The Making of a Matchmaker

Roland Tutheridge had been shot in the chest and left for dead on his way home from our weekly poker game. No one knows the exact time, except it was between midnight and early Saturday morning when he left our local saloon. At dawn, the milk deliveryman found Roland’s carriage and horses on the road connecting Ella Pointe to the Tutheridge mansion. Six of us played poker every Friday evening at my pub. Roland owned most of the island, including the grand mansion he’d named Stella. He never said who Stella was, but gossip presumed it was one of his many mistresses. One would assume his favourite mistress, although that could not be substantiated.

The rest of our poker table consisted of me, a preacher named Timothy Bains, Sheriff Robert White, Michael Moon, who ran the dry goods store, and the teacher of our small school, Caleb King. One could describe us as friends, but as in all things, there were shades of grey between the black and white. Our primary connection? Each of us was indebted to Roland Tutheridge. He’d brought us all to Whale Island at the turn of the century, giving us a second chance at a decent life. All five of us had dubious pasts—scandals that had kept us from living the lives we’d expected for ourselves. Thus, we took it when Roland offered each of us an escape. Together, we built a town where once there had been only a thick forest and the scent of marine life in the salty air.