Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 67

The minute I returned home, I called Tommy to forewarn him of this potentially lawyer, with ready access to the Somerset jail, he could ask his client about the extent of his involvement in drugs. Once armed with this knowledge, Tommy could hopefully come up with a way of minimizing its impact. I hoped that John-Joe was only a gofer, nothing more, who occasionally sold drugs for a much bigger dealer. Maybe he could even use the revelation of the dealer’s identity to his advantage. But when I reached Tommy, he silenced me with his first words.

“John-Joe’s escaped.”

“The dumb, stupid idiot,” was all I could think in reply.

“Stupid’s right,” Tommy said. “I’ve only just managed to convince the police not to charge him for the first escape.”

“What happened?”

“The fool got involved in a brawl in the shower early this morning. While the doctor was examining him, something happened outside the examining room that caused both the police guard and the doctor to rush outside to investigate. When they came back, John-Joe was gone, through another door that was supposed to be locked.”

“Damn him. Why? Is this saying he really is guilty of the murder?”

“Sorry, can’t comment on his guilt, but I can say that his case isn’t looking too good. The initial tox report on the victim doesn’t support his story about being drugged by anything other than marijuana and scotch, and she sure had enough of both in her system.” He sighed. “Sure could do with some of that scotch right now.”

Ditto. “Could that combination have put them out?”

“Doubt it.”

“Maybe John-Joe was the only one who took this other drug?”

“Maybe, but it’s too late to test for that now.”

“You said initial tox report. What does that mean?”

“Forensics has a basic set of toxicology tests it runs for common substances. And before you ask the next question, the answer is yes. I’ve asked them to do a more in-depth analysis, in case this mystery drug couldn’t be picked up by the first tests.”

“Good. That leaves the bottle of Highland Park Scotch. Does the analysis reveal anything? And the vomit? Mustn’t forget that. Surely that would reveal something?”

“Still waiting on the results on both. Should be out in a few days.”

“And what about the marijuana? Maybe it was doctored like the stuff the kids took.”

“Look, Meg, I think it’s looking more and more probable that John-Joe lied to us. There are a few other things you should know. First, according to the police, the victim had almost a thousand dollars on her, money she stole from her father. She wasn’t exactly an upstanding daughter. It’s missing. The police found almost the equivalent amount on John-Joe when they arrested him. Needless to say, despite his denials, they’ve put two and two together.

“Second, although they found no blood match on John Joe’s hunting knife, they did find traces of blood on one of the carving knives in his kitchen. I’m also waiting for the DNA results on that.”

“Yes, but surely blood on a carving knife could just as likely be from moose meat, bear or anything else John-Joe hunted. And even if it does prove to be Chantal’s, it still doesn’t prove he killed her. Remember, the unknown snowshoer might have been Chantal’s killer returning to clean up the place. What better way to frame John-Joe than to leave the knife in the cabin? Besides, do you really think that if he did kill her, he’d be stupid enough to leave the weapon lying around?”

“I agree, but it’s difficult to use as a defense. Now you know what I’m up against. Unless we get some concrete evidence that proves his innocence, it’s going to be very hard to come up with a good defense.”

I didn’t bother to reply. The empty pit in the bottom of my stomach was answer enough for me. Nor did I bother to mention to Tommy the possibility of his client being involved in drugs. The young man already had enough nails in his coffin. He didn’t need more.

“I have to run,” Tommy said. “I just want to remind you that if the stupid idiot does turn up at your place, you call me immediately. And don’t do anything foolish. You can be charged with harbouring a fugitive.”

