Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 65

Three nights later, I was scrutinizing my wardrobe, trying to come up with a fitting outfit for my date with Yves, when the doorbell rang. A desperate glance at the clock told me he was early, a half hour early. I ran my fingers through my tangled hair in a hopeless attempt to make it look anything other than wet. On the plus side, I was at least sweet-smelling and clean and not aromatically dirty, as I had been fifteen minutes earlier after a day spent doing household chores.

Remembering a movie in which some young thing found herself surprised in a similar situation, I wrapped a fluffy white towel around my head, being careful to leave out a few sexy tendrils of red hair and hastily added lipstick and mascara. I changed my grubby bathrobe for the yet-to-be-worn silk kimono Mother had given me after the dissolution of my marriage— she’d assumed I needed all the help I could get to capture another man—and sashayed as elegantly as I could to the front door.

I tightened the robe around my bulges to ensure nothing was showing that wasn’t supposed to, planted a welcoming smile on my face and opened the door. But instead of Yves’s debonair leanness, Eric’s burly height stood before me, which shouldn’t have surprised me, since Sergei stood beside me wagging his tail and not barking as he would have with Yves, a stranger.

“I see you are expecting me.” He chuckled and started to step inside.

“You can’t come in,” I said, narrowing the door opening until only my face peered out. I checked to make sure Yves’s Mercedes wasn’t pulling up beside Eric’s muddy Jeep.

As if he hadn’t heard, Eric continued, “I’ve come to take up your offer of dinner. In fact, I’ve brought it with me.” He held up a plastic bag. “Venison steaks, new potatoes and baby carrots.”

“The offer of dinner was rescinded four nights ago. Now if you don’t mind, I’m busy.” I tried to close the door, but Eric stopped it with his boot.

His rugged face projected hurt confusion. “Hey, what’s eating you?”

“You have to ask me?”

“Is it because of the other night? Is that why you’re mad at me?”

With that insipid female voice still loud in my ear, I repeated the forensic cop’s mantra, “You tell me.”

“But I thought you understood that I had this previous engagement.”

His pretend innocence made me see red. I thrust the door against his foot. It barely made a dent in his thick-soled Sorels.

“Is this man disturbing you, Meg?” came a quiet voice from behind Eric, who wheeled around to confront Yves’s concerned face. His hand held a single long-stem red rose.

I felt the heat of a blush creep over my face. “No, he was just going,” I said, opening the door wider, causing the dog to rush out in a barking frenzy. “Glad to see you, Yves. As you can see, I’m not quite ready, but please come in while I make myself beautiful.”

Too embarrassed to look Eric directly in the eye, I made some hasty introductions, then, with a murmured goodbye, I escaped inside, but not before seeing Eric, ever the gentleman, shake Yves’s hand. Then his heavy tread retreated down the verandah stairs. Served him right. Now he knew he wasn’t the only game around here.

Sergei continued barking. I looked back to see Yves standing rigid at the doorstep, his face fixed in fear.

“Sorry, I forgot you’re not keen on dogs.” I grabbed the dog’s collar and pulled him inside.

Yves smiled limply, hesitated for a second, then, bracing his shoulders, he followed me inside. I continued on with the dog down the long hall to the kitchen, where I bribed him with a cookie to keep him quiet and returned to my date.

“Merci,” he said and offered me the rose. “Please accept this small token of summer that pales in comparison to your own sunny beauty.”

I felt my face redden even more. Although the compliment was outrageous, I could get used to this kind of treatment. Only once before had a man complimented me with roses and that, as I later learned, was only because my ex-husband had suffered an unusual bout of the guilts over one of his many love affairs. As for Eric, food was the only thing he ever brought. Mind you, he invariably made some delicious concoction from the ingredients.

“This man, Eric, is a good friend, non?” Yves asked with a bemused smile on his lips.

“No,” I replied, while wondering why I felt compelled to lie. Perhaps there was something in Yves’s focussed gaze that told me he wouldn’t like a positive answer.

Suggesting he make himself comfortable in the living room, I rushed back upstairs to get dressed.

* * *

Although the Auberge du Somerset didn’t come close to meeting Montreal’s fine dining standards, it was the best to be found within the forests of this forgotten corner of the Outaouais. Mind you, since the competition was predominantly cassecroûtes—Quebec’s version of a hamburger joint—poutine stands and chip wagons, it didn’t take much to be the best. Still, the food was generally tasty and sometimes daring enough to go beyond the traditional French cuisine.

Like many businesses situated in rural areas, the restaurant was located in an old house. In this case, a particularly fine example of an Edwardian brick house that had probably belonged to a lumber baron. Although it had been run as a boarding house for a number of years, the present owners had managed to restore the elaborate wood moldings back to their natural elegance. Paint and floral wallpaper hid the damage that couldn’t be repaired.

The restaurant hummed with the kind of energy and chatter to be expected on a Saturday night. Yves and I were shown to a reserved table tucked into a quiet alcove off the main dining area.

