On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery

On the Rocks

To the late Kathleen Buckley
and the “Cottage Girls”

E
DITH
L
EWIS GOT
out her easel and watercolors and set them up near the edge of the bluff in front of their cottage on Whale Cove. Most of the previous afternoon Edith had spent trying to catch the rough beauty of the rocks just where the water cascaded over for a long, leisurely dive to the darker rocks below, then joined the chill, salt water of the Bay of Fundy. From this angle she could just hear the faint sound of its rush.

Actually two waterfalls occupied this section of the cliffs between Whale Cove and Ashburton Head known as Seven Days Work, where rock layer upon discernible layer rose well over two hundred feet to tower above the beach below. The height of the cliff in front of the cottage she and Willa had built four years before was breathtaking, but these cliffs just to the north were even more dramatic, dwarfing the fifty-foot tides that regularly rose and fell in this part of the world, so that except for the long rattle of shingle with each tide’s withdrawal, the waves seemed almost usual.

The afternoon light was perfect for another try, Edith decided, fastening the paper so the slight breeze coming off the water would not disturb her work. A pair of gulls circling just off to the right caught her attention, and she paused to watch as one of them, nearer the water, pumped her wings and rose to the same level as her mate, then reached out to re-embrace the air. Floating opposite each other in the same lazy circle, the pair rode effortlessly, graceful, chattering occasionally, almost inconsequentially, Edith surmised, about the prospect of fish offered by the solitary rower in the dory below. He was, Edith knew and she thought the gulls probably did too, heading out to check the herring weir staked well out in the water below their bluff. A lone boatman inspecting nets at high tide would supply few fish for the gulls. They must know that too, Edith thought. Perhaps they were riding scout just to be sure or, it was such a lovely day, maybe they thought it would be a shame not to tag along for the flight.

Flying seemed such joy compared to bobbing about on the sea. Edith never reached Grand Manan without nausea and had only once dared to go out with the others to see how the local fishermen worked their nets. Willa went out at least once every season, but Edith preferred the solidity of earth. Such rolling about was the same as living with an inner ear disturbance, Edith declared every time they made the crossing between Eastport and North Head. Humans weren’t intended to imitate fish, and only dead fish float like boats.

But flying might be different, Edith thought now, turning back to her preparations. At least soaring would be, like those gulls. Lindbergh made flight look easy. Willa and Edith had followed closely the news of Lindbergh’s flight. When he landed in Paris, it was as though he had reached the moon, Edith chuckled to herself, people were that excited. Of course, now he had to learn to live with fame, Edith took a moment to massage the bristles on her brushes. And fame was much less glamorous than most people guessed. Lindbergh still seemed to be having fun, even with all the row about his wedding and new wife. But they were young, Edith smiled, plunging her brush into water. They should have fun. Plenty of time for the rest.

With the afternoon sun on the other side of the island, shadows cast the rocks near the two waterfalls into sharp relief. Edith hoped today she could manage exactly the right touch, fanning her brush to keep the deeper shades firmly on the outer edge of the bristles. It was difficult to capture the jagged recesses of the ledge just where the waterfall flung itself over. Once she had that, she thought a few strokes of the darker hues topped by some touches of green to suggest the wind-tossed evergreens above, and it would be finished.

A flash of red caught Edith’s attention, and she stared at a stand of scrubby trees less than thirty feet from the nearest waterfall. Nothing red reappeared. The weathered spruce where the flash had been reminded Edith of nothing so much as naughty children digging in their heels and leaning back vigorously, as though they wanted to touch the land beneath with their whole bodies, refusing even to look at the sea beyond.

Someone must have scurried away from the edge, Edith guessed. The old sheep trails everyone used could get much too close for comfort along Seven Days Work. Inexperienced hikers were often afraid, especially when they found themselves sharing a trail with the sheep that still grazed loose among the rocks.

Then a sound came, muffled, something like a shout. Edith strained to hear, but it was gone. Nothing followed. Just water falling and the waves. Gulls still chattered near the weir. Edith touched her brush to the paper, fanned it slightly, and then pulled the stroke down. This would work, yes, she decided. She reached for the ocher and glanced again at the cliff.

Soundless this time, motion. The back of a red shirt straightened. An arm shot out. Then a body appeared to fling itself over the edge, head first as though diving. It was a man, dressed in what looked from this distance like a business suit, but tilted oddly, sideways, as though he had decided to face Edith throughout his decline. After the first rushed impulse, the body seemed to slow precipitously and momentarily to drift, then pick up speed again as it neared the waves, Edith realized with a shock, receding from the rocks below.

E
DITH
alone had seen the body plummet. Eric Dawson, the solitary rower, glimpsed only the end of its fall, his attention directed by Edith’s horrified shout and frantic gestures. He laid to the oars and watched Edith spin away, running first toward the cliffs at Seven Days Work, then back toward the cottages at Whale Cove. Before he reached the spot where he thought the body landed, just south of the waterfalls, he saw the cliff by the cottages fill up with women, first the one they called Cather, then several more. Cottage Girls. He could tell by their clothes. None of the local women wore men’s horse-riding pants or dresses that looked like sacks with no waists at all. They were holding onto each other and pointing, running back and forth, arms flailing. A dog leapt from one to another, almost spinning in air, then charged a few sheep making their way toward the cove. White dots disappeared into the trees. Eric could hear only his own breath, the quick creak of the oars, and the waves washing him in.

When he reached the beach, Eric could see no body, just a few boulders poking through the foam. Instead of leaping out of the dory and running to rescue the man as he expected, Eric had to climb onto the seat of his dory to get a vantage point. He put his hand to his forehead, shading his eyes as though that might help him find the man. Then he noticed reddened foam sliding from one of the boulders, and just beyond a dark suit rose and fell, slapping gently against the rocks nearby.

“S
TRAIGHT UP
. T
HAT
’
S
how I take mine,” Sabra Jane accepted the cup Edith had offered earlier that afternoon. “I’m not a fussy person. Never have been.”

The day had been typical on Grand Manan, a small island in New Brunswick, located just above Campobello in the Bay of Fundy. Populated by fishing villages and invaded each spring by a few tourists and colonies of summer residents, Grand Manan spent most mornings cloaked in fog, then the sky would clear and the day would remain peaceful, quiet, and generally uneventful.

Edith smiled, appreciating Sabra Jane’s directness. It matched her sensible habits of dress, the tailored red shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows revealing the strong hands and wrists of a potter. Locally, Sabra Jane was famous for her clothes and long, loping stride. People thought it was nice that she could also make pots.

Edith bent to offer the second cup to Willa, turning the tray slightly so Willa could reach the milk and sugar easily.

“Just a touch of milk and sugar. That’s all I ever take,” Willa settled back in the Adirondack chair, placing her heels on the low wicker table that did double duty as their hassock outdoors. “And I like my tea hot,” she sipped. “Hot and strong, so I can taste it. Just the way I like coffee. It’s the taste I’m after, and the heat. Sets me up as if it had a lot of caffeine but without the aftereffects.” They had been talking earlier that afternoon, as they prepared the soil for planting herbs, about homeopathy and Willa’s preference for Sanka, one of the special supplies they brought with them every summer to Whale Cove. The caffeine in coffee worked against homeopathic remedies.