I eased the phone down onto the table. I’d been so convinced of John-Joe’s innocence. Now I didn’t know what to think. If the police could definitively prove John-Joe stole Chantal’s money, and the tests failed to reveal any sleepinducing drug, Tommy might as well negotiate a plea bargain. But despite this mounting evidence against him, I tried to read guilt into my memory of John-Joe’s agonized confusion, when he’d told me about waking up to find himself drenched in blood and vomit and Chantal dead. And couldn’t. I hadn’t seen remorse or defiance in his eyes, only shock and disbelief. Nor could I come up with a viable motive. The police might think the theft of money was reason enough to kill, but that didn’t explain the savagery of the killing. A savagery that spoke of rage sparked by sex, and not the cold calculation of robbery. They hadn’t seen the gentle kiss John-Joe had placed on Chantal’s cold forehead or the adoration that spilled from his eyes. Nope, I really didn’t think it was in him to kill his movie star, his Marilyn Monroe. I couldn’t let this young man go to jail without a fight. I would continue to do all I could to prove his innocence. And to do this, I would have to find someone who had greater reason for wanting Chantal dead and who, if my theory were correct, hated John-Joe enough to frame him. My eyes were pointed directly at the guy with the bear paw snowshoes and their unique red strap. As far as I was concerned, he was the only one acting guilty. Why else would he flee John-Joe’s camp without showing himself to Eric and me? And why would he clean up the glasses and throw the bottle down the privy, if not to hide something, like the drug that had put the two lovers to sleep? Even if the initial tox results didn’t support John-Joe’s claims, I still wasn’t prepared to believe he’d lied to me. I would wait for the final results. But I mustn’t forget about John-Joe’s orange cap. If he had lost it, as he’d said he had, and if it was the same cap worn by the guy fleeing the drugged kids, then how had it ended up at his cabin? Via the mysterious snowshoer? It hardly seemed likely. His finding it on the trail where John-Joe had lost it seemed too far-fetched. But what if he’d been following John Joe, and seeing the hat fall, had picked it up for later use against his quarry?

Possible, I supposed. But it also meant that this guy was involved in drugs. And if this were the case, did it mean drugs were behind Chantal’s murder? Still, it didn’t explain the viciousness of her killing, unless of course, it was meant to hide the real motive.

It was all so confusing. Too many “if”s, “but”s and hopeful conjectures. One thing, though, I felt I could safely say; Chantal’s killer had to be either someone local or someone familiar enough with the area to be able to make his way through the confusing network of trails that crisscrossed the reserve. Either it was someone from the reserve or someone who visited it frequently, which made me wonder again about Pierre. He certainly could’ve followed John-Joe to his cabin. After several days of trail clearing, he would’ve gained enough familiarity with the network to be able to navigate them on his own. Regardless, I didn’t need a course in criminology to know that this was about as far as I could go with the information I had. I needed more. The best source was making tracks as fast as he could away from the Somerset jail and hopefully in this direction. Obviously, my problem would be easily solved if he turned up on my doorstep again. But that was unlikely. No doubt this time he would increase his chances of eluding capture by heading deep into the bush of the reserve. But to survive in these frigid temperatures, he would need a rifle, warm clothing and other supplies. The most likely source would be his own people. I dialed Eric’s number, albeit reluctantly. I figured it was more important to find John-Joe than to worry about my hurt feelings. When I didn’t reach the chief at the Band Office, I tried the Fishing Camp. In the end I was forced into doing what I’d been trying to avoid, phoning his house. As I dialed the number, I girded myself for the possibility of that woman answering again. When I did hear her voice, I was able to ask calmly if Eric was at home without revealing any of the misery that I felt.

“He’s not here,” was the clipped female reply.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I asked.

A pregnant pause. “Who’s this?” she asked, somewhat coldly.

“Meg, Meg Harris.”

“Oh, you. What do you want with him?”

My turn for the pregnant pause while I tried to suppress my growing rage. “Just tell him to call me, okay?” Another pause, then I asked, “By the way, who are you?”

“The only female in his life,” she said and hung up.

“You can have him,” I muttered as I banged the phone down. “Who needs Eric?” And I burst into tears. Damn him. It was true. Despite all the signs, I’d been holding on to a thread of hope that this woman wasn’t really his girlfriend. Shit. I liked him. Might even go so far as to say I loved him. I’d even had the audacity to think he cared about me, might even love me. Boy, had I been wrong.

I stomped to the kitchen intent on finding something, anything alcoholic to still my angry tears. Hoping a bottle still lingered in some forgotten, out-of-the-way spot, I rummaged through every cupboard in the kitchen and pantry, under the sink and in the broom closet without success. I was heading across the hall to search the dining room when reason finally took over. Eric wasn’t worth it. No man was. I wouldn’t let myself start down that slippery alcoholic slope and ruin my life again.

