Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 62

Not caring whether I could be charged with aiding a fugitive, I hustled the teeth-chattering John-Joe into the rambling country kitchen that was a homey mélange of old and new, with emphasis more on the old. The most recent items were the fridge and stove that Aunt Aggie must’ve bought sometime in the 1970s. Having little interest in cooking myself, I’d done nothing other than add a microwave oven and an electric coffee maker. Even the kettle I used was a battered copper one that would’ve been shiny new at the turnof-the-century when my Harris ancestors first started coming here for their long summer sojourns.

Taking the worn captain’s chair kept by the back door, I shoved it next to the hot, wood-burning cookstove and plunked the young man into it. By now, the dog’s initial vocal distrust had settled down to a silent suspicion demonstrated by his refusal to lie down flat. Instead he remained on his haunches, body tense, eyes alert, ready to pounce at the first sign of danger.

The light from the electrified gaslights revealed the full extent of John-Joe’s ordeal. His normally neat ponytail had vanished into an ice-encrusted mat of hair. Melting snow dripped from his soaking clothes onto the linoleum floor. Scratches and blood defined the gauntness of his face. The police might believe he was a killer, but all I saw was a frightened young man trying desperately to understand why this was happening to him.

However, before I would remove the handcuffs, I had to satisfy a lingering doubt. Since I didn’t know another way of resolving it, I bluntly asked, “Before we go any further, John Joe, I need to know if you killed Chantal.”

“I thought you believed me,” he said.

“I did until I saw that knife.”

His amber-brown eyes looked directly into mine. They didn’t waver. They didn’t flinch. “I didn’t kill Chantal,” he said. “I couldn’t. And as far as I know, my knife never left the sheath.”

I believed him. “Okay, let’s get these handcuffs off you.”

I searched through a drawer and found a skewer.

“Too thick,” John-Joe said, as I jabbed the pointed end into the keyhole. “You need something thinner, like snare wire.”

I raised my eyebrows.

He smiled sheepishly. “Use to practice with an old set of Decontie’s.”

Yeah, sure, I said to myself as I searched through the drawer for something thinner. He turned down a bobby-pin and picture wire before he accepted a paper clip, which he proceeded to straighten, leaving a slight upturn at one end.

As I watched him deftly pick the lock, I thanked the gods that at least something had worked out. Obviously the police had been forced to change his handcuffed position from the back to the front so he could hang on to the skidoo. If his hands had still been behind him, I would never have been able to unlock the handcuffs myself.

Once freed, I marched him to the bathroom, where I watched him wash the blood from his face, then covered the abrasions with ointment. I left him to thaw out in a hot shower while I looked for a change of clothes, which was a challenge. Although my middle-aged spread probably matched his young man’s leanness, he was at least six inches taller. But a never-worn pair of extra large baggy sweats my mother had given me did the trick. Although their pale pink colour didn’t quite conform to his macho image, he wore them nonetheless.

Next I fed him. He looked as if he hadn’t eaten for days, which was probably the case if he’d been on the run since Chantal’s death five days ago. Finally, I gave him what cold remedies I had in the house. When he’d stopped shivering and no longer wore the desperation in his eyes, we talked.

“Did LaFramboise beat you up? Is that why you ran?”

John-Joe’s hand reached up to his bruised cheek. He laughed. “He sure don’t like us Indians, eh? But he’s too smart to leave marks like this. Nope, got this when the skidoo threw me into a tree. And look, I’m sorry about your jacket.”

“Don’t worry. At least it kept you warm. But tell me, why did you run? It only makes you look guilty.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I figured the Creator had showed me the river, so I took it.”

“So why come to me, a white woman and off-reserve at that? And not Eric or someone else in the band?”

“You promised to help,” he said simply. “I believed you.”

“But John-Joe, the only way I can help is by making certain the legal system treats you as innocent until proven guilty. I’ve already lined up Tommy Whiteduck as your lawyer.”

“Good,” he said as if acknowledging a decision he’d already made. He continued slowly sipping his coffee. Then he leaned back in his chair and looked directly at me. “I want you to find Chantal’s killer.”

“Me?” I replied, startled. “The police are much better equipped to do that.”

