The Defilers. Deborah Gyapong

laughed. “I always think of that movie when I come out here. Some of them even look like the banjo player.”

      “Tell me about it. This is his hometown.”

      When I reviewed my notes later at the detachment some questions nagged me. Why would a white-collar guy like David Jordan endanger his family by living in South Dare? Why did the locals have such animosity? And what was up between him and his wife? I couldn’t rule anything out at this stage. I’d longed for a file like this, but my previous detachment back in British Columbia had been so big, everyone specialized. No matter how hard I tried to get ahead I always got stuck with traffic control, or busting prostitutes and johns, or worse, counselling battered women or rape victims.

      The inner flames burst into life.

      The firebomber was mine.

      Chapter 2: The Neighbour

      At day’s end I stored my pistol in its metal case, stowed it in my locker, then showered and changed into jeans and a sweater. As I drove my red Jeep away from the grey slush and bright lights of Sterling’s strip malls I felt drained, like a drunk with a hangover. Why couldn’t I love justice without becoming someone I couldn’t control?

      The Jeep tires swished on the wet highway and the full moon gleamed on the snowy fields. Across the water the lights from the village of Cornwallis Cove twinkled. The Annapolis Valley radio station played My Achy Breaky Heart. Then a weather report promised more snow and unseasonably cold temperatures for early November.

      When I turned onto the road leading up the hill to my farmhouse, the heavy snow weighed the tree boughs down so they arched over the road. Snow coated every twig. The Jeep’s headlights illuminated the beauty, reminding me of my childhood and how a snowfall would transform Boston’s Franklin Park, covering the cigarette butts, condoms and bottle caps, decorating the leafless maples and oaks, and making even the shabbier areas near my neighbourhood look festive. Driving under the arch I felt like I was passing through a magic gateway, and for a few moments, the hell of South Dare seemed like a bad dream.

      At the top of the hill several small farms spread before me. Snow frosted the spruce trees and roofs of the houses. Except for some wet tire tracks even the road ahead was white. A public service announcement about hunter safety blared on the radio. I shut it off. The beauty and wholesomeness of the countryside was as calming as the fire and South Dare had been intoxicating. Even the snow looked different here – fresh and pure instead of cold and dead. Warm yellow light shone from the windows of the farmhouses. TVs flickered in some of the front rooms and woodsmoke curled from the chimneys. This achingly beautiful place was my neighbourhood now. I’d traded a studio apartment in Surrey, British Columbia, for a nineteenth century farmhouse on sixty acres of pasture and woodlot with a small barn I used as a garage.

      The sight of my darkened house almost broke the surrounding beauty’s magic. Though I loved the old place with its peaked roof and single dormer window over the front door, tonight it seemed empty and cold in the stark moonlight – so unlike the happy-looking homesteads I’d just passed. An icy bough had snapped off the old maple tree and lay across my front lawn. At least I’d left the light on over the back steps.

      Sniffing the fragrant woodsmoke in the chilled air I tromped through the wet snow to the back door. I glanced across the white meadow to Catherine’s place. Her kitchen windows glowed and her wagon was parked in her laneway. I wondered if she’d already filed her story about the South Dare fire and put her weekly newspaper to bed.

      A bare bulb cast a harsh bright light on my damp cold kitchen. Years of footsteps had scuffed a brownish trail on the faded flowered linoleum. A few dingy white cabinets hung over a worn porcelain double sink. The previous owner’s aqua and chrome table and chairs still occupied the room’s centre.

      The kitchen had lots of windows, though I had no blinds for them yet. The oil stove dominated the interior wall. Its weight made the floor sag, tilting the monster so one of its warming oven doors hung open. I cranked up the oil and threw a lighted match into the carburetor. The fuel oil smell and the fan’s annoying rattle had taken me a while to get used to. Aside from the stove the other homey touch was the single bed under the back windows. Many of the older homes in Nova Scotia still had a bed in the kitchen, going back to the days when it was the warmest room in the house. Though I hated the frilly yellow bed covering, matching pillow covers and curtains, my budget and schedule didn’t allow me to do everything I wanted to right away.

      No, my farmhouse didn’t feel like home. It felt like an investment, something I’d scrimped and saved for, and the home I hoped to create was still somewhere in the future. That made me glad Catherine was expecting me for supper. I insisted on throwing in some money toward groceries so as not to be obligated to her. After shovelling my back steps I sprinted across the snowy meadow for supper.

      The fire in Catherine’s cast iron stove hissed and popped, radiating warmth. The wide pine floorboards, braided rug, and stained glass lamp hanging over the table comforted my senses. I stretched my legs across another chair toward the stove. Catherine grasped the neck of a large screw-top bottle of white wine and plunked it on the table. I poured myself a glass to help get my mind off the firebomber.

      Typically I would have done an exhaustive post mortem on the investigation, replaying over and over what had happened at the crime scene. This time I refused to beat myself up for how things had gone. I’d moved back to Nova Scotia to start a new life, and one of my goals was to stop being a workaholic perfectionist. I needed balance, a life outside work. It was okay to enjoy Catherine’s friendship. Catherine padded to the table with a couple of placemats and a fistful of tableware.

      “Where’s Grace?” I hoped it wasn’t too late to see Catherine’s six-year-old daughter.

      “In bed. Her nose was running and she was pretty cranky.” Catherine took two earthenware bowls from the cupboard and ambled over to the woodstove.

      The news disappointed me. Grace was one of the new joys in my life. In recent years the only children I’d ever seen were victims of porn or abuse, or they were pawns in domestic violence. What a change to be around a happy, innocent little girl who loved teddy bears and horses.

      Catherine ladled stew into the bowls. “Edna’s stew is fantastic. I’ve already had some, but I think I’ll have a little more.” She opened one of the wood stove’s warming ovens and removed a pan of fresh rolls. She sat across from me and poured herself more wine in a goblet-sized glass.

      “Your housekeeper’s a great cook.” I unfolded a paper napkin on my lap. “She cost an arm and a leg?”

      “Edna costs less than putting Grace in daycare. And she cooks and cleans. It’s like having a wife.”

      I laughed. “I could use a wife too. Someone to iron my shirts…”

      Catherine bit into the crusty golden bun and winced with pleasure at the taste. “These rolls are better than sex.”

      I laughed again and raised a spoonful of stew to my mouth. When did I start laughing when a conversation made me uncomfortable? I reminded myself to cut the laugh track. It made me sound nervous.

      The beef was moist and tender, but needed salt. As I reached for the shaker I felt Catherine staring at me and looked up at her shining brown eyes. “What?” I grinned.

      “Nothing. It’s nice to have you here.” She smiled, a dimple forming in her left cheek. “Speaking of sex, why don’t you bring that gorgeous Will Bright by here some evening?”

      I stiffened. “I don’t socialize with people from work.”

      Catherine grinned. “Whoa! Sounds like I hit a sore spot.”

      Under the table she poked my shin with her slippered toe. “You have a crush on him, don’t you?”

      “Puhleeze.” At least I didn’t laugh.

      “I bet he flirts with you, doesn’t he?” she smirked, poking me again. “Some girls get all the breaks. You are so drop-dead beautiful, Linda.”

      I