Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 53

So what are you going to do about Papa Gagnon?” I cast an exasperated look at Eric, who was supposed to be my friend, my lover. We were sitting in his tiny cluttered office at the Forgotten Bay Hunting and Fishing Camp trying to talk calmly about yesterday’s disaster.

I was dead tired, having just spent the night with Yvette at the hospital in Somerset, the closest town at thirty-five kilometres away. Rather than returning home to get muchneeded sleep, I’d come in search of Eric to sort out the marathon disaster.

“Why, Meg, what’s happened to the weepy damsel in distress who last night couldn’t keep her hands off her knight on his trusty four-wheeled charger?” Two deep dimples erupted on either side of a broad grin.

While his face would never be called handsome, it had a certain ruggedness that a sculptor would call interesting, especially with the added chiselling from the hockey pucks encountered when he’d played professional hockey. To these scars had been added worry lines, carved into his brow since he had taken on the responsibility for his people’s welfare. Although he’d made a financial success of the Fishing Camp, he was always on the hunt for new ventures that would bring more jobs, more money and a better life to the Migiskan. Hence the Migiskan Ski Marathon.

Annoyed by his glibness, I shot back, “Forget last night. You blew it, and I want to know why.”

I got out of the chair and walked to the narrow window which normally provided a view of the full expanse of Forgotten Bay all the way down to the cliffs of Three Deer Point. Today, swirling white blocked that view.

“See. It’s started,” I said, pointing to the snow. “And it’s too late now to make a new course for the marathon.”

The only good thing to say about this snowfall was that it had waited until after Eric and the paramedics had carried Yvette out of the bush.

“In typical Meg Harris fashion, you’re making mountains out of molehills. This stuff ’ll be gone by tomorrow.” Eric leaned back into his padded office chair with a nonchalance that only riled me more.

“And what about my money?” In a rash moment, I had promised Eric twenty thousand dollars when he’d failed to get full financing for his marathon venture. Although the money I’d inherited from my great-aunt provided enough income to live modestly without having to work, a twenty thousand dollar loss would hurt.

“Sit down, Meg. You’re twitching.”

“Not until you tell me how you’re going to get Papa Gagnon to agree.”

“Relax. We’ve just hit a small hiccup, that’s all.”

“Small hiccup! You call his chasing us off his land with a shotgun a hiccup?”

“I can turn him around. No problem.”

“How? Like the agreement you got first time around?”

“Let’s just say it’s between me and Gagnon.”

“Don’t try to buy me off with platitudes, Eric. I want to know how you are going to convince a psychotic old man who hates people to let a slew of them ski over his land.”

By this time the grin had been completely wiped from Eric’s face. Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on the only spot on his desk devoid of papers. “Maybe I should be the one asking the questions. Like, why’d you let Yvette join your crew? You knew what the old man’s reaction would be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly that. Have you thought for one moment that maybe Yvette’s participation in the trail clearing was the reason the old man went after you?”

“She had his permission. How could I know that he’d changed his mind? Besides, I had no choice with the crummy crew you gave me. At least Yvette was someone I could count on to do her share of the work.”

“Knock it off. John-Joe’s one of the best workers I’ve got.”

“Yeah, maybe for you. But he sure acted like deadfall for me. And Chantal was another one, who—”

“Don’t Chantal me,” he shot back. “Leaving such a defenseless young woman completely alone in this wilderness was one of the stupidest things you’ve ever done.” Eric had a facial scar that would glow white when he was angry. A whiteness was now seeping into its edges.

“Made it back, didn’t she? By herself?” I said, barely able to keep the sarcasm from my voice. “Didn’t happen to pick up some stray male along the way?” I pointed my eyes straight at him.

Eric’s scar turned whiter. “Enough. If Pierre hadn’t found the girl, you would’ve had another casualty on your hands. I’m disappointed in you, Meg. I never would’ve expected you to be capable of such irresponsibility.”

“Yeah, well, if that’s how you want to look at it, fine. I’m leaving. Just give me a call when you’ve got my money.”

“Now, calm down.”

I turned on my heels.

“Don’t take it—”

And slammed the door on his words. But before I’d walked two paces, I collided with a female with the kind of sculpted looks I used to pray for as a teenager. Instead, a thousand freckles disguised any cheekbones I might have, and my skijump nose automatically eliminated me from the qualifier “classic beauty”.

“Could you please tell me where Eric Odjik’s office is?” she asked in a husky voice. She brushed a lock of black silk away from a pair of shimmering onyx eyes.

I assessed her tall, despicably “willowy” figure through the fringe of my eyelashes and debated telling her his office was down the hall, to the right and out the back door. But I didn’t. I wasn’t that mean. Not yet.

I watched Eric’s office door fling open and his face light up as he pronounced words that sent my stomach into free fall. “Teht’aa! How wonderful.”

I didn’t wait to see what followed. I fled through the lounge to the outside door, past the bar where John-Joe was usually to be seen hanging out. Today someone else was working in his place. No doubt he was recuperating from Chantal.

I slammed that door too.

Men. I’d had it up to here with men. They were all clones of my ex, testosterone-driven jerks. Eric could have his fling with this…this Indian Princess, whomever. What did I care?

I sloshed through the snow to my truck, rammed it into gear, skidded down the Fishing Camp road to the main road and headed back home. By the time I’d reached my turn-off, I’d convinced myself there was no point in getting angry.

Eric was just a friend, after all. I might even go so far as to call him a special friend. But obviously he didn’t feel the same way. And why should he? I was an overweight, fortysomething divorcée whose hair needed help in retaining its brilliant red colour. Not exactly a catch, was I?