“You seen how they treat me,” he spat out. “You really think those fuckin’ SQ pigs are gonna do anything? They wanna make damn sure I get locked away for a very long time.”

I had to admit he had a point.

“That’s why I want you. Besides, as my grandfather used to say, it’s better to take the trail few people use.” He sneezed. “Damn this cold.”

For a second, I didn’t know what he was talking about, then I realized what he meant. It was a trail that had been used only once before. I might have managed to untangle my friend’s tragic death two years ago, but I did it by stumbling along a circuitous route rather than following a straight path.

“I’m not sure what I can do, but I’ll try. I guess first off, I need to know if you suspect anyone?”

He shook his head, dejectedly. “Who’d want to kill Chantal? She was so beautiful.”

“Maybe the question should be, who would want to frame you?”

That made him sit upright. “But why kill Chantal and not me?”

“Maybe they thought they could hurt you more by locking you away in jail for a very long time. Know anyone who hates you enough to want to do that?”

“Some people in the band think I’m a bit wild, but none of them would kill a person to get rid of me. It’s not our way.”

Time would tell. “Who knows about your hunting camp?”

“Everyone. Was my dad’s.”

“Could the motive have anything to do with the drugs?”

“What drugs?”

“Come off it, John-Joe. If you want my help, you’ve got to be honest with me. I saw the bag of pot on the floor.”

“Oh, that. We were just having a quiet toke.”

I slumped back in my chair, wondering how in the world I could help him, if he couldn’t even help himself. “Who’d you get it from?”

For a second his gaze shifted away, then he answered, “Chantal brought it with her.”

“You sure?” He nodded. “What about the stuff being sold on the reserve? You got anything to do with that?”

He shot me an exasperated look. “I’m not that stupid.”

“Stop the lying. If you continue, I won’t do anything more for you.”

“I’m telling the truth. I don’t sell dope.”

“John-Joe, I saw you myself. Minutes away from my shack, after I found the kids.”

“What kids?” he persisted.

I was so annoyed that I almost picked up the phone to bring in the police but didn’t. After all, the person I’d seen had been only a distant, retreating speck. Someone else could’ve been wearing an orange cap. So I told him about finding Ajidàmo and the other children yesterday, overdosed on something more powerful than straight marijuana.

When I finished, he said, “Drugs screwed up my life. I’m trying to get the kids off ’em, not on ’em. Besides, I been hidin’ out since findin’ Chantal dead.”

“Who else wears an orange baseball cap?”

“Nobody. Everyone knows it’s my trademark.”

“Why did you leave it behind at your camp, then?”

“Didn’t. Lost it before I even got there.”

“Come on, John-Joe. Don’t lie. I saw it lying on top of a box.”

He leaned back into the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m telling ya, I didn’t have it.”

I saw stubborn determination in his face. But indications of lying? Hard to tell, although I felt he was shifting his glance whenever my eye reached his. “Okay, where did you lose your hat? Maybe someone found it and used it to frame you.”

But before he could answer, my phone rang. I debated pretending I wasn’t home, then thinking it might be Eric with some useful information, I answered.

Instead, Tommy Whiteduck greeted me with the old news of John-Joe’s escape. “And as a lawyer,” Tommy continued in an authoritative but slightly ambiguous tone, “I am advising you that if you have any contact with John-Joe, you must notify the police. And call me, of course.”

“Tommy, are you at the Somerset Police Station?” I asked, watching a startled expression appear on John-Joe’s face.

“Just leaving.”

“Then perhaps you might want to drive out to Three Deer Point.”

As I hung up the phone, I said, “Tommy’ll be here within the half hour. If you want to run, I won’t stop you, nor will I tell him you were here, but I think you should at least talk to him.”

John-Joe firmed his lips in resignation and nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll wait for him.”

