry than I do.”

  The violin-playing neurosurgeon could bake? “It looks delicious.” Liz lifted a small forkful of pie to her mouth. Two pairs of eyes watched her chew. She realized some kind of review was expected. “It’s wonderful. So spicy and creamy.”

  “And he’s going into blueberries. Soon there’ll be blueberry pie, too. Next year, Jack, or will it take longer?”

  “There might be a small crop the first year.”

  Liz wondered at her grandmother’s proprietary tone. She sounded as if she had some stake in this stranger’s plans, as if a member of her own family were trying something new and needed encouragement. “Blueberries can be difficult to grow, can’t they?”

  “I guess I’ll find out.” He didn’t seem worried about dealing with complications. “I’ve planted a hundred of a lowbush variety that’s supposed to be hardy. If they do well, I’ll put in more.”

  “You found a good location,” Eleanor said. She leaned toward Liz with a pleased expression. “He’s going to plant Christmas trees, as well.”

  Liz looked curiously at the man next to her. Although he gave no sign of it, he must be a bit of a romantic to choose those crops. “Sort of a holiday express.”

  “That’s right.” He emptied his teacup with two big gulps and pushed back his chair. “Your granddaughter looks exhausted, Eleanor, and she’s still shivering off and on. I’ll be on my way, so she can get settled in.” He took his coat from one of the hooks by the door. After all that arranging of tables and dishes, it was a sudden departure.

  Eleanor pushed herself out of her chair. “You’ll have to come to dinner soon, Jack. Maybe Elizabeth will prepare something for us both.”

  “I’m not much of a cook, Grandma.”

  “A little practice will fix that.”

  “Mr. McKinnon won’t want to be my guinea pig.”

  “Just let me know what evening is good for you, Jack.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks for the tea, Eleanor. Good to meet you at last, Ms. Robb.” He strode through the door, the dogs on his heels.

  Liz watched them go, three silhouettes and a small, bobbing light. He’d stayed as long as courtesy demanded and left as soon as he could. Had he emphasized the words at last? He wouldn’t suggest, half an hour after meeting her, that she ought to visit her grandmother more often…if he had, though, she couldn’t disagree. Letters and phone calls, and even invitations to Vancouver, weren’t adequate replacements for time at home. She wasn’t going to make dinner for him, that was certain. She had a way with scrambled eggs and toast, but her grandmother would expect something more impressive. A lot of pots would be involved, and some of them were bound to burn.

  Eleanor turned from the window. “I don’t like it when Bella and Dora go out at night, but they always want to follow him. He sends them back when he’s nearly home.”

  Liz began clearing dishes to the sink. “He visits often?”

  “Oh, yes, he always has, right from the start. I invite him for dinner, or he brings something he’s baked. He’s lonely, I think, working and living on his own in a strange place. I enjoy hearing about his plans. Of course, he hasn’t yet convinced people around here he knows what he’s doing.”

  The grain farmers and ranchers around Three Creeks couldn’t be blamed for a little skepticism. The growing season was hardly long enough for pumpkins to ripen, and no one in the area had ever tried to grow blueberries or evergreens commercially, not that Liz had heard, anyway. She remembered city people showing up in the area occasionally, pipe dreams in tow. They settled down or sold as impulsively as they’d bought and disappeared. “What do you know about Mr. McKinnon, Grandma?”

  “You sound suspicious. It’s not like living in Vancouver, we don’t have to be careful of our neighbors here.”

  “I’m just curious.”

  “I can’t say I know very much about him. He told me he had his own business in Winnipeg. Something with computers, but he decided he didn’t want to do it anymore.”

  “You mean he sold computers? Or was he one of those people you call to solve all your problems, like when you pour coffee on your laptop?”

  “I have no idea. He doesn’t seem interested in talking about it. He’s looking ahead.” Eleanor picked up a tea towel and began to dry the dishes Liz put in the drainer. “Two weeks will go so quickly. Can you stay longer? Everyone wants to see you.”

  Liz’s stomach gave a flip. “Everyone?”

  “Well, all the Robbs and all their off-shoots, of course. Jean Bowen and Marge Sinclair both told me they want to have you over for coffee, and Daniel, you know, Daniel Rutherford—”

  Liz’s 4-H leader, her grade nine English teacher and the ex-Mountie who had helped them solve all their horse problems. “I doubt there’ll be time.”

  “If you can’t visit everyone individually, they’ll understand. You’ll be able to see most of them tomorrow, in one fell swoop.”

  Liz stared at her grandmother. She had been sure she could slip into town, lend a hand for a while and go. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

  “Your Aunt Edith has arranged a barbecue. You and I are to take a salad. Any salad we choose, she said. I always wonder what’s to stop everyone from bringing the same kind. It never happens, though. Now up you go, Elizabeth. Jack’s right, you need to take care of yourself, or you’ll catch something. You’ve got the back bedroom—there’s a hot water bottle tucked at the bottom of the bed. I hope you’ll be warm enough.” The upstairs rooms were heated by small, square metal grills that let air rise from the first floor.

  “I’ll be fine.” Liz kissed her grandmother’s flannel-soft cheek. “Good night. Sleep tight.”

