Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 54

I followed the tracks of the vehicle that had probably brought Yvette home, up Gagnon’s snow-covered lane, past his empty fields to the farm buildings whose sparkling appearance never ceased to annoy me. Although Papa Gagnon couldn’t seem to find the spare change to dress his daughter in anything other than hand-me-downs, he obviously had more than a dollar or two to spend on his farm.

Unlike the drab, unpainted barns of most farms in the area, the two Gagnon barns sported fresh coats of emerald green paint, made more vivid against the backdrop of white. Their red metal roofs, partially hidden by the fresh, wet snow, had also been redone the past summer. And the farmhouse, built in the traditional Quebec style of the main roof extending over the front verandah, was similarly painted the same rich green. It too wore a new red roof.

But even though Papa Gagnon’s farming income might provide enough to pay for these beautifying touches, I doubted he had the money to buy the sleek but mudsplattered Mercedes parked in front of the house. I assumed this sporty import belonged to the man who’d removed Yvette from the hospital.

I brought my pickup to a stop behind the car’s filthy bumper and jumped out. Papa Gagnon was waiting. He must have been on the other side of his front door, watching the road, for he was standing on the top step with his shotgun in hand by the time I rounded my truck.

I didn’t hesitate. Although I’d retreated yesterday from his pointed gun, today I wasn’t going to let it prevent me from seeing his daughter.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” I said in my nicest high-school French. “I believe Yvette is home from the hospital. I would like to see her.”

He replied in a fury of joual, the Quebec dialect whose blurred pronunciations and colloquialisms are unintelligible to those of us not born real Québécois, or, as they jokingly call themselves, pure laine, meaning “pure wool”.

“Please speak slower,” I asked. “She is okay. Now leave.”

“Not until I’ve seen her,” I persisted. “Impossible.”

“I’m sorry, but I won’t leave until I’m satisfied she is all right.” I planted myself on the bottom step and looked directly into his gun barrel.

His rheumy eyes glared back at me. The wind lifted the few wisps of grey hair on his otherwise bald head. Once he might have been tall, even good-looking. Now he canted slightly to the left, his back bent from over-work, his legs bowed, his face ravaged by the outdoors. Holding his gun steady, he propped his back against the verandah post as if intending to wait me out for as long as it would take.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the lace curtain of the front window fall back into place. Next, a man in his midthirties with a lean build and the dark colouring of Yvette stepped out onto the porch. I had little doubt that I was staring at the man who’d removed Yvette from the hospital.

“My father has asked you to leave,” he said in precise English. “Please do so immediately.”

Father? Yvette had never mentioned a brother. “I am Meg Harris, her friend. I’m very worried about her. Please, just give me a few minutes with her.” I stepped back to get a better view of this older brother, clad so elegantly in designer black.

His thin lips firmed up in the same grim line as his father’s. As an afterthought, I added, “I saved your sister’s life.”

He looked at me with Yvette’s brown almond-shaped eyes, except that rather than projecting the wariness of a deer, they were cold and threatening like a cougar. He turned to speak with his father. After a couple of sentences of guttural joual, he turned back to me.

“D’accord, we agree. But you can visit with her for only a few minutes.” He opened the door for me to pass through and added, “My father and I thank you for saving Yvette.”

I glanced back at the old man, expecting to find him following two steps behind me to make sure I didn’t stray from the agreed-to path. Instead he remained on the porch. He was reaching down to a small cat with dark auburn fur. Emitting a plaintive meow, the animal leapt into his arms. I didn’t need to see Papa Gagnon’s face to know that his scowl had softened. His gentle caress on this purring furball told me. Too bad Yvette wasn’t a cat.

I followed her brother into a narrow hallway. This was the first time I had ever been inside the Gagnon house, and as with the outside, I was surprised, very surprised. The front parlour could’ve been the movie set for Kamaraska, an old film about Old Quebec. It was filled with the kind of priceless antiques collectors fought over, perfect examples of early Quebec furniture, including a curly-armed settee made from birds-eye maple, a carved pine armoire and a grandfather clock. And in the middle of this two-hundred-year-old scene clashed the modern day reality of a home entertainment centre, a system I certainly couldn’t afford, complete with a fifty-two inch HDTV screen, DVD player and surround-sound.

Watching my perusal, Yvette’s brother said, “A son must support his family as best he can.”

And judging by the quality of his clothing, I could believe it. He was dressed in the Italian answer to country chic, complete with an Armani suede jacket and Gucci loafers. The clothes fit the Mercedes.

We walked up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. As our footsteps echoed along the bare wooden floor of the hall, I said, “You must have a good job. What do you do for a living?”

“Investments,” came his quick reply.

Made sense. You only had to read the financial papers to know the kind of money investment brokers made. Still, it seemed a bit surprising that a person from the backwoods would end up in this fast-paced, highly aggressive, urban industry.

Familiar with some of the brokerages through my own modest investments, I asked, “Who do you work for?”

Expecting him to jump at the opportunity to brag, as any broker I knew was inclined to do, I was surprised when he ignored my question and said instead, “My sister is very weak. I ask that you do not stay longer than a few minutes.”

“If she’s so weak,” I hazarded, “why did you remove her from the hospital against the doctor’s advice?”

He ignored this question too and stopped in front of one of the closed doors that lined the unlit hall. He opened it. I stepped through, and the door clicked behind me.

