Something Fishy by Hilary MacLeod Page A

Jamieson had been a by-the-book cop. Now, she was a maverick. The Shores had taken possession of her. She knew how policing had to be done here. It had to make sense. There was a justice outside the law, the courtroom, the prison. Last winter she’d invoked that style of justice – ruling a possible murder an accident.
    She’d been sent here because she was a pain in the ass. Well, she’d keep out of their way. As long as she sent in the reports, they didn’t seem to care what was going on.
    She did.
    She stuck a label on the envelope. She was sending hard copy because she only had dial-up at the police house and it wasn’t secure. Anybody might have hacked into it; not that anyone in The Shores, besides Ian, could. He was only one who would even be interested.
    Other than Hy.
    There. She’d done it. Referred, mentally, to Hy by her first name. That ridiculous name. A greeting, not a moniker.
    It became quickly clear that no one was watching Jamieson. She had dispatched the envelope to headquarters, and there had been no response – other than the curt, automatic email: Weekly rec’d.
    It confirmed that no one cared what she did on her beat. They’d even let Murdo stay with her, though the size of the community didn’t warrant two police officers.
    The last official act the detachment had made was to relieve Billy Pride of his duties as a Community Peace Officer. He’d been devastated.
    Jamieson wasn’t inclined to acts of kindness, but she’d enlisted Billy to do menial chores around the police house, things that Murdo would have done if he were still there.
    Neither of them was obligated to live at the police house, but the fact that it was a house made it convenient. Not quite convenient enough for Murdo.
    He’d moved out and was living with April Dewey, the best little cook in The Shores. Half-a-dozen buns had come out of her own personal oven. Six children under twelve, who all seemed to be dangling somewhere off her body most of the time.
    Her husband had left her – and no wonder – for his mistress in Winterside, and Murdo had slipped into April’s heart, home, and the chair at the head of the dinner table.
    April had allowed Murdo to move in when her ex, Ron, had managed to get their marriage annulled. After six kids. It had soured April on the church. Ron didn’t have any friends, but he must have known some people in high places to pull off that travesty. She quit going to church, invited Murdo to move in, and started taking the pill. Murdo couldn’t understand why. He’d be happy to have more kids.
    It should have bothered Jamieson that Murdo was more likely to be seen shingling April’s roof than attending to police duties. At one time, it would have driven her nuts. Now she’d wave lazily as she walked by on her beat, breathing in the sweet salt air of The Shores, feeding her senses on the sights before her, the fields of grain or potatoes rolling down to the shore, and the pond – looking like a tadpole – with its tail running across the sand, a stream of fresh water mingling with the salt of the Gulf, while waves thundered up on the shore the day after a storm.
    I’ve turned.
    That’s how she thought of it, as if it were treason. The truth of it was that The Shores – the village, the land, the sea, and the people – had seeped into her soul.

Chapter Seven
    Moira answered her door to a uniformed man with a package on a dolly.
    It was another consignment of slow cookers. Moira had been doing a brisk business selling them in the village. Bulldozing over any objections had been her main sales technique.
    â€œFragile,” said the deliveryman, his eyes grazing up and down Moira’s body. She wasn’t fragile. Scrawny. Still – he hadn’t had much luck lately, though this was a great business for meeting the ladies.
    Moira managed a half-smile, her eyes quickly darting up the hill,