  The back bedroom was her favorite, the room where she and her cousins had played house and dress-up when the weather kept them indoors. Flower-sprigged wallpaper covered the sloping ceiling and short walls, the same wallpaper she had watched her grandfather apply twenty years before. The bed was soft with a thick feather quilt. The Robb women used to make them, visiting around a table and ignoring sore fingers while they pulled the quills from bags and bags of goose feathers.

  Liz unpacked her pencil case and sketchbook. Sitting on the side of the bed, she flipped to a new page and began to draw. She needed to get the deer out of her mind and safely onto paper before she slept.

  Quick lines caught the animal’s terrified immobility. Panicked eyes bright in the headlights, body tensed to spring away, muscles bunched and twitching. Long thin legs bent as if it wanted to run in three or four directions at once. Hooves polished, tiny, sharp. Coat heavy for winter, velvet under coarse surface hairs. Eyes huge and liquid brown, ear
s surprisingly large and held to the side.

  After she had filled several pages with full and partial sketches of the deer, her hand began to draw a face. Jack McKinnon’s face, but longer and thinner than it really was, with silver eyes full of secrets. Leaning away from her sketchbook, she studied the drawing and felt a familiar stirring of anticipation. This would be her next hero. He didn’t belong in the real world. The story would have to be a fantasy. Whether he belonged to the hills of Tara or the rings of Saturn, she didn’t yet know.

  THE DOGS FOLLOWED JACK through the woods, moving silently along the path narrowly lit by his flashlight. They were alert, aware of sounds and smells that passed him by entirely. At the edge of the clearing, he stopped. He’d like to keep Bella and Dora with him—they were large enough to give intruders second thoughts—but he’d made a promise to Eleanor.

  “Go home, girls.” They stood at his feet and waited expectantly, eyes glowing, tails wagging slowly. He would have to say it as if he meant it. He pointed to the northwest. “Home.” Their heads sagged, then they turned and disappeared into the night.

  Unable to shake the feeling that caution was needed, Jack kept to the edge of the woods, studying the house and its surroundings as thoroughly as the yard light allowed. The car that had nearly hit Elizabeth Robb was long gone. There was no sign anyone had stayed behind, no sign of trouble.

  Except the light. When he’d left for Eleanor’s, he’d switched on the light over the back door. Now, it was off. He crossed the yard to the back stoop and reached up to check the uncovered bulb. Not burned out. Twisted loose.

  He tried the door. It was still locked. People tended to be casual about security around here—the Ramseys’ locks would have sprung open if you’d frowned at them, so he’d installed deadbolts as soon as he moved in. Edging his way around the house, he checked each ground-floor window. All shut and intact. The front door was locked.

  Someone had come into his yard, loosened the light over the back door, then left in a hurry, headlights off to avoid being seen. Someone expecting easy access to a TV and VCR in the trusting countryside? It didn’t look as if they’d found a way in, so why was the back of his neck still so tight it burned?

  He let himself into the house and stood quietly, listening. The lights he’d left on still glowed. He moved from room to room, upstairs and down. The few things of value—his espresso and cappuccino maker, his laptop, the CD player, his guitar—all sat where he’d left them.

  Could have been kids, just as Eleanor said. Halloween was only a couple of weeks away. He’d likely be spending Saturday washing spattered egg off the outside walls.

  What was bugging him? Jack began another circuit of the house. Was something out of place, something that had only registered at the back of his mind? Faint scratches beside the lock on the door? Dirt tracked in on someone else’s shoes?

  Finally he found what had been nagging at him. A small thing…smudges in the dust on the coffee table. The books, magazines and sheet music he’d piled there had been moved, then returned to their places.

  So, someone had come into his yard, loosened the light over the back door, searched for something, then left in a hurry, headlights off to avoid being seen. It didn’t make sense. Nothing was stolen, nothing was vandalized.

  The tension in his neck eased. Reid. They hadn’t talked for a couple of years. It would be his style to get back in touch in some convoluted way. Leaving a few hardly noticeable clues was how they used to signal the start of a new round of their favorite game, a sort of puzzle-solving treasure hunt they’d played all through high school and university. The guy must be bored out of his mind to have gone to all this trouble, driving an hour and a half from Winnipeg…

  Moving quickly, Jack lifted the trapdoor near the kitchen table. He bent his head to avoid bumping into rafters and creaked down the stairs into the dirt cellar. Deep shelves where the Ramseys had kept canned goods over the winter lined one wall. Along another were bins for root vegetables. He’d filled most of them with pumpkins waiting for their Halloween trip to the city. Stepping over more pumpkins lined up on the ground, he dug one hand to the bottom of the potato bin and brought out a resealable sandwich bag. Inside the bag was a plain black diskette.

  He returned to the kitchen and switched on his laptop. When the menu appeared, he checked the security logs. Sure enough, an attempt had been made to get into his files, today at 2018 hours. Not unexpected under the circumstances, but it still made his heart beat a little faster. He slipped the diskette into its slot, then rebooted the computer and waited for the prompt. As soon as it flashed onto the screen, he relaxed. Reid hadn’t tried to open the hidden Linux partition. He had no reason to suspect it was there, no reason to look for it.

