Undeniable Relations: Families' Storytelling Trilogy, #3

By Bruce Bishop

In the postwar renaissance of the 1950s, the idealistic daughter of a fishing industry magnate grapples with knowing that her father's decades-old criminal activities, hidden under the guise of respectability, have impacted everyone she loves.

Deidre Doherty is aware she has led a privileged life in the small town of Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, while others have not been so lucky. Her burning desire to tackle the social justice issues of the day — systemic racism, sexism, and homophobia — propels her to try and reconcile the inequities she sees around her.

A personal loss, after her marriage to a young history teacher, profoundly affects them both. Deidre's father encourages the couple to forget the tragedy and move on. Dean Doherty's approach is reflective of his cynical nature as he has no time for anything that does not serve his own self-interest.

As Deidre discovers more and more about her parents' early marriage, and the sources of the Doherty wealth, tension builds. When the secrets and lies are exposed, Dean Doherty will pay the price that the past demands.

Undeniable Relations is the third novel in Bruce W. Bishop's Families' Storytelling trilogy. Readers of the other two novels, Unconventional Daughters and Uncommon Sons, will be happy to see four beloved characters return. Join them and Deidre in a compelling tale of deception and intrigue.
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Delightful surprises, astonishing twists, and remarkable characters make for a cracking good story. – Allan Hudson, author of the Shattered series

 

…a wonderfully fresh approach to one of my favorite mixed genres: historical fiction/murder mystery… – Anne Louise O'Connell, author of Deep Deceit and Mental Pause

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bruce W. Bishop
• Release date: Jun 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9781777414177

Bruce Bishop

Hello readers! I'm a former travel & lifestyle journalist and guidebook author who switched to writing novels in 2020.  I live in one of Canada's Atlantic Provinces and I often set my novels in this beautiful part of North America. (And because of my backgound in the travel industry, I can't resist including other destinations from Sweden to Singapore, where my characters may find themselves in!)

Book preview

ONE

Friday, January 10, 1958

When he was shoved off the public wharf into the depths of Yarmouth Harbor at high tide, he had no time to speculate whether anyone had witnessed his murder. He didn’t even have a moment to be angry with himself for having agreed to meet his killer at the wharf. The fog was as thick as pea soup the locals say, and it was impossible to tell what anybody was doing a couple of feet in front of, or behind you. It was as if that mass of white had been expressly ordered by his enemy to swallow the town, and him with it.

When he hit the surface, he thrashed about in the blackness, and he knew his life would soon be over. He had never learned to swim, and the shock of the frigid harbor that assaulted his body lulled him into complete submission. The claustrophobic saltwater demanded to fill his mouth, nose, and ears. He lapsed into unconsciousness, and as death overtook him, he welcomed it: whatever had gone wrong, or whatever he had done wrong in his life, now meant nothing.

After his demise, his body slowly floated southward. The fluorescent pools of gasoline on the harbor’s surface, cigarette butts, candy wrappers and miscellaneous paper products accompanied him. When his body was found many hours later at low tide, it had not yet reached the mouth of the harbor, but had become entangled in rocks and ubiquitous masses of seaweed. Some would later say that it was a righteous end for a person like himself.

* *

TWO

Wednesday, May 30, 1956

Thirty-one-year-year old Angus McMaster had been living in Halifax since he was eleven years old, but was born in Yarmouth. He and his mother Eva left that town in 1935; a few local gossips still spoke of the scandal that preceded their departure. Eva was the granddaughter of Captain Jacob and Signe Burcharth. That couple’s three daughters, including Eva’s mother, Elisabet, had been the fodder for exaggerated tales of moral decline in Yarmouth due to their unconventional lifestyles.

Angus was blessed with a ready smile and a serious interest in anything historical. He had been an English teacher in Halifax, and when an opportunity arose to teach History in his hometown, he immediately applied for the job.

After stepping off the train in Yarmouth, he walked up the hill and along Main Street to the Grand Hotel. To stay there for the time being was a luxury for the schoolteacher, but he hoped it wouldn’t be for too long. For financial reasons, he had to find a decent, furnished apartment to rent as soon as possible.

He had put his suitcase on the luggage rack in his guestroom when the telephone rang.

Yes? Angus McMaster here.

