Page 7 of Miss Wolcott’s Ghost

That explained the cobwebs and the dirt.

Clara considered. “No one recently. And who would? You’ve met most of my visitors. I can’t imagine any of them going into the attic, can you?

“Can you make a list of your visitors?” asked Isabelle.

“Yes, of course.”

“Before I came down, I did a quick search of the databases,” said Isabelle. “Including the census records. Nothing on Lost Nation. Then I thought maybe it’s an Indigenous place name, but again, nothing. I’ll wait a little while, then call the Assembly of First Nations. The National Chief might know.”

“There’re a lot of old settler names that have died out,” said Reine-Marie. “Lost Nation might be listed in the archives or mentioned in oral histories. I can call my contacts. See what they can find locally, and at the National Archives.”

“Whoever called must’ve known about Clara and Three Pines,” said Isabelle.

“So, wherever Lost Nation is, it must be close by,” said Reine-Marie.

Instinctively, she looked across the empty bistro and out the mullioned windows that framed the little village.

A glow, muted by heavy clouds, had spread across the sky. The early-morning mist had turned to showers and the showers into rain. And now there was a tap-tap-tapping on the leaded glass, as whatever was outside asked to get inside.

The new day had dawned grey and liverish.

But inside, they were warmed by the muttering logs in the fieldstone fireplace, by the old beams and tin ceiling and strong coffee, even as they contemplated a ghostly call.

“There’s a body in Lost Nation,” repeated Clara as she stared into the flames.

“A what? Where?”

They turned to see Myrna standing in the doorway between her New and Used Bookshop and the bistro. She wore a huge, bright caftan and slippers. Myrna was a woman of color, in every way.

“Lost Nation,” said Armand, after they’d greeted her and made room on the sofa. “Ever heard of it?”

She took a long sip of her cappuccino, with cinnamon dusted on top in the shape of a book. Olivier had designed it just for her. She came away with a froth mustache.

Lines appeared between Myrna’s brows as she concentrated. Finally she shook her head. “Sorry. Where is it?”

“That’s the thing,” said Clara. “We don’t know.”

“So how do you know there’s a body there?”

Reine-Marie explained.

“Well, that’s strange.” She turned to Clara. “You have no idea who the dead person is?”

“Of course not.”

“But they used your phone.”

“They did. I didn’t. And it couldn’t have been my phone. I still have it.” She gestured to the table.

“Why call you, patron?” Isabelle asked. “And not say more?”

“A tease?” said Myrna.

“A challenge,” said Clara.

“A joke,” said Isabelle. “Maybe there is no body, and no Lost Nation.”

Armand had been quiet, thinking. Now he shook his head. “Whoever called was scared. It was no joke.”