Dan Sharp Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Jeffrey Round
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four hundred miles of wilderness to call this place home.” He looked over his shoulder where a small lake glittered in the distance. “But it’s the other side of this place that makes it famous — or infamous.”
Under a bank of trees, the shallow water rippled in the breeze. On the far side, a red canoe eased silently along, paddlers and canoe replicated perfectly on the lake’s placid surface. The wind gusted suddenly and the water danced a blue-grey jitterbug.
Dan looked back at the Bay of Quinte where miniaturized sailboats flashed like butterflies in the sun. Something tugged at him. He couldn’t name it at first. It was an unsettled feeling, the barest of hints at the back of his brain like a nagging intuition. In this place where breezes played on the water and wind stirred in the branches overhead, something was wrong. It was a sigh heard in an empty room or ghostly fingers straying across your cheek while you dreamed.
Thom was watching him. “Do you feel it?”
“Something’s odd here,” Dan said, almost apologetically. His brows knit. “I’m not given to ghosts and the like, but there’s something strange about this place.” He looked to Bill. “Do you know what I mean?”
“I know exactly what you mean!” Bill exclaimed. “There’s no bar!”
Their laughter died over the surface of the lake. Dan tried to recall what Donny had said about the place. “It’s the water, isn’t it? It shouldn’t be this high.” His gaze returned to the bay. “It should level off with the water below.” He turned again and looked across the lake. “And behind those trees is Lake Ontario, also quite a bit farther below….”
“… and yet here we are, hundreds of metres above the bay and the lake, and the water level up here never drops,” Thom continued. “That’s it. That’s the mystery of this place.”
Dan drew a breath. “It’s freakish. It’s as if it’s breaking a law of nature.”
Bill shook his head. “I don’t feel anything. Besides, they say that about us.”
“They say that about doctors?” Thom joked.
Sebastiano, who had been quiet till then, spoke up. “What do they say about doctors? Are you a doctor?”
Bill turned. “So they tell me.”
“Never mind, Seb,” Thom said. “It was just a joke.”
Thom stepped onto a flat rock offshore and turned to them. “Forbidden love,” he declaimed. “Legend has it a Mohawk brave and his Ojibwa lover committed suicide here when their tribes tried to prevent them from running away together.” He pointed to the right of the parking lot. “There used to be a waterfall here that was once compared with Niagara. The settlers used it to power the gristmills.”
Thom looked over his shoulder. The canoe had reached the end of the lake and was headed back, sliding silently along like an image in a dream. “No motor boats. They don’t allow them.” He stepped nimbly back onto shore and took Dan’s arm, pulling him aside. “I just want to say how happy I am for you and Billy. He’s my closest friend and I love him to death. And anyone who loves Bill is a friend of mine.”
Dan nodded his thanks, but Thom had already moved ahead, as though uttering heartfelt sentiments was a casual thing for him. They caught up with Bill and Sebastiano on a walkway overshooting the water. A few yards out, a black stain spread under the water’s surface. Another mystery, Dan thought, until he realized it was where the lake plummeted.
“If you were in a canoe,” Thom said, “you’d see it’s a sheer drop. It just plunges and gives you a little chill. The early settlers claimed the lake was bottomless.”
“Any idea how deep it is?” Dan asked.
“Actually, I know exactly how deep it is,” Thom said. “Thirty-seven metres. As a comparison, the Bay of Quinte where we ferried across is only seventeen metres at its deepest point.”
“Where does the water come from?”
“It’s speculative,” Thom said, “but they think it might come from Lake Superior.”
“But that’s hundreds of kilometres away.”
Thom nodded. “Scientists did some experiments releasing radioactive isotopes in the water, and that’s what they’ve determined.”
“It really is a mystery then.”
Sebastiano was glancing around. A panicked look had taken hold of him. “I don’t like this place. Bad spirits live here.” He shivered. “I feel it is haunted.”
Thom placed an arm across his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Seb. I won’t let them get you.”
Bill eyed them. “I think it’s boring,” he said. “Let’s go to town and find a drink.”
Dan rested a bronzed arm on the windowsill, hair bristling in the breeze, as the car wound away from Glenora toward Picton. All four looked ahead expectantly, following the route the Loyalists once used. There would barely have been a track back then as they hacked their way through trees and dense growth, alert for Native attacks. Anticipating their new homeland, far from the tyranny of mob rule in the newly emancipated republic to the south, four hundred men and women loyal to King George III were setting the stage for the then-unnamed country’s own tenuous path to independence.
Bill and Thom carried on a desultory conversation in the back. Sebastiano sat silently up front with Dan. He’d been spooked by the lake. Thom was used to its mystery and Bill hadn’t felt a thing, but Dan thought it odd how strongly the boy had reacted.
Up ahead, a steeple beckoned. A mast-filled harbour flashed by with a collection of tilting crosses, and suddenly they were there. They roared over a bridge just as the town opened up. One block further along a pub hailed them from the first floor of a grand hotel that had survived the times. It stood there, a displaced duchess keeping up her artifices and routines in a world that no longer sustained a belief in royalty. The black and gold frame above the door dated the premises to 1881, a bit past John A.’s tenancy, but significant nonetheless in a land where anything old was seldom encouraged to hang around.
The Black Swan, known to regulars as the Murky Turkey, was an old-world fade-into-the-woodworks establishment replete with stained glass, stained menus, and a permanent ethos of beer and cigarettes that repulsed the lively but enticed the world-weary in for more.
Where the Scots pioneer went, drink was sure to follow. A mutinous-looking collection of malts and mashes lined the darkly mirrored bar, sixteen taps at hand for the discerning drinker. For better or worse, tradition demanded fish and chips on every menu, with a selection of fine eats. This one eschewed such old-world delicacies as haggis and blood pudding, but made up for it with offerings of fatty fried foods and dishes featuring animal entrails. Steak-and-kidney pie topped the list. For an added touch, sausages and mash were on offer, wisely located near the bottom of the menu owing to the fact that most Canadians would never have heard of it.
Heads notched toward them as they entered — a cast of regulars whose sluggish responses and leaden pallor suggested they hadn’t moved or seen daylight in recent memory. The newcomers slid into chairs, their youthful voices and quick movements at odds with the room, bending their elbows against a table scarred with cigarette burns and the sweat rings from countless rounds of cheer. The look said vintage, though the exact period would have proved hard to determine.
Sebastiano had cheered up considerably since leaving Lake on the Mountain. He barely stopped talking as they doffed coats and settled in. “This is a good place,” he said, looking around. “I like it here.”
“It almost looks as though it might date from Loyalist times,” Dan said.
“So does the waitress,” Bill said, as a stooped spectre approached wearing a hesitant smile. He looked at her nametag. “Hello, Erma,” he said.
Her smile blossomed into an unkempt garden of teeth. “Hear the specials, love?” she asked