It’s the hotel operator. I have a long-distance call for you from Denmark. Let me patch you through.

Angus heard a couple of clicks and then the familiar, reassuring voice of his mother came over the line.

How’re you doing, sweetie? All settled in?

Hi Mom! No, not exactly, but your timing is spot-on. Where’re you now?

I told you I’d call you today, dear, Eva McMaster replied. I’m in Copenhagen with your Uncle Marc. He was able to leave his job in Stockholm for a couple of weeks, so we’ll tour around the country and maybe go to Amsterdam. I’m a free woman, Angus, and I’m having the time of my life!

Angus smiled. His mother was finally happy after an unfulfilling marriage to his stepfather, David Truman. For twenty years the couple had battled over Eva’s progressive, liberal views, which David unequivocally opposed. When the divorce was finalized, Eva dropped her husband’s surname, and celebrated with a trip to visit her best friend, Marc Youssef, who lived in Sweden. Angus wasn’t related to Marc, but he had known him since childhood and was very fond of him.

I’m glad to hear that, Mom.

Listen, hon, can you do me a favor before your serious apartment hunting begins? It’s Aunt Collan’s birthday next week, and of course, I forgot to send her a gift before I left Halifax. Would you go to the Doherty Seafood Company on Water Street and pick up a selection of canned fish for her? Add some smoked haddock and a couple of bottles of marinated herring. You know she loves all those things that I can’t stomach.

Yeah, sure. They’ll be a little hard to gift wrap, Mom.

Oh, for Lord’s sake, don’t bother wrapping the stuff. Tell her I’ll phone her next Wednesday on her big day.

Collan Burcharth was Angus’s 80-year-old grand aunt, a sister to Eva’s late mother. Angus knew that Collan was disappointed that he had politely refused the offer of a room in her house when she heard he was moving back to Yarmouth, but as much as he loved her, he didn’t want to become her caregiver, either. He had a different goal in mind: to find a girlfriend. He had a number of college friends who were already married and had begun having children.

Collan and her lesbian partner, Linnea, had lived a quiet life in Overton, a small community across the harbor, but Linnea passed away two years before Angus’s arrival in his hometown. Their unorthodox relationship was foreign to the townspeople, so the couple kept to themselves. But Angus and his grand aunt shared a special bond, and he looked forward to bringing the birthday gifts to her.

He left the hotel and crossed Main Street, taking a shortcut to Water Street through Victoria Park. This former cemetery had changed into a large, pleasant garden that overlooked the harbor. It was not only home to lilac bushes in bloom, but to the buried remains of some of Yarmouth’s earliest non-native families.

Located on the southwestern tip of Nova Scotia, Yarmouth is at the end, or the beginning, of two highways, depending on how one looks at things. One can start or end a journey here. It’s always been a destination for world travelers, and Yarmouthians comprise a true mix of people from nations around the globe. And truth be told, they don’t all live in perfect harmony.

Consider the fact that Yarmouth is primarily an English-speaking town that was settled by Planters from Massachusetts before the American Revolution, and that it’s bordered by several French Acadian villages to the north and to the east. The collective understanding of the day was that few people of European extraction acknowledged that the native Mi’kmaq people had been inhabitants of this area for about ten thousand years. They originally called the area Kespoowuit, which means ‘land’s end’, a fitting description of the area.

The French-speaking Acadians settled there in the early 1600s, and over the centuries had forged an amicable relationship with the native Mi’kmaq.

The Negro population of Yarmouth town and county arrived as Loyalists during and after the American Revolution. The ruling British promised them freedom and a farm, but because there were a majority of White Loyalists arriving from New York, the Negroes (some of whom were enslaved on arrival) were in a definite minority. They were placed at the end of the queue for the so-called farms.

Angus was giving some thought to the history of Yarmouth when he approached the nineteenth century building that housed the Doherty Seafood Company and saw the police car in front of the business. A few bystanders talked quietly outside, and he approached a youthful-looking constable who stood guard by the front door. The man’s uniform sadly outsized his body, which gave the appearance he was playing dress-up.

Excuse me, Constable, are they closed? I wanted to pick up a few items.

It’ll reopen soon, the gangly man said. We’re on official police business.

I gathered that, Angus said and suppressed a smile. What’s the problem?