  Jack popped the small black square out of the machine and into his hand, curling his fingers around it. He could throw it into the Franklin stove right now. Probably should. He could delete the partition and its contents. Absolutely should.

  He slipped the diskette back into the sandwich bag, and started down the cellar stairs.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LIZ BUMPED HER HEAD on the sloping ceiling over the bed when she sat up. It made her think of her grandfather, solemnly checking every door frame, table and chair she’d bumped into as a child and assuring her it was undamaged. Even if her eyes were full of tears from the collision, she couldn’t help laughing at his concern for those sharp edges. Couldn’t help being just a little bit mad, either.

  At night, when she’d made a quick trip down the hall to the bathroom, the bare floor had been icy cold. Now there was a warm path where pale sunlight streamed in. Liz followed it to the window, then stood back from the draft of cool air seeping through the glass.

  The yard was huge, reaching to the poplar woods at the back, and to the garden and hip roof barn at one side. Her grandfather’s small orchard, hardy crab apple, plum and cherry trees, grew at one end of the garden, and her grandmother’s raspberry patch at the other. Her arms stung just looking at it. She and Susannah used to wade right in to find the ripest berries. They didn’t notice all the long red scratches on their skin until they were done. Tiny green worms wriggling inside the berries didn’t bother them, either.

  Maybe in a day or two the Twilight Zone feeling would wear off, and she could look outside without seeing twenty different scenes at once, her life passing before her eyes. In little pantomimes all over the yard she saw herself playing with her cousins and her brother. Had they spent any time at their own houses, or were they always here, rolling in this grass, climbing these trees, raiding this garden?

  Their swing still hung from the oak tree. Strange to see it empty. Someone had always been on it, leaning way back with arms stretched and legs pumping, trying to go high enough to look at the world through the tree’s lower branches. Once, they’d all tried to fit on at the same time—they’d made it to seven, with Liz and Susannah and Tom dangling from the ropes, before someone’s mother had called that they’d break the tree if they didn’t watch out. They were always tanned and laughing…at least it seemed that way. Untouchable.

  It was going to be a ghost-filled visit. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. She might manage to scare a few of them away. How, she had no idea. Threaten to draw them? Or ignore them, like bullies? That would be best. Ignore them, and keep her mind on why she was here—to help her grandmother and to say her goodbyes to the old house. Then she’d go back to Vancouver and stay there. Back home.

  She hurried into a pair of jeans and a sand-colored sweatshirt, then made her way downstairs, holding the banister as she went. Very little light turned the corner from the living room windows. She could hardly see where to put her feet. It was a dangerous staircase for her grandmother, narrow and steep, and a dark house for her to live in alone all these years. Liz had to think and count…nine years.

  Eleanor was in the kitchen, leaning over a steaming waffle iron. “Good morning, Elizabeth! I put the kettle on when I heard the floor squeak. It won�
��t be a minute.”

  “Great, I could do with a cup. Don’t tell me you’re making waffles.”

  “How could your first morning home go by without them?”

  Liz hovered, wondering if she should offer to help. She had tried to make waffles once and had ended up yelling at the supposedly nonstick pan and going out for breakfast. When the kettle whistled, she hurried to the stove and poured the boiling water over tea bags waiting in a warmed Brown Betty, glad of something useful to do. The dogs looked at her with mild interest, but didn’t move out of her way or wag their tails.

  She pulled a tea cosy over the pot. “This is pretty. Is it new?” It was leaf green, with a pattern of pink geraniums. There wasn’t a single tea stain on it.

  “Isn’t it nice? Jack saw it at a craft sale and thought of me.”

  “He goes to craft sales?”

  “It was in Pine Point. He wants to experience every aspect of country life.”

  “I hope you told him farmers don’t go to craft sales unless women drag them.”

  Eleanor looked amused. “I doubt I could influence him. Besides, he likes to support work that’s done locally.”

  Liz felt an uncomfortable twist of distrust. Jack McKinnon seemed to be going out of his way to please her grandmother. “He’s awfully friendly.”

  “For a stranger, you mean?” Eleanor poured more batter on the grill and closed the lid.

  “I suppose that’s what I mean.”

  “He’s not a stranger to me, Elizabeth.”

  Liz wandered back to her grandmother’s side. She hoped she hadn’t sounded too small-minded. “It’s no wonder he thought of you when he saw the cosy. You’ve always got geranium cuttings on the windowsills.” She leaned closer and breathed in the aroma of toasted vanilla. “What’s the plan for today, Grandma?”

  “We’ll start with the furniture, I think. It’s a three-room apartment, so I can’t take much with me. The dining room suite is my main concern.” Since her marriage just before the Second World War, Eleanor had been caretaker of a black walnut table that came with sixteen chairs and a matching sideboard. Liz’s great-great-grandparents had brought it with them from Ontario in 1883. “Your brother is willing to take it, but Pamela is reluctant. She prefers a modern style. Smaller scale, lighter wood. She asked Thomas if they could strip and bleach it…”