I slumped down onto the living room sofa, beside Sergei, buried my face in his soft, curly coat and wept a few last tears. I’d just have to reconcile myself to the fact that Eric had plans that didn’t include me. I’d have to forget about him. So I kept reminding myself as I got up to make myself a cup of tea.

The bird feeder outside the kitchen window had become another battleground. One tiny chickadee had managed to escape with a sunflower seed clenched in his beak, when a fury of blue and white swept down to take over his perch. Another ravenous blue jay took over another perch, while three more, secure in their dominance, lined up along the porch railing to take their turn. One brave nuthatch dared to dart in and was summarily pecked away.

The reign of the blue jay continued as I slowly sipped my tea. One after another, they whisked down onto the feeder and gulped down a hoard of seeds, only to be dislodged by another greedy jay. Then, without warning, a hairy woodpecker zoomed onto the feeder, his long pointed beak ready to remind bullies who was really king, and the jays vanished in a whirl of feathers and outraged squawks.

Serves them right, I thought. Size and numbers don’t always win out. Sometimes it pays to have a strategic advantage. But if John-Joe had any strategic advantage in his fight to stay out of jail, it was beyond my understanding. I’d just have to keep slogging away and hope I would eventually unveil some tidbit of information that would point towards his innocence.

As I continued to gaze outside, I noticed with a start a small blue and white feather stuck to the glass, where a blue jay must have flown into the window, but a quick check outside relieved my concern. The porch floor was bare. The surprised bird had managed to fly away with probably nothing worse than a sore head.

By the time I’d finished several bracing cups of tea and eaten lunch, Eric still hadn’t returned my call. I steeled myself to call him again, starting with his band office number. However, when I heard his recorded greeting, I was so discouraged that I decided not to continue the search. I really wasn’t up to speaking to that female again at his home number. I left another message.

Since it could be hours before he would return my call and even longer before I could question John-Joe, I decided to pursue another avenue, Pierre. As expected, he hadn’t responded to the message left with Thérèse. This time, when I reached her recorded voice, I left my message for her. I told her I’d be happy to deliver Pierre’s money to her. I just needed an address.

I hung around the house waiting for return calls. At one point, I went out onto the back porch past the bird feeder to get more firewood. As my foot came down onto the cold plank flooring next to the window, I heard a sudden squeak, which sounded very much like one of Sergei’s toys. But my heart stopped when instead of the toy, I saw the tiny grey body of a chickadee peaking out from under the toe of Kòkomis’s moccasin. Oh dear. I’d killed it. I reached down and gingerly picked up the feathered ball that was so soft, so weightless, it felt like nothing in my hand. It promptly gripped my fingers with its talons and shook its head. It was alive. Thank God. I carefully placed the little bird on the porch railing in the hope it would recover.

From inside, I watched for several minutes as the chickadee opened and closed its eyes, almost as if it were trying to get its bearings. Then it lifted its wings and, in one effortless motion flew away. You’re one hardy little bird, I thought. Not even a window and getting stepped on could defeat you. Still, I decided it would be best if I found a new location for the bird feeder, one far enough away from the window, but one that would still allow me to watch from inside.

I turned to housework to pass the time as I continued to wait for one of my callers to get back to me. But after a couple of hours of half-hearted effort, I gave up and took the dog for a late afternoon ski. I zipped over the long shadows cast by the setting sun, along a circuit that ranged under the heights of the red pine planted over sixty years before by Aunt Aggie. Sergei did his usual; chased squirrels, sniffed animal tracks and ran between my skis. He even managed one lucky sighting of a deer and raced after it yelping his high pitched warning. By the time we returned home, the sun had sunk beyond the far hills of Echo Lake and with it sank the temperature. My cheeks were cold and my fingers frosty when I entered the house. It promised to be a frigid night.

The message light was flashing on my phone. “23B Church Street,” the voice said without bothering to identify itself as Thérèse. “I’m off tonight. Bring the money.” There was no message from Eric.

Refusing to let a little thing deter me, like not having Pierre’s money in my possession, I stuffed a wad of papers into a similar brown envelope, wrote “Pierre Fournier” on the front and secured it with many layers of tape to make opening it difficult. With the envelope securely zipped into my jacket pocket, I headed out to my truck.