Stealing is a crime. Yes siree, Bob, the young-looking police officer said with a hint of smugness. He enjoyed his self-imposed importance.

A petite woman, close in age to Angus, who wore a green gingham summer dress and was smoking a cigarette, observed the conversation from a few feet away. She looked like the epitome of a suntan lotion advertisement. Her deep brown wavy hair was unruly in the high humidity of their coastal environment, but it was lustrous, Angus thought. He was reminded of a movie star he had once seen in a film.

We get at least one shoplifter a week, she said in Angus’s direction, although we rarely catch one in the act.

Angus, impressed with the well-dressed young lady, said, We? You work here?

You could say that. My father owns the business, and I fill in when one of the staff is sick or has the day off.

Oh, I see, Angus said and smiled. I’m new in town, although I used to live here. I’m Angus McMaster.

I’m Deidre Doherty, she said and appraised him. McMaster’s not a Yarmouth name.

Well, uh, my father was from Halifax. He was a doctor here.

Was?

He died when I was a child.

I’m sorry to hear that, Deidre said, and threw her cigarette butt to the ground and stepped on it.

Another police constable emerged from the front door of the building, guiding a handcuffed man to the backseat of the parked police cruiser.

The policeman gave the man a strong push into the car and glanced at Deidre as if he expected her approval.

She ignored the activity and looked at Angus.

All right. Let’s go inside and you can buy whatever you need. Did you walk here?

Without waiting for an answer, she strode ahead of Angus up the stairs and into the building.

THREE

Friday, June 1, 1956

Oh my dear, such a handsome young man! Collan said as she embraced Angus when he arrived. He placed her birthday gifts on the hall table. Her home was utilitarian, but modestly decorated.

It’s so good to see you, Angus said, holding tight to his elderly relative. Pulling back, he continued, I was ordered by Mom to bring you these things from Doherty’s, and she also sends her love from Copenhagen.

That’s sweet! I miss her a great deal. My gosh, she gets around, though, eh? Is she traveling with Marc Youssef? I liked that young man.

Yes, but remember they’re both in their mid-fifties now, Aunt Collan. They’re not spring chickens anymore!

Collan chuckled.

Then that makes me a really old hen! Come into the kitchen, and let’s have a cup of tea.

Later, after they shared laughs and their mutual heartfelt memories of her late partner, Linnea, Collan poured the last of the tea into his cup.

I met an interesting lady today. Deidre Doherty. Her parents own—

The seafood company, of course, Collan finished his sentence and pursed her lips. It’s hard not to know the family in this town. From time to time I bump into her father at the post office. He can be pleasant. With the amount of money those people have, he bloody well should be.

Angus raised his eyebrows in surprise. His aunt typically didn’t speak ill of anyone.

Do you know Deidre personally?

Not so much. I met her once years ago when she was a teenager. She was sent to a finishing school in Switzerland. I think it was called Château Mont-Choisi, in Lausanne, although my memory isn’t what it once was.

I’m impressed. I wonder why she’s still in Yarmouth?

It could be that she wasn’t cut out for European life. Who knows? But you’re here now, so the town can obviously attract enterprising young men like you.

Angus beamed.

Do you think she’d agree to go on a date with me?

Oh, you do like her! I think she’d be thrilled to date a commoner, Collan said and winked, in case he didn’t catch her dry humor. Of course, she’ll go out with you, unless she’s seeing another fellow right now. But you won’t know until you ask.

* *

Deidre Doherty was an anomaly in Yarmouth. She was vivacious, had money, class, and an overabundance of manners, but was perennially single. Women who were jealous of her happily gossiped that she thought she was too good for any of the men in town.

Deidre closed the shop at five o’clock and walked up the hill from Water Street to Main Street, stopping at The Half-Shell, a diner where her smart outfit looked like she had overdressed. She spotted her friend, Dot Brannigan, one of the waitresses, standing behind the lunch counter. Deidre made her way to a booth and saw there were only two other lone diners in the café.

You’re lookin’ pretty in green, Dot said with a smirk, as she sat on the opposite side of the table. Are you goin’ to a par-tay tonight?

The smiling waitress was a Negro, thirty-one, whose attention to detail made her overqualified for her job, but a natural at it. Her ebony hair was chemically relaxed in the current style, and she wore only enough mascara to accentuate her wide brown eyes.

