Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 68

I had little difficulty finding Thérèse’s second storey walk-up. It stood two houses down from the largest church in Somerset, the ornate limestone structure of Notre Dame de la Neige that served the predominant French-Canadian population. During its heyday as a lumber town in the early 1900s, Somerset’s population was comprised mostly of English-speaking Scots and Irishmen come to seek their fortune in the new land, but after the wealth of the surrounding old growth forests had been harvested, the Scottish lumber barons and their Irish mill workers had moved to where virgin forests could still produce riches, leaving a town in decline. The French had moved in to fill up the vacuum.

All that remained of this prosperous past were the brick Victorian mansions of the mill owners. Today only their size spoke of past glory. Their expansive gardens and stables had been replaced by humble two-storey frame houses, their ornate verandahs ripped off and their once elegant rooms divided into apartments. And what remained of the grounds had been paved over for parking.

Thérèse lived in one of the larger ones, its bulk nude without the massive porch that had once softened its stark lines. I climbed the outside metal stairs at the rear of the house to her apartment. Within seconds of my knock, her wiry figure stood framed in the glow of the open door. A light from the back parking lot etched the suspicion on her pinched face, while her jaw moved up and down to the rhythm of her gum chewing.

From the stream of joual she spewed out, I caught the French word for “cops” amplified by “maudit”, “calice” and a few other untranslatable Québécois swear words. The torrent ended with an emphatic “Go away and leave me alone.”

“I’m not the police,” I replied in my stilted French. “We talked on the phone. I’m Meg Harris.”

“Ouais, bien sûr,” she said, then snapped back in English, “Ya got my money?”

“I thought it belonged to Pierre, but yes I do.”

“Where is it?”

“You’ll get it once you’ve answered some questions.”

“Sure ya ain’t from the cops?”

“Would I be giving you money if I were?”

She seemed to accept this circular reasoning, for she walked away from the open door and plunked herself down on an electric blue brocade couch covered in protective plastic. I left my snow-covered boots in the boot tray beside a pair of running shoes too large for her small feet and walked across an amazingly clean white shag rug to a glaring red velvet chair, also wrapped in clear plastic. This concern for cleanliness surprised me, since it seemed at odds with her slovenly manner, whereas her taste in bordello décor didn’t.

I wondered what other decorating horror she could add with Pierre’s money, until I spied the pigs, scores of them, crowding every available tabletop and shelf. Fat ones, skinny ones, many with curlicued tails, some with rosy cheeks. Some were carved out of wood, a couple were crystal, but most were made of porcelain. No doubt she’d feel compelled to add another dozen or so to her collection.

Shoving a strand of limp brown hair behind her ears, she snapped her gum and said, “Like I been telling the cops, Pierre’s not here.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“You promised you’d give me the money, eh?”

I waved the fake brown envelope in front of her, then zipped it back into my jacket pocket.

The sight of it seemed to serve the desired purpose, for she immediately answered, “I ain’t seen him in days.”

I counted back to the day of Chantal’s murder. “Have you seen him in the last ten or eleven days?”

“Nope.”

“Any idea where he’s gone?”

“Nah, off on some business trip. Always doin’ that, and don’t tell me neither.”

“What kind of business?”

“How should I know, I ain’t his keeper, eh? Look, I already told all this to the cops. Sure you ain’t with them?”

“What do the cops want with Pierre?” I asked.

“Ain’t saying.”

“Anything to do with Chantal’s murder?”

“That two-timing bitch,” she punctuated with a loud crack of her gum. “Won’t be doin’ much two-timing where she’s gone, that’s for sure.” And she emitted a peel of hoarse cackles. “Too bad the Indian done it, eh?”

“If you mean John-Joe, he didn’t kill her.”

“Ya, sure. They was fighting real bad last time I seen ’em.”

“When?”

“My birthday two weeks ago. J. J. got all fired up over her seein’ some other guy.”

“Any idea who the guy was?”

“Nah, coulda been anyone. Felt sorry for J. J. He fell for her real bad, that’s for sure. And ya knowed she was gonna throw him over the next time a pair of tight pants walked by. She even twitched her ass at Pierre. Couldn’t keep her hands off him. And it was my fuckin’ birthday.”