My truck churned through the wet snow covering the twisting two kilometre road to my cottage. At one particularly sharp curve, it almost slid into the ditch, but the wheels managed to catch on to solid ground and jerk the dilapidated pickup back into the centre of the narrow lane.

I spied my cottage’s Victorian turret through the curtain of snow, then the rest of the squared timber and fieldstone building hove into view. Built by my great-grandfather in the late 1890s, its fanciful architecture more properly belonged in Charlevoix or a similar turn-of-the-century playground for the wealthy. Instead, Great-grandpa Joe had built the six-bedroom cottage in the middle of nowhere, with Ottawa the closest city at a hundred and fifty kilometres away and the Migiskan Reserve the only neighbour. And although several farms, including Papa Gagnon’s, had appeared in the intervening years, along with another cottage or two, the property was still isolated, for much of the surrounding land remained undeveloped crown land.

The building stood on the tip of a high granite point that jutted like a fat finger into the deep waters of Echo Lake. At some time in its distant past, the property had been christened Three Deer Point, intended to commemorate one of Greatgrandpa Joe’s successful hunts. In the living room hung a picture of this hunt, with the eviscerated carcasses of three stags hanging from the eaves of the large wraparound Victorian verandah. The same sprawling verandah whose fretwork and whimsical roofline I’d fallen in love with on my first summer visit as a child.

Although I’d inherited the extensive property over ten years ago from my Great-aunt Agatha, Great-grandpa Joe’s unfortunate daughter, I hadn’t moved in until my life in Toronto had taken a turn for the worse. Now that I could look at my former marriage without blinkers, I should probably say a turn for the better. But three years ago, after I’d finally convinced myself my marriage to Gareth really was over, I could only think of fleeing everything that reminded me of my ineptness and his betrayal.

Unfortunately, where love was blind, hope lingered. It had taken Gareth’s last deceit, two years ago, to erase any remaining vestige of love and make me see the real man behind the handsome face I’d lived with for fifteen years.

My truck slid to a stop. Sergei greeted me joyfully from inside the house as I bounded up the stairs to the verandah. Like Aunt Aggie, I used this expansive porch with its spectacular view of Echo Lake as my living room when the weather was civilized. Unfortunately, winter’s pending arrival had forced me to move its wicker furniture, along with Aunt Aggie’s bentwood rocker, into the ground floor of the turret where the five-windowed sides provided almost as good a view.

The dog barely stopped long enough for his usual greeting pat on the head before racing towards the woods for a longoverdue release of his bladder. I went inside to check for phone messages. Although Yvette’s condition had been deemed to be satisfactory when I’d left the hospital a couple of hours ago, I was worried about a setback. In addition to a broken arm and a concussion, she had cracked a couple of ribs, which in turn had punctured a lung and might possibly have damaged other organs. Thankfully her leg wasn’t broken too, just badly bruised.

I’d remained by her side while she waited long, painful hours in emergency for the doctor’s examination, the X -rays, the cast, the re-inflation of her lung and finally her transfer to a considerably more comfortable hospital bed. Fortunately, I hadn’t had to contend with her father. Although I had tried to call him several times during the night, I’d failed to reach him at home. I found this surprising, since he didn’t fit the profile of a man with friends or a business that would keep him out all night. But Yvette, now awake, seemed to take it in stride. However, as her initial stoic acceptance gradually changed to tearful glances at the sound of approaching footsteps, I realized that no matter how unsavoury I found him, she wanted her father by her side. By the time I’d left at around six thirty that morning, she still hadn’t been able talk to him.

The minute I stepped into the brighter light of the windowed turret, I noticed the message light flashing from the phone on my desk. With a sense of foreboding, I pressed the playback button and heard a brusque, official-sounding voice asking me to call the Somerset hospital immediately.

I tried several times to phone back but got either a busy signal or voice mail. Afraid of wasting more time, I pushed all thoughts of sleep aside, put the dog back in the house and returned to my truck. I spent the entire thirty-five-kilometre journey into Somerset imagining the worst. By the time I reached the outskirts of this once bustling logging town, I’d convinced myself that she’d had a major relapse.

I threaded my way through the streets towards the threestorey hospital built on the banks of the Carrière River. Apart from the silver steeple on the town’s Roman Catholic church and the polluting funnels of the pulp mill further downstream, no other building rose above the low rise of the town’s five hundred odd residences. Although Somerset offered little in the way of citified amenities, it was the closest thing we had to civilization, the major attractions being a large chain-owned grocery store, a government run liquor store and a main street of bars.

I ran up the cement stairs of the hospital and along its antiseptic halls to Yvette’s room. Although I tried to downplay my fears, I jumped to the worst conclusion when faced with an empty bed, where less than three hours ago the injured young woman had lain.

I made a beeline to the nursing station and breathed with relief when told my imagination had got the better of me. Yvette was very much alive, just no longer in the hospital. She’d left less than an hour ago, against the advice of her doctor. In fact, the nurse had been calling me to see if I could convince Mademoiselle Gagnon to remain another day in the hospital.

When questioned further, the nurse admitted it wasn’t so much Yvette who had wanted to leave, but her male visitor pressuring her. Needless to say, the image of Papa Gagnon hauling his daughter out by her broken arm sprang to mind. But he was immediately ruled out when the nurse described this visitor as being in his thirties. Nonetheless, I was convinced Papa Gagnon was behind this abrupt departure. It smacked too much of his brand of paranoia. He’d want to remove his daughter from the threat of any outside influence and get her back firmly under his control.

I decided to drive straight to the Gagnon farm to satisfy myself that no further harm had come to her, and if need be, extricate her from her father’s grasp and return her to the hospital.