She had met Deidre years before when her mother had been a housekeeper for Deidre’s parents before they separated.

Hardly, Dot. I wanted to meet with you to let you know I’m ready to join the struggle.

Hal-lay-lew-ya! I could use more sisters like you, the woman said, and squeezed Deidre’s hand.

C’mon, now, lose the phony accent, Deidre said with a smile. Remember, I’ve known you forever.

Ah, but sometimes it’s best to sound dumb and frivolous in public, Deidre. That way you can be underestimated.

FOUR

Saturday, June 2, 1956

I think this’ll be fine, Angus said, after inspecting the top floor of a Victorian home on Seminary Street that had been converted into two apartments. It was a three-minute walk from the relatively new Yarmouth Consolidated Memorial High School on Parade Street, which replaced the old Yarmouth Academy that was razed by fire in 1949.

I’ll need the first and last month’s rent, son, said the wizened owner of the home who heaved from the exertion of climbing the stairs to the upper floor. There’ll be no parties, by the way. I don’t want my mother disturbed by any shenanigans from young people.

"Your mother?" Angus asked without thinking.

She’s your downstairs neighbor. She’s ninety-six, and don’t get on her bad side, the man said. Of course, I drop in, uh, daily to see if she’s okay, but I figure that if she can still mow the lawn every two to three weeks in the summer, she’s healthier than I am.

Two days after his telephone had been installed, Angus put his feet up on the ottoman and surveyed his living room. The dark floral wallpaper, overstuffed furniture that had seen better days, clunky tables, and an efficient-looking desk, fit his schoolteacher’s personality.

He stared at the black rotary telephone for several minutes, and with the Yarmouth phone directory open and resting in his lap, he picked up the handset and dialed.

The Doherty Seafood Company, a bored female voice said.

I’d like to speak to Miss Doherty, please, Angus said.

There ain’t no Miss Doherty here. Oh, wait a minute, do you mean Deidre?

Yes, that’s right.

She ain’t in ’til three when I get off.

The woman hung up the telephone in Angus’s ear without saying goodbye.

He placed the handset on its cradle with a grunt of surprise.

Charming, he muttered.

Two hours later he walked into the Doherty Seafood Company. There were no customers in the store, and Deidre sat behind the counter flipping through a new copy of a women’s magazine. The scene reminded Angus of a doctor’s waiting room, albeit one that smelled of fresh fish on ice. An assortment of canned tuna, kippers, and sardines lined the shelves while packages of dried haddock, salt cod and bottles of pickled herring vied for customer approval.

If it isn’t Angus McMaster, Esquire, Deidre said in a deadpan voice, and closed the magazine. Are you here for more seafood already? We unloaded some fresh scallops from Digby this morning, which is about the extent of my excitement this week.

Angus laughed.

Oh, c’mon now, surely life isn’t that dull in Yarmouth? I hear there’s a bowling alley at the YMCA, and dancing at the Snackerie in Dayton, and there’s swimming at Braemar Lodge now that summer’s here.

Single women aren’t often seen by themselves at those places. Other ladies will think I’m after their husbands, Deidre said drolly, and not without a hint of truth.

I’m glad, Angus said, tentatively. I mean to say, I’m glad you’re single. In fact, I’m relieved since I came here to ask you on a date with me. A movie, or something, you know, nothing heavy or serious. Would you like to—?

"Delighted, monsieur. In fact, how about if I asked you? My father and I have been invited on board the inaugural sail to Bar Harbor on the new MV Bluenose on June 9, and I’d love to have an escort in the form of a man so erudite, and, well, handsome."

Angus blushed, and she continued, There’ll be a lunch and dinner on board, and boring speeches from local politicians and my father, but it could be fun.

That sounds great, Deidre. I’ve no idea if I’ve got sea legs, since I’ve never sailed on any kind of boat or ship, but I’m more than willing to try it for the first time.

A small bell attached to the door dinged. Two customers entered.

I’ll write the details for you to the best of my memory, or why not call me at home this evening and we can chat longer? she asked and smiled.

Angus was captivated.