I compared her scrawny flatness to Chantal’s sumptuous curves and asked, “Could Pierre have been this other guy?”

“No fuckin’ way,” She said with such ferocity, it made me wonder if he hadn’t also sampled Chantal’s sexual favours.

“But I thought Chantal and Pierre were friends.”

“They knowed each other, that’s all.” She jumped up from the couch and went into the kitchen. “Want a beer?” she shouted. I declined. “How well did you know Chantal?”

She returned to the living room, beer bottle in hand, and slumped back down on the couch. But rather than drinking directly from the bottle as I’d expected, she demurely poured the beer into an empty glass sitting on the coffee table. She did, however, take the long, slow draft of a seasoned beer drinker.

What a strange creature, I thought. Full of contradictions. “I knowed her well enough.” She carefully placed the glass on a coaster. “She hung out at Le Fou Joe, the bar where I work, eh? She met J.J. there.”

“She meet any other guys there?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“She meet Pierre there too?”

“Nope. They knowed each other in Montreal.”

“Is that where Pierre’s from?” I asked with surprise, for Pierre hadn’t seemed the city type to me. I’d assumed he was local.

“Yup.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Fifteen months and ten days. Knowed he was gonna be my man the day he come into the bar. See what he give me for my birthday.” She pulled up the sleeve of her chenille sweater to reveal a diamond studded tennis bracelet that would’ve cost more than she’d make in tips in a year.

I could barely conceal my amazement. Pierre hadn’t given the impression he had money either. “What kind of business did you say Pierre was in?”

“I didn’t.” She cracked her gum and slowly sipped from her glass.

I pointed to the large running shoes by the door. “He living here with you?”

“Yeah, he don’t want the hassle of lookin’ after his own place. Besides, he ain’t here all that much.” She slammed the glass back onto the coaster. “Look, I answered enough of your fuckin’ questions. Give me the money and go.”

I made an obvious display of fingering the envelope in my pocket. “Feels like a lot of money in here. How do I know you’re going to give it to Pierre?”

She clenched her thin lips together and glared at me.

“Where’d he get this money from anyway?”

“He earned it, okay?”

“Curious it’s cash and not a cheque. Makes one wonder about the kind of job, doesn’t it?”

She glowered over the top of the glass. But she didn’t need to answer. I was beginning to have my suspicions.

I continued, “Seems strange he’d work for free clearing trails for a ski marathon that has nothing to do with him. Did he have any other reason for being on Migiskan Band lands?”

“He likes the bush.” She jutted out her chin as if to say “so there.”

“What was Chantal’s excuse? Tree hugging?” I asked sarcastically.

Her lips remained clenched, but her jaw worked up and down as she chewed on her gum.

“Why didn’t you join them? Taking a chance, weren’t you, leaving her alone with your boyfriend?”

She smacked her gum. “Wuz workin’. Look, I ain’t gonna answer any more of your questions.” She stood up and held out her hand. “Give me my money.”

The stubborn set of her jaw told me there was no point in pushing her further. As it was, I would be leaving with considerably more knowledge about Pierre and Chantal, and her for that matter, than I’d arrived with. And not all of it had come directly from this contrary young woman.

Holding the phony envelope in my hand, I walked over to the door to put my boots on. As I bent down to tie the laces, I noticed, hanging from a hook on the wall, a motorcycle helmet partially hidden by a black leather jacket. It was black, with flames painted on the sides. Almost, I thought. The only difference between this helmet and the one John-Joe had described was the colour of the flames. These ones were orange. Still, that didn’t mean there wasn’t another helmet, one with yellow flames hidden elsewhere in this apartment.

“Who’s the biker? You or Pierre?” Instead of answering, she snatched the envelope from my hand. While she struggled to open it, I ran down the stairs with my bootlaces still untied. I tripped on them and fell against a yellow VW parked next to my truck. As I pushed myself off its shiny trunk, I heard her screech, “You bitch!” followed by a few choice French-Canadian swear words. I drove off feeling rather pleased with the success of my venture.