I got up to stoke the fire in the cookstove, a shimmering steel and porcelain affair that would’ve been the ultimate in cookery when it was bought in the late 1890s. My great-aunt, despite having bought the electric stove, had continued to use it for much of her cooking. I, on the other hand, used it for heating the kitchen, boiling water and heating soup. I figured there wasn’t much I could do to ruin canned soup. In the beginning I’d tried using Aunt Aggie’s ancient stovetop percolator, which under her tender care had made heavenly coffee, but after creating stuff that looked like molasses and tasted worse, I had turned to modernity. I refilled our mugs from the electric coffee maker and returned to the table. By now Sergei, having decided his protective services were no longer needed, had stretched out away from the heat on the mat by the door to the pantry, where he knew I kept his food. The stark gauntness in John-Joe’s face had disappeared. His long ponytail had almost dried in the heat of the kitchen. And although his shivering had stopped, his fingers tapped nervously on the wooden table. He turned his gaze to the blackness beyond the kitchen window and drank his coffee.

“I can stay free, live off the land like my grandfather did,” he said. “I can build myself another camp deep into the bush where no man goes. I can hunt and fish.”

He paused and drank some more coffee, then shifted his gaze back to me. “But Chantal’s killer would be running free. No, I’m not gonna run. That’s why I went back to my shack. To find the guy. And since I’m gonna be in jail, you have to do it for me.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said, “but you have to be completely honest and open with me, okay?”

He nodded.

“Now tell me where you lost your cap? You were wearing it when we were stopped by Papa Gagnon.”

“Guess somewhere on the trail. Just know that when I got to my camp it was gone. Chantal made some comment about my head lookin’ naked without it.”

“Did you see anyone on the trail who might’ve found it?”

He shook his head. “You know, I still can’t believe I slept through her murder.”

“I’ve been wondering about that myself. Surely smoking a bit of grass wouldn’t put you into that deep a sleep. Did you take any other drugs?”

“Nope, just the pot. We were drinking scotch, too.”

“Scotch? I didn’t see any.”

“Chantal brought it. A friend gave it to her. Real smooth, not like the cheap stuff I usually drink.”

“Is that the bottle you were talking about?”

“Yeah, left it on the table with the glasses, like I told you.”

“So you’re sure you didn’t get rid of it?”

“Yup, me and Chantal had some, then we…” He cast an embarrassed glance in my direction. “Hell, you know what we were doing. ’cept I don’t remember doing it. We musta gone to sleep. I just remember wakin’ up cold and well…naked, and…hell, you know the rest.”

“Means someone else removed it, and I have a pretty good idea who. The guy on the snowshoes. And I’m thinking he did it just before Eric and I arrived. Curious, isn’t it? I bet that bottle contained something in addition to pure scotch.”

“You saying it was doctored?”

“Possibly. Something put you out.”

“Might be something in that. I remember feeling sort of dizzy, like I wanted to puke. Chantal too.”

“I noticed some vomit on the bed. Maybe it was caused by knock-out drops, or whatever people use to put someone to sleep.”

He shrugged. “Too much booze can make you sick too. And Chantal was sure drinking the stuff like it was water.”

“What about you?” I asked, trying not to think of my own recent episode.

He grinned.

And too much liquor could knock you out too. I should know. Still, there had to be a very good reason why that bottle of scotch had disappeared. “Did she mention the name of this friend?”

“Nope.”

“Any idea?”

“Not really.” He paused. “Maybe Pierre. That’s how I met Chantal.”

“You mean Pierre from the trail clearing?”

“Yup. Him and Chantal are friends.” He paused. “Guess I should say ‘were’.”

“Could he have killed her?”

“Nah, no way. They’re drinkin’ buddies, that’s all.” And even though drinking buddies could always have a falling out, I was inclined to agree with John-Joe. Pierre’d had plenty of opportunity on the trail to kill Chantal and hide her body so that it would never be found. Unless, of course, he’d had a reason to delay her murder.

“And you get along with Pierre okay?”

“Sure. We’re drinking buddies too. Like to have a few laughs together.”

“And there’s no reason you can think of why he would want to frame you for her murder?”

“Nope, I—” He glanced at the darkness beyond the window as if something had caught his attention, then after a few seconds he returned his gaze to the brightness in the kitchen. He saw me staring at him. “Thought I heard something,” he muttered, then continued, “I don’t know Pierre that good. Met him a few winters back at the hockey arena in Somerset. We get together every now and then for a beer or go to a hockey game. That’s all.”

“Then it must be another friend who gave Chantal the scotch. Did she have any other drinking buddies?”

