She cast one longing look back at the simple little motel. “We could take a page from Phil’s book.”
“Let’s check out Nancy’s place first. I tell you what. Will a nice, hot, sit-down meal of fish and chips do the trick?”
She opened the truck door and shooed Kaylee over to make room. “On real chairs? With a real server, and a pint of local ale?”
“Follow me, ma’am. I’ll even spring for a bottle of wine!”
They found Nancy’s Restaurant a couple of kilometres farther up the road. Splashy roadside billboards advertised it as having the best fish and chips on the northern peninsula, as well as sumptuous lobster in season, but when the restaurant came into view, Amanda laughed aloud. It was a little square saltbox house in the middle of a weedy field. The sign on the front door, painted pink with an inexpert hand, urged them to please come in. A single room greeted them, filled with a half-dozen tables covered in faded, mismatched plastic cloths like the leftovers from a church rummage sale. It was the dinner hour, but all the tables were empty except for one at the back, where a woman wearing a frilly apron was flipping through a magazine. Like many of the women Amanda had seen in Newfoundland, she had a round, cherub face and a short, plump body. Her hair was orange; whether by mistake or design, Amanda wasn’t sure.
She looked up in astonishment at their arrival. “You wanting to eat?”
Chris was about to launch into his “Aw, shucks, yes please” routine, but Amanda stopped him. She’d been in many dubious restaurants in her years overseas, and the décor didn’t deter her. The lack of customers, and the lack of cooking aromas or sounds from the kitchen, did.
She remained in the doorway. “We’re actually looking for a friend of ours. I understand he and his son ate dinner here a couple of nights ago.” She fished in her pocket for her cellphone, while the woman’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hair. Only their dark brown colour saved them.
“Here?” she asked in disbelief.
Amanda crossed the room to show her the photos. The woman gave them a cursory glance. “Oh yeah, Mr. Personality. He came in here like he had his own permanent thundercloud over his head. Wanted a Quidi Vidi Premium to go with his fish and chips and when I said we had no liquor licence, he didn’t want to stay. The boy was hungry, you could tell, and he begged his father to stay, but they left in a big, huge fight. He told the kid to shut up and slammed the truck door. I told them the only place still open now was a café near Anchor Point, so I’m guessing that’s where they headed.”
“How far is that?”
“Eight, nine kilometres?”
Amanda’s heart sank. Night was stealing in from the east, cloaked in cloud and wind. She was hungry and tired herself by now, torn between the promise of a hot meal and the fresh sheets of the Seaview Motel. Chris thanked the girl and headed outside, cocking his head as they descended the wooden steps.
“Holding out for that bottle of wine, eh?”
“Trust me,” she said. “I’ve seen more promising establishments in the villages of Cambodia.”
“Looks can be deceiving. Sometimes these simple places have the best food.”
“Right.”
He laughed. “Got it. Well then, on to this café!”
Just as they were approaching the truck, his cellphone rang. He pulled it out as if it were an alien thing. “A signal!” he exclaimed. But as he studied the call display, his delight faded, and he wrinkled up his nose. “Uh-oh, the boss. Hang on. He’s probably forgotten some password.” He turned away and lowered his voice to answer the call. Amanda watched from the corner of her eye as she let Kaylee out for a quick run. Chris’s expression grew sober, and he stiffened to attention. It was a quick call, but by the end of it he was nodding in agreement. Afterward, he turned to her, all hint of teasing gone from his face.
“A body’s been pulled ashore in one of the harbours north of here. Quite the stir. The local detachment has only four officers and one’s away on training, so my boss says since I’m in the neighbourhood, can I go help? At least with the preliminaries, until reinforcements arrive.”
She went cold. “A body?” she whispered. “Whose?”
“The sergeant had no details, so let’s not jump to conclusions. I’ll go up there and keep you posted.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No. It’s too early to tell anything. You’d be better off going to that café and then getting a good night’s sleep.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Chris. You think I’m going to sleep a wink? I can identify him.”
“So can I.” He pulled down the tailgate of his truck and turned to her, all cop now. “Bodies can wash up from anywhere, sometimes months after a drowning. It may be hours before we know anything. You’d just be hanging around behind the perimeter with the rest of the village, waiting for news. Let’s get your bike off the truck and stick to our plan. The best thing you can do for us right now is to go talk to the people at the café.”
Watching him roll the Rocket down the ramp, she struggled with fear and impotence. She wanted to plead further, but she sensed he wouldn’t budge. She would be a third wheel at the scene anyway, feeling useless and hating it. “Okay, but please call me if —”
“I will.” He gave a quick crinkly smile that softened him. A chill wind whipped across the open meadow, bringing with it the tang of salt and the smell of rain. It blew his soft, floppy hair into his eyes. “You’ll be sick of hearing from me.”
Then, with a screech of rubber, he was gone.
Chapter Seven
During Amanda’s short ride up the highway to the café, the clouds unexpectedly began to shred and roll out toward the east. The ocean quieted, and the lingering dusk painted the sea and sky in muted swirls of lavender and rose. Amanda’s fatigue and hunger evaporated under the spell.
The Fisherman’s Dory Café was situated on a bay in an old saltbox house painted flamboyant turquoise with yellow trim. Surrounded by practical but humourless houses sporting white siding, pickup trucks, and piles of firewood and tires in the front yard, it looked like a dancer at a plowman’s match. She parked by the front window, fed Kaylee, and ran her around the parking lot before shoehorning her back into the trailer with a promise of better walks tomorrow. The dog gazed out at her, sad-eyed and unimpressed.
A blast of steamy air redolent with fish, garlic, and beer greeted Amanda when she pushed open the barnwood door. A stout woman in her fifties glanced up from behind a counter at the back, and a smile lit up her wind-weathered face.
Amanda felt as if she’d walked into a nautical-themed Disney set. Netting was draped in swoops along the walls, with various shells and fish woven through it. Lobster traps and stuffed fish hung everywhere. The place was empty except for three men clustered around a television at the back, watching football. Celtic music from speakers clashed with the breathless play-by-play voiceover, and every now and then the men erupted in shouts of excitement or disgust. The woman looked delighted for the interruption, and within seconds she’d introduced herself as Jill and settled Amanda at a table by the window as far from the shouting as possible. As Amanda was placing an order for a draught, seafood chowder, and grilled turbot, Jill spotted Kaylee outside.
“Oh for the love of God, that’s no place for a dog! Bring ’im in, bring ’im in, darlin’! Dere’s nobody here but us, and the boys will take good care of ’im while you eat. I gots just the piece of turbot for ’im.”
Amanda didn’t raise the question of regulations, having learned that Newfoundlanders loved to ignore them anyway, and Kaylee wasted no time gobbling up the fish and charming her way into the middle of the men, who slipped her the occasional bite from the food in front