Yvette lay asleep on a narrow cast iron bed. I tiptoed into the room to wait a few minutes in case she woke up. Her small oval face peeked out from the white bandage circling her head. Her arm, encased in a cast, lay on top of a quilted bed cover.

While I waited, I surveyed her room, a distinct contrast to the abundance downstairs. A nun’s cell. Small, bare of furniture, except for her bed and an unadorned wooden chest of drawers and night table. Everything in white, the walls, the floor, the furniture, the coverings and the lace curtains. But on the wall behind the bed, where I expected to see the traditional crucifix invariably found in French Canadian homes, there was nothing but a vague outline where one had once hung.

And the bedroom, unlike my own, was completely free of clutter. No stray piece of clothing lay on the floor or hung from her bedstead. The cupboard door was firmly shut, the drawers likewise, the tops of the dresser and night table equally devoid of anything personal. In fact, there was nothing in this bedroom to suggest Yvette lived here.

I’d no sooner finished this survey than she opened her eyes and whispered, “Meg, vous êtes… No, I speak English. Please. You are coming here?”

“Yvette, it’s so good to hear your voice. How are you feeling?”

“How you are here?” She appeared worried, confused. “I drove,” I switched to French, thinking it would be easier for her.

“Non, non. In my room.” She persisted in English.

“Speak French, Yvette. It will be easier for you.”

“No. I speak English. Tell me who permit you in my room?”

I reverted to my mother tongue. “Your brother. Don’t you want me here?”

The look of alarm I had become used to flashed through her eyes. “Yves?”

“Yes, if that’s his name.”

“He here?”

“Yes. Didn’t he bring you home from the hospital?”

She closed her eyes, then gasped as if in pain.

“You left the hospital before you were supposed to,” I said. “I came to see how you’re doing. If you want to go back, I can take you.”

She shook her head. “No, I hurt a little, but it is okay. I stay here. It is better.”

“Are you sure? I think it’s more important you have proper medical care than do what your family wants.”

“Do not worry. I am okay. Papa look after me.”

Although I thought his style of care would be more like a jailer than a nurse, I wasn’t going to force her against her will. Besides, a faint healthy pink had replaced last night’s worrisome pallor.

Instead, I followed up on a question she hadn’t been able to answer in the hospital. “Can you remember anything yet from your accident?”

“No. Nothing. I remember the hospital.” She smiled shyly. “You stay with me. Thank you.”

“And you still don’t recall being on the trail?”

She gripped her quilted cover with her one good hand. “I not understand.”

I repeated the question in French.

She persisted in English. “No, no. I mean, why you say I go on this trail?”

Although last night I’d told her about finding her at the bottom of Kamikaze Pass, it was evident that she hadn’t fully taken it in. I described it again.

Afterwards, she asked, “How I come there?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

She looked out of the single sash window beside her bed. “I do not know.”

“But you must at least remember staying behind with your father? Watching the rest of us leave? Chantal, Pierre, John-Joe?”

At the mention of John-Joe’s name, she glanced up at me, then returned her gaze to the window.

“Something about John-Joe? What do you remember?”

“Nothing. Rien.” Her eyes remained fixed on whatever she was watching outside. I moved over to the window and looked out onto the barnyard. Her brother was picking his way through the slush towards the house. I turned back to Yvette. She watched me intently, then said more as a statement than a question, “You save my life.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I doubt you would have survived the night.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” she replied with her shy smile. “My head is sick. It is difficult to respire, non, I mean, breathe.”

“You had quite a fall. I’m surprised you didn’t do more damage.”

She lay so still then in her virginal bed, with her eyes closed, that I thought she’d gone to sleep. I started to leave. But at the sound of my tiptoes on the white-painted floor, she opened her eyes.

“It is nice you are my friend. It is first time I have one.”

Such loneliness made me want to reach out and hug her close to me, but I squeezed her hand instead. “And I want you to know that if you ever need any help, you can come to me, okay?”

“I’m sorry. It is my fault my father angry at you.”

“What are you talking about? You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

“I am not good.” She picked at a loose thread on her quilt. “I told you Papa said I can help you make the ski trail. It is not true. When I ask, he say no. I come anyway. I want to be with…” She raised her eyes briefly, then dropped them back down. “With you,” she finished, which made me wonder if someone else hadn’t been the attraction.

So Eric had been right. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure things will work out.”

And with this opening of the door to friendship, I continued, “While we were waiting for help, you talked about someone hurting you. Then you mentioned your father.”

I stopped there, not wanting to make the direct link. I’d leave it up to her to decide where it went from this point.

For an eye blink, I thought I saw a flash of recognition, but she immediately responded, “I do not understand.”

The door to her room abruptly opened, and her brother stepped in.

Yves remained standing at the open door, his brown eyes fixed on the mirror of his sister’s brown eyes. No words passed between brother and sister. I shuffled my feet, feeling embarrassed, but not knowing why. Then he said to me, “Enough. You must go.”

I turned to Yvette and, patting her gently on the hand, promised to return in a couple of days. Then I followed Yves out of the room, down the dark hall with its closed doors, down the narrow stairs to the front hall, where I gave the entertainment centre and priceless antiques one last glance.

As I stepped out the front door, I asked my question again, “Yves, you didn’t tell me where you worked?”

“No, I didn’t,” he replied, closing the door as his final answer.

I felt my blood rise at his rudeness, then realized there was no point in getting angry. The son might have a refined veneer, but underneath he was just as boorish as his father.