“I forgot. Took Pierre huntin’ once,” he added, then continued in a more subdued voice. “I think she mighta been seein’ another guy. She stood me up one day. I even took a day off work to take her to some movie she wanted to see. And then she doesn’t show. Gives me a dumb excuse about a sick aunt. I didn’t believe her. Figured I’d done somethin’ wrong.” He pulled on his choker. “I was always doin’ somethin’ wrong. You know, livin’ on the rez I don’t meet many white chicks. And, well, I guess you treat ’em different.”

“I would’ve thought all you had to do was flash those pearly whites of yours, and she’d be purring.”

His rooster cockiness returned as he flashed his star-making smile.

“You wouldn’t happen to know the name of this guy?” I asked.

“Nope, but I did see her kissin’ some guy in Somerset, about a week or so ago. He was riding one of those slick motor bikes.”

I tensed. “Wasn’t Eric, was it?”

“No way. The guy was dressed in the kinda yuppie biker’s gear Eric wouldn’t be caught dead in. Full leathers and one of those fancy helmets with yellow flames on the sides. Besides, this guy’s bike was a Suzuki, not the chief ’s big Harley.”

“Maybe Pierre would know. Any way I can contact him?”

“Yeah, I know his phone number.”

I wrote it down, planning to follow-up once John-Joe’s situation was sorted out.

* * *

I hadn’t seen Tommy since he’d moved to Ottawa two years ago to begin his career as a lawyer. Although he probably came back occasionally to check out his parental home and to visit with friends, our paths hadn’t crossed. He used to resent me for my family’s long history of what he felt was our white man’s interference with his family, so I wasn’t sure how he would accept my involvement with John-Joe.

But I needn’t have worried. His broad smile was open and friendly, his handshake warm.

“This place brings back so many memories, good and bad,” he said as he sauntered through my front door. “I’ve been reluctant to pay you a visit, but now that I’m here, it’s like coming home. I feel the comforting presence of my mother’s and grandmother’s spirits.”

Although his success as an up-and-coming lawyer had erased his cynical student demeanour, he still displayed the eager determination that had enabled him to overcome the many obstacles on his road to becoming one of the few native lawyers. His informal clothing style remained the same, with only a minor adjustment; a leather bomber jacket had replaced his student sweatshirt. And his hairstyle didn’t conform to the white man’s conservative legal world either. He proudly wore his dark brown hair in two long braids. Only his startling blue eyes betrayed a European contribution to his ancestry.

“Hi, John-Joe,” Tommy said, without surprise. “Figured I would find you here.”

They greeted each other not as lawyer and client, but as two friends who’d grown up together.

“So what in the hell kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?” Tommy said, giving his friend a playful punch.

“Just like old times, eh?” John-Joe said. “Nothing you can’t get me out of.” He grinned.

We went into the living room, where John-Joe told Tommy about his tryst with Chantal and waking up to find her dead.

At the end, Tommy said bluntly, “Looks kind of stacked against you, doesn’t it? Any idea who could’ve killed her?”

“Nope,” came the quick response.

“But we have leads,” I added and told Tommy about the disappearing snowshoer, the lost-then-found orange baseball cap, the overly clean room with the missing bottle of scotch, our suspicions that John-Joe was being framed, and a possible biker boyfriend.

“Good,” Tommy said. “I will pass this information on to the police.”

“Can we trust them to do anything with it?” I immediately asked.

“Chief Decontie, yes. He will keep the SQ honest.”

“I thought this investigation was outside his mandate?”

“Because the murder happened on band lands and a band member is a suspect, the provincial police are required to include the First Nations police. And I will make sure it happens.”

“Best news I’ve heard all day.” I hadn’t fancied being the only one searching for the real murderer.

Tommy called the Somerset Police Station to inform them he was bringing in the suspect, while John-Joe changed back into his still-damp clothes. Dry warmth might be nice, but he figured his warrior image would be destroyed if he appeared in pale pink sweats.

Relaxed and more confident now that his future looked surer, John-Joe flashed a last pearly smile as they headed down the drive in Tommy’s familiar old Honda Civic.

I turned back inside, debating whether to call Eric and inform him of what had transpired, but I immediately nixed it at the thought of that woman on the other end of the phone. Petty or not, I’d leave it up to Tommy to keep the Migiskan band chief up to date.