I tried to make my bottom fit more comfortably into the narrow wooden chair but knew it was useless. It wasn’t that the wicker seat was too small. It was that my bottom was too large and likely to remain so. My eyes had a tendency to focus only on those items on the menu guaranteed to be loaded with calories.

“I will order for you, non?” Yves said more as a statement than a question. He proceeded to select those foods my eyes had passed over; a Mediterranean vegetable terrine instead of the buttery escargot I’d been eyeing and Atlantic salmon with a mango salsa instead of the filet mignon smothered in bernaise sauce.

Even if Yves was making a comment on the fullness of my figure, I wasn’t bothered. A few months of his company would probably slim me down to the trimness of my late thirties, about the age Yves must be, which made me wonder what an elegant catch like him saw in a fortyish frump like me.

The soft candle light captured the sparkle in Yves’s eyes. And as if reading my thoughts, he said, “I am hoping you can consider me as something more than the brother of Yvette.”

“And here I was worrying that you thought of me only as an older sister.”

His brown eyes smiled. “I only have one older sister, and she is much older than you.”

While his fine features and almond-shaped eyes bore a resemblance to this older sister, his expression was relaxed and friendly, a sharp contrast to Sister Yvonne’s stern and shrouded countenance.

“How much older is your twin than you?” I asked. “Five minutes.” I held his gaze and smiled back. I rather liked this kind of flattery. “To what the future may bring.” I toasted him with a glass of the superb 2001 Chassagne Montrachet he’d ordered.

Yves did like fine wine. If I hung around him long enough, I might reacquire my taste for the kind of refined living my exhusband had introduced me to. It could be a welcome change to the backwoods lifestyle I’d been living for the past three years. That is, as long as it didn’t lead to the excessive drinking from which Eric had weaned me. Still, a glass of good wine now and again could be viewed as a fitting reward for my stellar abstinence.

“I am very sorry I was not able to visit with you when you came to my father’s house the other day,” Yves said.

“Me too. I half-hoped you would come inside to say hello before you left for Montreal.”

“But I was gone before you arrived.”

“Not quite, I saw you going into the barn.”

He shot me a startled look, then laughed. “My sisters play games. I was told that you were coming to visit Yvette in the afternoon. Can you forgive me?” His hand reached across the linen tablecloth to mine.

“Not your fault.” I clasped his hand and squeezed back. Unlike my hand, which had become toughened from too much outdoor work, his was soft and smooth. His fingers, like his physique, slender and elegant.

“You should’ve been a musician,” I said. “You have the hands.”

He swirled the straw-coloured wine in his glass and laughed again. “You know my secret. Please do not tell my father. It is bad enough that I ran off to the city to become a financier. If he knew I wanted to be a musician, he would make the priest say a Requiem Mass for me.”

“Seriously?”

“I exaggerate a little, but Papa would be happier if I am a farmer like him.”

“But, he doesn’t seem to hesitate accepting your money.”

He raised his eyebrows in puzzlement. “I do not understand.”

“I’m talking about the modern kitchen and that entertainment centre. I think you bought those.”

“The kitchen, yes. I bought it for Yvette.”

What a generous brother, I thought. Which was more than I could say about the father.

“But Papa bought the big television for himself. I’m afraid he had a passion for the TV show that all Quebec watched, La Petite Vie. Sadly it is no more, but he still has his Saturday Night Hockey with Les Canadiens.”

“I’m surprised. I didn’t think farming in this cold rocky country was very profitable.”

“He earns enough. His year-round market garden produces a good income.”

“Yes, I’ve enjoyed the wonderful vegetables that Yvette has brought me.”

“And of course he has his timber lots.” He sipped his wine and smiled. “Ambrosia, the nectar of the gods.”

I joined him in savouring the fine white Burgundy. Its rich citrus taste seemed to explode in my mouth.

He took another sip. “I was most distressed to learn of the death of Chantal Bergeron. Such a tragedy, such a beautiful young woman. Her life, poof, no more…” He swirled his wine again, his gaze lost to introspection. Then he shook himself and returned to the present. “Her father is, how you say, distraught.”

“Yes, it must be difficult for him. Did you know her well?” “Non. We meet one, two times. A charming young woman, so full of life, joie de vivre, we say in French. But I know she caused her father problems. Although she was educated by the nuns, she was, as you English say, a bit wild. Many of her friends were not of the sort a father wants for his daughter.” He placed his glass on the table. “Is it true, what I read in the newspaper? The police have arrested a suspect, an Indian from the reserve.”

“John-Joe MacGregor. But he didn’t do it. It looks as if he was framed. Possibly by a friend of Chantal’s.” I tried the vegetable terrine that had just been placed in front of me. “Hmm, délicieux.”

“I see that my sister has taught you good French.” He laughed, then started into his terrine, but after a few bites, he laid down his fork.

“Oh, dear, you don’t like it?” I asked, trying to pretend I wasn’t scraping the last tangy morsel onto my fork.

