Free Seeders: A Novel by A. J. Colucci

sky. On a clear day, a thin outline of Nova Scotia could be seen on the horizon, but presently there was too much haze.
    The battered shed looked to be quite large, roomy enough to house a small family. As they approached the building, the muffled sound of an engine hummed and there was a whiff of diesel in the air. Bonacelli explained that the generator was housed in a separate, ventilated room behind the shed.
    The old wooden door slid sideways, rumbling under its weight and squealing from rust. The sun was low and filled the dark interior with a golden glow. The light hit a wall and sparkled on metal objects hanging from hooks. There were farming tools: scythe, hatchet, shovel, and ax, all looking quite rusty. There were a couple of large knives, fishing poles, and a spear, as well as a crossbow and leather case filled with arrows.
    Sean picked up an arrow.
    “That’s strange. My father never hunted,” Isabelle said. “There’s no game on the island.”
    “Target practice, I suppose,” Bonacelli replied.
    Luke reached into a barrel full of cobwebs and pulled out a wet suit that looked as though it hadn’t been used in ages. “Two suits with snorkels,” he said, excited at the find.
    “I wouldn’t advise swimming in these frigid waters,” Bonacelli said. “The riptides can be deadly.”
    “I think it’s all right in the shallows of the cove,” Isabelle said. “I swam at the beach every summer.”
    Bonacelli led them to an adjoining room, twenty paces in length that contained the monstrous generator. It was an old military model with rusted metal and flaking paint, but it was a solid workhorse and the rickety exhaust fan removed most of the diesel fumes from the room.
    It clanged loudly, so the lawyer had to shout. “There used to be a battery system but it went down years ago, so George kept the generator running all the time. To save petrol, he used very little electric and the thermostat is set to about fourteen degrees Celsius at night. Not to worry; there’s a fireplace in every room to keep warm. But if anything happens, if the generator goes down, use the radio to call for help. You don’t want to be here with no heat or power.”
    They were glad to leave the noisy shed and head back to the house.
    Bonacelli stopped at the patio. “I have business on the other side of the Atlantic tomorrow. I’ll be in touch with you, Isabelle; more papers to sign.” He bid them farewell and headed for the woods and the boat back to Halifax.
    The rest of the guests returned to the kitchen. The children explored the house as Isabelle prepared a light supper of pasta and broccoli in white wine sauce.
    Ginny insisted they look for the diamond right away.
    “It’s nearly dark and we’re all exhausted,” Isabelle said. “We’ll look in the morning.”
    “We should at least try to figure out the riddle,” Ginny said curtly.
    Isabelle sighed. “I think the best strategy is to forget the riddle and have a thorough search tomorrow.”
    The house was large enough for everyone to have their own bedroom, so after supper they dragged their luggage upstairs, washed up for bed, and retired for the night.
    They didn’t know it was to be their last uneventful evening.

 
    CHAPTER 7
    THE MORNING SKY WAS GRAY and an ocean breeze shook the windowpanes. Isabelle awoke in a frigid room, wrapped in blankets and surrounded by memories. She had chosen her old bedroom for the sake of nostalgia. The white-painted furniture, stuffed animals, dollhouse, and flowery bookshelf seemed to have been waiting for her return. It was the cleanest room in the house and she was touched that George had kept it dusted.
    The radiator had just come on, hissing madly. Right away she got out of bed and her feet hit the cold wooden floor. She rummaged through her suitcase, put on jeans and a thick red wool sweater that made her feel cozy, and then added wool socks and hiking boots. She had purposely left every dress behind along with her hats,