* *

A substantial portion of the population of Yarmouth gathered along Water Street and Forest Street to welcome the arrival of the MV Bluenose, owned by the Canadian National Railway Company. It promised an ocean highway to the United States that would bring a strong positive economic benefit to the region, and Nova Scotia overall.

The citizenry wanted to see the car ferry sail into the harbor, and then watch the Bluenose Day parade on Main Street. The vessel was an impressive sight at 346 feet long and able to carry 600 passengers, as well as 150 cars and trucks.

Brass bands and colorful floats assembled for the parade. The mood was festive and jubilant; the pomp and ceremony of the Royal Canadian Artillery band, the HMCS Cornwallis band, the Mersey Paper Company band, and the Yarmouth Citizens Band were evident. The Black Watch Pipe Band members looked regal in their kilts. It was a memorable day.

Deidre looked like Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch. She wore a flouncy white dress similar to that worn by the actress in the movie that was currently filling seats in theaters. Angus was smitten and found it difficult to pay attention to her father, whom he had met minutes earlier.

Later, they enjoyed lunch in the ship’s cafeteria with other guests who had been invited on the inaugural crossing to Maine.

Dad, please explain to Angus about the four sides of a ship. I rarely get the terms straight, Deidre said.

Dean Doherty smiled. In his late sixties, he sported a military-styled buzzcut of gray hair on a large head that topped his rotund body. He swallowed a spoonful of salmon salad with gusto, and chuckled.

I should’ve known you’d forget the basics of sailing after I sent you to Europe to school, he said with a touch of sarcasm. He grinned and looked at Angus.

Okay, buddy, we’re sitting in the aft section of the ferry, and that means we’re in the direction of the stern, at the rear. The front is called the bow.

Right. I think this landlubber knew that much, Angus said. His attempt at a joke disguised his nervousness at meeting Deidre’s father.

Dean ignored the comment.

If you’re looking at the bow, the port side is on the left, and on the right is the starboard side, the older man continued. You got that, Andrew?

Angus bit his tongue. He didn’t know if he should answer with another lighthearted response.

"It’s, uh, Angus, sir. Yes, I think so. It’s useful information that I can pass on to my students this fall."

Nova Scotians should know the four sides of a ship, Dean said, mumbling through another mouthful of salad. He picked up his glass of tomato juice and drank it in one gulp.

Right you are, sir, Angus said and wondered if the man had eaten a meal lately. His table manners didn’t match those of the genteel passengers around them.

Dean’s eyes scanned the room, and he abruptly left his chair.

I’ve got to have a word with the Minister of Public Works, Deidre. I’ll be back shortly, he said.

Angus felt vaguely uneasy. With his fork, he moved the cold cuts and potato salad around on his plate, glad that Dean Doherty was no longer at the table even if he was only absent for a brief time.

My father can be quite opinionated, Deidre said. If you don’t question American foreign policy, and if you’re not sympathetic to the Soviet Union, you two will get along quite well.

Angus chuckled.

Oh? Is he on the lookout for would-be Communists?

I’m serious, Angus. Dad takes the Red Scare seriously. He hates the fact that I’ve been curious and interested in the peace movement since I attended school in Switzerland.

Her new friend was perplexed.

Huh? That’s not a bad thing with the memory of a world war fresh in everyone’s mind.

Deidre lowered her eyes.

I don’t mean to get all serious on what’s supposed to be a fun date. But briefly, my father thinks anyone interested in civil liberties or the peace movement is soft on the Soviet Union. And even though he’s Canadian, he regards Joe McCarthy as a hero.

Wow! I hope your dad doesn’t meet my mother. She’s as liberal as they come, and I can’t imagine the two of them in a room together.

Tell me about it. My mother left a few years ago to stay with her sister over in Quincy, Massachusetts, and she still hasn’t returned. She and Dad would get into these huge, massive arguments because they had such opposite personalities. I wish they’d divorce, but there’s that Catholic thing that hangs over the family.

She sighed and turned to Angus to ask, How about you show me around the ship, now that you know all four sides of it?

Angus smiled and stood, and gently pulled Deidre’s chair away from the table.

I’d be delighted to! I saw in the brochure they gave us that the main observation lounge is on this floor—

"—you mean deck; the promenade deck," Deidre said and smiled.

Right again. That’s exactly what I meant, Angus said with a laugh. He spied Dean