“Did your father have a piece of the action?”

She laughed as he made a show of looking everywhere but at her.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, then held up a palm. “Don’t tell me how many bodies were buried.”

“No bodies,” Kennet said. “Just booze. The one time I remember my mother raising her voice to Paps, I mean really hollering at him, was when she discovered he was stashing booze in the hotel basement. Making it a pick-up site. She told him to get all of it out. And not because she was a temperance advocate. She just didn’t want that racket anywhere near the house or business.”

“Was it dangerous?”

“Risky, for sure. Paps and Major had the best boats and knew every square inch of the river from here to Alex Bay, but still, the feds watched this place day and night and plenty of rumrunners got arrested.”

“This place meaning the entire river? Or just this part of it?”

“Where we are now. The eastern end of Grindstone. The US-Canadian border hugs it real tight here.” He pointed ahead. “See that little island, just due north? It’s called Watch Island and has the best view of the entire channel. When my folks did runs, Johnny would be stationed there, keeping an eye out for the feds. When the coast was clear, he’d signal Paps and Major, who were waiting on Whiskey Island. Then they’d head toward Clayton with the goods.”

“Clearly Johnny was the brains of the operation.”

“He came up with all kinds of tricks. He painted the boats white on one side, black on the other. Cruising back and forth, the feds thought they were seeing two different boats.”

Kennet told how Johnny would strap sacks of sugar to the wooden cases of liquor. If Emil or Major had to ditch the haul in the river, the weight of the sugar quickly dragged the crates to the bottom. Hours later, when the sugar dissolved, up bobbed the cases again and the Fiskares plucked them from the water and finished the run.

“So the St. Lawrence is filled with gold and sugar,” Astrid said. “What a thought.”

“Johnny’s family farm was at the head of Grindstone Island,” Kennet said. “Every day the island boat came to pick up the ten-gallon milk cans. Sometimes Johnny would put liquor bottles in the cans, then turn the screw to make the cream go all thick. It padded the bottles so well, you couldn’t even hear a clink. One time, the feds themselves helped Mrs. MacIntyre load the cream cans on the boat, every one hiding illegal booze. Johnny crowed about that conquest for years.”

“Who were they delivering to,” Astrid asked. “I mean, were trucks waiting in Clayton to move the cases to other cities?”