“As you say, c’est délicieux, mais, I am not so hungry. But please tell me, why you believe this Indian was framed? I think the newspaper said Chantal was found in his cabin.”

“Yes, that’s true, but…” and I told him my theory about the discarded bottle of scotch.

“You say it is possible a friend of Chantal’s did this. Do you know who?”

“No. But there is mention of a possible boyfriend. Maybe he got jealous. After all, Chantal was having an affair with John-Joe. In fact, the two of them were in bed at the time of the murder.”

“Vraiment? I find it curious that you should know so much.”

“Easy, a friend and I and found the body, and I’ve talked with John-Joe.” I told him about the discovery but didn’t bother to mention that the friend was Eric.

“Such a dreadful thing to see. You must have also been very afraid finding this John-Joe with the dead girl.”

“No, he wasn’t with the body. He came back later while I was waiting for the police. And yes, at first I was frightened, but his actions convinced me he didn’t kill her. He’s really just a very scared young man who’s found himself in an impossible situation. That is why I am trying to help him.”

“You are very kind. But I think you should leave these matters to the police, non?”

“I would if I thought they’d look elsewhere other than directly at John-Joe for the murder. But they won’t without strong evidence to the contrary. That’s what I’m trying to do. Find proof that someone else either did it or had reason to and let the police take it from there.”

“Be careful, ma chère Marguerite. Interfering in police matters can be dangerous. I would not want to see you get hurt.” He reached for my hand again and squeezed it harder, as if to emphasize his concern. “Now let us eat our dinner. It is getting cold.” Yves turned his attention to the plate of salmon that lay waiting before him.

“Bon appétit,” he offered with a smile. “You will enjoy this.” Rather than diving in as a ravenous Eric usually did with lip smacking gusto, Yves sampled a small piece, chewed it thoughtfully, then frowned and declared it overdone. He hailed the waitress and asked her to provide salmon that was cooked à pointe, not like this shoe leather. Although my dish was partially eaten, he insisted mine be returned also.

“Why pay for perfection when it isn’t,” he said.

Reluctant to spoil our growing rapport, I didn’t disagree, even though my salmon had been perfectly acceptable.

Possibly he sensed my unease, for he said, “I am sorry. I am too hasty. I should not assume that your salmon was not to your taste.” This time he caressed my hand as one would a priceless piece of porcelain. “Please, can you forgive me?”

His touch ignited an electrical current that spread from my fingertips up my arm to the hair on the back of my neck. Worried I might make a fool of myself, I withdrew my hand and drank my wine instead.

“Tell me about Montreal,” I said. “Especially my favourite part, Old Montreal.”

“Ah… le vieux Montréal, a place for lovers, non?” he said, mirroring my own thoughts.

Then he recounted its delights, and he did it as if we were lovers wandering hand-in-hand along the narrow cobbled streets, glancing through store windows cluttered with antiques, sitting thigh-to-thigh in a sun-drenched sidewalk café, watching a sidewalk juggler toss his many coloured balls.

My mind drifted back to the time when I was young and falling in love for the first time in a horse-drawn carriage as it meandered the streets of the old town.

At one point, the waitress brought us fresh plates of succulent salmon and a new bottle of wine. Yves sampled his fish and declared it perfection. I concurred.

“Marguerite, there is something I think you should know before you get too deeply involved in proving this Indian’s innocence,” Yves suddenly said and woke me from my reverie.

“John-Joe may not be as innocent as you believe.”

“Of course he is,” I declared.

“I am not sure how well you know this young man, but he may be involved in activity that is not so innocent.”

“What do you mean?”

“Drugs.”

My heart lurched.

“Yvette saw him give another young man a small plastic bag containing a dried greenish substance and receive money in return. She didn’t know what it was, but I believe it was probably marijuana.”

“When did this happen?”

“The day of her accident.”

“She sure?”

“Oui, I believe so.”

“She might have been confused. The other young man was probably this guy Pierre. Perhaps he was the one selling the drugs.”

“Perhaps, but she was upset when she told me. Although she didn’t know what was being sold, she still felt they were doing something wrong. That is her reason for telling me. It pained her to see this John-Joe involved. She likes him, I think.” He paused. “My poor sister, so alone. It is good you are her friend, Marguerite.”

Not wanting to discuss John-Joe any further, I used his last words as an opening to ask about his younger sister and her confined life at the farm, but when I posed the question, he deflected it by saying she would soon be leaving the farm to live in a convent, where she would have the company of other young women. I started to ask if this would be his twin sister’s convent, but Yves had already changed the topic.

The intimate mood of the evening had vanished. I couldn’t stop worrying over the possibility that John-Joe had lied to me. Nor could I readily accept that a convent life for Yvette would be an improvement. She would only be leaving one type of prison for another. By the time Yves dropped me off at my doorstep, I was thankful he made no attempt to invite himself in. Still, I would’ve preferred a lingering kiss on the lips to the chaste French peck on both cheeks he gave me.